Adam proposed at the keyhole of Devil's Backbone in Loveland and this was not perfect. It was 97 degrees without shade and I had a hangover. Let me second that complaint with a certainty: I love Adam and he is the man I want to spend the rest of my life with.
Girls grow up dreaming of perfection. I think this is fairly universal in America. Many dream of a tear-jerkingly romantic proposal and stunning, huge wedding where everyone turns, stands to look at how beautiful they look. I've been raised primarily by my mom and her sister, my Aunt Kay, and I admire and love them infinitely. Their dreams are far more practical.
Try as they might to teach me, I am not a practical girl. I have intense mood swings. I rarely dress up but resent being told this means I am not someone who would wear a traditional wedding gown. "It's just not you." I regret every decision I ever make at least slightly, because I never stop thinking about other options. I'm not excited about getting married. I'm devastated like we all are. My mom is run thin. She told me yesterday Kay having ALS had dropped to number three on her stress list after the facts that I'm getting married and we don't know how to plan it and her dad is in a psychiatric ward after falling on his head.
I haven't been able to feel much of anything about being engaged. Aunt Kay will officiate. This was a no-brainer. Expediency is required. The ideas are flowing and I'm drowning in them to the point where none of them sound right because nothing is right in a world where people get ALS. Aunt Kay told my mom she would just be the fun aunt at the wedding drinking too much wine, of course she would, but she is ordained because of ALS, because of Cindy and Linda, and she is the only one Adam and I could imagine writing our ceremony. That is all so full of love, of meaning, but I. I'm sad. Adam and I will get married at a time that will just be so...real-life. There's no fantasy about it. It will be nothing any little girl has ever dreamed about for "her day." Our jobs are unstable and stagnant, in my case. My family is in the midst of our greatest struggles and sadnesses.
I have never believed in fantasy. I actually never believed I would ever meet somebody. Here is the dream, girls: a man who loves you unconditionally to spend the rest of your life with. I have that. I have Adam. Through it all he has never faltered, never stopped loving me for who I am and who I want to be. I used to think our wedding would happen at some penultimate time in our lives: great jobs, maybe a house and a dog, ready for anything. That's not going to happen. We are going to have a deeply important ceremony with a deeply important person. And we are going to stick together forever. It's NOT my day; it's the start of our lives together. It's not going to be easy.
About Me
- Beth
- From "Letters to a Young Poet," Rainer Maria Rilke: “Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”
Wednesday, July 8, 2015
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
Another Poetry Writing Attempt
"My Thoughts on Politics and Gum-Spitting"
Open-mindedness is a comforting identity to hold on to
in the midst of hating Christians for what they believe in.
I scroll through social media and get so sick of obnoxious
honesty, everyone intent to say, "Look, I'm being myself."
I sometimes spit my gum on the sidewalk and hope that
no one's looking because then they'd decide something true
about me that I'm not proud of. I don't hope that someone
steps on it, but I am honest, too, and the truth is, I'm not
even thinking about that at all after the tasteless blob is
finally out of my life. If I saw someone do the same,
I would be disgusted by the laziness and apathy of it all.
Open-mindedness is a comforting identity to hold on to
in the midst of hating Christians for what they believe in.
I scroll through social media and get so sick of obnoxious
honesty, everyone intent to say, "Look, I'm being myself."
I sometimes spit my gum on the sidewalk and hope that
no one's looking because then they'd decide something true
about me that I'm not proud of. I don't hope that someone
steps on it, but I am honest, too, and the truth is, I'm not
even thinking about that at all after the tasteless blob is
finally out of my life. If I saw someone do the same,
I would be disgusted by the laziness and apathy of it all.
Monday, January 26, 2015
Observations
"The street where I grew up"
Went to get the mail and
saw a dead squirrel, two
women walking big dogs
and talking about the people
whose lives seemed more
exciting than theirs, a man
on his porch swing going
back and forth with wishes
and regrets, the neighbor
who always waves hello, and
I sang a song in my head about
the repetitive steps of dreams.
"First Love"
These girls
sit
and wait for the familiar
Bing!
Ba-da-bing?
Jubilation trepidation,
the beating of their hearts
and the relentless
hoping
dwelling
excruciating
pain of having to wait
until, again -
No. No. No.
It wasn't
what they heard in their heads.
"Freedom"
I bought a pink stuffed
bear
and gave it to the little girl who
stared up with those eyes, so
the next time you tell me I am
not who I am supposed to be just
answer me this:
Why do I always miss the bus even
when I show up exactly when I am
supposed to be there?
I can't even begin to
bare
the burden of someone
else's messed up schedule.
For god's sake the next time you
need somebody to
water the flowers while you're gone, ask
the responsible bald eagle who doesn't take
cream or sugar or any of that fake crap.
It's better to be safe
than unapologetic.
"Changes in the Weather"
This storm is making our jobs a heck of a lot
harder than the boring, clear paved roads of
a cloudless sky. Flurries never fall straight or
predictably and with this wind I can't see a damn
thing. I seem incapable of not running around just
completing tasks. When the sun comes out it is
inevitable not to feel the pressure to get out, futile
to attempt avoiding the pleasure of a beautiful day.
Went to get the mail and
saw a dead squirrel, two
women walking big dogs
and talking about the people
whose lives seemed more
exciting than theirs, a man
on his porch swing going
back and forth with wishes
and regrets, the neighbor
who always waves hello, and
I sang a song in my head about
the repetitive steps of dreams.
