It's that feeling I get when, after we've come home for Christmas - only to spend a few, precious hours with the family - and there's a dog along with us (a friend, who is in Thailand, who has been gone for a month and we thought we could help by keeping his dog this one, last week, which is more trouble than we thought) and that dog is a very good dog, generally speaking, but when he is around the other dogs, on their property and in their house (especially the oldest dog of the house), there is so much tension and there is snapping, growling, a fight; we must separate the dogs, put them in bedrooms alternatively, behind closed doors and listen to them whine out loud, cry for us to come and get them and we know, we know that we must ignore them because if we let them out they could hurt each other, and for this reason we sit at the dinner table and eat our bisque and french baquettes, we eat our roasted vegetables and rave over the perfect pork tenderloin, and we listen to dogs cry and we talk a little louder, look each other in the eyes a little longer, make a few more jokes, to try and forget that the dogs in our house want to kill each other; we sit at the table, we eat, we talk, we clear the table and wash the dishes, drink more wine, a beer, my younger brother sneaks some (unbeknownst to Dad) and we gather together around the marble island in the kitchen because we always find ourselves there, and we talk together even though the tensions are raised because of those crying dogs - you see, we just should not have these four dogs all under one roof, but it is too late to do anything about it, so we must make the best of this situation - and so eventually we sit down to open presents and we let one dog out and then after we open a few more presents we put that dog away and we let the other one out - just to catch his breath, you see - and the whole time Dad does not look happy, and we're telling the dog to sit and lay down while Marcus is opening a present and we can hardly hear his reaction because of the whining behind the bedroom door, but we listen closely and cheer louder than we need to when he gets a present he loves, and then we turn to the next person and the next, on down the row, and we have large smiles on our faces and we continue to open the gifts and finally, we are finished with the presents and Matthew jumps up to take one of the dogs outside because we know that we need to do right by the dog, he must have a little bit of air, etc. and so there he goes, to take him out, and meanwhile, because we are only home for a few hours and we must leave early in the morning, Mom and I decide that Santa must come tonight (Santa is more flexible now) and so Mom prepares the gifts from Santa and I run outside to get Matthew, excited, thinking this will be a nice relief from the dog troubles, and when I open the door to go out, our little dog runs out and he begins to go crazy (he is a bad dog, he does not listen to us like he should), and a car races down the dark street and Smokey runs like the wind and all Matthew and I can do is stare and hope and pray that the car does not hit Smokey, and we are so mad at him, at one another, at everything, and we are defeated from the night, from these dastardly dogs, and we just want to go to sleep and Smokey, Smokey! Come here! He does not listen, you see! He finally comes and we usher him into the house and we put him in timeout, worn and upset and Matthew needs to go to bed, but Santa has come and I can see it in his face that he cannot take anymore of it, and so I say, "That's ok, nevermind," and he leaves to go upstairs and my face turns red and I begin to cry in front of Mom and Dad and I apologize long enough to say, "I am so sorry, it's just a few hours, I wanted it to be perfect" and first Mom hugs me and then Dad, and then comes that feeling I get when, after I control my tears Mom watches me for a moment and then she says after all of these things, these details, this stress and the madness, she says quietly, "Would you like to open your present anyway?"

Dear Holidays,

I have vested so much time and so many memories in the lot of you. And it just so seems that you become more irascible as I become older. Nay, for I still try to capture your spirit, and in the past I've done so with effortless capabilities.

But this year! Your pull and tug have nearly won me out.

I am talking about these schedules, Holidays. I've decided to address you for what you've neglected to give me after all these years - peace of mind! The simplicity of being a child is that you come and you go and I was lucky to make a batch of sugar cookies. And now I am lucky to claw my way out of the kitchen looking halfway presentable after I've battled the spritzer for hours and mushed the gingerbread dough for nearly as long and burned the chocolate ganache petit fours not once but twice!

Oh, Holidays! I once greedily stole pine needles from the tree to scent my entire bedroom and now you've left me so poor I can hardly afford to buy a tree at all. A handful of cranberries float in a bowl of water and a fragrant pine candle tricks my mind long enough to take hold of that yesteryear magic you once shared with me.

The jingle from my mother's crystal snowflakes.

The cookie dough caught in the snowman cutter.

