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.

Bright Ideas

 
Every day we are surrounded by someone's bright ideas. Many of these ingenious creations come with a little "i" before them and make our lives incredibly convenient. Others are just plain fantastic (hello, nut chopper from Pampered Chef, I do love you). But in a world of great creativity, I am here to give a shout out to the other kinds of ideas—the not-so-bright kind. These little dud-nuggets often make for the best stories, and when we are 90, they may be as valuable to us as the bright kind.

One of these moments came for me 2 years ago as I was getting into my work elevator at 7:15 in the morning and noticed that my shirt was inside out. I would like to think that had it been later in the day and my frosted mini-wheats were fully digested that I would have decided to fix this in a bathroom. Lucky for all who know the story, I did not. I decided that 5 floors of elevator traveling time was more than enough to remove my shirt and get it right side out. And it might have been had the elevator not stopped on floor 2. In complete horror, with my shirt in hand and my striped bra out for heaven-knows-who to see, I panicked. I leapt like a frog on a lily pad across the elevator and slammed the button that read EMERGENCY (I justified that this truly was one). With a mind-numbing alarm going off and the assured belief that a SWAT team was going to be waiting for me when this was over, I quickly shoved myself back into my shirt, smoothing my hair with the same urgency that you pet a new puppy. I re-hit the elevator button, the doors opened, and the only person staring back at me was the building's old maintenance man who was completely indifferent to what felt like the 15 scariest seconds of my life. I walked quickly to my desk, sat down, and burst out into laughter.

My recommendation is this: own your own crazy and never assume you can accomplish anything in an elevator, no matter how many floors you have to go.

The Birthday Girl

Most of us are fortunate to have sisters, whether by blood, by marriage, or by fated friendship. I am lucky to have sisters in all of these categories, and this week, one of these sisters has a birthday.

This sister deserves, perhaps more than anyone I know, a day that celebrates her goodness. From nieces and nephews whose special occasions and even most ordinary of moments are never forgotten to members of her church who are constantly looked after and loved, she radiates a spirit of giving. Even her profession, which takes her from big conference rooms in Europe to small clinics in Africa, is proof of her unfailing personal principles. But those of who know her well can add other, much smaller wonders to this list: the way her apartment smells like lavender is hidden in the corners; the way her clothes are always crisp; how she sweats so much when she runs her shoes squeak; the way she is always concerned that she has hurt someone's feelings; her love for Paris and all things French; the way her skin glows; that she can fall asleep instantly yet always wakes up too early; when she stands in the kitchen and eats jam on crackers. All of her, both the big and the small, leave an indelible mark on us.

She may feel that she gets into a rhythm of "doing" that no one sees. Thinking of all my sisters, I am sure there are things we feel that no one notices. The meals we prepare; the kids we care for; the person we said hello to; the workout we squeezed in; the test we did well on; the productive day at work; the silent service we gave; the book we read; the candle we created. But the simple truth is, these things do not go unnoticed. And what is better, they all deserve to be celebrated.

So here's to the birthday girl and to all of my sisters who have a noticed spot in my world.

Warriors of Light

One of the advantages of being single, as my brother likes to remind me, is that my money is essentially my own. But so is all of the risk, responsibility, and decision making, as I like to remind him back. The weight of big moments and big chances falls on one person's shoulders—mine.

Paul Coelho, author of The Alchemist, has a philosophy about people he calls "warriors of light." These individuals, he says, "when they believe that the moment has arrived, they drop everything and go off on some long-dreamed of adventure." I am happy to say that this week I took a risk with my solely owned pocket book and abandoned the role of miser to become a warrior.

I had been to Europe in college for a brief, but wonderful study abroad experience. Unfortunately, I never made it to Italy where years of art history classes and my own obsessive reading has always made me want to go. I have admired the Italians not only for the art on their walls, but for the art in their daily living. While perusing the internet this week, my new sad heart in tow, I came across a remark from Rick Steves that sometimes the best way to see a country is not to fly to it, but to ride your bike across it. Since most people know that I love my bike more than my car, I felt this statement was for me. But as quickly as I was exalted by the idea of a new adventure, I was splashed in the face with another: I may have to do this alone. From two cute sisters who couldn't sneak away from work to a few close friends who would be back teaching school by the Fall, I realized that the same freedom that enabled me to take this trip was the same freedom that meant I have may to do it without anyone else. And as much as I wanted to sink down in my chair at this thought (which already has a generous imprint of my very round bum), I didn't. Instead, I decided to do something a little bit braver than dream—I decided to do.

In September, I will ride my bike from Florence to Rome. For more than eight days, I will make my way through Passignano sul Trasimeno, Perugia, Assisi, and Spoleto. I will do this without family or friend, not because I have to, but because I chose to.  

And who knows—I may meet a few other warriors of light on the road through Tuscany.