Moving, Dog Days, etc.

Though it is filled with ignorant, selfish people; though the air chokes me most days, and the pace stifles my very soul, I must admit that I will miss Roanoke just a tad. More specifically, I will miss looking in any direction and seeing mountains - not big hills, but real, honest-to-goodness mountains - lipping the horizon.

Seeing as our move date quickly approaches, let me say for the record that I will miss my slightly goofy looking Tinker Mountain most of all. Driving down 81, I always feel a sense of peace, or at least resignation, when I see the double-peaked hummock under which I've lived for the past three years. It wouldn't be fair to so cruelly abandon her without some mention of the solace I've found in pondering her oddly shaped body.

Also, let me mention that I am trepidatious about moving out of my sheltered, gentle cup, not because I expect our new home to be so foreign as to be uncomfortable or somehow unwelcoming, but because the landscape is so different. Landscape matters. Land tells us not just where we are, but WHO we are when we're on it, in it, beneath it. When I was in Arkansas with my soon-to-be husband, we were rooted, grounded, planted in our spot, happily growing along with our zuchini, cucumbers, spinach, greens, peas, peppers and our one, sad tomatoe. I WAS my extravagant, luscious basil garden. I became the licorice spice, the broad green sweetness of each and every leaf.

So, the thought of moving to such a different landscape, well, it's a little worrisome. I've spent so long living with a limited view of what's ahead - what happens when I can see a little further?

The thought of seeing what lies beyond the Ridge of Blue is both exhilerating and terrifying. I keep thinking of a trip I took to the Mississippi delta, where you could literally see the earth roll off the edge of the horizon, and how incredibly unmoored, disconnected, unsettled and depressed I felt during that jouney. Granted, I was studying the bio/enviro/socio-economic reason The Blues are The Blues (always a good way to get depressed and listen to awesome music at the same time) but still - the instant we rolled into Oxford, which is in the foothills, or at least has some contour to it, I felt whole and immediately happier than I had felt since leaving Virginia. I attribute this solely to the shape of the land beneath our wheels, the crest and fall of the undulating hills in the distance.

To counteract that fear of endless nothingness, flatness so profound the earth itself cannot summon the engergy to mend it, I think of the comfort of trees arching and swaying over the road to our new home. I yearn for their green susseration, the sweet music of rain on leaves, the smell of deep dirt nearby, the sharp ridge of the hill behind the campus - all of these things call to me where I hide behind the apron strings of my gentle giant.

But Tinker, my sweet mountain, will not shelter me. I will no longer be held, for better or worse, in the very palm of the earth, but will fly wildly to the tips of her fingers, just about dipping into the blue swells of the Atlantic.

The promise of new paths, a deep sinking into this place with roots, the thrill of a garden - for these things and the fine tuning of myself I will leave Roanoke gladly, but I will mourn the mountains, I think.

I'm Gonna Be a Godmother!

You guys! Guess what?? I'm going to be a Godmother!

My nearly one year old "niece", Riley Grace Osborn, is in need of a fairy Godmother, and I'm it! Hurray!

I got a phone call from her mom last night and she told me that of all the people in Riley's family and in our circle of friends, I'm the one she trusts to guide her daughter in times of need, to nurture her and strengthen her faith when times are good, and that if anything ever happened that required Riley to find a non-family person's help, she trusts me to keep a level head and to help her daughter out. Woah.

Talking with her about what being a Godmother to Riley really means was like coming home. To uphold someone in their faith by guiding their actions and easing their minds is a huge responsibility, but honestly, it doesn't seem like anything less than what I'd do without the title. Maybe that's why my friend chose me to do the job. Whatever her reason, it feels right. I was designated an honoree Aunt, but as an only child this still didn't sit too well. She's got real aunts. What'd she need another "fake" one for? Still, I was happy to be included that way, and have enjoyed all the bits of time I've spent being auntie Jillian.

But this - Godmother - this is for real! I have my own Disney character! Of course, when she asked if I'd do it, I started bawling immediately, as is my custom, and we joked about how I'm great in a crisis - after I cry for five minutes.

