Making Room

In what seemed like a day, I made the decision to finally leave roommate housing behind and find a place all on my own. After a few weeks of looking, something popped up that felt nothing short of fate. My soon-to-be-home is small, and to some, may seem incredibly cramped and sparse all at the same time. But with a fridge entirely to myself and more than one shelf in the pantry to stock, I am already salivating at the available space to reinvent myself and my habits.

In an effort to simplify, cleanse, and prepare for my new space, I have been in a fit of organization. Each thing I own has been carefully sized up as I ask myself what "things" have become "stuff" and what "stuff" is really just "junk." Belongings that were once kept in shoe boxes under my bed (which created waves of guilt when I realized just how many shoe boxes there were) now have a neat, designated container. A little box for hardware. A little box for important papers. A little box with my shoe shining kit (a gift from an old school dad). A little box with cards people have given me. In putting everything in its place, I became soaked in nostalgia. The photographs, birthday cards, and what I now realize are real love letters put me on a merry-go-round of memories. The pictures showed outfits I could barely afford in college but bought anyway for that one special date. They showed my first car with chipped paint, campfire double dates, international movie nights on couches that couldn't have been sanitary, and late night dinners at stale breakfast spots. They showed me crushes I hadn't thought about in years and great loves I won't forget in years.

As I sat there, I started to feel indebted to all of the things strewn across my floor. All of my experiences, the ones that stung and the ones that sung, had given me the confidence to sign the lease agreement on my desk. Each good, great, and awful moment proved to me that I can move somewhere with an unplanted flower garden, a bare kitchen, and a very empty living room (which might be empty for a while longer considering my shoe purchases), and that I fully believe I will populate these new spaces with things that are grand.

21 more days.

Diamonds

July, to me, is the great American month—fireworks, barbeques, and long nights outside holding tight to light that lingers. My nights lately have been spent cheering on local sports teams with friends, cokes in hand, while we sit on the grass and gossip about our lives. Best of all, nights like this always include laughter, the kind that feels like tangible happiness you wish you could bottle and drink in the cold month of February. Truth be told, nothing makes me happier than seeing a friend smile so wide it's almost audible or laugh so loud, you know it comes from their middle.

I read somewhere that as you age, you don't need a lot of friends, you just need real ones. In college, the pressure to know everyone was overwhelming, and confidence seemed to be built on the contacts in your phone and the number of hellos you said on campus. But as someone who inherently keeps a small circle around me, the changing friendships of adulthood suit me. The list of people I lean on is short, but our mutual experiences together long. I have friends that care when you break up with the same person for the 20th time, but listen to you like it's the first; friends that know what to say to make you laugh and know when silence and a good movie are the best remedy for a very bad day; friends that joy in your successes even when their own hearts were needing a victory; friends that never forget you, forsake you, or stay mad at you too long.

In the words of a great writer, "it is not diamonds that are a girl's best friend, but your best friends who are diamonds. It is your friends who are supremely resilient, made under pressure, and of astonishing value. They're everlasting; they can cut glass."

To all the diamonds in my life—I am shaped by your perspective and in constant awe of your hearts.

Pacing Myself

Last week I went for a trail run with a friend who recently made the change from graphic designer to full time photographer. In talking about this big change, I asked him what his "ideal" situation in life would be. His answer, though not new to the world of advice, was that he tried not to look too far into the future at the risk of missing the things he was experiencing right then.

Sadly, I am not naturally a "Zen" thinker. At some point in my life, I began to think that we were all running the exact same race. And as time passed, and I reached landmarks at a different pace and order than people around me, I fell victim to the thought that I was "behind." But as my friend and I remarked, and in light of the Olympics, I need to remember that like runners on a track, we too start at staggered places on the field. Built uniquely for different destinations, paces, and distances, we were never meant to compare ourselves to each other as if we were running the same course, in the same lane, toward the same finish line.

My new hope then is to slow my internal clock a few clicks and enjoy more my individual race. While there are still things that I hope will happen, great things, I will try and culture the thought (like the popular country song) that I simply "could not ask for more." By doing that, I am telling the divine beings at large that I recognize the experiences I am having right now. And when something different is given to me later in my race, I will know how to appreciate that too.

While "ideal" may still sound a little more appealing to me than it does to my friend, so do the slow possibilities of this very moment. And in not focusing too much on what could be, I more readily show my gratitude for what is. 

Roots

When it comes to my parents, I always assumed that I would be the one to fly off someday, turning around to wave at them as they stood on our porch, rooted deeply to the home I grew up in. Instead, it is my roots that are becoming more firmly planted (I have now lived in the same apartment for two years, who knew), and it is my parents who are off on an international adventure that will keep them away for more than two Christmases. 

My relationship with each parent is unique. Moments with my dad, while quality, are marked largely by silence as we ride our bikes together, our cadence a constant hum in an otherwise quieter conversation of hearts. For him, he simply needs to know that his family is doing okay. With my mother, silences are rare, and our time is spent on the basement couch, me reverting to a childish position so she can tickle my back while we talk about things we don't often admit to others. Thinking of these memories, dependent so much on physical proximity, I can't help but wonder what truly makes a home, especially when your parents aren't in it anymore. And most importantly, how can I keep all this from changing when they are moving two oceans away?

