Not Another Carpe Diem Blog Post

I walked into the lobby of my dormitory today and saw a heart with an arrow drawn on a dry-erase board.  For an instant, I had a small panic attack—have I missed an entire month?  Then I remembered: oh yeah, our culture gets ready for holidays weeks in advance.  Christmas is the worst.  This year I knew several people who had mentally skipped both Thanksgiving and Halloween.  But hey, we just want to be prepared, right?  Heaven forbid we not be completely sick of a holiday before it even arrives.

People always say to live in the moment, but it seems to go against human nature.  We spent so much of our time looking forward to something, with certain special dates always in the back of our minds.  For me, it’s March 1^st, March 13^th, May 20^th, and after that I have to be worried about not having plans.  There are others in there, family birthdays, days I have to pay my bills…all days that have not come yet, but still take some of today away from me in how much I think about them.

When we’re not looking forward, we’re looking back.  This kind of reflection normally comes under the category of “should” and its relatives “could” and “would.”  I should have worked on that project, I should have made that phone call…I could have gone to the gym, I would have finished my paper.  It’s a strange concept—I missed doing this, but at least I regret it, that makes it better, right?  No, actually, regret over such small things wastes even more time.

Let’s all make a mental realignment.  Save your neck the strain, figuratively speaking, and spend some time in today.  Appreciate January while you can—it’s a nice month, after all, rather relaxing after all the fuss over Thanksgiving and Christmas.  Take the day and use it well, because that’s all you can do.  In my opinion, it’s better to have few plans and be surprised than to have many plans and be surprised anyway.  Tomorrow will come when it’s good and ready.

For She's a Jolly Good Fellow

Today is my grandmother’s ninetieth birthday.  She was born on January 17^th, 1922.  Yes, I did pull out a calculator to make sure my math was right.  1922.  Isn’t that amazing?  When Grammy was born, there had only been one World War.  The United States was still trying to figure out whether it was a hermit or a hero.  Radio was just getting started, and the suffrage movement had finally won out.  In that year, Egypt and Ecuador gained their independence; the Lincoln Memorial was dedicated; King Tut’s tomb was discovered; and Babe Ruth signed on to the New York Yankees while construction began on Yankee Stadium, which in my father’s opinion meant a greater concentration of evil in the world.  Mohandas Gandhi, Annie Oakley, Walt Disney, and Pope Pius XI were some of the great names of the day.  And to satisfy my thirst for weirdness, a woman confessed in that year to having been married sixty-two times, while the duck-billed platypus was first exhibited in a US zoo that year.*

All that in one year, so can you imagine what ninety of those years amounts to?  What a life; what an incredible journey.  My grandmother saw television, computers, planes, and phones come into being, watched them evolve and change and become part of daily life.  She saw the world change, too, as the Nazis rampaged Europe, as the Communists rose to power and lost it again, as the Civil Rights Movement tore through America.

I imagine that Frances O’Connor, née Mims, took it all in with her usual aplomb.  As her husband moved her back and forth and up and down the nation, as he went to war and came home, as she raised four boys into men, she made so much that was extraordinary in her own life.  She’s coped with the hard things—a long estrangement with one of her boys, leaving homes which she loved, and the loss of her husband, her granddaughter, and another of her sons.  And she’s gathered around her a large, rather nutty family which looks to her for wisdom, guidance, and the occasional gentle scold.

Ten years ago, there was a big party for her eightieth, with many tributes to her from all her loved ones.  Then, my contribution was to play the birthday song on my trumpet, little eleven-year-old granddaughter in my Easter dress.  Today this is my tribute, how I sing her praises.  I wish you the best, Grammy, with many lovely happy returns of the day.  With luck, I’ll have a novel to dedicate for your one-hundredth.

*1922 fast facts come from http://www.brainyhistory.com/years/1922.html

VML--Mom

My mother is the queen of letter-writing.  She sends me about five four-page letters a week, in addition to writing regularly to my older sister and my younger brother.  These letters are written well in advance of sending, so they don’t usually have recent news.  Rather, they’re full of her thoughts and opinions on things, old family stories, and the occasional nag or scold.  She begins and ends every letter in a similar fashion: “I hope this finds you well and happy,” and “Lots and lots of love, Mom.”

