Thrive.

Truthfully, I don't understand how my 34th year flew by as quickly as it did, but once again, 365 days passed within a beautiful blink of an eye and on Sunday I turned 35 years old.  The weekend was one of the busiest I've had in awhile but, really, when have you ever known me to not be busy? 

Friday morning, at the literal crack of dawn, I caught a flight down to Philadelphia, as one of my closest friends from high school was getting married in New Jersey that night.  I spent the evening with my core high school girls; dancing, laughing, and celebrating our friend Moira as she celebrated her brand new life as a Mrs.

Saturday, I spent a few quiet moments with my Dad, going out to breakfast at a nearby greasy spoon, and celebrating the early afternoon with a slice of cake and a handful of presents sent from family.  Then, it was back to the airport to catch my return flight back to Boston, touching down Saturday evening.  With just enough time to take a cab back to my apartment, drop my suitcase, and change clothes, I hit the town again, setting out to meet my urban dwelling friends for a few celebratory birthday cocktails...(and then promptly encouraging all of us to shut the bar down at 2 am.)

Sunday, my actual birthday, was spent recovering a bit in the morning after my previous two late nights, and then driving north of the city to spend the afternoon with my favorite non urban friends. The entire group of us - too many adults to count and seven kiddos - went apple picking and then, because these friends know me as well as they do, threw an "end of summer/birthday" BBQ, complete with watermelon, summer brews, grilled deliciousness, and, of course, plenty of cake.

By the end of the weekend, I crawled into bed happy, content, older, wiser, and utterly exhausted.  Which, if you think about it, is exactly how one should feel after a birthday weekend.

I tend to treat every birthday as personal "new year" - as the flipping of a calendar on the day you were born has always felt even more like a fresh start than January 1st does.  Last week, as 35 loomed closer and closer, I sat down, old fashioned journal and pen in hand, with the intent of thinking about what I wanted to get out of the coming 365 days, what my goals and plans would be for my personal new year ahead of me.   

Maybe it's a cop-out, or maybe I was just too tired to think clearly, but really, I couldn't think of much more beyond, as Matthew McConaughey would say, to "just keep livin'."  Obviously, there are plenty more places I want to travel and career aspirations to fulfill, people to meet and books to read and friends and family to spend time with and adventures around each and every corner.  But really, I've carved out a damn wonderful life for myself in the 35 years I've been given thus far.  And I'm pretty content to just enjoy each and every glorious day as it comes my way.

With a little help from my friends too of course.

How the West Was Won And Where It Got Us.

My friend and I have a goal of seeing all 50 states and visiting 50 countries before we, ourselves, turn 50.

There aren't a lot of guidelines around this quest.  We don't have to see all states and countries together (which would be impossible).  There's no qualifier about spending the night in a certain place or eating so many meals in one location or similar caveats. Airport connections, car rides driven straight through a place without stopping? These don't work.  You have to walk away with a sense of the place.  Then it counts.  That, really, is our only rule.

Thus far, I have been to 34 states, 19 countries.  And counting.

"We need another trip." my friend and I had emailed, agreed.
"Let's keep it domestic this time, since we made it to Oz and Morocco last year." we'd decided.
"Which states do we both still need to see?" she'd asked.
"And which of those states do we both actually really want to see?" I'd countered.

Driven by an internal force calling us Westward, we settled on Wyoming.  Jackson.  The Tetons.  Yellowstone.  Idaho.  Ranches.  Horses.  Clean Air.  Blue Skies.  Montana.  Sunsets.  Mountains.  Quiet.  Peace.  Serenity.  Big Sky Country.  Cowboys.

Sometimes I think love at first sight happens more with a place, a location, than anything else.  I've traveled to countless places, many of which I would love to return to again someday.  Jackson Hole, Wyoming is one of the few places that I knew immediately, in some deep, core part of my heart that I would never want to leave, that I would revisit as often as my days and years might allow.  It is a magical place, that part of our country.  One I am glad to now know firsthand.

One afternoon while hiking through the "Grand Canyon of Yellowstone", my friend and I made our way to Artist's Point.  A big draw in the park, it is the spot where Thomas Moran was originally thought to have sketched some scenes that would become some of the earliest, most famous paintings to come out of Yellowstone.

Hannah and I joined the rest of the crowds, taking our own pictures, catching our collective breath as we surveyed the utterly stunning views.  After I felt satisfied I'd snapped enough shots, I stepped back, sat down on a bench warmed in the sun, took a deep breath.  Visiting a place as grand and awe-inspiring as Yellowstone or The Grand Tetons, you cannot help but be reminded of your own tiny place in this grand, wide world.  When you're visiting hot springs and geothermal areas that have been bubbling and boiling away for thousands of years or staring across at mountains that have stood strong and tall, evolving and changing subtly for hundreds of thousands of years, it puts a lot of things in perspective.  Namely that our lives - even if we are very lucky to live a long and healthy life of 100 years, is but an absolute blink of an eye, a mere flash to planet Earth.

I think sometimes, that's why we all take photographs when we go on vacation or find ourselves some place new.  It's our small way of saying, I paid attention.  I saw what I saw.  My footsteps walked this path.  My eyes laid sight on this very spot.  For a brief moment, in this vast expanse of time, I was here.  


Best Trip Ever from Kelli S on Vimeo.

The Continental Divide

Tonight as I walked home, my arms folded across my chest in an effort to stay warm given the subtle chill in the air, I was thinking about the date.  September 10th.  Thirteen years ago tonight, we all lived in a very different world, with a very different mindset.  2,753 people were alive on this night thirteen years ago; 2,753 people who would not be by the next day's end.

Thirteen years can feel like an awfully long time.  When I think back on my own life and where I was thirteen years ago it truly feels like another lifetime.  And yet, of course, it can also feel like a mere blink of an eye, a lightening-fast rush of days that turned to weeks, then, suddenly, to years. 

******

Last week, I was on vacation in Wyoming.  We tackled corners of Idaho and Montana as well, spending our days wandering through Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Park, falling in love with Jackson and craving nothing but more time to continue exploring such an utterly amazing, magical, awe-inspiring place.

One morning after breakfast, my friend and I made our way up to Signal Mountain in the Tetons.  While I don't actually think it's possible to find a "bad" view in the entire region, the summit of Signal was particularly impressive, offering us a straight shot view of the two largest mountains in the Tetons - Mount Moran and Grand Teton. What made the climb that morning all the more special was the quiet and solitude we found at the summit; in what can be a busy spot filled with other tourists and nature lovers, we found ourselves completely alone.  Just us and those glorious Tetons.  My friend and I wandered around together for a few moments, snapping pictures and oohing and aahing for the millionth time at the views.  Then, as these things tend to go, we separated quietly, without officially planning to, both of us sitting in solitude, absorbing our surroundings.

I don't know all that my friend was thinking while she sat twenty feet away from me, but I know that as I sat on a smooth rock, warmed by the summer sun, staring at the indescribable beauty in front of me, one thought kept running through my head: I'm here.  How lucky, how grateful.  To just be here.

******

Sometimes, when I'm talking with friends or family, if the conversation shifts towards certain life philosophies or outlooks, I can, occasionally, pick up on a sense of annoyance or frustration geared toward me, and my (generally) optimistic outlook on things.  Misery loves company, after all, doesn't it?  I wonder, at times, if people think my comments about the good fortune that surrounds so many of us, means I have blinders on, that I've chosen not to acknowledge or see the bad, that I am simply a Pollyanna.

But this is not the case.

I can have really lousy days, I can find myself in some frustrating and nasty moods. I can snap at people when I'm tired, hungry, or annoyed.  I don't always find the "pleasure" in standing on a crowded subway car or dealing with a hassle regarding insurance or bills or the rest of it.

And of course, I am fully aware that there are some terrible, horrible, really ugly and awful sides to this world.  People are mean and cruel.  Life is messy and dirty and really lousy stuff happens to both really amazing and really awful people alike, indiscriminately.  This life, our days, can be hard - with road block after road block plopped down in our respective paths.

I am not naive to this, nor unaware.

Instead though, I think it's knowing the evils, the dangers, the heartaches that lurk around corners that makes me all the more grateful and aware of when I've got it good.  So often we hear about people who had a brush with cancer or some other horrible disease or accident.  If they (hopefully) make it to the other side, if the chemo or radiation or therapy or other treatments work, we read the testaments about how happy they are for each sunrise they are given, how grateful they are for each and every normal day; for the gift of all of these days they took for granted so often in the "before."

