Out of Body Experience

This afternoon it came to me.

For quite some time I had been trying to remember her name. I knew her first name – remembered it fortunately as we met coincidentally at Starbucks some months ago – but I couldn’t call to mind her last name. Clearly, I’ve had other concerns since the time I saw her grabbing coffee in the epicenter of our small town last summer, and so recalling her title was continually pushed back to make way for more pressing life issues. But sitting in my room today (in a spot that seems to be suited well for revelations) it came to me.

I looked her up on Facebook. 24 mutual friends, that’s gotta be her, right? I remembered her mentioning CMU and I saw FHS class of 08, so I clicked the “request friend” button and awaited my confirmation. Upon returning home from dinner, I found an email in my inbox notifying me I had been accepted as a non-preditor, and from there I did what any self-respecting non-preditorial individual would do – I stalked her from a respectful distance.

I read through her activities, interests, and other vitals first. As she cited writing and scrapbooking, and embraced a healthy love for Sex and the City, I found myself smiling. I remembered, I thought, that she was the president of the Student Council, and her mega-watt smile staring back at me seemed to silently confirm. Undying devotion to her darling rebel – her sweetheart with a healthy dose of defiance – seeped out of the page from wall posts and her relationship status.

I recall her most vividly as a Freshman, and from the moment I met her, I adored her. She sparkled with a natural energy, and her mind was as quick and sharp as her smile was charming. She wore a lot of black then as she was tying up the loose ends of a pubescent punk stage, but unlike the other punks she embraced the Stu-Co (student council, yes we thought we were that cool) culture of clean-cut WASPy fun. Still, unlike some of our fair-skinned friends, you could see the depth of her still waters shining brighter than any Tiffany that may have adorned her neck.

I decided then to flip through the photos of her, and as I did I found myself experiencing the strangest feelings of surrealism. She was sandwiched in between groups of girls, or holding signs displaying undying High School pride, or making funny faces in all the local restaurants. The one that really got me was of her in Charlie’s basement. He was a friend of mine – through my own darling rebel – and I would recognize those maroon walls anywhere. His sister, whose elfin figure was a constant source of teasing in my day, was in the picture (playing host) and four other fresh-faced girls held pool cues and were captioned by the words “Its weird to think about what your life would be like if you never met the people who changed it.”

There she was, with her bumper-stickers about love and girls standing on their tiptoes, hair straigh and make-up thick, smile shining with such a beautiful innocence. I’d always liked her partially because I saw so much potential in her youthful self and partially because I saw so much of myself there too. It became even more poignant today as I felt as though I was looking at my former self in pictures of her. Remembering that girl who loved a boy with everything she had because she had everything to give. The girl whose smile sparkled with childish innocence and lit up a room with genuine energy. Whose eyes were bright and hair was blonde and figure was slim and clothes were smart but young.

Lately I’ve been thinking about the past – burying things that have been long gone, and realizing how much, in aging, I need the things that I knew when I was young. Learning the difference between irreconcilable and irrevocable, and how important both of those words are to my existence. Redefining the place of things and people in my life, and realizing how my past life and self fits into the person I am now. Learning to look back at that girl – with the fresh face and bright eyes – and to see how she is, even then, the woman she will someday become.

“Growing up is never easy.  You hold on to things that were.  You wonder what’s to come.  But that night, I think we knew it was time to let go of what had been, and look ahead to what would be.  Other Days. New Days.  Days to come.  The thing is, we didn’t have to hate eachother for getting older.  We just had to forgive ourselves…for growing up.”  – The Wonder Years

yours.Rachel

We are All Innocent

Come with me.

Run with me down the stony path at Capri, our faces shaded from the bright sun by a blanket of purple flowers climbing overhead as our hair and the folds of our dresses flow behind us. Roll with me down the sled hill at Heritage, and let me laugh and do it again as you sit at the bottom sick to your stomach and waiting. Put on your prettiest sundress, hold my hands, and we’ll spin ourselves round in circles. Be my captain and I’ll be your crew, wind blowing through our hair as we watch the expanse of water stretching out far ahead of us.