The tree lights that shined on the walls in the early morning hours before school.

You've granted me poor schedules, heralded my kitchen incompetency, ruined my meager finances, and now you threaten to take away these best, last memories.

Not today, Holidays!

I will not collapse under your pressure. I will survive.

And I will drink my eggnog with pleasure.

Happy Holidays, Holidays.

From,

The One Who Forgot to Stay Young

"unfortunately, in the African American culture, it will always be "we" and "them"....until "we" are accepted, valued and treated as an equal"

-Facebook user

This comment enrages me. It is not because I disagree with the context and the history of where African-Americans have been and come from in this country.

It does so because there appears to be no acceptance, recognition, or foresight on the author's behalf to continue the good work of what could be accomplished regarding how people see and treat one another.

I am not ignoring the fact that historically there has been a "we" and a "them".

But I will not ignore the efforts of countless people who have stood their ground for equality and what is right in the midst of such prejudices. Why do some people insist on deepening these lines of "other-ness" when there is such a consorted effort among some to step away from this debilitating mindset?

Please correct me if I've overlooked an instance where Martin Luther King, Jr. refers to the African-American demographic as "we" instead of talking about how civilization or all men must change.

Have I forgotten the times when Ghandi intentionally distinguishes the people of India from those in Pakistan, England, the U.S?

What about Mother Teresa? I venture to say that she spent much more time doing something about the sick and unloved than discussing how the people in Calcutta were ostracized.

There is so much to learn and to teach others about how diversity works, how we can appreciate one another and revel in each other's dissimilarities. And there are many people who want those boundaries and lines to remain drawn.

Stop the shop talk about "we" and "them". Appreciate the differences in a fresh light. In your own words, talk about your "thick lips...hair... butts...[and] color" with a newfound appreciation that does not involve a discussion on how "they" are jealous, having "heart attacks" and are "set off" by who you are.

Because the truth is that you ARE beautiful.

And so am I.

A Spritely Sway, Graceful Way

She walks through the door, holds it open with her right hand and smiles largely at those of us in the office.

"Hey ya'll!" She is excited to be here.

"Hey Caroline," we say to her. One of us is on the computer, emailing. Another is on the phone, selling. A third is in the kitchen, baking. We are worn out. We do not have her zest and we are thankful she brings it.

Caroline is fashionable in her own right. Perhaps she will wear dark, thick socks and her slip-on shoes or else she will arrive in genuine leather Cole Hahn loafers. A dress shirt with an outdated print on it will hide under a mustard-colored or else a hunter-green cardigan. Often she wears ankle pants. Tucked in or maybe not, her shirts appear haphazard and yet, she is always classy.

Her hair is an owl's nest, a poetic mess. Once I watched her pull a bobby pin from behind her left ear. She said, "I don't know how long it's been there." Today her hair is pulled back with assorted, mismatched clips. It eventually finds its way into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. It is anything but wispy. Tamed, somewhat, but certainly never a lack. Her hair is full and wavy, shouting "hellos" from every which way.

She dances through her work, opening wine bottles and setting out more crackers for all of our guests. Caroline is very graceful, and when I tell her she has a chipper aura about her, she laughs and says, "Do you really think so? I never have."

Well, yes, Caroline. Because of all these things about you, I do.

I do not like what I've begun

"I had a dream I could fly...from the highest tree."

-Priscilla Ahn

Well, why can't we?

An admittance:

I do not intend to go back to graduate school in January.

Many reasons.

One:

It's not my deepest passion. Neglecting our passions is a waste of time. It's time I lived that ideal.

But, of course, this means that I have no excuse not to do and try my best. Well, I endeavor to try. Remember: thinking and doing are two different things.

This is a scary decision.

But,

the Lord is asking me again to try. Do I trust him?

Yes, I do. He has never proven himself otherwise.

In fact, it's simply the opposite.

The Lord loves me so that his patience does not run out with my meanderings. But now it's time to come back home to what I know is right, what must be done.

So, I'll ask for supportive words because this is going to be a windy road to travel.

And I think that one day I will look back with a clear vision of what came from this.

And I will be thankful for this leap. You see, quitting makes no practical sense.

I've tried to legitimize school from every angle. School makes sense.

Does sense matter the most?

No, it doesn't.

