counting blessings: a walk

Sometimes the adult life catches me by surprise: the simplest things. Today is Friday, & I have no plans. As I walked Pickle around the block, on the way home from the dog park—our usual route—I realized what a free evening really means.

We reached the corner a block away from the apartment. To my right, the sound whispered dusk’s light up the street, calling me there. To my left, home beckoned me in. The rest of the weekend promised free time. What should I do? Where should I go?

Freedom suddenly struck me as a real thing; I could do anything, anytime: no questions asked. I could just keep walking; I could go in & read a whole book. I could just stay in bed. For now, my only purpose is to be.

I do not need to ask permission. I am not a slave to time. There are no restrictions. Do you feel it? How liberating! We are blessed to walk the streets & lie in bed & just be.

signs: part wednesday

I’ve written before that I believe in signs. Today, the signs were everywhere: I ran into all the right people at all the right times, people I wouldn’t typically see on a Wednesday.

And yet, while I may have seen them, talked to them, and parted ways, I didn’t have the right words yet. I tend to freeze at unexpected encounters.

I can’t get over one though: I was sitting in the living room, writing out bridal shower invitations, when Pickle jumped up and decided she needed to go outside. Usually when she does that, it just means she has to go to the bathroom, but when we got out there, she just wanted to walk around. As we turned the corner, not even a block from our building, there was our Pastor.

I wish I had the right words; I wish I could make the most of a conversation on the street. Instead, I fumbled through some half-hearted sentences.

But somehow, just running into him was an encouragement.

change is yet to come

Art creates a magical bond between creation & viewer. This has become more apparent to me the past few months as I am re-reading a book that I ready last year and didn’t like. This year, I feel drawn to its mystery and feel connected to its words. How much can change in a year.

Sometimes I think it’s funny how all media can affect us at different points in our lives. I think of how songs or albums carry an era with them. I think of the first time I saw Dali’s paintings in-person. I think of visiting The David. They each mean different things to each of us based on our original experience or knowledge of them –that is the era they represent to us.

One example is the band Vampire Weekend. I had only heard a few of their songs, but in preparation for a road trip, I bought their only two albums and listened to them on-repeat during the 28 hour drive to Arizona. From the snowy mountains to the lengthy Californian plains at 5 am, those albums became a symbol to me of independence and adventure. When I heard one of those songs now, I sense a brief glimpse of how it felt to be alone, to witness the colors and the snow, the heat of Joshua Tree, the gasping cold of Bryce Canyon, all in the same trip.

So here I am, re-reading My Bright Abyss, and I don’t even know who I was when I read it the first time. I know that a lot around me has changed since then, but it’s strange to think how much has changed within. So much that I now better appreciate chapters and verses that I did not like or did not understand before.

What does it mean to grow & change around something that is unchanging?

Maybe that is what it means to be in relationship with God. We are always told that he does not change: his ways and promises are constant. It can be so hard to believe, especially when I think about how shifty I am as a person, but I am not God. Far from it. Change as a human is a must: if we do not change, there is no growth. And what purpose is there without growth, learning, challenge? Maybe this is the perspective of my naïve youth; it seems many real adults I talk to are totally content with doing nothing and ending learning and avoiding challenge. Why?

I guess I’ve always been afraid of change, but it’s one thing that I have been learning to jump into because without change, we will never be able to better our situations. Sad? Change something. Maybe not that straight-forward, but it’s the concept here.

In thinking about the book and how much just one year has affected my outlook, it’s mesmerizing to think how different I am since Derek knew me. 99% of the people I see and/or interact with on a daily basis were not in my life 2 years ago. A year ago, I didn’t know this apartment existed; a year and a half ago, I didn’t know a puppy was born that would soon be my sweet puppy; two years ago, I didn’t know this city’s silhouette or that it was a thriving place where I could and would live. I won’t go back to before I moved to Seattle; it’s not necessary. It doesn’t take much time for everything to become the new normal.

If this is truly so, why do I still long for so much of my past? While the new is better than I would have dreamed, I still miss much and often long for the simplicity of the way things were.

And yet, I am glad that going back is not an option. I do not think that God ever intended us to be backward looking people. Believe in what is constant; adjust to what is shaping around us; look ever onward at what is yet to come.

'love is blindness'

They say some situations are like “the blind leading the blind” as if that were a bad thing. I think we’re all blind and scrambling the world hand-in-hand with each other.

There is a man who is always outside of my building helping people park. He’ll point to the “No Parking” sign and read the fine print that reveals that the spot is valid for that time, “Here’s your proof of the truth” he says.

