citiesofyouth

Lying on my bed, I watch the leaves of the weeping fig shake in the brief passing of the oscillating fan. This is the city.

We got the tree because we wanted to “green” up our apartment. Essentially, we just wanted a hanging plant to go in the little half-wall nook between our two areas. When I saw the tree, though, I knew it was coming home with us. I need more trees in my life.

Tonight, we went to South Lake Union Park for a picnic with our church family. There were maybe fifty or sixty people, and we talked, played Frisbee, walked along the water, munched on snacks. Sometimes, it’s hard to believe that so much grassy green could exist amidst a bustling metro of nearly 600,000 people.

I also have a hard time believing that we could walk there, a simple mile and a half, and so soon, be back in the homey yet modern Uptown with its big apartment complexes and city views. And, of course, my weeping fig.

I went for a run yesterday. The first official run of my “training.” I’m afraid to say it here in case I wimp out, but I will anyways. I am training to run a half-marathon on September 7^th.  It’s a jumbo birthday present to myself: meeting a goal that I set for this year. However, yesterday was only day one, a plain jog of three miles. But there is a first day to everything. Hopefully, fourteen weeks from now, I will be running 13.1 miles around Lake Chelan. I have until July to register, so until I officially sign up, it’s all just talk.

Anyways, I went for a run. I crossed the bridge to the usual park and took the trail nearly to Magnolia and back: a nice little 5K in about 30 minutes. Not too shabby for a first run after a long hiatus.

Dusk was creeping over the Sound, leaving trails of pink in the blue sky, but Mount Rainier stood strong and white in the East. The running path glides right beside Puget Sound for several miles. On my run back, I got to stare at the view—the mesh of mountain and metro. Seattle’s streak of steel presents a foreground that, while beautiful in its own way, cannot match the daunting awe of the mountain.

City. Creation. Contrast.

Sometimes I wonder what on earth I am doing in Seattle, how I got to be here. But I really can’t imagine myself anywhere else right now. Though I am young, I find that this is exactly where I belong.

And gosh am I young. Sometimes I forget it. A silly little number attached to our bodies is a terrible representation of who we are in life, but it’s a funny thing anyways. I try to make it a point to find out how old people are, mostly just because it always amazes me. Everyone here looks like they are eternally 22.

When will I learn what is ‘young’? I pile on endless goals that don’t get reached and obstacles to push myself harder because, well gosh, I haven’t even submitted ANY poems ANYWHERE since graduating college a year ago (really? a whole year?), and I’ve only done one painting since moving to Seattle, and I haven’t learned a new song in weeks, and I have so many books that I’m just in-the-middle-of, and I have so much to do before I die!

I’m still not entirely sure for whom I do it all, or aspire to do it all, anyway.

Regardless, I find myself trying too hard and achieving too little. I’ve at least learned to be very lax in my goals. I don’t feel overwhelmed if I don’t get that sketch done or write that poem. I have notes for it all, and it will happen eventually.

The strange conundrum of being young is wanting to achieve it all now, yet knowing I have the rest of my life, yet not knowing how long the rest of my life is. It’s a strange balancing act that relies on endless tomorrows.

For now, I will lean on the words, “Be happy, young man, while you are young, and let your heart give you joy in the days o your youth.” Ecclesiastes 11:9

my Charles Wallace

I just finished reading through A Wrinkle in Time Trilogy. As I moved pagepagepage through each book, I found myself hanging on to pieces of the previous. I hung on to the magic in A Wrinkle in Time and the way that it awakened my imagination, poking at the long unused sections of my brain like the soft and gushy meat in the grocery fridge.

(Vegan aside: despite my meat-free diet, I have never been able to help myself when passing the vacuum-sealed meat in the grocery. My mom always told me not to touch, but it was so squishy and unfamiliar--and to think of its source! And how different it looks cooked. And that somewhere inside us, in a different, but similar, form, we are that!)

I'm still hanging on A Wind in the Door. Charles Wallace is to Meg what Derek is to me. My brother. We could kythe (a form of telepathy in the book) and understand each other in ways that others couldn't. We knew each other's needs without saying them out loud. In this second book in the series, Charles Wallace becomes quite ill, his lungs weakening, the farandola failing to "deepen". All along, all that I wanted was to become Meg, to be taken under the literal wing of a cherubim and delve into Derek's being and encourage his muscle cells to keep fighting the Echthroi, convince them to deepen.

Part of me wanted Charles Wallace to die in the book. I wanted there to be some realism to the fantasy. I wanted to know that even if I could have done the impossible, things would have still happened this way.



On Friday, I fell asleep on the bus. I had gotten up at 4:30am to go to work early, which ended up being much earlier than I anticipated because as I got ready, I soon realized that getting up at 4:30 was ridiculously unnecessary to catch the bus. I arrived promptly at 6:40, and counted down the hours until I could go back to bed.

At 3:30, I made my way home. I sat, book in lap, trying to finish A Wind in the Door when I nodded off. I awoke suddenly. A few seats over, a man was staring at me. I tried to shake off the sleep but couldn't keep my head up. At each stop, my eyes jumped out the window to catch the name of the bus station. I managed to not miss my transfer, and rejuvinated after my nap, my eyes were locked in that lefttoright repeating line like a typewriter's paper roll--so locked in that I was entirely oblivious on my second bus.

There was a sudden turn and sharp incline. I've ridden this bus plenty and don't remember this road... "Next stop, Newell Street". Not one I remembered. I waited one more stop and noticed that we were on 9th avenue. My stop is several stopped prior along 10th.

"Did you already stop at Halladay?" I asked the driver. I was the last person on the bus.

"Yes."

I laughed and stepped down to the sidewalk. Can't be too many blocks. Surely it wasn't, and the sun was unusually bright, especially for my way home from work; I've become so used to leaving in the dark and coming home in the dark. I passed children walking home from school with their parents, and I thought how funny it is to be a child. A little girl cried to her mother about the mean kids at school. That used to be me--how I would cry and whine. What shamefully funny beings we are as children. I thought of Meg in Book 1 and how she would stamp her foot as if she were younger. But we all are that--strange little learners with a developing sense of emotion and very little grasp on why we're thrown into it all.

The wind has been particularly strong. As I walked, my hair tossed across my face, and I squinted my eyes to avoid the chill burn. It was an autumn wind--the late afternoon kind that brings a cold front and fallen leaves.

The only thing on my mind was A Wind in the Door. Why that title? Why Charles Wallace? Why Derek?

The past year, wind has represented a voice. At Derek's funeral, I first learned of the offering of wind chimes to the deceased's family as a token to hear that person through untranslatable tingdings and clinktinks. Dawnna and I would sit on the porch and cry because sometimes, the wind chimes sung without a breeze.

This wind is audible with chimes. It whooos and whooshes like a washing machine. It's the kind of wind that pushes you forward and slams the door behind you.