"First Love"
These girls
sit
and wait for the familiar
Bing!
Ba-da-bing?
Jubilation trepidation,
the beating of their hearts
and the relentless
hoping
dwelling
excruciating
pain of having to wait
until, again -
No. No. No.
It wasn't
what they heard in their heads.
"Freedom"
I bought a pink stuffed
bear
and gave it to the little girl who
stared up with those eyes, so
the next time you tell me I am
not who I am supposed to be just
answer me this:
Why do I always miss the bus even
when I show up exactly when I am
supposed to be there?
I can't even begin to
bare
the burden of someone
else's messed up schedule.
For god's sake the next time you
need somebody to
water the flowers while you're gone, ask
the responsible bald eagle who doesn't take
cream or sugar or any of that fake crap.
It's better to be safe
than unapologetic.
"Changes in the Weather"
This storm is making our jobs a heck of a lot
harder than the boring, clear paved roads of
a cloudless sky. Flurries never fall straight or
predictably and with this wind I can't see a damn
thing. I seem incapable of not running around just
completing tasks. When the sun comes out it is
inevitable not to feel the pressure to get out, futile
to attempt avoiding the pleasure of a beautiful day.
Thursday, January 15, 2015
Diary of a Millennial
You don't have to believe in yourself all of the time, you know, it's ok to be this normal kind of person, uncertain, jumpy, hyper-critical of who? You, of course. Nobody else. Everybody else is doing just fine, amazingly well, actually, in your eyes. You've had a full week of actual productivity, or that's what it feels like, and now you're worried because you're starting to feel a little too sure of yourself. Three interviews in a row and look at you now, making money. It's like you're a real-life-actual-member-of-society, substitute teaching for engineering technology, three charming teenage boys designing things on computers in front of you, not needing you at all, but enjoying the fact that you're here instead of their geeky teacher who they will grow into some version of in the future, enjoying that it's you instead of him because he is not nearly as impressed with their clicking-around-making-random-shapes on some program called Solid Works as you are. Because you don't understand what the hell they are doing. And you let them alternate between clicking around on Solid Works and clicking around on some game with big tanks shooting things because being the cool sub makes you feel appreciated in some small way and that is of the utmost importance to you, to be appreciated.
You go back and forth quite frequently, telling yourself silly affirmations like, "You'll be ok, lots of people struggle in their 20s," or lambasting your failures and shortcomings with a brutal lack of empathy, yes, a lack of empathy for yourself, because lots of people struggle in their 20s but not in the lame ways that you have. Then you step back and realize how entirely selfish it is to think this way, that your own life and thoughts and things that have happened to you consume so much of you. But what else can? Your thoughts are always with you.
You stepped into the office on Monday with vague confusion. "I think I am in the right place. Am I?" You were. Please, have a seat. You got to read the entirety of David Foster Wallace's commencement address, This is Water, before he called you in. Balding already, he shouldn't be. Jeans. A flannel. You found being interviewed by a person in a flannel to put you at ease. Actually, lately, being interviewed does not seem to bother you at all. What's the worst that can happen? You know that for you, the worst that can happen is different than it is for most normal people. Ironically, this makes you interview quite well, and the chances of the worst happening - a job offer - tend to go up dramatically. The woman having a meeting with him before your interview had one of those appearances so strikingly different from what her voice indicated (you listened to their whole conversation, her voice sounded vibrant, confident, energetic) that you are still pondering it, thinking of a description of her you could tell people. She wore gray knit sweatpants. You have never considered wearing gray knit sweatpants to a workplace. Too daunting. What would the people think? You think it is ballsy. Maybe everybody does. She had mousy brown hair - uncombed - glasses that might fairly be called spectacles, and she was about 100 pounds overweight. You admired her. She was just in there agreeing to the terms of her new position, a house lead, her working hours to be from 7:30pm-9:00am. You do not yet realize those would be your hours, too. The interview is about to begin. The way he asked the questions was in the most un-obvious way ever. He would mumble, run his hands over his head, chatter repeated apologies for making you wait for so long countered with defensive assertions of his tiredness and only the second month on the job and hectic, unorganized pile of work he walked into. Then he would start muttering things about the clients you would work with and all of a sudden in the same monotonous muttering tone of voice a question would be presented and he would go silent and look at you expectantly. Oh, there's the first question! You've been waiting for it. "What do you think this job will be?"
You come home from these interviews on some cheerful, pleased-with-yourself sort of high, giddy with the notion that somebody could think highly of you. The next day this all comes crashing down with the reality that somebody expects something out of you. And you are not sure if those expectations are entirely a possibility for you to fulfill, what with your arsenal of self-doubting internal chatter, which has become quite prolific since you graduated from college almost two years ago.
You pack up your bag and go to the rec center where you swim for an hour with that persistent monologue still in your head, stroke-stroke-breathe, stroke-stroke-breathe, feel your arms pulling you more than your legs propel you, try to consciously kick at the same time as you breathe, turn this into a metaphor for your life, feel ridiculously clever, chuckle at yourself, blow bubbles up to the surface of the water, press your fingertips firmly on the wall when you've finished your last lap and stand up. It's quieter now, because you can hear other people's voices.
