Today, I hugged my therapist goodbye.
Eight months of 50 minute sessions in her office with the scruffy green couch and mammoth space heater that resembles a robot. Early on, I’d sit rigid and serious, recounting my story, giving my grief voice. I only cried once or twice. The Kleenex box was always in the same place. On the right side of the coffee table next to a smattering of twisted pipe cleaners in fluorescent tones that inexplicably changed shape every week –sometimes in hearts, spirals, or squares. I often wondered who played with them. If it was part of some child’s play therapy or perhaps for adult patients who needed something to fiddle with while recounting the most vulnerable details of their lives. One visit last September, they had been molded into a set of stick figures, all holding hands: a family of neon orange, yellow, pink, and green. The next week, they were crooked lines again.
After a few months, our time together diminished from once a week to once or twice a month as our topics expanded past the divorce to work anxieties, family relationships to uncertainties about dating again. Our sessions always concluded the same way. After I had zipped my coat and placed the check on the table, she’d inevitably smile and firmly shake my hand by the door, “You’re doing great.”
I consistently left feeling a little bit lighter, a touch more confident than when I had stepped in. And I always felt compelled to race home and write. Sometimes, I’d scribble notes on receipts from my coat pocket while delayed at a stoplight, anxious that I’d forget her catch phrases or morsels of wisdom by the time I pulled into my driveway. One afternoon, I even wrote, “Your pain has purpose!” with eyeliner on the back of my Southwest Frequent Flyer card out of a desperate lack of paper. Once home, I’d whip out my hardcover journal and douse the page with scrawled ink, emitting thoughts and emotions like sweating pores.
This afternoon, I mentioned to her how fitting it was that I had just run out of paper. I had written on its final page the week prior. It is a rare occurrence to suck so much life out of a notebook and this one had stood by me, steadfast, as I penned and jotted. Sometimes resting on my knees. Sometimes retrieved in the middle of the night. Sometimes absorbing my teardrops in its binding.
I had glanced back earlier this week at the first entry dated in August, a month after I returned from Arizona:
I went downtown yesterday to attend the Northwestern Continuing Ed Session on Creative Writing. Fascinating to know what is out there, but maybe not for me yet. I took the “el” home, watching the neighborhoods, trees, headlights, and abandoned tricycles whiz past me below. I spotted a cozy apartment on Oak Park Ave through its slits in the shades. Twin Chinese lanterns cast a butterscotch hue on a beige couch and burgundy throw pillows. The television flickered in the background and two figures reclined, their arms around each other in shadowed comfort.
I had owned the same lamps in my home in Tucson. My home. I could locate the light switches in the dark. I knew where to find my keys or a water glass when I returned, parched after errands at the market. I had memorized the precise sliding factor of my cotton socks on the tile. I recognized the chirping of quails at dawn and exactly where he was in his morning routine by the noises he made from our bathroom vanity – if he was rushed or had time to eat muselix while I complacently sipped my tea.
It is not as if I do not know the house I grew up in or could potentially get to know a new one, but it was mine and I liked it. I wasn’t asking for a replacement. He was gambling it away while I was sleeping upstairs. I know I am enormously lucky to have parents who welcomed me back and took me in. But, this is where I did my fifth grade math homework and the driveway I learned to reverse in. At this moment, there isn’t anywhere else I’d rather be, but I suppose there was just something about those lamps that made me sad.
This morning, I talked Mom into driving up to the lake house, despite the 90% chance of thunderstorms. I knew I had no memories of him here. He never came. It evolved into a glorious afternoon and we strolled the beach at sunset, savoring the cool lapping of water and the reds and browns and grays of the lake stones. I started collecting sea glass in my pocket.
I watched the sea gulls congregate on the sandy slopes and take off in synchronized flight when I neared and then marveled as they circled back once I had past. There could have easily been a thousand of them.
Tonight, I am curled up in bed, having discovered my muse. I feel recognized. Writing to Save your Life by Michele Weldon. Her words slice through me with a poignancy I have never gleaned from any other book. It is as if she is sitting perched on the edge of my mattress, granting me permission, fueling me forward, aware that I have a story to tell.
I was only on page 4 when I reached for this journal.
********
Afterwards, I flipped through 250 crinkled, dog-eared pages of black and blue cursive, scanning a paragraph here and there, reminiscing about the waning of summer, my endless evening walks, laughing again, the coming of autumn, another birthday, new friends, exploring the city, the falling of leaves, spontaneous vacations, Hyatt co-workers, holidays, a first kiss, a budding romance. Eventually, I reached the finale, my entry from last Wednesday.
********
Haven’t written for a few weeks, but I have an excuse and a scapegoat. I have been busy falling in love. It seems entirely appropriate that this will be my last entry in a book that has buoyed me through a journey of transition and growth.
Journal, I want you to know that I am genuinely happy. Elated, inspired and optimistic to the degree that anyone feeling like crap may just want to strangle all that obnoxious positive energy right out of me. But, I don’t care. I have met someone amazing.
He is gentle, but strong. Thoughtful and witty. He buys flowers, yet rocks out on the guitar. He remembers how I take my tea. He uses adorable, salt-of-the-earth, Iowa expressions like “Holy Smokes”, but can still drop the F-bomb for emphasis when recounting a story. He is willing to drive 45 minutes after working a 10-hour shift, standing up, to meet me for pancakes. He looks great in a tux. He knows my birthday. He listens. He appreciates a well-poured Guinness draft. He repairs his own doorbell and shovels the snow so his landlord doesn’t have to be bothered. His brother is his best friend. He can name every player on the Cub’s starting line-up – probably from the last five years. He tells me he misses me. He savors the chunky bits in Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream and eats around the marshmallows in his cereal to save them for the end. He owns a vintage Price is Right t-shirt that smells like pine. He recycles and turns the thermostat down – often too low. He can talk wrestling with my dad. He is the only other person I know who has multiple cans of black olives in his cabinet. He sends postcards to his nieces and nephews. He recites nostalgic commercials from his childhood – verbatim. He is starting to finish my sentences.
********
Today, instead of a handshake, I hugged my therapist goodbye and stepped out into the March wind. The sun was blinding white and although the air was cold, I thought I sniffed the first fragrances of spring daffodils. “Keep writing,” she exclaimed from the doorway. “You’re doing great.” I glanced back and nodded. I would go home as I always did and write, but first I needed to stop at Border’s to buy a new home for my words.
When I got to my car, I paused and looked back at the building that had become a familiar sanctuary to me this year. I grinned and put my head down. I only wish I had remembered to ask her about the pipe cleaners.
Mar 4, 2009
Dec 26, 2008
It's a Wonderful Life
This year our Christmas tree shrunk by six feet. Three-fourth of our ornaments never made it out of Birkenstock shoeboxes and we didn’t once watch Flick freeze his tongue to a flagpole or Clarence, the angel, ultimately earn his wings. My uncle and aunt were missing around the dinner table and for the first time in thirty years, we opted to assault the neighbor’s buffet on Christmas Eve instead of drying out the tilapia in our own oven.
It was a season that defied tradition. We did bake gingerbread cookies and my mom’s once-a-year raspberry bars that inevitably burn on the bottom, but they were more out of duty than festive fanfare. There was snow, copious amounts of driveway salt, and radio carols, but somehow the varnish seemed to be wearing thin on our holiday gaiety. It was not a banner year for the Dressel household. There was illness and betrayal, depression and mania. There was adultery, addiction, anxiety, aging, and agoraphobia. There were 401K depletions, moving hassles, sleeping pills, career shifts, leaking roofs, and one divorce in a pear tree. Our 2008 calendar frankly read like a parody of the Twelve Days of Christmas.
On December 25th when I awoke and peered out across the wintry crust of meringue glazing our backyard, I didn’t feel magical, merry, or jingle-bell jolly. I felt queasy and irritated like a passenger boarding an airplane with an empty stomach. I tapped away at my computer, pretending to be preoccupied with important corporate emails and vital office tasks. The sun emerged, melting the snow banks on the roadsides into a Seven-Eleven Coca-cola slush. The hours ticked by. As my brother seasoned the filets, I dutifully pureed broccoli soup and popped open Cabernets with the cadence of a practiced waitress. By the time darkness descended, I found myself showered, dressed and even blow-dried. I genuinely looked the part.