It's the kind of wind that embraces your tired bones when you're walking, silent, home from work and wondering why Meg can save Charles Wallace but you cannot.

Like a Wagon Wheel

I was walking to pick up my car from the shop. I had my headphones in and flicked my thumb up the small screen of my iPod. What to listen to...I paused on Old Crow Medicine Show. Why not?

Of course, I was naturally inclined to scroll  downdowndown to Wagon Wheel. Play.

_______________________________________

I am sitting in the Beehive, listening to Dylan August play at a fundraiser coffeehouse. Dr. Amy sits next to me and makes a small joke about the song. I nod my head, and Jonnell hums in smiles.


I am driving from Pennsylvania. I lightly hum along with the car stereo. It is near midnight on Christmas day, and the dark hills of Kentucky swallow me in their climbing curves. Katlin is sleeping in the backseat as my mother sits next to me, trying to keep her eyes open.


I am walking around the house. Sam is walking around the house. We are getting ready to go hiking. As we pass each other, our bare feet on cold tiles, we don't even look at one another; I hear him murmuring the words as I let the melody hold in my throat.


I am sitting in a bright, familiar dining room. Martin plays guitar. I thwack terribly on a pair of spoons. Elias pops a shaker in the air. We don't all agree, but we are smiling. Kim and Julia join harmonies. We can feel the summer clouds pumping humidity into the windows.


I am sitting around a campfire in Northern California, singing with my sister and now brother-in-law. We try our best to harmonize, but the notes seem as far away as the stars that peek through the trees: smoke, fire, song.

_______________________________________

Funny how 3 minutes and 51 seconds can go so far away. I can feel the road's curves, the solid tile, the coming rain, the scent of campfire. Where are we all now?

East to Southwest. East to Northwest. North to South.
People out here measure location quite specifically with the cardinal directions. The streets are lined with signs reading, "No Parking West of Here" as if it were so clear which way that was. My friends here say they can always tell where they are because of the Sound. The Sound is always West.

Arizona, Pennsylvania, California, Washington.
Sometimes I wonder what is in-between. I've driving along the main roads there and back and back again. I've flown over the wrinkled hills and cookie-cutter fields. I know the in-between is there.

Sometimes that in-between has a way of disappearing. I have been grounded in Washington for a bit now, and some days, it's hard to remember that there is a small town called Waynesburg or that there is a big blue house tucked in the woods on the top of a hill in Westmoreland County. It's hard to realize that on that hill, the vine-coated and rusting "Handicap Pedestrian" signs no longer apply. It's hard to let it sink in that in the cleft of the road's bend, a young man in a wheelchair no longer lives. And a tall, skinny girl with short, straight hair, wandering eyes, and itchy feet has grown and fled to a foreign life.

On top of my new hill, Queen Anne, I see mountain and water. The peaks and crevasses never seem the same, yet they are somehow, day and day again. I spend my time going up and down the hill. The wave of my life, undulating in tides of hills: Mamont, Waynesburg, Seattle. Each is bigger than the last, and I wonder when the soft white cap will form a breaker. Which soggy patch of sand will swallow me in high tide?

And those 3 minutes and 51 seconds have taken me farther and closer and re-circling through the patterns of here and there.

I was walking to pick up my car from the shop, and suddenly, the whole world didn't seem so far away.

gogogo

Even the Sweethearts Candy understands.

It's a little foggy.

"Two things I ask of you, O Lord;
do not refuse me before I die:
Keep falsehood and lies far from me;
give me neither poverty nor riches,
but give me only my daily bread."
-Proverbs 30: 7-8

I walked outside at 6:30am to the thickest fog I have ever seen. The streets were quiet, insulated by the thick air. In the distance, a thick roaring fog horn blared on the minute from somewhere in Puget Sound.

Even the city is nearly silent in the quick-fading dark of morning. Only a fraction of the usual crowds meander the streets. Half-sleeping, we drone to work.

My project takes me to Bellevue several times a week. I was there all day, on the 24th floor. Yesterday, I had a late afternoon meeting. I arrived at our workspace just in time to catch the sun falling behind the Olympics, leaving a trail of orange across Lake Washington. The sky was clear, and I could see every mountain peak and the snow that softened them.

Skyscraper elevators make me queasy. They move so quickly, and I can't help but think of how vertically high my body is going so terribly fast. My body feels heavy, as if it is fighting to stay on the ground, and my head feels disconnected. I lean against the railing for support, and when I get to my floor, I enjoy the view, but I try not to look down. It's not that I'm afraid of heights--they really don't bother me--it's just something about skyscrapers that makes me uneasy; they're so unnatural.

I didn't have to worry about looking down today. When I arrived at my floor, I walked towards our workspace, only to find that the windows were completely white--a grey-ish white that felt comforting and dull. There was no ground, no sky, no lake in the distance, only white. We were living inside a cloud--in limbo, as my co-workers imagined.

"It's like we're dead. Or ghosts. I mean, of course I know we're not... but it's just so weird," one of my co-workers said as the fog laid heavy well into the afternoon. I couldn't help but imagine if I were to leap from the top of the building, would I ever land? Was there really a whole world below?

Business continued, as usual. My project is busy. My project is fast. My project is a jumble of acronyms and action items and unknown deliverables. It has been an intense week of meetings and PowerPoints and adjusting to corporate culture--a place I never thought I'd be. Sometimes in my meetings, I wonder how we let ourselves complicate life so much. Who decided that we needed segments of marketing and sub-segments and that we should measure it all with complex formulas displayed in charts and graphs? Sometimes I wonder if we aren't wasting our resources trying to solve problems that we've created. Maybe I just don't understand the set-up well enough, but it seems like it should all be much simpler.

Every day, I see my dream of simplicity slipping farther away. My new job requires a smartphone, which my company will cover, of course. Well, I made it two months without one--was it long enough to train me from technology dependence or will the convenience of having one again lure me in to the screen-phased society of a life in pixels? I hope that my values will remain true, that face-to-face connections will remain top priority. Of course simplicity can be defined in many blocks. I believe organization to be a sect, and this job surely offers that. Funny how balance can be so difficult and compromising and necessary.

Looking out at the empty fog, I wondered if that was what my brain looked like. It sure felt like that today--full of nothing. Words clogged my eardrums, and my eyelids grew heavy. The week has passed quickly; I could hardly believe it was Thursday already, but my body felt weary--I could feel the days in exhaustion more than I could sense them in time.

I love my new job. I love the opportunity, the solidity, the challenge. I feel full and happy and not too stressed yet, but I can feel it slowly creeping into a tightness in my chest. I remind myself each night to try to get lots of sleep. This job is a blessing. It has kept me from running out of funds. It has provided a means to continue on. I didn't really understand the significance of that until now. Furthermore, it nourishes my mind; it keeps me thinking and problem solving and giving. I am an elf; I am here to help.