I love these letters.  They’re the subject of envy from anyone who comes to the post office with me.  I have a shoe box full of saved letters on the top of my bookshelf, with notes on why I saved them, so I can refer back to them later.  They help me learn more about my mom, my family, and myself. 

Frequently they are thought-provoking.  A letter I read a few weeks ago was talking about how difficult it is for my mom to believe that I will be graduating college.  She gave me the usual “It seems only yesterday” talk.  Then she told me a story about how, when she was about five or six months pregnant with me, she had an epiphany.  As I understand it, she and my father had planned out the names of all their children long before any of us were born.  I was meant to be Margaret Anne.  But a few months before I was born, my mother decided very suddenly that I was not a Margaret Anne.  “I just KNEW,” she told me.

I wonder how she knew?  What changed in that moment to make her realize that I was gearing up to be an Eileen Michelle, and that she had to change her plans to suit mine?  And how would my life be different if she hadn’t?  I wouldn’t have a little sister named Margaret Anne, for starters—she’d have some other name.  I think I would make everyone use my whole name, or if they had to shorten it, use Anne.  I might have turned out to be a musician rather than a writer—it just seems to me to be more of a music-y name. 

It all comes out for the best.  I like my name, and must always have done, as I used to go around spelling it for adults.  It’s reassuring to know that even in utero, I knew my own mind.  Makes me feel like I got off to a good start on life.  And I think it being an uncommon name has set me apart a little bit from the crowd.  Sometimes I don’t like that; sometimes I do.  Either way, I am who I am.  So thanks, Mom.

Grow Up and Be Kids

For my senior honors thesis, I am writing a novel, and this January that is my primary focus.  It isn’t surprising, then (or it shouldn’t be), that many of my thoughts are connected to the story.  The thought in question this morning is based on a scene of dialogue between the main character and an old friend of hers.  They are talking about a young man, whom the main character believes to be fully grown.  “There are different levels of being grown,” her friend tells her, and the main character realizes that this is true, that there were points in her life where she believed herself to be a sage adult, only to be proved wrong.

I’ve been thinking about this ever since.  It happens to all of us.  One day we wake up and decide (for whatever reason) that we are adults.  It may happen to some of us at age eleven, to others at fourteen or fifteen, but it always happens.  Even those who try to retain childlike habits and beliefs still usually wanted to be treated like equals by their peers.  From the moment of that decision, we struggle with the world to make it believe that we know what we’re doing and that we can make our own decisions.

For me, this impulse began to show its head when I was about eleven—I remember trying to look dignified in family pictures, not realizing that others only found it cute.  To a child’s mind, a “grown-up” is someone who has the answers, who knows what they want from life and how to get it.  Therefore my adolescence was spent scrambling to figure out what it was I wanted and learning to speak confidently about it, even when I changed my mind six times in a weekend.

I think, though, that there is a reason that most people older than eighteen or so don’t use the word “grown-up”.  True, it sounds a bit infantile, but also there is no such thing.  There’s no stopping point to growing up.  There is no age that is marked out at which point one is considered fully grown.  After age eighteen or twenty-one, maybe even twenty-five, life is a journey, not a destination.  And I imagine I will continue to be proved wrong on the basis of my own wisdom and self-sufficiency throughout life.  That’s the way it goes.

It’s not always a bad thing.  If you can’t be a child all your life, living between childhood and adulthood is the next best thing.  You can have the best of both worlds, living successfully and realizing how great that is.  If you never decide that you’re grown up, then living itself is always an adventure. 

Note: the title of this post is borrowed from a song by the Cab, from their album Symphony Soldier, which I highly recommend.

