The Missing

There are people who come briefly or unexpectedly into my life, and there's an instant...something. A click, or a premonition, or just a recognition of vibrancy, perhaps. And I'm quickly convinced that I'll always know them, that they're worth knowing more, that they'll make my world a better place by being part of it.

And then...nothing. They're gone. We had one meeting or three or even a few months of friendship, but now I can't remember their name...or at least not enough of it to find them on the internet, now that that has become a thing.

Facebook, for all its problems, has helped some of that simply by placing connections between the people whose names I CAN remember and the people they remember, until I can track back to the person I'm looking for.

That's how I found the girl who was one of my two best friends in kindergarten (and I found Tytus, too), and who starred with me in a personalised Sesame Street book that is one of the few legacies I have from my dad. Betsy and Scott from 1st through 3rd grades are on there. And let's not forget the masses of awesome people from Oshkosh that have moved back onto my radar: Amie, Karin, Mike, Ben, Beth, etc., etc.--even Scott and Tim, the two boys that I adopted as my brothers, for reasons I can't quite remember (I still have the yellow bunny pillow Scott got me for Christmas one year). They're all within arm's reach again, even if the connection we once had has since been lost. It's good to know that they DO continue to exist and to have at least a small picture of what their lives are like.

But there are still people missing, people who aren't as easy to find. There are people whose names I didn't write down or can't pull out of the memory files or never knew in the first place.

There was a girl at a group that took place in a hospital meeting room in Oshkosh. I have no idea what I was there for, what the group was, or anything else that might give me a frame of reference. What I do remember is thinking, "Okay, you have something in common with these people, so say something to someone." I picked a girl who looked just about as shy as I was (e.g. veryveryvery), and decided for some reason to pass her a note. I think I might have told her I liked her hair or that she had a cool ring or asked her a question. I don't even know. What I do remember is that her face lit up, and when it came to the mingling portion of the night, we had a fun conversation and an effortless connection--and then I never went back. And I always regretted that--the friendship that might have been.

There was Saskia at choir camp. She had a killer voice, which, at choir camp, automatically makes you one of the cool kids. But Saskia would have been cool anywhere. She was exotic and vibrant and bold and awesome. I'm not sure she and I would ever have been extremely close friends, but I always suspected she'd end up doing amazing things, and I'd love to know if my instinct was right.

Theatre camp was the week after choir camp, so I stayed the weekend, while most of the other campers went home. And in those two days, I found one of the soul-friends of my life. I think her name was Rebecca. We had so many things in common, and we talked about everything... which is to say, mostly books we both loved and what that said about personality and philosophy and all the things that stem from that when you realize you've found someone whose brain works like yours in a world in which you didn't know that was possible (this is also how Tailyn and I ended up as friends years later). But on Sunday, my world back home imploded. Everything had changed abruptly and catastrophically, and in the flurry of trying to get back there, Rebecca and I never remembered to exchange information. And there that friendship went, a casualty of greater tragedies.

Then there was Catherine. I never actually knew her last name, though we were friends for years. She and I were penpals--actual pen-and-ink paper letter writers. I have been digging around in my memory to try to figure out how that ever started and I can't remember. Did we meet on the internet? Was there some sort of pen-pal advertising network? I honestly don't know. I was in my 20s when we started writing to each other, so it was a somewhat atypical pen-pal relationship. We might go for months without writing each other, and then suddenly get the impulse--and discover that the other person was a week away from moving to a new address. This happened two or three times for each of us. The last I heard from her, she was in Texas, working at a children's bookstore, and having an amazing time. Sadly, that's the last letter I got. That little psychic bell of impending move warning never went off again, at least not in time to track each other down. And we'd decided not to reveal last names, at least in part to revel in our shared first name, so I've no way of knowing where she is now.

I mourn the possibilities that these and other encounters represent. Sometimes, I feel like my life is lessened by their loss, the "what could have been."

But maybe not. Maybe they're out there, occasionally wondering what happened to me, grateful they encountered me right when I was needed, reminding them that connection is always possible. Maybe it was just as useful to them that there was someone else who saw life in similar colors.

Brevity, it turns out, does not make for smaller friendships, only shorter ones. There's a comfort in that.

Responsibility of Creation

Just before I started this blog thing up again, I read through what I've already posted. One thing punched me in the face: I talk about writing a LOT.

I promised myself that, this time around, I'd try not to do that. But you know what? Forget it. That's dumb. Writing is what I DO. So...

