Adventures in Daughterhood

Traveling solo with a parent is bizarre. Perhaps it was a weird feeling, too, as a child, on random legs of roadtrips with just me and Dad (or me and Mom) in the car. Maybe when I was 7 or 8 it felt equally weird. But mainly I remember it feeling special and holy, those little pockets of time I had with one parent all to myself. I don't know what gave them the idea, but when I was little my parents created this familial tradition called The Day. Each kid got one day with each parent totally solo and we'd do something special. Mom and I would go shopping and out to lunch, probably to a movie, and one time in college we went to San Francisco. Dad and I went fishing a lot, visited colleges, roadtripped to the Laura Ingalls Wilder house (and saw the Dalton Gang muesum on the way). At some point you outgrow The Day. Sometime in college, most likely. It's just too hard to schedule, too expensive, too time consuming, and when you're hundreds of miles apart transportation is an issue. But on the way to the airport my dad said, "this probably counts as your Day."

My Dad and I had a lot of time to talk on this trip, on the plane, walking around Amsterdam, walking around Dubai and Abu Dhabi, breakfasting in a fancy hotel. We just chatted, nothing that stands out in my mind in particular. But I think that's what felt so nice to me. Parents are like miniature Hercules figures when you're a kid. They don't talk like normal people, every sentence is a parable. Every step and misstep resonates for years. So it's an awesome, weird, precious thing when your parent transforms into a human that you'd actually just like to hang out with. Which isn't to say that I haven't felt that way before with my Dad. I've enjoyed many a chit chat in fishing boats or at baseball games or at dinner or on the Roan or in the living room after church with my Dad. But it's different when it's long stretches of time, when it's days of pointing at new sights, sharing the paper, grabbing coffee, finding the Benadryl, laughing, and taking pictures and then retaking them because Dad sometimes takes them funny.

I'm my Dad's daughter. So there is part of me that will always, always want him to approve and be proud of me and the choices I make. But Dubai was important to me in that I felt that my Dad was more than the guy who taught me how to drive and ride a bike, do my taxes and my homework and believe in my brother and sister. He is also my friend. And that's just nice to figure out. It was the same feeling I used to get at the end of my Day, growing up, when Mom and I would pull into the driveway after a cheesey romantic comedy, or when Dad and I would be driving back to St. Louis in the convertible after a weekend on the White River. It was this quiet, happy moment when I knew my parents liked me. They loved me, sure, which I am grateful for. But it's equally powerful to know that your parents, biologically required to love you, also like you as a person, as someone they'd like to know, someone they'd like to know better. And the feeling is mutual.

That's Right, Dubai

I had a hard time picking a photo for this post. The pic of me in front of the mosque? Me with the camel? Me with the hookah? The indoor ski slope? Me with the head scarf? The row upon row of gold at the souk? The pic of my dad in front of the world's most expensive hotel (built on a manmade island shaped like a palm tree)? I settled on this one, a mild sandstorm forcing me to squint with the Burj Al Arab, marketed as the most luxurious hotel in the world, shining hazily in the distance.

I think the difficulty itself explains a lot about my impression of Dubai. On the one hand, it is a phenomenal city, an experiment in marketing that seems to be working. On the other hand, it can feel quite cold and superficial. There is a difference in displaying exuberant wealth when the package is older. You can see ridiculous displays of money in New York and London, Paris and Moscow, anywhere really. But the cities that encompass that wealth have been growing and shrinking and growing again for generations. The wealth you see displayed in New York somehow makes sense because it is seen in juxtaposition to extreme poverty and a huge middle class. Some people succeed more than others, perhaps at the cost of others, it simply makes sense based on human nature, the marketplace, Darwin, or whathaveyou.

But Dubai is not encompassed by any history of innovation or growth. It was born, as it is known today, thirty years ago. It was nothing but a desert outpost until the discovery of oil (and not its own oil) and only in the last decade has it mindfully marketed itself as the playground for the Middle East, a hub of tourism and real estate shenanigans that would make your head swim. It has no foundation of historical fits and starts to prove that it has learned its lessons, experimented with a few models, test driven a few market ideas and arrived at a successful plan. To a certain extent I simply trust the wealth in other cities more because I know that it has survived longer. It has prehaps gained and lost twice its value in the past two years, but if it's still surviving? I respect that. Dubai just seems like a bubble begging to burst.

My only other comparison for an Arab culture is Morocco. And Morocco I knew very well, so I hesitate to compare them too harshly because I know I do not know the UAE so well. But there was very, very little in Dubai that reminded me of my village in Morocco. And the starkest comparison is religious. I am a Christian, not a Muslim, but there is a common root there that begs respect. Because I come from a faithful, religious family, I always took comfort in the devoutness of my village and the constant reminder of God in the prayer call. There was never any doubt that God ruled every moment, that every human plan was worthless without His guidance and approval, that there was Good and Bad to be done everyday. In Dubai I never heard the prayer call. My dad says he heard it, but I never did. Even our tour guide told us multiple times that the vast majority of Muslims in Dubai do not actively practice, their wearing of the scarf was more cultural than religious, the rules of Ramadan were routinely broken. Even if that were the case in Morocco, nobody would have ever said as much and they certainly wouldn't have said it as a point of pride, as if secularism was a goal they had in mind. I do find it sad that one of the richest (for now) chunks of the world has become so by somewhat turning its back on religious heritage. Belief in God and financial success are not mutually exclusive. There are, of course, elements of Islam that remain permeated in the culture, despite the secularist bent. Because 85% of the population is made up of expats, it's easy to allow alcohol at the hotels, etc., and to deny it elsewhere. But even that is somewhat disturbing to me, to profit from the sins of those outside your faith. That seems to be a sin itself.

I don't want it to sound like I hated Dubai because I honestly loved it! It is a conflicted, tumultuous, ugly, gorgeous city that is birthing itself in a sea of money and make-it-or-break-it expectations. I have never seen a place so determined to build itself exactly in the manner it sees fit, not bending to outside forces, but simply deciding what it will be and doggedly chasing that goal. The number of cranes littering the skyline is testament to that determination. I simply worry that that determination is a bit blinded and empty, a worry that will probably be proved or disproved in the current financial climate. Dubai is in debt and being rescused by its oil-soaked capital, Abu Dhabi. That doesn't spell disaster but it is a kink in Dubai's real estate-heavy armor. How big a kink remains to be seen.

The problem, or the power, behind Dubai's potential is that it is 100% self-made, which I find fascinating and inspiring. We should all be so sure of our success. I only hope that that assurance is justified. How fantastic if it is!

Coffeeshopping

Coffee shops are tricky beasts. Suburban or urban? Quiet or raucous? Bagels and scones or killer sandwiches? Free trade or bloodthirsty capitalist (and really, isn't the former just a sneaky version of the latter)? Strictly coffee or alcohol-friendly? Convenience or character? Bare bones or plugged in?

I am currently drinking a Summit oatmeal stout (alcohol-friendly) with a yummy, melty chicken and mushroom sandwich (killer sandwiches) plugged in at a cozy (character), urban, free trade (bloodthirsty capitalist), raucous coffee shop in Uptown. It's not as cold outside tonight, still hovering in the 20s, and I think everyone inside is happier for it. We're warmer, louder, hopeful for spring despite the fact that we all know we've got another 2 months of snow possibilities.

I wish I'd been a better coffeeshopper in New Orleans. They had some great ones tucked away in dirty corners of the Quarter. I did love one coffee shop in Uptown (all these Uptowns in my life), Rue de la Course, largely for its awesome green lamps. But for the most part I stuck to the library, holed up on the 6th floor against a couch, drinking too much Diet Coke and eating too many granola bars.

I've only recently begun to explore the coffee shops in my new town. And I am much more skilled at their perusal these days. I like the people watching, the melted cheese, the smell of burnt coffee, the workers with more peircings than one would think would be sanitary. I just like being around noise, I think. Warm, friendly noise. The noise of people eating cheesecake and drinking beer, trying chai for the first time, debating various statements of various presidents, starting the weekend with laughter.

What's In a Name?

I assume everyone has this experience. Everyone has childhood nicknames, familial nicknames, names they choose for themselves, names others choose for them. I am no different in this regard. I have been Rachel, Daisy, Jajel, Dachu, and Sabu, courtesy of my family. And I have been Rachel, Rae, Carrots, Innocent One, Rae-la, Rae-Rae, Rachy, and Red, courtesy of my friends. I was Rashida often in Morocco, courtesy of Hassan, and my Moroccan mama in Youssoufia concocted her own pronunciation that, by best spelling, was something like Rah-shett. As an adult, Rachel and Rae have been my key monikers, and as I have arrived, oddly, in a city where I'm addressed as both, I feel the need to differentiate the two.

It isn't to say that I prefer one over the other, that one is more "me" or more appropriate. But the impact of each is singular and to a certain degree the names describe different people (eh, I'm trying to avoid sounding schizophrenic right now), hence, a brief history.

