Investments

I’ve been spending more and more time alone as of late. It’s been by choice. Solitude breeds solitude; my introverted side has shone brighter than my need to be social, as if my world has rotated ever so slightly, just enough to change my season.

My Thanksgiving plans fell through last minute and though my gracious friends offered alternative plans (One including, “Have you ever seen two deaf people get into a fight?”) I decided to spend the holiday alone.

Best decision I’ve made this year.
Thursday morning I slept in, and then made a breakfast sandwich on one of the bagels I’d picked up at Bruegger’s the day before. I fixed a bloody mary (I decided the holiday was the best time to try new recipes) and sat on my couch in the sunlight, reading. I stayed in my pajamas all day, moving from couch to couch, changing only to switch activities from reading to watching to napping. I didn’t talk to another person until my father called at 5pm. I had a dinner of sage crusted pork chops, roasted brussel sprouts and rosemary red potatoes and ended the day at Ian and Tammy’s relaxing in their hot tub and playing the Monty Python version of Fluxx. My Michael Caine accent needs work apparently.

And so the day was lovely. I didn’t deal with the drama, old wounds or latent insecurities that come with all family get-togethers, not just mine. Didn’t have to spend time getting to know people I won’t see again, or telling the tired stories of who I am. I relied on no one, and I loved it.

And yet, I worry. I worry because it came so easily to me, and as I spent almost four full days alone, I came to crave that solitude even more. In my selfishness I became more selfish. I didn’t want to invest in others or settle in a community, didn’t want to share hearts or laughs. My solitude spiraled in on itself and I’m still fighting to get out of it, even as I enjoy it. I know it to be untrue, but right now investing in others sounds like so much work that I don’t care to try.

Fitting

I went to church by myself yesterday.
I am enjoying my new church; it is a strange feeling as I can’t remember a time when I liked church as much as I am right now.
But it was the holiday, and I was there alone. I don’t think I’ve ever gone to church on Easter alone before; in college my church was full of friends and in the years since I’ve either not attended church on Easter or I’ve gone with friends. This was a first.

As I was getting ready to go, my roommate came home. She’d just met her boyfriend’s parents and she walked in with tears in her eyes. My immediate response was to find out who I needed to kill/shun/threaten. She smiled and said, “No one. I just really, really miss my family today.”

I realized that I did too.

It was with this thought that I went to church and took a pew toward the back. Two pews in front of me sat a family: a daughter about my age and her parents. Half-way through the service she smiled at her father and put her arm around her mother to hold his shoulder. He smiled and did the same and they sat there, the three of them together, arms holding each other into this family. It was sincere and shockingly intimate. I couldn’t stop looking at them and could feel this sadness simmering inside me, bringing tears to my eyes. I snuck a photo of them because I knew I’d want to write about it later.

Easter is about redemption, about defeat over darkness, about good news fulfilled. In the midst of a suffocating sense of loss there came hope and life, in the midst of seeming abandonment lay love never before seen. It is fitting it is celebrated in spring; life lives again personified.

I left church with the intense belief that I am loved beyond reason but the sincere desire to share in it with someone. I went home to an empty house, sat on my deck and spent my day in virtual silence, save for the birds. I could hear life as it kept on living.

A Weekend of Mirrors

The year is winding down. How has time sped up with age? Years go by like breaths; I cannot comprehend this passage of time so flippantly.
Friday we were to get our first snowfall of the season, and as usual all of Asheville was electric with excitement and fear. Why does even the suggestion of snow turn adults into dancing kids? I woke Friday to a slight snow cover with much more falling. Neither roommate was home so I had the place to myself and snuggled in for a winter’s quiet.

Around 2:30 Justin and Doug came to the house to get snowed in with me; what great friends. We watched movies, made drinks, ate lots of snacks and watched the snow fall. A snowman was successfully undertaken and just as we came inside, a large tree came down in our neighbor’s yard, blocking the road and taking out the power lines. There went our heat, our lights and our movie-marathon agenda. Justin, Doug and I spent the rest of the night playing Trivial Pursuit by candlelight. It was as fun/more fun than it sounds.