Not everyone sees things my way, of this I am well aware, and I'm sure there are plenty of people who still might be rolling their eyes at my outlook.  But that's just the thing.  I want to be grateful before there's an experience or an incident that makes me realize all that I took for granted.  With a good education, my health, a great support group of friends and family, a passion and the opportunity for seeing, doing, and experiencing so very much of what the world has to offer, I am already so very blessed - far more than so many other people born on this planet ever will be. And so much of that is pure chance and luck.  (With some hard work and determination thrown in for good measure.)

If I can't be grateful and aware of all of that?  If I'm too selfish to be unaccountable for all of those extraordinary blessings?  Then really, what is the point? 

******

A few years ago, I read an interview with one of my favorite authors, Colum McCann.  His words in the article on writing, on living, resonated so much that I wrote them down:

"It's strange but as I grow older, I find myself developing more optimism.  I keep inching toward the point where I believe that it's more difficult to have hope than it is to embrace cynicism.  In the deep dark end, there's no point unless we have at least a modicum of hope. ... I also think the real bravery comes with those who are prepared to go through that door and look at the world in all its grime and torment, and still find something of value, no matter how small.  ... I don't mean for this to sound trite, but I really like life.  I enjoy my time here.  ... I have a theory that a lot of the light rises up from beneath us: We have to keep moving in order for it to surround us." 

Or.  Perhaps it's all much more simpler than that.

Light is the only thing that will drive out darkness.  No matter how small, how meek a flame, a glow or a flicker of light, it is stronger than the darkness.  Every time.

And so I choose the mountains, the sky, the salty ocean air, the skyscrapers, the pavement.  I choose hope.  I choose love.  I choose gratitude.

I choose light.          

Tuesday's Child is Full of Grace

A few weeks ago, I pulled the trigger and bought myself a road bike.  I had been thinking about and wanting one for years and after some research, along with the discovery of a great sale and the fact that Massachusetts was offering a tax free weekend, I finally just bit the bullet and went for it.  Like bringing a new friend into the fold I texted my Mom a photo of the gorgeous lady almost immediately after the purchase was complete.  Later that night, when we were catching up on the phone, I was speaking about all of the bells and whistles the bike came with, chatting about how excited I was to check out some of the bike trails around Boston that I'd always heard about.

"Well, Kel" she said.  "It's another adventure.  And you always seek out adventures."

Later, after we hung up and I was cleaning up my kitchen, I thought further about what my Mother had said.  I do love adventure.  After all, wasn't it Helen Keller who said "life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all?"  More apt to the point though, and really there's no other way to say it might sound any less cheesy, but I really, simply and truly, love life.  There is so much to experience and see and do and taste and feel and live that even on my worst, most frustrating days, I can't ever get tired of or ungrateful for my chance at a spin around this great and glorious planet. 

Very early on Tuesday morning, August 26th, 2014, a brand new little soul arrived here on Earth, as pure and perfect as can be.  My nephew. 

I am fortunate in that I play the role of Aunt Kelli to many lovable, wonderful, purely amazing little people these days as more and more of my friends have children.  There are few things I enjoy more than sitting on the floor playing with these little kids and their toys, hearing all about the imaginary worlds they've created with their Lego's or trucks or trains.  It is such fun to sit and laugh with them while their Mom gets them to show me their latest trick or sing a silly song.  I love watching my friends become parents and I'm so grateful to have a whole slew of kiddos that I have known from birth.

The little man who arrived earlier than his anticipated due date though is my first blood-related, honest to goodness, nephew and man oh man.  When we first learned my brother and his wife were expecting a baby, of course, I was excited.  Yet there is a shift that I didn't quite comprehend or expect once the baby moved from the "abstract" to a real, live, here with us in the present, newborn.  And holy smokes, am I already over the moon for this little kid.

From the hours when we got the initial "we're at the hospital" text to the text announcing his birth, I just kept thinking about the wonder and experiences that await this little life.  A brand new person!  Making his way into this world!  What joys and experiences and yes, adventures await him in what I hope is a full, long, and healthy life ahead. As any Aunt would, I already know he'll be one of the smartest boys in his class, full of questions and curiosities that will guide him well in life.  He'll probably have a bit of (ahem) my brother's stubborn side as well, though I hope he'll learn when to give and when to take as appropriate, and that he will choose his battles wisely.  I pray that he has a heart of gold, compassion, understanding, and kindness.  I hope this little nephew of mine is happy,  and content, that he finds his unique little place in this world without much heartache or strife.

Or that, when the heartache and strife comes (because is always does) that it never lingers for long and ultimately makes him a better, wiser, more worldly man. 

At yoga class earlier this week, our instructor closed class by asking us to dedicate our thoughts to someone; to spend a few minutes sending out our love and thoughts toward whomever we had chosen.  Naturally, I picked my nephew.  For of course, I want and wish nothing but the best in this life for him.  What I hope, really above all else though, is that he enjoys and cherishes the simple things in life.  Here is a brand new soul, that soon gets to learn how delicious and refreshing an ice cream can be on a warm summer day, or how one of the greatest feelings in the world is walking along the shore line, letting your toes squish in the sand and splash in the water.  I hope he realizes how delightful a pure, solid belly laugh is, that he knows the first snowfall of every winter is nothing but pure magic.  May he feel the wind on his face as he learns to ride a bike, may he know the joy of eating fresh blueberries (his Aunt's favorite) straight off the bush after they've been warmed in the sun.  I hope books and the arts delight him, I hope he appreciates just how much fun it is to turn up your favorite song and dance around the living room while no one is watching.  There are so many firsts ahead of this kid, this wonder of a human being.  If his Aunt Kelli can teach him one single lesson, I hope it is this: "The days go by with so many little things that don't seem to matter, until they're no longer there. Suddenly, they're all that ever mattered."

I am so proud of him already.     

True Romance.

This September it will have been seventeen years since I have lived, for any regular stretch of time, in my hometown.  Considering I left home at seventeen, bound for college, and am now 34, I am at the divide.  Half of my life spent in one place, the other half spent elsewhere. What an interesting notion of being in a position where you can split your life down the middle, cut it to its very center, equal on both sides.

The day I left for college, I sat in the passenger seat of our white Ford Explorer, my Dad on the driver's side.  We were packed to the gills, my mother and brother would follow us in a separate car.  As my Dad started to pull out of the driveway, I asked him to drive as slowly as possible, twisting my neck to watch our house for as long as I could before we pulled out onto our street and then out of our development completely.  Even then, I knew that the day I left for college marked a closing of one chapter, the opening of an another.  I could and I would come home again, of course.  However, I also knew, deep down in that part of our minds that always know the truth before the rest of our body does, that I would never return for good; that things would forever be different after we drove away on that cool morning late in the month of August.

******

Considering that I have spent fifteen of the seventeen years since I moved away from home in Boston, I am close to reaching the point where I've spent almost as much time in this city as I have anywhere else.  A few years back, frustrated by a myriad of things, I kept tossing around the idea of a move.  Maybe I should finally try San Francisco, I thought to myself.  Or maybe it was time to move back to New York City.  Or perhaps I should try Philadelphia, the city closest to the spot where I grew up.  In full disclosure, I didn't actually take too many active steps in the direction of any of these cities, beyond scoping out Craigslist now and again to see what apartments were on the market.  Still I did mull a bit, churning over the possibility quietly in my mind.

Then something happened.

It could have been the quick succession of new jobs I grabbed in my company or maybe it was one of the many quiet, perfect in their ordinary way, afternoons spent catching up with a good friend at one of our respective homes.  Perhaps it was a night spent dancing late into the night with friends at another friend's wedding, in awe of the amazing people I have been lucky enough to find in my life.

Or maybe it was much more simple.  Maybe it was one night as I sipped a cup of tea and watched the snowfall out on the streets below my apartment, or perhaps, it was the evening where I sat with a glass of white wine and watched the sunset from my porch.   Sometimes, I actually wonder if it was the 2013 Boston Marathon.  For it was that week - as I watched - lived - those horrible and insane days with my fellow Bostonians, as I followed the news like a hawk, as I answered text after email from concerned friends and family, that I became full aware that some switch inside me had flipped.  I realized, fully and completely for perhaps the first time, that I'm not going anywhere.  I have been lucky enough to already have found the spot I needed to land in my life; I am right where I am supposed to be. 