Growing up, I was never thrilled with my name. Part of this was largely due to an unfortunate similarity with a certain aging movie star. I was also quite frustrated that my parents would name me after a character in the Bible that, by my estimation, has to have one of the most tragic stories around. Loved desperately by Jacob and yet denied marriage for years, and then, when she finally weds, she's barren for years and years. The image of Rachel throughout the Old Testament in the prophecies and in her own story is an image of a woman weeping for unborn children. Ouch. In the end, she is blessed with sons, but there was always one aspect of the story I found very upsetting, late blessing notwithstanding. At no point in the story does it say Rachel loved Jacob. Nowhere. She is well-loved. But did she love back? She is beautiful. But the only emotion the Bible grants her is despair. Sad stuff. So, while I'm happy to be named Biblically, I always wished I'd had a name with a happier story. Although, I'm having a hard time at the moment coming up with many "happy" female stories in the Bible. Esther? Sarah? Mary? I don't really feel like an "Esther"...

Rachel suited me fine and carried me through all of high school and college (with the occassional "Rachy" thrown in by one dear friend). But Peace Corps rearranged me. Rae started out as a practical compromise. There was another Rachel in my training group and it was easier for everyone involved if somebody went by a nickname. I don't know why I picked Rae, as nobody had ever called me that before. But there was something awesome and short and perky and powerful about it and the English major in me loved the pseudo play on "RAY of sunshine". Yeah, very nerdy. As soon as I introduced myself as Rae, it simply stuck. It felt good and right and like Rachel was the name I'd been born with, but Rae was the name I grew into. And I suppose, due to it beginnings in the desert and its eventual flourish in New Orleans, Rae will never sound quite right up here in the cold. It needs heat, humidity, and crawdads. Or a noisy, drum-laden souk during Ramadan.

"Rae" continued to be my name of choice throughout law school. I can't think of anyone in New Orleans who ever called me Rachel (unless they were mad at me). And for the first few months of life in Minneapolis, I continued to use it. But at some point in the transition, "Rachel" reemerged, restaked a claim. Much of it must be because of my proximity to my family. My parents have always called me Rachel and when my siblings aren't calling me a nickname, that's the default. I'd forgotten how nice my full name sounds, that the saying of it somehow completes a picture that "Rae" only shines a light on. I've gotten used to hearing my full name again, and I don't feel as annoyed by the sad Biblical connotations anymore either. A silly thing to be offended by, to be named after someone so "well loved".

And now, for the first time, I have friends who call me both. I don't take that to mean that Minneapolis is some sacred, special place where everyone "gets" me. Far from it. But I do think I've grown into being more of myself here, something that would have happened eventually elsewhere, too. Rachel no longer frustrates me in its old fashioned-ness or its likely comparison to a certain B-list actress (okay, the actress thing does tick me off sometimes). And Rae no longer feels like the uber-treehugger, peace corps-ish "other" me that was hard to reconcile with the bits of Rachel left behind.

I say all this because someone recently asked me if I preferred Rachel or Rae, as they'd heard me called both. And this is my answer. I have no preference.

They're both me.

Running, etc.

I signed up for my first half-marathon (doomsday is late spring) and I'm trying to run pretty much every day to gear up for "real" training. I don't do much at this point, sometimes I do 4 miles, sometimes only 3, yesterday I did 2.5 and rode the bike for half an hour. I just tend to run until I 1) get bored or 2) get tired. And honestly, the former is usually the true culprit in finishing me off. I loathe running on a treadmill but that is the only way it's happening in this cold and with this ice. So I catch up on my Newsweek, listen to too much bad 80s dance music, and pound out whatever has tied my shoulders into knots during the course of the day.

The amazing thing to me is not that I run. What startled me the other day was that I didn't have to talk myself into it. I wasn't going to the gym because I have a date on Friday (ha! like running 3 miles on Wednesday would do anything to help a girl out on Friday...but I have told myself that lie MANY times). Or because I would beat myself up over not going. I didn't go because I know I'm going out to eat a couple times this weekend. I just go. I just want to run. I just feel less happy if I don't sweat at some point in the day. I enjoy wearing myself out. Sometimes I think the only time I'm not twisted tight as drum (damn my shoulders and their tension-vacuum) is the 10-15 minutes after I run. It's the only time I feel like every joint is where it's supposed to be, every vertebrae aligned, every muscle smoothed over every bone in exactly the right way.

I long ago accepted the fact that I am not a relaxed person. I used to try and do the "happy-go-lucky" thing and I think my personality is sunshiney enough to give that impression. But underneath, I'm a stressball. A worrier. A tangle of knots. I like to think I'm like one of those matchbox cars that you have to pull back in order to wind the wheels before it shoots off into oblivion.

Relaxation has always been something I have to work at, and that's not something I ever expected of myself. Some part of me has always wanted to be a little hippie, a little commune-loving, long hair-wearing, flower child that did yoga for the love of it and ate granola because it tasted good and hugged trees and lazily waltzed from one adventure to another. But, in all honesty, that life sounds incredibly boring. I crave structure, pockets of quiet in a day of noise, people, fast things, spicey things, unorganic things, and steel. Despite my love for the environment, I cannot help but love (and I mean LOVE) the sight of factories and mills and refineries. I used to drive by a refinery in Louisiana at night, just off the bayou, to watch that flicker of flame dance off the water.

Running is the closest thing to refinery fire I've found for my personal life. Running requires simple effort, not philosophy or overanalyzation. Sure, it's tough. And tiring. But it feels natural and unforced. It's just my body moving at the pace God intended (slowish), heart beating faster and hard, back straight but not tense, shoulders loose, fingers unclenched. It's something my body was built to do, the same as it was built to eat and laugh and dance poorly, maybe have babies. The same way, to me, those refineries and factories seem oddly organic. A natural mental evolution of human effort. The next step. Which isn't to say that those factories, that flame burning oil off the coast, can't be perfected and improved to protect the land and resources that make such effort possible. I love and marvel at wind turbines with the same reverence as that tiny Louisiana flame.

And sometimes, when I run, I think that man is simply amazing. What his body can do. What his mind can build. And with only sheer, simple, uncomplicated effort.

Do Something

Barack Obama was sworn in as the 44th President today. I watched his inaugural address in the skyway in downtown St. Paul, next to the convenience store where I buy my not-great-but-not-awful coffee every morning.

I was on my way back from Subway, where I bought a 6-inch turkey on honey oat, a splurge for me these days as I can't really justify the $3.44 when I have perfectly good turkey and bread at home. I look forward to the day when Subway is no longer a "treat" or something I have to feel guilty for.

There was a large crowd gathered around the tube, which kept sputtering at inopportune moments.

I thought the President's speech was well done, inspiring, thoughtfully somber given the times. But in my gut, lovely speeches aside, when the people around me clapped politely at his invocations of freedom and change and history and patriotism, the hopeful realist in me merely whispered, "do something."

Do something. Do something to show me, to prove to me, your doubtful constituent, that you are what you are promising to be. I want to believe you when you throw around ideas regarding investing in transmission, powering the country with the ingenuity of alternative energy, building our schools in ways that will no longer embarass us internationally, declaring to our enemies that we will not be defeated. You sound very sure of yourself and very sure of your position in history. And I hope, no, I pray, that you are correct.

I am not so ignorant as to believe that your "change" is somehow immediate, or that a politician in Washington can impact my life more than my own sweat. I will work hard to make my life better, regardless of whether or not my President makes that easier for me. And I believe the vast majority of Americans are aware of that same truth. We are not prosperous because our government made us so. We are prosperous because we work. Hard.

I am a Doubting Thomas these days politically. I do not trust my new president to provide everything he has promised, how could he? I am well aware of the machine that gets men (ahem) elected to the Presidency and I know compromises were made to accomplish a larger goal. But I want proof of sincerity now. I want action that speaks to the million promises he made, broke, remade, along his path to the White House. I want you, Mr. President, to do something.

And I, and everybody else, will expect that something to begin tomorrow.

Half Life

This week I went to the icon exhibit at the Russian Museum of Art. While I was walking around the education area, reading about egg yolks and gold leaf, I realized I went to Russia almost exactly 14 years ago. Exactly half my life ago. My sister was barely two. My brother was almost nine. I was a handful of months away from my first seizure. I'd had my first kiss. I hated my haircut and was obsessed with one green sweater, which I wore as often as possible.