And then they were here. Family and friends clustering in the doorway, discarding boots and mittens and shedding cold coats onto a mound forming on the leather chair. Suddenly, the house was chattering and alive, flushed with fireplace warmth and cranberry cashmere sweaters. For the first time that day, I relaxed into benign normalcy, calmed by the clamor and frenzy that I have come to recognize as Christmas.
After the meal, we loosened the buttons on our pants and sank into the family room couches. O’ Holy Night was playing on the stereo and I glanced around at the faces of those who share my genes, memories and history. Our modest tree’s colored lights danced off the windowpanes, showcasing ornaments from our annual December treks down to Marshall Fields and pancake breakfasts in the Walnut Room. Despite it’s stunted stature and mangy branches, the tree somehow radiated as the lustrous centerpiece that we had known in Christmas’ past.
My sister played ‘elf, passing out presents and gift cards in dutiful rotation. When the underbelly was bare, she handed me a square oak box with polished borders and an old-fashioned latch.
“This is for you, Em. Inside are letters. I collected them from all the people who wanted to tell you how much you mean to them. This is a box of love and support. From all of us.”
She hugged me. I swallowed and gripped the box with the intensity of a child climbing a tree trunk. My eyes watered and I blinked back the burning of tears.
You see, there are moments that defy articulating the precious privilege of having a sister. Someone with whom you can be naked, self-pitying, and unremarkable. She will offer soul and sweetness in the right doses and anchor you when you are your most uprooted. She is someone who senses when to push, pull, give, or take and synchronizes these needs with the ease of waving ribbons in the wind.
I retired Christmas this year with that box on my lap, reading and rereading messages from friends all over the country from many different phases and facets of my life. I was humbled. I cried, cackled out loud, smiled gregariously, and glowed in recognition. I was tickled by memories long forgotten and touched by eloquence. I can’t recall a time when I felt more whole.
Around 11:45pm, I ventured down to the family room and turned on the television to one of those stations that play around the clock holiday movies. Instantly, the room was filled with Bedford Falls townsfolk singing Auld Lang Syne while George Bailey embraced his family and cradled a copy of Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer. The camera zoomed in on the inscription, “Remember George - No man is a failure who has friends.”
And then a bell rang.
I looked down at my watch, curled the fleece blanket around my shoulders and gratefully realized, I just got it in under the wire.
It was a season that defied tradition. We did bake gingerbread cookies and my mom’s once-a-year raspberry bars that inevitably burn on the bottom, but they were more out of duty than festive fanfare. There was snow, copious amounts of driveway salt, and radio carols, but somehow the varnish seemed to be wearing thin on our holiday gaiety. It was not a banner year for the Dressel household. There was illness and betrayal, depression and mania. There was adultery, addiction, anxiety, aging, and agoraphobia. There were 401K depletions, moving hassles, sleeping pills, career shifts, leaking roofs, and one divorce in a pear tree. Our 2008 calendar frankly read like a parody of the Twelve Days of Christmas.
On December 25th when I awoke and peered out across the wintry crust of meringue glazing our backyard, I didn’t feel magical, merry, or jingle-bell jolly. I felt queasy and irritated like a passenger boarding an airplane with an empty stomach. I tapped away at my computer, pretending to be preoccupied with important corporate emails and vital office tasks. The sun emerged, melting the snow banks on the roadsides into a Seven-Eleven Coca-cola slush. The hours ticked by. As my brother seasoned the filets, I dutifully pureed broccoli soup and popped open Cabernets with the cadence of a practiced waitress. By the time darkness descended, I found myself showered, dressed and even blow-dried. I genuinely looked the part.
And then they were here. Family and friends clustering in the doorway, discarding boots and mittens and shedding cold coats onto a mound forming on the leather chair. Suddenly, the house was chattering and alive, flushed with fireplace warmth and cranberry cashmere sweaters. For the first time that day, I relaxed into benign normalcy, calmed by the clamor and frenzy that I have come to recognize as Christmas.
After the meal, we loosened the buttons on our pants and sank into the family room couches. O’ Holy Night was playing on the stereo and I glanced around at the faces of those who share my genes, memories and history. Our modest tree’s colored lights danced off the windowpanes, showcasing ornaments from our annual December treks down to Marshall Fields and pancake breakfasts in the Walnut Room. Despite it’s stunted stature and mangy branches, the tree somehow radiated as the lustrous centerpiece that we had known in Christmas’ past.
My sister played ‘elf, passing out presents and gift cards in dutiful rotation. When the underbelly was bare, she handed me a square oak box with polished borders and an old-fashioned latch.
“This is for you, Em. Inside are letters. I collected them from all the people who wanted to tell you how much you mean to them. This is a box of love and support. From all of us.”
She hugged me. I swallowed and gripped the box with the intensity of a child climbing a tree trunk. My eyes watered and I blinked back the burning of tears.
You see, there are moments that defy articulating the precious privilege of having a sister. Someone with whom you can be naked, self-pitying, and unremarkable. She will offer soul and sweetness in the right doses and anchor you when you are your most uprooted. She is someone who senses when to push, pull, give, or take and synchronizes these needs with the ease of waving ribbons in the wind.
I retired Christmas this year with that box on my lap, reading and rereading messages from friends all over the country from many different phases and facets of my life. I was humbled. I cried, cackled out loud, smiled gregariously, and glowed in recognition. I was tickled by memories long forgotten and touched by eloquence. I can’t recall a time when I felt more whole.
Around 11:45pm, I ventured down to the family room and turned on the television to one of those stations that play around the clock holiday movies. Instantly, the room was filled with Bedford Falls townsfolk singing Auld Lang Syne while George Bailey embraced his family and cradled a copy of Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer. The camera zoomed in on the inscription, “Remember George - No man is a failure who has friends.”
And then a bell rang.
I looked down at my watch, curled the fleece blanket around my shoulders and gratefully realized, I just got it in under the wire.
Dec 4, 2008
Baba's Cream Cheese Kolacky
We were so excited for our Tribune debut this past week and my Baba's #1 Holiday Cookie Recipe! Here is the link to the article that ran on 12/4/08 and the essay that accompanies it.
http://www.chicagotribune.com/features/food/chi-holiday-cookies-3dec03,0,7691018
I asked her once if she ever burned a batch.
She smiled mysteriously and shrugged her shoulders. “To the moon and back,” she exclaimed, extending her hands from her apron pockets. “That’s how many kolacky I have made in my life.” There was a brief pause as if she was considering if that could be an exaggeration, but then she met my gaze. “That’s a lot of practice.”
My grandma was one of the last War brides from what was then, Czechoslovakia, to sail to the United States before the communists closed the borders. It was winter 1947. “Baba” was 21 years old, thin, feisty, and mopped with curly chestnut hair that she detangled with her fingers in nervous habit. She brought only the clothes in her suitcase, recipes in her head, and the expectant dreams of becoming a young American wife. My grandfather was waiting for her at the port authority when she demanded they marry that afternoon before boarding the train to Chicago. Two sisters en route to the market were plucked from the New York streets to be their witnesses. My grandparents would never know their names.
While my grandfather, a carpenter by trade, renovated their west suburban home, Baba perfumed the kitchen with familiar scents from home. She stewed pork shoulder and sauerkraut, simmered dumpling soup over azure flames, and baked poppy seed strudels on cool, cloudy Sundays. Every few months, she manufactured her own laundry soap out of bacon grease in the basement (which to this day is the only product I am convinced can combat a ketchup stain.) She had nothing written down – no cookbooks or recipe cards. She had grown up with her mother performing these same domestic tasks in their small Moravian village. Baba had simply watched.
Over the years, my family has pinpointed their favorites. Of all the delicacies Baba has mastered, the most traditional, drooled-over, anticipated varieties are her kolacky. Friends insist they trump a stiff drink or scalding bubble bath. Flaky, golden nuggets quilting a dollop of savory apricot, sweet cheese, or walnut paste. Each one, hand-sculpted and pressed so that the corners don’t unravel in the oven like lotus petals. They are the gossip at every bridal shower, gala, fundraiser, or afternoon coffee clutch. They decorated the dessert table at my mother’s wedding and were devoured thirty years later at my own. Every December, at her insistent protests, we help Baba stock up on flour, cream cheese, and butter in preparation to craft dozens of kolacky. The neighbors each receive a tray as do the priest and nuns down the block and the quirky receptionist at the doctor’s office. The grandest cookie platter is reserved for our own holiday gathering, each row flaunting ruler precision and a doily dusting of powdered sugar.