Sometimes, on an idle afternoon, when I am headed somewhere in the city - to yoga, to meet friends,  or simply running errands, I will catch a glimpse of the familiar Boston skyline from a new angle.  It's a city I know so well at this point, like an old friend, and yet, I still have moments that flood me with gratitude and awe.  I get to live here, I think to myself.  Right here in this city, this region, that managed to steal my heart utterly and completely while I wasn't even paying attention.   

******

When you leave Logan airport, depending on which route you take, you always hit a crest in the road before dipping down and into one of the two tunnels that propels you toward the highway.  No matter how late my flights land or what sort of weather we're dealing with, my heart always catches a bit in my throat when the cabbie and I round that particular bend; when I catch my first full glimpse of the Boston skyline.  Depending on whatever trip I am coming back from, I left days or weeks earlier.  But now I have landed.  I have returned.  I am back home.

What Will Your Verse Be?

A few years back, I remember reading an interview with one of my most beloved singer/songwriters, Josh Ritter.  He was talking about perspective, in how we see things - or more to the point, how we can choose to see things.  "You can go to the mall, he said, and you can think about how much the mall sucks.  Or you can be at the mall and notice a girl getting her ears pierced for the first time and think about what that means for her..."

So much of this life is in how we see things, isn't it?

A few weeks ago, I watched the movie About Time. Much more than the romantic comedy the previews bill it to be, it is charming and lovely and I would recommend it to just about everyone.  The premise is that the main character can travel through time, return to various points in his life that he's already lived.  I don't think I'm giving away any major plot points though by telling you that by the end of the movie he realizes that it's not about the time travel.  That instead, we should all (including those of us who can't travel back through time) simply try and live every day, to enjoy all of its little ups and downs and ins and outs - savoring that hot cup of coffee in the morning, or noticing that the sun poured into the bedroom just perfectly so, or that we caught a stranger's eye momentarily and shared a quick smile.  These are gifts.  Tiny, little, beautiful gifts that don't ever seen to matter until they are no longer there.  Then, suddenly, they are all that ever mattered.  Noticing the beauty that truly is all around us - around each of us living our own extraordinary, ordinary life, is the thing.

The end all. The be all.

The stuff that matters.

I keep thinking about Robin Williams.  While I could write about the movies of his that I loved best, of which ones are so very close to my heart, and of the terrible, utterly sad news that we have lost this talent, there are countless others who have already done that better than me.  There are recaps and best of's and all sorts of notes about the artist and comedian that we lost all over all of our media outlets.

My heart breaks over and over when I think how dark the days, the hours must have been for him at the very end.  What a world of pain and suffering he surely found himself in, of which he saw but one final way out.  What I have thought about since Monday night when I heard the news and what I return to over and over in my mind, particularly as I read the countless tributes, commentaries, and postings this week; is how much we all need one another in this life.  I can't help but wonder, as I hear person after person recount how much they loved him and how much Mr. Williams will be missed - people who didn't even know him personally - if Robin knew, really and truly knew, how much he was adored and loved and cherished.  This is certainly not to imply that he wasn't fighting larger demons; that his pain would have lessened or his suicide been prevented.  But what I think - what I hope - we can all remember is that we are all meaningful to others in ways that we will likely never know.

You are always worth more than you are aware.

Clean.

Three times now, in the past four months or so, I have hired a professional to clean my apartment.  The idea started innocently enough.  It was late April, or maybe early May, and the "spring cleaning bug" was running rampant in my veins.  I'd scrubbed my apartment top to bottom, working my way from room to room. I had purged a few bags of donated items, I'd done pile after pile of laundry.  But I still felt like there was more that could be done, more that could be cleaned.  Maybe it's an aftereffect of the long winters that force our windows and doors shut for so dreadfully long but I was desperate for a deep clean.  Basically I decided that I wanted to find a way to power wash my entire apartment; to rid it of all the dust and grime that old apartments in the city are never truly rid of, particularly in a city as old as Boston.

So, thanks to a very well timed, excellently discounted deal plus an additional coupon I found online, I decided to hire a cleaning service.  Living on the edge, I tell you!
 
Growing up it never would have even crossed my mind to imagine a cleaning service at our house in New Jersey.  Honestly, as I reflect back on it now, I'm pretty sure I didn't even know such services existed.  (It's not like we were the one house on our street not having the maids come on a regular basis, lets put it that way.)  No, the closest I had come to any sort of cleaning service prior to my recent indulgence was years before, when I would go home with my then boyfriend to visit his parents in suburbia. He and I would occasionally be in his parents house at the same time when the two cleaning women his mother had hired arrived.  They were very pleasant, went about their business with gracious and polite nods and smiles, but I honestly didn't think too much about them, their hiring, or, truthfully, the luxury of their visits. Then boyfriend's Mom had a bad back and she couldn't keep up with the seemingly never ending chores around the house, particularly all the floor mopping, vacuuming, and sweeping.  In that situation, those two women who arrived how ever often they arrived just felt like a constant, a set expense as reliable as putting gas in ones car or running to the grocery store each week.

Seeing, again, as the whole concept of people arriving at a scheduled time to clean your house while you do not lift a finger is so foreign to me I had kind of a hard time during my own cleaning crew's first visit this spring.  (I grew up shoveling manure in my horse's barn for crying out loud.)  The two women went about their business as they moved through my apartment, starting with the bathroom.  Meanwhile, I put myself to "work" changing my sheets before the moved into my bedroom to clean, I gathered up trash and recycling to carry downstairs.  Finally one of them smiled and reminded me that "I could just relax.  They would handle it." 

Oh. Right. Okay. (But still.  Weird.)

When they left, I have to admit, it did feel like I had just allowed myself to partake in a ridiculous indulgence.  What fun to walk through my clean, sparkling, dust free apartment and to not have had to deal with the actual scrubbing, dusting, vacuuming, etc. that are necessary to create the end result of a clean home.  Hmm.  Maybe this whole cleaning service thing isn't such a terrible idea, after all... 

As it happens, I have been extremely crafty at digging up more coupons and great deals for this same cleaning service and I've managed to have them return twice more for another amazingly cheap deal.  This summer has been easier to let them do their thing when they arrive (versus decided I too should pitch in with the chores around here!) as I busy myself on my back porch, watering my plants or thumbing through a magazine while they work their magic.

(Ha!  Thumbing through a magazine while someone else mops my kitchen floor.  Imagine that.)

(If there is one chore I hate above all in my apartment it is mopping my impossible to get clean kitchen floor.)

I don't imagine it will ever feel normal to me to hang around while someone else does all of the chores - scrubbing the bathtub, dealing with the endless amounts of cat hair, mopping (ugh mopping) - but I have to admit, it is a nice feeling when they leave to know that in two hours they banged out all of those nagging chores and suddenly my free time is just that.  Utterly and completely free to do with what I will.  Chores?  Over and done with.  Given my schedule and full days that's what this cleaning service luxury has come down to for me as of late.  Our summers in New England last but a brief, brief time and I am determined to soak up every minute of them that I can.  Perhaps I'll go back to cleaning all on my own this winter; for it can be therapeutic.  For now though, I think I'll milk these deals I find as long as possible.  Let's consider it my summer break.  From house work.

Gray Matter

Before we get started, let me be clear.  This is not a pity party.

In a matter of hours I will be on a ferry en route to Martha's Vineyard for a mini-vacation; one that I saved my pennies for and have been looking forward to for weeks.

I have a life I wouldn't trade, one that is filled with great and wonderful people, experiences, challenges, rewards, good health, travel, love, and joy.  Truly, I am blessed.

But let me also tell you something.

Going through all of this alone?

It is, and there's really no other way to put it, hard.

I am not the type of person to flit in and out of relationships on a weekly basis, and I'm certainly not the type of girl who cannot be single/must have a guy around at all times.  That's never been part of who I am.  Independence is important to me and there have been dating situations I ultimately flee from because I feel too smothered.  I like making decisions, working hard, building a life for myself that is, for the most part, exactly what I hoped for.

And yet.

I have made the bold claim that I would actually like more then what I currently have.  For I want someone to share all of this life; this happy, messy, crazy, wonderful world that I call my own with.  The older I get the more I have discovered that there is this odd, unspoken rule in society that a single career woman isn't supposed to talk about what she might want romantically in her life. People watch women climb a certain career ladder or seek out new positions or challenges within her professional life (as she should) and somehow rising to those new opportunities and not settling translates into "deciding to focus strictly on her career" and to "not make time for a relationship."

