an encouragement to writers (I think)

I get into these moods where I suddenly think that I don’t need sleep because my life should be spent reading and writing and learning instead of sitting idle in bed. I guess it’s more of a season than a mood because it lasts a bit longer and tends to happen after Daylight Savings, when the days get just little longer, and I start to think that I can be everything at once.

I’ll come home from work and explore the outside world: walking the dog, going to the park, watching the dusk, sitting on the rocks watching the shore. And when I come in, I suddenly find that I have a whole evening to spend as I please—read, write, & repeat.

Somehow, I constantly seem to be simultaneously reading 5-8 books at a time. I keep, well, multiple books of poetry on my nightstand as well as a solid novel to trudge through a little at a time. My purse has a Kindle plus a paperback, always. Literary journals are scattered over my apartment—on the windowsill, on the back of the toilet, on the tv stand. As are Bibles. And journals, notebooks, and Post-Its. This sounds very scattered, but I like to think it’s an organized chaos such that a visitor wouldn’t notice how frantic my attempts at intellectuality really are.

The most clutter at my apartment is on my bookshelves, and I like it that way. They are overflowing, yet I never seem to have enough. It’s like how they say when you pull out one hair, three more grow in its place—when I read one book, well, you can finish the rest. Sometimes I scan the shelves for the books I haven’t read and I wonder if I will get to read them all in my life. I think of my Grandpap, who has read all of his books, many multiple times through. I hope I can do the same, though I don’t think I’ll ever catch up. I’m still not through the Classics let alone reading books from present-day.

Then there’s writing. If I spend all of my time reading, when will I write? When will I do things to write about? It’s a very amusing circuit of constant discomfort: not reading enough, not writing enough, not living enough.

I do believe this to simply be the nature of the writer’s life: nothing satisfies. Even when we think it does, like having time to write, the words are all wrong, and we feel just as unsatisfied as if we hadn’t written at all.

I used to be single-minded: one book at a time, one poem at a time, one post at a time. Now I find that I am reading more than I can comprehend, writing such random things that I have half-poems and lost paragraphs in scattered documents on my computer’s desktop (just tonight I’ve started and not nearly made sense of three different pieces), random notes on my phone, computer, and Post-Its that haven’t made it to my notebook, and I am wondering why I ever thought I needed sleep to begin with.

There came a time last summer when I decided 5 hours of sleep was plenty for a young woman. I created a pattern of what I would read when and what I would write when. I actually woke up at 5am to read the Bible then force myself into poetry. I was coming out of a long season of not writing a single poem for months on end, and I was desperate to write something. Since winter, I’ve become a bit of a bear, soaking in all the sleep I can with the long dark nights; summer leaves no excuse for sleep.

I do this a lot—force myself into patterns that I pray will become daily rituals but usually whither after a few months. I suppose I’m doing so now with my new-found motivation, but I will always pray that the muses would keep me company even when I don’t feel like thinking let alone putting thought to paper.

Just now, I turned to stare at my bookshelf as I waited for the next sentence, actually more like wondering why I am even writing these (I guess I’m documenting these words as encouragement for when this season ends or returns; I’ll need reminded.)  My bookshelves say: Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, no, yes, yes, yes, no, no, yes…tallying which books I’ve read vs. haven’t. I do this frequently. When I finally decided to “invest” in a second bookshelf, I told my then-roommate that I thought I had finally reached a point where the number of books on my shelf I had read out numbered those I hadn’t. Time for more books, I thought. Got to keep the balance in-flux.

The funny thing is, there are some books I have that I can’t imagine ever reading, but they have sentimental value, and who knows? Maybe someday I will. Like No Latitude for Error by Sir Edmond Hilary. As a sprouting teen, I thought I would, but now I realize that I simply hold onto it because it is the only book I have autographed (I despise autographed things), but this one is different because: 1) of Hilary’s accomplishments 2) because the book was my dad’s dad’s and then my dad’s and now mine. It has its own lineage and lives on the same shelves it has for many years now, shelves my dad built when he was in high school.

