Unfriending

A Facebook 'friend' (I always use that term loosely, for I have several people on Facebook that I've only met once or twice in real life) posted this article the other day, and since then I haven't stopped thinking about it.

Female Friendship: Ack, My Friend Dumped Me

It's about being dumped by a friend, something I think most people have experienced at least once in their life. I know I've been dumped before, and I've done the dumping. 

I don't suppose it's ever easy, fun or clear cut. I don't think I've had a friendship break up over a specific fight, or one that ended with a conversation about why it should end. It's been the quiet distancing that does it. The unreturned calls or emails, the invitations that go unanswered, the life that gets in the way of a friendship. Resentments that start as itches and become deep wounds. 

And sometimes I wish there was an exit interview for friendships, a way to find out what I did wrong so I won't do it again, or I can work to repair it. But there never is an exit interview, is there? Things just end. 

In the age of social media, we have the 'unfriending' process, as if disconnecting with someone online is the same as it happening in real life, like those bonds don't still continue even if we no longer care to acknowledge them. What a strange idea, to unfriend. It makes the process of disconnection sound so clear cut. It rarely is. 

The Symbol of What Once

I'm in San Antonio for work. I've been traveling a lot lately, with so, SO much more to come.
I had a pretty good day. Work went well. It was 14 hours, but it ended on a high note and I was feeling good.

I got back to my hotel room and decided I'd put on a few tunes while I got ready for bed.
I reached for my ipod in my purse.
Not there.
I searched my roller bag. All five pockets. I dumped it out.
Not there.
I searched my suitcase, dumping all my freshly folded clothes onto my bed.
Not there.
I searched my office.
Not there.
I went to the conseirge desk.
Not there.
I double checked everything, everywhere, every drawer, every folder, every ever.

I began to cry. Not just cry, but hyperventilate. Break down and can't breathe cry. Need-to-get-back-to-my-room-before-I-scare-the-other-elevator-patrons sort of cry. Can't control it cry. I've never reacted to the loss of an object that way. I've lost cell phones, wallets, cameras, computers--no reaction even close to this.

This iPod was given to me in November of 2007. I was unemployed, single, broke and discouraged. When my car was broken into and my old iPod stolen I was fully ready to give up on life.
I did what I'd always done in those situations--I called Natalie. Through a gracious few steps (and completely unprompted), she and her husband Mike surprised me with a new iPod, complete with the engraving, "Jesus loves you. Thou Shall Not Steal" as a joke on the back.

Since the day I got it, that iPod has meant more to me than as a simple mp3 player. It is a symbol of being loved, of specific care, of mattering. And since her death it's taken on a more serious meaning; it's a reminder. It's like her heart still beats as long as I have it; she's still with me. She's there with me in every song, ever new playlist. Losing it felt like her dying all over again. I can't believe how it hit me. I realized tonight I would run back in to a burning building for a nearly five-year old iPod because of what it represents. I realize that is irrational, but rationality has never made truth any less true.

I found the iPod. It wasn't lost. And yet an hour after its return I still had difficulty calming down. I lived Nat's loss and death all over again and it simply doesn't stop just because the catalyst stopped. I was completely blindsided by the whole event; it felt like I got jumped by grief, a gang of thugs hiding in my darkened hotel room.

I plugged in my headphones into my iPod and put on Mindy Smith's "One Moment More" album, one of Nat's favorites. I sat with my irregular breathing and puffy eyes and listened and I missed her more than I had in months, her heartbeat sounding the bass drum, the keys, the guitar. My heartbeat slowed and sang along.

The Season Had Changed

Lately…

• I’ve been wondering where my spiritual home is. It’s a good thing to wonder about; good to openly seek a place in which to grow and be challenged. Last week I had the chance to sit down with my pastors over wine and discuss theology, scripture, what church is and why it’s important. I adore conversations like that. I wish I had more of them. I left more in love with those women than I was when it started, and yet still unsure of what I do next. Trying to be open to anything. May the courage of my convictions supersede the cowardly ease of my familiarity.
• I flew to Florida for a weekend with Erin. It was a lot of travel and a lot of money, but seeing the familiar is a necessary tonic. I love those friendships that have survived so much, that have that ease of conversation. It’s like being tuned back to the note at which I sing best.
• I’ve been a bit obsessed with Balmorhea, an Austin-based instrumental ensemble. Their 2008 album, Rivers Arms, has been on repeat for a few weeks; I haven’t yet found a place where it didn’t fit. “Baleen Morning” and “The Winter” just slay me. Highly recommended. I’ve not been one who was particularly drawn to instrumentals. Now I’m finding myself collecting more and more of them.