What a double standard our society has.  A man works hard, doesn't settle down immediately and he's enjoying his bachelorhood.  If he continues to work hard, advancing in his career, yet hasn't settled down he's busy working to someday be "the provider."  When women reach a certain age though, people start to assume she doesn't want a family, or a significant other.  It feels like people can't imagine the thought that, actually, we would like to have both boxes checked.  A fulfilling career AND a fulfilling relationship/family.  What in the world is so wrong - is so backwards - with actually admitting to wanting both?  Yes, I have a good job that I worked damn hard to get, yes, I hope to continue climbing the proverbial career ladder and advancing within my industry.  But that doesn't mean I don't want a healthy relationship and a family of my own either.  

I am always very hesitant to sit down and write posts such as these because it's not all about the boy.  It's not.

And yet, I should be allowed to want that other part of my life, that other "slice of the pie" no matter how fulfilling all of the other aspects in my life are.  It seems to be labeled as "defeat" or some such nonsense by admitting to the fact that there is more that I want in life; that while alone is fine and actually wonderful at times and yes, completely manageable, it's not the end result I'm striving for.  (Unless the dude is crazy or an asshole.  Then?  Yes, by all means, solo is the way to go.)

I go to weddings.  So many weddings.  I watch my friends say their vows, tie the knot, make those commitments in front of their loved ones and I am - genuinely, honestly - so very thrilled and happy for  each and every one of them.  I mean it when I congratulate them, when I hope that some day I'm invited to their 50th wedding anniversary.  I visit friends who have been married for years and now are starting families.  I play with their delightful children, I listen and watch as their own marriages evolve under the new dynamic of raising children.  And I am sincerely happy for these families as well.  Admitting that I, at times am frustrated that I haven't yet found someone I could see myself building a life with though, can, at times, open up some sort of idea that I don't want to be included or involved with my friends that are already moving in these life stages.  This is not true at all.  And yet, I've seen it happen.  I admit to a friend that I'm aggravated by where my love life stands and suddenly I'm no longer included in celebrations regarding the fact that her love life is where she wants it to be and/or her family is growing.  How is that fair?  (And also, what sort of sense does that make?) 

Shouldn't I be allowed to want, to hope for, that "slice of the pie" just as much as anyone else?  And - perhaps the even bigger question - shouldn't I be allowed to actually admit that it's on my mind, that I'm thinking about that piece of the puzzle?  It's the feeling of wanting to join a "party" and never getting the invite.  Or of sitting on the outskirts, wanting so badly to try your chance at being up to bat, yet never getting called off the bench.


Every damn year, when I'm selecting the herbs I'm going to grow on my porch each summer; and then again, when I'm picking out a Christmas tree each December, I tell myself: "next year, at this time, you won't be doing this alone."

And then, when the time comes 'round again to do those sorts of things that I enjoy so much I am - oh look at that - doing it alone.  Again.

Let me repeat.  This is not a pity party.

I am not a big advocate of talking often about my love life, where it stands, what's happening with who, when, and where.  Everyone seems to want to offer an opinion about what I should be doing, what I shouldn't be doing, have I tried this or that, maybe I should give him another chance even after that horrible date, etc. etc.  Let me be blunt.  I hate that shit.  In all of my years - even way back in middle school when boys were first on the radar - I have never been the type to giggle and toss my hair and sit around with a bunch of girls analyzing all the back and forth between (oh, squeal!) boys.  Uggh.  I'm rolling my eyes just thinking about it.  I do not believe in play by plays, I almost never tell anyone when I have a date unless things get to the point where I think mentioning a fellow might be worthwhile.  Because the thing is, none of it should be so damn complicated.  Boy and girl meet, boy and girl are initially attracted to one another, enough at least to go grab a drink or whatever.  They either like one another enough to go out again, or they don't.

But.

Of course.

I know that matters of the heart are not so clear cut, are never black and white.  We weed into gray matters when it comes to dating, to romance, to relationships, to love. 

And I find myself here, wondering aloud what the plan is, what is waiting around the bend.

There are times when I feel like giving up completely, absolutely.  I get frustrated, annoyed, angry, and hurt, the same as anyone would.  It is not in my nature to stay defeated for long though. I'm an optimist at heart; always have been.  I believe in keeping in the faith, and in having hope.  I am allowed to want this, to keep my heart open and willing, to pray that one day, just like that we'll find each other.

In the meantime I'll keep going, keep moving forward, keep living my own life, keep aspiring.  That is what I have, what I get.  I am lucky that I have what I have; I simply have a wish for more. 

For in the end, how we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. 

Freedom.

Today is my favorite day of the year.

This year, the holiday weekend started out with major annoyances and quite a few snags thanks to this menace of a storm called Arthur that is haunting the East Coast.  Yesterday I spent nearly eight hours in limbo at Logan Airport as my flight to Philadelphia was delayed by twenty minutes, then by another thirty, then by an hour, then by another ninety minutes, and so on and so forth, until I finally cried uncle at 9pm, changed my ticket for another day entirely, asked that my luggage be pulled from the belly of the plane and took a cab back to my apartment.

As you might imagine I was rather livid in the airport.  This was my holiday!  And all of my plans and the weekend I'd been looking forward to were going up in smoke.

However, once a decision was actually made to just get a different flight on a different day, I felt better.  How nice to simply not be stuck in limbo any longer!  The minute I climbed into the back of the cab that was thankfully, blessedly, whisking me away from the airport, I texted a friend who lives in my neighborhood about the Boston fireworks - which had been moved up a night thanks, again, to Sir Storm Arthur.  In a matter of minutes I had dropped my luggage, poured a beer into a plastic cup for a road soda, and scurried back out of my apartment to meet my friend so we could walk down to the Charles together for the fireworks.  Despite the harried day and the looming threat of the storm, my mood swung in the complete opposite direction of where it had been all afternoon the minute I stepped outside to a city filled with people teeming toward the river.  I couldn't have been happier standing alongside Memorial Drive watching bright explosion after explosion burst in rapid succession along my dear and wonderfully beloved city's skyline.  I even caught myself grinning from ear to ear, with no one to notice but myself.

The moment the last firework was sent up into the sky, the announcers for the show explained that the Boston police department was issuing an evacuation due to the impending storm.  Oh weather, you are a fickle beast.  As my friends and I made our way among the crowd and back towards our neighborhood we commented about the timing of the night, discussing how, in between pointing out the flashes of lightening we could just see in the distance, lucky we would be to make it home before the impending downpour.  Just as we were saying that, my friend looked further down the street. "Funny," he said. "It looks like it's already raining up ahead.  See in the streetlight there?"

And with that, the heavens opened upon us all. 

We were soaked completely through within minutes, wading through the puddles fast collecting along the streets.  All around there were shrieks and screams, laughter, and a general sense of buoyancy.  Because what else was there at that point?  After I bid my friends a soggy adieu, I climbed up the stairs to my apartment. Flip flops drenched and squeaking, I peeled off my clothes the minute I walked in the door and climbed into the shower, already chilled from the sudden downpour.  Aah, the 3rd of July.  What a night to remember.

------

This morning I woke early, near dawn.  It was brilliantly sunny and I thought for a moment perhaps the downpour from last night was all Boston would actually see of the storm.  As the morning unfolded though the sky grew darker.  By noon it was obvious we were in for a very wet and soggy sort of day.  How frustrating. This is supposed to be the day we all bask in the sunshine, soaking up rays, swimming in a pool or an ocean or a lake.  One of the things I adore the most about the 4th of July is the sweet simplicity of the holiday - summer weather, picnics, BBQ, good friends, cold beers, blueberry pie, and fireworks to close out the day.  How can anyone not love this holiday?

But as I sat on my porch, sipping coffee, watching the ominous clouds roll in, I knew that kind of 4th was, alas, simply not in the cards for Boston this year.  I had to make peace with that.  And so, rather than plan for the BBQ and grilling and usual Independence Day festivities, I took myself to yoga.  Seemed like a logical choice. 

Halfway through the flow, as a new song was about to begin on her playlist, my yoga teacher announced, in between sun salutations, that she couldn't help but add the next song for today.  With that, the first notes of Ray Charles's lovely rendition of America the Beautiful began.  Immediately I felt a collective, palpable energy throughout the studio and as I made my way into downward dog I couldn't help but smile, grateful for the reminder.