I guess it’s all a bit of idolatry. Sometimes I ponder the point of learning if we all end up in the ground anyways. A bit morbid, I know, but with how easy it has become to publish your own books and send them off for no one to read makes me uneasy. Like anyone is a writer now just because they can get published. Not that I don’t think anyone could be a writer. I just think there is a distinction between a writer and an author, and people desperate to get published get those confused and rush into becoming a title on a shelf instead of an impact in the hearts and minds of readers. (At Barnes & Noble, the cashier asked me to sign the receipt; I told him I’d rather be signing a book; he asked if I was an author. No, I said, I’m a writer.) And the people who confuse the two and skip straight to author try to escape what I’m going through right now—the ebbing seasons of the writer’s life: the hypnotic chaos of feeling inadequate, then motivated; accomplished, then purposeless.

An artist does not choose this—it is simply in his blood, his being, his life and work. There is no joy without it and limited joy with it. But there is hope.

no more when

As a kid, we would sit at the dinner table as a family. Every night. Our dad would get up for something from the fridge, and my sister and I would whine, “Could you bring over the milk please?”

“What, are your legs broke?” Dad would reply.

“Yes.” Neither of us ever broke a bone growing up (save my arm, but I was so little it doesn’t count). It must have been the milk.

Sounds like tough love, but he always brought it over. He’d hold the bulging gallon over our glasses, “Say when.” “That’s enough!” we’d screech, but he’d keep pouring until we said, “When!!! When!”

The childhood memories are sweet, but I’m done saying “when.” I’ve spent too many of my twenty-two years saying when.

I walk around acting like I’m much older than I am, sweeping into routines, settling into Seattle like it’s where I’ll live out my days. You know what? I have shit that I want to do in my life, and if I’m going to act old, I better get the experience to back it up.

This is what I decided while washing the dishes. I was cleaning up after having people over last night, ladies from church. While I enjoy their company; in groups, I don’t feel close to anyone, making me mostly feel awkward, even as a host. Then why do I do it? Why do I insist on having groups over instead of inviting individuals? There’s a popular list going around on those silly “feed” sites that says “30 things you should stop doing to yourself” or something like that. I perused through it during my morning browse of Facebook while my eyes adjusted to being awake (disgusting, I know). Anyway, one of the items really stood out to me, and it was “stop spending time with the wrong people”. I realized that I do that a lot. I put myself into situations where I am uncomfortable and then consequently whine about it.

I’ve been in such a whirl lately. You know, the usual—who am I, what am I doing here, what does my life mean—kind of thoughts. I’ve finally settled in. I know I keep saying it, but I mean it this time. I feel totally settled into my “new” apartment now that my lease is 1/6 of the way over. I’m so content with my surroundings—I love my place, my furniture, my dog, my city. My my my. I know that life is more than things, but it seems like what we do as careers all drive for the success of things, so what can we do but embrace them?

I’m taking part in this project sort deal. It’s called 100 Happy Days. Every day, I take a photo of something that makes me happy that day, with the goal of slowing down and appreciating life. It didn’t take long for me to notice that many of my images were things—flowers, a new table, the like. So I decided to move my focus away from things. Just this afternoon, I realized that now my photos are essentially just my dog. I love my dog. Very much. But there are more relationships in this world to be had than just with my four-legged furball.

Also while washing the dishes (they’re still waiting to be finished; I just had to stop and write), I was planning all of these words in my head, really getting myself going on this big encouraging shpeal about how I was going to move to Paris with my dog, and everything would be great. No more whens.

I began listing out the whens that I’ve held onto so far:

·      when I pay off my student loans…

·      when I have a car again…

·      when I have more work experience..

·      when I get my Master’s degree…

·      when I get poems published….

