tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27329886448645922472024-03-19T12:48:28.397+08:00The Downtown DinerMade famous in Beijing, now operating out of Nashville, TennesseeMelanie Gaohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17288533681881691687noreply@blogger.comBlogger168125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2732988644864592247.post-87007538131120755662022-05-31T02:15:00.004+08:002022-05-31T05:28:20.124+08:00Afraid of Small Talk <p><br /></p><p>Last summer as I prepared for my hike on the Camino in Spain, I had a training plan. My hiking partners Daisy and T-Dog and I were going to walk about 15 miles per day for five days, and I was going to need to do some serious training to be ready for that. I downloaded a plan from the internet and scheduled training sessions in my calendar. I was going to be fit and toned before I left Tennessee. It was gonna be awesome. </p><p><br /></p><p>None of that happened. I got busy. I was working a busy job in corporate America. Grant was graduating from high school and preparing for college. Audrey was transferring from the University of Tennessee to Emory. I was getting my house ready to rent out while I was away on my self-funded year-long sabbatical, which was set to begin just after I returned from the Camino. </p><p><br /></p><p>In short, it was just life being life. I did get one good 12-mile hike in the week before I left for Spain and by the end of the day I had a giant bruise on my big toenail. My friend Dee, who knows a lot about hiking, said we should use a needle to drill a hole in my toenail, otherwise it might fall off. That saved my toenail but the whole experience with the bruise and the drilling process left me with the impression that I was wholly unprepared for the Camino.</p><p><br /></p><p>A week later, I was on the plane on the way to Spain, wondering how the hell I was going to hike 15 miles a day for five days straight. I was reading a book by James Brierly called <u>A Pilgrim's Guide to the Camino de Santiago</u>, and I came across a sentence which really hit home. It went something like this - </p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>"We bring our tired and stressed bodies and </i><i>dump them at the</i> <i>head of the Camino and hope that all will be well."</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p>Hope is not a strategy, James Brierly. I learned that in Corporate America. I needed a plan. So there in my seat in Row 34, I devised what I came to call the 60/30 plan. It was my plan for walking 15 miles a day even though I was in lousy shape. </p><p><br /></p><p>It went like this - I would walk for 60 minutes. I knew I could do that, I did it all the time. An hour of walking, easy. </p><p><br /></p><p>Then I would rest for 30 minutes. No matter how tired I got, surely after a half hour of rest, I would be able to walk for an hour again. </p><p><br /></p><p>15 miles a day, at a rate of 2 miles per hour... It might take me 11-12 hours to cover the day's terrain but I would get there. I had nothing to do all day but walk. This was doable. Surely. I felt better having a plan. I had a reason to think this would work, and if it didn't, it wouldn't be for lack of a plan. </p><p><br /></p><p>I had a plan. So if I failed, it wouldn't be my fault. That was comforting to me. Failure wouldn't be my fault.</p><p><br /></p><p>Failure. Me being at fault. Those things make me very uncomfortable. But I have failed in my lifetime, many times. And I have been at fault. A lot. Plans and strategies are a buffer that protects me from facing my role in any of that. </p><p><br /></p><p>Those things were hard for me to talk about before the Camino and before my sabbatical. It's not easy now but I can do it.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5C88mCTwODCZ4p9M2fg-81U2S7YbyvgiUvZlZS_49GN3IjwKY_tasfBrH0BTg89DV3E_l0tETR4qXVrsNLB8Ntwf0Nkbci0pna4HHTn9B96IQHVLMaITJ6gdqeMnS6pYbO2oSDLIXZDdhUQkvghlIz74kdo_cRQWphIskIIncz5B75TC3hmPDc2Ql/s640/UsToo.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="355" data-original-width="640" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5C88mCTwODCZ4p9M2fg-81U2S7YbyvgiUvZlZS_49GN3IjwKY_tasfBrH0BTg89DV3E_l0tETR4qXVrsNLB8Ntwf0Nkbci0pna4HHTn9B96IQHVLMaITJ6gdqeMnS6pYbO2oSDLIXZDdhUQkvghlIz74kdo_cRQWphIskIIncz5B75TC3hmPDc2Ql/s320/UsToo.png" width="320" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Photo credit: Melissa Freeman)</span></p><p>On our first day on the Camino, Daisy and T-Dog and I set off before dawn. I quickly realized that my first challenge would be to let them walk ahead of me. Their pace was different and I found I was walking their Camino, not mine. I was making the first transition - I was calling it my Camino. This path that I was going to walk for the next week was mine and I needed to claim it. And that meant walking it alone. </p><p><br /></p><p>They hesitated to leave me on my own but I reminded them that we had cell phones and the address of the pension where we would sleep that night. I would meet them there. T-Dog finally nodded and agreed to leave me on my own but he left me with important words of wisdom. "Watch the trail markers. It's easy to get off the trail so watch closely. If you do that, you'll be fine." </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNjl6sVccwcmsv4rWKwY5pW9GTXn2SIL9qZ2JMhu8GkmFm3-3eAMoFGkWgQf09qwAAhRotX27muMINmjGIa6KcvbG8JY42jK6Phi_EoAtaqywMHBWuTSPRqRsm8ezijf5kvurC7TrVSley0NweKc57bEEpY9lrt9oUFDiK0Z-qRvizn03xxsnrV0j_/s640/TandM.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNjl6sVccwcmsv4rWKwY5pW9GTXn2SIL9qZ2JMhu8GkmFm3-3eAMoFGkWgQf09qwAAhRotX27muMINmjGIa6KcvbG8JY42jK6Phi_EoAtaqywMHBWuTSPRqRsm8ezijf5kvurC7TrVSley0NweKc57bEEpY9lrt9oUFDiK0Z-qRvizn03xxsnrV0j_/s320/TandM.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>I watched them disappear off into the distance as I settled into my pace. Which I had to discover. I had never done anything like this before, I had never been to this place before. I had never walked a path like this before. It took me a long time to find my pace. </p><p><br /></p><p>After an hour it was time for my break and I looked for a place to stop, but then I realized - I actually feel okay. I don't think I need a break. I feel ... great. </p><p><br /></p><p>So I shrugged and kept walking. I thought I'd get ahead of plan. I'd exceed my goal for this stage of the 60/30 plan. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihpxsZWXnH95NpyMYCklPoNLYSCk53WJ6kU2dioeW9UVV5XSNvPIuSSuuUhml25NWSrFGGVBGtarhGKdwL1Znrp3LpnH4sgGeOyDjrCdBkhn3uhWFHc3UEPntlqXow82ifWxWKFGjXj-4PT_Me4PyvORBfe-9rfQE6S_PPOGYJ1TgTozVKKEk1TJPf/s640/Town.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihpxsZWXnH95NpyMYCklPoNLYSCk53WJ6kU2dioeW9UVV5XSNvPIuSSuuUhml25NWSrFGGVBGtarhGKdwL1Znrp3LpnH4sgGeOyDjrCdBkhn3uhWFHc3UEPntlqXow82ifWxWKFGjXj-4PT_Me4PyvORBfe-9rfQE6S_PPOGYJ1TgTozVKKEk1TJPf/s320/Town.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>About 2 hours later I approached a small village, and I realized a break and some breakfast would be good. So I stopped at the next roadside cafe and got a piece of Santiago cake and a coffee. I sat down under a blue umbrella at a table outside the cafe and took off my backpack. </p><p><br /></p><p>The big plastic buckle that secured my backpack around my hips clicked as I unsnapped it. That "click" was a sound I had heard before but it meant something special this time. I had heard that click for the first time when my brother-in-law Cody gave the pack to me and showed me how it worked. I had heard it many times as I packed it, back in Nashville. I had heard it that morning at the hotel in Sarria when I put the pack on. But now on my first break of my first day on the Camino, that click meant something special - it meant the release of a heavy load from my sweaty back after many many steps on the trail. It was the first time I had really earned that click. </p><p><br /></p><p>My feet exhaled as I unlaced my hiking boots. I watched other pilgrims pass by as I ate my breakfast and breathed in the pastures around me. I propped my feet up and set an alarm on my phone for 30 minutes. </p><p><br /></p><p>When the alarm rang I started to lace my boots again but something inside my body said, "I'm not ready yet." It felt like I had a boulder on my sitz bones and it wasn't letting me move. It surprised me because I hadn't really asked my body, but it was speaking anyway. "I'm not ready yet." </p><p><br /></p><p>My shoelaces still in my hands, I turned my head and looked off into a field to my right, at a haze of mist floating over dewy grass in a field. A cow mooed in the distance. I wasn't sure what to do. It was time to walk again, according to the 60/30 plan. But here was my body saying, "I'm not ready yet." </p><p><br /></p><p>Who do I listen to? My plan, or this faint voice coming from inside my body? </p><p><br /></p><p>I decided that I could afford to rest a few more minutes. I had, after all, gotten ahead of plan earlier in the morning. So it was okay to spend a few more minutes here at the roadside cafe. </p><p><br /></p><p>I took my boots back off, settled back into my chair and folded my arms across my chest. </p><p><br /></p><p>How would I know when to get up and walk again? What would stop me from sitting here all day? What if I was still sitting at this cafe at the end of the day while Daisy and T-Dog ate dinner at our pension, 11 miles ahead of me on the trail? If I wasn't managing by a clock, how would I know when to start walking again? </p><p><br /></p><p>And then the most obvious thing hit me - I can listen to my body. </p><p><br /></p><p>Embarrassment and self-doubt and fear nudged me from all sides because ... I wasn't sure how to do that. </p><p><br /></p><p>How would I know when my body was rested? What would that feel like? Or ... what would that sound like? </p><p><br /></p><p>I hadn't been listening to my body for so long that I wasn't even sure what language it spoke anymore. I had been working in Corporate America for almost 30 years and I had become accustomed to governing my life by clocks and alarms and schedules and calendars. It was easy to know when to do things. You start working Monday morning at 8am and you stop Friday evening at 5pm. If you get to Tuesday afternoon and you're completely spent - IT DOESN'T MATTER. You have to keep going. </p><p><br /></p><p>If you get to Friday afternoon and think, "You know, I feel okay. I could keep going for a while," you better not. Because your next chance to rest won't be for another week. </p><p><br /></p><p>In the face of all of that, I had stopped paying attention to my body and the cues it was trying to give me. Because it simply didn't matter. I had to go when it was time to go, and I had to stop when it was time to stop. It was as simple as that.</p><p><br /></p><p>But as I sat under that umbrella that morning on the Camino, I tried to make amends with my body. I hoped that it wasn't too late - that I could still hear my body if I listened closely. So I sat there with my arms folded across my chest, wondering and listening, hoping and doubting. </p><p><br /></p><p>Deep down I was horrified that I was at this point. Who doesn't know how to tell if they're tired or not? How did I get here? How had I ignored my physical cues for so long? It's no wonder my body stopped trying to communicate with me. Why would you keep trying to talk to someone who wasn't listening to you? </p><p><br /></p><p>This was anger coming up. I know this now, looking back. I had a lot of anger stored up inside my body and while I was trying to hear my body tell me if it was rested, it was also telling me other things. Like, "You have a lot of anger inside of you." It's easier for me to feel anger if I direct it at myself, so I did that for a while.</p><p><br /></p><p>The shadow of the umbrella moved slowly across the ground in front of me. I tried to stand up a few times, but each time, the boulder on my sitz bones was still there. </p><p><br /></p><p>The cows mooed. The pilgrims passed. The mist lifted. The dew on the blades of grass became less silvery and more watery. </p><p><br /></p><p>And then, I felt it. It was a weird lurch. Almost as if my spirit was trying to leave my body. </p><p><br /></p><p>"Oh my god, is that what it feels like to be ready to walk again?" I asked myself. "Maybe. Maybe that's it."</p><p><br /></p><p>So I laced up my hiking boots and stood up. It felt good. My legs felt strong. My feet weren't swollen anymore. I picked up my backpack, slid my arms through the straps and clicked the belt around my hips. It felt tight and secure and safe, like my pack was holding me. I took my dishes back to the cafe and asked the cashier if he could refill my water bottle. </p><p><br /></p><p>"Si, si, pelligrino," he smiled. He was calling me a pilgrim. I was a pilgrim and this was my Camino. And I was beginning to hear my body speak to me for the first time in a long time. Messages that I wanted to hear, like, </p><p>"You are strong" or </p><p>"You are ready to walk now." </p><p><br /></p><p>And some messages I didn't want to hear, like, </p><p>"You can't ignore me," or </p><p>"You need to rest" or </p><p>"You are angry." </p><p><br /></p><p>But I agreed to hear it all, whether I liked the messages or not.