I don't know how many of you are writers, whether you dabble or make a living at it or anywhere on the spectrum. But I have a ponder to pose: do you ever find yourself working on something that, when you step back from it, you know is good, if only you can keep it going until it emerges completely. Like, seriously, deeply good?

I have a couple of things like that right now ("Venezia" and "Susurrus," if you're curious). I've had a few throughout my life.

I don't think I've ever finished a single one of them. I've never felt ready, if that makes sense. I remember being very aware as a teenager that, if I wrote that particular piece now, I'd ruin it, and I didn't want to. But I'm not sure I ever got back to those pieces, either, so now it feels like a waste not to try something.

Part of my hangup is that. I don't want to mess it up. But who else am I going to give it to? Because I often do want to give it away to a better writer. "Here, work your magic on this," I'd say. Even though their magic didn't come up with it in the first place and that would be doing it just as great a disservice.

Part of it is the sheer weight of responsibility. I can see what it should be. I know where I need to go with it, and how utterly good it can be. But I HAVE TO DO IT. And if I can't get the discipline to do it right, I fail both of us completely. PRESSURE.

Part of it is a very weird fear of success that is just too complicated to get into here. Suffice to say that success has...implications.

It's like I've got an amazing muse who just flits off halfway through, distracted by squirrels and rainbows and  necromancy (which is not what I meant to type, but I'm leaving it, because it's valid), breezing over her shoulder, "You've got this, right?" on her way.

No. But I'll try.

Any other writers have any idea what I'm talking about? Or non-writers, for that matter--maybe this is a universal thing.

Always a bridesmaid...

Superstitions -- or traditions that carry the weight of superstition -- are funny things. (You might think that I'm required to think that because I'm a folklorist, but the truth is, it's the other way around).

The one that's currently on my mind is the saying, "Three times a bridesmaid, never a bride." (This gets confused in my head with "Three times a lady," but I digress). Somewhere along the line, this devolved into "Always a bridesmaid..." often followed by a rueful smile and shake of the head.

The first place I remember this saying was in an L. M. Montgomery book, which I've recently reread (hence the current musing). Anne is talking to her friend Diana right before Diana descends the stairs to marry. Diana is lamenting that she won't be able to be Anne's bridesmaid (apparently "matron of honor" or brides-matron wasn't a thing, which would leave me bereft of any wedding party of my own, were it still true). Anne says, "I'm to be Phil's bridesmaid next June, when she marries Mr. Blake, and then I must stop, for you know the saying, 'three times a bridesmaid, never a bride.'"

I spent years going to weddings, but not being in them. Lots and LOTS of weddings. Some years it seemed like there was a wedding every weekend as soon as it stopped snowing. My friend John was in...was it 19 or 22?.. weddings in a single year (he sings beautifully, he's a connecty extrovert, and he's willing to MC things when necessary, so he's a popular guy). Hmmm...why is there no "three times a groomsman" saying?

Meanwhile, I had yet to be in any--not that it helped my own chances of being the star of the show.

Then my friend Debbie got remarried and--to my shock and joy --asked me to be the maid of honor. I happily accepted.

My best-friend-since-high-school Amy got married next. She followed through with the plan we made as teenagers, and I was, once again, the maid of honor.

Last summer, my soul sister Jody whirlwind romanced to the altar, and I was lacing up my maid of honor shoes once more.

Here I am, not just three times a bridesmaid, but the ultimate, concentrated bridesmaid! Surely that heightens the likelihood that I'll never be married myself. My life seems to bear this out.

I could be broken up about this. Worried that I'm going to die alone. Found partially eaten by cats that, at this point, aren't even mine.

Here's the thing: even were I a superstitious person, I wouldn't trade a single one of those turns as maid of honor even if it guaranteed I'd get married. They're representations of friendships deeper than I can describe in words; it's dear to me that I am thought enough of by these incredible women to be given that honor.

And not just because I'm the only single one left. :)

Next up: "A rolling stone gathers no moss." How sad would that be? Moss is lovely--stop rolling at once!

Oddities of creativity

Sometimes I write poetry.

Wait, no, that's not quite true.

I used to write poetry. You know, angsty stuff in high school, as one does. It wasn't good, but it was heartfelt. Teenage girls, man.

I love poetry. I realize I am a minority in this. I love it, I get it...but I don't write it. Not in a long time. I wrote a poem in grad school for a project, but I didn't really like it. I liked what I was trying to say, but not how I said it. It felt like high school stuff again.