Come to my home and I’ll show you, once again. We’ll run through the wet grass to the swing-set behind the yard and let the wind hit our faces hard. Sit with me, smoke with me, share with me in the grass when we’ve had our fill of the sandbox. Look up at the stars with me, tell me what you see. Lay with me, laugh with me, breathe deeply as you let life fall from your shoulders for a beautiful instant.

Because I don’t care about the pills crushed on your desk. I don’t care about your salary, your benefits, or your retirement package. I don’t even care about the world you’re saving or the futures we’re making – not for now – because we have our present to make first.

For I am not one and twenty, and you are not much farther afield. yes, we have our stories. We have our scars and holes and our hurts and our fears. We have seen demons – some are black and others glittering gold. We have bargained with them, we have prayed to them, we have laid with them and felt ourselves torn between ecstasy and excruciating emptiness. Each of us has our own tales to tell, and our own illusions we’ve spun that are beginning to come unwound. We have left pieces of ourselves in people and places, and some of these pieces will never be ours again.

but yet – We are All Innocent. for I am not one and twenty, and you are not much farther afield. Caught between the sandbox and the stock-market we are but children playing with grown-ups toys, trying to build castles in the sandy desert that stretches farther than we ever could have imagined.

Let us cross the desert to find an oasis. and let me meet you again. Introduce yourself and I will do the same, for these months have been longer than the days that compose them, and the distance has been farther than the miles between us.

And yes, We have our roads, paved with asphalt or gold or simply scratched out in the dirt. They lead off into the distance, winding and obstructed from our view, and as surely as the sun will set our feet will follow them soon. Then I’ll let you go. To Venice or to New Orleans. To Ghana or to Grayling. To Midland or The ‘Nasty or New York.

But before you go… lay with me in the grass. When we’ve jumped from the swings and slid down the slides and held ourselves above the sand on the monkey-bars… Lay with me and let the moments feel like sublime centuries. Don’t say a word. Just breathe with me under a blanket of stars. Silently, let us say ‘goodnight moon’ and watch the sun creep colorfully to her place in the new day.

love.Rachel

thoughts on things above, and elsewhere

On Blue Skies: She was escaping to another prison and I was sitting in my same golden-walled cell. We were sharing a moment across an ocean while she shared the latest musical discovery of hers with me.

Amos Lee, southern sugar dripping from his lips, serenaded us:    “My soul’s as open as the sky, and oftentimes as blue.”

The poetry of the line is beautiful, but it is my present location which makes it especially poignant to me. As anyone who has visited Rome in the spring (or my facebook photos section) can attest to, the skies here are as blue as you could imagine. On days when the sun is out, beautiful shades of everything between turquoise and sapphire paint the sky in such a way that you can not help but wonder if you tripped and fell into one of the postcards from the street-side shops.

As the warm spring creeps steadily in, I find myself spending more and more time beneath this great blue dome – laying on my back watching cotton-ball clouds blow or walking down the streets observing the steeples of churches thrusting their crosses high into the magnificent heavens above. I am continually struck by the never ending expanse above my head, and I marvel both at its magnitude and color as I find myself swimming in a sea of soul.

Caught between the warm rays of the sun on my cheeks and the cool breeze, my red hair blows into my eyes, and I brush it away to see the blue. For the time being I’ll tuck the red neatly away, saving it for the days when it will once again regain its rightful place.

On Sunsets: Since I arrived in Rome, the desktop background on my computer has been the same picture. Taken by a friend one early Manhattan morning, the silhouette of a tree stands against a purple sky ushering in a yello morning over sleepy Harlem. The tree is not particularly special – not the gnarled and knotted type that is usually photographed; simple and young it stands unpretentiously watching the beginning of a new day, solitary but for a few fingers of a neighboring tree reaching into the frame. <It replaced a photo of my sisters around a dinner table, ringing in the new year (in so many ways) in our holiday finest> An ideal background, this pictures carries enough emotions and memories to bring a smile to my lips, but is does not stare directly back at me with any of the piercing eyes and smiles I miss so dearly.

The matter of sunrises here in Rome is that there are none. Nor are their sunsets. The heavens are bright well into the evening, but when the sun does finally decide to rest her head, she leaves quickly – unannounced by any chorus of color. When she returns, she merely climbs quietly to her place in the blue heavens.