This past May, Baba turned 83. When I bake with her now, my primary goal is to keep pace with her spontaneous moments and carnival of ingredients. My notes are a blizzard of hasty cross-outs, rewrites, and minute scribbles in the margins. I often stop her mid-pour to inquire exactly how much of this or that.
She typically laughs and shakes her head. “You have to just sense it, Emily. The dough will tell you what it needs.”
I always look at her skeptically as if she is reciting some obscure aphorism, but I know it to be true. She whispers to the cookies and they blush with butter cream perfection. I only provide the ingredients and pen in hand, stand back to watch, hoping my Czech instincts seep in like grease on a hot cookie sheet.
Baba’s Cream Cheese Kolacky
This recipe is an alternative to yeast kolacky that require additional ingredients and preparation time. The unsweetened cream cheese dough also pairs well with the variety of sweet fillings that can be homemade or found in the supermarket baking aisle: poppy seed, almond, apricot, cheese, or prune.
Have at room temperature:
8 oz cream cheese
2 sticks butter
2 cups flour
Blend together butter and cream cheese in a mixing bowl. Gradually blend flour into this mixture. Finish mixing with your hand, adding more or less flour depending on your need, so that the dough can be shaped into a ball. Refrigerate overnight or 4 hours minimum.
Preheat oven to 350’. Divide dough into thirds. Roll out 1 segment at a time into oblong shape on a floured board to approximately ¼-inch or 1/8-inch thickness. Cut into 2” squares with a pizza cutter.
Place 1 teaspoon filling in the middle of each square. Fold each corner into the middle and pinch together in the center. (Moisten fingers with cold water droplets if dough is not sticking)
Bake 12- 14 minutes until golden on an ungreased cookie sheet.
Let cool on wire rack. Sprinkle cookies with confectioner’s sugar.
Apricot Filling:
Cover 8-12oz dried apricots in pot of cold water.
Soak overnight. Apricots will absorb the water.
Simmer over low heat, adding water as needed
to prevent burning. Mix frequently and use a
fork to mash up the skins. Gradually add 1/2 cup
sugar to taste. Cool completely.
http://www.chicagotribune.com/features/food/chi-holiday-cookies-3dec03,0,7691018
I asked her once if she ever burned a batch.
She smiled mysteriously and shrugged her shoulders. “To the moon and back,” she exclaimed, extending her hands from her apron pockets. “That’s how many kolacky I have made in my life.” There was a brief pause as if she was considering if that could be an exaggeration, but then she met my gaze. “That’s a lot of practice.”
My grandma was one of the last War brides from what was then, Czechoslovakia, to sail to the United States before the communists closed the borders. It was winter 1947. “Baba” was 21 years old, thin, feisty, and mopped with curly chestnut hair that she detangled with her fingers in nervous habit. She brought only the clothes in her suitcase, recipes in her head, and the expectant dreams of becoming a young American wife. My grandfather was waiting for her at the port authority when she demanded they marry that afternoon before boarding the train to Chicago. Two sisters en route to the market were plucked from the New York streets to be their witnesses. My grandparents would never know their names.
While my grandfather, a carpenter by trade, renovated their west suburban home, Baba perfumed the kitchen with familiar scents from home. She stewed pork shoulder and sauerkraut, simmered dumpling soup over azure flames, and baked poppy seed strudels on cool, cloudy Sundays. Every few months, she manufactured her own laundry soap out of bacon grease in the basement (which to this day is the only product I am convinced can combat a ketchup stain.) She had nothing written down – no cookbooks or recipe cards. She had grown up with her mother performing these same domestic tasks in their small Moravian village. Baba had simply watched.
Over the years, my family has pinpointed their favorites. Of all the delicacies Baba has mastered, the most traditional, drooled-over, anticipated varieties are her kolacky. Friends insist they trump a stiff drink or scalding bubble bath. Flaky, golden nuggets quilting a dollop of savory apricot, sweet cheese, or walnut paste. Each one, hand-sculpted and pressed so that the corners don’t unravel in the oven like lotus petals. They are the gossip at every bridal shower, gala, fundraiser, or afternoon coffee clutch. They decorated the dessert table at my mother’s wedding and were devoured thirty years later at my own. Every December, at her insistent protests, we help Baba stock up on flour, cream cheese, and butter in preparation to craft dozens of kolacky. The neighbors each receive a tray as do the priest and nuns down the block and the quirky receptionist at the doctor’s office. The grandest cookie platter is reserved for our own holiday gathering, each row flaunting ruler precision and a doily dusting of powdered sugar.
This past May, Baba turned 83. When I bake with her now, my primary goal is to keep pace with her spontaneous moments and carnival of ingredients. My notes are a blizzard of hasty cross-outs, rewrites, and minute scribbles in the margins. I often stop her mid-pour to inquire exactly how much of this or that.
She typically laughs and shakes her head. “You have to just sense it, Emily. The dough will tell you what it needs.”
I always look at her skeptically as if she is reciting some obscure aphorism, but I know it to be true. She whispers to the cookies and they blush with butter cream perfection. I only provide the ingredients and pen in hand, stand back to watch, hoping my Czech instincts seep in like grease on a hot cookie sheet.
Baba’s Cream Cheese Kolacky
This recipe is an alternative to yeast kolacky that require additional ingredients and preparation time. The unsweetened cream cheese dough also pairs well with the variety of sweet fillings that can be homemade or found in the supermarket baking aisle: poppy seed, almond, apricot, cheese, or prune.
Have at room temperature:
8 oz cream cheese
2 sticks butter
2 cups flour
Blend together butter and cream cheese in a mixing bowl. Gradually blend flour into this mixture. Finish mixing with your hand, adding more or less flour depending on your need, so that the dough can be shaped into a ball. Refrigerate overnight or 4 hours minimum.
Preheat oven to 350’. Divide dough into thirds. Roll out 1 segment at a time into oblong shape on a floured board to approximately ¼-inch or 1/8-inch thickness. Cut into 2” squares with a pizza cutter.
Place 1 teaspoon filling in the middle of each square. Fold each corner into the middle and pinch together in the center. (Moisten fingers with cold water droplets if dough is not sticking)
Bake 12- 14 minutes until golden on an ungreased cookie sheet.
Let cool on wire rack. Sprinkle cookies with confectioner’s sugar.
Apricot Filling:
Cover 8-12oz dried apricots in pot of cold water.
Soak overnight. Apricots will absorb the water.
Simmer over low heat, adding water as needed
to prevent burning. Mix frequently and use a
fork to mash up the skins. Gradually add 1/2 cup
sugar to taste. Cool completely.
Nov 23, 2008
The Labyrinth
(NOVEMBER 2008)
Truthfully, I am more of a skeptic.
I’m not a big believer in spiritual healing, Feng Shui, or acupuncture. I don’t put much stock in superstition, stain removers, or the South Beach Diet. I scoff at strange men in jumpsuits practicing tai-chi in the dog park. I dismiss shrinks. On weekends, I pity glassy-eyed vegans in Whole Foods, stockpiling capsules of St. John’s Wort and fish oil pellets into their carry carts like gluttons at the Old Country Buffet. In all honesty, I sweep them into the same dustpan as horoscope junkies and tarot card party-goers. I cringe at the term, “soul mate” (especially during saccharin-sweet romantic comedies), roll my eyes during yoga, and jeer every time I read an article about the supposed health benefits of chocolate. I stopped believing in Santa Claus at nine. I struggle with the concept of an omniscient almighty Creator. And even as a child, I never accepted that a chapped kiss from a gay prince aroused Sleeping Beauty from eternal slumber.
However, I am willing to try anything once. Especially something that defies cliché.
Last week, my friend, Sarah told me about a wholistic health spa southwest of Chicago run by a gaggle of Franciscan nuns.