Tonight was Community. We talked about work. I found the timing spectacular. Life is much about balance: in this instance, how do we work adequately, without doing too much or becoming lazy and doing too little? I've been thinking about it a lot since starting my first real full-time gig on Monday. I'm billable for 45 hours a week. Overtime is expected as necessary. I am required to take my computer home, even though I rarely even turn it on outside of work. Home is home; work is work. I wonder how long I will be able to keep the lines separated. I wonder how to find balance between the two. Maybe that is the greatest challenge: to work a job that is constantly forcing intense thought and devotion yet to leave it there at the end of the day, to live a life separate from the bread-earning what you do.

Sometimes its hard to remember that even office jobs are important. For some reason, I always thought that people in offices played solitaire all day while the true hard workers made the world happen: the garbage men, the service technicians, the caregivers, the waiters, and the mechanics. The thought slipped back to me yesterday as I paused to wait for a man to tap his golf ball down the hall before I could pass through. But the discussion at Community tonight was helpful: every job is important. God is in everything, in every job. Even things that seem overly complicated or insignificant are meaningful and help the world as we know it to stay together. We do not work for personal short-term gain. We work for the long-term fulfillment in pleasing our creator; we work for the long-term hope of an enduring future for generations to come. God is in every work, whether unclogging drains or putt-putting in the hallway. I needed to hear it. I needed to be reminded that my work is meaningful.

And that is enough.

As I walked home, I began to wonder if today even happened. The fog never lifted. I wonder if this is what Antarctica is like: a constant blur of white. Light stretched from the lampposts that line the streets. It broke through the fog as a plant through sidewalk cracks. I felt it pierce my skin in gentle waves--direct streams of particles in the cold.

I listened to "Universal" by Blur on my walk: It really, really, really could happen... As the song ended, I felt an odd familiarity. I stood still and listened to the silence--the same heavy silence as this morning. I imagined that when I opened my eyes, I would see the field, the barn, the two trees on the hill, the big blue house in which I grew up, fog settled between the trees and in the dip of land at the bottom of the hill. Such strong silence is a rarity in suburbia. It almost felt like the home that I knew. I thought about the bullfrogs that sang in an echoing round on summer evenings at Beaver Run. Would I hear them in summer here? Summer seems a distant memory as I see my exhaled breath and the frosty strokes of grass.

Every scenario seems to offer something new that I haven't yet experienced in this second version of life, yet it still reminds me of what I know. As I unlocked the door to my apartment, I heard the fog horn once again in the distance--my new bullfrog.

How we adjust to change; how we learn to balance new and old, work and play. How we situate ourselves into routines of joy and fulfillment and community.

How we hope for nothing more than our daily bread.

Is it ever really waiting when we're so caught up in other things?

I know that Advent is supposed to be all about waiting for Jesus' birth. I know it. For years, I've watched the wreath be lit once a week until Christmas; I've lit it myself. Yet the whole ritual hadn't even crossed my mind until my first visit to church last Sunday--already with so few candles left to light.

I accidentally stumbled into my own sort of Advent, only instead of candles, it was with writing--or reading about writing anyways. I decided a while ago that I was going to read one chapter each Sunday from Annie Dillard's The Writing Life. I thought it would be a good reminder to write and why and how and even if I still couldn't, I had this little book to tell me that was all right--sometimes you just can't write.

At only seven chapters long, it seemed an easy commitment; in less than two months, the book would be over. So every Sunday evening, I sat down in my chair for a short discussion on writing. It didn't take me long in December to realize that the last chapter would fall two days before Christmas. I saved the last chapter for tonight, like the lighting of the last candle on the wreath.



The past few days have had a lot of this waiting: when will I get to see my friends? when will the "holidays" be over? when will I get to Arizona? In much more short-term waiting, though, I made ice cream today.

It was a real spur-of-the-moment thing. I was shopping for ingredients to make some holiday nom-noms, and I saw SoyNog on sale: 2 for $5. What the heck, why not! I've been wanting to try it anyways. Once home, I poured a glass to sip as I unpacked my groceries. I stood leaning against the counter with the glass in one hand, almost to my mouth, and the carton in the other, close to my face as I read the side panels. Like the free patterns on packages of yarn, I tend to ignore the recipes on the boxes of food, but this one caught my eye: SoyNog ice cream. I perused the ingredients, and shockingly, I was well-stocked on all of them.

So I whisked and I stirred, and I heated to a boil, and I watched it thicken and bubble like pie filling. I let it cool, and read the rest of the instructions: "Chill in the refrigerator for four hours. Finish with ice cream machine as instructed." Uhh, I don't have an ice cream machine. This is why you should always read the whole recipe before starting to cook, but come on, in school, we were always told to scan a textbook's chapter before reading it, but no one actually did it.

Luckily, of course, my friend, Google, came to the rescue: "how to make ice cream without machine..." What does it require? Time, patience...waiting. The gist of what I read was basically that when the cream freezes, little ice pieces freeze first, separating from the creamy part. An ice cream machine keeps it freezing while getting that slow-churn action going to make it freeze evenly, not giving the ice pieces a chance to take the lead. How to make it without a machine? Take it out every half-hour and stir it. Okie doke. So I did. Seven hours later, I think I have--what is as close as it's going to get to--ice cream.



Of course my evening trip to the Christmas Eve service interrupted the half-hour intervals, so I had to cheat a little on the stirring. For some reason, I expected a traditional Christmas Eve. I pictured a piano as the main instrument, and the dimmed lights of the theatre would be perfect for the candle-lit exit of "Silent Night." That was what I have always known, so I didn't expect any different. When the service ended with a catchy guitar riff solo-ing its way through "Joy to the World," I was a bit thrown off. Then, to exit the theatre into a packed shopping mall with fake snow and "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" blaring from every angle just totally threw me off.

I guess the good thing about the whole Christmas Eve scenario is that it is new. This is my life now. I'm not at a dwindling Presbyterian church on a hill in the woods of Southwestern, PA. I'm not sitting next to my mother or keeping my peripheral on my cousin to check his grip on his lit candle. I'm not watching "It's a Wonderful Life" with my dad and grandma or exchanging gifts with my sister. I'm not getting up tomorrow and going to Derek's house.

I am in Seattle now. I still have to remind myself of it. I walked out to the festive, lit streets of downtown and listened to the shuffle of people. I felt like a mouse in a maze, trying to avoid running into people. The bus was my cheese, and I made it just in time.

When I got off the bus, my neighborhood was eerily quiet. Usually, I can hear the chatter of people in the distance or a dog's collar jingling against its leash or drops of rain falling from the tips of leaves and branches in a passing breeze. After the bus turned off, and the hydraulics puffed out their quick sigh, there was nothing but my breath and my steps. I looked at the moon, half-hiding in thick clouds, seeming exceptionally small and distant. I imagined the street lamps were candles and sang "Silent Night" until I couldn't remember the words.