I find myself thinking something I never though I would say; I miss the in-between. The glorious entry of a new day, ringing out its fanfare of possibilities in warm hues. And the regal exit, creeping colors waving goodbye as they look back over their shoulder. There we stand, solitary as that tree in Morningside park, maybe with a few fingers reaching towards our own. I long to watching the celestial tides come and go, holding our breath as we prepare for what is yet to be.

On rain: Earlier this morning I sat in my dining room, fingers tapping on the vinyl tablecloth with brightly colored lemons. As my mind wandered from ancient Roman sarcophagi, my gaze wandered to the window. The song – Amos Lee again – ended and left something that should have been silence but instead pitter-pattered on the roof. I walked to the window, realizing it was raining, but as I looked closer I noticed the heavy raindrops only seemed to fall close to my window; not far off the skies were blue and cotton-cloud filled as ever. I craned my head out and watched, ignoring the inevitable hair-frizz and few black tears, to see that a large gray cloud had settled over my apartment building, leaving the rest of the turquoise expanse untouched.

I laughed out loud, and as I lingered in the window frame letting the rain-water stream down my face, I contemplated what I would look like as a cartoon character. Finally, one of my housemates came out, and as she folded her underwear and socks I could feel her furrowing her brow at me. I remarked on the one rain cloud above our building and she laughed: “That seems to be the way things have been going around here.”

I dried off my face, pulled my hair back, and went about my day. Rain gave way to sun, which stepped back for brief showers and then showed her face again. The rain and the sun dance together, weaving in an out, giving way but never sharing. The way a lot of things have been going around here. And we here in Rome are caught always between the summer sun and the wintery watery chill, wondering at what moment one will leave – as quickly as the night and day – and be replaced by the other.

yours.Rachel

I bet you think this song is about you

They hopped around the kitchen eating fried plantaines and tzadziki, dancing with their socks on because its Wednesday night and you know what time that makes it. Giggling, she knocked the peanut butter from the shelf onto a wine glass filled with water, and as it shattered shards and splashed me with water I turned and walked away.

it’s the stupid things. You know those songs? she said to me tho other day when we were talking about her J and C. Those songs just seem to play, for no reason randomly, and then you’re stuck. < Congratulations. your song is a stupid youtube video. that and a symphonic piece from the end of the Ocean’s Eleven Soundtrack that Easy Jet plays before take-off and just after landing. An improper or ironic or simply strange bookend to Paris, and I suspect it will be a similar endcap to London… but I guess that’s the point, isn’t it >

She joined me on the red-suede fortress. asked me to pick a song. and I chose Let it Be. We hand picked song after song, staring off into space and time and the abstract painting on the opposite wall. We settled then in an ocean – not a sea of soul per say but JBT bit with sweeping tidal melodies strummed by a man with the most beautiful dreadlocks I’ve ever seen. I’m not sure which one of you to thank for him, but in this moment he didn’t mean anything beyond she and I and the reds and blues and greens crossed by purples and yellows and dotted with tans. We looked up tour dates and perused Facebook, idly moving our hands while our minds wandered elsewhere.

I told her I was angry, and she agreed. we put it aside, like we’ve been doing for the day. we flipped the coin, I told her that you, sir, and she whom she adores hadn’t gotten along. She the one with me on red suede wondered if she’d like you, Maybe because you wouldn’t like her. not that I expected you two would ever meet, but she asserted that with a gold bikini involved you might be very much present. We laughed and I rolled my eyes. Regardless, she said, she loves your music.

She snuggled beneath the blanket I’ve been feigning sleep under for some time now and remarked how it resembled a big black bear. And a toast to yours, equally as mundane and unintentional as Wednesdays in socks, and we went and found the song. And the band, one man from London apparently and ironically, who hails from Shoredich and is probably acquainted with several of my ex-co-workers. Of course she loves this song because she loves your taste in music, and I love it because its a word-song that can be yours and mine hers and everyone else’s all at the same time.