</p><p><br /></p><p>And this is how I made my way across the next five days. I listened to my body. I walked when I had energy and I rested when I was tired. It was that simple. If the boulder was there on my sitz bones I sat. If my spirit was lurching out of my being, I got up and walked. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCFf0d6dD0dipBmYGVhn5iV8WTt6DwKei50IQVkkNRW1WeW1gUHI5T7sOZhDrJd2mcEZGdb2LGRs3roStojwg3DIX5mX2jv_J1FEj_nYc7_MZKK1YByrjjEDqqSTYZ3_2vUDLKCqEM2IAkdkleFwVF912DEa5DigQPgQG2gK9VH2c2tHMciGo4p6Ms/s640/Poem.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCFf0d6dD0dipBmYGVhn5iV8WTt6DwKei50IQVkkNRW1WeW1gUHI5T7sOZhDrJd2mcEZGdb2LGRs3roStojwg3DIX5mX2jv_J1FEj_nYc7_MZKK1YByrjjEDqqSTYZ3_2vUDLKCqEM2IAkdkleFwVF912DEa5DigQPgQG2gK9VH2c2tHMciGo4p6Ms/s320/Poem.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>This matters to me in a whole new way now. I have been on sabbatical in my tiny house on the mountain for a year now. I have been sleeping and writing and eating and hiking and building fires in my firepit. I watched the leaves turn golden, then I watched them fall off the trees. I heard the geese honk as they flew south. The frogs stopped croaking and the bare branches of the grey trees swayed back and forth in the wind. Straight winds came through and blew some of the trees down. Thunder and lightning shook my tiny house. The snow fell. The boulders on the Fiery Gizzard trail were round and slick. It rained and rained and rained. The icicles drip-dropped. The owls hooted. The squirrels jumped. The air softened and warmed. The bees and mosquitoes and gnats flew back in. The ducks came back and swam on the lake again. The branches plushed up with so many fresh leaves I couldn't see my neighbor's house anymore - all I could see was green all around me.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>The last time I posted here on the Downtown Diner was December 8, and at that point, I wasn't sure I would ever be ready to come down off the mountain. I wasn't sure I'd be able to rejoin you all in civilized society. I wasn't sure I could ever again embrace things like deodorant and small talk and knowing what day of the week it was. The thought of the calendars and schedules and clocks and alarms - the tools that once brought me comfort and reassurance - felt restrictive and bossy and unforgiving. </p><p><br /></p><p>Around the middle of April though, I felt something inside of me lurch. My spirit seemed to want to return to the energy of the city. I thought about easy access to groceries, and church bells, and Starbucks, and paved roads, and utilities that come straight into your house through pipes and wires that you never have to even think about. I wanted all of those things. </p><p><br /></p><p>I was rested. I was ready. </p><p><br /></p><p>I put my tiny house on the market. I gave my tenants notice that they needed to move out of my house in the city. I began to work again, part-time, virtually, from my tiny house. I told my friends and my family that I was coming back. </p><p><br /></p><p>I was rested. I was ready. </p><p><br /></p><p>It's time to come back to the city. </p><p><br /></p><p>But these last few weeks, I don't feel ready anymore. I feel sad. I'm mad that I have to earn money, and that the best way to do this is to be back in the city. My skin itches at the thought of deodorant and shaving cream. My eyelids feel heavy at the thought of stiff mascara, an errant black lash falling into my eye and poking my eyeball. I can feel myself tugging on my lower eyelid, asking, "Do you see anything in there?" They never do. But I can feel it and it hurts.</p><p><br /></p><p>I thought my body was telling me it's time. I thought my spirit was lurching up and out of me, back towards the city. And now I don't know what to do with this feeling. It's like the boulder on my sitz bones has me pinned to my chair on the mountain. Meanwhile, my soul is lurching on ahead of me, back to civilized life.</p><p><br /></p><p>This, I have not experienced before. All the wisdom I thought I gained on the Camino isn't serving me now. </p><p><br /></p><p>This morning my daughter and I face timed while we made our breakfast. She was making watermelon with tajin in Atlanta, I was making avocado toast with Trader Joe's chili lime salt in Tracy City. We each made the case for why our chili salt was better. </p><p><br /></p><p>I told her how I'm feeling. That I thought I was ready to leave the tiny house and now I wish I could stay here forever. I looked out the window at the trees and the sky and the lake.</p><p><br /></p><p>"That doesn't surprise me," she said.</p><p><br /></p><p>"Why?" I asked.</p><p><br /></p><p>"Because I know you," she said. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>I'm mad that I don't understand. I'm mad that this doesn't make sense. I'm looking everywhere for the trail markers and they are not there. Coming back down off the mountain after a year-long sabbatical made sense and I thought my body was playing along. I might have been wrong. </p><p><br /></p><p>Please bear with me as I adjust to life back in the city, assuming I do make it back there. I might not smell great, my clothes might not match. I talk about trees a lot. Appointments make me anxious because I'm afraid of missing them. I will probably pull on my eyelid and ask you if there's anything in there. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>I'm afraid that part of me will be pinned down by this boulder on the mountain while another part will have lurched 11 miles ahead.... </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>You see what I mean about being afraid of small talk...</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript">
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The library card I bought for $10 gives me access to the building, the stacks and all the digital downloads for ten years. Until I am 62 I will have access to polished hardwood and special collections and erudite peers. </p><p><br /></p><p>I feel inspired and fortunate. </p><p><br /></p><p>I sat on the quiet floor, the third floor, with the theological and seminary students. In a soft, worn brown leather chair between the Dead Sea Scrolls and a Rabbinical prayer book, I began to write about my life. </p><p><br /></p><p>I think I was too loud for the third floor because a student in leggings and Blundstone boots moved two tables away from me. She moved her laptop first and then came back for her books. I put the top on my Mate tea, folded my laptop and went downstairs to the first floor, which is as loud as an elementary school cafeteria, and put in my earphones and listened to bluegrass acoustic music to drown out the flirty, rowdy non-theology students. </p><p><br /></p><p>I wrote about what it was like to wash my children's hair when they were babies. Rinsing the shampoo from their shiny heads, trying hard not to get soap in their eyes. Trying to hold their heads at just the right angle, adjusting the water pressure and temperature just so, aiming the water at the perfect angle so it rinsed the soap from their scalp and then ran backwards towards their neck. Not forwards towards their eyes. I wished I had been a better student in Geometry. I remember what my palm felt like against the back of their sturdy little necks. I needed to keep their heads clean and I didn't want them to cry. In those early days of motherhood, it seemed so hard to do both. My babies were so squirmy and slippery. And my hands, so shaky. </p><p><br /></p><p>Some nights I was more successful than others. But today they are young adults out there in the world with clean hair and fully functioning eyes. </p><p><br /></p><p><span> </span><span> <span> </span><span> </span> </span>Dear Melanie of the Early Aughts, </p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> I</span>t's going to be okay. </p><p><span> </span><span> <span> </span><span> </span> </span>Turns out there is no perfect angle. </p><p><br /></p><p>I wonder what I would have written about if I had stayed on the third floor. </p><p><br /></p><p>I paid $10 for a drop-in hot yoga class at a gym next to my tiny house. At the end of the class my teacher placed a cool wet lemongrass-scented washcloth on each yogi's forehead and while we relaxed in savasana on our mats, she sat in a beam of moonlight at the front of the room and prayed for us. The cool wetness on my forehead balanced out the warm lightness of my body and kept me from floating off into the stars.</p><p><br /></p><p>My teacher didn't tell us about the prayer part. </p><p><br /></p><p>I drove home, the gravel on the road and in my driveway popping like popcorn under my city car tires. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh9tNLm8qzck88tgOUSiNdo8Mw44pR3XijGWDnrfRsa9MFNZkFvfQgakOhydP7q36IRYHer3T1ZIIZDAdDuj7YWWxinPB8eVz7wzMXwpSpQ5Cn8S0JgS6-zdrlT-zArQVlROGecXxpdpgtU5XWkRL0lRMNkyOxhbdHJjJLhzUy7-3DiIG7UQDT03xSX=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh9tNLm8qzck88tgOUSiNdo8Mw44pR3XijGWDnrfRsa9MFNZkFvfQgakOhydP7q36IRYHer3T1ZIIZDAdDuj7YWWxinPB8eVz7wzMXwpSpQ5Cn8S0JgS6-zdrlT-zArQVlROGecXxpdpgtU5XWkRL0lRMNkyOxhbdHJjJLhzUy7-3DiIG7UQDT03xSX=s320" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p>I cooked my dinner while listening to Roxane Gay's audiobook "Bad Feminist." I put oatmeal and flax seed in a pot, frozen cherries and blueberries and strawberries in another. At first I thought Roxane was critical of everyone and everything and I wanted to dismiss her as cranky, but I still listened to her and then I said out loud, "she's just ... she's right". Then I said it again. And she's cranky. She's cranky and she's right. </p><p><br /></p><p>I put warm compote and Greek yogurt on my oatmeal and my boyfriend called.</p><p><br /></p><p>I took a shower and put my sweaty yoga clothes in my Barbie-sized washer. I don't know how such a tiny washer can require maintenance on such a frequent basis. Appliance repair companies don't want to send techs to addresses like mine. The last time a guy called to tell me he was fifteen minutes away he was in Texas. </p><p><br /></p><p>I live in Tennessee. </p><p><br /></p><p>I opened the window in my bedroom and let the cold mountain air pour into the room. I turned on the electric blanket under my down comforter, and sprayed lavender in the air. I closed the door to my room, a pocket of cold and fresh oxygen building inside. </p><br /><p><br /></p><p>I poured a cup of Jim Beam,</p><p>sat by my fireplace,</p><p>and read an article in the New Yorker that my mother gave me at Thanksgiving. A blue post-it with my name on it marks the page. My name is in her handwriting. I held it to my lips as I read the article. </p><p><br /></p><p>Which for all of its many words, was not as moving as the blue post-it note that has my name on it, in my mother's handwriting. </p><p><br /></p><p>I blew out the candles. I turned off the fireplace. I plugged my laptop into the outlet. I set up the coffee maker for tomorrow morning. </p><p><br /></p><p>I turned out the lights. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>I don't know how I will ever come down off this mountain. </p><p><br /></p><p>I will try, when the time comes, but </p><p><br /></p><p>I think I have forgotten how to live what the rest of the world calls life. </p><p><br /></p><p>I don't know how I did it for as long as I did. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiihtLJsKm__IMzzyq7HtI7dlusKAkmgOeLjDmwYU8yvTSFbaWgV9LDd5Towk35_vSOFbB9erqXk__EuXLcQBei7IHnjbufiihgT-HMMImj_nUJFqZKTbIlc4f-LeGwCeqsf5kGNV_pwHgF0kH6up3hr4py7Au3Tz_1ebasM4NIZS38jocaE3dM7g2y=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiihtLJsKm__IMzzyq7HtI7dlusKAkmgOeLjDmwYU8yvTSFbaWgV9LDd5Towk35_vSOFbB9erqXk__EuXLcQBei7IHnjbufiihgT-HMMImj_nUJFqZKTbIlc4f-LeGwCeqsf5kGNV_pwHgF0kH6up3hr4py7Au3Tz_1ebasM4NIZS38jocaE3dM7g2y=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript">