It was my first trip abroad and I was in a small town in Russia, Tver, for three weeks. I was never homesick. It's probably the longest span of time I've gone without missing my family. I just remember being incredibly happy to be surrounded by so many odd, cold, new things. I sang my host little brother and sister to sleep with the same songs I sang to my sister back home (mostly showtunes) with only one change. My Russian siblings loved The Lion King so I sang Hakuna Matata to them several times a day, and it was their favorite lullaby. I can still picture Kolya and Nastya, curled up in their bunk beds, tiny and happy, saying "Hakuna Matata! Hakuna Matata!" and I would sing it over and over again until Mama Trushikova came in and told them to go to sleep. The sister, Masha, closest to my age spoke some English but we mainly spoke in French. Looking back, I wonder how that was possible. At that point I'd had a little over two years of French and yet I remember having long, incredible conversations with her. I suppose a lot can be communicated regardless of mutual confusion over verb tenses.

The icons at the museum reminded me of Russia very little. I only went to one church while I was there and I remember it feeling crowded and glaring and gawdy. I think the church bored me, honestly, and I wish I'd paid more attention. I had a crush on one of the Russian students and I believe that took up the bulk of my brain space.

The Russia I visited was less about the country and more about my own realization that the world was huge and exciting and I needed to be in it in as many ways as possible. I needed to see and do everything, be everything I could think of, taste everything I could never pronounce, and write about it whenever I could find the words. Since traveling to Russia, I've also studied in France and England, traveled to Hungary and Austria and Mexico, and lived in Morocco. I'm headed to Dubai in a month.

I think my wide-eyed 14 year-old self would be impressed by my passport and experiences thus far. And I imagine, in classic teenage fashion, she would expect even greater adventures to come.

I would hate to disappoint her.

Whew!

I've always been semi-self-conscious of my hands. They're rather freakishly small. One guy in college lovingly referred to me as Carny Hands (ie. Carnival people...small hands...creepy). So I've had a bit of a complex about the fact that my hands have been smaller than my kid sister's for at least five or six years (that's right, since she was 10).

But, I am excited to learn that, small or not, because of the ratio of my ring finger to my index finger (my ring finger is longer), I am destined for financial success:

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090113/ap_on_sc/sci_financial_finger

Good to know I can stop stressing out about my student loans.

Katrina-ing

Hurricane Katrina was a long, long time ago. Over three years. I have graduated from law school, moved a thousand miles North, passed the bar, found running, found a church, found friends, decorated an apartment, revisited New Orleans, embraced cooking, built a life since that evacuation. And now, on most days, Katrina is a memory and not a process I'm living through. I'm not "Katrina-ing" anymore, not wondering why or how or shouting angrily at God or redesigning a life out of the bits left behind. But Katrina was a moment, a large chunk of a moment, about a year of a moment that sticks in my head and divides my life into chapters. There is pre-Peace Corps and post-Peace Corps. And there is pre-Katrina and post-Katrina. Divisions of living wrapped up in a life.

Many people up here ask me about Katrina, ask me about New Orleans, wonder aloud why anyone would live somewhere "like that". More than one person has smilingly assumed I was thrilled to be up here as opposed to "down there", thrilled to have found the light evidently and moved away from that scary, sunken city. While such assumptions offend me to no end, they don't hurt like they used to. I was so, so disappointed in myself for not being strong enough to stay. I was quick to attack those who spoke disparagingly of my darling, battered city and quick to defend what I abandoned. I realize now that New Orleans, leaving Her, was something I felt I needed to be forgiven for, which is silly.

I haven't thought about Katrina in awhile. I try not to. I think of and miss New Orleans daily. But Katrina I try to ignore. However, I saw a movie last night (The Curious Life of Benjamin Button) that brought her home. Seeing all of the New Orleans footage was wonderful, loving those streets again, remembering those balconies and that river and that streetcar. But the last scene of the movie shows a large, beautiful clock in a warehouse as it is flooded by Katrina's waters. And for a moment in that theatre I could not breathe. The walls closed in, my face went numb, and I felt my heart stutter. For a split second I felt every inch of water that crept into my building on State Street, saw the windows of the Delachaise shatter, saw the water line, breathed that horrible death smell, stared at my perfect pink bike twisted and gnarled against my house, wondered if the heavy oak that was left leaning against our roof would break through my bedroom, picked up the stacks of poems and stories destroyed by the window I left open, threw out the molded furniture, dry heaved on side steps as we cleaned out the freezer, walked along a street-a million streets-where noone lives anymore, saw the houses, all those pretty houses, wondered how many were dead in each attic.

It was just a moment. But it made me want to hold New Orleans in my hand, sing her to sleep, smile at her and how far she has come. To be so bruised, so destroyed, and to have regained so much...I was proud to have known her, pre-Katrina, as she knew me. And I am proud that we both emerged from that deluge, shaky but assuredly standing.

The Things I Do Not Finish

I'm not a quitter, per se. In fact, I would say I probably lean to the other extreme and have a hard time dropping things that I should. I'm not a big believer in lost causes and feel like everything can be accomplished eventually, with just a wee bit more time, a tweak of perspective, a smidge of blind will. One of my favorite quotes is, "Everything is possible. Impossible just takes longer."

That being said, I continuously quit one thing that I love. Routinely. I begin and quit more short stories and poems and essays than I can count. I start off strong, overcome with the itch that is inspiration. I write beautiful, winding paragraphs that lead nowhere. I create characters that have no purpose other than to be created and then left to rot. I find a rhythm in a poem that sings and hiccups perfectly, only to find my last line stifled by boredom or annoyance.

I was not always this way. Some part of me hesitates to blame law school and my career because I recognize that the failure to stick to a story is my fault, not the fault of my education. But I feel like law school rewired my brain in a way that makes creative writing trickier. Where once I allowed myself the freedom to be overly romantic or silly or dramatic, now I chastise myself for using too many adjectives. Not sticking to the facts. In some ways I think law school has made me a much stronger writer in that I am able to hone in more precisely on an idea and not get lost in the "fluff" that used to cushion my older poems. But that fluff is still important. That excellent, inspired fluff has been replaced by concrete, no room to stretch and weave and coddle whatever poetic seed I am nursing. I feel sorry for my creative ideas now, they must be so bruised, with nothing but concrete to embrace.

This is the only poem I've finished in the last six months. The rest are skeletons. Fitting, I think, that it's a poem of Arkansas in the summer. I always write better in the heat.

Insect

The hum of mosquitoes has a dirty smell,
thick with middle-aged sweat, gasoline, and honeysuckle.
Each step up, each slide, each shimmy, each lazy sit-down
has the pulse of insects, the soft drum beat of
slammed screens and an unfastened buckle.

Lemonade smells of Off! and wax paper cups,
and my tongue licks bug spray and sugar in one heavy glide.
The slap, “got ‘em”, one second too late and the hazy show-down
between my hand and their millions begins with
Tiny welts, tiny carcasses on a tiny red tide.

“Sweet blood,” says Momma, cigarette on her lip
And I wonder how sweet my blood would be to drink, how cool.
Blood seems warm, seems to steam, but today, with the breeze of sweat
I am sure my blood is iced, lemons, sugar
Licking bug spray and blood off my arm, it feels cool.

I Promise

I've never been a huge fan of resolutions in the New Year. They always seem a bit trite and so destined for failure that I feel like I'm in some way jinxing my goal. 95% of my resolutions since age 10 have involved losing weight, which makes me sad for myself. How many times have I tried and failed and tried and failed and tried and failed...And the "I will lose 50 lbs if it kills me" or "I will never eat carbs" (circa 2001 or so) battle cry is so incredibly shallow, not to mention unhealthy. I should have been kinder to myself.

This year I have no resolutions to lose weight. None. That is not a goal. I do resolve to train for my first half-marathon, which occurs in late May. If I lose weight in the process, nifty. If I stay exactly the same weight but trade some fat for muscle, even niftier. I just want to be stronger. Faster. I know the body I am supposed to have (not the perfect, idyllic pilates-crazed celebrity body...but the perfect, redheaded, short, hands-too-small, hips-too-wide, is-my-nose-too-big, pretty smile, freckled, becoming-a-runner Rachel body) and that's the body I'm working towards. No more meanness. Lots of kindness. And new running shoes.

Eyeliner

I was twelve when my kid sister was born. Due to the difference in ages, our relationship was always warm, cozy, lovey, and easy. I was always cool. And she was always adorable.

I could never count how many times I have done Caroline's makeup. When she was small, before she actually wore makeup, I would do her makeup when I babysat her, or I'd do her nails on the weekends. When she got older I would show her how to do her eyes in different layers of eyeshadow, how to hide a zit, how to use blush to fake better cheekbones (a genetic failure for our family). I did her makeup most recently this past fall for her Homecoming dance, smoky eyes to go with a little black dress.

This Christmas, while the family was lounging post-meal, I leaned against Caroline and asked her to teach me how to do eyeliner the cool way she does. We went up to our bedroom at Grandmother's house, sat on the world's most uncomfortable bed, and Caroline did my eyes. Pale grey, with black eyeliner snaking slightly upwards at the end, Cleopatra-like. I'm not a fan of eye makeup usually. I'm more of a flavored lip gloss girl. But I wanted to see my eyes the way she does her own, and it felt neat to have her do my makeup fo a change. The lesson was brief (symmetry is the key), the results were pretty, and I don't think I'll ever forget it.

