And on the third day...

After the Sabbath, at dawn on the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to look at the tomb. There was a violent earthquake, for an angel of the Lord came down from heaven and, going to the tomb, rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothes were white as snow. The guards were so afraid of him that they shook and became like dead men.

The angel said to the women, "Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here; he has risen, just as he said. Come and see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples: 'He has risen from the dead and is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him.' Now I have told you."

So the women hurried away from the tomb, afraid yet filled with joy, and ran to tell his disciples. Suddenly Jesus met them. "Greetings," he said. They came to him, clasped his feet and worshiped him. Then Jesus said to them, "Do not be afraid. Go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me."

Matthew 28: 1-10

Slow Saturdays

I am thawing frozen blueberries in the sink, listening to the drip of juice and the hum of cars passing out my open window. It's finally springtime, finally sunny and warm enough to open sliding glass doors and let a breeze wrap in. My hands are stained with blueberry juice, which I hope will be easily removed as my Easter dress will look significantly less pretty with stained purple fingernails. All for the sake of cobbler, a worthy price to pay.

I consider myself a social, story-telling person. I like finding new people to get to know, explore, learn about and from, laugh with, make laugh. I like parties and large groups, places that might merit a smiling center-of-attention lady like myself. But, the older I get, the more I value days where I am totally alone. I love afternoons of long, solitary runs (or walks) to the lake, walking to Starbucks for coffee I do not need, reading chapters of books I've read a thousand times before. I love evenings of baking, talking to myself, spilling flour everywhere, cursing the colander with the too-small holes, putting songs on repeat that would drive most people crazy. I love the ease of being by myself, entertaining no one, smiling only to myself, daydreaming about places and people and things without risking the faraway look (or absent-minded fish face) of such ponderings with company.

I would be miserable in such solitude if it were a daily occurrence. I need other voices to quiet my own. And I have found excellent, engaging friends here who make life out in the world happy and exciting. But balancing adventures with quiet is more important than it once was. While I am often anxious to explore new experiences, enjoy new people, I feel like I savor both with more vigor and intelligence when that anxiety is tempered with silence, sometimes alone and sometimes with quiet company.

I could talk the ear off a donkey. I could tell Peace Corps stories for hours. I could laugh at new jokes and discuss politics and debate the merit of blue high heels and the inadequacy of Northern salsa for an age.

And I could, happily, lay on my tiny blue couch next to my open window and listen to Johnny Cash, cars passing, blueberry juice dripping into a cracked ceramic bowl.

Melancholy in Minneapolis

Now that I am no longer a Louisiana resident but a Minnesotan who longingly looks out car windows searching for snoball stands and jazz brunches and beads, I find that my trips back to New Orleans have become increasingly bittersweet. The longer I spend away, the more permanent the move feels. And the more I accept that moving was right, but that "right" is not necessarily supposed to feel good.

When I moved here I thought I would go back. At least, I think I thought I would. Or, if I didn't think that I'd return, that wasn't something I allowed myself to admit. New Orleans became a city I could only survive by myself. I could love it, love living in it, but I would never thrive, never do anything but survive its myriad temptations. I'm not saying I had a drinking problem or anything anyone needs to raise their eyebrows at. But New Orleans was entirely too comfortable for me. It fit me the way only Heaven should fit a person. The only time I truly grew in that span of time was when school forced me to think and the city forced me to leave. I could spend hours, days, years, in the Quarter, doing nothing but eat and write poetry and listen to jazz. And I suppose there are many who happily embrace that life. But it would have drained me eventually, that level of ease. Ah, the Big Easy, I'd never thought of that until now...so, so incredibly true. An ease that sucks you in and, for some, keeps sucking until any individual drive just disappears. But I've never been good with middle ground, moderation. New Orleans was the BIG Easy for me, it could never be the Moderately Easy, so as to leave room for personal success, passion, growth.

A colleague at work commented before I left that he thought it would take a good while longer before Minneapolis became more of a Home than New Orleans (here's your shout out, Stu). He's definitely right. While I can accept that New Orleans was never a Home for the long term, it was the first Home, after Morocco, that I made myself. And while there were elements of it that were emotionally and physically unhealthy, it was still a Home I was loathe to leave. I always felt remarkably understood in New Orleans, not only by the friends I found there, but by the city herself. So bright and battered and somewhat crazy and overly romanticized and silly and broken and gorgeous and terrifying and unbelievably strong. Not to put too cheesey a point on it, but She was all the adjectives I either attached or wished to attach to myself. So She was easy to love. Impossible to leave.