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I had small children and I was married.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Now in 2021 I live in Tennessee, I'm divorced and my children are young adults away at college. I'm back in my home country so I don't have the same immigrant struggles I did in Beijing.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>But am I at home? I'm not sure. The older I get, the harder it feels to go home. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>The things that I remember from "home" aren't the way I remembered them, like Girl Scout Thin Mints and the catwalk in front of my elementary school. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Then sometimes I'm in a completely new environment and I encounter things like <a href="https://blog.mountainroseherbs.com/fire-cider">fire cider </a>or a public drinking fountain in Spain that feel so ... known ... </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>The older I get, the more "home" feels like something that I carry deep inside of me. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVM6ZteaeS4Sp8gEtC20OZUJtVZsU9hBlWoaNBQuZaio14ixnUno276Puc39Hu77g845kPKp7jWe6kBzhxK4QZlNoZAVzUkJyHmN0ewprFDXQm6gUsEi3X7fjtk132D2xauIxgUrG_HXo/s640/wettrees.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVM6ZteaeS4Sp8gEtC20OZUJtVZsU9hBlWoaNBQuZaio14ixnUno276Puc39Hu77g845kPKp7jWe6kBzhxK4QZlNoZAVzUkJyHmN0ewprFDXQm6gUsEi3X7fjtk132D2xauIxgUrG_HXo/w320-h240/wettrees.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>It's a rainy day on the mountain today. The raindrops started pattering on the tin roof of my tiny house during the night and they've continued to trickle down all morning. On the wet trees outside my window, yellow and red and brown leaves wave to me. As if they're beckoning. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>I guess this is just a day that wants to pull me back into the past for a few moments.... </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>In that spirit, please join me in a brief trip to the past. The year is 2011 and we are in Beijing. </i></div><div><br /></div>It's that time of the semester again - <a href="http://thedowntowndiner.blogspot.com/2010/11/parent-parent-parent-teacher-meeting.html">Parent-Parent-Parent-Teacher Meeting</a>. Thanks to China's One Child Policy most parents only have to sit through this torturous meeting once, but since I gave birth to two kids, I have twice as many meetings to attend as anyone else. Once for Audrey in 5th grade and once for Grant in 2nd grade. <div><br /></div><div>For 40 minutes we heard from the principal, who gave us a report on the activities of the 小学部, which as far as I can tell is the Elementary School Department. </div><div><br /></div><div>They appear to be doing great, thank you for asking. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then for 20 minutes a man from the Vision Protection Program gave us a presentation about, you guessed it, how to protect our kids' vision. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then we went to our kids' classroom, where the teacher talked to us about our students' progress. She gave us our children's mid-term exam scores and a rough idea of their class ranking. </div><div><br /></div><div>As I was leaving the classroom this one mom came up to me and said, "Hi, I'm {something fast in Chinese}'s mom. You know? Last time...? The accident...?" </div><div><br /></div><div>I shook my head sadly. I'm afraid this wasn't enough information for me. I did a quick mental inventory of all the playground accidents of recent months.<div><ol><li>Grant "accidentally" pushed a kid down on the playground and he scraped up his ear.</li><li>A kid poked Grant with a pencil and left a sliver of graphite under the skin.</li><li>Grant kind of "shot" a kid with a slingshot in the eye area.</li></ol>And who knows what other "accidents" might have taken place in the last few months that I never even knew about. </div><div><br /></div><div>Seriously, we play this game at our house called "Bruise or Dirt?" </div><div><br /></div><div>It goes like this: you pick a spot of discoloration on Grant's legs and we make bets on whether it's a bruise or dirt. </div><div><br /></div><div>The funny thing is when I say "we" - I'm including Grant there. Even he doesn't know if the marks on his knees are injury or dirt.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then you spit on your finger and try to rub the spot off. If it comes off, it was dirt. If not, it was an injury. </div><div><br /></div><div>Or stubborn dirt. </div><div><br /></div><div>This picture will show you that I'm not exaggerating. It's a darling picture of Grant and a friend's dog but it also happens to capture the bruise-or-dirt phenomenon quite well.</div><div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNlWKJX8YBx8jgbGKhHJNR1mJMZzTnL44bvjuKGXIGPorCmgtVS82y7pK_LwMgeEpQaQV7pXoCm9ZdiyFRTDfH2A3N9acgAz8N0om1t6ByWiN2Uq-WLm4UWC3htJW4YtaiHJs8JyZG4ig/s1600/grantanddog.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617493846355902786" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNlWKJX8YBx8jgbGKhHJNR1mJMZzTnL44bvjuKGXIGPorCmgtVS82y7pK_LwMgeEpQaQV7pXoCm9ZdiyFRTDfH2A3N9acgAz8N0om1t6ByWiN2Uq-WLm4UWC3htJW4YtaiHJs8JyZG4ig/s400/grantanddog.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a>
Back to that mom - we were speaking Chinese and since mine is not that advanced, I had to be blunt with her. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Did my kid hurt your kid or did your kid hurt mine?" </div><div><br /></div><div>"My kid hurt your kid," she said. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh, the pencil thing? It's fine, really. Don't worry. You can hardly even see it anymore. And thank you for covering the medical fees, that really wasn't necessary." </div><div><br /></div><div>I didn't tell her that Grant wanted her family to compensate him for psychological damage. We told him he doesn't have a case.</div><div><br /></div><div>Seriously, he can't even tell dirt from bruises on his own legs. </div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript">
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I'm quite proud of these shiny floors.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcB3u-ZPPAe52W9Amrkfo8NZvdpcbq8JSonSHzpvQuTcHccwJ105kZy9GRBS5_J2Gn_KZ-gfyMJdj3bvOSYPuJVKbfWijXO5nCYYgdqNeixtigY21LA_yHdSlYgMD8XjX7JFiV-7cdkf0/s640/Fishhook.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcB3u-ZPPAe52W9Amrkfo8NZvdpcbq8JSonSHzpvQuTcHccwJ105kZy9GRBS5_J2Gn_KZ-gfyMJdj3bvOSYPuJVKbfWijXO5nCYYgdqNeixtigY21LA_yHdSlYgMD8XjX7JFiV-7cdkf0/s320/Fishhook.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">It's not a vacation until someone ends up in the ER with a fish hook in their hand. #Chautauqua</div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib4cmyiaZ2ttnw-dFiNaB3CjhkYOuyl1trC3OA6PUfOaK4FYQA1UWBEaLmzTkigV9bmjaeAZdquTeCa-DIpYrHArfnopXVyZ_9QG53KhDigKRJShSW4b2oG5oTgWFNHJhEYOShgsytRjI/s1024/santiago.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib4cmyiaZ2ttnw-dFiNaB3CjhkYOuyl1trC3OA6PUfOaK4FYQA1UWBEaLmzTkigV9bmjaeAZdquTeCa-DIpYrHArfnopXVyZ_9QG53KhDigKRJShSW4b2oG5oTgWFNHJhEYOShgsytRjI/s320/santiago.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Me and Daisy crying in front of the cathedral at Santiago de Compostela after walking 75 miles through the Spanish countryside. </div><div style="text-align: center;">Photo credit: T-Dog. #BuenCamino</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKxWA_j84WtaxnkaEqUktwIZALq0anwjNaCfpoAE5XARgVy5pRhkAD4XBX5BBY0n457tfJMBBzlg0PH8hwyVzrifTo3xihgX5jPfg7Ch6TxKLeJA-euOtURGA578lE-ZwUoBgXm9MjKK4/s3023/tinyhousepainted+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2936" data-original-width="3023" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKxWA_j84WtaxnkaEqUktwIZALq0anwjNaCfpoAE5XARgVy5pRhkAD4XBX5BBY0n457tfJMBBzlg0PH8hwyVzrifTo3xihgX5jPfg7Ch6TxKLeJA-euOtURGA578lE-ZwUoBgXm9MjKK4/s320/tinyhousepainted+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">My tiny house on the lake in Monteagle, Tennessee. This is where I'm living this fall while I write a book.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi34SrCmW0lZbyaXD1_lGcEwiHvbZTKASakf2thYLh0vTwkwwsunZqnH_hvcX5E3qalK-dBs0zZc2i8NAL7pTShyphenhyphenyxsuhIao5fs9UvJasOK3g6_zLTuk_PlrlFXKimCEK6eMFf5p1PHiDU/s640/Plane.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="640" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi34SrCmW0lZbyaXD1_lGcEwiHvbZTKASakf2thYLh0vTwkwwsunZqnH_hvcX5E3qalK-dBs0zZc2i8NAL7pTShyphenhyphenyxsuhIao5fs9UvJasOK3g6_zLTuk_PlrlFXKimCEK6eMFf5p1PHiDU/s320/Plane.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;">Oh, and this happened too.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I will write more about all of the above once I get over the fact that it actually happened. Meanwhile I'm soaking it in with immense gratitude.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Thank you, Summer 2021.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript">
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You would have needed just three colors: white, silver, and diamond blue. </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU14ffnWPa-cQAh5w0N1izSDrdKOLvCGeBSXZMirk3KBDT6uv2hf_W9Od3aNZ1W8rjLfX9vx3YfvqwOeiK-KprIX_HiReal7LDk_-l-C4NaUHuoClOdyEOgTBhC8LY2IwmTqqvIhZ-BbM/s640/snow2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU14ffnWPa-cQAh5w0N1izSDrdKOLvCGeBSXZMirk3KBDT6uv2hf_W9Od3aNZ1W8rjLfX9vx3YfvqwOeiK-KprIX_HiReal7LDk_-l-C4NaUHuoClOdyEOgTBhC8LY2IwmTqqvIhZ-BbM/s320/snow2.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>But this scene was so precarious, no one would want it on a Christmas tree ornament. It was Christmas Eve and a snowstorm had moved in to the Great Smoky Mountains faster than expected. Big white flakes were swirling all around our car. </p><p><br /></p><p>Audrey, Grant and I were in my Buick on the mountain between Pigeon Forge and Townsend and we were stuck at a hairpin turn. Four cars had spun out ahead of us and they were blocking our lane. They were an indication that if we tried to negotiate this curve, we would not make it either. </p><p><br /></p><p>Even if we were going to drive through this tricky curve, we would have to move into the lane for oncoming traffic since that was the only lane available. And if we got stuck there, then both lanes would be blocked.</p><p> </p><p>We weren't in mortal danger. In the very worst case scenario we could give up and spend the night in our car on the side of the road. We had water and blankets and even a portable gas stove, which was Grant's Christmas present, wrapped with a bow in the trunk of the car. </p><p> </p><p>Still, I really wanted to make it through this hairpin turn and get back to our cabin in Townsend for Christmas Eve. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Audrey and Grant and I took a moment to consider our options. None of them seemed very good. Should Grant get out and push the cars out of the snow and get them unstuck? Should we try to drive around them in the lane for oncoming traffic? Should we call for help? Should we give up and spend the night on the side of the road in our car? </p><p> </p><p>Calling for help seemed futile. There were dozens of cars stuck on the side of the road on this mountain pass. And if these tiny Tennessee towns were equipped with emergency vehicles, they would have been there by now. </p><p> </p><p>Inside the car it was quiet for a while. The windshield wipers scratched back and forth across a layer of ice on the windshield. The dashboard GPS screen glowed in the darkness, a spinning wheel that was picking up no signal. Even outside the car, the newly-fallen snow had created a layer of hush all around us.<br /></p><p><br /></p><p>"You know, I just remembered something," Audrey broke the silence. "All my friends say that if they could have one person with them in a crisis, they would want it to be me."<br /></p><p> </p><p>I nodded. She is good in a crisis.</p><p> </p><p>"How about this?" she continued. "How about if I get out and walk up to the other side of this curve, and ask the cars from that direction to stop for a few minutes while you drive around the curve in their lane?"<br /></p><p> </p><p>I nodded slowly. It seemed like our best chance. We looked at the curve ahead of us. Maybe we could make it. But then I shook my head. I was afraid we would spin out like the four cars that were blocking our lane. </p><p> </p><p>But this was happening. Audrey got out of the car to tell the two cars in front of us about our plan and see if they wanted in on the action. We sort of knew them. They had gotten stuck on the ice on the last two curves and Grant had gotten out to help push them across. </p><p> </p><p>"They didn't say thank you," he said, rubbing his hands together as he got back into our car after getting them unstuck the first time. He seemed more surprised than annoyed. And then when they got stuck a second time, he got out to help them again. </p><p> </p><p>Audrey finished conferring with the cars in front of us. The first car, the white Lexus, had called for emergency services and was going to wait for help. The second car, the gunmetal grey Hyundai, wanted us to go first and he was going to follow in our tracks. This made me nervous because the gunmetal grey driver seemed to know more about snow driving than any of us. And he wanted me to go first.</p><p> </p><p>Audrey went to go hold up the oncoming traffic. I rolled down the window and called out to her. </p><p> </p><p>"Hey ... be careful!"</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah," she said over her shoulder, as if she were walking into the gas station to get a cup of coffee. </p><p> </p><p>I watched her walk away and with each step, I saw a little less of her and a little more of the snow falling between us. Then she rounded the curve and disappeared altogether. I heard the click of a shutter, the sound of my anxiety taking a mental picture, in case this was the last time I ever saw her. </p><p><br /></p><p>"Hush," I said to my anxiety. It's going to be fine. <br /></p><p> </p><p>I gave her a few minutes to stop the oncoming cars, and then I held my breath as I began the slippery drive. My wheels were already spinning as I passed the gunmetal grey Hyundai. The driver leaned out of his passenger side window and yelled to me, "Don't give it so much gas! Just creep along."