·      when I meet a man…

The list keeps going. I started thinking about how I would phrase my France dream without the ‘when’s. I have a pair of friends currently in France for their two-week honeymoon—isn’t that a romantic idea? But it’s not enough for me. I tell myself that I shouldn’t plan out my “live in France for a year” dream because there are so many “if”s: what if I love my career too much? what if I can’t save enough for it? what if I get into grad school? (and the big if…) what if I meet a man? I’ve decided that were I to let a man get in the way of my dreams, I would be cheating myself—this is why I am in Seattle after all—I’m living my own life; I’m not getting caught up in relationships in my new life (not to say I don’t want a boyfriend, I do, but I’m not ready to get married, which to me is pretty much the point of dating, therefore, I don’t—this opinion changes on a daily basis).

Sure dreams change, but you can’t wait for change. I know that I need to try things. I’ve always been one to set my mind on things, make them happen, and I’ve (painfully) learned that if I don’t like it, I can move on to new dreams. Who says you can’t have it all? Seriously. What are those people hoping for? I just want a simple life—simply adventurous, simply joyous, simply free.

Now that I’ve said all that, got my self-pep talk back on, I can confidently tell you, that while washing the dishes, building up my dreams, I suddenly gasped and the exhale was instant tears and that embarrassing loud sob that only comes out when we know we are really alone (aside from the dog who tilts her head and looks on with concern wondering what beast has taken over her friend). But that alone sob—that’s why I was sobbing—I am alone. Alone. No one holds my hand or kisses me goodnight. How did I reach this in my pep talk? (I do prefer to travel alone.) I reached the ultimate “when” of my past: when Derek _________.

Take your pick:

·      when Derek gets better

·      when Derek can walk

·      when Derek graduates college

·      when Derek isn’t doing as well

·      when Derek can’t going out any more

·      when Derek dies

None of my five-year plans included the last one until the summer I was in Italy, and he was so sick, and he died a month after I got home. Of course I hadn’t expected it so soon—five-year plan here. It took me a while to come to terms with that—I had planned a part of my life to start after he was gone. That sounds sick, jaded, disturbed, but I’ve always believed myself to be realist. However, in my realism, I didn’t account for the fact that Derek’s death would entirely shake me to hollow bones and redirect the entire course of any plan I thought I had. I guess that’s the karma there—you think you have plans? No, no, dear.

So this is how I got to be a twenty-two year old single woman sobbing in the kitchen with a plate in my hand. I was beginning to plan out the next ‘when’, and it finally hit me that you can’t base life around the unexpected, like death. Isn’t the whole point to keep going until you stop? If I wait around for everyone else’s lives to stop, I will realize that I never let mine begin. People I love will go away many times in my life, that is certain, but that doesn’t change dreams, only temporary plans.

I love my family. I love my friends. I love all of the people in my life (just maybe not in groups). I know this; they know this (I hope). But I don’t think they know that me wanting to go do my thing does not mean that I don’t want to spend time with them. Maybe this is just my “coming of age” realization (a little delayed), but somehow I’m getting older, and pieces are coming together (and then apart again, or sometimes shuffled) of really, what is happiness to me?

So no more ‘when’s. No more ‘if’s. I’m just going to do it. I have a dream in my mind, and I’m going to aspire toward it until it happens. I know that the plans won’t be the same from day one, but the end goal is until I try it.

“What, are your legs broke?” No, and even if they were, couldn’t stop me; Derek couldn’t walk, and he pushed full-force ahead. Carpe fucking diem. Besides, my desires are now bigger than a glass of milk.

oneyearlater

It would rain today.

My roommate now has a boyfriend, so our Friday night movies are officially over as marked by today—rain. No good to do much outside as the first of fall’s gloom settles in: a teaser of what’s to come. I’m starting to understand Seattle’s seasons.

I tried to make plans but failed. Most of them in my head, making up reasons that people couldn’t come over or me just not wanting to go out. So I didn’t. Pickle and I stayed in.

“Standing on the fringes of life offers a unique perspective.”