At night, you get some sort of peace talking with your boyfriend, telling him you don't know, probably you are not the kind of person who can work night shifts. He thought it was ridiculous because he knows how you are in the middle of the night, afraid of everything, so it was impossible to imagine you taking care of other people at those hours. You want to be tough, but there is the little voice that tells you that you are not. You toss and turn for hours and will yourself to not take the sleeping medicine, not tonight. That can be your tough thing for today.
In the morning you drive to your interview or your substitute teaching job or Walgreens to get that prescription, wherever, and if just the right song is on you start believing in yourself again. Just the right song makes you feel like you can do anything. You aren't where you thought you'd be at 24 but you're not sure where you thought you'd be anyway. You want to help people. You like craft beer. You're good at writing notes to people you love. You have legs that can run or ride a bike or hike a mountain and whenever you do these things you do them with a smile. You love your family. You want to be the kind of person who thinks things will work out in the way they are supposed to work out. You are intuitive, passionate, and ernest. You are a millennial.
You go back and forth quite frequently, telling yourself silly affirmations like, "You'll be ok, lots of people struggle in their 20s," or lambasting your failures and shortcomings with a brutal lack of empathy, yes, a lack of empathy for yourself, because lots of people struggle in their 20s but not in the lame ways that you have. Then you step back and realize how entirely selfish it is to think this way, that your own life and thoughts and things that have happened to you consume so much of you. But what else can? Your thoughts are always with you.
You stepped into the office on Monday with vague confusion. "I think I am in the right place. Am I?" You were. Please, have a seat. You got to read the entirety of David Foster Wallace's commencement address, This is Water, before he called you in. Balding already, he shouldn't be. Jeans. A flannel. You found being interviewed by a person in a flannel to put you at ease. Actually, lately, being interviewed does not seem to bother you at all. What's the worst that can happen? You know that for you, the worst that can happen is different than it is for most normal people. Ironically, this makes you interview quite well, and the chances of the worst happening - a job offer - tend to go up dramatically. The woman having a meeting with him before your interview had one of those appearances so strikingly different from what her voice indicated (you listened to their whole conversation, her voice sounded vibrant, confident, energetic) that you are still pondering it, thinking of a description of her you could tell people. She wore gray knit sweatpants. You have never considered wearing gray knit sweatpants to a workplace. Too daunting. What would the people think? You think it is ballsy. Maybe everybody does. She had mousy brown hair - uncombed - glasses that might fairly be called spectacles, and she was about 100 pounds overweight. You admired her. She was just in there agreeing to the terms of her new position, a house lead, her working hours to be from 7:30pm-9:00am. You do not yet realize those would be your hours, too. The interview is about to begin. The way he asked the questions was in the most un-obvious way ever. He would mumble, run his hands over his head, chatter repeated apologies for making you wait for so long countered with defensive assertions of his tiredness and only the second month on the job and hectic, unorganized pile of work he walked into. Then he would start muttering things about the clients you would work with and all of a sudden in the same monotonous muttering tone of voice a question would be presented and he would go silent and look at you expectantly. Oh, there's the first question! You've been waiting for it. "What do you think this job will be?"
You come home from these interviews on some cheerful, pleased-with-yourself sort of high, giddy with the notion that somebody could think highly of you. The next day this all comes crashing down with the reality that somebody expects something out of you. And you are not sure if those expectations are entirely a possibility for you to fulfill, what with your arsenal of self-doubting internal chatter, which has become quite prolific since you graduated from college almost two years ago.
You pack up your bag and go to the rec center where you swim for an hour with that persistent monologue still in your head, stroke-stroke-breathe, stroke-stroke-breathe, feel your arms pulling you more than your legs propel you, try to consciously kick at the same time as you breathe, turn this into a metaphor for your life, feel ridiculously clever, chuckle at yourself, blow bubbles up to the surface of the water, press your fingertips firmly on the wall when you've finished your last lap and stand up. It's quieter now, because you can hear other people's voices.
At night, you get some sort of peace talking with your boyfriend, telling him you don't know, probably you are not the kind of person who can work night shifts. He thought it was ridiculous because he knows how you are in the middle of the night, afraid of everything, so it was impossible to imagine you taking care of other people at those hours. You want to be tough, but there is the little voice that tells you that you are not. You toss and turn for hours and will yourself to not take the sleeping medicine, not tonight. That can be your tough thing for today.
In the morning you drive to your interview or your substitute teaching job or Walgreens to get that prescription, wherever, and if just the right song is on you start believing in yourself again. Just the right song makes you feel like you can do anything. You aren't where you thought you'd be at 24 but you're not sure where you thought you'd be anyway. You want to help people. You like craft beer. You're good at writing notes to people you love. You have legs that can run or ride a bike or hike a mountain and whenever you do these things you do them with a smile. You love your family. You want to be the kind of person who thinks things will work out in the way they are supposed to work out. You are intuitive, passionate, and ernest. You are a millennial.
Tuesday, December 30, 2014
Reflections on a terrible, awful, no good, very bad year... unless you count the wonderful parts.
This year has gone by in a flash of misery and joy. I can't go all Charles Dickens and say it was the best of times and the worst of times, but what can you do but steal if what you want to say has already been written? That last part was also stolen from a song that I really like. I believe words are meant to be shared.