For here I was - busy and happily leading such a great and good and wonderful life, full of freedoms and liberties and so, so many boundless opportunities.  What good fortune has befallen me so very often in this life.  And how lucky I am to call America, problems or no, my home, my birthplace.  It might be pouring outside, I might not have made it to the destination originally intended for this weekend.  The ribs, the hot dogs, the corn on the cob?  They would all be served another day.  We'll enjoy our lemonade, our Sam Summer beers, our watermelon slices on a different afternoon.  It might sound cheesy to be so moved by a single song, to tell you I had this annual epiphany not on a grassy lawn somewhere as I usually do on July 4th but on a rubber yoga mat this year, but I was and I did.  Because the thing I love so very much about this holiday, along with the above mentioned tangible reasons, is the fact that today is the one day out of the year that is reserved for celebrating all that so many of us are lucky - lucky!- enough to take for granted.   

------

Last fall, I traveled to Morocco for ten days.  People often ask me what that trip was like and I honestly tell them that it was amazing, inspiring, and incredible.  And it was, on so many levels.  Yet I always tell them too, that when I flew home from that trip and finally deplaned at Logan, I nearly cried I was so grateful to see our beautiful red, white, and blue flag hanging above the door leading us beyond customs.  

The United States doesn't always get it right, I have yet to see or find a country that always does.  But we certainly do a lot of things really, truly, wonderfully.  And I love it here.  

From sea to shining sea.

Cat Lady.

I don't often talk that much about my cats.  I've been an animal lover since before I could walk and I grew up with just about every domestic pet you can imagine - hamsters, rabbits, dogs, horses, a bird, fish, and yes, cats.  There were always at least two cats roaming around the house, usually more.  While I adore dogs of (mostly) all shapes and sizes (yippy dogs need not apply) cats are, simply, easier to keep in an apartment when you live on your own.  Yet there's a rather unfortunate stigma that comes with being a single woman with cats.  Owning one cat is enough to begin the "cat lady" chatter.  Admit to having more than one and suddenly the adjective "crazy" is on the tip of every one's tongue and ready to be placed in front of "cat lady."

And I am not a crazy cat lady.

Plus, and let's be totally honest here, doesn't it get a little annoying hearing too much about any one's pet/pets that you have never met and/or don't know personally?  Right?  Exactly.

 

Tonight though, I'm going to write about my cats.  For tomorrow, these two little critters, adopted from the same litter when I lived in Brighton forever ago, turn ten.

(TEN!)

In the spring of 2004, I decided I was ready to move into my own apartment.  I was tired of roommates and I was certainly tired of Brighton.  The minute I decided I was actually going to go through with the solo move, I started thinking about getting a cat.  Long before I even knew what cat I'd get, I had already picked out the name, Nolan, after my favorite heroine Francie Nolan, from my favorite book A Tree Grows In Brooklyn.  Despite my then-boyfriends warnings about just how annoying it can be to have to deal with a litter box all the time, I never once wavered on my decision to adopt a cat.  I was a young professional moving to a fifth floor walk-up all on her own and I was going to have a cat there to greet me day in and day out.  It was simply part of my plan.  No question.

As luck would have it, the neighbor's cat was due to have kittens just about twelve weeks before I was planning on moving into my new apartment.  Mere days after the kittens, a litter of five, were born, I walked over to meet the tiny little creatures and pick out the one I would eventually take home.  I approached the cardboard box quietly and cautiously, not wanting to scare either the kittens or Momma cat.  There, as tiny as can be, were three solid black ones, a tabby, and a black and white one.  I handled each one as gently as could be - their little blue eyes were barely open at this point - but the black and white tuxedo wearing fella was the one who stole my heart immediately.

I looked up at Frank, the crazy neighbor, while I was holding tiny little Nolan in my hands. "This is the one I want.  Don't let anybody else adopt him."

That summer flew by, much like they always do.  There were weekends out of town, a job to head to each morning, a move across town to pack and prep for.  Still, I would walk next door almost every other day to visit my kitten. I grew to be such a constant presence that the neighbors eventually insisted I come into the mudroom without ringing their bell, as I would then be free to cuddle with Nolan and all of the other kittens as much and as often as I wanted, without disturbing their nightly routine of too much television.  As the weeks wore on and the kittens got older, the number of fuzzy little fur balls climbing over one another in that old cardboard box dwindled, until eventually the only remaining kitten was my little guy, Nolan.  My crazy neighbor kept "forgetting" that I said I wouldn't take him until I was actually moving.  I began to fear that he would think I was bluffing about actually taking the poor kitten and would give him away to someone else.

Finally though it was moving day at last! Type A person that I can be from time to time, I had the big day planned out hour by hour.  I was going to take Nolan to the vet nearby for his first round of shots before we loaded up the moving van.  While my Dad, then boyfriend, and I were busy carrying box after box after box up five flights of stairs during the hottest weekend we'd had in Boston all summer (that was fun) I'd let Nolan camp out in the bathroom of my new place, where he'd be out of the way and content with his bowl of water and a litter box all his own.  Up at the crack of dawn to finally officially adopt Nolan, I walked next door to the neighbor's house one last time.  Looking down into the cardboard box, I expected to just see one little ball of fluff (by now even Momma cat had had enough of this litter) when, instead, there were two kittens.  Nolan, of course, and then, curled up in the corner of the box, was one of the solid black kittens.  

Frank, the crazy neighbor appeared.

"I thought all of the kittens had been adopted?" I asked.

"Oh, yes. They were.  But a little boy took that one," he sighed, nodding his head toward the tiny black one, "but didn't ask his mother's permission.  So last night, she made him bring her back."

I paused for a nanosecond.  Nolan was cupped in one hand, already climbing up my arm.  

"Oh what the heck,"  I shrugged.  "I'll take her too."

"Really?  Are you sure?"

"Why not.  How much more can another kitten cost?"

And so their fate was sealed.  I arrived at the vets office asking for not one round of immunizations, but two.

(Turns out, another cat can add quite a few extra expenses.  It also, turns out, however, that she was totally worth it.)

 

Nameless for what seemed like an eternity, I finally settled on Sophia for my surprise kitten.  People always ask me why I chose the names I did.  For Nolan, I have my answer.  For Sophia?  Well, I just really like that name.  Plus, the apartment I'd moved into at the time was located in the heart of Boston's North End, the Italian section of the city.  And it was quite entertaining, in my mind at least, to call out for Sophia at dinnertime in my mock Italian accent, a la Sophia Loren.

Looking back at pictures I took of Sophia when I first adopted her, I'm reminded that she was a bit of a homely little thing.  I'm pretty sure she was runt of the litter, whereas her brother was absolutely the biggest of the five.  Funny thing about that old fable about the ugly ducking growing up into a beautiful swan though, as Sophia, has grown into one of the most elegant, beautiful cats I have ever owned.  Friends, family, even the vet has remarked upon what a stunning cat she is.  Damn straight, sister.  Let's hear you roar. (Or, meow, as it were.)

Oh these cats.

 

They have caused me so much frustration over the years.  Between the vet bills and the cost of food and cat litter and trying to find someone to take care of them when I go out of town and the endless sea of black cat hair I find all over my furniture and throughout my apartment, there have been times I have wanted to throw my hands up and scream.  In fact, I did just that when I came home one night to find this stunner of a bowl I purchased in Provence years and years ago smashed to smithereens because they'd been up on a very high shelf where they were not supposed to be.  I've had one of them diagnosed with diabetes, which involves a lot of money and twice daily insulin doses.  Along with the Provencal bowl, they have managed to knock over my Venetian glass frame, from, yes, Venice, shattering it.  (I carried it all the way home safely while backpacking for crying out loud and it goes the way of the garbage thanks to two domestic house cats.)  Just recently I noticed the tiniest tear in an Aboriginal art piece I brought back from Australia last year and stared at both of them with an intensity that is not often seen.  They can't break the items that cost me ten dollars and are easily replaceable at Target. Oh no. Of course not. 

I've yelled at them to "shut up!" when they start yowling or fighting in the middle of the night, I've threatened their lives if they scratch my brand new sofa.  I've quickly shooed them off the bed, mildly embarrassed when I've had a boyfriend come over during the early stages of courtship.  There have been nights when I'm exhausted and cranky and all I want to do is collapse on the sofa when I walk in the door, but no, instead find myself cleaning up cat puke or scooping out the smelly litter box, or worse, bleaching an area of the floor that they suddenly deemed better than the litter box.  In moments like those I have wondered aloud about what in the world I was thinking adopting these two.