The answer is, I can't. My other friendships undergo constant face lifts as people's situations change and their needs in the relationship do too. But while I never considered this would happen with my parents as they were meant to stay in the exact same place, to their credit, they are choosing not to. When many people around them are starting to cash in their chips (some alarmingly young), my parents are daring to take a risk with their future, which they still treat as long, exciting, and unknown.

Perhaps the best thing my parents could do for their family was not to stay behind so that our home never changed, but to leave so that we know that it is never too late to tug up on your roots a little to do something you truly believe in.  

Constants

 
I drove home from my parent's house last night, exhausted and satisfied from hours of unrestrained eating and time talking underneath umbrellas in the backyard. As I looked in my rearview mirror, I saw the sun hanging low like a golden peach in the sky. Even with the air still hot and stifling, I kept my windows down all the way home on the highway. As someone who often opts for quieter spaces, some may be surprised that I love to do this when I am alone. The noise of the cars and trucks moving at high speeds alongside me is almost deafening, and the air hits my face like a power hose. Yet I am comforted by the constancy of it—the noise, the heat, the pressured air—and I feel completely present for an hour.

My 20s so far have been one change after another. Graduating from college; finding a spot in the professional world; friends marrying and moving away; new apartments every year; relationships beginning and ending; my own family growing and shrinking all at the same time. Still, as I was driving last night, I thought about all of the things that remain constant despite this ocean of change. For instance, I know when I see my mother that she will always greet me as if she hasn't seen me in years. I know my boss will joke at least once a week about how technology is going to be "big" someday. I know a piece of chocolate always tastes the best after a workout, my dry mouth watering around something sweet on my tongue. I know when I hear certain men speak publicly that I know God exists. I know that mowing the lawn makes me feel American. I know hearing live music makes my insides feel like they are hooked up to an amplifier. I know that I never want firework displays to end when I am watching them with someone I like. I know that nothing makes me feel better than when my own laugh becomes a cackle.

With change moving around me like water, I savor more and more the moments when I find something familiar, like a power hosed drive home, to remind me that some things never do change. Because even in the moving ocean, some things are constant.

Dusting

Somewhere along the way, I started believing that moving on meant erasing all evidence that something had happened. I didn't want anyone, even me, to see my disappointment, so I would go about removing pictures, emails, text messages, kleenexes, and anything else with an associated memory. But even with all of my cleaning, I still find that heartbreak, like any other strong experience, is like a layer of dust. It can settle on all surfaces of life: work, friendships, workouts, books, nights out, food, furniture. Panicked by it, I used to try and sweep this sad dust up with my proverbial swiffer, hoping I could get rid of it for good. But the tricky thing about dust is that it only stays afloat for a few minutes before slowly settling back down onto things.

I am starting to realize that moving on, for me, has as much to do with staying still as it does with moving forward. Instead of running until I am out of air, I stop and try to settle deeper into myself. I honor the experience that I have had; I honor myself for the effort I put into it. And I try and find the balance between looking inside myself and simply letting everything breathe, unquestioned and unexamined. Finally, I remind myself that I am, and am doing, enough.

This time, I will not be scared of the dust collecting in my corners. After all, when I see people acknowledge their fears or inadequacies, I do not see them as weak, I see them as human. And when people keep going despite all of the things they are willing to admit to out loud, to me, they are the picture of brave.

And maybe it isn't even dust that I am seeing at all. Maybe what I am seeing is just the residue of a life being lived.

Connected Hearts

Some of us, even when surrounded with the best of family and friends, feel like we shoulder many of our thoughts and problems alone. We don't always share the quiet hurts, the disappointed heart, the fear of failure, or our concerns for the future with others. Instead, we keep them tucked away. But once in a while, we have a moment that connects us to someone so significantly that even for just a second, we feel like we are seen and understood.

A few months ago, I became a hospice volunteer, something I had thought about for almost a year. While a lot of people worried that being with patients who would inevitably pass away would be too hard for me, I knew it would be a perfect fit. Instead of trying to help people recover, which is actually the harder task, my sole purpose was simply to make their last few months as pleasant as possible.

One of the women I see doesn't remember me from week to week when I come, but she still welcomes me into her house with incredible warmth. For her, I am sure, it is a nice break in an otherwise long, repetitive day. When she is feeling well, we sit in her living room and she retells me the same heartfelt stories about her life that she told me the week before (I wonder what stories of my own will readily come to mind when I am her age). Other days, when she is struggling, I sit next to her bed making small conversation or reading to her. Sometimes we don't even talk at all. Yesterday was one of those days. As she laid on her side in bed, holding a glass of milk I brought her that I knew she wouldn't be able to finish, I absentmindedly rubbed her leg and wondered if I was really making a difference to someone who wouldn't even remember in a few hours that I was ever there. I felt sad for her; I also felt alone in my own thoughts. As I got ready to leave, I asked her as always if I could come back to visit her next week. But instead of her usual affirming response, she looked at me and said quietly with her far-away accent, "You know, I think you understand me a little bit." In hearing that, I felt my heart make room for a woman that I barely knew. And for that minute, of which only one of us would remember for very long, the two of us were connected.