“Nuns?” I defied, certain I had misheard.
“Yes, nuns. Petite virtuous ladies with sandals and short hair. Their answering machine signs off ‘Peace be with You.’” Sarah paused, insistent. “They are the real deal.”
My interest peeked. A Catholic convent operating a full-service spa with bikini waxes, gong vibrations, and reiki meditations? This was definitely worth a 65-minute drive down LaGrange Road next Saturday. Did the bishop know?
*****
We steered the mini-van down meandering asphalt lined with massive quaking oaks, skinned of their leaves for the winter. The grounds were dotted with miniature Nordic chapels that conjured images of the Seven Dwarves returning from lumber work on a stark frigid night. A dried-up ravine veined through the acreage and ducked behind the main structure, the Motherhouse. Along the bushes, two fake deer posed as lawn ornaments and in the distance, a dijon-tinted country house squatted under the shaded arms of an evergreen tree. I guessed before I had even spotted the sign, Sacred Sound and Wellness Spa.
A tinkle of a bell chimed when we entered through a glass door and into an intimate waiting room, smelling faintly of jasmine blossoms. Four oversized plush chairs ideal for napping curled around a coffee table and trickling water statue. On the far side, a tidy assortment of herbal teas with ceramic mugs hugged the edge of an old cherry work desk while the shelves above stocked books on prayer and Catholic meditation. A small needlepoint crucifix dangled off-center above the entryway.
Sister Anne emerged from the hallway with a radiant smile on pale skin, extending both arms as if we were family visiting from abroad.
“Welcome,” she cooed in the soft caress of a mother with an infant asleep in the next room. “We are so delighted you are here.” She embraced both of our hands by cupping them within her own. “What services can we offer you today?” Her fingers were thin and warm.
I scanned the brochure card tented on the coffee table:
Massage Reiki Spiritual Facial Gong Vibration Floating Meditation
No waxing. But, the prospect of being slathered in lotion and rubbed down in nothing but my underwear by a sacred sister of the church was a tad shocking. I had memorized The Sound of Music. Those women were pious, solemn, and cloaked in yards of matronly dense black wool.
“Do you perform the actual massages?” I asked, cocking my head to the side, sizing up her four-foot stature.
“Oh, no,” she chuckled easily. “We have certified therapists for all that. I’m just here to ensure everyone departs with positive energy.” She curved her hands in front of her as if outlining the circumference of a basketball.
I raised an eyebrow. It sounded incredibly Berkeley-esque for the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit doctrine.
Sister Anne beamed at us and gestured to the front door. “While you are waiting, you must walk the labyrinth before your session. It is so peaceful and really aligns the spirit. It is just down the path before the creek.”
Labyrinth? Had I ventured into a C.S. Lewis novel? Sarah and I exchanged glances.
*****
The labyrinth wasn’t nearly as impressive as I had envisioned. It was a pancake flat concentric pattern of linear bricks and paths of white stone, half-buried in decaying autumn leaves. I had pictured a grand mysterious structure with eight-foot walls like the hedge maze in The Shining. Instead this obstacle elicited the thrill of a slide on a preschool playground.
Sarah rounded to the opposite side and began treading up one of the entry points. I grimaced into my scarf, but not wanting to appear unenthusiastic, strided up the path in front of me. The gravel crunched beneath my sneakers and the eerie echo of a crow reverberated off the tree skeletons. The daylight was beginning to fade as the wind picked up and bristled the skin around my coat collar. This was so ridiculous. I could see the next turn. Where were the challenges? The dead-ends?
I plodded along in silence, staying within the bricks and swerving around the corners, pivoting in the opposite direction that I had just traveled. I could hear the shifting of stones on the opposite side, but I didn’t speak. I wasn’t sure how seriously Sarah was taking this. For all I knew, she was praying.
As soon as I figured I was getting close to breaking into the core, the path would divert and clip me back out to its outer rings in blatant defiance. I trampled along in avid concentration like a schoolgirl stepping over sidewalk cracks in the pavement. I spotted the back of Sarah’s red jacket. She was stationary in the middle. She had reached the coveted center. I still lingered pathetically along the far edges. What kind of trail had I gotten on anyway? The extra-long route? I scanned the alleyway ahead. It couldn’t be more than a few yards now.
I quickened my pace, but still the twists and curves paced on in lethargic sequence, relentless and haunting. What was wrong with me? Had Sarah figured out some secret method? Was this some kind of practical joke? I felt my face flush and breath accelerate as I contemplated leaping over the bricks a few times to cheat closer to the center. I panicked and whipped around, ready to abandon the mission.
Suddenly, I realized Sarah was no longer perched at the axis. She had slinked off in the distance and was meandering toward a field of long-necked Canadian geese, pecking at the November earth. I was alone.
I came to an abrupt halt and closed my eyes. I breathed in the cold and felt the vapors of exhale moisten my chin. I rarely shut my eyes during the day. I rarely ceased all motion. But, I was alone and the opaque darkness pacified my mind like a child’s blanket. Stillness seemed to settle over my body and I heard my voice in a foreign whisper, “No one is timing you.”
I would walk. Steadily. Calmly. In patient rhythm. Even if twilight descended and the stones disappeared beneath my feet like the ocean floor in deep currents. I would walk the path. Trust that I would get there eventually. Trust that I would not be led astray or looped in a revolving circle.
I would walk the path.
I did reach the center. Just a short distance ahead. I followed in sequence as the space converged and filtered into the vast gray core of ancient design. My confidence swelled. I stood there for a few minutes, my heels pressed together to fit within the precise center stone and I heard their wings. The flock of geese paraded overhead in gorgeous geometry, exchanging places in silent negotiation. Their massive wingspan churned the air, rocked the ginkgo branches, and fixed my gaze on their flight. All within fleeting seconds. I wondered how I appeared to them from the sky, standing straight as a bicycle spoke, in a labyrinth of lines and circles and ashen rock.
“Is your spirit aligned?” Sarah’s voice startled me from behind.
I turned and nodded with a smile, surprising myself. “I’m sorry I took so long.”
She looked at me quizzically. “I hadn’t noticed.”
*****
We were quiet as we traced our way back along the cement and I found myself contemplating her question. Is your spirit aligned? My spirit. I knew she meant the question in jest, but I did feel absolved of something. Something elusive and intangible.
My spirit is twenty-eight years old. Divorced. I am coming to know her. Last July she visited her OB for advice on pre-natal vitamins. The following Tuesday she discovered her husband’s affairs. She is not on the path she thought, but she’s beginning to accept a divergence to one that will inevitably compose another life. One that might just stretch and wind. One that might be just as good.
As we walked away from the labyrinth that late afternoon and into the warm blonde light of the center for our treatments, I recalibrated. Although, I generally consider myself to be a skeptic, I’m willing to admit that I can also sometimes be a believer.
Truthfully, I am more of a skeptic.
I’m not a big believer in spiritual healing, Feng Shui, or acupuncture. I don’t put much stock in superstition, stain removers, or the South Beach Diet. I scoff at strange men in jumpsuits practicing tai-chi in the dog park. I dismiss shrinks. On weekends, I pity glassy-eyed vegans in Whole Foods, stockpiling capsules of St. John’s Wort and fish oil pellets into their carry carts like gluttons at the Old Country Buffet. In all honesty, I sweep them into the same dustpan as horoscope junkies and tarot card party-goers. I cringe at the term, “soul mate” (especially during saccharin-sweet romantic comedies), roll my eyes during yoga, and jeer every time I read an article about the supposed health benefits of chocolate. I stopped believing in Santa Claus at nine. I struggle with the concept of an omniscient almighty Creator. And even as a child, I never accepted that a chapped kiss from a gay prince aroused Sleeping Beauty from eternal slumber.
However, I am willing to try anything once. Especially something that defies cliché.
Last week, my friend, Sarah told me about a wholistic health spa southwest of Chicago run by a gaggle of Franciscan nuns.
“Nuns?” I defied, certain I had misheard.
“Yes, nuns. Petite virtuous ladies with sandals and short hair. Their answering machine signs off ‘Peace be with You.’” Sarah paused, insistent. “They are the real deal.”