But.

Oh these cats.

These two little munchkins have moved with me to five different apartments.  Only a little over a year old, they sat in their crates next to me in the U-Haul when I drove down to New York City, scared out of my mind.  They lived with my Dad for a period of time when I was deep in the middle of the moving back to Boston shuffle.  They've explored every nook and cranny of every Boston apartment I've called home since I moved back from New York more than seven years ago.  They have been there through thick and thin and they have seen it all. 

These two.  Oh, these two.  Their differing personalities crack me up; I'm often so amazed that two cats that came from the very same litter could be so different.  My brother once remarked, that if they were human and both had just smoked pot, that Nolan would be the chill stoner.  He'd be that guy that high-fives everybody in the room, invites you to sit down next to him, shares his pizza.  Sophia, on the other hand, would be the paranoid one.  The minute she heard any sort of noise she'd be all: "Guys. What was that? Did you hear that? I definitely just heard something.  Seriously.  Guys."

Nolan and Sophia know all of my secrets.  I talk to them about anything and everything.  They have seen me in good moods and bad ones. They have met friends, the book club girls, neighbors, potential suitors.  Neither of them talk back to me, neither of them offer any sort of an opinion (though I like to think Sophia would high-five me often if she could given that I use her as my fashion consultant).  They are always just there.  Hanging out  and enjoying their own prerogative as cats are known to do. The difference, of course, is that these are my cats. 

Still, the best moments, to me, are the surprise ones.  The winter nights when I'm sprawled on the couch reading and Sophia jumps up into my lap completely unannounced, content to snuggle in the folds of my PJ pants for hours, her head buried underneath a paw.  Or the moments when I'll wake up in the middle of the night to find Nolan curled up in the crook of my leg, purring away, despite the fact that I went to bed alone. Ten years old or no, I still find it endearing when I stumble upon the two of them spooning one another, content as can be.  They still make me laugh with their random idiosyncrasies - the way Sophia scoops her dry food out with her paw one kibble at a time, almost as if she was human, or the way Nolan immediately puts his arms on my left shoulder whenever I pick him up, as if he was a human.  And Sophia, she makes this noise, when she runs from one room to the next that is the cutest thing on the planet to me.  I doubt anyone else that has been around her has ever even noticed it, but it is probably my most favorite little unique thing about her. 

If I'm lucky, I have another ten years with these two.  And while I know today certainly won't be the end of my sometimes complaints about them or my frustration with writing out yet another check for the woman who cat-sits for me when I'm traveling, I already know I'll be heartbroken some day when they are gone.  For these two have been my constant companions throughout the past ten years.  When I think about my life at 24, the morning I put two little kittens into the navy blue cat carrier I'd recently purchased, and then to my life now, at 34, as I sit here typing away and watching the sunset, I am comforted by the fact that Nolan and Sophia have never really cared about any and all of my external factors.  Those two have simply loved me (and yes, the fact that I'm the food provider) from day one.  I'm sure if someone else had adopted them they would have loved them from day one instead.  But no one else did.  Just as these are my cats, I am their owner.  We belong to each other and for that I am grateful. 

If that makes me a crazy cat lady, so be it.  But I'm a lucky crazy cat lady, to be sure.   

 

Shedding the Cocoon

My closet is not big enough.  Even if I trimmed my fashion repertoire significantly, there is simply no way that I could store my fall and winter apparel at the same time I store the outfits more appropriate for the spring and summer months.  There simply is not enough room.  Growing up, I was lucky enough to have a rather large closet in my bedroom, one lined with wire shelves on both the left and the right walls, and lots of room for hanging plenty of everything in between.  I took that closet for granted when I was younger; it never crossed my innocent little mind how nice it was to have my sweaters displayed on the left side of my closet year round, my t-shirts and shorts, available on the right, any day of the year.

So the idea of a seasonal closet flip is relatively new to me; it's a skill that I had to teach myself when I moved into one of my first apartments out of college.  Under the bed, shoved into Rubbermaid bins went the chunky sweaters, the opaque tights, and the turtlenecks.  Out came the breezy dresses, the comfy shorts, the favorite T's, the beloved skirts.  And vice versa twice a year, with each and every apartment I've called home during my adult years.    

To be fair, the closet swap is kind of a pain in the neck. The weather switches over quickly here in New England and what sufficed just a week earlier is suddenly either ridiculously too hot and stifling or, depending on what season we're flipping for, far too thin and downright freezing in a matter of days.  Every year, when it's time for The Swap, I work to develop a new, better, more streamlined and efficient way of doing the whole thing.  And every year, instead, I end up with all the clothes piled high on my bed, still with the hangers tucked in, determining what category each item should fall in.  Do they land in the "eh, I don't think I love it anymore, try it on and maybe donate" pile?  Or perhaps they fall automatically into the "donate" slot.  There are always a few that go immediately to the "love it just as much as the day I bought it" pile, others that arrive in the "this is really cute, I completely forgot about it, don't make the same mistake next season" group.  And so it goes.

For this year's swap I have been trying to be extra diligent, donating things even when they still fit well and are still in excellent shape because I know I won't wear them again.  While some things are easy to dismiss as clearly a 2013 trend, many outfits that might be past their prime are harder for me to donate, particularly if they hold a special memory - picking a certain skirt out with my Mom while shopping together in Washington DC years ago, or, a particularly flattering dress I wore on a special first date.  I don't imagine I'll ever get rid of the dress I wore on my 30th birthday, or my absolute favorite yellow skirt, the one I purchased on that same DC trip with my Mom years ago, the one that makes me smile every single time I pull it from my closet.  I'm sure it sounds utterly silly and shallow to have placed so much stock, so many memories in fabric, but to me clothes always have been and will always remain a sum of our greater parts; a portion of our story.  The things we wear and the way we dress are our first unspoken message sent out to the world.  Instead of dismissing our outfits as nothing more than a necessary item to move us from point A to point B, what I have always wondered - particularly when greeted by the naysayers who dismiss fashion as frivolous is this: Why wouldn't we put our best look forward?  Why wouldn't we care how we present ourselves?
    
As I pull my wool skirts off of their hangers, or reach for the sweater dresses that have already moved gradually towards the back of my closet throughout the spring, ready to tuck them away in my storage trunk for at least three blissfully sunny and warm months, I can't help but feel like I'm shedding my cocoon for another year.  Gone, albeit briefly, are the constricting tights, the long sleeves, the layers upon layers of fabric we all rely on to keep us warm during the bitterest of the winter days.  One of life's simplest joys, in my mind, is this time of year, when we finally get to dig out those forgotten tank tops and maxi dresses.  When we rediscover our favorite cotton A-line skirt or recall again just how many, ahem, striped dresses we may own.  (For the record, I'm currently holding at 19.)  There's something so freeing about getting dressed this time of year.  You slip into an easy fitting, comfortable dress, pull your hair back into a ponytail, slip on a pair of flip flops, and voila.  Ready.  After a winter of wool socks, boots, gloves, scarves, hats and down jackets, I cherish that freedom of being able to walk out the door unencumbered as much as anything else this time of year.      

Yesterday was the Summer Solstice, marking the first official day of the summer.  We are bathed in so much light and warmth this time of year, I can't help but soak up all that I can, to raise my face to the sky each morning and be grateful the sun is out in all her glory, ready to warm each of us.   

After a ridiculously long winter and a not so stellar spring it feels like Mother Nature has finally remembered us.  We're here, we tell her, we've been waiting for you.  We've shed our layers.  We're ready for your summer kiss.

Every year, I find that I am so grateful for the summer's return and I often make the same wish each summer solstice as I watch the sun finally set on the longest day of the year. 

May it all last as long as possible.

It's not personal. It's business.

Over the past week, I've been dealing with a rather contentious situation at work.  I won't go into the details here beyond to say that our side is in the right, their side isn't, (even legal agrees) and there has been discussion after discussion regarding this.  The other side expects me to cave, I'm sure of it.  They have tried the kind, innocent approach.  When that didn't work and I didn't give them what they wanted, they turned to anger and harsh words.  When that did not get them the result they desired (There is no faster way to get no where with me than to act rude and irrational. I will not have that nonsense.  No sir.) they swung the pendulum back toward the sweet side.  As if I can't tell a good cop/bad cop act when I see one.