Then I entered a writing contest and, much to my surprise, I wrote not two stories, but a story and a poem. And I liked it. It gave me the frisson I get when I read Marianne Moore or Pablo Neruda or Jeanne Murray Walker or Tennyson. I mean, it was nowhere near as good as any single one of those people, but I'd written it, so the frisson was heightened. The judges liked it, too, which was reassuring. It made it to the very last round of judging, though it didn't win. (My story did; yay!)

Suddenly, I'm writing poetry again. Sort of. Bits and pieces here and there that aren't complete, but have promise.  That sound almost like what I'm trying to convey.

Here's something that just popped up the other day. I thought it was the beginning of something, but now I'm pretty sure it's somewhere in the middle to end. If it were the beginning, it would be a depressing poem, but it's supposed to end up something of a transportive love poem, full of joy and amazement. I think. 

The realization that I love you is a
spider on the wall, terror
    and adrenaline
stopping my heart, then starting again in
    the wrong beat
too fast
full of tears.

I am interested in what you think about this. I'm not sure where it'll go, so suggestions or thoughts would be useful.

But to take a sharp left (you never saw this coming!), there are also interesting neurological implications here! Oh, yes, yummy, yummy neurology. There might not have been, were it not for my friend Debbie. She used to play the piano in her youth, but left it behind for many years. One day she thought it might be fun to start playing the piano again. She started again as a beginner, with little expectation. Suddenly she realized something interesting: she was better than she ever had been.

Parallel! I find this fascinating.

So what's something you used to love to do, but left behind? It's possible you might surprise yourself if you pick it up again.

Horribly Nice

It's been years since I've been here, and I doubt anyone is still reading this. Given my predilection for privacy, that's not necessarily a bad thing. I have no desire to ever be a blog that goes viral. For one thing, I could do without half the internet hating me, and another quarter loving me because they've completely misunderstood what I'm saying. I like my cozy little corner of internet obscurity.

That said, I'm going to try writing on here again. Going back and rereading this blog, as I have recently done, is...enjoyable. (Though, as I was telling my sister last night, I come off primarily as a whiffly, ditzy, nature bunny who's FAR too into writing. Mostly that's fair).

So. Back into the fray I go. We'll see if it sticks. Follow along, children.

Let's talk about niceness. I have a love/hate relationship with that word, stemming largely, but not solely, from an experience in 10th grade when I was 14. For a class assignment (and I cannot for the life of me remember what class), we were all given small slips of paper with our classmates's names on them. On these slips we were to write one adjective ("positive" was implied) describing that person. In theory, this is a good experiment, one that forces you to think about the people around you, to view them in a positive light if only for a second, and one guaranteed to offer each child an ego boost. Sort of a low-tech Johari window. The teacher meant the entire thing kindly (I'm quite sure of that, because it was my mother), and was certainly trying to bring people together.

Unfortunately, no one reckons on me. Not even myself. If there is a way to feel worse about myself, chances are good I'll find it. In this instance, I think it stemmed largely from my deep desire to be known truly. Maybe. I had been going to school with the people in this class for four years--the longest I'd EVER been at a school. These were my friends, people with whom I had shared actual life experiences, who knew me as well as anyone could at that point. Bearing that in mind, I spent time on each slip. I used different adjectives, I delved into shared memories for unique terms, I tried to think of what each person wanted or needed to hear about themselves. We passed them in, they were sorted out, and we each got our pile. I'd always wanted to read people's thoughts and see what they really thought about me, and now, here at last was a completely anonymous, transparent way of finding out just a little bit of that truth.

I had 18 slips of paper that read, "Nice," and one that said, "smart?"*

Nice? NICE? You've known me for four years and all you can say about me is "Nice"?! That's a cipher word, something you say about someone you don't know well, and really don't want to be bothered with. "She seems nice." "He's a nice guy." "I don't know; it was nice." It's a default word, nondescript, non-threatening, non....anything! I hadn't yet come across the original meaning of the word (which I think is telling: 1250–1300; Middle English: foolish, stupid < Old French: silly, simple < Latin nescius ignorant, incapable, equivalent to ne- negative prefix + sci- (stem of scīre to know; see science) + -us adj. suffix ), but I instinctively felt it.

Perhaps I would have felt differently if fewer people had chosen that word. Perhaps if a few had picked "good writer," "smart," "thoughtful," "funny," "good actress," or other things I knew I was as WELL as nice, I would have felt uplifted. It was the fact that kid after kid after kid chose "nice" that ended up being very not nice. It made me feel as if I made no impression at all. I almost would have preferred to be called mean or intimidating or sly.

But no. Not even "sweet." Also no physical characteristics, though several other girls got "pretty," "great eyes," "good hair," things like that. Some of them did put smiley faces next to the word. Some said, "She's nice," or "You're nice." I appreciated the smileys, somehow. It made it feel a little more personal, in the midst of a lot of impersonalness.