I've been really fighting the idea of holidays this year. For a while, I had convinced myself that I was going to sit at home by myself and pretend like it was Boxing Day, and Christmas was a passing thought. The idea seemed appealing until I was out of work, spending most days home in the same patterns of knitting and reading because apparently my body decided that it didn't need to sleep until the hour hit well into tomorrow. Not only was the dull pattern forcing me to keep track of the days, but almost everyday, I got a Christmas card in the mail. Each time, I was surprised and happy: someone remembered me, even though I'm all the way on the other side of the compass.

Try as I might, I couldn't fully resist the holiday spirit. The problem with embracing it, though, is that then I have to also accept the other side: the absence and the grief.

Several years ago, our Touring Choir at school sang in a December service called "The Empty Chair." As I sat and reflected on how blessed I was that all of the chairs at our table were full, I was deeply moved by the sad faces staring back at the choir: the people who had one less place-setting that year.

Today, I think about a lot of things and a lot of empty chairs. I think about the families in Connecticut who are missing their little ones. I selfishly think about Derek. I think about how even though other people are grieving such deep, still-bleeding wounds, I find myself picking the scabs as if it could get me any closer to him.

I think about how we're all at the same table. How many people can gather around for Christmas and honestly say they aren't missing someone? I wonder if my family misses me at their table. I think about how some people don't even have a table or a meal or a family to celebrate with. Celebrate. Celebration. Christmas is a celebration of life, of birth, of light, and yet I have all of these big, sad feelings hovering over me like tonight's cloudy moon.



As I walked home from my bus stop, I looked at the houses with their bright lights and colorful decorations. I thought about how it seemed not too long ago that they were decorated with Halloween. I thought about how not too long before that, I had never even seen these streets.

Now the waiting is over. It's Christmas: Eve & Day and day-after. It still doesn't quite feel like it. Maybe because there were guys wearing shorts outside the other day. Maybe because, like last year, I've been focusing my thoughts on Arizona. Maybe it's because the only sign of Christmas at my apartment is the array of sparkling cards tacked to my wall. (Even though I really hate decorating, Christmas at home wouldn't feel right without the tree and the same ornaments every year and my mother's ga-zillion cat decorations: cats in scarves and sleeping cats and cats hanging from garland.)

I've decided that you know you're an adult when the most exciting thing you can do for yourself for the holiday is to take your sheets to the laundromat. That and cook. I don't mind laundry, and I like to cook, so I guess this "adult" thing is alright.

So I've stopped fighting the fact that it's Christmas. It's here. No more anticipation. No more waiting. Yeah, it's not a Christmas I have ever known before, but I'm trying not to let my head get too clogged with thoughts about trying not to think about the things that are actually on my mind and just let the day be and (try to) accept the adjustments.

Now I'll snuggle into my clean sheets, with that last spoon of SoyNog ice cream that didn't fit in the Tupperware still on my tongue, and I'll watch "White Christmas," thinking about our annual White Christmas Party and thinking about my friends in Waynesburg and Pennsylvania, and the people I miss there and elsewhere and the people I miss no matter where I go. And that all still sounds so sad, and I don't mean for it to. I'm counting my blessings, and they are many.

"When I'm worried and I can't sleep, I count my blessings instead of sheep, and I fall asleep counting my blessings..."

transition

I seem to be caught in a hamster ball rolling down a spiral staircase with about twelve landings on the way. I'm going and going, bouncing and thwacking my way down, then there's a nice gentle roll for about a month, then its klunk, thwap, hugh. I'm not really sure where I am right now. I've grown so dizzy that it's starting to feel the same.

What I mean to say is that even though I've been in Seattle four months now, I'm still not settled. I'm still trying to find my place and feel a bit stuck in the patterns my life here has been taking so far. I haven't had a consistent job. I haven't even settled into my apartment such that it feels like "home"--it's just a place that I live (& hide). All of this has kept me from branching out and making more substantial friends (as in, I've met people; we are/were friends, but now we don't talk or see each other because I reached the end of that landing). I guess I'm mostly referring to how comfortable I felt at my last job, and the anxiety of roughly rolling into the next, once again, alone.

I find it kind of amusing, actually. I really like to be alone, but then I get to a point where I say, "I NEED PEOPLE," so I go to a coffee shop or ride the bus, and I watch people, and I kind of soak up their energy, their communication, their interactions. Socially re-fueled, I return to my basement to sit and knit and read and write.

In my last interview, I was questioned thoroughly on why a writer would be going for a position in business. "If you want to be a writer, you should go sit in a solitary room on Bainbridge island. This isn't a writers' environment," I was told. I thought for a minute, mostly of Annie Dillard in The Writing Life and how I can only handle so much of that lifestyle. It's not every writer's life. "I need people," was my response.

Yet my "people" need has thus far been satiated through the act of being a wallflower. I'll admit, at first, I really tried to settle in to the community. I went to the Farmer's Market and spoke briefly with the vendors; I tried to make small-talk with everyone. It's quite exhausting, actually, especially when people are not willing to give anything back beyond "I'm well, thank you" or "Yes, the weather is nice today." I suppose that's how I became a leech--I can pull pieces of other's social lives into mine, the way my hamster would reach his tiny claws from the holes in the plastic ball, grabbing any crumb or dustball that he wanted, and he was happy.



I watched a documentary oh-so-cleverly entitled Happy. The researchers spoke to people from many countries and asked what they wanted out of life. When nearly everyone, anywhere, answered "To be happy," they dug further to see what made people happy in different regions and lifestyles. A man in the slums of India was happy to be a rickshaw driver and come home to his family. The people of Okinawa, Japan talked about how they achieve happiness that has allowed them to have the highest census of people aged 100+ in the world, mainly through being united; one example they gave was their funeral ritual--they have a community urn where all of the ashes of all of the dead from all of neighborhoods go because they believe they are all one people. A family in the bogs of Louisiana enjoyed the simplicity of being together and enjoying alligators and fresh-caught fish.

Then there were the un-happy: the over-worked, the people under pressure. Japan's standards are so high that many people die from stress, and they have the highest suicide rate (which, I think, shows the concentration of the cities considering the status of Okinawa). They even have a word that translates to "death by overwork": Karōshi. Do I need to explain where the general American population stands?

I've been thinking a lot about the happiest people. Statistically, they live in Denmark in what equates to communes. They have very small living spaces, but live with several families, who all take turns cooking and cleaning; the children all have friends who they live with and treat like family; the parents can spend more time with their children without having to worry about the duties of daily living since everyone takes turns. It seems ideal. I like to think that I would love it, but there is the solitary part of me that says, "I like to visit, but I like to come home and be alone too." It's an odd balance.