We cackled at my immitation of a seagull giving a eulogy for a dying cat and made light of the fact that my voice is beginning to escape to wherever it is my appetite and my dreams have gone. We chuckled that she’d actually convinced me to try on the gold bikini at Primark, and laughed even harder that I actually wished they’d had it in a size that fit my … you know. you would.

she went to bed for work in a few hours, and I opened the computer once again to replay and replay and replay and replay the song we listened to before because I knew it would let the words rush in like the tide. — http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6VAkOhXIsI0&feature=related (see for yourself.) —

there are no answers here. none for you about me, and unfortunately none for me about me either. All I can say is that I’m beginning to loose my voice. and I can’t remember how to sleep. and that I feel angry and alive and dead and hopeful and lost and amused and worthless and fresh and exhausted and girly and cynical and like I hold it all in the palm of my hand or better yet, my heart. and I’m greatfull for girls, especially those whose names begin with Ks.

“But examine everything carefully. Hold fast to that which is good.” – 1 Thessalonians 5:21

yours.Rachel

Dylan Lindgren

usually, I refuse to use names on my blog. It’s a matter of principle, really. I have no fears about sharing my introspective reflections with anyone who chooses to read my blog, and as someone who defines their life in large part by their relationships, my friendships are an important part of what needs to be written in this space. But, as they are individuals – trekking through self-discovery just like me – I don’t feel it is my place to tell you their stories. Their lives are my life, and so I have to share the experiences that are had, but its up to them to revel themselves to you in personhood if they so choose.

But I’d like to make an exception to this rule. in this case, Dylan can’t tell you his story, but I believe it’s one that deserves to be heard.

Dylan grew up in a tough situation – one of those suburban households that made people like me with a dad, mom, sister, and bichone-frise Poco in a nice house with nice cars and nice photo albums from nice trips bite my lip in with self-conscious awareness of privilege. He spent his life in the Salem Church family, and that’s how we became friends.

For years we spent our weekends in Sunday school and singing in the choir. As a boy not afraid to sing (in a small congregation) he was a star, and he held many important musical (and Vacation Bible School) roles – including but not limited to Shadrack (I was Meschah, and another little blonde boy was Abednego, and we played it “cool” wearing sunglasses and drinking pop in the furnace while we were saved from the fire by an angel), several old testament prophets, and various animals and heavenly hosts. He ascended the ranks of Christmas-pageantry, climbing from angel #3 to shepherd to king to Joseph to the king himself. When we performed Jesus Christ Superstar he was Jesus – it took several rehearsals until he and Judas could sing about my “profession” as Mary Magdalene without all three of us laughing hysterically – and when it all came together better than we ever expected and he was crucified brutally on the cross, the congregation and audience sat too awed to cry and we knew that the Holy Spirit or something must have been moving in the place that night.

He was the the first in a line of youths appointed to the church governing board, and even when he drank the communion wine with another debautcherous kid everyone forgave him and went on loving him because in a family that’s what you do. He played piano for the children’s choir once he was old enough to sing with the adults, and he was always a ringleader in the plot of mischievous hand-motions to Jacob’s Ladder that only our director could see but we all knew were going on because we could hear the entire tenors section laughing.

He was a defining presence on many mission trips – making words like “corn!”, “where’s Laura?”, and “BOOM!” come alive, and he painted/repaired houses, changing lives of residents while simultaneously attracting a group of admiring Jesus-centric girls we affectionately referred to as Dylan-hoes. Together, we found humor in religious fundamentalism, and we nodded our heads and smiled at Bible “scholars” and people who told us that people with hairy-legs are rapists and that “pornography kills”.

Every person in the congregation adored him. Every child loved to be carried or chased by him, every middle-aged person loved to be helped by him in the running of the church, and every elderly person loved to watch his life go by because they could see what it meant to the life of the church and all the individuals within it.

He graduated and went on to Hillsdale, and that’s a story I can’t tell because I don’t know it well enough.

You’d be hard pressed to find a picture of him where he isn’t wearing something absurd, attacking someone with love, or making a ridiculous face. He spent his life making people laugh, making people think, and making an influence with everything he did.

On March 8th at 4:30am, Dylan Lindgren passed away surrounded by his family and friends. Just weeks shy of 23 years old, Dylan lost his exhausting battle with Lymphoma. He passed without fear I believe, and basking in the love of his family, friends, and our God, leaving behind changed lives and a legacy that will never be forgotten.
In the years that I’ve know him – almost all my life – the most influential thing he has ever said to me occurred within the last year. The Lymphoma had been raging for a year, and we were sitting at Starbucks one August Sunday before I returned to school. We couldn’t share drinks or too much physical proximity because we didn’t want him to get sicker than he already was, so we shared stories instead.