</p><p> </p><p>I crept. I crept and I crept and I crept.</p><p> </p><p>As we passed the first spun-out car we started fish-tailing. I took my foot off the brake and somehow a combination of gravity and inertia kept us on the road. </p><p><br /></p><p>I crept. </p><p> </p><p>I tried to find tire tracks from a car that had navigated this curve ahead of us. The snow was falling so fast though, all tracks were covered up. </p><p> </p><p>I prayed that the tread on my tires was good enough. </p><p><br /></p><p>I crept. We approached the second spun-out car. The curve of the hill was so steep that we started to slide towards it. "Lean to your left!" I yelled to Grant. I have no idea if that helped. Probably not. But we did manage to miss the spun-out car by an inch and we re-gained traction. </p><p> </p><p>We crept. </p><p><br /></p><p>The only sound was the crunch of the tires over ice and snow, and then, slowly we came around the bend at the top of the hill and I could see Audrey standing in the falling snow, holding her hand up in an authoritative traffic stop and just behind her, several cars waited. We had made it around the curve without spinning out, and for the first time in several minutes, I exhaled. Audrey hopped back into our car.</p><p> </p><p>"And that" - she snapped her seat belt into the buckle - "is why people want me around in a crisis!" she exclaimed. We high-fived. We clapped. We yelled. </p><p> </p><p>And then we continued to creep because we still had a few miles to go before we got home.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>That hairpin curve was the last dangerous curve on the mountain pass. For the remainder of our trip home the road remained thankfully flat and straight. </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj58nG6hIIULBLfU0LyjvtUVB9SOrbuvZMEq7I3O123vZrTQWgnX049yKxSKnFzoOENoaYHg4knEe5nJ29K2JO3mXOOJ_0RzLqyNQW5UaM9UrqBmlGZ31JdYgs-IzI_X_wVHfRiZpIfJ6M/s640/snow1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj58nG6hIIULBLfU0LyjvtUVB9SOrbuvZMEq7I3O123vZrTQWgnX049yKxSKnFzoOENoaYHg4knEe5nJ29K2JO3mXOOJ_0RzLqyNQW5UaM9UrqBmlGZ31JdYgs-IzI_X_wVHfRiZpIfJ6M/s320/snow1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>We still had one final challenge though - it was the hill at the entrance to our campground. And ironically, after everything we had gone through on the mountain, we just couldn't ascend it. So we abandoned our car on the side of the road just a few hundred yard away from our cabin and trudged the rest of the way through the snow. </p><p><br /></p><p>When we finally got back into our cabin we took off our wet clothes, made hot chocolate and reflected back on our trip across the mountain. A drive that should have taken 30 minutes had taken almost three hours.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It would be dramatic to say it was a miracle. But it really would have been bad to be stuck in the ice on that mountain on Christmas Eve, as the temperatures dropped to single digits and the snow continued to fall. It was so much better to get ourselves and our car across the mountain in one piece. </p><p> </p><p>I felt a special sense of gratitude.</p><p><br /></p><p>For Audrey. She really is someone I want with me in a crisis. She is brave and bold and calm, and a wizard problem-solver.</p><p> </p><p>And for Grant. I want him with me in a crisis too. He has a giant and strong body and an even bigger and stronger heart, and he will get out of the car as many times as he has to to push someone across the ice, even if they never say thank you. </p><p><br /></p><p>And this, I think, is a scene you would want on a Christmas ornament. A mom and her two young adult children, sitting around the fireplace in a mountain cabin, with snow falling softly outside and their car parked in a snowy embankment at the foot of the hill. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>This scene says that creeping along is enough. This scene says that even your very worst case scenario isn't that bad. It says that your best-case scenario is more likely than you think. It says you've already come through a lot and although you don't know exactly how much more lies ahead, this hairpin turn might be the last difficult one. It says that hot chocolate and a fire are closer than you realize, and your tread probably is good enough. <br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Creep along. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript">
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A ray of sunlight was shining through the window and it turned her hair into ribbons of orange crystals. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She did not love car washes.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But my car was really dirty and I had the opportunity now to get it washed. For a soccer mom like me, when a need and the time to fulfill it come together, that is pure gold. The only question was whether Bliss was going to be okay. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"Is this the one where the soap is rainbow-colored and smells like fruit?" She needed more data. This was a good sign.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"I'm pretty sure they still do that, yes." </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I find it disturbing that the soap at my neighborhood carwash is so heavily perfumed that the smell comes straight into the car, even though your windows are obviously rolled up. And why fruit, for God's sake? That is not natural.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Bliss looked back at me with one last question. It seemed she had made up her mind but needed to negotiate one final term of the contract. She drew in her breath and asked, </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"Will you hold my hand while we're in there?"</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Suddenly everything around me and everything inside of me felt innocent and pure and clear. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"Yes, sweetheart, I will hold your hand in there." </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That was all she needed. How amazing that this tiny little being knew what her fear was, and she knew what reassurance she needed to face it. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"Okay, let's go," she said. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> Her fear was not in charge. She was. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My TEDx Nashville talk airs tonight. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My coach Jeremy and I worked on my talk for months. I invested in this talk like a part-time job. I wanted this. I believed this was part of God's plan for me. I talked about it almost incessantly for a year. People probably got sick of hearing about it. But I didn't stop. I rehearsed it 88 times. My social media feeds blew up more than once. I was quite possibly obsessed.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And on September 17, I recorded my talk in an almost-empty auditorium, thanks to COVID. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtRniSzo-F_8usWwz5kD9wUvFX6RGjLYcC_E0QmxUcrBaIGNylLGA2JElnoa73Va37Jcy8x7Ci_nGD7DK29td3-wQVAuljJbVV7DwgO096_ufiNHM9C5c_mm9A2pl3emuaVef_2WRXIbU/s640/MelOnStage.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtRniSzo-F_8usWwz5kD9wUvFX6RGjLYcC_E0QmxUcrBaIGNylLGA2JElnoa73Va37Jcy8x7Ci_nGD7DK29td3-wQVAuljJbVV7DwgO096_ufiNHM9C5c_mm9A2pl3emuaVef_2WRXIbU/s320/MelOnStage.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></p></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And tonight, my talk will air. And a lot will change.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Until now, I could decide who I shared my story with. I could select the people I trusted. I gradually widened that circle, wave by tentative wave. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">After tonight, my story will chart its own course. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The wheels for tonight are in motion. The TEDx Nashville crew has a detailed run of show. Zoom links are set up. Ring lights are plugged in. Tickets have been delivered. Calendars are blocked. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This is happening.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It's like that moment at the car wash when the track engages with your wheels and you're being pulled into the car wash. And I have a moment of anxiety when I wonder if all my windows are rolled up, and whether unbeknownst to me there is a non-factory-standard accessory on my Buick Encore. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">On days of high anxiety, I wonder if this will be the day when the car wash goes haywire and breaks through my windshield. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Rationally, I know this is going to be okay. But the car wash is so loud and so powerful. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The people in my life are surrounding me with gracious love and support. From all directions, expected and unexpected. I am not alone in this experience. I am so loved and so blessed. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My hand is being held very tightly by so many. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My fear is not in charge. I am.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Okay, let's go. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript">
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More like a message that you think you dreamed every night, and every morning when you wake up, it feels a little more true.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">God said that God was going to start opening doors for me. My job was to walk through each door boldly and bravely, with no regard for what was on the other side. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">And indeed, some doors started swinging open.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">First, a woman named <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zhiMqwCys2I">Lauren</a> contacted me and said, "Your name keeps coming up in conversation and people tell me I should meet you. Can we get together for a networking coffee?" </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">As Lauren and I sat over dinner at Nicky's Coal Fired, somehow the topic of life goals came up and I told her that mine was to give a TED talk.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">"What would your topic be?" she asked. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">And although I had only known her for a few minutes, I began to share THE story with her. The only one I had that was so bold and so vulnerable that it might be worthy of the TED stage. It was hard to tell a stranger this story, but if I couldn't share it with Lauren here at Nicky's Coal Fired, how would I ever hope to share it with thousands of strangers from the stage? </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">When I finished my story, Lauren's eyes were filled with compassion and tears. "That's your TED talk," she said. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">There is something special about Lauren and when she said that, I had a feeling it might be true. I heard the sound of a door beginning to creak open. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Two weeks later, Lauren met Jeremy Snow, Speaker Chair for TEDx Nashville. "You need to meet Melanie Gao," she said. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Two weeks later, I was on the phone with Jeremy. He asked me to share my story with him, and I shared A story. But not THE story. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Because I didn't know him. I wasn't sure I could trust him. I wasn't sure I was really ready to take this plunge. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">In short, I chickened out. So I shared a smaller story.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Nonetheless, he was intrigued and asked me to write my story so he could share it with his committee. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">That Saturday one by one, all our family activities got canceled due to rain. So I sat down in my white chair to write my story for Jeremy. I started to write the one I had shared on the phone. The one that was interesting and somewhat vulnerable but not THE story. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">"I said boldly and bravely," I heard God's voice say. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It was still my choice, and I chose obedience. Which is not like me. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I erased everything I had written and instead I wrote THE story for Jeremy. And I closed my eyes and hit "SEND." </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">And I waited.