A Scene

I am adult:

Now it has been many years, over a decade since I've seen Dana. What I remember of her is a young girl with chubby cheeks and blonde hair. I would not recognize her in a crowd. From that time in my young life, I would recognize hardly anyone in a crowd.
Yesterday my mom called. She left a message on my voicemail and said, "I have some sad news, honey. Do you remember Bett, your aunt with the hair clip above her forehead that held her bangs back, remember her? Well, she had cancer. She passed away this morning."
I heard it in my mother's voice on the message, heard how she longed for those easy days and those family events. Heard how she resisted the change that time forces us to accept. Heard her longing, heard her hoping. In her voice I heard that she knew someday it would be grandma's turn, her turn, mine.
Memories may be rich but things do change a bit. The people look different, the food is prepared by different hands. But the spirit is the same. In those moments, hold the memory, the spirit, grasp it tightly.

Keep it alive with who you are.

This night

We mustn't let our passions die young. I think failures delude us into thinking that those things our hearts love may not be worth an effort, the continuance of pursuit. We cannot be more wrong. Let your heart cry when you experience defeat. But also let it heal. And let it continue to do the work of showing you what it beats for.

Right now the recliner is extended to its full capacity. My dog and I squeeze in it together. He occasional grumbles at a noise. I tap his fluffy little butt and tell him, "No."

It is 42 degrees outside. Fall.

One lamp is turned on in our little apartment.

The dryer runs with a load of bleached whites.

I've worked on this course presentation for hours and hours. I am ready for Matthew to come home now. The dog cannot hold a conversation with me.

Yet,

The dryer runs, the lamp shines, I type.

It is a peaceful night here. It's a night that I do not miss anyone or any memory too much, do not need to frustrate myself over any petty complaint or exhaust any thoughts over the day's events. It's a night that I feel so lucky just to sit and experience these small pleasures of quiet, peace, and contentment. It does not always happen, but tonight I recognize these gifts.

The dog falls asleep. I hear the neighbor's birds squawk.

I wish I could tell you every detail to bring you along with me.

http://www.cnn.com/2011/WORLD/africa/07/21/africa.famine.voices/index.html?hpt=hp_c1

We do not worry about this here.

Their eyes are what compels me to read. Their stories are what compel me to pray. Their resilience is what compels me to search my heart.

Water is not something we lack. Water is something that my dog splashes out of his bowl every day and we laugh at him. And I think to myself, "What this family would do for that dog bowl of clean water". What this family's done thus far is split ways, traversing across the country in different direction in hopes of finding water for one another. They have been traveling for 17 days.

I drink my iced coffee and I think about this.

My dishwasher runs quietly in the kitchen and I think about it.

The shower is running and I think, "Oh my, how little we lack".

Stand atop this hill with me. Look at all those trees below. Will you help me stand on this boulder? Where did they even find a boulder like this? All those trees. I used to call them "broccoli", you know. Of course you know.

Let's walk along this pathway. See the inlets of rock and gravel? See how tall the grass is? This is the medicine wheel. This has been in the making since the 1980's. What do you think of this place?

Something vivid in my memory is the seeding grass. Watch. I run my hands up the stem and at the top I take off every seed I can get. When I was younger, I threw them into the pastures. I thought I was creating a thick coat of grass. Perhaps I did.

Hold my hand, love. You're here, you see the beauty of a place many think is barren. Now we're at the top of this hill.

Let's just stand and watch.

The Overture's Crescendo

Change my heart and let it be consecrated, Lord to thee.

Watch "For the Bible Tells Me So". I found it to be a very moving documentary that examines the nation's ostracized LBGT demographic. I found Jake's family and Anna's mother's story especially inspiring.

I'm sitting on the couch surrounded by memos from FAFSA. They tell me that I'll have to submit my W2 and Tax Returns for review. They might not believe we're really this poor. Welcome to school loans, people.

