Confession

Aside from my other everyday work, I've taken a job at a small store here in town. I am in charge of some of the purchasing and setting up displays. It takes a few hours out of my week and some Saturday mornings. I spend a good part of my time in the basement of an old building, below floorboards which bow with time and the tapping of feet above them. It's dark and quiet and at times rather lonely, but mostly it's a cozy little nook of the world where I can go with my thoughts and let them spill like packing peanuts and styrofoam.

I've never been good at letting go. If anything, people, places and memories have an eternal shelf-life in the store house of my mind. If we've met, most likely you've had an impact on me, plain and simple. Obviously there are people who have impacted my life more than others; those who have more boxes of memories, more keepsakes to unwrap during times of nostalgia. I roll back the tissue paper and gently pull out what's inside, like a package on Christmas, and a smile surfaces.

I've packed up some memories as of late and let someone out of my life, for good. I've dumped everything in a box, taped it up tight, and sent if off into some sort of void somewhere, or at least that's what I'm trying to do.

i has a question

1. Why, exactly, do spiders have a place in this world? Isn't there an alternative to those horrifying eight-legged creepy crawly things that appear in my shower every morning?! (S & M live in the basement where the spidees like to hang out. I guess things could be worse.)

2. How come the older you get, the faster time seems to go? And how come no matter how many times you convince yourself it will never happen to you -- that you can keep up on Life, the Passage of Time, little brothers who grow up too fast, and that sort of thing, it makes it that much worse?

3. I cleaned out my purse the other day. I found 12 different kinds of lip gloss. Should I talk to someone about this? (M and I might form a support group. O, you in?)

inhale

Today's root beer float party on Yale commenced the beginning of another school year. Balloons adorned the pillars at 1936. Blankets scattered the lawn. Kids dropped backpacks and binders, shed flip flops, and gushed about favorite new teachers, cute boys, class schedules and seating assignments.

Tonight we gathered in the front room, each discussing the events of our day. We tugged open the windows and sprawled across the air mattress (which has become a crucial part of our living room decor as of late). A tepid breeze seemed to announce the Eve of Fall. It floated in and across each of our faces as we talked and laughed and sent N (far away in Deutschland) funny messages, one right after the other. Tonight was, as W. Stevens says, "a perfection of thought." The last breath of summer.

As excited as I am to swap my sandals for boots, my hoodies for pea coats, part of me is still holding out for an Indian Summer. I want to inhale and hold my breath. I love summer in all its spontaneity. The last-minute frozen yogurt runs. The street alive with kids playing kick-the-can and sardines well after the sun has gone down. The chirp of crickets as I fall asleep.

Although I'm certain I'll miss summer in all its ease, I will be o.k. with a slight change of weather - I always am. The crickets' chirp will slow, we'll crack the windows a little less, and usher in Fall, happy and hopeful here in our yellow brick house all the same.

objects in mirror are closer than they appear

I would like to honorarily induct Chardo into the Yale Avenue Chapter of the SNFB (Society For Neighborly Fender Benders) with three cheers. Thank you for the impact you've left. As I am not (yet) a formal Member, I speak for the Great Ones who have gone before (EAF, KJS, AES and NW, respectively, to name but a few) when I say Welcome, Richard. Your mark will not soon be forgotten.

two to the six

Today's the Big Day. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, dear Maren! Hats off to the best roommate around. Mare's my go-to girl when I need any of the following: a cupcake that rivals those found on Bleeker St. in NYC, the eye of a fashionista, new music for my iPod, an honest opinion, kind words of encouragement, a listening ear, a brilliant quip, a quick wit, clever commentary during any Reality TV show (We've been over this, but you really should start live feed commentary from 2186, or at least a daily blog. You'd have thousands of hits) a bargain hunter, a movie buddy, a partner in crime at Anthro or the T.J., a great red chair -- upstairs or down, cool art for our walls, a trip through a shoe museum, a comrade de Dodo, Trio, or The Rio, the one I call when I'm home alone, my Bud at the Butte, the one with the cute nieces and nephews, the one to blame for my obsession with all things Cohen, (bless you) my conspirator at Hip and Humble, my late night jaunt buddy, my concert cohort (2008: Year of the Concert!) a stealth spy on any and all suspicious neighborhood activity, a great nick-name for anyone, mint chocolate chip ice cream pie...not to mention she's an essential part of our Bry-Triumverate. It's been non-stop fun (spidees included?) since December and I can't wait for what's next. Thanks, Mernie for being the bist! Many wishes for the best(est) year ever. Your lucky number is bound to bring you nothing but all the good you deserve. Lots of love!

i'll pencil you in

I was looking last night at what's left on my summer To Do list. It's depressing, overwhelming, and inspiring all at the same time. (Oh, just so you know, eating 100 orange ice cream dream bars wasn't on there, but it should have been. It would give me a much greater sense of accomplishment).