The rest of the weekend was filled with sledding, hot toddies, “My Cousin Vinny” and the rare opportunity to use my snowshoes in Asheville. Since my house had no heat, Saturday night was spent playing the infamous karaoke PS3 game at Nathan’s before finally passing out on the couch at 4am with Justin. Sunday found a slow-food solstice party with friends in West Asheville in a home full of kids, dogs, friends and really ridiculously good food/beer.

Sunday night my little sister and I had a text conversation about accountability that I loved. I believe with my whole body that it is imperative that we (as people) live in community; that is, we surround ourselves with people who love us well enough to tell us the truth and that we love and respect enough to listen. I have been innumerably and inexplicably blessed in this regard and I wanted her to know how important it is. Growing up neither of my parents had social circles to speak of and I wonder how much of that imposed solitude impacted them negatively. It is something about them that I haven’t thought about before. If we aren’t loved in community, I fear we tend toward emotional and societal entropy. I know I do. I can talk myself into and out of anything; if I don’t have mirrors then the only person checking me is me, and often I am not wise or good to myself. But those people who love me wisely and well are, in their own way, the voice of God, steadfastly affirming while lovingly desiring the very best, even when it isn’t what I want to hear. And during this holiday season, it is them that I am most blessed to love.

One of Us In a Boat

So my blog is now seven years old. I've said a lot of things over and over during those seven years. And yes, very often my blog does act like a second grader.
One of the hard parts of blogging right now is that much of what I want to write I don’t even say aloud. I do a lot of twittering (shameless plug: www.twitter.com/ssspoonah) because it is easy to keep it light, keep it funny, keep the dog and pony show going, keep the bowling pins in the air.

In reality, it’s been a lonely year. I haven’t been alone, I’ve been lonely. I’m far from alone: I’ve had more visitors than I’ve ever hosted, attended dinners and parties weekly, had wine nights and mimosa mornings, camping trips, hikes, paddling adventures; I’ve met dozens of new friends and spent more time laughing than crying.

For the most part, my life is full. I have a great job. I have a good community. I have friends all over the country that love and support me. In this way, I am blessed.

But I am also very lonely. It’s hit me more this year than in years past. When I attend events, it is as a solo entity; I am not part of some dynamic duo. I am single. It has become more obvious to me as less and less of my peers are in the same boat. I am among the waning few that show up alone.

I have to be honest: it hurts.

I’ve been friends with several girls (and I use that term intentionally) who seemed resolute in the belief that their life couldn’t really “start” until they were paired up. They couldn’t make decisions about what to do or where to go until the marriage license was signed. It was as if the whole of their lives was actually the one dimension of matrimony.

I am not waiting for my life to start; I’m living my life. I’m just growing tired of doing it without company, of having a fabulous night, then driving home and sleeping alone. I am finally ready to admit that.

Natalie’s illness has only exacerbated this. I haven’t heard her voice or seen her beautiful face in almost six months and it kills the core of me. It is a physical ache. Erin used the best metaphor and I’ll plagiarize it: my heart is a compass and Natalie is my magnetic north. She steadfastly points in the right direction; she gives bearing when the sky is too dark to see stars. Without her, I feel unmoored; adrift, heartbroken and alone.

2009 has been a good year; a great year in some respects. But to my heart it has been most cruel.