And the scales are a little off right now. I really mean it when I say I'm not settled in Seattle. I knew when I moved here that no matter how much I liked it, this would not be my end-point. I don't know how long I'll be here: maybe a year, maybe five or ten. Woah, hold the reigns: ten is pushing it. Maybe five years. Maybe. Regardless, I'm not here for get cozy, take-your-coat-off-and-stay-a-while kind of living. Actually, I'm not really sure I have any expectations; I just want to be happy where I am, and when I am ready to move on, I will. (This mostly translates in my mind to: when I am ready to move elsewhere for grad school.) My hamster loved time to roll around in that yellow plastic ball, but when he was ready to move on, he'd bump into a wall and stop, just sitting there. Right now, I'm still rolling.

Because short-term to me is staying here for "a couple years" (whatever that means), I find it difficult to define "home." I always like to think that it's wherever you are that feels like a place you can define yourself in, like when I was in Italy, I felt I knew me there, as in Waynesburg or Mamont. Here, I'm still trying to find the edges; I'm coloring way outside the lines trying to find how I fit in here in the city, in this independent life outside of college.



I love baking. I love making a mess out of flour, watching it pouf into the air and letting it smear onto my itchy nose or fronts of my jeans. I love working dough. I love the range of smells from raw to warm. Despite all of this, I have not done any baking since I moved here. Part of me thinks it's because I'm vegan and don't feel like experimenting yet. That's a ridiculous excuse; I have plenty of time and recipes, and I've certainly been testing out the cooking end of it and with much success. The real reason I have not baked is because I cannot bring myself to buy flour. To me, flour needs its own little canister home so that it doesn't make unwanted poufs when the bag is bumped. To give it its own home is to settle in--I cannot imagine myself moving to a new place and taking flour with me.

That may sound ridiculous, but for some reason, it keeps echoing in my mind when I think about baking. You don't get to the bottom of a canister of flour and rinse it out and take it with you--you add another bag; you don't finish a bag of flour. And a row of canisters sitting across the counter, just waiting to be opened and turned into something delicious is one of those home-y feelings like sleeping in your own bed after you've been away or walking intentionally to avoid the creaks in the floor that you know are only in certain places or the weight of a door that you know how to shut just right to make it silent or maybe it needs a rough pull to even close at all.

This place doesn't have those things: it's not my bed, but I like to sleep in it; the floor creaks, but I feel more like hiding by avoiding them, trying not to be seen; the door is light and hollow and has to pulled until you hear the second click so that you know the number pad is secured. It makes impersonal beeps when you unlock it and always sounds like the door itself is cracking when you shut it. Finally, we're not allowed anything on the counter--no canisters here unless kept in the cupboard. To add to that, in with the mess of flour is the magic of never really getting it all cleaned up; it sticks in the corner-edge between counter and wall; it lays lightly on the rug; it smears when it's wiped up, never totally gone. I love that about it, but everything here must be completely clean all the time. Who has the energy to take the life-proof from the white dust that builds a home through snug bellies and a well-lived-in kitchen? What a sorry fate for the welcoming, comforting flour.

Sure, they're all just excuses. Nothing is really stopping me from buying a bag of flour, keeping it in my cupboard, and just plain baking. If I wanted to bad enough, I would do it, I suppose. But I find myself frequenting the local bakery, picking up a few goods and being on my way, mooching off their yummy treats to satisfy my want for a warm oven and a crumby pastry as I walk into the sweet-smelling shop--it is the same pinch of that unsettled feeling that I seek to temporarily please in going to public places and calling it a social life.



It took me four months, but I have finally dragged myself to church. Church, for me, is one of those sensitive issues. You can invite me and leave the card on the table for me to pick up when I'm ready, but you cannot drag me there, and if you try to tell me that I should go, I won't just because then it was your suggestion.

Like a little kid's first day at daycare, I feel shy and not wanting to play with the other kids, keeping to myself. If you try to talk to me or coax me into a game, I sink further inward with a pouting lip and a yearning to go home to my mother. But if you let me be shy and inward and pouty and watch the other kids have fun, I'll want to have fun too, and I'll choose it.

So I finally chose to go to church. (Though I have to say, I almost bailed because I hadn't told anyone I was going, then, the night before, my sister suggested I should go, and part of me said, "Fuck it. That's it. The deal's off. I can't go now because someone said I should, and I'm not going because someone said I should; I'm going because I want to." I told you I'm really sensitive about church. That or just stubborn.)

Regardless, I sucked up my childishness and went. The small crowd immediately pinned me as a newcomer--everyone knew everyone else. Suddenly, I was surrounded by smiling faces telling me their names and welcoming me. I was ready to run. I don't remember any names because I was so worked up in trying to play down the title "church" because all I want is relationship with God, not some overdone show that doesn't dig beyond the surface. When the service was over, and I realized that the message hit the right points and connected with the way I think and believe, I knew that I had better try harder to remember those names.

It scares me, remembering people's names at church. Then they have some sort of accountability towards you; they'll know if you skipped out. And knowing people at church means building friendships and meeting people beyond a surface-level "Hihowareyou." And having a regular church is one more step towards settling in. It took a while, but it happened. All of this is on my mind because I have Community for church tonight, where the people who live in the same neighborhood here in Seattle have a weekly get-together. I'm nervous yet excited yet afraid.



The hardest part about settling in to a new place is recognizing that it means leaving the old one behind. Part of me doesn't want close friends because it's such an obvious step away from the life that I knew, and I'm not ready to have a new "best friend." People aren't replaceable. It makes it easier to push others away, but of course that's not what I want. I want to settle in. I want to make room for new friends and a church family and cookies and pies. I'm just not totally ready yet, and it's taken me four months in the city to at least recognize that. I'm not trying to avoid people. I'm not too lazy to bake for myself. I'm just not there yet.

If you see me in the store holding a bag of flour, don't say anything. I'll probably be standing in the aisle, hugging the thick block to my chest, staring at the shelves. Maybe I'll put it back and try again later. Maybe I'll take it home and put it in my cupboard. The next battle will be, of course, to open it.

Random Encounters. Part Two.

You may be wondering why this is Part Two, but Part One is forthcoming. Be patient.

I rushed to my morning bus stop, as always, though I'm early. I dashed under the small pavilion that housed the waiting bench. It was raining. A man, maybe in his sixties, sat on the bench. He picked up his newspaper from beside him, but I always choose to stand.

I cuddled up to my hot tea and let out the day's first sigh. Ahhh. Checkpoint number one.

"Today November Nin-teen, yes?" the man turned to me. He had a thick Eastern European accent. German?

Caught off-guard, I looked at the calendar page written on the inside of my upper eyelids, "I think so." I nodded, feeling more certain, "Yes, it is."

He let it sink in, lightly bobbing his head and shoulders together with his brow straight across in thought. He looked up again.

"Rain really going down."

"Yeah." I'm not really a conversationalist in the mornings, especially after my other encounter, which I have yet to share.

"Wow," he smiled, remembering past rain. Then, slowly, "Always this time of year... ev-er-ee-body... pick out Christmas trees! Even in rain, pick out Christmas trees! Rain like this. Even rain like this."