Pickle & I, well, I watched The Perks of Being a Wallflower. There is a small list of reasons this movie ended up in my DVD player:

1. the book has been a favorite since middle school

2. the sound track is perfect

3. Emma Watson

4. it was on sale at Target

5.  it makes Pittsburgh real—it drives me right through the Fort Pitt tunnel: sense of home

Tomorrow, my parents will pack a big ol’ truck and come to Seattle. They are bringing the rest of my life out. The material things, anyways—the bookshelf my dad made many moons ago; the turtle house my dad and I made two years ago; my pet tortoise who lives in the turtle house, of course; a kiln by which I have yet to make new things; the books that have comforted me like a wool blanket—heavy and warm. They’re bringing all of it out here just for me. So many miles.

I can’t help but think that this is it—the one-year mark. Monday will make it official—August 5^th.  Remember how a year ago, I was climbing in the window of my wretched first place here? I'm only on my third apartment...My “plan” was to come here, get a degree, and leave to sunnier skies. Well, I got here, and that’s about as much of that list as I’ve accomplished. I have no intention of leaving anything soon.

Funny how determined we can be once our minds are made up. Like how it had to be that I would stay home with Derek. Like how I had to graduate early and move far away. Like how that far away had to be Seattle, not Arizona.

Lately, when I look at the Space Needle at night, wholly illuminated such that it glows more than the others buildings, I can only think it must be fake. It cannot really be there; I cannot really be here. How did I get here? How has a whole year passed already? I guess it’s really only like eleven months actually in Seattle if you count all of my road trips and escapes; nearly a whole month on the road, out of the city.

And here I am preparing to sell my car. No more open road. This country girl is ready for a new kind of adventure: full immersion in the city. We already live in Uptown, walking distance to all we need; bus to everything we don’t; bike to everything in-between. When I bought my car three years ago, I told myself that I would drive it until it died—it’s a ’99 Subaru and had 51,000 miles on it at the time. 40-some thousand miles later, it’s still running strong, but I just don’t need it.

That car carried me back and forth to Waynesburg for a whole semester. It lost a mirror parked out on the street there. It got its door jammed in the day of Derek’s funeral. It drifted through the winding hills of Kentucky and the unseen horizon of Texas and the brilliant New Mexican stars and back again. Then through the National Parks and Monuments on the drive West to Seattle. Then through snow storms and desert in the same trip to Phoenix and back.

Damn.

In the movie, they’re listening to “Heroes” by David Bowie and driving through the Fort Pitt tunnel, and they come out to the Pittsburgh skyline and the bridges and the signs. “Monroeville>>>>>” I think of the times I took that exit, the brilliance of the city that I didn’t see too often.

One morning in particular comes to mind. I dropped my parents off at the airport. It was two weeks before Derek died. I had just gotten back from Italy a week or two before. The world was new to me. Derek was going to get better. I was home again. We were going have a great semester together. This was how the world was always supposed to be.

It was four in the morning. The sky was pink with the strange light of dawn not yet peaked coming over Appalachia. The city was quiet, still. The freeway was a glorious open-air speed path before me, unlike the tight curves that led to the stuffy hospital every day.

My iPod was on shuffle. The windows were down. “On the Bus Mall” by the Decemberists came on, a song I had somehow never noticed.

“And in that moment, I swear we were infinite.”

The Seattle of the East

I'm slightly certain that I have been so busy and drinking so much that my body hasn't even had time for a hangover, resulting in feeling generally bad at present.

Being home has been an odd dreamland. Dad and I went to load wood yesterday, and somehow, it was different. The trees didn't smell like they used to. The wind blew wood chips into my eyes. As I stood on the tailgate, looking up across Grandpap's land, through the fields, between the trees, up the hill, I saw our house. I imagined it in city blocks: how many tall buildings and crosswalks would it take to get home? Is my bus stop that far?

Everywhere I have gone here seems unreal. We visited Waynesburg, and as I sat in the library, looking over Buhl hall, I wondered if the silent boy beside me was really there, if the people walking on the sidewalks were real, if my surroundings were solid or if they would just disappear in the pinch of crinkled eyelids.

I wonder how Seattle and Pittsburgh could possibly exist simultaneously. Somehow, this reminds me of how Pastor Adam says that our lives our totally our choice but totally god's will at the same time. Certain and uncertain, decided and undecided. Existing but not. Being in Pennsylvania, Seattle has seemed to disappear from my scope of reality.