My interest peeked. A Catholic convent operating a full-service spa with bikini waxes, gong vibrations, and reiki meditations? This was definitely worth a 65-minute drive down LaGrange Road next Saturday. Did the bishop know?
*****
We steered the mini-van down meandering asphalt lined with massive quaking oaks, skinned of their leaves for the winter. The grounds were dotted with miniature Nordic chapels that conjured images of the Seven Dwarves returning from lumber work on a stark frigid night. A dried-up ravine veined through the acreage and ducked behind the main structure, the Motherhouse. Along the bushes, two fake deer posed as lawn ornaments and in the distance, a dijon-tinted country house squatted under the shaded arms of an evergreen tree. I guessed before I had even spotted the sign, Sacred Sound and Wellness Spa.
A tinkle of a bell chimed when we entered through a glass door and into an intimate waiting room, smelling faintly of jasmine blossoms. Four oversized plush chairs ideal for napping curled around a coffee table and trickling water statue. On the far side, a tidy assortment of herbal teas with ceramic mugs hugged the edge of an old cherry work desk while the shelves above stocked books on prayer and Catholic meditation. A small needlepoint crucifix dangled off-center above the entryway.
Sister Anne emerged from the hallway with a radiant smile on pale skin, extending both arms as if we were family visiting from abroad.
“Welcome,” she cooed in the soft caress of a mother with an infant asleep in the next room. “We are so delighted you are here.” She embraced both of our hands by cupping them within her own. “What services can we offer you today?” Her fingers were thin and warm.
I scanned the brochure card tented on the coffee table:
Massage Reiki Spiritual Facial Gong Vibration Floating Meditation
No waxing. But, the prospect of being slathered in lotion and rubbed down in nothing but my underwear by a sacred sister of the church was a tad shocking. I had memorized The Sound of Music. Those women were pious, solemn, and cloaked in yards of matronly dense black wool.
“Do you perform the actual massages?” I asked, cocking my head to the side, sizing up her four-foot stature.
“Oh, no,” she chuckled easily. “We have certified therapists for all that. I’m just here to ensure everyone departs with positive energy.” She curved her hands in front of her as if outlining the circumference of a basketball.
I raised an eyebrow. It sounded incredibly Berkeley-esque for the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit doctrine.
Sister Anne beamed at us and gestured to the front door. “While you are waiting, you must walk the labyrinth before your session. It is so peaceful and really aligns the spirit. It is just down the path before the creek.”
Labyrinth? Had I ventured into a C.S. Lewis novel? Sarah and I exchanged glances.
*****
The labyrinth wasn’t nearly as impressive as I had envisioned. It was a pancake flat concentric pattern of linear bricks and paths of white stone, half-buried in decaying autumn leaves. I had pictured a grand mysterious structure with eight-foot walls like the hedge maze in The Shining. Instead this obstacle elicited the thrill of a slide on a preschool playground.
Sarah rounded to the opposite side and began treading up one of the entry points. I grimaced into my scarf, but not wanting to appear unenthusiastic, strided up the path in front of me. The gravel crunched beneath my sneakers and the eerie echo of a crow reverberated off the tree skeletons. The daylight was beginning to fade as the wind picked up and bristled the skin around my coat collar. This was so ridiculous. I could see the next turn. Where were the challenges? The dead-ends?
I plodded along in silence, staying within the bricks and swerving around the corners, pivoting in the opposite direction that I had just traveled. I could hear the shifting of stones on the opposite side, but I didn’t speak. I wasn’t sure how seriously Sarah was taking this. For all I knew, she was praying.
As soon as I figured I was getting close to breaking into the core, the path would divert and clip me back out to its outer rings in blatant defiance. I trampled along in avid concentration like a schoolgirl stepping over sidewalk cracks in the pavement. I spotted the back of Sarah’s red jacket. She was stationary in the middle. She had reached the coveted center. I still lingered pathetically along the far edges. What kind of trail had I gotten on anyway? The extra-long route? I scanned the alleyway ahead. It couldn’t be more than a few yards now.
I quickened my pace, but still the twists and curves paced on in lethargic sequence, relentless and haunting. What was wrong with me? Had Sarah figured out some secret method? Was this some kind of practical joke? I felt my face flush and breath accelerate as I contemplated leaping over the bricks a few times to cheat closer to the center. I panicked and whipped around, ready to abandon the mission.
Suddenly, I realized Sarah was no longer perched at the axis. She had slinked off in the distance and was meandering toward a field of long-necked Canadian geese, pecking at the November earth. I was alone.
I came to an abrupt halt and closed my eyes. I breathed in the cold and felt the vapors of exhale moisten my chin. I rarely shut my eyes during the day. I rarely ceased all motion. But, I was alone and the opaque darkness pacified my mind like a child’s blanket. Stillness seemed to settle over my body and I heard my voice in a foreign whisper, “No one is timing you.”
I would walk. Steadily. Calmly. In patient rhythm. Even if twilight descended and the stones disappeared beneath my feet like the ocean floor in deep currents. I would walk the path. Trust that I would get there eventually. Trust that I would not be led astray or looped in a revolving circle.
I would walk the path.
I did reach the center. Just a short distance ahead. I followed in sequence as the space converged and filtered into the vast gray core of ancient design. My confidence swelled. I stood there for a few minutes, my heels pressed together to fit within the precise center stone and I heard their wings. The flock of geese paraded overhead in gorgeous geometry, exchanging places in silent negotiation. Their massive wingspan churned the air, rocked the ginkgo branches, and fixed my gaze on their flight. All within fleeting seconds. I wondered how I appeared to them from the sky, standing straight as a bicycle spoke, in a labyrinth of lines and circles and ashen rock.
“Is your spirit aligned?” Sarah’s voice startled me from behind.
I turned and nodded with a smile, surprising myself. “I’m sorry I took so long.”
She looked at me quizzically. “I hadn’t noticed.”
*****
We were quiet as we traced our way back along the cement and I found myself contemplating her question. Is your spirit aligned? My spirit. I knew she meant the question in jest, but I did feel absolved of something. Something elusive and intangible.
My spirit is twenty-eight years old. Divorced. I am coming to know her. Last July she visited her OB for advice on pre-natal vitamins. The following Tuesday she discovered her husband’s affairs. She is not on the path she thought, but she’s beginning to accept a divergence to one that will inevitably compose another life. One that might just stretch and wind. One that might be just as good.
As we walked away from the labyrinth that late afternoon and into the warm blonde light of the center for our treatments, I recalibrated. Although, I generally consider myself to be a skeptic, I’m willing to admit that I can also sometimes be a believer.
Nov 3, 2008
Voting Undrama
(NOVEMBER 2008)
My voting experience was quizzically ordinary. Maybe it was all the hype from this election that forecasted its disappointment like the Blair Witch Project curse or Oprah’s last book, The Secret. But, I was expecting more bells and whistles. I was envisioning departing the exit booth with a swagger in my step and flip in my bob. There were no palpitations, flutters, or spontaneous sighs of patriotic satisfaction. There wasn’t even a line.
Okay, so I voted early. I was one of those neurotic type A’s who speed over to City Hall during a lunch break the second morning of early voting. I tactically avoided Day #1, anticipating the growing pains of paperwork, procedure, and 82 year-old volunteers with orthopedic shoes, flag pins, and no concept of efficiency. Who else can they get on duty at 11am? I figured they’d have at least memorized the routine by Day #2 lunch.
I stepped into the main vestibule, expecting the air to be orchid-house thick - the exhaust from vicious political friction and oppressive body heat. But, it was quiet enough to hear my boot heels click on the linoleum and a lovely October breeze fluttered through the three inch gaps along the lobby windows. It was a perfect 71 degrees. I approached the reception desk and nodded at a balding man in bifocals, bearing a lopsided nametag – Hello, I’m Hank. He grinned widely, adjusting his frames, and gestured to a far table by twisting his entire body to the right. Had he actually been reading a book?
“Just fill out your name, address, and county and be sure to get your driver’s license all ready. That is very important.” He winked and I smiled with the forced civility of a frequent flier being reminded by TSA to remove their loafers.