There's some silly symbolism there. Some passing of the torch. Some circle of life. Years of teaching her that coloring in her lips with lip liner and covering them with gloss is much more effective at long term color than lipstick. And in the span of 10 minutes in Grandmother's guest room, with my eyes closed, I was happy Caroline was growing up. I've always been rather sad that she stopped being 5, stopped thinking I was eternally cool, started thinking maybe I was a bit boring or square or unexciting. I am glad we are different, glad she is an artist, glad she loves things I never loved. I am glad she has things to teach me, bigger things than eyeliner, glad she dreams things that never crossed my mind. I am grateful that she's brave and strong and beautiful, even though she probably dismisses those things herself. I feel honored to be the girl that sang her to sleep with Les Mis tunes, and I'm excited to see who she becomes. It will be something great, that is all I know. And that's all that's really necessary.

I'm still not a fan of eyeliner. But I will ask her to do my eyes again. Happily.

The First Day of Winter

It is fitting, I suppose, that on the first day of winter I woke up to frozen pipes and a car that would not start. After giving my car a much appreciated jump, my dad snapped my photo with his phone as I scraped the ice off my windshield and said, "it's like a scene out of Fargo." We drove around picking up some winter necessities I'd managed to avoid purchasing thus far, namely jumper cables and a space heater, and as we drove back to my parents' house I was struck by how different my life is now from this time last year, or the year before that, etc. It astonishes me how much can change in a year's time, and makes me excited for the year(s) to come.

Winter is not my favorite season, as everyone is well aware. But the English major in me loves the metaphor. I love the cold death of the season, the house of ice, the hibernation of everything with a heartbeat. And then the promise of Spring.

Backseat Bible

This is, by far, the busiest Christmas season I've ever had. Every weekend evening has been packed with Christmas parties or Christmas baking or Christmas shopping or general Christmas frivolity. It's a happy kind of busy but it's also the kind of busy that makes the season feel less like a religious celebration, more like an opportunity to wear my sassy gold dress and guiltlessly bake too many chocolate goodies. At church today I was struck by the fact that I had been more concerned about which adorable brown boots to wear, what lipstick went with my green dress, than I had been about where I'd misplaced my Bible.

My Bible, as always when I "lose" it, was in the backseat of my car, where I always absent-mindedly toss it when its placement in the passenger seat is no longer convenient. Ah, the metaphor! I toss it there when I pick up a friend on the way to a party, when I need space for newly purchased cookie ingredients, when I'm too lazy to put my gym bag in the trunk. My Bible stays comfortably on that passenger seat for less than 48 hours after every Sunday. And every Sunday morning I wonder where it has escaped to, but that worry is never as intense as what heels make my calves look thinner.

I, like many Christians, have a hard time remembering the "Christ" part of Christmas sometimes. I get as caught up as anybody in the joy of new clothes, fancy parties, yummy food, buying gifts, wishing for mistletoe. And tossing my Bible onto the backseat of my car (which, it goes without saying, means I'm not cracking that Book open very often during the week) is the perfect illustration of how easy it is for me to allow the season to swallow me without giving due reverence to the joy of its importance. And although I've taken note of that frailty before, today was the first time it really made me sad.

I had a lovely, festive, Christmasy weekend, complete with parties, cookie baking, Christmas parading, and hot apple cider drinking. Excellent. But I prayed very little, thanked God less, forgot that He was the reason I was happy (not the existence of those awesome shoes I got on sale at Target). I do not value materialism in others, I will not coddle it in myself. So while I see no harm in finding smiles and a bit of confidence in new things or new crushes or new adventures, I don't ever want to lose sight of who forges my ability to be happy, who creates in me an image of Himself, who loves me enough to die for my salvation. And that is why I love Christmas, for everything God gave the world, for His knowing me in the womb, for His holding me and cherishing me despite my habit of tossing him aside. I am so thankful to know that Grace does not throw me in the backseat to languish between foibles and failures. Seems the least I could do to say a tiny "thank you" would be to bring my Bible in from the cold, warm it up.

The Devil Is Wearing a Scarf and Mittens

It snowed in New Orleans today. And I missed it. This makes me sadder than I would expect, given my general apathy regarding snow. But it would have been lovely to see snow fall on the trees in Audobon, watch the mules pulling the carts in the Quarter blink back a flake. I would love snow more if it was special and unexpected. Unfortunately, I live a few hundred miles too far North for snow to ever be a surprise. Snow is a given here, as is ice, and apple cider, and toasty fireplaces, and salt, and ornery car batteries, and potlucks, and earmuffs, and cozy blankets, and happily, always, a White Christmas. Snow isn't my favorite, but it'll do.

Cousins

I spent the past weekend celebrating Thanksgiving in The Motherland (aka Arkansas), surrounded by too much food and a tribe of cousins I see too infrequently.

Cousins are a strange, beautiful lot. It seems both serendipitous and ill-conceived to throw people of such varying personalities into the same family and expect them to love one another. God, to me, occassionally seems a bit hilarious in his matchmaking.

After all, what are we supposed to have in common? We are the children of one parent's siblings. We share grandparental DNA. The bulk of us look nothing alike, some graced with height via paternal genes, others doomed shortitude thanks to our maternal roots. A handful of us with red hair (of varying shades), some with glasses and some without.

As the eldest, I always felt somewhat separate from the younger cousins. This was largely by my own choosing, I liked being the old one. I liked being the first to do things (though I've now been surpassed on both the marriage and child-bearing agendas). I liked traveling far away and coming back to share stories, pictures. But this past weekend I didn't want to sit at the grownup table anymore (where I've been sitting for over a decade). I wanted to talk and gossip and laugh and play games and be sad and be happy with the cousins that for so long were "young" and are now simply "younger".

I always knew Brent, Kristin, and Lauren, better than my other cousins. We spent a small segment of our lives together, attended each others' birthday parties. I gave them my dog when we moved away. My other cousins, though loved, were always distant. But it was good to see them growing, becoming the adults they'll be someday. And it made me sad to have missed so much of their lives. I look at Lauren and Kristin and think, you are on the edge of so many wonderful things! Even the shitty things, even the jobs you hate, even the cold, even the decisions you are unsure of, they are all such wonderful things to endure. How excellent to be unaware and confused but with the potential to be fantastic! And I just want to hug them and promise them that everything will happen. Perhaps everything won't work out. But everything will happen, and God carries all of it in his hands. And I am glad my sister looks up to them, the way, perhaps, they once looked up to me. They are women I want my sister to wish to become.

It makes me think of my siblings, Rob and Caroline. Will our children love one another? Will they see each other often or only on holidays? Will they be born in the same state? Will they drift and move away? Will they be short? Redheaded? Who will look up to the eldest? Who will hate being the youngest?

Who will sit at the grownup table too soon?

Cinnamon Toast

I do not remember a time when Mamaw didn’t live in this house. As a child, I remember sick days spent with Mamaw and Papaw while my parents worked. Papaw, a doctor, would check my temperature and give me orange juice. Mamaw would make me cinnamon toast and I would lie on the couch watching cartoons, feeling significantly less sickly with sugar and warm butter melting on my tongue.

The house is stuffed, every inch, with trinkets. Papers. Birth certificates. Birthday cards. National Geographic magazines. Cookbooks. Drawings and letters and pictures of 4 children, of 13 grandchildren. To dig through a drawer is to unearth a lifetime of memory.

My cousin, Lauren, gave me a hug in the kitchen the day of Papaw’s funeral, and she told me I was the “luckiest one” being the eldest, since I knew our Grandfather the longest. She was young, and completely correct.

My youngest cousin, Ian, bruised my left cheek when he repeatedly threw my pink bracelet at my head, a delightful game to a nearly-two-year-old.

I sang my sister, Caroline, to sleep on the couch in the living room with a medley of show tunes.

I read ancient love letters found in the drawers of the trundle room.

I ran to jump on my Papaw’s lap and my mom scolded me. He was fragile. I always forgot.

My great-aunt MaryAnne began to die in the den where I sleep tonight, her lungs tired.

I cried myself to sleep for months in the bedroom down the hall, wishing I could be back in New Orleans, wondering if that would be possible.

And now my Mamaw does not live here anymore. The house is still in the family, the trinkets still explode from beneath couches and secret closets.

But my Mamaw does not live here anymore. And that will always make me sad.