Through all the back and forth my answer maintains the same.  I continue to tell them exactly what they don't want to hear.  No.

When I was younger, my mother would sometimes tell me "build a thicker skin."  I was always protective of my sensitivity though, aware, even as a youth, that there would likely come a time when life would simply demand that I shed that sensitivity; when I would need to apply that coat of armor most of us need to get through the not so pleasant moments in life.  It's inevitable as we grow into adulthood that we become tougher, more worldly, less quick to internalize and take personally certain situations that life throws us.  I have always been slightly afraid that one of those times when I applied the armor and toughness needed to get through this rather cut-throat world that I might not be able to shake it off again.  You know how it goes - live in Norther California once, but leave before it makes you soft.  Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard.

While I realize my job is to enforce the decision that was agreed upon prior, and one that both I and my company have made, it certainly isn't what I would call "fun."  Anyone who ever tells you they enjoy confrontation, arguments, or battles over anything - big or small - is lying.  (Or, they're likely a divorce lawyer.) No one wants to feel taken advantage of or walked upon either, though.  It's sort of like when you break up with someone.  Even if you know the relationship has soured or was never truly the right fit from the get-go, even when you're absolutely sure you will both be better off without each other, you still have to go through the act of breaking up. Which is about as fun for everyone as swimming in a pool of hungry sharks.

Last night, as I made my way to yoga after work, in an emotionally and physically exhausted state, I kept reminding myself over and over that I was in the right.  There's no question.  I kept thinking about what a learning experience this was, telling myself that as I handle this, I'm growing more within my role, within my career.  And no matter what was said or thrown at me that day, I knew I was right to stand my ground.  But even when you know it, down to your very core, it doesn't necessarily make it any easier.  This side of the business is, quite simply, hard.
 
And so it goes.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.

Up to Bat

Last night I met up with two friends I don't see nearly enough given our schedules, where we live, and general life busyness.  The three of us used to work together, about a million years ago.  We bonded quickly way back then, as you sometimes do when placed in those virtually right out of college first office jobs, the ones that are tedious and rather lousy, ones you wouldn't go back to if they begged you, but that yield some of the greatest first "adult world" friends you might ever be lucky enough to have.

We spent the evening swapping stories and catching up on the good and the not so good developments in our lives.  When the three of us left the restaurant and parted ways I was struck again, as I often am, at how wonderfully wild and perfect, yet utterly ridiculous this life can be for each and every one of us.  Lately, I've felt that for each personal victory I've achieved - no matter how lofty or how inconsequential - I've watched another one of my battles - again be them big or small - be lost.  We all have moments, goals, dreams that are great and sweeping, and it truly matters which way the pendulum falls.  And then we have others, that in the grand scheme of things, don't carry nearly as much weight or heft.  Choosing your battles, as it were.

People say that baseball is a metaphor for life.  I've recently come to agree with this expression rather adamantly.  Because the thing of it is, we're up to bat each and every time, aren't we?  We may have the support of a team, a great coach, but in the end we're the ones who step up to the plate, alone and ready to swing.  Sure we can watch the tapes, study the pitcher, do our best to prepare, but in the end, none of us can predict the moments we're going to hit a grand slam.  Or strike out.  In a strange way it helps me to remember this, in both my triumphs and my failures.  It's good perspective.  My choices, my decisions are half chance.  So are everybody else's. 

Last week, I finished Chad Harbach's The Art of Fielding.  I am not giving anything away when I tell you the novel centers around baseball, which seems to be a common theme in my life these days.  (It is June in Red Sox Nation after all.)  As the story came to its inevitable, ultimate conclusion, I was struck by a passage in the book, one that reminded me again of how important it can be to try and count my successes and my disappointments one at a time. 

We swing and we miss.  Or.  We swing and we run like hell toward first.  Maybe, on our really good days, we even steal second.    

The ball bore through the morning mist on what seemed like a true path.  The closer it got the more Henry expected it to veer off course, but halfway there it looked good, and three quarters of the way it looked better.  One time.

The shovel head rang like a struck bell, continued to quiver after the sound was gone.  Contango howled as if trying to match the pitch.  The ball dropped straight to the infield dust.  The feeling that ripped through Henry was better than that magic IV he'd been served in the Comstock hospital, better than anything he'd felt on a baseball field before.  A half second later the feeling was gone.  He'd made one perfect throw.  Now what?

Schwartz bent down gingerly, reached into the bucket.  "Just kidding," he said.  "I've got one more."

Henry nodded, dropped into his crouch.  The ball came off the bat.

-The Art of Fielding-

Objects.

When I was about ten or twelve years old, my Mom took my brother and I into Manhattan for the day.  I'm not sure if we had a specific agenda for that visit or if we'd just decided to drive the ninety minutes north of my hometown and spend the day in the city as we were sometimes inclined to do.

At some point during the trip, while we were wandering along the Upper West Side, we came upon an interior design store called Gracious Home.  Seeing as my mother practiced interior design for several years, it only made sense for the three of us to venture inside.  I don't really remember much about the store wares themselves nor do I remember all that we looked at and admired in the store during that visit.  More than anything I have a very clear memory of Mom recognizing a local newscaster, pointing her out to me, and then me, unabashedly staring at her from across an isle - simultaneously star struck and in amazed awe of the amount of make up caked all over her face - until she eventually paid for her products and left.

We couldn't have spent more than thirty minutes in that store that day. However, when I moved to New York in 2005 and was setting up my apartment, Gracious Home on the Upper West Side was the store I trekked to for supplies.  Sure, there were plenty of other viable shopping options that were actually much closer to my apartment but I didn't care.  When I made that initial visit into Gracious Home as a little girl I decided right then and there that when I lived in New York City, that's where I would do my home goods shopping.  And I have found that the promises we make to ourselves when were are young are the ones we should all work the hardest to keep.

One fall day, shortly after my move to the city and before I'd found a job that required my 9 to 5 presence, I hopped on the subway with a Gracious Home trip planned, intent on buying myself a proper shower caddy.  I had never had one before, having either relied on the plastic carry-all buckets from my college days, or later, in the first few apartments where I'd lived with roommates, designated "sections" of the shower or tub to store our own private stock of various shampoos, conditioners, and face wash, to be shared or "borrowed" under penalty of death.

So.  There I was, virtually alone in the biggest city in America; not sure where or when I'd find a job and/or if my recent move was the best or worst decision I'd ever made in my life. (For the record - one of the best.)  My move to New York had made me feel very much like a grown up adult while simultaneously making me feel like a lost and confused teenager.  I didn't feel like I was really sure of anything that fall, but damn it, I was determined to have an organized, grown up, New York City bathroom.  And as everyone knows, all organized, grown up, New York bathrooms have proper shower caddies.

I absolutely overpaid, shelling out nearly $30 for the thing, but I didn't care.  I finally had my proper stainless steel caddy from my beloved Manhattan interior design store and that was what mattered.  In some bizarre way that stupid metal shower caddy made me happier and prouder than almost anything else I purchased during those initial days of unpacking and settling into my new home.  Odd as it sounds, the caddy was the thing that somehow made it feel like I'd arrived, like I was claiming this New York adventure for my own.

When I moved out of New York and back to Boston, that shower caddy came with me obviously.  It moved with me through three more apartments and hung in three different bathrooms before settling in my current shower almost six years ago.

For at least a year now, I've thought to myself almost every morning while in the shower, that it was time for a new one.  Nothing lasts forever, not even stainless steel, and my New York caddy was well past its prime.  It was rusting, the soap dish was caked with old remnants of long since discarded bars, and it no longer hung properly, forcing me to push it back up atop the shower head every other day.  Yet even as I knew it was time for a replacement, I held out, not wanting to toss the very thing that - no matter how silly it all seemed - had brought me such a sense of pride and peace during those initial tumultuous months alone in New York. 

Last week, I finally bought a new caddy.  My Gracious Home one went in the recycling bin.  My new shower caddy is nothing special, I think I paid about $12 for it at TJ Maxx.  I bought it at a strip mall while I was running errands, I debated between the one I ultimately took home and the other contender for maybe ten minutes.  It is rust free, it hangs right where it should, it holds all of my shower necessities adequately.  This new shower caddy does everything it is supposed to do.  And yet it doesn't mean very much to me at all.