He did not look at me as he spoke. He stared into the rain, looking through it to another street in his memory. The bus breaks broke his reverie as it reached the stop sign on the corner and began towards us.

"Ah, the bus... is here, " like a summoning charm. It stopped before us, and he motioned for me get on ahead of him.

It is well.

Yesterday morning, I slept in. When I finally rolled out of bed, I went through my usual routine, which ended with me actually getting dressed. As I stripped off my night clothes, I looked at the selection on my floor. Yup, same jeans as I've worn the past week...mhmm, wore this shirt yesterday...yup, this jacket smells clean enough. Look at that! I cleaned my room and got dressed at the same time! Now that's economical!

I told myself that I wanted to enjoy my last day off before official employment. (I also told myself that I wanted to wear as few clothes as possible so that I would only have to go to the laundromat once-a-month.) I stepped outside and was shocked--the sun was out! And I don't mean "out" like it was when I excitedly told Katlin over the phone, "I can see light behind the clouds!"; I mean it was fully exposed, as were my eyes, which I fear will shrink into black spots accustomed to dark spaces like those of a mole. I got to wear sunglasses on my walk to the store!

My excitement for such beautiful weather--in the 60s!--in November lasted all day. Certain that Mt. Rainier would be out, I biked down to Kerry Park and sat on a bench reading Annie Dillard until the sun went behind a cloud for the evening, an instant chill which sent me biking home. And no, Mt. Rainier was hidden behind clouds that mirrored its snow-capped shadow. Somehow, even when the whole sky is clear, there is so often a full cloak surrounding the mountain; it only shows its face occasionally, making each appearance a majestic display.

And it was.

I woke up this morning as someone way too excited to be going to a thing called work. I've just been waiting and growing weary, and now it was here! A job! I had my clothes laid out, my lunch packed; I was ready. I tried to go to bed early last night, but of course failed; I even woke up at an ungodly hour and couldn't sleep. It was like anxiety over the first day of school, back when I was excited to go to school. (I wish the excitement would stay.)

Regardless, I was determined to have a good day. As I left the house, tea in-hand, I smiled. I smiled as I walked to the bus. I went through the checklist in my head and realized, holy shit--I don't even have a pencil. Or paper. Or a pen. What kind of writer goes into a writing job without any writing utensils?! I looked at my watch; the bus would arrive in three minutes, and I still had to get to the stop--no time to go back. I walked past the church, where a man was mopping just inside the door, and I honestly contemplated asking if I could borrow a pencil from a pew. (Don't worry, I didn't; I reasoned that it would be O.K.--chill.)

So I kept smiling. As the bus slid down Queen Anne Ave North like a snake clinging to the ground yet propelling on, I looked over my left shoulder. The sky was orange sherbet over the Cascades. The Space Needle stood just to the left of, you guessed it, shimmering Mt. Rainier. I gasped at the purple against orange palette. Where have I been all my life that I have never seen such colors? That my life has been coated in the same backdrop of green and brown forest?

The cold air caught my exhale in a steam in front of my face as I waited for my transfer. I pretended like the air was fresh from Rainier, even though it stunk in the exhaust of the passing motorists. Cities are strange places.

But I continued to smile, even through the sharp pang of diesel thickening in my lung. When my bus arrived, I was shocked to find it nearly full. I scurried to the first open seat I saw and attempted to sit down. However, I dropped my tea in the process, which promptly landed, stuck, upside down over my book bag. It sent a steady stream of hot tea over everything I had brought with me. I wiped my wet hands on my dress pants (ladylike, as always) and assessed the damage. I looked around--no one had seen: that or they didn't care; my bag had absorbed the liquid before it could reach the floor, so at least I had no mess to clean up. I shrugged it off and looked on the bright side--my book bag would smell good!

Alright, alright. Fast-forward a few bus stops, and I arrived at work. I talked to another first-day temp in the lobby and noticed that she didn't constantly smile when she spoke. I tried to do the same. I let my cheeks relax and tried to talk with some expression other than geeked out. I failed and ended up with a puppet grin as she continued to appear uninterested in my Pennsylvania talk--she was from L.A. and had bigger stories to tell about working as a fashion stylist for high-end commercials.

We waited for the woman from HR to direct us to 'our stations'. When she finally did, she handed us our fancy little electronic door key card swipers and pointed at the desk and said, "Here you go! Good luck!" I scanned the desk: a mug! (there must be coffee somewhere...), Post-It notes, A TIN OF PENS AND PENCILS!, scissors (why would I need scissors?), a stapler, staples, paperclips, a laptop, a separate keyboard and mouse, another monitor, and a packet. I started by tacking my name to the (lime!) green board behind my desk then sat down and began reading the packet. I started the instructions, which of course, failed. My computer wasn't working right; error, yada yada yada. At first, I thought they were crazy to just drop us off the cliff like that (there was another girl starting as copywriter, too).

Finally, another copywriter filled in as our mentor. She spent all morning showing us the ropes and how to run the programs and register for everything. I caught on quickly; I was eager to learn. In the afternoon, we were given some assignments--write titles and bullets for several events; follow the formatting in the packet. Okie doke. I began typing. My partner newbie did the same. Every so often, she would turn to me and say, "Do you remember how to do ....?" Sure; I'd show her and go back to my computer. It felt good to have answers; it felt good to be needed. I finished my first set of assignments and messaged my copy lead (we all IM each other, even though we're in the same room; odd but convenient, I guess). She sent me more work, which I did and sent it back to the writers to fill in with copy.

"You work fast," my copy lead told me as she let me go early for the day. My partner sat still typing at her desk.

"I'm just really excited, and I think I'm getting the formatting better; my last assignment seems so different from my first!"

"I'll give you feedback tomorrow so that you know what can be improved." And I'm really excited; I'm a format geek. I love lists. I love alphabetizing. I love matching the letters and numbers of the SKUs to each other to upload to the website!

I felt bad leaving my new friend still working. Was I lazy to leave early? Had I done enough? I did have a lot of down time... She was very quiet and seemed to move in a methodical rhythm, her pace tagging along. I kept thinking that I was going to be her--when I pictured myself going in to work, I expected to be nervous and afraid to ask my supervisor questions. I expected to question every word I wrote down, thinking I must be wrong. I'm still wondering how I wasn't, but I certainly don't see it as a bad thing either; I'm sure that her work was much more careful than mine. Different processes, I guess? Regardless, I said good night and see you tomorrow and rinsed out my mug for tomorrow's tea. (That's right; there's tea and hot chocolate and coffee and a pool table and chess and beer and cookies. It's crazy.)

As I walked to the bus stop in the center of downtown, maybe a mile away, I enjoyed the lights (how did it get to be dark already?) and the whir of all of the people leaving their jobs for the evening. Two men were walking in the same direction as me. I caught the tail end of a conversation.