28 Things

So, in honor of the big 2-8 (a milestone birthday for everyone, right?), I will list 28 things I am proud of/happy about/thankful for as of this moment in time. In no particular order:

1. I am 72 lbs lighter than I was for my 25th birthday.

2. I make a mean chocolate cake.

3. I graduated from law school.

4. I passed the bar exam.

5. I finally get to see my kid sister and parents whenever I want, instead of just on holidays.

6. I love my church friends.

7. I have made all my student loan payments on time and I have overpaid (by a teeny, tiny amount) every single time.

8. I am no longer intimidated by butternut squash.

9. Running makes me really happy.

10. The scar on my leg is fading better than I expected.

11. I love my job.

12. I'm going to Dubai in February.

13. I'm proud of my brother and sister.

14. Minneapolis isn't homey, but it feels like it could be eventually.

15. My new mittens are perfect for driving.

16. It's peppermint mocha season at Starbucks.

17. Everyone in my family is healthy and strong and loves God.

18. I no longer have to dial numbers out of the state when I have a bad day. I do have good friends here.

19. I have a small, precious group of ladyfriends who live far away but who I always stay in touch with.

20. I made lasagna and it wasn't awful.

21. I have a dimple in my cheek I never knew about.

22. The Lyn-Lake area is always worth exploring.

23. There are great Ethiopian restaurants here.

24. I've forgiven myself for things.

25. Lake Harriet.

26. I'm heading home to Arkansas tomorrow.

27. Peanut butter on celery.

28. My life makes sense, even on the days it feels a bit wacky.

Christmas Lights

I have officially been bitten by the Christmas bug. I'm typically the sort that doesn't embrace Christmas until Thanksgiving is over, but the snow on the ground yesterday and the tree decorating today have made me anxious for carols, wrapping presents, baking cookies, and seeking mistletoe.

I do wish I had an apartment that was more amenable to Christmas decorations. It would be nice to tuck some lights around my bookcases or something. I'm debating a Christmas tree purchase, just a tiny one to wedge into a corner. I've always had a nerdy love for stringing popcorn.

Christmas tree or not, I will not apologize for humming O Holy Night a little too often.

My Blue Suede Shoes

Happiness is...blue suede stillettos and fishnets. A dress worn in November that's best worn in July. The company of ladyfriends. Duck confit, gruyere fondue, Cosmos, and chocolate cake.

The perfect celebration of the momentous 2-8 birthday, n'est-ce pas?

Favorite Spaces

I asked a friend a couple days ago to tell me his favorite place abroad and his response inspired me to think up my favorite spaces, stateside and in the whole wide world. And here they are, in no particular order, totally subjective and based purely on the company involved, the daydreams had, and the presence of sunny skies on the day(s) visited:

1. Favorite beach: Essaouira in Morocco. The blue and white of the boats sticks with me, as does my first and only camel ride, which occurred on the sand outside the city.

2. Favorite mountain: Roan Mountain, Tennessee. Family is everything.

3. Favorite mountain range: The Atlas in Morocco, specifically, the pass between Marrakech and Ourzazate.

4. Favorite large city: Marrakech, London

5: Favorite middle-sized city: New Orleans, Bath (England), Tours (France)

6: Favorite small town: Elizabethton, Tennessee

7: Favorite place to get lost: the souk in Marrakech

8: Favorite breakfast place: That one cafe in Bath with the crazy good eggs and sausage

9: Favorite lunch place: Reginellis in New Orleans, Hanout to the left of the second street in Youssoufia, Morocco with the hottest bread and freshest sardines, Imos in St. Louis, Sims in Little Rock, The Flying Fish in Little Rock

10: Favorite dinner place: Muriel's in New Orleans, Delachaise in New Orleans, Leila's kitchen in Morocco, Cunetto's in St. Louis

11: Favorite snack: sweet peanuts and fresh steamed chickpeas in Morocco

12: Best shopping: Magazine Street in New Orleans, the section of the souk in Marrakech with the crazy lanterns and yarn, the dye section of the Fes souk

13: Best nightlife (bars/pubs): Bath, New Orleans

14: Best theatre: Fox Theatre in St. Louis

15: Best place to swim: waterfall on the road to Hana, Hawaii

16: Best place to have a great time even though you have no knowledge of the language: Vienna

17: Best cheesey tourist location: Big Ben, Buckingham Palace

18: Best cheese: Tours, France, and the Porter's Cahill at the Delachaise in New Orleans

19: Best wine: Tokaj, Hungary

20: Most terrifying/exciting car ride: cab between Marrakech and Ourzazate

21: Prettiest scenery: Alaska, driving to Denali

22: Best place to breathe deep: Audobon Park in New Orleans in the spring, top of Pinnacle Mountain in Arkansas, square outside the theatre in Tver, Russia, with a bit of snow in the air

23: Most beautiful sounds: "Allah Akbar" prayer call during Ramadan in Marrakech ("God is great" translates for any faith), Caroline singing in the car, when my mom calls me "Honey", morning on the Roan, slap of running shoes on pavement, rain on my window in New Orleans, wind at Tintagel Castle in Cornwall, sound of a bat hitting the ball at Busch Stadium

And there are more favorites tucked away, I'm sure. But this is a good start.

Is This Lameness or Maturity?

When I ride the bus my day is very long. I'm up at 5, on the bus at 6, at work at 7:30, on the bus again at 4, home around 5:40. That's three hours of commuter time. When I get home I usually go running, then make dinner, then read, fall asleep around ten. A lot of my friends go out after work, they do happy hours or they go to a movie or they go out to dinner, etc. I socialize after work very infrequently.

I am not complaining. If anything, I love that pace, and prefer to be a bit secluded and quiet during the work week. Weekends are fun for shopping, movies, dinners, dates, parties, etc. But I feel a bit boring when I know much of 20something singledom is out galavanting, flirting, exploring, and I am at home debating the fate of the butternut squash in my fridge. Is that lame?

All I know is that at the end of the day, I value being by myself. I like the quiet of an empty apartment. I like cooking whatever I want for dinner (even if it's something incredibly boring like oatmeal with baked apples...it was all I could think of tonight). I like rearranging the songs on my iPod and googling weird questions that ran through my mind during the day. I like running. I like reading and rereading paragraphs in books that I've read a dozen times. I like making grand plans. I like testdriving my slow cooker. I like writing letters I know I'll never mail. And I can't do any of those things if I'm at happy hour.

Cozy

I complain about my poor, innocent apartment pretty frequently. It gets too chilly, and then too hot, the kitchen is smaller than my kid sister's bathroom, the patio door squeaks, and it's disastrously far from work.

But in the last month or so I've hosted a couple of different groups of friends for dinner and that makes me happier with the pad. In New Orleans, we always had little dinner soirees (okay, it was really just the three of us) at Katherine's, with her perfect tiny kitchen and warm, fluffy couch and the sound of the gerbils spinning happily on their wheel. And in Kansas City I tried not to ever let friends see where I lived, it was such a horrid place. I hosted a lot of friends in Peace Corps but I suppose when you're going on two weeks without a shower and you're eating sardine omelets you don't much worry about the cute factor of your abode.

My first apartment here in the Cities has begun to grow on me. Although I'm itching to leave and move closer to work, I am starting to love the quirk of the occassionally-working sink and the weird noise the bathroom vent makes (is that a heater? what is that thing in the ceiling? does it have a purpose other than making noises?). My friend and thesis advisor, Dabney, used to tease me for romanticizing everything. He told me I could romanticize a lump of coal. The older I get, the more I agree with him. But I think I just grow into certain things, places, experiences, and begin to love them for their flaws. There's an ownership in loving a place you have to "work" to love. I will not go so far as to say I love the Cities. I don't. The cold makes me so sad. But the "work" of loving what this place has to offer is becoming more enjoyable and that includes my crappy, cozy apartment.

Above are the kind souls that visited for dinner last night. Thank you for your company, friends. And Nate, thank you for helping me duct tape my chair.

Thank You

Grandfather Welch and Papaw,

Thank you for serving our country.

I miss and love you both very much.

Love,

Granddaughter Number One

Tomorrow

Tomorrow I will cast my vote for Barack Obama. He was not my first choice, by any means. And I could still list the many worries and questions I have about this man and how he will run our country. Perhaps I will vote for him, partly, because I am a party loyalist, because his point of view and voting pattern is very closely mirrored by the woman I wish stood in his place. But I think the main reason I will vote for him is far simpler.

My dad tells this story about me when I was three, during the Reagan-Mondale battle. After seeing both men on TV, my dad asked me which I liked better. I said Reagan. When asked why, I said Reagan smiled more. It's a simple answer, of course, but I was three. And now, at nearly 28, I feel very much the same.

I'm not voting for Obama because he literally has a grin plastered on his face more often than McCain. But there is something to be said for a candidate who can inspire hope and passion the way he has. After so many years of a president who made Americans often feel embarrassed or foolish, it's very tempting to invision the possibility of a president, once again, who can communicate in a way that will make Americans proud. President Clinton, for all his own faults, had that gift. While he may have been a philanderer and a cheat in many ways, he was never stupid. He was always a brilliant mind trying to fix problems of his and others' creation. I miss having a president who spoke a language the world respected. I'm tired of the office of the President of the United States being deemed a joke in foreign circles.