Riley's mom knows this about me. She knows that I love my people - blood relatives and chosen family - with my whole being. When they're hurt or in trouble, it hits me like a ton of bricks.

When Riley was born, I nearly lost my friend for good. Truly. She went into renal failure, the docs. had to do an emergency c-section, and Riley was premature by three months. Scary, no? I held it together pretty well when I found all this out from my mom, but when I hung up I immediately called my friend's hospital room and just hearing her voice when she picked up made me totally lose it. I had to hang up after about five seconds and a blubbery "You know I love you, right? Everything's okay, right?" and a chuckled "Yes, everything's fine and I know you love me. Now stop crying." from her.

After I'd reassured myself that she was okay, I calmed down and began to think. My friend gave me the task of helping her and her husband come up with a good middle name for Riley that would reflect her dramatic origins.

Hannah: Hebrew for "light" or "grace"

Thus, my surrogate niece was named. She was, of course, in the NICU for a long time, but a week after she was born I managed to take time off from work to go visit her. She was so tiny, you guys. She was about three pounds and had tubes in her nose and monitors everywhere and we couldn't touch her except through the incubator thingie - but her eyes - BIG, BLUE, sweet, sweet eyes. That buggy-mug was it for me. I knew when I saw her kicking away and blinking at everything that she'd be just fine. I had faith, I guess.

This is why my friend tells me I'm to be her Godmother. I'm still awed and a little scared, but no one's ever chosen me for something like this. I'm honored. I'm floored.

Staying Centered

Oh, people, people, people. Quiet confidence is a fleeting thing.

When I was younger and still went to church pretty regularly I used to say this little prayer that I found in the back of my Book of Common Prayer, and it was a prayer for quiet confidence, compassion and an open heart. Very Zen, for an Episcopalian, no? It's one of my favorite prayers, next to the one for church musicians (my dad being an organist and choir director), the 23rd psalm, and the prayer for world leaders. That last one I'd say grudgingly, since even as a teenager I was pissed that our "elected" leaders weren't leading (or, for that matter, elected) our country, but instead ransacking it for their own gains.

Anyway, back to my lovely prayer for quiet confidence.

Last week, it seemed like I had achieved that centeredness, that calm but potent feeling that comes with quiet confidence. I could see clearly how to achieve and maintain balance - in my body, in my relationships, in my own mind - and instead of aknowledging those steps and then going to watch a movie, I actually took a couple.

I began my yoga practice again after a three year hiatus. I didn't eat anything that wasn't good for me (or at least I didn't eat anything that was fried), and I tried every day to be generous with my heart and to love my people wholly, especially CL.

We went to the farmer's market and got locally grown, organic, SEASONAL produce, and wonderful bread from On the Rise bakery, and I tried to make us both into virtuous, healthy humans by eating our whole grains, lean protein and lots of fruits and veggies. This slight smugness and extreme satisfaction with our gastronomic choices then lead to the desire to maintain our healthful bodies by continuing to do yoga, walk or otherwise work out the accumulated lactic acid derived from a life of sitting, and these activities in their turn bring a sense of well-being via endorphins and all that other great brain chemical stuff. Our improved physical health would make us happier people, able to enjoy each other's company and look clearly toward our future with anticipation and quiet confidence.

Mmhm.

I ate barbecued ribs, coleslaw and a gob of mashed potatoes last night, followed by a largeish hunk of coconut merengue pie. I suck.

Frankly, Sunday was HARD. My quiet confidence was shaken by a heated discussion with CL (it sounds like we fight all the time, but we don't. Not really. This place is poison for us, though, and we're so anxious to get out of it that tensions have been running high.) and even though we climbed around on some rocks and hiked a bit of a mountain, then walked through a garden full of indigenous plants talking about what we'd like to do with our new patio space in order to clear the air, I still felt low, congested, heavy - not at all confident. We both needed some more comfort, and for us, food is the surest way we know to make each other feel better. So we headed to the gourmet grocery for a pie under the pretense of getting a drink after our hiking around.