“Will do.” I raised a hand in attempted affability and reached inside my bag. I had stuffed my Social Security card, passport, voter’s registration, original birth certificate (with the seal), and several major credit cards deep within my Marshall’s purse. Having been scarred from multiple disasters at the DMV that made traveling to the Middle East appear as trivial as a game of Frisbee, I was determined to arm myself with reserves.
A younger woman with an eye tick checked my license behind a laptop computer and I waited, eyes darting around the room in search of someone to share my elated anticipation of voting for the first Black President. Where were the crowds, the buzz, the tactile evidence of history in the making? I may have even frowned when she neglected to ask for a second form of ID. The public library isn’t even that lenient. Instead, she pointed to one of the open stations with Tylenol-red plastic stools and I settled along the back wall to secure my privacy. The touch screen was a cinch – no dimpled ballots or poorly punched chads to incite drama or panic. Behind the viewing glass, the system printed an itemized receipt like you get at the local hardware store and then rocketed it off into oblivion - my Vote for Change officially counted.
I cleared my throat and peered up, hoping I’d discover a snaking line of citizens shoulder-slumped behind the registration desk. But, no jittery mob appeared to confirm my brilliant tactic of arriving pre-lunch rush. I suppose I should have been gushing with gratitude that I didn’t have to wait three hours like those voters in Gary with their single machine. Channel 2 news had videotaped them napping with heads pressed against the wall and shoes strewn to the side like stranded passengers at an airline terminal. I felt an adverse tensing of my jaw. Those folks were truly making a statement.
Perhaps, the early voting consequentially spread out the excitement like a thin layer of mustard on rye, but I did expect to endure something unpleasant– a faulty machine, whiny toddler, or at least a line worthy of womens’ ballpark bathrooms. But, my experience was as boring as brown corduroy. It wasn’t until I exited the building and turned my car onto the local road that I finally had my moment of tickled inspiration.
They were there in masses – plastering the bumpers of all shapes, sizes, makes, models, and colors. White with block letters, round ones, long rectangles, cursive, bordered, bold-faced and blue. Obama and Biden. The stickers were everywhere as lights changed, horns blared, and pedestrians careened down crosswalks. I just had not noticed the sheer quantity before. They were a part of our everyday environment and yet, a rhythm of our revolution. Our voices and words and commitment to a movement. The voters would be there - in their own time on their own day. I was sure of it. I peeked down at my “I voted” sticker on the back of my hand and felt a swelling of pride. I patted it gently and ultimately understood, change did not always have to be measured by the length of a line.
My voting experience was quizzically ordinary. Maybe it was all the hype from this election that forecasted its disappointment like the Blair Witch Project curse or Oprah’s last book, The Secret. But, I was expecting more bells and whistles. I was envisioning departing the exit booth with a swagger in my step and flip in my bob. There were no palpitations, flutters, or spontaneous sighs of patriotic satisfaction. There wasn’t even a line.
Okay, so I voted early. I was one of those neurotic type A’s who speed over to City Hall during a lunch break the second morning of early voting. I tactically avoided Day #1, anticipating the growing pains of paperwork, procedure, and 82 year-old volunteers with orthopedic shoes, flag pins, and no concept of efficiency. Who else can they get on duty at 11am? I figured they’d have at least memorized the routine by Day #2 lunch.
I stepped into the main vestibule, expecting the air to be orchid-house thick - the exhaust from vicious political friction and oppressive body heat. But, it was quiet enough to hear my boot heels click on the linoleum and a lovely October breeze fluttered through the three inch gaps along the lobby windows. It was a perfect 71 degrees. I approached the reception desk and nodded at a balding man in bifocals, bearing a lopsided nametag – Hello, I’m Hank. He grinned widely, adjusting his frames, and gestured to a far table by twisting his entire body to the right. Had he actually been reading a book?
“Just fill out your name, address, and county and be sure to get your driver’s license all ready. That is very important.” He winked and I smiled with the forced civility of a frequent flier being reminded by TSA to remove their loafers.
“Will do.” I raised a hand in attempted affability and reached inside my bag. I had stuffed my Social Security card, passport, voter’s registration, original birth certificate (with the seal), and several major credit cards deep within my Marshall’s purse. Having been scarred from multiple disasters at the DMV that made traveling to the Middle East appear as trivial as a game of Frisbee, I was determined to arm myself with reserves.
A younger woman with an eye tick checked my license behind a laptop computer and I waited, eyes darting around the room in search of someone to share my elated anticipation of voting for the first Black President. Where were the crowds, the buzz, the tactile evidence of history in the making? I may have even frowned when she neglected to ask for a second form of ID. The public library isn’t even that lenient. Instead, she pointed to one of the open stations with Tylenol-red plastic stools and I settled along the back wall to secure my privacy. The touch screen was a cinch – no dimpled ballots or poorly punched chads to incite drama or panic. Behind the viewing glass, the system printed an itemized receipt like you get at the local hardware store and then rocketed it off into oblivion - my Vote for Change officially counted.
I cleared my throat and peered up, hoping I’d discover a snaking line of citizens shoulder-slumped behind the registration desk. But, no jittery mob appeared to confirm my brilliant tactic of arriving pre-lunch rush. I suppose I should have been gushing with gratitude that I didn’t have to wait three hours like those voters in Gary with their single machine. Channel 2 news had videotaped them napping with heads pressed against the wall and shoes strewn to the side like stranded passengers at an airline terminal. I felt an adverse tensing of my jaw. Those folks were truly making a statement.
Perhaps, the early voting consequentially spread out the excitement like a thin layer of mustard on rye, but I did expect to endure something unpleasant– a faulty machine, whiny toddler, or at least a line worthy of womens’ ballpark bathrooms. But, my experience was as boring as brown corduroy. It wasn’t until I exited the building and turned my car onto the local road that I finally had my moment of tickled inspiration.
They were there in masses – plastering the bumpers of all shapes, sizes, makes, models, and colors. White with block letters, round ones, long rectangles, cursive, bordered, bold-faced and blue. Obama and Biden. The stickers were everywhere as lights changed, horns blared, and pedestrians careened down crosswalks. I just had not noticed the sheer quantity before. They were a part of our everyday environment and yet, a rhythm of our revolution. Our voices and words and commitment to a movement. The voters would be there - in their own time on their own day. I was sure of it. I peeked down at my “I voted” sticker on the back of my hand and felt a swelling of pride. I patted it gently and ultimately understood, change did not always have to be measured by the length of a line.
Nov 1, 2008
Facebook Frivolity
Sallie Smith has requested your friendship.
I must confess, I do relish in being pursued. Since I joined Facebook last week, the names have flash-danced across my yahoo inbox: some familiar, some unknown, some unleashing insecurities last endured in the sixth grade locker room. Still, the majority of notifications elicit the smug gratification of a well-timed high five. It feels good to be liked. It is good to have friends. And even better, to flaunt them out in the open.
What is this Facebook phenomenon? Is it simply the latest in e-trends, propelling the streaming shift from letters to phone calls, from email to texts, from messaging to “friending”? Is it coincidence that this new generation of communication is even less communicative than the one prior? Could Facebook just be another way to indulge our friendship sloth?
Composing letters demand time. They are drafted with measured penmanship on crisp stationary and sealed with actual human saliva. You search in vain for the correct address, sized envelope, and currently valid stamp. You tromp three blocks in the snow to a squatty blue-boxed oasis with a squeaky metal shoot and then, trust it all to the US Postal Service. You wait. You have invested the time and energy and now you endure the quaintly old-fashioned delay of receipt. But, then it is received, and for a moment, you cause someone to feel as idolized as a first born grandchild.
Chatting over the telephone allows for more spontaneity and instantaneous banter, but still, consumes the clock. Phone talk demands a chunk of our day to truly catch someone up on our life, especially those out-of-the-loop, long distance friends we feel obligated to ring on major holidays. Personally, I tend to delay those calls, knowing thirty minutes will never suffice – only to determine a week later than the required minimum time has swelled to a deterrent forty-five. If you’re like me, we spot certain names on caller IDs and usher them straight to voicemail, especially if they’re brazen enough to call halfway through Grey’s Anatomy.