• This morning my windshield was covered in pollen and I scratched my itchy eyes and knew the season had changed.
• I’ve reconnected with my best friend from high school. She has been married for ten years and has three kids; I have a dog. Somehow we still have so much to talk about. There’s hope.
• I had a dream that a flock (gaggle? Posse?) of ducks had imprinted on me. They followed me around—about 20 of them, of all ages—and I was stressed because I knew they needed to get to water and I didn’t know where water was. I finally did find still water and I was so relieved. I discovered that it was saline, but it was too late. The ducks turned away from me. I awoke ashamed.
• The puppies will turn a year old this weekend. I live each day with that confidant expectation that I’ll never have to go through that again and I’m relieved. I’ll love them forever, but what an incredibly difficult time.
• My boss and I were talking about logic puzzles and now I can’t stop doing them. I love how clear cut they are. I love that there is only one right answer and that I can get there using what’s in front of me. I’m sure that sentiment is true in other areas of my life.
• I really loved “The Hunger Games” movie. I thought they did a great job interpreting the book. Odd to see places I know to be calming shown on the big screen (it was filmed outside of Asheville, much of it in Dupont State Forest) serving as the backdrop to a story so dark.
• “New Girl” is hilarious. I gave up on “Glee” months ago. I’m still scared to turn on my TV, so thank god for Hulu.

Pilgrim in Progress

I’m not one for resolutions.
This is probably because I’m terrible at remembering them and I lack the discipline to keep them even if I do remember they exist. So best to not make them at all.

As 2012 dawned, I was asked by some friends to join their indoor soccer team. This shouldn’t be a big deal; it’s rec league, indoor soccer. Basically if you have a pulse and paid your dues, you can play. The team isn’t competitive, it’s more for fun. And yet I still found myself paralyzed at the thought of playing, fearing that I’d be terrible, that I wouldn’t be able to do it. I haven’t played any sort of sport since elementary school. In a word, I feared I would fail. But I did it; I said I would play. I hyperventilated on my way to our first practice.
Revelation: I’ve had a BLAST. I mean a BLAST.
I LOVE IT.
I can’t believe I ever considered not playing. I can’t wait for the next season. It’s not that I’m particularly good, but that isn’t the point, is it?

I realized how much my fear of failure has paralyzed me in all these aspects of my life. I literally don’t do things because I’m worried about looking bad or ignorant, being terrible at it, or not living up to my ridiculous expectations, not being the best version of myself. I’m so insular.
And so, for 2012, I’ve decided that each month I’ll take something that scares me and I’ll try it. I’ll face it. I’m consciously trying to keep expectations out of it. I’m going for the experience.

Ann Lamott said, “Almost all good writing begins with terrible first efforts. You need to start somewhere.” With that in mind, I started in earnest my first novel in mid-January and it’s coming along, slow and steady. It’s outlined, and I’ve only about 5,000 words of it written but it’s forming. It’s thrilling. I can’t stop thinking about the story, can’t wait to get back to it. I have no idea if it’s any good. My goal is to have over 60,000 words by the end of the year. Hold me to that, will you?

February and March have brought their own fears and own challenges, neither of which I’m ready to write about just yet but know that they are identified & in progress and I’m super uncomfortable with them both.

I don’t know what other fears I’ll face this year. It seems horribly personal to consider. I wish I was frightened of something like public speaking, or heights, something easier to face than the personal demons I carry around in my own Pilgrim’s Progress Jansport full of self-loathing, self-aggrandizing & pride.

The Hidden Soft Spots

Recent Dream:

Began as a visit to an old building that was meant to be a church but really looked a bit more like a massive dairy barn. The whole structure was wood. The first floor was open, the pews pushed to the side and people were milling about. The ceiling was a good 20-30ft up; the room had wide windows along the sides. It was beautiful, well-crafted, a unique and memorable space. I was touring the facility with a young man who was considering it for a small wedding. Three of us went upstairs to see the smaller chapel housed there. There were maybe 12 other people already upstairs. The place was calm and relaxed. This man and I were walking and talking when suddenly the floor gave way and he plunged. I looked through the hole in the floor to see him screaming and bleeding, bones exposed on the ground below. The other people upstairs panicked and started to run toward the stairs and several of them found weak spots in the wood and they themselves fell. There was screaming and fear as we all realized the floor was littered with dark, weak spots of wood; how we’d missed them up to that point wasn’t clear. Every step we took had the potential to be gravity’s finest; to be our last. I remember frozen in place, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the fields beyond, wondering how such a quiet day could become so loud.
I have no idea what it means.