So, of course, I begin to let my mind wander. It's a much nicer way to spend my time than to deal with this pesky issue. And naturally, since our long trip is still the most present experience in my mind (and because I am one who thinks obsessively about these things) I begin to think again about all of the meaning and nostalgia I extracted during last week's escapades. And if you know me, this nostalgia is certainly one of my strongest attributes. So, this:

We spent a day at Clear Water Lake. This is where my Dad's brother and his family have a beautiful lakehouse. A few years back, the house Dad and his brothers grew up in was in danger of demolition, or at least falling apart. I can't ever get the story right. Regardless, Uncle Rod and Aunt Lois decided to lift the old house from its foundation in Rosholt and move it 45 minutes (west? south?) down the road to the lake. Currently, they've renovated its and kept its integrity - quite an impressive feat - and it's become a wonderful place to sit, to relax, to eat and drink, and remember.

While we were there, the uncles brought nearly a dozen cardboard boxes from storage in who-knows-where so that all the brothers could sort through the contents. These boxes held thousands of clippings from newspapers, special occasion cards, photos, and letters. Every single box with its oddities and hodgepodge was lovingly assembled over the course of a lifetime. That is, Grandma Helen's. These boxes and their mismatched contents are the remainders of her idiosyncratic rat packing. And they are, perhaps, some of the most telling.

The work was set before her children. Dad and his brothers (with the on-again-off-again help of spouses and the like) sorted through these boxes the better part of the day. While we lounged in the chairs and refreshed ourselves, played Polish Horseshoes, and laid in the sun, they diligently (probably over a few beers) sorted. And sorted. And sorted.

A few times I went onto the porch as it became more strewn with newspapers and pictures. It was amazing to see how much care she put behind saving every single article of interest, which ranged from wedding announcements of a classmate to recipes for icebox strawberry pie. As the sun began its descent that early evening, they decided that the work done that day would have to suffice. They'd gone through only half the boxes.

Then there was the bonfire. Uncle Rod and Dad took on the task of burning those pieces deemed useless. For a while, I watched Dad stand alone at the fire, lakeside, against the orange and purple sunset. He reached his hand into the box, taking handfuls of newspapers and throwing them. Staring into the flames.

I walked over to him.

"This is hard, Laura," he told me.

I already knew that. "I know," I said.

"Knowing that these pieces were cut out and saved by your grandma...that she lovingly clipped them..."

I took a side of the box and helped him. We took last glances at the clippings, knowing the fire was unforgiving. I salvaged a recipe for braided sesame bread. He saved a clipping printed in the Rosholt Review from years ago. We do not need these things.

Amid the excitement of the day, the exhaustion from the travel, and the joy to be where we were, Dad and I stood, hands holding one side of the box each, and we threw Grandma's clippings in the fire.

July 6-12

We arrived home in Charleston after visiting home in the Dakotas.
We were so exhausted!

I wanted to buy a journal to have available to write whenever I wanted to during this trip. I forgot about that plan until the day before we left. And so, now our travels across the tristate area are memories. And so, perhaps I can capture a bit here. And so.

Largest in my memory are the rolling, green hills of South Dakota. Had I just blocked them from my mind or did I really not see them as a child? My God, they are breathtaking. There is land so far that the horizon welcomes it miles away from the dirt road you drive down. The rich green of the land makes you want to sink your feet into its surface and stand there for what could turn into days. The sun is bright and beams across acres of corn, black beans, soybeans, barley. The land is majestic.

But my goodness, time drags along slowly through all of those country towns. There is so much distance between this one and the next. Almost too much land to remember.

We drove through the Dakotas and Minnesota over the course of seven days. Our eyes devoured the landscape and our skin welcomed the sun. We saw people we've loved and cannot forget. I saw my cousins raising their own children. I remembered times they seemed so much older than me. I reminded myself how young they were back then. I held eight different babies and loved them all. I think about how those babies will not know me well, nor I them.

We ran through the grass on the farm where Dad grew up and we found his old, rusted blue car in the meadows. He laughs and tells us that workers at a drive-thru restaurant ticketed it as a "piece of shit". I ask him when that was and he tells me, 1979. This is the car he drove when he met my mother. It now rots away amidst the seeding grass and here we are touching a part of Dad's history. We are all looking over the horizon and the hills when Dad goes to the drivers' side of the door and tries to open it. It opens. He sits in the drivers' seat of the decrepit piece of shit and he puts his hands on the steering wheel. Then he sees a white, silk corsage in the window. He brings it out to show us. He thinks Mom gave it to him. Dad takes it with him and lovingly packs it in his suitcase. He will later give it to her.