I will never feel in Minneapolis what I felt in New Orleans. Without a Jackson Square to curl my toes into and beignets to devour and perfect, perfect jazz floating down the river, Minneapolis has no hope in convincing me that she's a worthy replacement. But the longer I am away from New Orleans, the more I love to visit her, daydream about her, pretend she loved me back. The longer I'm away, the more anxious I am to love a city that pushes me and makes me slightly uncomfortable, a city that cocks its head at my accent. I don't have any immediate plans to leave Minneapolis. But if ever I were to leave this city, I want to love it enough to miss it.

It's a Big World. But Sometimes I Like to Pretend it's a Small One.

Sometimes life in a city-that-is-not-the-city-you-expected-to-find-yourself-in is somewhat surreal. On most days, after a period of adjustment, it feels fairly comfy, familiar, and happy. You've made friends, built a social life, have places to be on Friday nights, have laundry to pick up, rent to pay. Life in the Unexpected City isn't that different from the City you unfairly (routinely) compare the Unexpected City to.

But on those other days, the days you feel like a sore thumb, it's nice to have tiny moments of recognition with the occassional stranger who chances your way with, perhaps, similar feelings of semi-isolation. While in line to pay for my salad today, I spied a man wearing a William & Mary sweatshirt. As this is the school many of my relatives/friends thought I attended (I went to Washington & Lee) and it's a similarly history-laden Virginia school, I asked him if he was an Alum. When he said yes I told him I had attended W & L and you would have thought I'd just promised him a golden egg. In a short but happy exchange we established that neither of us are Minnesotans, both of us born in small, poor Southern states (Arkansas for me, Alabama for him), both disgusted with today's snow, and both stupidly smitten with the fact that we stumbled upon one another in a checkout line in St. Paul.

It's funny, really. I've had a couple moments of similar mirth recently, meeting folks from south of the Mason-Dixon, and for some manner of moments we forget that The South is a big ole place. All of the sudden Beaumont and New Orleans and Birmingham and Austin and Charlotte and "it's a small town outside Nashville" are all close enough to Home to merit a smile. I suppose when you're this far removed from Home you tend to expand the limits of Home, increasing the likelihood that someone from Home will find you tucked away in this cold, Swedish-y place.

As is to be expected, when these serendipitous meetings occur, someone has to mutter, "what a small world!" And you both smile and nod your heads, laugh a bit, and somebody mentions the time they drove through your hometown or the cousin they have who went to school there. But the world has never seemed small to me. It has always felt enormously, excitingly HUGE, and the more places I live, the bigger it becomes. Every place I visit, every home I have, just exacerbates my feeling that my life will be way too short to enjoy every place I could potentially love. I'll never be able to see it all. I'll never find all the people I could befriend. I'll miss the climbing of various mountains. There will be delicious foods I will never eat, much less learn to cook. There are worlds out there I will never find if I am constantly, comfortably back Home.

So the run-ins with my compatriots, my fellow Southerners, my people who say "y'all" and find my pronunciation of "New Orleans" to be correct not cute, my friends who know good barbeque when they smell the smoke, such run-ins and hellos make me happy. They bring Home here for a little while. But they also make me happy to be elsewhere, some corner of the world I never would have ventured to if not for a combination of natural disaster, mistake, coin flip, curiosity, and homesickness.

This Is All I Will Say On The Subject

I think taxing the bonuses of a select few Americans is unconstitutional. Bill of attainder, anybody? Equal Protection? Ring any small, important bells?

The tax would do little to nothing to the fat cats everyone is picturing at AIG. The only thing the bill does is rob thousands and thousands of hard-working American families of the small thank-you they received from their embattled employer after months of what can only be the worst possible period to work for these companies. The vast majority of these people aren't getting million dollar bonuses. They're getting a few grand. Maybe it's enough to pay a couple months on their own mortgage. Maybe it repairs a small amount of the damage done to bruised, if not shattered, retirement accounts. Maybe it buys a kid braces. Maybe it's donated to a church or a synagogue or a homeless shelter or any number of charities swamped with the burden of financial ruin. These aren't millionaires.

And if they were millionaires?!

Still. Just. As. Unconstitutional.

That is all.

Just a Wee Bit of Bragging

I ran my first 5K (3.1 miles) last May and finished with a time of 48 minutes. That's a 15 1/2 minute mile pace. I was quite proud of that as I was in the process of losing a lot of weight and it was the first time I'd run 3 miles without stopping.

Today I ran 5 miles in 53:13 minutes. That's less than an 11 minute mile pace, roughly 10:42 pace. So I ran two more miles at a time 5 minutes per mile faster than that first race.

I'm proud. Half-Marathon here I come. Some part of me likes the bookends of this experience, to run my first 5K in May 2008, and my first Half-Marathon in May 2009.

Marathon in May 2010?

Where to?