"You were right; it's not this way."

"What's that?"

"You were right."

"What?"

"YOU WERE RIGHT." How we so love to hear it; I laughed, and they guy noticed. "You didn't hear that," he joked.

"I've been there," I said, and from there, we kept talking as we walked, but the conversation was so odd; we spoke as if we were good friends and new each other well; he described his day to me and I to him and soon enough, he looked at a building and realized he and his friend had passed the address they were searching for and headed off in the other direction without even telling his name! People are so funny! Though I didn't tell him my name either.

And I found that I was still smiling. I came home to find TWO packages at my door; one, a pair of discount rain boots that I've been so looking forward to (I will learn to love the rain.) and the other a box of books sent from my mom in PA, even though they weren't expected to get here until Saturday! I took off my jacket and ripped open both boxes. I put on my rainboots and stood in my room taking each book out of the box, saying, "Yes! Yes! YES!" They were all the right ones (though there is no such things a wrong book). I've been telling my parents that I needed my books because even some that I've already read simply comfort me from the shelves. It just feel so good to have so many arrays of words within reach to reference to my favorite lines and read my marginal notes that I don't remember writing.

I arranged the books carefully on my shelves. Poetry down here, uh huh. Nice! Now, nature to the left, then religion, then Dillard, Hemingway, Didion, Rilke, and all the rest of the singles who don't get special placement by author because they're loners. They don't make the top few whom I can't get enough of, least not yet anyways--I haven't read all of the singles yet. Ahhh, books. I just want to open them and absorb them and read them all at once. It's a sickness; it really is. The only cure is a cup of tea in one hand and book #1 in the other, a quiet space, and a chunk of a few hours.

Suffice to say I read for the evening, but I did replace the tea with a newly invented vegan pumpkin banana smoothie that tasted like skinny pumpkin pie and left me with this huge spurt of energy right before bed, where I should have been sleeping an hour ago (two?). What the hell! Tomorrow's Friday!

So all in all, it was a good day. The best. I feel great, and I hope that it lasts. I pray that it lasts. I feel like this is what I've been waiting for: to feel fulfilled.

It is well with my soul.

P.S. It turns out I did need the scissors at work. While I was waiting and waiting for a new assignment to be sent to me, I decided to make the most of a scrap of a Post-It from the lovely arrangement of notes and hints I had posted along my monitor (wow, what a nerd). I folded a triangle and cut off the excess to make a square, which then magically turned into a little birdy that sits on my desk. Quite a productive day!

I will learn to love the rain.

I decided that I need to be less pessimistic about the not-so-favorable weather. A new mantra was in order:

I will learn to love the rain.

People tried to encourage me when I moved to Seattle. I heard it all: "It rains almost constantly for six months straight, but it's only a light drizzle." "It doesn't actually downpour; it's more of a mist." "Real Seattleites don't use umbrellas, just raincoats." "You get used to the wet a few months in." "At least the sun comes out a little everyday." "At least it doesn't actually get cold, per se."

I'm not really sure which of those comments are encouragements, but I decided to accept them as fact and try to be as Seattlelite-ish as possible. Looking at the weather report for the week, there was at least an 80% chance of rain everyday. Here we go.

I try to go out for a long walk everyday. I'm not quite brave enough to run in the rain, so my entire running routine is shot, which is really disappointing, more so towards myself than the weather. Excuses! But I've got my walks. I have yet to invest in a raincoat, and I hate getting raindrops on my glasses and dripping off my hair, so I have also not succumbed to the "Real Seattleites don't use umbrellas..." My umbrella is small. Really small. It keeps half of me dry as I walk: whose idea was it to put the handle in the middle of the umbrella? Sure, it looks nice, all symmetrical and what not, but it's not very practical, not that I have any better ideas. I contemplate all of this as I step into a puddle that looks shallower than it turns out to be. Water soaks through my sneakers and seeps up my socks.

I will learn to love the rain.

My long walk for Saturday was a trip to Ballard. On a map, it didn't look too far. You know, just down the hill and across the canal and a few blocks up to Goodwill and then back down to Market Street, I figured, to see what is good on the main strip. As I stepped outside, the sun was out. Puffy cumulous clouds scattered the sky, but a grey curtain loomed in the East. Not willing to take chances, I grabbed my umbrella. What was the weather forecast talking about? This is great! I made my way across the seemingly endless Ballard Bridge and ventured into the neighborhood.

I dropped off a bag of clothes at Goodwill and looked around a bit. Content in my findings, two solid trunks that I would have to come back for another day in my car, I decided to make my way to Market Street. I passed a tent of puppies that were up for adoption. I looked in each of the cages at the sad eyes staring back and wished that I could take them all home.

"We've got about a half an hour until the rain hits," a man said to the woman in charge of the tent. The thought briefly crossed my mind that maybe I should start for home. I had a long uphill walk ahead of me. It's just rain! I've got my umbrella anyways.

I will learn to love the rain.

I kept walking. Cupcake Royale. Yet another Starbucks. I wasn't too impressed thus far. However, after downing an extra large mug of tea on my walk down, I decided to take a quick stop in Starbucks, only to find that you had to have a passcode for the bathroom. Well, I refuse to purchase a cup of coffee to release a previous cup of tea. It just seems counterproductive. I can wait. I'll head home soon.

I walked down a few more blocks. I stopped in a few second-hand shops, hoping to find a pair of boots for rain walking. No luck. Finally, I was feeling tired. The air had cooled, and I felt it ache in my feet. I decided to go home. And the rain started in a light drizzle.

I will learn to love the rain.

I opened my umbrella and walked back in the direction of the bridge. The rain came down harder. Maybe I can take a bus... I checked the OneBusAway app on my phone. Apparently, the bus from Ballard to Queen Anne only runs Monday through Friday in the mornings. Well, it was none of those times. Guess I'm walking.

I felt a bit resentful towards the bus stops that I walked by--none of them were going in my direction. Maybe I could take a bus to the U District and then go to Queen Anne from there. Or I could take the new D-line to downtown and then go from there! Everything was out-of-the-way, and the tea was urging that I take the shortest route home. I opened the Maps app--why do I so rely on my smartphone?--which showed that I was still three walking miles from home. Was it really that far? I wasn't even to the bridge yet! Three miles seems so long when walking in the rain when you have to pee.

I made it to the bridge, and instantly, the wind picked up. Why was I not thinking that the bridge would obviously leave me more exposed? The wind pulled my umbrella, and it pulled me along like a kite. Finally, it got so strong that I couldn't even hold the umbrella half-open, and I had to collapse it and face the wind and rain unarmed. Now I see why Seattleites don't use umbrellas. I wish I was exaggerating when I say that the wind was so strong that I had to hold my elbow across my forehead and walk with my eyes shut as the water pelted at my skin in sharp ticks. Tears escaped the far corners of my eyes, even though they were closed, and I kept walking. I just have to make it across the bridge where the wind won't be so bad.