December 9th of 2013 is when our worlds were turned around. I remember coming home from tutoring to my parents' and Mom had made the chicken thigh recipe Selena made for us that we all liked so much, but nobody wanted to eat it after the news of Aunt Kay's diagnosis. I came in the house in my usual tornado of complaints about insignificant things but was stopped short. You can always see that look on people you love. Something was wrong. I started crying instantly.
Last Christmas we hung on to each other in shell-shocked something, I don't want to say despair, because as a family we always seem to rally. This Christmas we looked back on a year I think we're amazed at for many reasons: because it happened and we celebrated it, and in the end we triumphed in it. Love always wins. Isn't that in a Brandi Carlile song? No no. Love will find a way. One thing I know for sure is love will find a way.
January, February, March, they seem like a blur. I started this blog but didn't really keep up with it too well. I wrote in too many different areas, journals, random Word documents, to keep track of anything this year. We commemorated Joni's one-year-adoption-aniversary. Karen's baby shower in Tucson. My mom spending half of each month in Arizona. Everything getting harder. Went to Ski Cooper in Leadville. Great snow. My dad's 80-year-old father skiing with me, Grandpop, complaining that I had slightly more stamina. My parents' 29th wedding anniversary. April, of course, what a month. Spring "break" (do I really need a break from my part-time work?) in Tucson for the first week, hoping and praying I would get to meet Baby Hazelton. He arrived a week after I left. I ran out of the bedroom at the apartment when I got the text from Aunt Kay. "Ryder's arrived!" Tim immediately started strumming on his guitar and singing, "Ryder's arrived, Ryder's gonna ride, Ryder's arrived, Ryder's gonna ride...get ready to ride!" We loved him for it. Adam filmed it.
In May Erik saw Priscilla Ahn and got the tank top and album for me, and also realized that his chances of marrying her had "reached absolute 0." At the end of the month, all of us together again in Tucson for Aunt Kay's 57th birthday. The binder full of stories. 57 people wrote hilarious heart wrenching inappropriate hysterical loving too-much-fun-having incredible memories and there they all were for her to read. It was the best present ever. I have the best aunt ever.
June, Adam's 24th birthday. We did the Boulder Sunrise Triathlon. He got a medal even though he thinks he is slow and fat. I love him so much. I wish he could run now, but his knee acts up, fluid or something behind it the bone doctor says. I'm just proud of myself for going ahead and pulling on the wet suit and getting in the cold reservoir so early in the morning. The rest of a triathlon is purely enjoyable. The next weekend, Aunt Kay and Karen and Ryder come to visit, those bundles of love! Aunt Dana's 50th birthday party, rainy in the park. Lindsey came and was subjected to Aunt Kay's try-to-make-you-squirm humor. "So Lindsey, when are you and Erik going to start a family?" She faired better than poor Chelsea who had to run away blushing and squealing in that way that just comes out of us when we are embarrassed. Father's Day beers with my dad at Left Hand. I posted the picture and got 28 "Likes," showed him, "That's pretty good, Dad, 28 likes." "Jesus Christ, Beth. That's so stupid." "Dad, the people like us!"
Then everyone went to Maui, and I watched from Facebook. The beautiful silhouette of Karen holding Ryder up in the air like Simba, except looking at his smiley face, her prize, her beautiful son, the treasure we all can't get enough of. Adam and I rode our bikes to Berthoud to drink beers and hold Harley the one-eyed chihuahua, Lindsey met us there, of course, supported mill dog rescues. June was a good month. Aunt Kay got to swim in the ocean. My mom by her side. Adam and I got to run. Together. With him just a little farther ahead. Ryder got to see Maui before most 2-month-olds do. Sometimes tragic circumstances present opportunities for unforgettable memories.
In July I went to see my brother for the 4th. There was a terrible forecast in Boston so they rescheduled fireworks for July 3rd. We crowded in with the sweaty people and watched the show, said, "Wow, we think the show is better in Pana by A.D.F Fireworks. What did that stand for? Alcohol Dave and Fireworks? Yes, with fireworks twice. Ha ha!" Then we wanted ice cream. We always want ice cream. Emack and Bolio's turned in to a refuge instead of a treat when we had to stay there for cover in the midst of a frightfully quick development: a torrential downpour. "What should we do? Want to make a run for it?" We did. Have a picture of or drenched, wet-dog smelling selves waiting for the train on one of our slider phones that everyone makes fun of. Of course, the trip wasn't all silly revelry. The too-many-Benedryls and paramedic visit. Recovery. Delicious plum-raspberry and strawberry-rhubarb tarts. J.F.K House. Tennis and walks around the reservoir, the water museum. Interesting but I think over our heads, or at least definitely mine. Roger Federer's heartbreaking 5-set loss to Novak in the finals of Wimbledon. Then me sitting on the plane for 4 hours before it took off because of tornado warnings. At least I got a free Corona. I am going to miss trips to Boston to visit my brother. I have this feeling he might be back. In the meantime, I am glad to have him moving back "home," wherever home may be for him.