Then we traversed across the states to where my brothers and I grew up. We toured through the old house we were reared in, walked the land where I played dress up, t-ball, and built forts. Our sandbox is now gone, replaced by cement benches beneath the oak tree. The raspberry bushes were overgrown and died years ago. The backroad is hardly visible under the grassy overlay. But still, it is so much the same. The integrity and spirit of the place remain.

The neighbors no longer have their cows. The milking parlour is replaced with pottery. This is their new chosen profession. We buy some pieces to begin a collection.

We tour through Fargo, rest and sleep that night. We visit with one of my oldest friends over a beer (Matthew), a bourbon-ginger (me) and a Diet Coke (Shautay). We try to convince her to move south. She does not want to come. We ask her again.

There is a heart in the Midwest that is too big to talk about. Nobody greets you with a "How are ya?" but everybody treats you like a neighbor. (Food is ever present, nothing is too seasoned and the coffee is never in danger of being too strong.)

What this place has an abundance of is land.
What it thrives off of is its people.

Tonight was my seventh "last night" at Starbucks.

Okay, I included store transfers in that number.

I have not worked at Starbucks for at least a month at this point. Of course, I miss it for the people who I do not see everyday. I miss it because I love coffee so much. I miss steaming milk. But frankly, that is it.

I mentioned to one of the employees that I graduated from college with a degree in English and writing.

"Oh really?" she said.

"Yes," I said.

"And you work at a bed and breakfast? What a waste."

I froze mid-coffee scoop. Froze, but only for a moment. She does not know what the job entails. That is okay. I began scooping again.

And then, of course, I began to dream again about my affair with writing. I can only mildly call it an affair for now. Family and work have taken precedent over it. I cannot answer the question of why it does not fit into my schedule often other than the obvious answer: perhaps I am not as passionate as I once was.

That hurts.

Alright, enough already. It's no thing to complain about - this stage, that is. Writing will always be my first love. And today I made chocolate ganache eclairs with strawberries. And I absolutely loved doing it. And I do not regret spending the time and detail it took to create those little masterpieces.

Perhaps I am merely placating myself.

Bah.

March 2

Not unlike my good friend Teres, I value what a hot mug of coffee between my two hands in the morning means.

It smells our apartment with the fine aroma of fresh-ground coffee beans from Central America (these are, by far, the best):

It warms my hands that have turned blue from poor circulation:

But primarily, it's that taste that comes from sipping on coffee - first the creamy taste from my half and half, then the burst of citrus or nuts, and then the bitter taste coffee brings and the lingering one it leaves behind.

Don't even get me started on pairings. That is, chocolate bars alongside hints of cocoa, or lemon squares to compliment citrus keynotes.

Today, it sits beside me as I look out an open window and listen to a multitude of birds and watch the sun already begin to reflect off roofs. Spring begins and I am armed with my coffee.

The prestige of childhood:

To stand atop that small hill, grass to your knees, sun high above, wind across your cheeks, arms raised, palms high, face turned upwards, smile wide as you scream, "I am king! King of the world!"

The cows chew their cud. You are eight years old.

You take off, back home. Run, run quickly, then, down that small hill. Your feet pound into the dirt and dried manure and your arms pump at your sides. It is harder to breathe the quicker you run, and your lungs tighten against your ribcage and they beg for more air. You do not grant it. Keep running! Watch for the bent sticks that threaten your speed. Use your hands to brush the tall grass aside. You smell dirt. You smell stagnant water. You breathe through your nose and you can smell cows, tree bark, wildflowers, dandelions, entire root systems.

Hell, you can even smell the sunlight pour across the meadows.

Run wild, down the hill. And your legs might buckle with your momentum. You might jump to regain composure or you may fall, landing hard into a menagerie of an unkempt sanctuary of termites, lady bugs, snakes, wood ticks, inch worms, and one praying mantis.

And you stay awhile, examining this other world.

You bring your knees to your chest and hold your legs close and watch a rolly polly bug turned into a tight, indestructible ball when you prod it. The lady bug has four spots. The worm does not notice you as it burrows in and out of the dirt. A mosquito is on your arm. You slap it. It bursts.

It is damp here in this world, near the roots, where plants hold their moisture. The ground is still so wet despite the sunny day. You run your hand up a long stem of grass and pull the seeds from its top. They are light in your palm. You crunch them. Roll them between both your palms. Dust them away from your hands.