With that being said, I am not an Obamaphile. I do not think McCain would be bad for this country. I actually think he's a highly competent, truly 'maverick' leader who could do great things for this nation. McCain, before this race, was the renegade Republican. He was the Republican respected by both parties in equal force. This race forced him to embrace a more conservative bent that is not natural to him and I think this discomfort showed. But races do that. McCain is a moderate and he would govern as such and I would be proud to call him my president. I respected McCain long before this election and I will continue to do so whether or not he is my president.

While I am impressed with the sheer magnitude of Obama's forces, I also feel that the Hillary-McCain battle would have been a fairer, better fight. It would have been a fight about issues instead of suits and pranks and plumbers. I don't think this fight was as tough on Obama as it needed to be, and that worries me. But in his last debate, for the first time, I felt that he was sincere. Young, yes. Self-important, yes. Inexperienced, yes. But great presidents have been made of that material before. I think Obama has the guts, I think he exudes a confidence that the country needs right now. His smile looks genuine. And although I'm sure Democrats shudder at the thought of comparing Reagan to Obama, from my 28-or-3 year old eyes, the similarities are worth noting.

Since I feel that both Obama and McCain would make good presidents, I am not an Obama voter who is chewing their fingernails tonite, losing sleep over whether or not Change-with-a-capital-C will arrive. I believe it already has. President Bush will leave office and new, exciting things are around the corner. So I am happy for our country, regardless of the outcome tomorrow. My vote is blue, but for the first time in my voting experience, I do not feel that I am voting for the lesser of evils. I feel lucky to get to choose between two vastly different men with, I believe, identically fervent loves for the country they wish to lead.

My Plant Can Kick Your Plant's Butt

It's time to introduce my friends to the greatest office plant in the world. He's feisty, he's sturdy, he's impossible to kill. He's...

Wait for it...

HERCULEAVES!

Do you get it?

HercuLEAVES.

Haha.

An Accent?

I went to a friend's party last night in celebration of her passing the bar exam. It was a happy, familial affair with champagne, toasts, a cheesily decorated cake, and lots of hugs. I didn't know anyone there besides the lady of the hour so I spent some of the evening talking with her friends, all of whom are from the Minnesota/Iowa/Wisconsin area.

I never think of myself as having a Southern accent. This is largely because I am from the South and so I know what an accent truly sounds like. My mom still has hers, and my extended family members have accents ranging from Texas to Arkansas to Tennessee to the Carolinas (yes, they're all different). I, having moved to Missouri at 10 (and Missouri is NOT a Southern state), lost my accent pretty rapidly and picked up only parts of it upon living in Virginia and Louisiana. I know that it comes out a bit more when I'm around my family and also when I'm sleepy or angry, but I really don't have a strong accent so it surprises me when people pick up on it.

Four times last night people asked where I was from. When I told them I was originally from Arkansas and had moved here from New Orleans, they all shook their heads and said, with varying degrees of self-congratulations, that they knew I was from the South. I am not offended by this in the slightest, mind you. I am, assuredly, a proud Southerner and will always happily recount how I managed to end up in this frozen tundra. And most people love to hear the "y'all" and the sing-song nature of an accent. But it still trips me up a bit, reminds me that I'm not from here, even though I really do not need a reminder.

But I do like having a story to tell, I always have. I like coming from somewhere different, knowing something different. It's hard for me to invision living in one place for all of my life, the way many people here have. In some ways I envy their comfort, the friends they've had since they were in utero, the knowledge and familiarity they have with a specific stretch of space. But I am also glad that I've lived in several states (and even a couple countries), have family in several more, have traveled extensively and called faraway places "home" and not thought it odd. But after years of wandering about with no true desire to be in one place for too long, I can grasp the merit in roots. And I think Minneapolis is a good place for roots.

But I'm still going to say y'all.

Addicted to Connection

I never wanted to be one of those people who felt naked without their phone. But my phone appears to have jumped ship somewhere between the pool and my hotel room so I am, for the time being, unreachable. I can't text people about inane subjects, can't call my Mom with my flight info, can't play and replay the preview game of Tetris.

I'm on my way home, people-I-would-normally-text-with-this-information. So if you would like to connect with me this weekend you will have to utilize such methods as email, blog commenting, knocking on my window, leaving a note on my windshield, etc.

Memorize

I have a friend who knows several Shakespearean sonnets by heart. I memorized one when I was in high school which I still love and recite occassionally (especially on lonely, long car rides). But I've decided I need to memorize more poems. And, seeing as Yeats is my favorite poet, I will begin with this:

No Second Troy, by William Butler Yeats

Why should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great,
Had they but courage equal to desire?
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?

Goodbye, My Fellow Southerner

Sandy and I met my first Sunday at Woodale Church. A group went out to lunch after service and I, feeling like a 5th grader, asked if I could sit at her table. We soon stumbled upon the topic of where we grew up and as she's from Lynchburg, Virginia I probably semi-attacked her and begged her to be my friend since she was the first fellow Southerner I'd met.

Over the past year we've shared job woes and dreamed of opening a lovely consulting firm someday in a sweet Georgetown pad that somehow incorporates her public policy degree and my nerdy fascination with energy regulation. We've also simply gotten to be good friends and she never teased me for saying "y'all" and always shared my love of in depth policy discussion (and there aren't many people who actually enjoy that).

Sandy is moving away this week, back home to the Old Dominion. Part of me is incredibly jealous. As much as I love being near my family, love having a job that's actually in the field I'm interested in (I still pinch myself over that), love living in a state that is decidedly Blue, I still miss The South. I miss the warmth and familiarity of the Arkansas/Louisiana territory, and the beauty and old charm of Virginia and the Carolinas. I wish I could drag my family and my job to, say, Charlotte. Or New Orleans. Or Richmond. Or Little Rock. But I know I can't have everything. And if home is where the heart is, and if I'm sick of living thousands of miles from my family, then home is here.

Sandy always felt that she was meant to be somewhere other than here. And I completely relate to that. I will miss having someone around who understands what it feels like to have ended up somewhere that surprises you. I don't think the Minnesota surprise was a bad one, for me, and there are adventures to be had in the snowy North. But I will miss my fellow Southern compatriot. My adventures will be a bit more scary, without Sandy to laughingly encourage my path. There is no doubt in my mind that God brings people into your world when you need them. I needed Sandy this year and I cannot imagine what this year would have felt like, had I not had her smile to look forward to on Sunday mornings. She feels like a special, individual blessing just for me, even though I know she is assuredly a blessing to many other people. She will be dearly, lovingly missed.

Best of luck, friend, and God bless you.

Just Awesome

A New Thing I Love

I ran at night for the first time today. I have a couple workout DVDs that I tend to do when I get home late and it's "too dark" to go running.

Too dark?

Very shortly it will be "too dark" by 4:30. I refuse to relegate myself to that awful, annoying woman on the DVD who tells me to "dig deep" and then tells me if I want abs like hers I have to "grunt and pant" myself through her workout. No. Thank. You.

I don't know why it took me so long to run at night. I suppose there's the safety element, being a woman. But I live in a very well lit, very suburban area and I only ran on the busiest street with ample sidewalks. I suppose the chill scared me off a bit, too, but it was warmer tonite than it has been on a couple afternoons I've hit the trail.

I loved it and I think I ran faster. I don't time myself so I'm really just going by my gut.

I think, with the darkness, I'm forced to focus more. I'm not sidetracked by pretty leaves or other runners or avoiding the barking dog or wondering if my ponytail is lopsided. I concentrate on the sidewalk, concentrate on the cracks and fissures and the curbs and the grates. And I count the headlights rushing towards me, take note of the ones that have a dimming bulb. I wonder who is in the cars and where they are going. It is Friday night, after all, and I can only assume that the bulk of humanity is out socializing instead of waxing poetic on the beauty of night running. I wonder who is getting divorced, who is falling in love, who hates their best friend, who shouldn't have bought those shoes, who misses their Dad, who is late for a first date, who is singing along to songs they don't admit to knowing, who is moving away, who just arrived. I like to think of all the people inside those cars, extraordinary people with ordinary lives, vice versa.

And I'm outside, wrists bared to the wind, concentrating on sidewalks, counting headlights.

Running

I am slow.

I don't even time myself when I run. Sometimes it takes everything I have to run 2 miles. And then yesterday I hit 5 miles and felt I could run forever. Never, ever stop.

I don't look like a runner.

I feel like runners should be tall, lithe, smooth. I see them often around here. They're like statues with moving parts, and I have to force myself not to stare at that amazing slice of leg right above the knee. What muscle is that? I, on the other hand, am not tall, nor lithe, nor smooth. In fact, I am short, roundish, and have the grace God gave a donkey. I trip a lot. My nose runs. I have to remind myself to stand up straighter or my neck starts to hurt. I'm 70 lbs thinner than I used to be, which is lovely. But I still feel rather oafish sometimes when I run, like if I only had a few more inches I'd be better balanced, faster, smoother. And I can't help but hope that when the last 20 lbs is gone I will feel like I fit the road better. I don't care that I don't look like other runners. I'm not going to grow or suddenly have long, long legs. But I would like to feel like the road is meant for me, too, and not just them. And for now, I still feel like a usurper. Just a little more time, just a little more patience, many more miles, and I'll own a stretch of road, too, don't you think?