Oxnard beach reunion later that month. Oh, how we love to travel. Oh, how the beach calms us. It was a little too rocky-rough-cold to swim much in this ocean, unless you asked Adam when he wanted to try surfing the first day (it didn't go well.) The hole-digging, the photos, little Rose and Ryder crawling around on the quilt sewn by Aunt Lee. Henry at 3 eyeing "pretty girls." Reading A Prayer for Owen Meany and Mrs. Bridge, that was me, falling completely in love with them both. "Heads Up" and Korean barbecue. Spundnuts Donuts. Lying in bed with Karen late at night hearing the ocean waves crash and Ryder's sweet little cries, not irritating to me but adorable and helpless. I love that baby boy. Going to CrossFit with Karen and Uncle Rob and Adam, rubbing our butt cracks raw on the ab mats, no one believed I could hurt myself that badly. There is still a scar. Perhaps I should stick to running. Surf Brewing and Anacapa Brewing and beer beer beer. I am my father's daughter.
August was the Folks Festival, Josh Ritter and Brandi Carlile and Adam and me, and of course Tim couldn't miss that, growing his beard and being one with the other hipster songwriters. This was after what my mom gives the euphemism of "my derailment." I wrote about what happened in August at that school in another document. I'll paste here:
Shame: 8/20/14
This year has been awful. It has sucked something out of me. But it's lit a fire, too. I want something out of this life. I have my star tattoo and it's not a stupid whim like that other one. I want things to be different, I want a real job, I want my mom to get some rest, and most of all I want there to be a cure for ALS. I don't know what's going to happen in 2015. I don't have a cheesy or conclusive way to tie this up. Here we all are. We'll bring in the new year in Tucson, like always. LOVE LOVE LOVE.
December 9th of 2013 is when our worlds were turned around. I remember coming home from tutoring to my parents' and Mom had made the chicken thigh recipe Selena made for us that we all liked so much, but nobody wanted to eat it after the news of Aunt Kay's diagnosis. I came in the house in my usual tornado of complaints about insignificant things but was stopped short. You can always see that look on people you love. Something was wrong. I started crying instantly.
Last Christmas we hung on to each other in shell-shocked something, I don't want to say despair, because as a family we always seem to rally. This Christmas we looked back on a year I think we're amazed at for many reasons: because it happened and we celebrated it, and in the end we triumphed in it. Love always wins. Isn't that in a Brandi Carlile song? No no. Love will find a way. One thing I know for sure is love will find a way.
January, February, March, they seem like a blur. I started this blog but didn't really keep up with it too well. I wrote in too many different areas, journals, random Word documents, to keep track of anything this year. We commemorated Joni's one-year-adoption-aniversary. Karen's baby shower in Tucson. My mom spending half of each month in Arizona. Everything getting harder. Went to Ski Cooper in Leadville. Great snow. My dad's 80-year-old father skiing with me, Grandpop, complaining that I had slightly more stamina. My parents' 29th wedding anniversary. April, of course, what a month. Spring "break" (do I really need a break from my part-time work?) in Tucson for the first week, hoping and praying I would get to meet Baby Hazelton. He arrived a week after I left. I ran out of the bedroom at the apartment when I got the text from Aunt Kay. "Ryder's arrived!" Tim immediately started strumming on his guitar and singing, "Ryder's arrived, Ryder's gonna ride, Ryder's arrived, Ryder's gonna ride...get ready to ride!" We loved him for it. Adam filmed it.
In May Erik saw Priscilla Ahn and got the tank top and album for me, and also realized that his chances of marrying her had "reached absolute 0." At the end of the month, all of us together again in Tucson for Aunt Kay's 57th birthday. The binder full of stories. 57 people wrote hilarious heart wrenching inappropriate hysterical loving too-much-fun-having incredible memories and there they all were for her to read. It was the best present ever. I have the best aunt ever.
June, Adam's 24th birthday. We did the Boulder Sunrise Triathlon. He got a medal even though he thinks he is slow and fat. I love him so much. I wish he could run now, but his knee acts up, fluid or something behind it the bone doctor says. I'm just proud of myself for going ahead and pulling on the wet suit and getting in the cold reservoir so early in the morning. The rest of a triathlon is purely enjoyable. The next weekend, Aunt Kay and Karen and Ryder come to visit, those bundles of love! Aunt Dana's 50th birthday party, rainy in the park. Lindsey came and was subjected to Aunt Kay's try-to-make-you-squirm humor. "So Lindsey, when are you and Erik going to start a family?" She faired better than poor Chelsea who had to run away blushing and squealing in that way that just comes out of us when we are embarrassed. Father's Day beers with my dad at Left Hand. I posted the picture and got 28 "Likes," showed him, "That's pretty good, Dad, 28 likes." "Jesus Christ, Beth. That's so stupid." "Dad, the people like us!"
Then everyone went to Maui, and I watched from Facebook. The beautiful silhouette of Karen holding Ryder up in the air like Simba, except looking at his smiley face, her prize, her beautiful son, the treasure we all can't get enough of. Adam and I rode our bikes to Berthoud to drink beers and hold Harley the one-eyed chihuahua, Lindsey met us there, of course, supported mill dog rescues. June was a good month. Aunt Kay got to swim in the ocean. My mom by her side. Adam and I got to run. Together. With him just a little farther ahead. Ryder got to see Maui before most 2-month-olds do. Sometimes tragic circumstances present opportunities for unforgettable memories.