I love a good To Do list. It gives me some semblance of self and organization. If I'm lucky, I cross off a thing or two. In no way am I up with the times. I keep it simple, just paper and pen. Blackberries intimidate me and I'm gonna wait on the iPhone. I'm holding out for the model that can fold my laundry, order groceries online, schedule a pedicure and my clients' next appointments, keep track of how many orange dream bars I eat, then subtract that amount from my daily caloric intake, all while crooning Patty Griffin or Nina Simone, depending on the day. For now, I'm content with a good felt tip and a post-it.

I remember feeling like Covey invented the Franklin planner especially for me; all those blank pages, tiny little squares and the inspirational quotes. I couldn't wait until the day I was important enough to own one. They were like Trapper Keepers for big people. (And how cool was the Trapper Keeper?!) K got one first. And, as always, I wanted to be just like her. So after a few months (as not to seem too eager) and several convincing arguments with my parents, I went out and got one. We were seniors in high school and involved in everything we deemed important and worthy of penciling into our planners. As I look back, I'm sure we looked positively 45 years old, but I remember pulling mine out in AP English and feeling so cool.

I wish I could say that ever since my first Franklin I've woken up at the exact same minute every day, that I've never missed a birthday, and that I've got an address book which, if I ever decide to run for office, will come in handy. No matter the number of planners I've gone through (pocket, mini, executive -take your pick) I always revert to my old stand-by. My post-it note habit stands the test of time. My Franklin has been good place for the post-its, post penning, to land. Even if my planner pages were blank, they were bedecked almost daily by brightly colored sticky notes of all shades and sizes. I know K's life is still much more organized than mine. I don't know anyone who can tackle a To Do list quite like she does (except maybe JTH, who used to erase her lists until the page was blank. A blank page meant there was nothing left to do). I don't have anything against Mr. Covey. No, no. He's obviously done o.k. for himself. But, it's Mr. Post-it whom I'd like to sing accolades to this very day. Stick to it, dude. I'm your biggest fan.

party animal.

It's officially The Week of Mern. All Maren, all the time. This girl's birthday is at the end of the week. There are too many good things about her for just one day of celebration, so we'll be celebrating for the next seven days. Our house will be hoppin' to ring in this new year for our favorite party animal and roommate. Party on, Wayne. We love you, Mare!

bonus.

My roommate got a bonus at work last night. She's too humble to brag about it. So, if she's not going to, I am. Congrats, Kasi. We're so proud!

can't get enough Part II

Thanks to Oh Happy Day, I found this link to pictures from the Olympic Opening Ceremonies. The gallery is worth checking out. The pictures are fantastic -- and much bigger.

Observation 1

She would ask me to write what I saw. To show her; not tell her. The colors in the sky. The way sunlight hit the crab apple tree. "Observations," she'd call them. The sky is blue, I thought. Blue with white clouds. I'd sit and wonder how on earth I was supposed to pontificate upon that for fifteen minutes; how many different ways I could say blue and white. Then I'd stare out the window pretending to create a composition in my mind to later transfer to the page. My mind would drift to which pair of soccer shorts were clean enough to wear (blue? white?) to practice that afternoon or what K and I were going to do that weekend. Or I'd look at the way my A's slanted on the page and how my T's and H's were almost the same height. I'd sluggishly scrawl a few lines of this or that before we moved on to grammar, then art. The next day I'd be back at the kitchen table with four more "Observations" to write, alone, without her to guide me, to prod me along. Sitting idly by, I let the world happen all around me as I stared at the way I had written Observation across the top of the paper, pious at the placement of the dot dead-center above my "I" or the roundness of my "O."

Little did I know that those afternoons spent gazing out at the light as it sifted through the leaves in the backyard would shape the way I felt about the world. The way I felt about recording events in my life. That her instructions to exactly and absorbedly (with dreamy attention) stare out the window for fifteen minutes at a time would change the way I processed every flicker of golden light around me. That years later I'd read what others have written about light and shadow and know exactly what they were seeing because I've used similar words to describe similar things.