We drove Katlin and Jake to the airport this morning. As we rounded the bend on 386, the city of Pittsburgh stood tangled between rivers. That's it? That was the big bad city that we scarcely ventured to during my twenty years in the area? A few tall buildings scattered across the landscape like a losing game of chess?

I got curious and looked up the stats. People-wise, Pittsburgh is half the size of Seattle. I'm still shocked. I go through downtown Seattle every day.

Funny how these realizations happen: my life has changed and grown more than I thought.

I will learn to love the rain. Part Two.

Picture it. Me--the person who scrunches out her shoulders, shrinking her head down like a turtle in its shell when the rain starts--walking in pouring rain at 9:15am on the way to work. I just got off the bus and am walking three or four blocks to my building. The rain is gathering in the sidewalk dips, and as it was when I was a child, the puddles are so tempting. When I see bodies of water, I just want to be in it, which I guess be a bit contradictory to my sentiments towards the rain.

I will learn to love the rain.

I'm a sucker for temptation. I look at my feet and decide to test out my rainboots. As I walk, I am always humming or whistling or scatting or singing. On this day, I decided to make up my own song, and for some reason, it came out in a British accents. With each step I reached my legs far enough to splash in small puddles. I walked carelessly and probably looked drunk. Each step splooshed and sent water upwards.

"Raiiin boots! Raiiiin boots! Splash-ing in pud-dles in my raiiin boots!!" I chimed in-time with my steps and an unbreakable smile on my face. I like watching the water's reaction to my heavy feet against its surface.




Of course, each day ends, and as I left that same day, I saw the much larger puddles that had gathered throughout the day. I reasoned: I no longer needed to look presentable. I took a running start and jumped up, propelling my body forward like a kangaroo.

SKLOOUSH!!

The water seemed to move in slow motion. It felt heavy in the air and reached my legs in thick splatters. I was soaked to my knees while other streams sporadically sprayed up my thighs. I fell forward in landing and laughing and kept walking.

As I arrived at a street-crossing, the light was red. I searched my iPod to fit my mood and put on "No Rain" by Blind Melon. I loudly started singing along and swaying. Then I caught motion on the sidewalk in my peripheral. I looked over and to my surprise, my co-worker, Marc, was standing next to me. "OH HEY!" I said too loudly as I pulled a speaker bud out of my ear. We then carried out a normal conversation, and I didn't even act sheepish about my outburst of song (Julia Child--NEVER APOLOGIZE, blog post #2?). This was our first actual conversation since I started work, so we were really only covering the basics: where are you from, where are you now, etc.

We walked briskly, and soon, the rain started again. We both ignored it and kept talking and kept walking. Oh yeah, I'm a Seattleite.




Tonight, I called my dad on the two-mile walk to my bus home. It's nice to have some company during the walk, and I had missed a call from him earlier in the week.

"I like to walk home to the Pike St. bus stop on nice evenings," I told him. "It's not even raining! Can you believe it?"

I spoke too soon. As I was passing Safeco Field, the rain started. I thought it would just be light and ignorable like it was when Marc & I walked right through it. Soon, waves of rain swayed in the wind. Oh boy.

I dug through my bookbag for my umbrella. The wind blew it open. OH BOY.

I was still on the phone with Dad, "I will learn to LOVE the rain!" I repeated. This mantra never gets old. He laughed. "You know you want to come join me in the rain," I said, laughing too.

Not as confident in rain AND wind, I shrunk my body against itself, huddled under my practically useless umbrella. I slipped my bookbag around to my front, though it was already soaked. The wind pushed the rain against me, urging me forward and soaking my entire backside.

I thought back to my trek across the Ballard bridge. I'm pretty sure I was ready to cry then, but here I was now LAUGHING.