You're getting too itchy sitting here. It is time to leave.

You rise, once again king of this world.

You dust your butt, stretch, and run.

You begin to run just like before. Pounding the ground with your feet. Boxing the air with your fists. Breathing hard. Snot running down your nose.

Push aside the tall grass.

Sink your feet.

Pound.

Breathe, king, breathe.

Remember to read Flannery O'Connor.

And please, do not forget the prestige of childhood.
Perhaps it is our saving grace.

Rise

To wake up at 6:30 and throw a sweatshirt around my shoulders, walk from my suite to the main house, to arrive at the door to see the cat wanting in or wanting out, wanting to be fed, wanting to be petted, to go turn on every light I turned off last night at 11:00, get the papers from outside the huge wooden front door (they rest on the expanse of tiled marble) and then to turn on the music for breakfast, check the math on the receipts, preheat the oven, cut the fruit, assemble the fruit bowls, make whipped cream, adding orange zest to it because we're having orange french toast, to line the sausages up one after the other, but don't forget to line the pan with tin foil and even PAM if you feel up to it - and then to brew the coffee, heat the kettles, pour the coffee, pour the hot water, set them on the bar, greet the early risers, wait for the sleepers, and begin to serve the breakfast.

To do all this means that afterward I can cross back over to our suite, open the door to a darkened living room, and go to the cupboard for the food.

I can open the bag of food and without a doubt, I will hear whining and crying from the next room. Smokey's awake! The day begins! I feed his bowl and open his kennel. He runs straight for the food. I wake Matthew and sing, "Good morning to yooooou" and he mutters and rolls away from my face.

I go back to the small kitchenette and make coffee, sit here, write this.

I interrupt myself to take the dog outside, come back in, sit back down, and write.

We will live at the Inn only a few more weeks of slow season, and then we will move back home. It has taken over a week, but I am finally beginning to feel at home here, where my husband and my dog sleep soundly, where I have rediscovered my other love, this love.

Inspired by T. Walsh

Today I took my puppy and went for a drive.

It's been abnormally cold here; mere thirties and forties on the scale, which can send folks into tizzies when they travel from the Northeast on vacation to escape the cold.

However, I've welcomed the reprieve from typical seasonal weather. Of course, I've had a fair share of complaints escape my lips. My hands have become dry and cracked, and my lips are in the same decline. My nose runs all hours of the night and, to counteract its running, I've begun sleeping on my back. This means my mouth hangs open as I snore my dreams away. And then, of course, there is the bit about swinging open my front door to a sudden faceful of boasting windchill. And, oh yes, the layers that are required just to take the dear puppy out at a brisk 3:30 a.m.

But truth be told, I have welcomed this weather.

And yet,

In the car today, Charleston's weather was a different story.

Today is the first sunny day for a few now, with the rain singing down on our little city for just a bit too long. But today, the sun laughed through cracks in my bedroom blinds, and all-out guffawed when I opened the front door. Smokey Robinson noticed it, too. He looked at me before crouching to pee as if to ask, "Can we stay out and play?" Of course, I obliged.

After running around the circular driveway for three and a half times, I scooped little Smokey up and decided to take him with me for some errands.

Thus began my drive along water-logged roads and down muddied childhood memories of springtime.

The beauties of spring are the nuances of it; the mud, the excess of water, the buds that never open, the birds that warble off-key. It's the sun that shines almost too brightly, the sky that rests into that certain shade of blue, the rich colors that emerge, and the smell of it. There is that smell of spring. It is pure earth, that smell, and it reminds me of how fertile and rich a place we live. That smell is, I know, the reason for the budding, the catalyst for the Jasmine's perfume. It is heavy with moisture. It is laden with dirt, and grit, and grime. It is divine.

And today, there were small flirtations of it after I drove by supermarkets, chain restaurants, and gas stations. The smell subtly came and went through my open window. It was as if it meant to beckon me back to childhood, meant to remind me about what it means to spend time outside in the spring.

Don't forget what it's like to find a spider web in the dew, it told me.

Remember to look at the mud when you walk by it.

Breathe through your nose, it said.

Remember that life's seasons continue.

And I breathed, and I knew what it was to re-new.