We were talking about the cancer, and he said something amazing. “I’m not really afraid to die”, he said. “More than anything, I just don’t want to look back on my youth – this time when we should all be out having fun and doing stupid things – and realize that I missed my chance to do it. Really, that’s all I’m afraid of.”

So what does that mean for those of us who are lucky enough to have our youth?

If we are alive, let us go about our business.

yours.Rachel

Postcard from Italy #4

Dahhhhling,

How goes the adventure – Are you feeling your emotions charted on a graph yet? What a silly question…of course you are. I hope at least you find some comfort in the fact that you were somewhat emotionally prepared for this difficult time by a crazy (and slightly bitchy) lady with a think French-smoker’s accent. I know, to me, she is a great comfort. Haha. Anyway, I can’t wait until we meet again in Madrid and can exchange stories of epic proportions; also, I expect our travels together will spin even more tales of epic proportions. I have been well here, and I am loving Rome. It’s really beautiful, and I love going to the open-air markets or just walking through the streets and finding some random building that’s hundreds (or thousands) of year old and has some pivotal historical role. It’s humbling to be in a place that’s big across so many dimensions – especially coming from a place that’s so small in so many dimensions. I’m beginning to redefine my priorities, as I am realizing through what I miss and what I don’t what is really important to me – I expect you’re doing the same. Also, I’m beginning the amusing realization of what silly (or take for granted) things I miss… this includes but is not limited to hot water, a microwave, instant pancake mix (breakfast in GENERAL!), dryers, 9-5 (or longer) business hours, Costco, English, paved road to walk on, and regular trash collection. (and more to come I’m sure.) Things I will miss when I leave – legally being able to purchase and consume alcohol, long dinners, market fresh food, being able to walk out my front door and end up in the middle of history, the omni-presence of the Virgin, and well-dressed attractive straight males. When we return, I hope we can compare our lists, attempt to channel what we are missing, and fill the gaps (for eachother) that we can not fill with anything available in the USA. Can’t wait to see you

Love, luck, and adventure in AOT,

Rachel

Postcard from Italy #2

Hey you,

How are you?  Perhaps its silly to ask a question like that in the form of a letter, as there is an ocean and several days/weeks (depending on the efficiency – HA! – at the Italian post office) between its posing and the receipt of your answer.  But I suppose I’m as likely to get a response from that as from other mediums like email that you hate so well. (haha)  I bet you’ve never gotten a post card this obnoxious in your life.  Anyway, I hope you are well, and that the battle of the semester is raging on in your favor.  My semester seems to be a battle pitting me against my classes – or rather my classes against my education.  As always I can assure that my education is winning.  There is so much to learn here – so much to glean from the culture and the people that are so drastically different than anything in the States.  You’ll be happy to know that they are changing the way I look at time and its passing; I’m learning to take things more slowly and enjoy the moment.  Also, I’m learning to relax when it comes to little inefficiencies and things – I’d never get out alive otherwise.  Who knows, by the time I come home I may even be able to parallel park… haha not.  I’m beginning to fit into the groove of this place, and I’m building new networks of people I love to spend time and open up with.  (now that’s impressive) No epic Italian loves yet, but I’m not terribly concerned; as usual I’m doing too many exciting things to have time for guys.  <I miss the fact that you’re not here to immediately counter the phrase “doing too many things” with some sort of innuendo.)>  I miss having you around to make me laugh (usually at obscene things) and I would even go so far as to say that I miss your mischevious misadventures (although I would probably never admit that to your face).  Anyway, if you win the lottery I expect to see you arriving at my front door, and until then, I’ll looking forward to seeing you… sometime?  We shall see where the summer takes us … Good luck, dearest.  Keep in touch.  Take Care.

Rachel

Postcard from Italy #1

As you may have guessed, I’m listening to Beruit.