Could my blip with the pie on Sunday have begun this downward spiral I'm experiencing? Could the ribs I ate last night really affect my whole outlook on life in general, so that I feel like I'm floundering and hopeless, despite the clearly defined future plans laying before me?

Okay, so I'm not that bad off, but still! That sense of weightlessness, of clarity and precision, a feeling of slightly prickly potential energy coursing through me is gone, or at least very subdued.

Maybe I need to go back to the market and pick up some more strawberries. Maybe I should toss the remaining pie and call it a loss. Maybe I just need to shut up and go do some more yoga :-)

Love,
Moi

Ruminations

The longer I'm married, the more I believe that marriage isn't just a thing you do one day, and then you're magically in a committed relationship. It's not something that you can wind up, set, and then let it tick-tock away, like a watch.

Marriage happens everyday, without witnesses, sometimes even without your husband present in the same room. It's a series of conscious decisions two people make - to be joyful, tender, and meticulous with each other, to forgive (really forgive), to give solace when it's needed and have confidence that help will come - to love each other to the best of their abilities, and by its very nature, marriage is a tenuous thing. Assuming that it brings stability and certainty to a relationship based on a couple hours spent in a suit or a white(ish) dress is foolish.

Who's to say that one morning my husband won't wake up and decide not to make the decisions he's made for the past six years? What if I wake up unwilling to continue loving him? This, ultimately, is the big deal about being married. This is the thing I need to learn. This is the kind of faith we need to embrace.

How do other successfully married people gain the confidence in themselves and their spouses that every morning they will make these decisions? Maybe it never happens. Maybe the uncertainty is what makes marriage precious, and paradoxically, ensures that the decisions get made. Now that's a wild thought!

I still feel like there's some secret that I have yet to discover that will set my heart at ease and allow me to stop (internally) freaking out every time CL and I have a little quarrel or spat. I'm waiting for the time when my immediate thought upon "fighting" with him isn't "Oh My God! Does this mean we shouldn't have gotten married? What if we made a mistake, and we're destined for bitterness and resentment, rather than the sweetness and joy we thought we'd have?" Stupid thoughts, I know, especially considering that I've been with this same man since well before we tied the knot, but still . . . I worry about my own commitment, my own fickle nature. I am still not settled into my marriage, and I worry about what that means.

Granted, I have some pretty horrendous examples of marriages in my family to freak out about - my grandparents being particularly awful at the whole forgiveness and love thing - but my parents have been happily married for almost 40 years now, so I've got that to look to also. But the longer I'm married, the more I discover about what it really means, the more I realize I don't know about how my parents have stayed married and in love for all these years. Or anyone, for that matter. I guess, what I'm wondering is: How do you DO this?

And my answer, if I quiet all the muckety-muck that is my internal monologue, is this:

Jillian, you wake up next to him every morning. You choose to be generous with your time, your patience, your love, your sweetness. You choose to do these things. It doesn't just happen, and no one can demand it of you. In choosing, you reaffirm that you're a willing partner in the marriage, and that whatever else happens that day, you know you'll lay your head to rest beside him again that night. Godwilling.

Strange New World

Today is only the second day that I haven't had to rush off and teach elementary school kids at my city schools. I've been on the run since September, or at least it feels that way, but now that my programs have ended, I feel slightly . . . adrift. Though they were challenging students to teach, to put it mildly, knowing that I would see their wee shining faces come 3:30 every day gave my days balance, rhythm, shape. Granted, the balance was in their favor, the shape was a squiggly puddle and the rhythm was something like flamenco, only less graceful, but still, there's something to be said for being on the move all the time.

Now what? I'm left with their end-of-program tests to grade and some sweet pictures from the parties I threw last week, but ultimately . . . what just happened?

Though this year has possibly been the second most difficult year of my life (the first being the year we waited to see if CL had Huntington's Disease), it has also been rewarding in unexpected ways. I have a clarity and quiet strength that I never thought I'd achieve, and I've pointed my life in a direction I'm excited about and know I will be successful in the next step of my own evolution.