2011 in Retrospect

January: I spent the first month of the year working at UNC Press, a short internship which I enjoyed very much.  The people were kind, the work was interesting if not very stimulating, and it was my first experience with working full time.  My strongest memories, though, are of the place, Chapel Hill, where I stayed with my aunt and uncle.  Culturally it had everything I could want—streets lined with quaint little shops, several more metropolitan areas with malls and movie theatres, and a private, rural place to retreat to at the end of the day.  I think I’d like nothing better than to end up in a place like that.

February: On the fifth of this month, I sailed off to London for the beginning of my semester abroad.  (And by sailed, I mean figuratively speaking, though someday I would love to take a ship across the ocean.)  I was both thrilled and terrified by the experience.  I will always remember that first day—I spent most of the flight staring out the window, even when it was dark; met up immediately with my best friend in Heathrow, from whence we took a taxi to our respective homestays.  I was struck by how much my host family reminded me of my grandparents—lovely, politely brisk people who were immediately welcome and comfortable with me there.  They escorted me up to my small, third-floor room, where I shut the door, collapsed on the bed and had a minor panic attack at the idea of being so far from home.

March: I quickly acclimated, however.  I was not only abroad, but living in a big city for the first time, and it was a thrilling experience.  The culture of the city—food, plays, history, parks, everything—was marvelous, and I had many friends to accompany me.  I maintain that this semester is what cured me of the worst of my anti-socialism.  March also included a trip to Budapest, which was absolutely incredible, an opportunity I never would have thought to have, and to Oxford with a group of friends. 

April: Classes in London were remarkably easy—I had little trouble keeping up.  We had tea breaks in the middle of the three-hour classes, and my Shakespeare course involved several trips to see plays.  Twice I visited the Globe, which was wonderful (if a bit chilly).  The class also had a chance to visit Stratford-upon-Avon, a beautiful place, and later in the month was a trip to Bath.  Simply looking out the bus windows at the countryside was memorable.  On the last week of the month was our spring break, and I spent the first weekend of it in Ireland, a trip that I’d been looking forward to for many years.  I visited Dingle, the little town where my father’s family came from, but I spent more time memorizing the land itself than looking for its people.  The rocky coastlines, the startling green hills, and the smell and color of gorse in the cool morning—it was magnificent.  I sprained my foot and got a terrible sunburn, but still returned to England quite content.

May: By the time the end of the semester came around, I was ready to come home.  I’m not someone easily afflicted by wanderlust: I don’t like living out of a suitcase, and just the idea that I will be leaving a place in a short time makes me restless and uneasy.  I miss many things about London—the convenience of the underground, the numberless theatres, and (I confess) the cheap and healthy food from Marks & Spencer or Pret a Manger—but America is where I belong, and I was happy to be back with my family.

June, July, & August: I knot these together because they were rather homogenous.  My summer job was simply acquired by emailing my student work supervisor, who hires an assistant every summer.  She was glad to have me, and so I came and worked nine to five, living at Hollins and walking to work every morning.  It was a comfortable time—the campus was quiet, I was familiar with my work in the archives, and I had the freedom in the evenings of going out or staying in, writing or surfing the web.  The one notable event of these two months was my twenty-first birthday in July, on which occasion my parents drove up to visit me and take me out to dinner.  Soon after, I drove over to Richmond to visit my roommate Taylor, who brought me along to a “party” at a friend’s house, which was not impressive and served an excess of rather non-impressive drinks.  A very memorable event.  August culminated with the purchase of my first car, a white Hyundai which I christened Baxter.

September: This was the beginning of my senior year, and I remember spending much of it trying to straighten out my very busy schedule.  I was taking three classes, two private music lessons, was involved in two choirs, and was working fifteen hours a week, on top of beginning my honors thesis.  To me, September has always seemed interminable, and I don’t really like to remember it.

October: On the contrary, October seemed to race by.  I was finally settling into my schedule, finished with several different projects and not quite ready to face final projects yet.  It was a good month for my creativity, writing my thesis as well as other projects, and also in writing music.  I also began to realize just how much of a hermit I had been the past three years of attending Hollins.  Somewhat to my surprise, I found that I had a bit of a social life now, and even more surprising, I liked it.