Holy Day

Easters have gotten less important with time, like birthdays. It has little to do with baskets full of shredded green plastic grass or cheap chocolate molded into fertility demigods; it is the meaning that has faded, not just the trinkets. I haven’t had an Easter basket since I was 10 or 12. Maybe younger. My childhood was spent with more browbeating about meanings than presents and it stuck. Every Christmas and Easter I go through this mental obstacle course, trying to remember to focus on the meanings of the holidays rather than the accoutrement that dress them. And every holiday I fail. I forget, or I remember but feel nothing. I tend to want to spend those days alone; cloister myself into meaning. To be completely honest, I get more emotional about Independence Day than I do about Easter. The brilliant bursts of light in the sky, the hand over the heart, singing Francis Scott Key: this is a holy day to me. This I understand. There is life and bright color and hope and joy.
As my faith has faded to more muted tones so has my guilt about my lack of holy on holidays. I appreciate the day, I get why it is important. I just don’t feel anything about it but a vague sense of gratitude and an even fainter sense of loss.

We Loved Our Generals

I don't think I can really top the hilarity of the last post of proposed ice cream flavors for The Dumbass in Chief so I won't even try, instead I'll tell a little tale about wars that never seem to die.
I was born and raised in Virgina, a fact I bring up so often my friends from Texas even tell me I'm a little nutty with state pride and that's saying something. For the entire 13 years of my public education in the Old Dominion we had a holiday that fell the third Monday of January called "Lee-Jackson-King Day". It was on all my school calendars and official school documentation and I never thought it was odd and had no idea it was called anything else in other places. I thought the whole nation celebrated Robert E. Lee, Stonewall Jackson and Martin Luther King, Jr on the same day, like they celebrated both Lincoln and Washington on the same day in February.
It wasn't until my freshman year of college in New York that I very publicly found out the truth about other states. Since we didn't have classes that day several of my friends and I stayed together at a big house off campus and then got up early to go cross-country skiing. They were standing in the kitchen, all 12 of them, when I slid into the room in my socks and yelled "HAPPY LEE-JACKSON-KING DAY EVERYBODY!!!" to a suddenly silent room of Yankees.
"What?"they asked.
I repeated my salutation, though noticeably it was less emphatic than the first.
"What is that?" they asked.
I told them about the great holiday for Generals Lee and Jackson and Dr. King.
Their faces were all frozen in a stunned grimace.
"You mean to tell us that you celebrate two slave owning, Confederate Generals and an assassinated Civil Rights leader on the same day?"
"I never thought about it that way...but...yeah. We do. What, is that weird?"

(note: Virginia has been celebrating Lee-Jackson Day since 1904, as they are both rather revered Sons of the Commonwealth. When Reagan made MLK a national holiday in 1983, Virginia decided to tack on the existing holiday to the national one and managed to ignore the irony of it all until 2000, when they finally split the holidays again. Today is Lee-Jackson Day in Virginia; the Friday before MLK Day.)

Send in the Robots

I can't really post the whole story behind this photo, but really it is a story you should hear and I'll email it to you if you ask but...this is what a robot mask looks like.
And a bit of what my holiday home with the fam entailed...

My god.

A Pocket of Skipping Stones

The party on Saturday was hilarious and late and dance-filled and memorable and a bit fuzzy and I still can't hear out of my right ear so it was, to me, in mono. It is like half of my head is in a constant state of sinking, like my brain is threatening to capsize. Every sound is underwater. I've found I am engaging less as I hear less; I fear I'll miss a conversation or don't want the attention that comes from asking people to speak up or repeat a comment.
Also: I've stopped singing in the car. I always sing in the car, but what I hear now is tinny and distant and my voice isn't familiar and I quit singing.
Yesterday I finally began my Christmas shopping and I traveled around town, collecting gifts like they were skipping stones. All are small and thoughtful, as they should be. Once again the whole family will be in town so my sister is in overdrive organizing the duel holidays that come with duel houses. I hope my hearing will improve before next week; I'll be disappointed if Christmas came to be merely a spectator event for me. I am detached enough as is.