Of course, I'm not there yet. I still have a long ways to go. I've been fortunate enough to only have puddles to maneuver on my runs thus far, and my waterproof sneakers seem to be handling that alright, but I'm still nervous for running in actual rain. I know it will be soon. Mostly, I just never know what to do with my eyes--they want to shut against the sharp, cold pellets, but I need to see! Haven't figured that one out yet.

Regardless, I have lived in Seattle for approximately fourteen weeks, and I'm not a total hermit. That's good, right?

I will learn to love the rain.

Like my want for health, I have to constantly be on myself about it. To be fit, you can't just try to lose weight and then quit when it happens. You have to keep up the hard work--constantly eat well and move much. Now, to make this rainy season part of my lifestyle, I have to constantly face the rain and appreciate the wet.

I will learn to love the rain.

delicates.

A week ago, I sat in the laundromat, trying to focus on Annie Dillard, but was distracted: by the hum of the machines, by the ranting of the owner in a language that I do not know, and by the dull, happy buzzing in my mind resulting from talking to a good friend for the first time in a while.

As I watched my clothes spin, the machine shook violently, and I thought of how careful I had been in getting my clothes into the washer. I made sure that my laundry bag didn't touch the ground on the way to the shop, even though the bag was heavy and the clothes already dirty. I made sure that each shirt and sock was right-side-out and gently tossed, fairly flat, into the front-loading bowl. Here they were now: being tossed and shaken and vibrated into some sort of cleanliness.

I couldn't help but wonder why I had taken so much time to make sure that everything seemed perfect. I wanted every detail to be right; it made me feel together: whole. With my clothes washed right-side-out, I won't have to worry about them stretching were I to wait to turn them later. Why does it matter? Why treat things so gently? The funny part, to me, was that even though we can take care of our "stuff" as good as possible, when we send it to the outside world, it's thrown about like a snowball--picking up dirt and other things that stick before being tossed to blend with the whole: smashed into an unrecognizable collage of what used to be individual.

I thought about other items that we do this with: luggage, mail. These items that we pack so carefully, ensuring every detail is correct, double-checking that we didn't forget anything.

Mail--Stamp? check. Contents? check. Return address? check.
Luggage--Shampoo? check. Toothbrush? check. Clean underwear? check.

It goes on in this pattern, even though these things are just going to find their way into a pile somewhere after being thrown around and smashed about. I began to wonder if the delicate care even mattered; what if I just threw my clothes into a ball and tossed them in the washer. Wouldn't they still come out clean?

I took a step back and thought about it again. Sure, the clothes would be clean, but not as good as when  well cared-for. Then I realized that, maybe it wasn't the things that I was focusing on--I mean, sure, my disgust in how particular I am about worldly items spurred these thoughts, but I soon recognized myself in the washer rotations.

Here I am: out in the world on my own. Sure, it's been rough with graduate school not quite working out how I thought and having difficulty finding a job, but I'm still in one piece. Why? Because I was well-prepared. Because my parents took the time and the energy to make sure that I was right-side-out--a good education, a diploma under my belt, and a solid family upbringing--before tossing me into the machinations of a new city and a great, big world.

And just as the washer sent my clothes out beaten but clean, I hope that the world makes kind enough to do the same for all of us--children nurtured and sent into the dirty hands of the world, but with enough strength and capability to come out better than before, just as the mail and the luggage comes through the other side and into the right hands.

As a final note, I think it will; sometimes, the washer needs to run just a little longer; sometimes, there are some delays in the post; sometimes, the luggage gets a little lost on the conveyor belt, but eventually, it arrives. I've learned that well the past few weeks, and luckily, this wash cycle is up for a while: I got a job!

The Raven and other thoughts

In the holiday spirit of Halloween, all I can think of is Edgar Allan Poe. He's really the reason that I ever took an interest in poetry. Well, actually, it's because my dad would read me Poe until I could read it myself. My first and favorite poem was "The Raven"; I was in first grade. I even memorized the first stanza or so. Anytime an opportunity came up with the "--or" sound, we would rhyme out loud, "Quoth the raven, 'Nevermore!'"