In July I went to see my brother for the 4th. There was a terrible forecast in Boston so they rescheduled fireworks for July 3rd. We crowded in with the sweaty people and watched the show, said, "Wow, we think the show is better in Pana by A.D.F Fireworks. What did that stand for? Alcohol Dave and Fireworks? Yes, with fireworks twice. Ha ha!" Then we wanted ice cream. We always want ice cream. Emack and Bolio's turned in to a refuge instead of a treat when we had to stay there for cover in the midst of a frightfully quick development: a torrential downpour. "What should we do? Want to make a run for it?" We did. Have a picture of or drenched, wet-dog smelling selves waiting for the train on one of our slider phones that everyone makes fun of. Of course, the trip wasn't all silly revelry. The too-many-Benedryls and paramedic visit. Recovery. Delicious plum-raspberry and strawberry-rhubarb tarts. J.F.K House. Tennis and walks around the reservoir, the water museum. Interesting but I think over our heads, or at least definitely mine. Roger Federer's heartbreaking 5-set loss to Novak in the finals of Wimbledon. Then me sitting on the plane for 4 hours before it took off because of tornado warnings. At least I got a free Corona. I am going to miss trips to Boston to visit my brother. I have this feeling he might be back. In the meantime, I am glad to have him moving back "home," wherever home may be for him.
Oxnard beach reunion later that month. Oh, how we love to travel. Oh, how the beach calms us. It was a little too rocky-rough-cold to swim much in this ocean, unless you asked Adam when he wanted to try surfing the first day (it didn't go well.) The hole-digging, the photos, little Rose and Ryder crawling around on the quilt sewn by Aunt Lee. Henry at 3 eyeing "pretty girls." Reading A Prayer for Owen Meany and Mrs. Bridge, that was me, falling completely in love with them both. "Heads Up" and Korean barbecue. Spundnuts Donuts. Lying in bed with Karen late at night hearing the ocean waves crash and Ryder's sweet little cries, not irritating to me but adorable and helpless. I love that baby boy. Going to CrossFit with Karen and Uncle Rob and Adam, rubbing our butt cracks raw on the ab mats, no one believed I could hurt myself that badly. There is still a scar. Perhaps I should stick to running. Surf Brewing and Anacapa Brewing and beer beer beer. I am my father's daughter.
August was the Folks Festival, Josh Ritter and Brandi Carlile and Adam and me, and of course Tim couldn't miss that, growing his beard and being one with the other hipster songwriters. This was after what my mom gives the euphemism of "my derailment." I wrote about what happened in August at that school in another document. I'll paste here:
Shame: 8/20/14
One week ago today I had an English
classroom. It was at an alternative high school across the street from a shabby Mexican restaurant and
out east too far to see the mountains and down the road from some churches and
some well-manicured lawns of tiny houses my mom would say had “pride of
ownership.” It is a school with character. My students would have all been
Mexican and would have all suffered hardships I have not known and likely will
never know. But I never met them.
Two
weeks ago today I was attending Therapeutic Crisis Intervention training for my
job as a behavior coach at a school for kids with emotional and behavioral disorders. I liked my job there. I didn’t
have to stretch myself. I have never been flexible in any sense of the word. We
were learning how to de-escalate students before a potentially violent
situation became dangerous. We were a room full of people wanting to work with
emotionally troubled children and teenagers, for whatever reasons each of us
carried in our hearts. I don’t think they want me to come back. I’ve never been
one to think I am valued. I’ve never really valued myself.
Last
Thursday I saw a professional counselor and told her I’ve had anxiety for my
entire life. I told her I am tired of it.
“What would you like to get out of
our sessions together?”
I want to feel better. I want to be able to do
things. I want to like myself a little more. I want to stop asking for help all
the time. I don’t believe you can help me. But here’s 70 dollars. She was a
very nice woman with a golden suntan and yellow hair and expensive shoes. I
wonder what she has gone though that makes her think she can help people like
me. I wonder if she is doing it because it probably makes people say, “Oh, how
wonderful,” when they ask her what she does for a living and she says she is a
professional counselor. Or I wonder if she really wants to help me. I wonder if
she’s needed this kind of help before, too. I’ve never been able to fully trust
people to have pure motives. I know mine are hardly ever pure. It’s nothing
against humanity.
Last Wednesday I wandered out of a
meeting about updating my e-portfolio and reviewing observations of my teaching
performance online and updating my professional goals on a weekly basis and
documenting it for the district to see and make sure they
are hiring effective teachers who reflect and grow and cite all of the
standards from the curriculum guides in their lesson plans. Before I left I
couldn’t breathe. My eyes twitched all around the room. The ex-Marine, although
Trish warned me to never call him that because once-a-Marine-always-a-Marine,
came and asked, “Hey, are you registered for the union? Because you really
ought to think about doing that. It’s for you. For your safety. As a teacher.”
I looked at him like what else but a deer in headlights. Nick laughed and told him, “I think she has
other things on her mind.”
My classroom had a desk by a window.
I left a zip-up sweatshirt on my chair so that it looked homey. Like I could
live there for most of my day and put the sweatshirt on or leave it on the
chair and still go home, because I could leave whatever I wanted in my very own
classroom. I told myself things like that to try and convince myself that it
was real. Now, it seems silly and fake and like something that I read in a bad
book. I hung up greeting cards from family members and Adam on my filing
cabinet full of materials that weren’t even mine, full of dried out dry-erase
markers and index cards and handouts of Mr. Pope’s, who taught there last year.
One greeting card had a nice quote and cartoon drawing of a young woman who had
everything together on it. It was from Granejo. My grandparents must feel so
sad for me. Or maybe just disappointed. The quote said, “And she packed up her
belongings and put on a cute pair of shoes and set out to change a few things.”