______

In April, after years of searching for just the right one, I purchased a new sofa.  It has yet to be delivered, it is likely that it will arrive in the next week or so.  And it's beautiful.  Soft, comfortable, the perfect color grey.  I even splurged and add the sleeper noption, so I'll soon have a more enticing spot for overnight guests to crash rather than just offering my current couch (no fold-out option).  I fell in love with this soon to be mine sofa in the store, I have no doubt I'll love it once it is in my living room.

When this new grown-up, brand new, not a hand me down sofa arrives though, it will mean donating my current sofa to a local charity. And my current sofa has been around since my mother purchased it for herself when she was twenty five years old.  It's been recovered three times, has moved from Georgia  to Florida to Missouri to Ohio to New Jersey back to Georgia up to Massachusetts down to New York and finally back to Massachusetts in its forty some odd years.   Similarly to my determination to shop at Gracious Home when I was just a kid, around the age of twelve or thirteen, I told my Mom I'd like to have her sofa someday when I had my own apartment.  She obliged and that little sofa has seen more apartments than I can even count.  That old tan and white gingham patterned couch is old and tired these days, her coils squeak a bit now and then.  Much to my frustration my cats have used her arms as scratching posts, the current fabric has caught multiple spills and splotches throughout the years. It's time.  And yet, I will not be surprised if I shed a tear or two when they haul her away.  In fact, I don't allow myself to think about her imminent departure all that much these days, preferring instead to steal away a few more nights curled up with a book or catching up on my favorite television shows as I've done since I inherited the couch as my own, as a 25 year old woman myself.

______

 
This is the way it's supposed to be of course.  We get older, we upgrade now and then. If things go according to plan we don't always need to rely on hand-me-down furniture or rusty shower caddies.  One thing wears out, another new object moves in to replace it. 

None of this is actually about the physical object of course; they are but vessels that carry a random smattering of moments, thoughts, memories, and ideas that are stored in our hearts, our minds.  They are simply something we had, we held onto, at a certain place or point in our lives.  Rationally I realize that the memories do not disappear with the object.  Still though, I find something deeply comforting in these days of media and instant gratification and temporary this or that of thinking to myself: "I know where this came from, where it has been, where it's going.  I remember.  I'm aware."

In a way, for even a few fleeting years, these objects have been a piece of me, my life; a part of my story.

96.

May 19th, 1918.

When I was in fourth or fifth grade, each student in my class was given a homework assignment for our history class.  We were each supposed to interview a grandparent or other older relative, write up a report on our findings, and share them with the class.  My grandmother lived in Illinois at the time; none of my grandparents lived nearby when I was growing up, so one night we arranged a phone call where I could interview her for the class project over the phone.  My Dad made the initial call for me, said hello to his mother, and then passed me the phone, giving me free reign to conduct my interview.  I sat on the old bar stool in our kitchen in New Jersey, yellow phone receiver in hand, asking my Grandma question after question, making note of her answers on my worksheet.  If I remember correctly, some of the more generic questions were assigned to everyone in the class:  Where were you born?  Where did you grow up?  How many children did you have?

There were other questions too, ones that we, as the interviewer had been allowed to write ourselves. Our interview may have been more than twenty years ago but I remember clear as a bell asking my Grandmother what they did for electricity once it got dark outside (gas lamps) and whether or not she was ever afraid that Indians might attack their house since they lived in the Midwest.  (She grew up in Kansas.)

Grandma stifled a laugh when she heard that last question about the Indians and answered me as seriously as she could on the other end of that long distance call.  "Now, Kelli.  You know I haven't been alive for that long, don't you?"

She went on to patiently explain what her childhood days were like - going to school, living and helping around the home, being the oldest of several siblings.  I listened, took notes, and turned in my assignment later that week in school, satisfied that I had answered every question appropriately and thoroughly.

I got an A.

It is only as I've gotten older myself, that I've stopped to appreciate the life my Grandmother has led, have had more questions for her, wanted to hear more about her experiences and her adventures.

Her life.

My grandmother has always been an optimistic person; in the thirty-four years that I've known her I have never heard her not come up with some sort of positive outlook, even when faced with dire circumstances.  It is a trait I have long admired, one I hope to have inherited myself, even in some small way.  A few years ago, I overheard her talking to one of my cousins at another cousin's wedding about her attitude for making it through the hard times.  "You have to focus on the positive.  Find the silver lining.  And in the end, you'll find you don't remember the bad times as clearly.  They will fade.  The good times, the good memories are what you need to hold onto.  That's what keeps you going."

__________

Last week I finished one of the best novels I can remember reading, the kind of book you fall in love with from the get-go and are so very sad to place back on a shelf once you've read the last page.  At one point in the story, the main character, Kate, is reflecting back on something her deceased father once said.  I liked the passage so much I made note of it in my collection of quotes with the intent on re-reading it on days when I might be feeling blue or a little out of sorts.

My father was never much one for whining.  In the nineteen years I knew him, he hardly spoke of his turn in the Russian army or of making ends meet with my mother, or of the day that she walked out on us.  He certainly didn't complain about his health as it failed.

But one night near the end, as I was sitting at this bedside trying to entertain him with an anecdote about some nincompoop with whom I worked, out of the blue he shared a reflection which seemed such a non sequitor that I attributed it to delrium.  Whatever set backs he had faced in his life, he said, however daunting or dispiriting the unfolding of events, he always knew that he would make it through, as long as when he woke in the morning he was looking forward to his first cup of coffee.  Only decades later would I realize that he had been giving me a piece of advice.

Uncompromising purpose and the search for eternal truth have an unquestionable sex appeal for the young and high-minded; but when a person loses the ability to take pleasure in the mundane - in the cigarette on the stoop or the gingersnap in the bath - she has probably put herself in unnecessary danger.  What my father was trying to tell me, as he neared the conclusion of his own course, was that this risk should not be treated lightly.  One must be prepared to fight for one's simple pleasures and to defend them against elegance and erudition and all manner of glamorous enticements.

In retrospect, my cup of coffee has been the works of Charles Dickens.  Admittedly, there's something a little annoying about all those plucky underprivileged kids and the aptly named agents of villainy.  But I've come to realize that however blue my circumstances, if after finishing a chapter of a Dickens novel I feel a miss-my-stop-on-the-train sort of compulsion to read on, then everything is probably going to be just fine."

- Amor Towles Rules of Civilty - 

_________

I remember talking to my Grandma on the phone one Saturday morning years ago, when I was in the tumultuous midst of moving back to Boston from New York City, adjusting to another new job, wondering if I'd made the right decision regarding any of the recent decisions I'd had to make.  

"You will be fine, sweet Kelli.  I just know it.  The sun is shining here and the birds are chirping away and you are so loved."

My Grandmother lives with my Aunt in Pennsylvania now.  She is sharp as a tack, often beating me in our daily Words with Friends battle.  When we speak on the phone or message one another on email or Words with Friends, she is often telling me about a recent book she has read that she recommends or swapping opinions about the latest drama unfolding on Downton Abbey.  Sometimes I wonder if she doesn't get frustrated, not being as mobile or as independent as she used to be, if she longs for the days of her youth.  

And yet, I know that she has found her proverbial cup of coffee, her Dickens novel, as the protagonist mentioned above had.  For my dear, beloved Grandmother rises every morning to enjoy her own cup of coffee by the bay window in her kitchen.  She looks out into the yard and the woods behind their house, watching the birds; nothing which flowers have recently come into bloom.  And she is happy.  Content.     

Might we all be so wise.  So brave.

May 19, 1918.

My Grandmother turned 96 today.  She was surrounded by family near and wide, her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, gathered round either in person or on the telephone wishing her a Happy Birthday, sending their love.  She had flowers delivered and balloons hung.  A cake baked and a special birthday dinner cooked just for her.

 __________

Last week, when I sat down to order the roses I wanted delivered for her birthday, I thought about what I wanted the enclosed card to say when she opened her flowers.  Of course, there are a million and one things to say to a woman as special and dear to me as my Grandmother is and it is rather unfortunate that cards that accompany flowers come with a character limit.  I thought about my note for some time, on and off throughout the day before I ordered her roses.  How does one sum up 96 well lived years, I wondered. 

Until I realized there was a single statement that kept coming back to; one I think of whenever I think of my Grandma.

I am proud.

So very, very proud to know this woman.  To call her my Grandmother.  To have been her Granddaughter for the past 34 years.

Happy Birthday, Grandma.  You make 96 look pretty darn fabulous.