It has inspired me to take the time to write what should be sent with a stamp though the posteItaliane.  for now this will have to do…

Dear Sister,

I hope all is well with you and the sisterhood; I’m sure you’re working yourself into the ground, and I’ll feel incredibly special if you can find the time to read even these short sentences.  (while you’re at it, take this time to Breathe…in and out, in and out) I hope you’re still eating, sleeping, and breathing occassionally without instruction.  I’m trying to do a lot of each of those here – especially the breathing and the eating.  The breathing comes (is forced) when I need something during the afternoon siesta (when the city gorges and then sleeps) or generally when anyone around here tries to manage or run anything.  The “J” in me is crying, while the “P” is developing.  And eating… I’m in the land of pasta, pizza, and gelato for heaven sakes.  Eating is one of my favorite things to do here, not only because it’s delicious, but because there is so much fanfare that surrounds the actual consumption of a Roman meal.  There’s the cooking – chopping the fresh herbs and spices from the market and simmering them with sausage or spreading them over a freshly spiced crust.  Or in the event that one is eating out, the first stage is drooling over the extensive menu (which you may or may not be able to translate) and somehow selecting a meal for the evening.  Next the vino – Uncork the bottle and sip with good company.  Courses come and go, and a good Roman meal should last at least a couple hours (in the case of two evenings ago, our friends from Connecticut College threw us a dinner party where the meal lasted 4).  Even the neurotic mile-a-minute business-woman within me is hushed at times like these; I am beginning to be even further convinced that there is nothing real in this world beyond the time at hand – living in the moment through the spirit and passion shared over food and drink.  I love the life that I am falling into here, and all that is missing is you.  (That’s some Hallmark shit right there).  Seriously though.  I love this place – it’s personality as well as its elegant facade, and the only thing I could possibly wish for is to have you across the table sharing this moment and this Chianti.

So much love in AOT,

Rachel

the year in review

after our initial plan was thwarted by familiar video store clerks, our revised plan was to hit the liquor store and spend the evening toasting to nothing and laughing through suburban boredom. Not surprisingly, our attempt to be normal was a failure, and we ended up sick to our stomachs and discussing the things we rarely tell anyone else. not pretty things, but realities. the type of things that we tell each other not so much for the benefit of explanation to the other but for the benefit of ownership by ourselves.

two nights before, after having taken a friend home, I drove around Farmington Hills for a solid 2 hours. I took the same 10 mile loop over and over and over and over; for the first time in weeks it was just me alone with myself. Honestly it’s been something I was avoiding because I’ve felt like there’s so little of myself to be with; needless to say, in the last year of my life self-actualization has been lacking. This dissatisfaction with my own abandonment of purpose (the drive for a better self, life, and world) lead me to wonder what purpose this seemingly devoid year has served in my life.

don’t get me wrong. if you’ve been a part of my life this year it’s not that I don’t value you; it’s simply that the year 2007 has been the ultimate in in-betweens. Slid nicely between the most visible sink into sophomore slump and the soon to be epic voyage to Rome, this year floated in a stage between emotions – to calm to be either a bad or a good year – and in its conclusion I found no immediate and overwhelming feeling to the year other than that it is lacking in one.

I couldn’t believe that I, Rachel Elizabeth Tripp, had spend a year with monotone emotions, so I set off through archived entries, music, and scrapbooks to revisit what appeared a collection of seemingly unconnected moments.

And as I expected, I found more than I had first suspected.

One of the most striking things I found was the influence of people in my life. in 2007, elections, sunrises, departures, living arrangements and more ushered in new relationships with friends and strangers. And as each of us lit lighters and candles and fuses that exploded into into life-shattering forces, we waded through the debris that was the glorious inbetween. Much of the debris settled, leaving some relationships strong and defined, others as gloriously complex as always, and still others puzzlingly absent or surprisingly influential.

what do I remember most from looking back?