This was more than a drizzle. I'm not used to being caught in bad weather. In fact, I typically avoid it at all costs. My mantra was failing me. My entire frontside was soaked from the windblown rain. Did I mention how endless the Ballard Bridge felt when I walked across it earlier? It felt three times as long in the poor weather.

I. Will. Love! The. Rain!

Every once in a while I opened my eyes to assess my progress. I felt so foolish walking with my eyes closed across a bridge with water on one side and traffic on the other. At least there were cement barriers forming a walkway on either side--pretty safe, I'd say. As I peeled apart my eyelids and looked down, I noticed my untied shoelace. You've got to be kidding me! I'm not stopping now! I imagined how silly I must have looked to all of the smart people whirring by in their cars.

And just like that, I made it across the bridge. The wind stilled. The rain stopped. I looked up, and there was no evidence above me that a storm had even passed through. The sun peaked from behind one of the fluffy cumulous clouds that mirrored the ones from earlier. WHAT IS THIS PLACE?!

I assessed the damage through spotted lenses: my pants were soaked, hell, everything was soaked. And my shoe was still untied, of course. Okay. At least I know what I'm working with. I started up the hill.

I will learn to love the rain.

When I got to the top of the hill, I looked between houses to see the bridge and the canal below. I don't know what I was thinking in walking to Ballard. When I had told one of my housemates that walking to Ballard was my plan for the day, she seemed shocked. Seeing the distance covered, I understood why.

Well, if I pee my pants, I think my jeans are wet enough that no one could tell the difference. Plus, I'd be warm. No, that's no excuse. I'm almost home anyways. Though, I have to admit--why I have to, I'm not sure, but it seems funny as an afterthought--I passed a yard which had a sign reading, "Children's play area. No Poop. No Pee." and I was really tempted to piss there just in spite of the sign. I was forced to remind myself that I am a lady!

I counted down the blocks to home, naming which street came next in efforts to memorize the maze of my neighborhood. It's not a sensible pattern, so I missed a few streets, which entirely killed any patience I had left, which was practically none. I'm so good at this optimism thing! (Cue my mother saying that I have my father's short temper...)

Finally, I made it to the gate, went in, kicked off my shoes, unlocked the door, half-limped--trying to keep my socks on and trying not to step on the soaked bottom seams of my pant legs--down the stairs, dropped my umbrella, jacket, and backpack on the floor and ran to the bathroom where I stripped down.

Relieved and entirely exhausted, I returned to my room and collapsed on my bed half-naked. I will never move again. I looked at my thighs which burned a cold red. All I want is a bath... So I went and sat down in a hot shower. Close enough. I let the water run over every part of me, until the red skin turned pale and then red again in warmth. I emerged and bundled up in the comfiest clothes that were clean in the drawers. I want to stay warm forever! I sat in the chair in my bedroom huddled up to a cup of tea and wondered what warm weather felt like. I tried to remember Arizona just a few short weeks ago--has it been weeks already?--but the sense of the heat evaded me. I looked out my window and saw that the sky had greyed again.

I will learn to love the rain.

Oktober in September

Things that you learn on a Saturday night at Oktoberfest:

• There are a million different kinds of beer.
• They all taste different in some way.
• People know a lot about these different kinds of beer; it is important to them.
• You can have conversations with random strangers.
• You can get drunk from a miniature "commemorative mug".

I spent most of Friday feeling pretty on-the-fence about the weekend's upcoming festivities. Do I really want to pay to go to this shindig? Do I really want to drink beer all night, after I've been doing so well at eating healthy lately? Do I really want to hassle to figure out transportation?

Yes. Yes, I do. 

I spent all of Saturday being antsy and excited to hang out with my friend, Jay, at Oktoberfest. We walked down to Fremont together and followed the booming sound of the main stage to a two-street festival lined with tents of kegs hosting many many brands of beer. 

After passing the ID station--how long after you turn twenty-one do people stop saying "Happy birthday"? it's been almost a month now, and while it's very kind of them, sometimes, I just want to get a drink and not be reminded that a year has passed--we bought our tokens for sampling. Our options were five or ten, and I thought, Ten?! I can't drink ten beers! I got five and went through to accept my "commemorative mug" for tasting. I'm not even certain that it would measure a full cup in baking. I laughed and then looked around at everyone holding their tiny handles and sipping lightly from their tiny mugs. We looked like giants. 

I followed Jay around like a shadow. "We need to try this one; I hear it's great" or "Oh! This is the best! You need to taste this!" she'd say as I followed her to the next line. Rushing to keep up and learning quickly how to enjoy the small samples, I easily ran out of tokens. "Here you go," Jay would stick another token in my hand each time we refilled. She had gotten ten tokens, but she was really sly about talking to the pourers to distract them, so managed a lot of free samples. "Try to get this next one for free," she would tell me, but I just couldn't do it; I'm a chicken.

Let's see, so first we met Tim--Tom--Ted, as Jay called him. We stood and talked to him and two of his friends, then we left to get a sample and ended up losing him somewhere in the mix, not before, exchanging sunglasses and taking a silly picture. Ah, the joy of technology. The point of this though, is that while Jay was chatting away, I spent a lot of time just listening, how can she have such a full conversation with someone she knows nothing about?! 

As we waited in our next line, the men behind us got the conversation started. I went with it. The small-talk about the lines led to "My name is David, by the way" and uh huh, "So you're from Utah?" and oh, "You work in retail" and yeah, "Seattle really is a nice place" and so on and so forth into a full conversation. When we walked away, cups empty again, I stopped Jay and said, "I did it!! I just talked to that guy all by myself for like twenty minutes!" Not quite understanding the significance of this, she laughed and kept walking. 

We continued this pattern for the rest of the night before grabbing some burgers and fries (veggie burger for me, of course!) and one last sample of Crispin's Hard Cider, my new favorite, and walking to the exit with the grumbling crowd as the festivities closed down. Midnight. 

We caught a cab back to Jay's apartment, which, thank God for her because otherwise I would have been trekking up Third Avenue West because I haven't flagged down a cab since I was in NYC two years ago, and I was definitely not ready to do that now. We walked to the end of the street, and within just a few minutes, I was in a cab, then at her apartment, and finally, in bed with her miniature poodle. 

The poodle ran around the bed most of the night, sometimes coming up and licking my face right when I thought I was sleeping. I didn't mind, though, because he's such a funny little dog, all covered in hair (not fur) that's so poofy that you can't really tell any of him apart--his face, feet, and short shaking tail all blend together in an energetic little ball of softness. 

Come morning, the dog was still excitedly running around the apartment, and Jay and I were still feeling the after-effects of a night out. We looked at our mini mugs and laughed at how we felt so superior to them at the beginning of the night. 

And now, after tasting upwards of eight or so beers, I can say the exact same that I said before the festival: I have very limited knowledge of beer.