This, of course, comes as a result of MUCH frustration, fury, injustice, outrage, fear, panic and one hell of a tiny paycheck.

I can't say I'm exactly sorry to leave this job, but I am going to regret for years to come that I was just another person to leave these kids behind. My students - the only thing that keeps me from feeling truly awful about leaving them is knowing that I will have a hand in finding someone who will care about them and nurture them as close to how I would do it if I were still there next year.

Still . . . there's a pretty big part of me that feels like a wuss and that my lack of pay check and AWFUL experiences early-on with my boss(es) is a cop out for running away from icky, hard work.

Not that teaching high school English will be a breeze . . . but going from inner city schools to a private boarding school seems like a betrayal, somehow.

I guess it's just one I'll have to live with!

In the meantime, it's incredibly satisfying to see that I actually DID help my students improve their reading and writing skills, that I did reach out and they did hear me. I think I made a difference for a lot of them, at least for this year, and what more could a body ask for than to know they're leaving having made the world a little better?

Welcome to the Dollhouse

Our apartment is a mess. I mean, not a Southern belle's idea of a mess, where the white glove may be slightly dusty upon swiping a surface. Not even my mother's concept of the word, which includes a little hair behind the bathroom door, but an honest to God, unholy MESS. Not a single room is spared.

Our four pet fancy rats (Daisy, Effie, Ginger and Pepper) look at us disapprovingly each time we walk by their cage on the way to add to our ENORMOUS pile of laundry skulking in our closet. This should tell you something about how messy our mess has become.

And yet . . . the farmer's market is open and there are strawberries, people! REAL strawberries - not the genetically mutated MONSTER berries you get at Kroger, but the small, precious, infinitely delicate rubies that come from the dirt of Marty's farm. God knows how he keeps the birds and the pigs off them, but this weekend he had a dozen pints of the most heady smelling berries I've ever had the pleasure to suck down in one sitting. I swear, there's nothing that can reaffirm one's faith like a strawberry. I wrote a poem about it, once. So did my husband, which I found hillarious, for some reason. Great minds? Maybe.

Needless to say, the dishwasher did get run, and even though the stack of plates and bowls waiting in the sink reminded me of some study on the layers of the earth, I stuck them all in the machine just so I could spend an afternoon cooking.

While I was excavating our sink I imagined a scene something like a Magic Schoolbus epsiode where Ms. Frizzle says: "See? This dish-cliff face is striated! You can tell how old this stack of dishes is by counting the layers on muck! This monolithic pile of porcelain is ANCIENT!" Hm. My poor mother. She'd be revolted, though not surprised, I'm sure.

But come on! Housework is NOTHING compared to a good farmer's market! CL and I had so much fun blowing our weekly $30 that I'm willing to overlook the filthy bathrooms, the vaguely scary desks piled with magazines, bills and other paperwork! The experience was well worth the aftermath of a still filthy home.

We spent all of 20 minutes at the market, but what a 20 minutes it was - yellow squash (Perfet! Organically grown in cow poo! Without a blemish!) two gorgeous pickling cucumbers (HUGE, I might add, and sweet like honeysuckle water), a loaf of still-warm French Country sourdough bread - infinitely more satisfying than cleaning up our space, no?

Here, friends, is one fruit of our weekend labors:

Summer Bean Salad

wax beans and small greenbeans - however many you want to scarf down - blanched in salt water until just tender, then drained
cherry tomatoes or grape tomatoes (halved) - enough to strike a pleasing balance with the beans

Champagne Vinaigrette
2 tbsp. or however much you need, if you've got lots of beans and 'maters to dress
4 tbs. orange champagne vinegar
1 tsp. finely chopped shallot
2 tsp. finely chopped fresh basil
salt and pepper

Toss the beas and the tomatoes in the vinaigrette and enjoy, mon amis! Best if it sits for an hour before you indulge.

Now, let loose with that joi de vive!