November: I had a meeting midway through this month with my creative writing professor.  When I told her I wanted to continue writing after school, she recommended I meet with a friend of hers, the editor of a local business magazine.  I appreciated this because it meant she believed I not only could continue writing, but should.  This very cheering news was followed by other pieces of good news, among them an invitation to join the English honors society and the continuing approval of my thesis advisor on my novel.  On the other hand, computer troubles over Thanksgiving break only added to the stress of the coming exam days.

December: This month began with exams and almost a straight ten days of choir rehearsals and performances.  It’s in times like this that you really have to live one day at a time.  Finally, however, I was finished, and I retreated home for a few weeks of rest before returning for the home stretch on my education.

All in all, an excellent year.  I think I learned a good bit about myself as well as about the world around me.  I hope, however, that 2012 will bring more excitement, novelty, and opportunity into my life.  Happy new year, everyone!

Watch Out, Your Genius is Burning

I generally consider myself a creative person.  I have at least sixteen different ideas for stories written in my various journals, ready to be pulled out, polished, and set to paper.  My problem-solving skills are good, even if my ideas are sometimes a little out there.  I can make a puzzle out of any sheet of text, and though I can’t draw at all, I can get around that with geometric patterns that come out looking very cool (to me anyway).  But put me in front of a well-stocked refrigerator, and I’m lost.

Cooking is truly an art form, and becoming more and more so every day.  With the increasing complexity of microwave dinners, a real, honest-to-goodness made-from-scratch meal is a rarity and a joy.  It takes time, careful attention, and skill, and still a small miscalculation can lead to flames leaping out of the oven.  The word “homemade” implies a very great gift.

Unlike other art forms, however, cooking does not require full knowledge of the basics before one can experiment.  I’m still fuzzy on how to sauté, simmer, or julienne anything, though they are all marvelous verbs.  But today I made very good nachos with meat and “homemade” queso, the latter created by melting wedges of Happy Cow cheese with a bit of milk.  Maybe that’s not really cooking—“alchemy” is probably a better word.  But it tasted pretty good to me.

I’m just a beginner, though.  Over the years I’ve watched my younger brother and older sister dig through a fridge I had judged devoid of anything edible, and come up with quick snacks that looked and smelled marvelous—cheesy bread with herbs, pretzels and Nutella.  This kind of creativity can make something new and delicious out of something old and/or not aesthetically pleasing.  It’s not something that comes easily to me, and more and more these days I appreciate it in others.

Someday I want to be able to cook for real—to take fresh ingredients (“real food” says my mother with a sneer for the dried and frozen things I bring home from the store) and make them into edible and attractive dishes.  In the meantime, however, I will experiment and make messes and eat what I create no matter whether it’s good or bad or sick-making.  After all, that’s the best way to learn.

Other People's Houses

It always seems darker at night when you’re in a strange place.  This Christmas I’m house-sitting for one of my mother’s good friends, and I spent last night wandering through the house trying to find a nightlight for my room.  I can’t count how many times I ran into something on my wandering.

It’s very odd to be living in a place that’s pre-arranged for someone else.  Here I have all the things that I would like to have someday in my own home—an extensive music collection with a good sound system, a fireplace and a grandfather clock in the sitting room, an old dog and a faintly hostile cat.  And all the time I am constantly aware that none of it is mine. 

Homes are intensely personal spaces.  I think I would feel odd letting someone stay alone in my home for several days.  At least this one has a lived-in feeling—there are some houses I’ve visited that are absolutely immaculate.  In these, I look around and wonder where the mess is hiding.  I think it’s better if there is a bit of mess: signs of imperfection tend to be reassuring to most of us.

Having lived for a good long time in one dorm room or another, I’ve dreamt quite a bit about what my future home will be like.  I can’t yet see it clearly, but I know it will be a reflection of myself: something quirky, untidy, filled with rich colors and knick-knacks from here and there.  And I hope that whoever comes through my door will find it welcoming.