In September the weather started to get cooler, maybe I started to feel better about myself. If nothing else awful had happened this year, probably this whole breakdown of sorts I experienced in August would have been a center of attention. I am good at being the center of attention. I come by it naturally. It's not my proudest trait. The day before my 24th birthday, September 26th, 2014, I wrote another entry in that electronic journal of sorts. I wrote about walking Joni around the lake. I wrote about graduating college and feeling like I had nothing in common with the other English Education graduates. I wrote about the two principals who wanted me to teach English and how I didn't want to. I wrote about feeling self-absorbed.
I admire my mom so much. She and Mimi epitomize the complete opposite of self-absorbed, always on their feet for the sake of someone else. I asked my mom today, "Mom, do you think I will ever grow up to be as good of a person as you are?" She said, "Well, I don't know if you will ever want to help people as much as I do if you don't get paid for it." She won't like me printing that. I came back with, "Well, my husband won't make as much money as yours did," with a sideways glance at Adam playing Candy Crush on the couch. Obnoxiousness is one of our many fortes, my mom and I. I am getting side-tracked.
October. Walk to Defeat ALS. We raised so much money, Aunt Kay and Karen Mcmillin cutting the ribbon to start the walk. Karen and Ryder announcing our team. Karl and Ashley so giddy in love. Patrick wheeling Papa along the course, happy to get the exercise. Mimi and Erik overwhelmed with the amount of emotion crammed into one park. All of the people there to support my amazing Aunt Kay. Erik breaking down that night at the kitchen table. I don't have many memories of my brother breaking down.
I started my job with Sarah. It's been so inspiring, I tell people she is more help to me than I am to her. She amazes me. She makes me laugh. She makes me appreciate life in a way I never have before - And always, with a smile. We're sitting on the on-ramp in Louisville to get on Highway 36, trapped in all senses of the word. Cars overflowing off the on-ramp back into Louisville. Cars backed up for miles on the highway. I let out this big sigh, so cursing with Sarah, but at least an, "Oh, my God! We are so stuck!" She looks at me with this intoxicating grin. Laughs in a gasp of air and exclaims, "Look at ALL THOSE CARS! They're crazy!" She is the perfect companion to any candidate for potential road rage. I am literally getting paid to hang out with someone who never fails to make my day.
I started my job with Sarah. It's been so inspiring, I tell people she is more help to me than I am to her. She amazes me. She makes me laugh. She makes me appreciate life in a way I never have before - And always, with a smile. We're sitting on the on-ramp in Louisville to get on Highway 36, trapped in all senses of the word. Cars overflowing off the on-ramp back into Louisville. Cars backed up for miles on the highway. I let out this big sigh, so cursing with Sarah, but at least an, "Oh, my God! We are so stuck!" She looks at me with this intoxicating grin. Laughs in a gasp of air and exclaims, "Look at ALL THOSE CARS! They're crazy!" She is the perfect companion to any candidate for potential road rage. I am literally getting paid to hang out with someone who never fails to make my day.
The rest is fresh in all of our memories, anyway. Thanksgiving in Kansas, Colorado, Arizona. Adam and I got to feed the kangaroos, what fun. Erik landing the job in Colorado. Leaving that city he's grown to love. We just had Christmas, you were all there. It was amazing. "One of the best in my memory," Ashley said to Karl. The only place to have one for me is in Tucson. It's home for the holidays.
Picture Memories of 2014:
Picture Memories of 2014:
This year has been awful. It has sucked something out of me. But it's lit a fire, too. I want something out of this life. I have my star tattoo and it's not a stupid whim like that other one. I want things to be different, I want a real job, I want my mom to get some rest, and most of all I want there to be a cure for ALS. I don't know what's going to happen in 2015. I don't have a cheesy or conclusive way to tie this up. Here we all are. We'll bring in the new year in Tucson, like always. LOVE LOVE LOVE.
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
"We wrote to each other"
Maybe we are living like a commune
wolf pack
Profoundly
Permanently
Family.
I was supposed to have the phone interview
It was all choppy
and starting and
stopping.
wait wait wait, hope I didn't miss the love train
A nice time at the pool,
It's great to hear from you.
Right in my own backyard,
the Santa Catalina Mountains.
surrounded by
water
the honey badger I do
admire that tough little guy
fighting the same battle
I felt safe and loved.
At 4:30am, a good time for
a good memory.
Expecto Patronum.
love the sound of wind
no time to
sit
around feeling down
It was fun, we felt like adults
I think you wore my shoes
What a year.
laughing through the tears
the most amazing mother
Beautiful sunrises, sunsets
I'm not sure how to add anything,
falling in love,
holding on to each other and our dogs, of course.
I'm not sure how
the absolute
worst
year
of my life
has also been the absolute best.
Can't stop the tears from flowing. . .
They are happy
tears. . .
About to leave for airport
We will call from sunny Tucson.
This is a poem for my family, written by my family. We've been exchanging emails. All of these words come from us, from the trials and the triumphs and the struggles and the love we shared this year. It has been the most powerful year of my life. I dedicate this "found poem" to my Aunt Kay, who is and always will be my hero. Merry Christmas, 2014.
_________________________________________________________________________________
wolf pack
Profoundly
Permanently
Family.