Two nights ago, I opened up my journal for the first time in over two months. The desire to write had vanished back in June with 80 degree afternoons and nights when the cooler could be left off. I've been wary to fill its lines. Worried my words wouldn't be sufficient. Unsure of my ability to correctly capture what has been going through my mind. The same has been true with blogging. I'm never sure who reads what I've written. I have learned this is much more for me than anyone else, but suddenly I became afraid of what everyone around me thought. This feeling of inability to record recent happenings created a critic -- one inside my head and perhaps one outside of it -- one who was always measuring, comparing. Throwing anxious doubts my way. I lost sight of my true self, the one who was trying to free what I really thought from what I thought I ought to think. All creativity had been killed. Drafts sat in my post box, all unfinished. Unpublished. I left all unsaid. Unrecorded. Idle.

It wasn't until today -- this afternoon -- when I pulled a book from the shelf, that the desire came back; that I cornered the critic and stared him in the face. Thanks to wise words from m. and Ueland's book, I've been able to harvest my thoughts and kick the critic out of the corner for good. Well, at least for now.

Tonight as I gazed out at the warm evening light that bathed marble columns in Memory Grove, I let go. I left the conversation. My thoughts drowned out the music and the voices. I was present. Now, a few hours later, I sit by the soft glow of the computer screen, fingers to keyboard, ideas flooding in. Suddenly I'm back at the kitchen table. She's there. My notebook is open in front of me; empty pages full of possibility and vistas of "Observations" ready to be recorded. My words won't be perfect. Some readers might not understand exactly what I'm feeling, but at least I'm writing. Ueland is right: (At times of) creative idleness...you are being slowly filled with warm imagination, with wonderful living thoughts...For what we write today slipped into our souls some other day when we were alone and doing nothing.

For anyone else suffering from blogger's block or for any of you who have contemplated starting a blog but haven't (I can think of a few of you in particular), follow m's encouragement: open up and let it out. you won't regret it. speak from the gut and be brave. and if you're nervous, then follow this advice:

"You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face... You must do the thing you think you cannot do."
- Eleanor Roosevelt

Happy writing!

can't get enough

We're a little obsessed at our house.
Go USA!

soak up the sun

With the nights getting shorter and August thunderstorms abounding, we're trying to make the most of our summer days. We were able to cross of two more things on our Summer To Do's last week. Tuesday we walked up to Red Butte for dinner and yesterday afternoon we convened on the back patio to watch a storm roll in. Steph served up huge slices of watermelon for breakfast on Saturday, seeds abounding, and we spent the afternoon at the pool. We watched Phelps and the boys late into the night last night and I slept with my windows wide open, the fan on full blast. It's true what they say: the older you get the faster time flies.

Along with Fall cataloges and Brigham City peaches (thanks, Mom) I've the hankering to hold onto every last bit of the season. Here's to more star-filled nights, more dark rolling clouds, more chats - bed, porch, and poolside, more live music, more ice cream pie, more dinners on the patio, more Olympic golds, more sun-kissed shoulders, more Saturdays spent outside - chores undone, more nights at The Lot, more Sunday talks in the grass on Yale...Here's to soaking up every last lazy bit of summer.

in my sock drawer

Sometimes I wish I could go back. Go back and double check. Triple check. I was sure I put it there. One day it was there, the next it was gone. Lost in the Bermuda Triangle that was my sock drawer; that Amelia Earhart of an envelope. I can still see her handwriting on the front, the curves of the "M" in felt-tipped pen. I've circumnavigated that drawer dozens of times in the past 15 years, widening the gyre down into the bottom drawers. I come up empty-handed time after time.
* * *
Ankles crossed, I sink back into the couch. "Do you remember what he said?" I ask eagerly. "Yes." She curls her dark hair around her ear and tucks both her feet up and under just as she's done for years. She proceeds to tell me what we'd heard all those years ago. Advice that has stayed with me. I'm pretty sure I remember it correctly, but I wanted to hear her say it to make sure. I slouch deeper into the chair and feel my feet rise off the floor. Even now, years later, my legs aren't long enough to touch the ground. I pull one of the gold pillows in snug against my chest and survey our surroundings as she continues.
* * *
The hardest part is figuring out what to do with this space between. The space between all the mismatched socks and lost envelopes. The space between the stories and the advice. The space between today and tomorrow. No matter how hard I search, no matter how many people I ask, I'm the only one who can decide when to call off the search.

welcome, welcome, baby girl!

I got to spend part of the evening with this sweet, perfect baby girl! Mom, Dad and proud big sis are all doing well.

see ya!

bon voyage!
We'll be back...Eventually.