It began with tremendous promise. A new year – a shovel with which to bury the past and cover it with fresh soil in which to plant campaign promises, seeds of affection, and friendships. our council. Our first recruitment from the other side. word songs. pink champagne and heart-shaped-cupcakes. 48 hours. card games, sunrises, 4am snowfalls, bizarrely epic airport music. taco bell. numbness. the loss of spiritual virginity. our own blog epidemic. counting down. Yellobeats. too much luggage. buying skinny jeans. Camden town. getting miserably lost alone in Paris. wet Russian men doing push-ups in their boxer-briefs in my room. Notting Hill. the “Red Book” and life in the British scene. Amsterdam. trying to convince British airport security that a stuffed monkey is not an additional carry-on. a three-hour trip from the airport – listening to DJ Shadow driving through a tunnel in the back of the Jeep. trifectas. Massachusetts. the ugly wall. shrek sludge milkshakes. fasting. finishing the race. handmade cards. surprise birthdays – red velvet cake. lying on the floor of my room eating cheese and crackers on a crab-shaped-plate by candle-light. monologuing. strange timing. lip-biting. brownies. Arthur. swimming in a sea of soul. roomate adventures and parallel journeys. Ernst and Young. epic fights. complicated and fluid resolutions. the loss of Arthur. reunion dinner parties. perpetuation of in betweens. falling asleep and getting woken up by a phone call at 6am from my father saying “where are you?” navigating taboos.

When I think about this year I think about love.

in all its many complicated.romantic.innocent.familial.turbulent.internal.spoken.

friendly.miserable.undefined.euphoric.epic.resilient (noun, verb, and otherwise)

forms.

The older I get, the more I begin to see that’s what it’s all about. It’s been said that love is all you need – I don’t think that’s it. I think it’s all there is.

“Life in abundance comes only through great love.” – Elbert Hubbard

Happy New Year. Cheers.

yours.Rachel

parallel parking

I was lying on her bed, the only place in the room where I consistently get reception, trying desperately to find the words that she’d already written on the internet. – If almost anyone else had beat me to it I might have harbored a slight resentment, but in such cases as these, I find it as difficult as resenting the one who paints the rainbows following a storm – I almost read her monologue to him, but decided it would be insincere or confused at best, like north trying to share the story of south. I tried in vain, and finally slapped the story’s open pieces shut with the notorious “Epic” label. He knew I was flailing my arms, and if Verizon wireless had not been preventing me from raising my torso above a 45 degree angle, he knew I would have been pacing pigeon-toed.

“And then we had to parallel park. ” He chuckled at this one, realizing full well the magnitude of the situation.

The last time I had to parallel park, it was winter in Detroit and we were bundled up on our way to ice-skate (another “talent-card” which I was never dealt). We found a spot, and I hit the brake with one furry boot while a red-gloved hand shifted to reverse. It was a disaster. so much so that two pot-bellied cooks in beaters taking a smoking break slapped their knees with glee while I slammed the brake and gripped the steering wheel, shaking, huffing, and having completely lost the ability to speak. But I didn’t need to. He spoke for me, saying only that he would park the car. We switched, I sobbed, and he shimmied the Jeep perfectly; with his arm around me we walked, not speaking one word until I smiled. we laughed a little, like we always do.

A long time ago, I wrote about my amusement with my father’s ability to run a multi-million dollar logistics budget while being incapable of ironing a shirt. I think I found mine.

Saturday, I pulled awkwardly to the pseudoside of the road, taking the keys out of the ignition and slamming the door with nothing more than a slight shivering of my lips. I pulled the seat back about a foot and a half so she could actually sit in it. She parallel parked for me.

After a high-fructose drink with blobs of gummi-bubble-something and the world’s longest hand drying session (no matter how dry my hands got, my eyes refused to follow suit), we were headed home – or whatever it is that you call this place. we listened mostly to music I’d never heard before, except for a few songs I’d already assigned memories to – good old Dave-who-you hate and a song that appeared on my Ipod while I was in front of Notre Dame Cathedral when I took myself to Paris. She said something about that one being an emotional song, and the water on my face betrayed my attempted silence. We flipped through the the CD, looking for something that didn’t sound like crying or anything else on the temporary black-list. “GAH!” she kept exclaiming as she clicked the next track button furiously. I suppose it’s no surprise that the one-word answer to every question in the world seems to manifest itself frequently in her mixes, but that sort of complicated simplicity isn’t always helpful. We settled on a sea of soul and a sultry voice… and repeated until we all knew the interlude.

It was less than my best, I suppose you could say. more accurately, my worst. I guess what I’m trying to say is thanks for parallel parking my car. and then loving me anyway.

yours.Rachel