I was supposed to have the phone interview
It was all choppy
and starting and
stopping.
wait wait wait, hope I didn't miss the love train
A nice time at the pool,
It's great to hear from you.
Right in my own backyard,
the Santa Catalina Mountains.
surrounded by
water
the honey badger I do
admire that tough little guy
fighting the same battle
I felt safe and loved.
At 4:30am, a good time for
a good memory.
Expecto Patronum.
love the sound of wind
no time to
sit
around feeling down
It was fun, we felt like adults
I think you wore my shoes
What a year.
laughing through the tears
the most amazing mother
Beautiful sunrises, sunsets
I'm not sure how to add anything,
falling in love,
holding on to each other and our dogs, of course.
I'm not sure how
the absolute
worst
year
of my life
has also been the absolute best.
Can't stop the tears from flowing. . .
They are happy
tears. . .
About to leave for airport
We will call from sunny Tucson.
This is a poem for my family, written by my family. We've been exchanging emails. All of these words come from us, from the trials and the triumphs and the struggles and the love we shared this year. It has been the most powerful year of my life. I dedicate this "found poem" to my Aunt Kay, who is and always will be my hero. Merry Christmas, 2014.
_________________________________________________________________________________
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
Wide Open
Ryder is asleep. He was screaming for about an hour. That's better than the four he supposedly did for his daddy yesterday. But he is supposed to get his bottle now - it's 2:30 - and of course my mom told me the quote everyone knows. I love looking at Ryder though, and I don't even mind terribly much in my sort-of-distant-relative position to hear him scream and cry in that hopeless, helpless way. I love Ryder. I've never liked babies at all, though, never even known what to think about looking at one. Were they cute? I didn't really think so, not then. Slightly odd looking. All of them similar in the way that things like different baked potatoes all look similar.
I don't have a job. I'm in Tucson with everyone. The heat is oppressive. I would say I don't mind it so much since it's a dry heat, because that's what people from Arizona tend to say, but I do mind it. A humid heat, albeit, swallows you like a hot, wet mouth. The dry heat is more of a hot oven. When I step outside here I feel more like a muffin in an oven.
I do love Tucson, though. I really do. The Catalinas are so aggressively beautiful - always, right there, in your face, majestic, torrential. Mostly it's the people. Mimi understands why Adam shouldn't and won't take the job. So does and will everyone else. I want to be here because I think about these people all of the time in Colorado and it's easier to be here, in it, living the struggles and beauties of every day instead of to be there, away from it, lamenting the hardships going on in the desert. It will always feel like my second home here. I know we'll make it out eventually. It seems like everyone else in the family has. At one point, at least.
Walking home from the pool this morning two tiny lizards darted in front of me on the sidewalk. At home I guess there will be squirrels and prairie dogs. And evenings that cool off in September. We'd wait until October or so if we had moved here, that's what everyone said, and of course the winter would be wonderful instead of cruel. I've read several novels where the desert is referenced as something cruel, dry, ugly - something to loathe and describe in a mournful way. I hated those novels. One was by Jodi Picoult, who I have also grown to hate. Anyone who hates the desert hasn't smelt it after it rains. Anyone who hates the desert doesn't want to hike Blackett's Ridge in the middle of January. Anyone who hates the desert isn't looking at - or feeling it - or living in it - it in the right way.
Ryder just woke up and Mom is saying, "Ahh! You got my hair! You got my hair." And MoMo's home already?
The world is really big. There is a lot to think about even trying to do, let alone to go out and really do it. We're not ready for the big move. I'm afraid of too much anyway, right? At least I am not afraid of the desert.
I don't have a job. I'm in Tucson with everyone. The heat is oppressive. I would say I don't mind it so much since it's a dry heat, because that's what people from Arizona tend to say, but I do mind it. A humid heat, albeit, swallows you like a hot, wet mouth. The dry heat is more of a hot oven. When I step outside here I feel more like a muffin in an oven.
I do love Tucson, though. I really do. The Catalinas are so aggressively beautiful - always, right there, in your face, majestic, torrential. Mostly it's the people. Mimi understands why Adam shouldn't and won't take the job. So does and will everyone else. I want to be here because I think about these people all of the time in Colorado and it's easier to be here, in it, living the struggles and beauties of every day instead of to be there, away from it, lamenting the hardships going on in the desert. It will always feel like my second home here. I know we'll make it out eventually. It seems like everyone else in the family has. At one point, at least.
Walking home from the pool this morning two tiny lizards darted in front of me on the sidewalk. At home I guess there will be squirrels and prairie dogs. And evenings that cool off in September. We'd wait until October or so if we had moved here, that's what everyone said, and of course the winter would be wonderful instead of cruel. I've read several novels where the desert is referenced as something cruel, dry, ugly - something to loathe and describe in a mournful way. I hated those novels. One was by Jodi Picoult, who I have also grown to hate. Anyone who hates the desert hasn't smelt it after it rains. Anyone who hates the desert doesn't want to hike Blackett's Ridge in the middle of January. Anyone who hates the desert isn't looking at - or feeling it - or living in it - it in the right way.
Ryder just woke up and Mom is saying, "Ahh! You got my hair! You got my hair." And MoMo's home already?
The world is really big. There is a lot to think about even trying to do, let alone to go out and really do it. We're not ready for the big move. I'm afraid of too much anyway, right? At least I am not afraid of the desert.
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