I've been living in my apartment for nearly a year. It has served me well, despite being entirely too far from my current job. I want to move soon and have yet to decide where in the Cities. Somewhere cute, somewhere convenient, somewhere old, somewhere with orange ceilings.

Invariably, when I start to think of changing apartments, I think of all the apartments I've had before, in all the cities I've loved (and loathed) before. And such thinking makes me start to wonder if maybe I should be exploring apartments in other cities, other countries, places to surprise or inspire myself. I'm not bored here, or unhappy. But some part of me feels the need to stomp around somewhere new. Moving every couple years became a habit and I suppose, seeing as I've lived here for two years come June, my body is simply feeling the itch.

I have wondered if that drive, that need to go "somewhere else" and do "something else," would go away or fade once I found some magic, happy place. But I think that's where the searching comes from, not out of any unhappiness, but out of finding comfort. I start to worry if, in becoming happy, I've also become lazy.

C.S. Lewis has a brilliant quote in 'Til We Have Faces, "It was when I was happiest that I longed most...The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing...to find the place where all the beauty came from." I don't like to think I suffer from a grass-is-greener problem, constantly seeking something "better" as compared to what I feel my experience currently lacks. Because I don't think my need for change and new perspective is a search for "better" as much as it is a search for something new, different, unexpected, beautiful.

I spoke with a friend about this once, a friend who is much less prone to uprooting herself (in the physical sense). When I worried aloud that perhaps there was something exciting out there that I was missing, some country I would love living in, some river I should fish in, some job I should attempt and probably fail at, she wondered back ,"Have you ever lived somewhere without an expiration date? Why can't that be an adventure, too?"

Every place I have lived since graduating from high school has had a deadline. Virginia ended after college. Morocco ended with the Iraq War. Kansas City was a hiccup, a time-killer while I applied to law school. New Orleans was never supposed to end but after Katrina, I'd be lying if I said I didn't have some idea in my mind that even that lovely city was not forever for me. When I moved to Minneapolis I expected to be here two, three years, tops. I could not imagine myself happy, long term, in a city that is not in the South. I just could not embrace the idea of investing in a city that could never feel like Home.

I still feel like that, honestly. I still can't picture living here for years. Can't imagine owning a home here. Raising a family here. But perhaps it is healthy and mature and becoming-an-adultish to experiment with not stamping an expiration date on a city that has done nothing but make me content. I love my job, love being near my family, love the Spring after months of cold, love my church, love some dear, new friends. And even if this is not a forever type of city, even if there is another city in the cards, perhaps it's okay to just let that come in its own time. Perhaps burrowing in, making a home here, doesn't have to be something I do while I wait for my Real life to begin, the one in the Real city, with the Real happiness.

This is real, too. Just new, different, unexpected, beautiful.

The First Batch, Or Two

I bake cookies. Often.

I have not always been a baker. I wasn't much of a cook in New Orleans, give or take a carrot cake or two. And I'm still intimidated by full meal preparation (how do you time the cornbread, the green beans, the mashed potato, AND the chicken to be ready simultaneously). But baking I'm growing happy and comfortable with and I'm getting to the point where I don't always need a recipe, I can generally eyeball what needs to go where and in what amount.

Because I am a recovering English major, I can make any life experience a metaphor for life itself. It's a skill that's hard to articulate on a resume.

The cookies I baked tonight (www.edibleavocation.blogspot.com) were tricky little buggers. The first batch was beautiful to look at until you picked them off the parchment paper to spy their throughly blackened bottoms. My oven runs hot but even when lowering the temp and lessening the baking time, I still burned batch number two. This would have ruined my mood early on in my baking "career" (okay...not really a "career") as I'm easily frustrated when following directions results in disaster. But I've learned, through multiple mishaps, that recipes themselves are fickle creatures. They are built and loved by people other than myself with other ovens and other spatulas and other definitions of "level spoon dropfuls" and getting worked up over my cookies not being their cookies, I have slowly realized, is silly.

I think it's easy to get frustrated by the unpredictability of consequences outside the kitchen, too. I think most people "follow the directions" without remembering that the directions were written in general terms, without the specificity of personal dreams and strengths factored into the experience. This struck me today because yesterday my Dad, sister, and I went out to lunch and we started talking about college choices, life choices, mistakes kids and parents make (my sister is 16). I just remember being her age and feeling like the whole world was laden with directions and signs and magic potions of experience that I was supposed to obtain in order to acquire happiness. College, Marriage, 2.5 children, Successful Career, House (preferably with a picket fence and porch swing). And now, looking back, I wish someone had made me realize that the picture I had in my head of Happiness was a shadow of the Happiness that was possible if I wrote my own damn recipe.