In the evenings, after elementary school and before I got into after-school activities like bowling and band and basketball, I would change in to my pajamas and curl my lanky limps on my dad's lap. Together, we read books like The Mad Scientist Club and The Yearling. I was a fast learner when it came to reading, and I have him to thank. We read most every night, as long as we were done before eight o'clock when Mom would watch "Wheel of Fortune" and we'd all race to solve the puzzles before the contestants. Some nights, we only got a few pages read, but it always felt like an accomplishment.

It especially felt that way because I was still just starting to read. We had a few kid's books but not many, save for an entire Dr. Seuss collection. They were fine, but I liked the books that Dad gave me. They suited us in some way. They seemed boyish, but I loved being a Daddy's girl. I would read aloud until I got to a word that I didn't know or couldn't pronounce, and Dad would help me out.

I just got a flash of the To Kill a Mockingbird film scene of Atticus and Scout reading together. How lovely. (Dad, you give Gregory Peck a run for his money!)

Photo from: http://www.imdb.com/media/rm3306404608/tt0056592

So "The Raven" was way up there on our reading list. I wonder if my dad ever got tired of hearing that same poem again and again. I just loved the rhymes and the stanzas and the eery feeling that I certainly didn't understand at six and seven years old.

Sometimes, even now, as I age into my twenties, I still sit on my dad's lap when we're at the table after dinner or at a holiday get-together. At first he always whines that I'm too big for that, but then he laughs and wraps his arms around me in a squeeze, saying, "Aw! My Daddy's girl!" We don't read together anymore because now, I do the writing.

Here is a link to 'The Raven' by Poe.

Oh, and my dad's birthday was October 30th! Happy birthday, Dad!

PaperMe

In elementary school, I did a project on buttes and plateaus--what the differences are between them, what they look like. My dad and I worked in our basement on a model, old coffee cans used to base the paper-mache models. We added layer after layer. My dad has an eye for detail. As the model dried, it was time to paint. We started with a brown base, then added varying shades of tan and grey.

"You need a river going down between the canyons," Dad pointed. So I painted a blue line trailing along the apparant canyon.

I thought of this while on the road this week. As we drove across Arizona from Phoenix to at least the California border, I watched the mountains, the canyons, the buttes, the plateaus. I was reminded of why I loved this land in the first place, how even in second or third grade I was drawn to study the place that I called my second-home, even if I was only there two weeks out of the year. The landscape colored me, coupled by the comfort of family, Arizona called me.

I thought I needed to be there. I often still do.

A few years after the paper-mache landscape, in art class, we created life-sized figure drawings of ourselves. We were then told to mail them to other people and have those people take a picture with "paper me" and mail back the drawing and the photo to  be displayed at the upcoming art show. I remember sending PaperMe to my Aunt Necie, who took a picture making snow angels with paper me in her yard.

Then, I sent PaperMe West to Aunt Sharon and Uncle Tom, who took a picture of the three of us--paper me stuck to a large saguaro in front of their house, aunt and uncle on either side. But the mailing to Arizona took nearly a week then, and PaperMe didn't make it back.

My art teacher had me quickly draw up another one to display with my photos. I scurried crayons and colored pencils into crooked lines that couldn't nearly match the hard work of the original--the real one, in which I had put so much of myself, as artists do. The re-make was simply a shell, a fill-in-the-blank replica. This wasn't PaperMe at all.

She was still in Ariziona, and maybe she still is.

When I first arrived in Mesa on Saturday, the hot air hit me all at once, and I smelt the instant warm of desert, of childhood summers, of a sunlit, familiar sense of home. I hadn't flown into Mesa before, and as we left the plane, we walked right onto the tarmac. I found my way to the door, and soon enough, my cousin Sunny purred around the bend on his motorcycle. I hopped on (yes, Mom, I wore a helmet), and we smoothly navigated highway through desert.

The sun seaped into my desperate skin, and I closed my eyes and leaned back against the seat. The hairs on my arms danced in waves. My breath was slow, concentrated. I smiled uncontrollably, taking in every second of the limited days of my visit, and I thought, maybe this is enough.