Today, he was walking the same way as Pickle & me. “Hey babycakes,” he says to Pickle. He always greets her like that. He also always tells me that I’m doing a good job raising my puppy and that she’s such a sweet dog. When we go out for our late-night walks, he says, “Honey, what are you doing out so late? You be careful.” I don’t even know his name, but he cares for us.

“Love ‘em” he said today, “If you show love to people, they’ll love you back. I love everyone in this city.”

“You know everyone in this city!” I said as he greeted the row of usual homeless folks on First.

“This is true, and I love them. These people here,” he pointed to the men and women sitting dirty against the buildings, “are the most protective people in Seattle; they look out for each other.”

I didn’t believe him, but on the walk back, I felt like I had my ‘in’. They all greeted Pickle and said she was a sweet dog. They didn’t ask for a penny or make rude comments or gestures. Just hello. For one of the first times since moving downtown, I felt a sense that this was how the world was supposed to be.

I’m not neglecting the fact that these people were homeless. That may sound crude, but hear me out.

At the dog park, a man with a dog named “Legacy” told me about his love for his dog and his life—a life without a home. “I chose this life. Some people pity me, but that’s fine for them.  I don’t care what they think. I love my dog, and I’m not going to do anything that puts him in jeopardy. We come to the dog park everyday, and some people don’t like me because of the way I live, but you know what? I chose this. I’ll help people—watch their dogs, brush out their dogs undercoat—and they’ll give me a few bucks; sometimes they’re really generous, giving me prepaid VISAs or buying me a meal. I don’t need to own anything. I just need my best friend.”

Don’t think me naïve. I know there are people out there who instead of helping you park, will steal your dollars, and there are people who are homeless just to haggle you, and there is a man who always stands at 4^th and Pine with a sign that says “I need me a fat bitch.” They’re out there, and they’re scary, and they’re sneaky, but I think it’s important to find the people in this city who do care for others and aren’t trying to cheat you and will protect you.

One morning, Pickle I were down at the waterfront park watching the yellows deepen the city into morning with a blissful calm. Suddenly, shattered glass and spray—a man had slammed a bottle of Jack Daniels in the sidewalk only a foot from me and my dog. Pickle started and ran to my feet. I stood in shock and bent to check her paws for glass. The man stood cussing at the air. A different man walked by and asked if we were okay. We were fine. We were more than fine because even in the unreasonable chaos of the city, a stranger bothered to make sure we were alright.

This is the city: people come and go, but you mostly see the same faces all over town. Even though I know only a few people, these friendly strangers make me feel like I belong here.

I haven’t been writing lately. I’ve been caught in the busyness of transition—living downtown, settling in, a new job in the works. Most of the time in my newly found adult life, I feel like I have no idea what I am doing. Looking around, I think a lot of others are just like me: doing whatever it takes to get by and find happiness.

Twice now, I have seen two different couples guiding each other through the bus tunnels: blind. Each pair did the same thing—held each other arm in arm and felt ahead with the safety poles. Somehow, I have a feeling they all made it where they were aiming to go.

So here we are—we’re all working our way through, arms outstretched before us seeking joy, but when we show love by just taking one of those arms into the arm of another, we really are just the blind leading the blind, but it’s a hell of a lot better than being alone.

Beginnings: AWP

Well, here we are: the eve of AWP. I picked up my booklets & fancy little AWP bag this afternoon, and as I passed my writing peers with their lime-green lanyards and matching bags, I felt a whir of excitement and (let’s be honest) nervousness.

My last AWP experience was quite different as I went with a small group from our college’s literary magazine. It was in Chicago—a city I’d only ever driven by—and I had no idea what I was doing. As a returning attendee, I at least understand the structure, the layout, the hectic schedules, full rooms, and buzzing bookfair—yet we’re in Seattle—the one city (aside from Florence) that I know best in the world, a place that is familiar, a place that is home, but I am surrounded entirely by strangers.

Walking through Pike Place today, I started counting lanyards—strangers coming to my city to learn about writing, teaching, publishing. In the registration hall, couples and crews gathered around tables, flipping through the schedule of seminars. I figured I’d save my planning for tonight since I wanted to enjoy a precious day of Seattle sun.

Maybe that wasn’t the best idea. Exhausted yet motivated, here I am: booklets sprawled over my bed, trying to plan a day by narrowing down the five to ten seminars each hour that interest me most to the one I will attend for each time block.

By the time I made it through the day’s list, I realized I reserved no time to go to the bookfair, to eat, or to even take a short break—everything is back-to-back-to-back.

Now it’s nearly tomorrow, and I know I need to sleep soon in order to be up, ready, and present for the 9:00 session, but all I want to do is write. So… in order to go learn, listen, and absorb all that I can to improve my writing life, I have to decide if it’s worth sacrificing time to write now when the muses begin to sing?