And my poor mother was left trying to comfort a daughter who was crying because people thought she was nice and couldn't explain why that was a bad thing. I did try, but I suspect coherence was not my strong suit that night. I was angry and hurt and those generally don't do good things for my ability to explain. She was probably proud of me and of the way she raised me, having no idea what a storm it would brew. How does a 14-year-old explain that the problem is that she doesn't want to be "nice," she wants to be SPECIAL?

This was not an isolated incident, though probably the most pointed. "Nice" has followed me throughout my life. I come across as nice, bland, a perfectly pleasant person, but nothing more. Sometimes this has benefits: I've never once gotten stopped in airport security, because I appear somewhat gormless when I smile. Something about the proportions of my face (and probably the fat surrounding it), make me seem completely innocuous. Often people who have a tendency to think the worst of people get along with me, because I'm (say it with me) nice. I am, as one of my college friends described me (much to my horror), "water, not orange juice." I go with everything, apparently, but I don't stand out (no, really, that was his explanation).

It isn't that I think being nice is a bad thing. Of course not. It's just that it comes nowhere close to describing and encapsulating who I am (for one thing, I don't actually think I AM very nice!). I find people interesting, I can generally find something good to say about anyone, but if I tell you good things about yourself, it isn't being nice. It's being honest. But I think plenty of judgmental things, I can be mean, I'm often mischievous, I'm sarcastic, I have a twisted mind--I have spice, dang it! There's a kick to me!

On the other hand, if "nice" really is what you think of me, would you mind at least using a thesaurus?

*Actual numbers may be slightly skewed, but seriously, not by very much.

Woe and Discovery

I don't really write on here anymore. I'm so taken up with my other blog that I never think of it. "One creative outlet at a time!" I think to myself. And because I've committed to every day on that one, that's the one I'm focused on. I always have my camera with me and it has become an obsession. And, me being me, I say rather a lot on there for a photo blog.

There's no picture to go with what I want to say this morning, though. So, here I am.

I have a job. I have a job with insurance, with plenty of time off, with my own office, with enough money to pay my bills, and with co-workers I am close to. In these financial times (especially in Michigan), I am fortunate and blessed to have this job. I know this. I am grateful for this.

But there are times when I can't help wondering if a paycheck is enough of a payoff for feeling like a constant failure. And those times are coming more and more frequently of late.

My professional life has always involved writing. I have been a writer of radio scripts, of newspaper articles, of human interest profiles, of advertisements, of book covers of wide variety, and of sales copy. My current job is no different--I write for a living. Yet I have recently been told that I am a disappointing writer, a careless writer, a writer who makes no sense.

And I believed the person who told me this. I believed every word.

The problem is that it's all I really know how to do. I write. I'm a writer. I have always been a writer. So what do you do when your identity is taken from you? How do you anchor who you are when your self-portrait is destroyed?

This morning I clicked on Me Ra Koh's photography blog and found the following quote from Madeleine L'Engle:
“This (the rejection) seemed an obvious sign from heaven. I should stop trying to write. All during the decade of my thirties I went through spasms of guilt because I spent so much time writing, because I wasn’t like a good New England housewife and mother. When I scrubbed the kitchen floor, the family cheered. I couldn’t make a decent pie crust. I always managed to get something red in with the white laundry in the washing machine, so that everybody wore streaky pink underwear. And with all the hours I spent writing. I was still not pulling my own weight financially.

So the rejection on the my fortieth birthday seemed an unmistakable command: Stop this foolishness and learn to make cherry pie.

I covered the typewriter in a great gesture of renunciation. Then I walked around and around the room, bawling my head off. I was totally, unutterable miserable.

Suddenly I stopped, because I realized what my subconscious mind was doing while I was sobbing: my subconscious mind was busy working out a novel about failure.

I uncovered the typewriter. In my journal I recorded this moment of decision, for that’s what it was. I had to write. I had no choice in the matter. It was not up to me to say I would stop, because I could not. It didn’t matter how small or inadequate my talent. If I never had another book published, and it was very clear to me that this was a real possibility, I still had to go on writing.

I’m glad I made this decision in the moment of failure. It’s easy to say you’re a writer when things are going well. When the decision is made in the abyss, then it is quite clear that it is not one’s own decision at all.”

I read this quote and I cried.

I realized that in the midst of this crisis of self, I've still been writing creatively. I'm still finding characters and seeing stories and my imagination is still throwing out huge, heady, brilliant blooms--so many that I can't possibly get to them all and am sometimes completely overwhelmed.