Slow and non-runneresque though I may be, I do love it. I love that 20 minutes or so into a run I hit some magical, bizarre, perfect stride that makes the ground feel softer and my legs feel like steel. I love that when I'm tired I just have to play a few keys songs on the Ipod ("Bixby Canyon Bridge" by Death Cab for Cutie, "Ring of Fire" by Johnny Cash, or "Mysterious Ways" by U2) to force a grin and another mile. I love that the weather is perfect for a t-shirt and my comfy North Face fleece. I love that my Asics are molded to my feet. I love that feeling right when I stop running, when I'm at the end, when my legs go from tense to sleepy, and my heart skips a bit and calms, I love how it feels to have done something hard. Done it well. I love that my body can do things now that it could never have done 70 lbs ago. I love that I'm strong and that I made myself strong. And I'm grateful God gave me that chance.

I Couldn't Decide Which Blog to Post This On...

I have a food-related blog (http://www.edibleavocation.blogspot.com/) which I started at the beginning of the year to detail some cooking disasters and successes. I post on it infrequently (shocker, I know) but I occassionally become inspired by what I'm eating or trying to cook or hoping to bake.

I am usually a recipe girl. I have several tried-and-true recipes courtesy of my Marmee, Mamaw, Grandmother, etc., and I also stumbled upon a few excellent ones on allrecipes.com. But I always wanted to get to a point where I could simply look at the ingredients in my cupboard and just bake something. And tonight that finally happened. I created a lovely batch of cookies which I have yet to name (Vanilla Cinnamon Kisses? Spicey Sugar Cookies?) and they're now cooling on my counter, the smell of cinnamon and some burnt sugar (just one cookie suffered that fate) still wafting through my apartment.

My apartment is pretty ugly. It's a typical, better-than-a-college-apartment-but-still-too-broke-for-a-decent-place type apartment. And that's fine, I make it as pretty as I can and dream of the day when my loans are more manageable (I can't even fathom paying them off) and I can afford the mortgage on a small brick house with room for a dog. But, daydreams aside, the apartment does not have a ton going for it. The smell of cookies, however, makes me love it more. The tiny kitchen feels snug and warm, the plain white walls feel less clinical, the dirt-colored carpet in my bedroom feels less like a brillo pad, and the window that always sticks seems to slide a bit better (maybe it's the butter in the air).

I rarely eat what I bake. I'll have a cookie or I'll taste the batter of a cake, but because I'm pseudo-psycho about my running and weight loss I don't allow myself much. It's the smell I love, and the act of taking a bunch of bits and rolling them into something that makes people smile. I don't create things at work, don't build or design anything. So, occassionally, it's nice to make something and know that it wouldn't exist but for my personal combination of butter, sugar, cinnamon, vanilla, flour, baking soda, more butter...

Another September 11th

I suppose every generation has their moment. Their "where were you when...?" question. I was 20 on this day seven years ago , standing in my room at the sorority house, wearing my new camel-colored sweater and rolling my hair. My roommate, Christina, had already left for class and I was watching a rerun of Designing Women when the program was interrupted for that first message. I thought perhaps the pilot was drunk, and I was angry at him. How could he be so careless, so cruel?

I kept watching, of course, and I remember hearing televisions in other rooms, and knew other girls were watching the same thing. But nobody knocked on my door. I didn't hear any cries of, "hey guys, are you watching this?!" Perhaps we were all waiting for the explanation, the acknowledgment of incompetence or drugs. And then the second plane hit and I heard someone somewhere cry out. Did I cry out, too? I don't remember. I kept watching, and at some point I called my Mom.

I tried to call a dear friend, Francis, who was living in New York at the time. In my mind, all of NYC was burning. Hordes of demon planes were crashing everywhere and surely Francis would be hit. But nobody could get through to New York that day. I wandered across campus to the library to find Christina and by the time I arrived the Pentagon smoke was flying. Or was it the White House? I forget what we thought at first. Was the White House gone? No, that plane crashed. But the Pentagon...

I don't remember much of what followed, besides the candlelight vigil, the prayers, the worry that maybe this changed everything. I didn't realize, of course, that Sept.11 would set in motion the political moves that would eventually lead to my evacuation from Peace Corps. When I left for my service in Morocco months after the 11th, my dad mentioned a concern about Sadaam Hussein, Afghanistan, but I had no sense of the threat. Looking back, my parents must have been more than a little nervous to watch their wholly naive firstborn jaunt off to an Arab country less than a year after the news blasted Arab faces across the screen and called them murderers. I wasn't afraid in that context. And I had no cause to be. My villagers, my host families, my Moroccan friends, they were all some of the kindest, warmest people I've ever met. Some of them were angry, maybe mean, but no more so than any angry American. And I loved Morocco more than I've loved any other place on earth, save one, save New Orleans.

A week or so after the U.S. invaded Iraq, I was riding a taxi, alone, with a police escort, from my village east of Esfi to join my fellow volunteers at a hotel in Marrakech, where we watched the news and waited for the end.

Seven years is a long time. I've heard a million times that Sept. 11 changed America forever. America lost her innocence. America will never be the same. I would agree with that sentiment, but it's fairly obvious and painfully cliche. I don't think America is worse off due to Sept. 11, anymore than she is worse off due to other tragedies, other natural disasters, other wars. Losing innocents, burying those that should not have died, that is a pain that inspires broken hearts and vehemently powerful brotherhood. If there is anything Sept. 11 says about America today, it is that we own our history, we hold it and treasure it, and then we walk on. We build. We grow. We fight. We potentially elect the first black president or the first female vice president. We have things to be proud of and we are not quiet in our pride. And I think that says something about the backbone that was not broken on the 11th. There is something to be said of our blood, of a country built on the shoulders of men and women who largely came here with nothing and built something out of the dirt. Of men and women who were shackled here against their will and who broke free, rose up, and became as much a source of success of this country as the descendants of those who owned them. We, as a country, are used to rising from ashes, we have built and rebuilt a country on the graves of innocents, honoring their lives by building, growing, and building again.

Autumn, Anyone?

I loathe winter. I hate feeling cold, hate shivering, hate the grey of Minnesota from November-April (sometimes May). And I miss the long, lazy autumn in Virginia, Arkansas, and Missouri, where you have three solid months of beautiful colors and above freezing evenings.

But, short as it is, Minnesota's autumn is worth loving. Perhaps people love it here because they know how quick it fades, how fast that first heavy snow can fall. And I think there's something lovely about being able to smell the snow in the air. That snow smell reminds me, vaguely, of that ozone aroma that lingered in New Orleans after hard summer storms, the smell of lightening and non-hurricanes. Completely different smells, different feelings, but echoes of each other in that your nose remembers and acknowledges snowstorms and slanted rains before the rest of your body. Memory is so tied to visuals and sounds, it's nice to give the nose a chance to paint its own picture.

And today, in the middle of a warm, autumn rain, in the three drops that hit my face through the crack in the bus window, I smelled snow.

The Motherland

As soon as I step foot in Arkansas my heart relaxes. Despite the heat, the humidity, my lungs fill up faster. My body was born here and it recognizes Home. I am happy in Minneapolis, as I was happy in Kansas City, and St. Louis, and so happy in New Orleans. But my happiness in Arkansas has a heavier feel. The weight of family and love and barbeque and the hill where I crashed my bike and the vacant lot where I played house and the best dog in the world and the plum trees I laid under and the yellow jackets that made my feet swell and the walk to the bus stop at the top of the hill and the cinnamon toast at Mamaw's when I had the chickenpox and the swing set that tipped too high and...

Craving a Place

I crave Arkansas the way some people crave chocolate or red wine or a perfectly baked apple. I crave the heat of the South these days, because Minnesota does not have a real summer. Summer here is a warmer version of spring, with little humidity, and too much wind. I crave the heaviness of Southern heat, the thickness of the air, the feel of sweat sliding swiftly down your spine or hanging lightly on your collarbone. I crave that pregnant silence in the afternoon, when even the bugs are too hot to talk, and the whole earth feels like the quiet calm before some great storm.

I spent a hiccup of time in North Little Rock following my evacuation from New Orleans. On several occassions I skipped class (did I retain anything that strange semester?) and drove to Pinnacle Mountain (pictured). I packed tuna salad and crackers and carrots and hiked to the top in the indian summer heat of September, and held orange leaves in my hand in October, November. I took my journal to the summit, wrote horrible poems about broken New Orleans, and sat for hours. Pinnacle probably doesn't even qualify as a mountain. It's not part of the Ozark chain, and having spent ample time in the Blue Ridge, Pinnacle doesn't come close to those old giants. And the Rockies, those young upstarts, have Pinnacle dwarfed by thousands of feet. But I crave that ancient, sloping, easy "mountain" and the quiet rocks at her top. I grew up climbing that glorified hill and I cannot wait to climb her again. Soon.