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It took Jeremy two weeks and an eternity to respond. But when he did, it was clear I had written the right story. He asked if I would be interested in presenting at TEDx Nashville Women's Conference in December 2020.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The door was swinging wide open. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">And then, well, 2020 happened. And I wondered if the door was going to swing shut again. Concerts and conferences were canceled. I thought there was no hope for TEDx Nashville 2020.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">But the <a href="https://www.tedxnashville.com/organizing-team.html">TEDx Nashville crew</a> is an innovative and resilient bunch and they found a way.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">And so <a href="https://www.tedxnashville.com/perception-2020.html">here</a> we go. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFJY7qA-Yr7x0s1W39IDeMc4AgJoUJWseDq9nVVco1jBYPBcEiPl7gNinHf4aEPXfndm7YY64w2EWc_4j_IcZ8yXvSSsu9Wn3PqKTm8FX26JOLCVVi6CdQkdXUjLBgBC5mjIyZJZBiu-s/s811/TEDxNashville.tiff" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="417" data-original-width="811" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFJY7qA-Yr7x0s1W39IDeMc4AgJoUJWseDq9nVVco1jBYPBcEiPl7gNinHf4aEPXfndm7YY64w2EWc_4j_IcZ8yXvSSsu9Wn3PqKTm8FX26JOLCVVi6CdQkdXUjLBgBC5mjIyZJZBiu-s/s320/TEDxNashville.tiff" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /> </p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I am trying hard not to think about what is on the other side of this door. That is not my job. When I do think about it, for a few seconds, I get nervous. Because I am coming out of the trauma closet. And once I'm out, there is no going back in. For me or for my family.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLs9FGpSYiCVxeyS_UjJ5f0hxQ7dgSCTjxQToQ40kHbuCAyYmg__8nSS42QnbZBroeyghRV_h8jlYDQtgPvwA0Hvaqhr5erIVMDDFe1cbvTGccyCZWrKVAp2CUc2rPkOVB0udN_DlkhBA/s581/UsAtthePool.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="524" data-original-width="581" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLs9FGpSYiCVxeyS_UjJ5f0hxQ7dgSCTjxQToQ40kHbuCAyYmg__8nSS42QnbZBroeyghRV_h8jlYDQtgPvwA0Hvaqhr5erIVMDDFe1cbvTGccyCZWrKVAp2CUc2rPkOVB0udN_DlkhBA/s320/UsAtthePool.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /> </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">But it is not my job to worry about things like that.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">My job is to walk boldly and bravely.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">With no regard for what is on the other side. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbEVjgScwQ_pxvw50yEEojkZ4QOuxCLsrzVumDI9OlhtUSVfzzySotyaf3Xi0LZaH-Gq-_xre6ip5utASO4_6E6VX30Yo6cbMsPJk9qm_RLg0Y95fZ_mDZ8NeqrcE3IjwHSwF7NZWoUdM/s2048/MotelPool.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbEVjgScwQ_pxvw50yEEojkZ4QOuxCLsrzVumDI9OlhtUSVfzzySotyaf3Xi0LZaH-Gq-_xre6ip5utASO4_6E6VX30Yo6cbMsPJk9qm_RLg0Y95fZ_mDZ8NeqrcE3IjwHSwF7NZWoUdM/s320/MotelPool.jpg" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript">
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A Christmas tree.<br />
<br />
A baptismal font.<br />
<br />
A wide-screen TV when Alabama plays.<br />
<br />
These are things my family gathers around.<br />
<br />
<br />
The dinner table.<br />
<br />
A birthday cake.<br />
<br />
An open casket. <br />
<br />
These are things my family gathers around.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
A Zoom screen.<br />
<br />
The stovetop.<br />
<br />
A vinyl recliner at the cancer clinic.<br />
<br />
These are things my family gathers around.<br />
<br />
<br />
The altar.<br />
<br />
A puzzle.<br />
<br />
A rocker on the front porch.<br />
<br />
These are things my family gathers around.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
A campfire.<br />
<br />
A picnic table.<br />
<br />
A four-leaf clover.<br />
<br />
These are things my family gathers around.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
It was Joe and Marie who introduced us to these sacred places. They called us there, each little girl. Christianne, Melanie, Caroline, Amanda.<br />
<br />
Then they called the second wave. Paul, Audrey, Grant, Mandy, Bliss.<br />
<br />
One day they will call a third wave.<br />
<br />
(But for God's sake not any time soon. None of y'all are even out of college.)<br />
<br />
<br />
Today I'm feeling grateful to be a part of it all.<br />
<br />
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The dishes are done, the leftovers are in the fridge. It is time for our walk.</div>
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We
step out onto the front porch. Over the words “ X
actually” in black on the sidewalk. I chalked a colorful phrase last
week and did not know that the black was going to remain long after the
other colors washed away. I can’t scrub it out. </div>
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To be honest, it doesn't look like it would come out if I tried. </div>
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Which I haven't. </div>
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Because it wouldn't come out. </div>
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I have unintentionally
tagged my neighborhood with a dark “X”, and at first I feel slightly
guilty but this is 2020 after all. </div>
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Why pick this one thing to feel guilty about?</div>
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<br /></div>
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Past
a hydrangea bush in front of Laura’s house that is getting so big it
almost hides the door. So much rain lately. Why have the
landscapers not trimmed the flowers back yet? </div>
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Underneath
a gold Toyota Camry suspended six feet in the air, on a metal lift, waiting to be fixed tomorrow. It is suspended motionless in the air above the cracked and oil-stained pavement of the Budget Brakes.</div>
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Past
the Turnip Truck, which opened during quarantine. It is so new that the sweet, sticky smell of fresh lumber still lingers in the air around it. Audrey stops at the glass window and looks longingly inside,
gazing at the shelves of almond flour and organic chick peas and
collagen supplements. </div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzPAdEoMCLmocsKnRA4fYfrV_ogvV7_1GQGu-2cixftO1tORGpRNzHcpaeDv758v1MC0v6y-41mpLF7seNIvdPSNfkwTmOf1yR0MBBX-NIVi7agXTO5zOy8cPpQQCLa4cKnxSHGUbo1UA/s1600/TurnipTruck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzPAdEoMCLmocsKnRA4fYfrV_ogvV7_1GQGu-2cixftO1tORGpRNzHcpaeDv758v1MC0v6y-41mpLF7seNIvdPSNfkwTmOf1yR0MBBX-NIVi7agXTO5zOy8cPpQQCLa4cKnxSHGUbo1UA/s320/TurnipTruck.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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She asks if we can go in and she knows that I will
shake my head and say that I am not going to waste my one trip to the
grocery store this week on a hipster market. </div>
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Quarantine is not a time to be sentimental.</div>
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Over
the cockroaches, who scurry to and fro on the sidewalk in front of the
gas station. We skip and dance to keep them from running over our feet or into our shoes. We don’t understand why there are so many cockroaches right
here, big and fat and shiny. </div>
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I tell stories about dodging flying cockroaches in
Alabama when I was a child. Audrey and Grant groan. "Ugh, you tell us that story all the time! You try to make your childhood sound so terrible and Gigi says it wasn't and then she gets mad." </div>
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I do, and she does. </div>
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In
the glow of the half light of the restaurants and shops along Charlotte
Pike. They are not open and have not been all day and will not be
tomorrow. They miss us and they don’t understand. Their storefront eyes
are wide open and confused, waiting for us to explain. </div>
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Each day they seem a
little less hopeful that we ever will.</div>
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To
the lawyer’s office on the corner by the park. His name is painted in gold shiny letters on the glass door. Just like they did back in the '40s, probably. We peer through the window and play the game of Spot the
Difference.</div>
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<br /></div>
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That pen wasn’t there yesterday. </div>
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He seems to have been there every day. I don’t understand why legal services are an essential service. Maybe they aren’t.</div>
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The lamp is on today. </div>
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A door inside the office that leads to a back hallway is ajar.</div>
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That remote control for the air conditioner has been moved.</div>
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An umbrella has appeared.</div>
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And
every night I lament that he isn’t watering his plants. One of them in
particular is drying out. How can he come to his office every single day
and never water this plant? I would water it but the office is locked. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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As
we walk back home we talk about the day’s news and COVID statistics and
we make guesses about the future. We talk about our friends and how
they are probably doing.</div>
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<br /></div>
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When we arrive back home it is just 9:30 but I’m ready to go to sleep and dream the vivid dreams of quarantine.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="-moz-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
Of a black X</div>
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An out-of-control hydrangea</div>
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Cars in the air</div>
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Cockroaches running in fretful circles </div>
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Collagen supplements just out of our reach</div>
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Confused and empty storefronts </div>
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And a plant </div>
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that I cannot water</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
George Floyd was 46 years old. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
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He was 6 feet 6 inches tall. A large, beautiful man.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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When he was pinned to the ground,</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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he said please </div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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and he called </div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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for his mama.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I am so sorry.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But I believe our collective national fever is hitting a peak.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I hope I’m talking about confirmed cases of COVID-19. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Surely we will not have another week with tens of thousands of new cases reported every single day.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Let’s hope new unemployment claims peaked this week too.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But I’m also talking about stress and anxiety and tension. Those were at a peak this week too. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">At least, they were for me.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Were they for you too?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This week I decided that if I took part in a cult, I’d want it to be one of those cults that people talk about for years to come. Like Heaven’s Gate. Or Jonestown. Or the Branch Davidian.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This is where I am.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Not that I want to join a cult. But if I did, I'd want it to be one that knew what they were doing. One with colorful silks and expensive sneakers. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This is where I am.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This week I thought about the continuums in life.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The news continuum. At one end of it are people who can’t get enough of it and check it every 15 minutes. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">At the other end are people who have stopped checking the news altogether. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And then there are people all in between.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Then there’s the emotional continuum. Some people can’t stop talking about how they feel, and they can’t stop asking others how they feel. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">At the other end are people who don’t feel anything and don’t want to talk about it. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And then, there are people all in between. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I am trying hard not to judge people for being where they are on these spectrums. I try hard to say, “Oh, that’s where you are. Interesting.” </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Because then it’s easier to look down at my own two trembling feet and observe, “Wow, here’s where I am. Interesting.” </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I am trying hard not to imagine a marker in the middle of the spectrum that indicates where “normal” is. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I am trying hard not to measure how far I might be from that marker. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Yesterday a fly was in my room. I opened the window just enough for it to fly out. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Would the fly leave? </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Would a bee fly in?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What does it mean to have just enough space to get out?</span></span><br />