Aguafiesta

I've been a dreadful blogger lately.
I haven't called, I haven't written. If I actually sent Christmas cards, I probably would have forgotten to send one to my blog, or I would have spelled her name wrong, I'm that bad of a blogger as of late.
There are reasons for these things; it isn't you, Blog, it's me.
And the fact that the neighbors figured out I was borrowing from their WiFi and locked it.
And then there was the issue of putting the finishing touches on what became a six-month flooring project (the last shoe molding and thresholds were installed this weekend! I'm all done!)Thanks to Zack for letting me borrow his nail guns...makes things go so much quicker.
I am back in the mode of being a storyteller. Sometimes I feel like I live stories so often I forget to live presently and as I am falling asleep I regret this.
I am able to go home for Christmas; I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to swing it but it looks like a go. My mother is once again on her Hanukkah kick and I have a strange feeling my sisters are getting behind it, even as I remind them that we aren't actually Jewish. We are Swedish. And Scotch-Irish. And Cherokee. I point this out and they act a little hurt that i stifle this. I'd say I don't like being the Scrooge but then I remember I've always been the Scrooge.
In Spanish, the word for party pooper is Aguafiesta: literally throwing the water on the party.
I believe there are some parties that probably need a little water thrown on them.
Speaking of parties, Saturday is the yearly swanky party at the Harmon House. I'm going to apologize in advance for whatever happens.

Threshold

Yesterday I spent most of the afternoon/evening putting finishing touches on the subsequent projects that come from re-doing floors (shoe molding, thresholds, etc) and it is such a gift to see projects at their completion (and having an excuse to use a compound miter saw is pretty sweet). It was a beautiful day for it too.
Then I came back to the house where I am housesitting and baked a pecan pie. Last year was the debacle of the wiener dog jumping in my pumpkin pie and thus this year I've guarded my creation closely. I even tried my hand at making my own crust and it looks good at least. I'll find out later how it tastes...
After cleaning up the pie mess I took a long bath in a clawfoot tub. I love super hot water that makes cuts and sore muscles sting a little bit but in those stings lies the relief. I dried off and sat by the fire I built in the woodstove and scratched the bellies of two warm, full, sleepy dogs and drank tea.
Truly, there is much for which I am thankful.
I love my family. I love my friends. I love much, but nights like this are so enjoyable and full and quiet that I wouldn't have wanted it differently even if offered an option.

Keep 'Em in My Pocket

If you don't think these are some of the cutest kids you've ever seen...well...check yo'self. My nieces and nephews, complete with their firehats (can you tell which one is an only child? Yeah.) Meet Lilia Grace, Luc, Olivia and Thud (Gabriel). Such a madhouse with all of them running around. Whew. Merry Christmas, loyal reader!

Ain't No Party Like A Harmon St. Party

Ok, so here are some photos from the night. Everyone was nothing but classy. That I recall at least. First: Margarita and I dance up the kitchen. In a classy way. Nate, the winner of the most swanky award. I mean, that's swanky. And Becca looks so focused at the table of magic/bad decisions.
Nate, Leslie Doug and I are probably discussing the situation in Darfur. Or Obama and Oprah.
Dan is always swave with the smart Quizzo ladies like Jane and Margarita.
Dear Robin: Thank you for capturing in one photo the awkwardness of my night. I can't imagine this being more clear. Just...wow. You are gifted friend, totally gifted.

A Recap (From What I Can Tell)

Holy Crap.

Now THAT was a weekend.

Saturday night was the Swanky Martini Christmas Party and here is what you need to know about it:

1. Just because people are dressed up doesn't mean they won't make asses of themselves

2. We are a generation who has no idea how to drink/handle liquor. We know beer and wine but liquor? Enigma. Whoa.

3. Parties may start out classy but inevitably it will distill down to booty dancing to something by Fergie or loud sing-a-longs to old Whitney.

4. We had appetizers that were called beagle dicks and schweaty balls. And we said these with straight faces. While drinking something classy and dainty.

5. That was more quadrangle (thank you Liz) drama than I wanted or needed. Thank you, Swanky Christmas Party for reminding me that I'm much better off single.

And there is much more but I'll wait to post pictures of that. Cuz pictures are needed. Or not needed actually, but help with the story. Cuz it's a little fuzzy for part of it.