Alternatively, emails are succinct, colloquial and uninhibited. We don’t have to spell correctly, remember “i” before “e”, or edit for parallel structure. They are as unobtrusive as midnight custodians, doing their job, but not expectant of gratitude or fanfare. Unfortunately, they can also reek of self-indulgence. Emails are dispensed as blithely as they are dismissed. We are all guilty of dropping the dutiful, “What’s new?” without having to commit to an actual conversation. We check the person off our “to-do” list and strategically, it becomes their “turn” – their prerogative to respond when they have time. After all, we have to get to the gym, pick up the dry cleaning, refuel the sedan, and order pepperoni pizza. We are busy. They are busy. No one has to sacrifice.
T2UL Talk to you later. Anyone over twenty-five, may find it increasingly vital to enroll in a class on the language of text. In this adolescent universe, complete sentences are discouraged and the least number of letters to convey a point is studied, revered and emulated like primate tool use in chimpanzee populations. Brevity reigns and eloquence is discouraged. Texts can be typed and transmitted in a span of seconds – in the cab, under the dinner table, or in a movie theater, simply to irritate the patrons behind you. Dude, this flick blows – LOL.
And now, with even less effort you can connect to your peers with an instant search and swift click of the mouse. To “friend” someone has been conjugated into an active verb without any action or verbalization. This behavior is catapulting forth a generation of students who connect primarily online. Any alternative fraternizing rarely occurs sober. The solidarity of a handshake, an intimate phone call, or shared experience is not vital to the modern concept of friend. All you need is a name, modem, and sleek Mac Air.
As of this morning, I had 79 friends. I don’t think that is considered impressive, although I am doing better than the suburban moms who signed up to post photos of their kids and months later can’t remember their log-in codes. Still, it is not college sophomore caliber either. I do presume my list is more qualified. In fact, I ventured into this process, curious to discover whom I might unearth, but also weary of polluting my posse with former high school classmates I never respected, let alone extended a solitary thought to in twelve years. But, these random friend requests nudge their way into my utopia and threaten its very purity. Like sex without a condom, these outliers are hard to resist. This guy would put me over #80 and after all, I don’t want to damage an ego. In this spirit, posting on Facebook seems to mimic the rituals of thumping on chests or flaunting of feathers. Maybe it is more muted and certainly less barbaric than thrashing vines in the jungle, but it is a popularity contest. Plain and simple.
Web-based communication seems to have evolved into a sly craft. Suddenly, we can bypass having to nurture real and tangible relationships that involve coffee steam, nonverbal cues, and, if you’re lucky, a parting embrace. With the adoption of Facebook, we can “tickle”, “poke”, or send a clip-art carrot cake cupcake, but we are not touching anyone or turning on an oven. We reach out through wires, cables, and technology, but not with our hands or voices. Sallie Smith may post that she has a headache and Joe Johnson may have devoured an entire bag of Peanut M&M’s, but we are not invested. The communication is passive and suddenly the intimacies of friendship are reduced to a bulletin board of futile online post-it-notes.
Let’s consider how many of these freshly found pals we will actually develop any form of bond with over time? Perhaps when bored at work, we’ll spy on the attractiveness of an ex-boyfriend’s spouse or scoff at an old classmate’s smutty pictures from a bachelorette party. Maybe these tolerated voyeuristic opportunities will lead to envy, lust, or even appreciation. Or maybe it is all benign. Alternatively, we all could be threading a sharp needle.
Personally, I am terrified of inhabiting a world infected with indifference where friends are traded as cheaply as GM stock. Shouldn’t we be demanding personal investment, accountability, and reciprocity from the select individuals we call friends? I idolize a society steeping and swelling with spit-in-your-eye laughter, passionate kissing, and firm handshakes. Perhaps Facebook can work in our favor as long as we actively own our relationships and recite the golden rule of quality over quantity. New technology can latch on as innocently as our morning addiction to caffeine, but the consequences can be staggering if we displace the human element of socialization. I am not advocating for its demise, but I caution its utility.
Of course, Facebook might be an excellent tool for locating one’s freshman roommate or discovering fellow alums who live in the Bay Area. But, while we are gathering and hoarding like toddlers at an Easter egg hunt, perhaps we should take pause to ensure we aren’t just using each other to one-up our friend meters. After all, we may be tallying up the comrades, but if they are a bunch of limp handshakes, what’s the point? Besides, I’m certain all 79 of them don’t know - I prefer my cupcakes to contain actual calories.
I must confess, I do relish in being pursued. Since I joined Facebook last week, the names have flash-danced across my yahoo inbox: some familiar, some unknown, some unleashing insecurities last endured in the sixth grade locker room. Still, the majority of notifications elicit the smug gratification of a well-timed high five. It feels good to be liked. It is good to have friends. And even better, to flaunt them out in the open.
What is this Facebook phenomenon? Is it simply the latest in e-trends, propelling the streaming shift from letters to phone calls, from email to texts, from messaging to “friending”? Is it coincidence that this new generation of communication is even less communicative than the one prior? Could Facebook just be another way to indulge our friendship sloth?
Composing letters demand time. They are drafted with measured penmanship on crisp stationary and sealed with actual human saliva. You search in vain for the correct address, sized envelope, and currently valid stamp. You tromp three blocks in the snow to a squatty blue-boxed oasis with a squeaky metal shoot and then, trust it all to the US Postal Service. You wait. You have invested the time and energy and now you endure the quaintly old-fashioned delay of receipt. But, then it is received, and for a moment, you cause someone to feel as idolized as a first born grandchild.
Chatting over the telephone allows for more spontaneity and instantaneous banter, but still, consumes the clock. Phone talk demands a chunk of our day to truly catch someone up on our life, especially those out-of-the-loop, long distance friends we feel obligated to ring on major holidays. Personally, I tend to delay those calls, knowing thirty minutes will never suffice – only to determine a week later than the required minimum time has swelled to a deterrent forty-five. If you’re like me, we spot certain names on caller IDs and usher them straight to voicemail, especially if they’re brazen enough to call halfway through Grey’s Anatomy.
Alternatively, emails are succinct, colloquial and uninhibited. We don’t have to spell correctly, remember “i” before “e”, or edit for parallel structure. They are as unobtrusive as midnight custodians, doing their job, but not expectant of gratitude or fanfare. Unfortunately, they can also reek of self-indulgence. Emails are dispensed as blithely as they are dismissed. We are all guilty of dropping the dutiful, “What’s new?” without having to commit to an actual conversation. We check the person off our “to-do” list and strategically, it becomes their “turn” – their prerogative to respond when they have time. After all, we have to get to the gym, pick up the dry cleaning, refuel the sedan, and order pepperoni pizza. We are busy. They are busy. No one has to sacrifice.
T2UL Talk to you later. Anyone over twenty-five, may find it increasingly vital to enroll in a class on the language of text. In this adolescent universe, complete sentences are discouraged and the least number of letters to convey a point is studied, revered and emulated like primate tool use in chimpanzee populations. Brevity reigns and eloquence is discouraged. Texts can be typed and transmitted in a span of seconds – in the cab, under the dinner table, or in a movie theater, simply to irritate the patrons behind you. Dude, this flick blows – LOL.
And now, with even less effort you can connect to your peers with an instant search and swift click of the mouse. To “friend” someone has been conjugated into an active verb without any action or verbalization. This behavior is catapulting forth a generation of students who connect primarily online. Any alternative fraternizing rarely occurs sober. The solidarity of a handshake, an intimate phone call, or shared experience is not vital to the modern concept of friend. All you need is a name, modem, and sleek Mac Air.
As of this morning, I had 79 friends. I don’t think that is considered impressive, although I am doing better than the suburban moms who signed up to post photos of their kids and months later can’t remember their log-in codes. Still, it is not college sophomore caliber either. I do presume my list is more qualified. In fact, I ventured into this process, curious to discover whom I might unearth, but also weary of polluting my posse with former high school classmates I never respected, let alone extended a solitary thought to in twelve years. But, these random friend requests nudge their way into my utopia and threaten its very purity. Like sex without a condom, these outliers are hard to resist. This guy would put me over #80 and after all, I don’t want to damage an ego. In this spirit, posting on Facebook seems to mimic the rituals of thumping on chests or flaunting of feathers. Maybe it is more muted and certainly less barbaric than thrashing vines in the jungle, but it is a popularity contest. Plain and simple.