I don't think God puts dreams or goals or curiosities in our hearts for his own twisted pleasure in crushing them. They're there for our exploration, maybe they'll feed us and bring financial gain, or maybe they're fodder for great memories and confidence in other pursuits. And maybe burning those first few batches of experience make us appreciate the perfect, fluffy, lemony morsels that emerge, unscathed, from an oven tempered by well-earned intelligence.

Modern Medicine is no Match for Me, Suckah

Alright, I don't actually use the word, "suckah", in everyday speech. Nor do I feel that modern medicine is a uniform crock or any such thing. In general, I'm a fan of medicine, modernity, and suckers (preferably chocolate flavored tootsie rolls). But of late I've become tired of "medicine" and anxious to return to the days when I had no need for it.

On the plane ride back from Amsterdam I started to feel a small tickle in my chest. Anyone who has had bronchitis knows what this feels like. It inspires a cough but you know from the beginning that said cough is purposeless. You start to cough whenever you lay down, whenever you yawn, whenever you laugh, whenever you swallow, whenever you breathe. And, at least for me, my bronchitis has never really responded to cough syrups, either over-the-counter or prescription. I just have to suffer, sweat it out.

This used to be annoying, of course, but not much beyond the typical sickness annoyance. I'd moan and complain, drug up, and wait the couple weeks it took to shake it out of my system, antibiotics in hand.

But now, see, I'm a runner. And the inability to breathe leads, inevitably, to an inability to run. And that is not an annoyance. That hurts me.

After nearly three weeks of this business, three weeks of no running, I returned to the doctor, hopeful. But unfortunately my doctor's answer to my breathlessness and inability to take a full lung of air without coughing is to slap an inhaler in my hand and laugh (yes, LAUGH) when I ask when I can start running again. I actually like my doctor, honestly, and were I my old self (an old self that certainly wouldn't have asked the running question), I wouldn't have been bothered by his diagnosis. But, to hear it now, no running for "awhile", said so flippantly, just pains me.

I went to the gym after the doctor's visit (I don't take "no" very well) and proceeded to walk as fast as one can walk on the highest incline possible on the treadmill. I'm positive I was actually breathing harder than I would normally have been had I been running. And, I admit, that was a stupid, juvenile move considering I'm only hurting myself. But there is something in me that is occassionally angered by the incessant drugging up of every ill. Where is the "shake it off" mantra instilled in me by my Dad at my softball practices? I think "shake it off" is a pretty viable, healthy mentality to balance out the "no running for awhile" practice.

I know that I asked for it. I don't feel 100% so I went back to the doctor. The doctor gave his honest, well-intentioned recommendation. I suppose I was hoping for a gold star, a slap on the back, and a magic, "you should definitely start running again, your bronchial tubes will LOVE it." So to hear that I'm just not kicking this thing as quickly as I wanted to, despite the fact that I am healthier now than I have ever been, just frustrates me.

At the gym I was sandwiched between two people my age, a man running at what would be a very respectable marathon pace, and a morbidly overweight woman walking at a snail's pace and failing to break a sweat. I wanted to plead with them both, because it was so clear that they each took their health for granted, their dear, strong, uninflamed bronchial tubes for granted. The man, clearly, took pride in his body and what it could do, but I'm sure, at that moment, he had no clue how blessed he was to be speeding merrily along. I wondered if he'd thanked God for those legs today. And the woman. Her sin I understand very, very well. She was reading The Economist, an article on China I read a couple weeks ago. To treasure and be grateful for only compartments of the gift God gives us is as great a sin as dismissing the whole package. To cultivate your mind and be proud of it, but to leave your body in a ditch and call it "genetics" or " big boned" is a tragedy I am sure God does not wish upon us. I wondered, and knew, that she had not thanked God for that brain or that belly today. Equally precious gifts, but easy to ignore one for the sake (we think) of the other.

I skipped the pharmacy on the way home. I'll give my lungs another day before I test out the inhaler idea. Perhaps they just need a bit more time, a bit less abuse (stupid treadmill), and some more orange juice. And I'll thank God for them anyway, despite their current ineptitude.

Oh my, Radio!

Oh my, Radio!
Wherefore art thou, Radio?
How much road rage have I avoided by the purrfect play of
Golden Age at opportune moments?


Ladies and Gents, it is time to pony up and support our dear friend, Minnesota Public Radio. Having moved to Minneapolis from New Orleans, where local music is poorly represented by local radio, it is awesome to finally experience a station that so happily, readily, and enthusiastically embraces its own. Times are tough but music is IMPORTANT! It's a calmness on the drive home, a grin on a Friday evening, a brand new musical obsession that sends you straight to iTunes, and awesome deejays that love music just as much as you do. It's the soundtrack for this transient woman's life in these snowy Cities. So just do it. Show some love. Donate what you can and give yourself a very hip high five. http://minnesota.publicradio.org/radio/services/the_current/

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.