<br />
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<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Finally.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Summer.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Again.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpGFBbbJFIDQnxLpUGa8uCNu_HksL1QqN-81PjdoVpeFpSwKVLkoHE7BaH_v6xFtwKOGDDlimyvyQfSMcZCxCFWfBwGrOREKQvnSZTn93NXj2pxpbSDEYCJGbZ-MWC938NSDhGKO8GX-E/s1600/HeartlandPark.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpGFBbbJFIDQnxLpUGa8uCNu_HksL1QqN-81PjdoVpeFpSwKVLkoHE7BaH_v6xFtwKOGDDlimyvyQfSMcZCxCFWfBwGrOREKQvnSZTn93NXj2pxpbSDEYCJGbZ-MWC938NSDhGKO8GX-E/s320/HeartlandPark.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
Most people would say it's hot but to my body, which has been chilling in an American icebox office for many hours, the ambient air temperature is perfect. <br />
<br />
The breeze slips against my skin like silk. Soft and smooth and light. <br />
<br />
<br />
I pass a family - a mom, dad and three children. The dad is running next to one child on a tricycle. One child is on a scooter. And one child is sitting in a wagon, pulled by the mom. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Five people.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Five modes of transport.</div>
<br />
I smile at the first child as she passes me. She stares back at me menacingly and shouts something to her father over her shoulder. I think she is shouting about me but I can't hear her because I have my ear buds in.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
Also, I don't want to hear what she says. </div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
A man is pressure washing the cement steps of a fire escape. Between us is a high fence with razor wire. <br />
<br />
For many months we thought it was a prison. But it is a public water works building.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
The razor wire is not there to keep people in. It is to keep people out.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The air is cooling and practice will be over soon. Grant and I will drive back home. He will put his muddy cleats on my dashboard and I will get mad. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
None of this would have come to pass on a Tuesday night in June. Or a Friday night in November. It has to be a Wednesday night in May.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Wednesday nights in May are special. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
They are rare. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
They are perfect. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It has to be a Wednesday night in May. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<br />
The color of the vinyl on the seat of the booth was just slightly different than the back. The seat is a greenish mustard, while the back is a mustardish green. It's a nuance I wouldn't have noticed except that the owner pointed it out last time we were there. It bothered him that he hadn't gotten a perfect match. The factory that supplied the initial vinyl had discontinued it and he had to settle for the closest color match. It was just slightly different. <br />
<br />
If he hadn't said anything I would have thought it was just the lighting. But when you look closely you see that something is - very slightly - different.<br />
<br />
"I think I'm going to the Moth tonight and I might tell a story."<br />
<br />
Audrey nodded. "I think you should do that." <br />
<br />
After dinner I drove across town to the Basement East by myself and signed up to tell a story. And about two hours later the host <a href="https://twitter.com/thiseddieortiz?lang=en">Eddie</a> pulled my name out of the hat and called me up to the stage. I was the very last story-teller to go up.<br />
<br />
It is a weird trek to the stage at The Basement East. I almost got lost, no joke. And then, I was standing in front of 200 people and I was about to tell my story. The spotlights on me were so bright I couldn't see out into the crowd, except for two guys who were sitting at a high-top table at the right hand edge of the stage. The microphone was so huge, or so unfortunately positioned, that it hid my face.<br />
<br />
Maybe the positioning was fortunate. <br />
<br />
It helped, a little, to hide behind it. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
All of the stories that came before me were lighthearted and funny but mine was not going to be. I breathed in deep and said into the bright light, "My story is kind of heavy. Are you guys down with that?"<br />
<br />
"Bring it!" someone shouted.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMeio2mI2L3hqNHlcJ3pTyPVqdDPrXfWTIvUKbruMjLu58qeyStw0xRFIol959UJhTJ6APMLi77LxuIdDEZWEPLSBnVNzYr4wqmEYHT5mE4_PNMVnaybkuJOVrbdC_DtaBIRd63q6LHVM/s1600/Moth2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="523" data-original-width="628" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMeio2mI2L3hqNHlcJ3pTyPVqdDPrXfWTIvUKbruMjLu58qeyStw0xRFIol959UJhTJ6APMLi77LxuIdDEZWEPLSBnVNzYr4wqmEYHT5mE4_PNMVnaybkuJOVrbdC_DtaBIRd63q6LHVM/s320/Moth2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I started talking about the night of my own personal Great Inhale. The one that nearly killed me. The one that, in some ways, did.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpTkrIsYTdqqLgWsytU9kOOjnm2tliFadH2lIo-aknxgaVLboUlkQy3HtRtF3fD-NoczFsIRdwrXY5mMlb2KpqZGcqQBXIfKcRPWoolVgG0VbQkinlMpusxPVwmlX5HUybGZyxkGqK1sA/s1600/Moth4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="497" data-original-width="631" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpTkrIsYTdqqLgWsytU9kOOjnm2tliFadH2lIo-aknxgaVLboUlkQy3HtRtF3fD-NoczFsIRdwrXY5mMlb2KpqZGcqQBXIfKcRPWoolVgG0VbQkinlMpusxPVwmlX5HUybGZyxkGqK1sA/s320/Moth4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFoWiQw8rAqdEBpFxMMYqVMP83s4tErPdCgdmWRjr8vy1G5ET-rCs3cOAnsmFC4FvI_OxLFf1R8r_WIo0obHfEBBVulqcwJFpFCVKFbbQVIqCXfIMSdA-WSLBRyCXLjNnf6kW1D8gxYOs/s1600/Moth1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="516" data-original-width="619" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFoWiQw8rAqdEBpFxMMYqVMP83s4tErPdCgdmWRjr8vy1G5ET-rCs3cOAnsmFC4FvI_OxLFf1R8r_WIo0obHfEBBVulqcwJFpFCVKFbbQVIqCXfIMSdA-WSLBRyCXLjNnf6kW1D8gxYOs/s320/Moth1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I almost cried. In front of 200 strangers. I guess I did cry, but not alone. Because the Moth, as I have learned, is a special place where no one cries or laughs alone.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj26cD4fuItzVyi1_Jm0yvOImvMIlSk4TMviYq1dbvcvUK3oafUyhkcblbS3rRVnKHTCaQif50poiZ9Uq2lN-1wngPeVPpns4YpgmpFbOdk7Pm85f8f_OWJbxbf8POsL92MzkytJEzCkZI/s1600/Moth5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="537" data-original-width="626" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj26cD4fuItzVyi1_Jm0yvOImvMIlSk4TMviYq1dbvcvUK3oafUyhkcblbS3rRVnKHTCaQif50poiZ9Uq2lN-1wngPeVPpns4YpgmpFbOdk7Pm85f8f_OWJbxbf8POsL92MzkytJEzCkZI/s320/Moth5.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Days later when I told my friends about my experience, they asked if I could re-tell the story for them and I think maybe under the right circumstances I could. In a dark room that smells like beer, with a concrete floor that shakes like plywood when you walk on it. Under a bright spotlight blinding me from the gentle souls in front of me who welcome a heavy story.<br />
<br />
But then again, I'm not sure I could. I think when I told that story that night at the Moth, it got up on its legs and walked slowly away from me. Out the back door of the Basement East and off into the open sky.<br />
<br />
Maybe stories at the Moth have one brilliant chance at life and when their life has ended they cannot come back.<br />
<br />
I think that's how it is.<br />
<br />
I feel different after all of this. Something about me is just slightly different. I don't think anyone else would notice. But I do.<br />
<br />
If I didn't mention it you probably wouldn't notice. <br />
<br />
But something has most definitely shifted. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDZjTgIlmWWzJJ0Xx7svJ5dOqnLAQH9PrgvHfgxYo_DOxUB3sLPMeY9IqG8FKrjDOzZfBtye_FJHfv28aVZLAtPvC8V-2Bq6jCy9JffSjNAb-FtsiZiUks-M-c676Ugoic2YXSzRxN-bk/s1600/Moth3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="537" data-original-width="620" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDZjTgIlmWWzJJ0Xx7svJ5dOqnLAQH9PrgvHfgxYo_DOxUB3sLPMeY9IqG8FKrjDOzZfBtye_FJHfv28aVZLAtPvC8V-2Bq6jCy9JffSjNAb-FtsiZiUks-M-c676Ugoic2YXSzRxN-bk/s320/Moth3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br /></div>
For my 50<sup>th</sup> birthday I gave myself a special gift. <br />
<br />
I cut the label off of the curtain in my living room.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s been there ever since I hung the curtains.
Backwards. But it’s a sheer white panel and you really couldn’t tell
that I hung it backwards except for that damn label. When I watched TV I
looked at it and wondered how much work it
would be to cut it off.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Would the step ladder in the pantry do the trick? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or would I need the 6-foot ladder from the garage?
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Can I just wait until Grant grows tall enough to reach up and cut it off…?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today I decided that it’s time. I’m not sure why
today felt like the right moment. Maybe it’s related to me turning 50
today. Maybe it’s not. It’s possible I’m over-analyzing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As it turns out, the stepladder in the pantry did the trick. The whole process took less than 30 seconds.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So my present to myself for the next 50 years is
that I won’t have to look at that label anymore and wonder how much work
it would take to cut it off.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In exchange however, I will look at the curtain and
remember how many hours I spent looking at it before, wondering how
much work it would be to cut it off.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Regret and self-doubt as a replacement for procrastination and inaction.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is The Downtown Diner, you knew that was coming.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You might wonder how any of this is blog-worthy.
And really, it’s not. I know most
people will read it once and then again, and then will ask themselves
what the point is. Then they will shake their
heads and close their laptop with a sigh.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But there are a few people out there who will read
this and think about me and nod and smile and say, “Yeah, that sounds
about right.” They will think about my quirks and all my posts over the
years and how much they love me.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And you all, you are the best gift I have given
myself over the past 50 years. Thank you for being part of it all with
me. All my procrastination and inaction, all my regret and self-doubt.