Web-based communication seems to have evolved into a sly craft. Suddenly, we can bypass having to nurture real and tangible relationships that involve coffee steam, nonverbal cues, and, if you’re lucky, a parting embrace. With the adoption of Facebook, we can “tickle”, “poke”, or send a clip-art carrot cake cupcake, but we are not touching anyone or turning on an oven. We reach out through wires, cables, and technology, but not with our hands or voices. Sallie Smith may post that she has a headache and Joe Johnson may have devoured an entire bag of Peanut M&M’s, but we are not invested. The communication is passive and suddenly the intimacies of friendship are reduced to a bulletin board of futile online post-it-notes.
Let’s consider how many of these freshly found pals we will actually develop any form of bond with over time? Perhaps when bored at work, we’ll spy on the attractiveness of an ex-boyfriend’s spouse or scoff at an old classmate’s smutty pictures from a bachelorette party. Maybe these tolerated voyeuristic opportunities will lead to envy, lust, or even appreciation. Or maybe it is all benign. Alternatively, we all could be threading a sharp needle.
Personally, I am terrified of inhabiting a world infected with indifference where friends are traded as cheaply as GM stock. Shouldn’t we be demanding personal investment, accountability, and reciprocity from the select individuals we call friends? I idolize a society steeping and swelling with spit-in-your-eye laughter, passionate kissing, and firm handshakes. Perhaps Facebook can work in our favor as long as we actively own our relationships and recite the golden rule of quality over quantity. New technology can latch on as innocently as our morning addiction to caffeine, but the consequences can be staggering if we displace the human element of socialization. I am not advocating for its demise, but I caution its utility.
Of course, Facebook might be an excellent tool for locating one’s freshman roommate or discovering fellow alums who live in the Bay Area. But, while we are gathering and hoarding like toddlers at an Easter egg hunt, perhaps we should take pause to ensure we aren’t just using each other to one-up our friend meters. After all, we may be tallying up the comrades, but if they are a bunch of limp handshakes, what’s the point? Besides, I’m certain all 79 of them don’t know - I prefer my cupcakes to contain actual calories.
Sep 10, 2008
San Francisco Calling
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
It is one of those glorious, guiltily perfect Midwestern September days worthy of one last kool-aid stand and gallop down the slip-n’slide. My muscles twitch with the urgency to extract as much lemony sunshine out of the daylight before the wind picks up and the sky blushes pink. I consult my to-do list and decide to buy myself a new desk chair at Office Max. “The Executive Task Master” – named as creatively as kindergarten crayolas.
Mission complete, I reverse out of my parking spot with the car windows down and the lyrics to Tom Petty’s Free Fallin’ bursting forth from the baseboards. I crank up the knob in nostalgic approval, still flushed with the satisfaction and spontaneity of making an expensive purchase. It is the ideal summer tune, carefree and cocky, and I am flooded with the memory of its uncanny timing after skydiving with my Stanford dormmates freshman year.
I was sardined in the backseat of a Civic that reeked of gym socks and housed floor mats littered with Ritz cracker crumbs. The five of us were already high off our daredevil excursion when the song came spilling through the stereo speakers. As we drove the hour back to campus, the Australian guy shifted to put his hand on my knee and I scooted my arms forward to discourage the maneuver. I blushed at his brazen interest, secretly hiding my own giddiness that someone could so unabashedly fancy me. Still, I didn’t want to seem easy.
It was an empowering year for me. Not only did I make death-defying decisions such as jumping from a plane above an artichoke field in Hollister, CA, but I actually allowed myself to embrace fun. I had been a serious child, diligent and industrious. I measured my self-worth with parental approval, academic success, and athletic achievement. Failure was unacceptable. Excelling was essential. It wasn’t my parent’s expectation. It was mine. And that was almost worse.
I wore a stigma of severity in high school. I raised my hand in history class, conversed with the faculty, and figured blatantly ignoring guys I idolized would ultimately prove an effective strategy. Thankfully, I claimed enough friends to elevate my status out of the loser or nerd category. My other salvation was that I threw a vicious curve ball from the pitcher’s mound and never missed a volleyball serve. However, I was not a partier. I was not the chick you called up on Thursday night to transport a keg in her parent’s mini-van to the new spot in the woods that the cops hadn’t discovered yet. Heck, I didn’t even know about the woods. I actually had a deal with one of my more social friends that I would do her Spanish homework, if she would dish the week’s gossip at our lockers in the morning. Muy bien!
I let down my arms in college. I laughed hysterically, played pool until 2am on beer-stained billiards’ tables, hiked through the foothills, fell in love, ate sushi, drank Goldschlager, karaoked to Cher's Believe, cut my hair above my shoulders, wore bright-colored tank-tops, talked on tattered futons with my legs curled under me, and I wrote. I wrote a lot.
It felt strange and dizzy and delicious. I didn’t abandon all sense by any means, but I reinvented my identity into someone who was waiting to emerge but never could give the egg that last final crack. That’s why I long to return to California. Even if it’s only three days. I feel as though I can reclaim a version of myself that emitted beauty, radiated youth, exuded creativity, and most importantly, came before.
That’s why I want to go to San Francisco.
My heart used to beat there.
It is one of those glorious, guiltily perfect Midwestern September days worthy of one last kool-aid stand and gallop down the slip-n’slide. My muscles twitch with the urgency to extract as much lemony sunshine out of the daylight before the wind picks up and the sky blushes pink. I consult my to-do list and decide to buy myself a new desk chair at Office Max. “The Executive Task Master” – named as creatively as kindergarten crayolas.
Mission complete, I reverse out of my parking spot with the car windows down and the lyrics to Tom Petty’s Free Fallin’ bursting forth from the baseboards. I crank up the knob in nostalgic approval, still flushed with the satisfaction and spontaneity of making an expensive purchase. It is the ideal summer tune, carefree and cocky, and I am flooded with the memory of its uncanny timing after skydiving with my Stanford dormmates freshman year.
I was sardined in the backseat of a Civic that reeked of gym socks and housed floor mats littered with Ritz cracker crumbs. The five of us were already high off our daredevil excursion when the song came spilling through the stereo speakers. As we drove the hour back to campus, the Australian guy shifted to put his hand on my knee and I scooted my arms forward to discourage the maneuver. I blushed at his brazen interest, secretly hiding my own giddiness that someone could so unabashedly fancy me. Still, I didn’t want to seem easy.
It was an empowering year for me. Not only did I make death-defying decisions such as jumping from a plane above an artichoke field in Hollister, CA, but I actually allowed myself to embrace fun. I had been a serious child, diligent and industrious. I measured my self-worth with parental approval, academic success, and athletic achievement. Failure was unacceptable. Excelling was essential. It wasn’t my parent’s expectation. It was mine. And that was almost worse.
I wore a stigma of severity in high school. I raised my hand in history class, conversed with the faculty, and figured blatantly ignoring guys I idolized would ultimately prove an effective strategy. Thankfully, I claimed enough friends to elevate my status out of the loser or nerd category. My other salvation was that I threw a vicious curve ball from the pitcher’s mound and never missed a volleyball serve. However, I was not a partier. I was not the chick you called up on Thursday night to transport a keg in her parent’s mini-van to the new spot in the woods that the cops hadn’t discovered yet. Heck, I didn’t even know about the woods. I actually had a deal with one of my more social friends that I would do her Spanish homework, if she would dish the week’s gossip at our lockers in the morning. Muy bien!
I let down my arms in college. I laughed hysterically, played pool until 2am on beer-stained billiards’ tables, hiked through the foothills, fell in love, ate sushi, drank Goldschlager, karaoked to Cher's Believe, cut my hair above my shoulders, wore bright-colored tank-tops, talked on tattered futons with my legs curled under me, and I wrote. I wrote a lot.
It felt strange and dizzy and delicious. I didn’t abandon all sense by any means, but I reinvented my identity into someone who was waiting to emerge but never could give the egg that last final crack. That’s why I long to return to California. Even if it’s only three days. I feel as though I can reclaim a version of myself that emitted beauty, radiated youth, exuded creativity, and most importantly, came before.
That’s why I want to go to San Francisco.
My heart used to beat there.
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