I'm a writer. I'm a creator. I may not be the world's best, I may not live up to certain expectations in certain areas. But that doesn't negate the fact that I am a writer. I'm just not his kind of writer.

A Tale of Deliverance

I haven't been here in a while. If you're not one of the people to whom I've bemoaned my writer's block, count yourself fortunate. But you still might enjoy the tale of deliverance below.

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Saturday was a lovely day. After returning from a sojourn at the library without any success in my attempt to create, I resolved to be content in my lack of creativity and settled into a comfy couch with a good book. The sliding door was open and the fresh breeze wafted through the apartment.

Suddenly I heard rattling from downstairs. Were my neighbors about to light up, thus destroying my peace as they are so often wont to do? Would the foul tobacco smoke heading straight in through my windows force me to close them once again? No, dear reader. Though it was my neighbors, it was a different smoke they had in mind. And thus they began to grill.

At first, I welcomed the change. This mix of smoke and scent I would gladly have in my apartment! Yet, as time passed on, my mood changed. I was transforming, becoming a ravening beast of hunger and salivation. I, too, wanted meat, charred and dead! I wanted those charcoals to be searing flesh of cow for me!

Finally, I could stand it no longer. I fled from my home, seeking out my own sustenance in the approved fashion, rather than rigging up some manner of hook and line and attempting to snag meat from the grill below me. After buying my slab of beef and cheese, I took it to a hilltop where I could enjoy it in peace amidst nature and words and none of my fellow humans (read: in my car in the Super Walmart parking lot overlooking some trees, listening to a book on CD).

And then, as if slaking this hunger was all the remedy my mind had been craving, I began having thoughts. Writing thoughts. I thought of something that had been bothering me about a story I wanted to finish. And suddenly with that solution came another sentence. And then another. And then several plot points. Which is when I realized the true horror of this divine moment.


Reader, I had nothing on which to write.


Panic began to set in. I scrambled for a receipt, a paper bag, anything, knowing it wouldn't be enough. Before this new madness could fully overtake me, however, I remembered: I'm sitting in the Walmart parking lot. I have the solution before me.

I rushed inside, bought a notebook, and made all haste back to my car and the writing utensils I always carry (I was not so far gone in my writer's block that I had forgotten those). And there I sat, scribbling furiously as one possessed, scribing not only those words I had earlier thought of, but new words, bold ideas, and an ending I'd never seen coming. Filled with glee, I laughed and cried loudly to the skies, "No more am I held down by your oppression, writer's block! No more will I be a pawn in your cruel game! I have seen the light of storytelling once more!"

What need of drugs when I my writing have? None, dear reader. None whatsoever.

Flowers, wasps, and other such things

Last Friday, the local farmer's market opened for the year. Last Saturday, I went for the first time this season. I had grand plans of picture taking, bouquet buying, sour cherry strudel eating...*dreamy sigh*

Alas, I left my camera behind, arrived far too late to buy the Hungarian lady's strudel (it goes quite swiftly), and the only bouquets left were of dainty daffodils I didn't want to pay for. So I contented myself instead with a delicious half loaf of French bread with yummy garlic spread, four pots of flowers, and a planter pre-massed with flowers. Not terribly difficult to be content with that lot, I must say.

All but the garlic bread now make their home on my balcony, the first stage in my annual "garden." Which would be nothing but enjoyable if not for the also annual innundation of yellow jackets. I've asked the apartment complex in the past to please take care of the wasp problem. "Oh, yes, they are all over, aren't they?" the staff replies. "Have you tried going out early in the morning or after the sun sets and knocking down the nests?" Well, no. I can't reach the nests. I might try them again this year, but I may have to resort to other methods. If you have any wasp-eradicating suggestions, I'd love to hear them.

Otherwise, it's lovely to have a proper spring again. The last few years seemed to jump directly from winter into summer, from 30s to 80s with perhaps only a week in between. This year is far more moderate, which gives me hope for autumn as well. I live in Michigan because I LIKE having all four seasons. I resent the loss of my two favorites. (Leaving aside any philosophical argument about how part of why they're my favorites is precisely their fleeting nature).

And speaking of flowers and spring and all that, if you weren't already aware of it, I've begun a photo blog. The explanation can be found in the original post on the page, but suffice to say that I'm posting a picture (at least--often more) every day for the next year. Suggestions for shots are always welcome. Right now, you'll probably notice I have several shots of flowers, but there are plenty of pictures of other things as well. Do go take a look!