My seemingly pointless posts and the live conversational
versions of the same. I love you all. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let’s do another 50 years of this. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Drops of rain slide down the window glass. This Sunday morning is dripping over Nashville like a thin coat of grey paint.<br />
<br />
As I walk into the kitchen I remember I
left the curry out on the stove last night. I curse under my breath because now I'll have to throw it out. But then I see that someone put the curry in tupperware and
put it in the fridge last night before they went to bed.<br />
<br />
I'm not the only adult in the house anymore.<br />
<br />
Tip, tip, tap. Raindrops tap on the kitchen window. <br />
<br />
I make a hashbrown casserole and my 7-year-old niece Bliss plays with the Roomba. Her parents had a date night last night so I got to have a sleepover with my red-headed elf-niece. <br />
<br />
The Roomba is a source of endless entertainment for her. What happens if she puts it on the chair?<br />
<br />
Feeds it a mint?<br />
<br />
Feeds it ten mints?<br />
<br />
Locks it in the bathroom?<br />
<br />
Puts a pillow on top of it?<br />
<br />
Lets it run over my foot?<br />
<br />
Tip, tip, tap. <br />
<br />
She is ready for the next thing.<br />
<br />
"Alexa, play 'I Believe in You' by Dolly Par-ton." She pronounces Dolly's last name very clearly, otherwise Alexa will play a Michael Buble song, which is not danceable at all. While Bliss and I dance, Grant stumbles out of his bedroom to ask what time it is.<br />
<br />
"9:00!" we say. Bliss dances jazz hands at him, pointing at his knees. I dance jazz hands, pointing at his shoulders.<br />
<br />
Neither of us can reach his head.<br />
<br />
It is too far up there.<br />
<br />
Tip, tip, tap. <br />
<br />
We picked Grant and Audrey up from the airport last night - they were in China all week with their dad and grandparents celebrating Chinese New Year.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4h33M0yjVnucw6aojgoXTK94a0WheXlqxUDRW1x7XifRvg1p2MOPA4IFWqMAhXb56KQ1ZHk0VfgDWvDDdYcvsVQcT3p8hmc2KmFwOYFxSihyphenhyphen68cEuh-WdSdcH4F_bQw2MZVcrr9zrzSQ/s1600/KidsInSnow.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4h33M0yjVnucw6aojgoXTK94a0WheXlqxUDRW1x7XifRvg1p2MOPA4IFWqMAhXb56KQ1ZHk0VfgDWvDDdYcvsVQcT3p8hmc2KmFwOYFxSihyphenhyphen68cEuh-WdSdcH4F_bQw2MZVcrr9zrzSQ/s200/KidsInSnow.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj82qklf2hDRY57zlXU6aFkEGyAb8C9sqHN82GygCNBVIWdUWmVbst2Vw-KwIvf6D2Fpe7h0Ijx8FntUZZ6M05-oRlF8oMGPKb7jbZAUIv06mtE8VQ8MjkRs51JuXfWdTxNvpBTvLTCSsM/s1600/KidsWithStatue.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj82qklf2hDRY57zlXU6aFkEGyAb8C9sqHN82GygCNBVIWdUWmVbst2Vw-KwIvf6D2Fpe7h0Ijx8FntUZZ6M05-oRlF8oMGPKb7jbZAUIv06mtE8VQ8MjkRs51JuXfWdTxNvpBTvLTCSsM/s200/KidsWithStatue.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
Tired and pale, Grant goes back to sleep some more. Jet lag is a fact of life for my children. This is what they looked like at midnight on Chinese New Year.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsxqDAXpws_Z7Qh4ujrRwz0EDJDi1lEs8sApltOqcwq7Jc3DQvXtMfmnzZw0P0uaotoyhA-5HgEZt1WCIl-HgrA2f3hASa0VN4SRi3CpRx8cEALvp6yye-pXFeiqkoXme3_PM4mFjuJEw/s1600/KidsJetLagged.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsxqDAXpws_Z7Qh4ujrRwz0EDJDi1lEs8sApltOqcwq7Jc3DQvXtMfmnzZw0P0uaotoyhA-5HgEZt1WCIl-HgrA2f3hASa0VN4SRi3CpRx8cEALvp6yye-pXFeiqkoXme3_PM4mFjuJEw/s320/KidsJetLagged.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
I feel pity and admiration for them, all at once.<br />
<br />
I admire them because they deal with jet lag so well and always have. They both took their first flight to Asia when they were tiny babies and even back then, they adjusted to the new time zone so quickly. Not easily necessarily, but quickly.<br />
<br />
I feel sad for them because their dad and I have put them in this position. If they want to have a relationship with both of us, they have to get on a plane and criss-cross the Pacific. Over and over again.<br />
<br />
I'm sorry about this. <br />
<br />
Tip, tip, tap. The drops of rain land on the glass and they cling to it stubbornly. It's almost as if they want to stay on the window as long as they can, watching us from the outside. But soon the weight of their watery bellies pulls them down to the ground in a quiet splash. <br />
<br />
Audrey comes downstairs and hugs me. She yawns and hands me the Hello Kitty makeup she brought for me from China.<br />
<br />
Tip, tip, tap.<br />
<br />
My children are growing up and one day soon they will leave the house. By this time next year Audrey will be away at college and three years from now Grant will be too. All I will have is the occasional sleepover with Bliss and there will even come a day when I don't have that anymore. Everyone is growing up. <br />
<br />
And finally I hear what the raindrops have been trying to tell me all morning long.<br />
<br />
Tip, tip, tap. <br />
<br />
You are okay.<br />
<br />
You are and you will be.<br />
<br />
Cling to the glass. Watch these moments for as long as you can. <br />
<br />
Tip, tip, tap. <br />
<br />
And amen. <br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
The other day I had a huge problem.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
At least, to me, it seemed huge. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Audrey wasn't registered for the magnet school that we wanted her to go to next year. I was sure I had filled in the right form and turned it in to the board of education on time and I remembered they had given me a receipt. <br />
<br />
Which I threw away about 3 weeks ago. <br />
<br />
I can tell you exactly where I was when I threw it away. I was at the car wash and I was vacuuming out my car and I came across the receipt and figured I didn't need it anymore. And I can tell you exactly which garbage can I threw it away in. Three weeks ago. <br />
<br />
And then I found out yesterday that she wasn't on the list for the magnet school. Which, if true, is a disaster. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So I went to the board of education this morning and prayed that the universe would save me. By this point I was doubting myself - I was afraid I had actually forgotten to turn in the form and that the receipt was just a dream. But the woman at the Board of Ed checked her records and found that I had done what I was supposed to do. I had turned in the form on time, and someone at the Board of Ed had failed to add Audrey to the list for the magnet school. Totally a clerical error and not my fault. She even gave me a photocopy of the form I had turned in. <br />
<br />
I was so relieved I burst out into tears. Because, we're talking about a really big deal school here. <br />
<br />
"Can I come over there and hug you?" I asked the receptionist. <br />
<br />
She paused for a minute and then said, "Sure!" <br />
<br />
I was surprised. I kinda thought she would laugh at me and we would move on. But she came out from behind the counter and hugged me.<br />
<br />
A security guard standing nearby offered, "Don't worry, we see a lot worse around here." <br />
<br />
I wiped away my tears and sniffed, "Thank you for not thinking I'm crazy." But as soon as the words were out of my mouth I realized he hadn't said I wasn't crazy. He only said he sees a lot worse around there. <br />
<br />
That trip to the Board of Ed reminded me who I am.</div>
<div>
</div>
<br />
I am a mom who usually does what she's supposed to do, on time. <br />
<br />
But one who rarely keeps evidence that she did it.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I am a woman who offers hugs, thinking most people will not take her up on it. <br />
<br />
But often they do.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And while I may not be the most balanced person you will ever meet, there are worse. <br />
<br />
It has been independently confirmed by the security guard at the Davidson County Board of Education that there are worse.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
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<div class="page" title="Page 2">
<div class="section" style="background-color: rgb(100.000000%, 100.000000%, 100.000000%);">
<div class="layoutArea">
<div class="column">
<br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: small;">“I’m beginning to think that the real meaning of life is looking around us and recognizing
that everything is extraordinary.” </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: small;">My pastor said that on Sunday. I am feeling the extraordinariness of it all myself. I’m
sitting in church with Grant, who is sitting closer to me than he would if we were at home on the sofa. And our cell phones are packed away in my purse. In the still of the sanctuary I can hear his breath and I’m pretty sure I
can even still smell his baby scent. My kids both came into this world with their own scent. Audrey
smelled like honey and Grant smelled like butter. I remember smelling them as I nuzzled the
tops of their heads when I nursed them. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: small;">As they mutate now into teenagers, their smell is changing. But in a moment like this,
when he sits still next to me and I put my cheek on the top of his head, I still smell butter. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: small;">My new patent leather heels have a black scuff mark.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: small;"><br />
“Can I go now?” he asks.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: small;"><br />
I say what I always say. “I really want you to be here with me, but if you want to go you can.” </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: small;">“Will you be sad if I go?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: small;"><br />
I nod yes. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: small;">“I’ll stay with you for five more minutes and then I’m going to check on Audrey in the nursery,” he
says. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="page" title="Page 3">
<div class="section" style="background-color: rgb(100.000000%, 100.000000%, 100.000000%);">
<div class="layoutArea">
<div class="column">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: small;">Five minutes later he slips away and heads towards the nursery. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: small;">The choir is singing “Here I am, Lord” and the time of day is just perfect, because the sun is
streaming in through the window behind them, illuminating each of them from behind. They look less human to me and more alien. A chorus of extra-terrestrials who have landed in
the sanctuary to speak to us in the language that we all understand, the language of song. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: small;">Audrey slides in next to me in the pew. “Why are you mad at me?” she asks. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: small;">“I’m not mad at you,” I say, confused. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: small;">“Grant came in the nursery and said you were mad at me and that it was his turn to be in the
nursery.” </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: small;">“Well I have no idea where that came from. I’m not mad at you,” I said. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: small;">She glares at the cross at the front of the church. Her clenched jaw tells me that she is not praying. Instead she is planning the revenge she would exact on her
brother as soon as we sing the closing hymn. I have a feeling it will somehow involve their cell
phones. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: small;">Their cell phones. They’re a safety net and a bed of nettles at the same time. When I need to
reach my kids, our phones are the constant connection. If I can’t find them, an app on my
phone tells me where they are. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: small;">And yet those devices also bring us so much heartache. They fight over their phones (which is
particularly mystifying since they each have one). They lose them. They crack them. They live
too much in the world of social media and too little in the moment. I wonder if the
connectedness is worth it. Is it worth the stress? Is it worth the money? </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: small;">If this question was a prayer, it is going unanswered for now. The final hymn has been sung
and we are walking to the car in the church parking lot. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: small;">My shoe is scuffed. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: small;">My children are arguing. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: small;">Their heads smell like butter and honey.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: small;">And I realize that the meaning of life is to look around us and realize that everything really is
extraordinary.