It Isn't A Regret Exactly

Last night I saw The Government Inspector at the Guthrie, a new adaptation of the 19th century Gogol comedy. The play was good, funny and light. But it made me somewhat homesick for the years I spent onstage. I miss the smell and the heaviness of stage makeup, how it erased my own face and gave me a new one. And I miss too-tight shoes and corsets and the sound of my voice and the echoes of an audience.


But more than the joys of performance and applause, I miss doing something I knew I excelled at. I've been an attorney for all of 9 months and I don't have much intention of pursuing a traditional legal practice. I haven't truly begun my career so I have no idea if I will be successful. I love to write and have written poems and stories since I was a child, but I also hate my writing 90% of the time and cannot remember the last time I finished a piece I wanted to share with anyone. Writing feels too personal, too important to be enjoyed sometimes. But acting was never like that. I always knew I was good, often excellent. I always knew I had a lovely stage voice, knew I could slip into a character with the ease of a new dress. So even when I felt ugly or sad or stupid or completely lost, I always knew that on stage I would give the impression of assurance and purpose.


I don't regret not trying harder. I flipped a coin after Peace Corps, move to New York and give acting a go (heads) or apply to law school again (tails). And when it landed heads, I flipped again. I knew I didn't want that life and the happiness I found onstage was not enough to carry me through years of waiting tables. But I do miss backstage jitters, the rush to find the lost eyeliner, the heat of the lights, the sound of the audience coughing and sighing into their seats, the momentary forgetfulness of that first damn line, the sadness of the last night's applause. I miss it all.

Books I Should Be Reading

Sons and Lovers: I've read and reread 3/4 of this book at least three times. Why can't I finish it? I love it. It's beautiful. So why do I get tired 45 pages from the end?

The Omnivore's Dilemma: I don't own this yet but I pick it up everytime I'm at the bookstore (which is too often). There's a new one, too, called In Defense of Food (I think) that a couple friends have recommended.

Catch-22: In the past 6 months, several people, randomly, have said that this is their favorite book. People who, by my assessment, seem like intelligent, not-entirely-insane people. But I hated this book when I read it and haven't gone near Heller since. But I've been told he deserves a second go. I'm hesitant but maybe...

Mastering the Art of French Cooking (Volume Two): I haven't read Volume One but I only own Volume Two, and yes, I know it's a cookbook. But it's Julia Child! And my copy is so worn and dusty and wonderfully old, it would be fun to read it. Is it weird to read a cookbook?

Pilgrim's Progress: Isn't this something everyone is supposed to read at some point? Am I missing something?

Let Us Now Praise Famous Men: I've heard tons about this and Southern lit has a special sway in my heart, so the sharecropping angle intrigues me. And I loved Agee's A Death in the Family. So this one is near the top of my "must read" list.

The Magic Mountain: I owned a copy of this for awhile but loaned it to someone before I read it and never got it back. It's time to find it again.

Your Typical Wednesday at 2:12 P.M.

I am craving a glass of spicy red wine and fantastic company.

Corner Stores

It's a simple thing, and perhaps it's silly to love it so much. But my apartment is a tiny walk away from several stores, Trader Joe's, a chocolatier, a handbag store, half-price books. And I just love that tiny walk. I love tucking a shopping bag in my purse, filling it with milk or eggs or magazines or sweets, and then returning home with the heavy weight of it in my hand. It's a small pleasure, but an important one.

Religion and Politics, Sigh

I've had several conversations recently with different people from both political parties re: the place of religion in politics. Some of these conversations have been exasperating and many have been enlightening, so for my own mental exercise I thought I'd say a few things about my own opinion. I generalize a bit, as I know that there are many non-Christian Republicans, or many Christian Republicans that do not vote according to the religious right, but because they are fiscally conservative or more in line with conservative viewpoints on other issues. Also, I have many Christian Republican friends who are fantastically tolerant and respectful of our differing political opinions. My issue lies more with the prevalence of intolerance in the Church for non-Republicans and my discussions have largely been on the issue of religious conservatism mingling with political conservatism so that's the perspective I'm exploring.

I'm a Christian. I believe Christ died on the cross for the sins of man and by his grace we are redeemed. Christianity, my constant struggle to be a woman of faith (when doubt is my more prevalent tendency), colors every aspect of my life. I am a Christian before I am an American, before I am anything else. I am a Christian before I am a Democrat, before I am a voter, before I question which side of the abortion debate I fall on. My faith is first. And it is that hierarchy that most inspires my confusion over why there is a question how I can be BOTH a Christian and a Democrat.

Faith and Party are not mutually exclusive. Loving one's country, serving her, is a blessed thing in the eyes of God but serving one's country is not the realm of a sole political party. One party does not own God. God does not endorse one candidate over another and to imply such an idea is wholly offensive to me. To imply that one party has the direct line to Heaven belittles faith, belittles Christ, and patronizes the millions of Americans who call themselves Christians. There is no doubt in my mind that many of the leaders of the religious right have bought their way to power by the constant patronizing of Christian America. They have made Christians believe that there are only a handful of real issues in America (abortion and gay rights being their favorites) and that those issues trump every other issue at bar. They've pointed a wagging pastoral finger at Christians who found themselves questioning the ideals of the Republican party and have convinced the majority of Christians that part of being a good Christ-follower is to vote with the party that God has blessed. Bullshit.

The Democratic party is no picnic, either. While the Republicans preach their moral imperative, Democrats find it hard to state that something is categorically 'wrong', which can be equally infuriating. But that's the whole point. Neither party is perfect because both parties were created by men. They are inherently fallible and broken. When I look at both parties, as a Christian, the Democratic party is the party that is most in line with my faith in terms of equality, providing support for the impoverished, embracing the 'least of these', protecting God's earth, and championing peace. And so, my vote swings left. However, I have no problem understanding why other Christians would look at the parties and decide the opposite, decide that the Republican party best represents their values. I can respect either determination. For that reason, I do not understand why so many Republicans can not provide the same respect, cannot look at Christian Democrats and acknowledge that there are Biblical values that many people will feel are best represented by the Democratic party.

But chiefly, I simply do not believe politics should ever have a place in the church or vice versa. At its core, the marriage of the two belittles faith. It equates Country with God, turns the American flag into an idol worthy of worship, an idea I find incredibly disturbing. Outside the church, the marriage of the two establishes religious imperatives in a government that should be wholly secular. Decision-making will always be inspired by personal convictions, and for many people those convictions will arise out of religious faith, that is to be expected and championed in a democracy. But the Church and the State should be divided beyond those convictions, so that every leader and every voter has the freedom to pursue those convictions without threat.

Rest in Peace, Diego

Dear furry friend, I happily babysat you while your mommy was away and I never undertood why you hid food all over the place. But your silly little gerbil feet and your oblivious pooping in my hand will be missed. May you enjoy many turns on the great gerbil wheel in the sky.

So it's one of THOSE apartments

I recently moved into a new apartment. It's a sweet, small space in an area I love and I'm quite happy to be on my own again. My description of its location usually goes something like this:

Inquiring Friend: Where are you living now?

Me: Do you know the Excelsior & Grand area?

Friend: Sure, that's an awesome location!

Me: It is. Do you know those gorgeous condos right at the intersection?

Friend: Yeah, wow, way to go! Those places are beautiful.

Me: *laughing* I live in the ghetto apartments behind those gorgeous condos.

Friend: Oh. Cool. I didn't know there were apartments back there.

Me: Yeah, they like to hide us away, we po' folk.

Anywho, I love my somewhat ghetto place, warts and all. I called my landlord a few days ago because for the life of me I could not get my windows to lock. I pushed and sweated and cussed and still, no locking. I live on the first floor and I watch too much Law & Order SVU so, really, locking windows is kinda high on my priority list. The landlord explained to me, very sweetly, that the windows DO lock but everytime you open the windows you have to realign the panes. You have to pull the lower pane out, push the upper pane up, and finally slide the lower pane back into place.

Ah. It's one of those apartments. One of those lovely little places where every moving part has a system. My bedroom door in New Orleans had a similar process that involved having to reattach the doorknob every 5th opening. And 4th step in the hallway had a dip in it that, despite living there for 3 years, I could never master the height of and I always half stumbled my way upstairs.

I'm not complaining. I'm happy I have one of those apartments. Who needs perfection when you can have a slightly contrary, slightly annoying, but totally individual place? Perfection is overrated. I have my own idiosyncracies (applying condiments alphabetically, being moderately intimidated by escalators), so it only makes sense that my new home should be equally eccentric.