</span></div>
</div>
</div>
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<br />
Yes, that was the exact moment when I knew the Chinese superstition had been right after all. My 48th year had been truly abysmal. The Chinese Zodiac says that every twelve years we celebrate our animal year and it's supposed to be a particularly dangerous year. That might mean relationship troubles, financial problems, or health issues.<br />
<br />
I had tied a red thread around my waist in February 2017 to ward off any bad luck that might come my way during my animal year and wrote about it <a href="http://thedowntowndiner.blogspot.com/2017/04/3-ways-to-survive-dangerous-year.html">here</a>. At the time I did it for fun but now I was beginning to wonder if there was something to the superstition.<br />
<br />
"No," I said. And I wanted to add, "Are you saying I have it NOW? Because I thought I was here for a test to determine IF I have cancer?"<br />
<br />
But since I've never had cancer, I wasn't sure how these things work. On TV I've seen people get a cancer diagnosis. The set-up is always the same. They're always sitting in a doctor's office, at the doctor's desk. They have a loved one next to them. The doctor gives them the diagnosis. The patient asks questions. The doctor answers with percentages and chances and probabilities.<br />
<br />
The doctor's desk is always a darkish red wood, probably cherry wood. I hate that kind of dark wood. I don't think I'm alone here, am I? Why haven't doctor practices figured out yet how much patients hate those dark red cherry wood desks?<br />
<br />
Maybe they keep the desks ugly so that the news we get when we sit at them seems less ugly in comparison.<br />
<br />
That makes sense.<br />
<br />
I need for things to make sense right now. Because getting a cancer diagnosis from an imaging tech, who has yet to roll me into the CT scan, just doesn't make sense.<br />
<br />
Although in a way, it does. Techs see thousands of patients every year and although they're not trained to interpret results, I bet they have a good intuition about the people who come into their offices for scans and tests. In his book <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Blink-Power-Thinking-Without/dp/0316010669">Blink</a>, social scientist Malcolm Gladwell calls it the power of thinking without thinking. <br />
<br />
Sadly, techs aren't trained to keep their intuition to themselves. I picked up on it. Their seemingly innocent questions were the first rumblings of thunder in the distance. <br />
<br />
As I waited for the CT results, the days jerked by, pixelated and in shades of grey. When I had mental energy, I wondered what kind of cancer patient I would be, if it came to that. Would I be the kind who commits to kicking cancer's ass? Or would I submit to whatever God's will was for me? I didn't think I had the energy to commit to kicking cancer's ass - I hardly had energy to floss my teeth every day. But I also didn't want to just raise the white flag and check myself straight into hospice care.<br />
<br />
Simply pondering my options was overwhelming, and so I succumbed once again to the grainy black and white images. My reality was film noir, spliced with X-ray images.<br />
<br />
One frame is the front porch. It's dark and Grant is receiving a greasy, lukewarm dinner delivery packed in styrofoam and wrapped in a plastic bag. Again. He tries not to leave the door open too long because it's cold outside. A single light bulb on the porch illuminates the scene. His dark shiny hair reflects the light like a mirror. <br />
<br />
One frame is the decorative pillows from my bed, in a pile on the carpet.<br />
<br />
One frame is a text from Audrey. She's re-arranging her schedule so she can pick Grant up.<br />
<br />
The range of my emotions is as limited at the color spectrum of my memory. I try not to be afraid because only people who have cancer need to be afraid. I don't want to start playing the role of a cancer patient. I'm afraid of even looking like a good understudy. <br />
<br />
I feel numb. It's like my emotions, faced with the flight-or-flight conundrum, have fled. <br />
<br />
I don't have enough information to know what to feel. <br />
<br />
I feign cheerfulness. I don't want other people to worry about me. Because only friends of cancer patients need to worry. But as I observe the faces of the people around me, I can tell I'm not doing a good job. They all look concerned and confused. I'm pale and when I laugh I start coughing. My cough is awful. It's more like a whole-body spasm. When it's over I'm left wheezing and gasping for air. I'm embarrassed at how little control I have over my respiratory system. <br />
<br />
I try not to laugh. I try not to cough. I work from home. A lot.<br />
<br />
It felt like an eternity. And then finally, my cell phone rang. It was my doctor's office, calling with my results. I happened to be at my office that day. I walked outside to take the call and found the most beautiful bench under the most beautiful tree. My office is right next to a park so there are lots of beautiful trees and benches. And squirrels and birds and ducks.<br />
<br />
If the doctor was going to give me bad news, I was not going to make it easier on him. He was going to have to do it while I sat amidst all this beauty. In comparison to my beautiful surroundings, the news was going to look truly abysmal. I dared him. <br />
<br />
"Your test results are in and everything is within the normal range. The spot on your lung is a calcified granuloma. I know you've never been diagnosed with pneumonia but you must have had it at some point in the past and the granuloma is sort of like scar tissue from that. It's nothing to worry about. We don't need to do any further tests."<br />
<br />
Which is the best possible outcome I could have hoped for. I should be grateful, and I am. <br />
<br />
But I still don't know what kind of cancer patient I would be, if it ever came to that. <br />
<br />
I still don't know why I had this health scare this year. Was it because it's my 48th year? Or would this have happened anyway? Would it have been worse if I hadn't had my red thread around my waist? <br />
<br />
I still don't know why doctor's desks are made out of that awful cherry wood. <br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Let it all fade. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Let the black and the white blend together. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Let the resulting grey turn to ash. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I mix it with water, dip my finger in it and taste the fear. Then raise my finger to the sky and watermark a giant question mark between the clouds. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Trace it again and again until I can let go.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
There are so many questions that will never be answered. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
All we can do is let go.</div>
<br />
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<br />
She highlighted one last term, made one last note in the margins, and closed her books for the last time. <br />
<br />
Then she and Jennifer went for a late-night walk along the waterfront on Monterey Bay. Priya had a cigarette and an espresso in her hand. She and Jennifer stood in front of an empty row of parking spaces on the commercial fisherman's wharf. They were in front of a parking meter which flashed "0 minutes left."<br />
<br />
She was running away from him when he shot at her. I hope that means she was running towards the end of the wharf, and that the last thing she saw was the moonlight shining on the ocean.<br />
<br />
Her favorite poem was "Der Panther" by Rainer Maria Rilke. <br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>Der Panther</i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="poem">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Sein Blick ist vom Vorübergehn der Stäbe</i><br />
<i>so müd geworden, daß er nichts mehr hält.</i><br />
<i>Ihm ist, als ob es tausend Stäbe gäbe</i><br />
<i>und hinter tausend Stäben keine Welt.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Der weiche Gang geschmeidig starker Schritte,</i><br />
<i>der sich im allerkleinsten Kreise dreht,</i><br />
<i>ist wie ein Tanz von Kraft um eine Mitte,</i><br />
<i>in der betäubt ein großer Wille steht.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Nur manchmal schiebt der Vorhang der Pupille</i><br />
<i>sich lautlos auf –. Dann geht ein Bild hinein,</i><br />
<i>geht durch der Glieder angespannte Stille –</i><br />
<i>und hört im Herzen auf zu sein.</i></div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>The Panther (</b></i><i><b>English translation by Stephen Mitchell)</b></i>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b> </b><br />
</i></div>
<div class="poem">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>His vision, from the constantly passing bars,</i><br />
<i>has grown so weary that it cannot hold</i><br />
<i>anything else. It seems to him there are</i><br />
<i>a thousand bars; and behind the bars, no world.</i><br />
<br />
<i>As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,</i><br />
<i>the movement of his powerful soft strides</i><br />
<i>is like a ritual dance around a center</i><br />
<i>in which a mighty will stands paralyzed.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Only at times, the curtain of the pupils</i><br />
<i>lifts, quietly--. An image enters in,</i><br />
<i>rushes down through the tensed, arrested muscles,</i><br />
<i>plunges into the heart and is gone.</i></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
There is no good ending for a post like this. You just suddenly realize that you're at the end.</div>
</div>
<br /></div>
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I have had two trains of thought lately, their tracks criss-crossing my mind.<br />
<br />
The first is from one of those jagged and confusing videos that people made with their cell phones as they were running from the Jason Aldean concert in Las Vegas. A young woman is lying on the asphalt, propped up against a metal fence. She's been shot in the leg and is bleeding badly. Some people are tending to her as best they can. They're crouched down around her, using a shirt to soak up the blood.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, bullets are cutting random and lethal paths all around them.<br />
<br />
A police officer wearing a neon vest joins them. He raises his voice just enough to be heard over the gunfire. "Do you want me to stay with her? You can go."<br />
<br />
That's what he said.<br />
<br />
So calmly.<br />
<br />
And so kindly.<br />
<br />
It sounded sort of like the way you would offer to help anyone with anything. <br />
<br />
Except he was offering to stay in the line of fire while they ran to safety. <br />
<br />
And he was offering to stay with this young woman so that if she died, at least she wouldn't die alone.<br />
<br />
There are so many scenes from that night that I've seen in videos or heard about from eyewitnesses. And somehow that officer in the neon vest has stayed trapped in the net of my subconscious. I can't let him go.<br />
<br />
Kind. Brave. Selfless.<br />
<br />
This is one train of thought that has careened through my mind all week long. At some point, it is inevitably joined by another, seemingly unrelated train of thought. But because these two trains insist on being together, I'm beginning to think they are somehow related. When one shows up in my mind, it inevitably calls to the other.<br />
<br />
The other train of thought is about traffic in Beijing. When we moved there in 2005 I was amazed by the traffic. The streets are overcrowded and the cars jockey with each other and bicycles and motorcycles and buses and pedestrians to make headway across town. Almost no one in Beijing traffic is going to stop and give you the right of way. Passage is something you fight for.<br />
<br />
So the chaos amazed me in Beijing. But what also amazed me was how few accidents there are. Given how many vehicles are on the roads, and given how little regard they give to traffic laws, I would have expected to see at least one or two serious accidents on every drive. But for the most part, people moved through the chaos unscathed.<br />
<br />
I began to wonder if it's all as chaotic as it seems. Or is there perhaps an order to it all, one that's not immediately apparent?<br />
<br />
I spent a lot of time in taxi cabs observing the traffic around me. And I began to see patterns. I developed a hypothesis that there are some unspoken understandings between Beijing drivers. They go something like this.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<i><b>Rule #1: I will continue at roughly this same speed. </b> If I slow down or speed up, it will be gradual. My speed will change no more than 10% in 6-8 seconds.</i><br />
<i><b><br /></b></i>
<i><b>Rule #2: I will make no sudden turns. </b>I might swerve into your lane but I will do so at a gentle angle. You will have time to make room for me. Perhaps you will move into the lane next to you, or you will slow down just a bit to make room for me in front of you. But everything will happen at peaceful angles. My angles will be no sharper than 15%.</i><br />
<br />
With just those two understandings - constant speed and gentle angles - Beijing drivers make their way through the web of highways and byways and almost all of them get home safely to their families in the evening. <br />
<br />
For all I know, there are statistics that say that Beijing roads are deadlier than others. But still I think the two rules above make them safer than they otherwise would be.<br />
<br />
Gentle. Constant. Peaceful.<br />
<br />
Kind. Brave. Selfless.<br />
<br />
These two trains of thought have swerved together in my mind all week at gentle angles, steady speed. <br />
<br />
I don't know what all of this means.<br />
<br />
I do know that those bullets were moving at sharp angles and sudden bursts of speed. <br />
<br />
I do know that kind, brave and selfless people are all around us. <br />
<br />
I do know that we have the capacity to co-exist peacefully with each other. Right? <br />
<br />
Couldn't we be constantly kind with each other for a while? Couldn't we be peacefully selfless? What about gently brave?<br />
<br />
I think we can do all of those things. <br />
<br />
And if we can't, I have another idea.<br />
<br />
How about if we all just stop shooting each other?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I was only laid over in Beijing for an hour and a half. It was barely enough time to get my suitcase, take it through customs and re-check it to my final destination of Dalian.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">And yet, Buddy came to the airport to say hello.
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">He hugged me and said, “I brought you some fruit.” We stuffed the bag of fruit into my suitcase and then re-checked it. As it went through security the inspector called us over. The X-ray was showing a bag of metal hoops and chains and he wanted to know what it was. Buddy, the inspector and I stared at it for a few minutes, and then I finally recognized it as my bag of jewelry. I opened the suitcase, took out my jewelry and showed it to the inspector. Satisfied, he let my bag go through.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">As the three of us stared at the X-ray image of my suitcase we were fixated on my bag of jewelry yet we totally missed another metal object in the opposite corner, which was actually much more troubling.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Buddy and I said goodbye and I made my way to the gate for my final flight. As I waited to board, I got a text from him.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">“I think I left my keys in the bag with the fruit.” </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">“Oh no! What do you want to do?” I asked. We were scheduled to board in a few minutes and the fruit was in my checked baggage.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">“Check when you get to Dalian and if my keys are there just send them back to me,” Buddy said.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">“Does someone have an extra set?” I asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">“My sister,” he replied.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">“I’m so sorry!” I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">“It’s not your fault,” he said. “And it’s not a big deal.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">So Buddy took a half hour cab ride to his sister’s house to get the extra set of keys, then rode back to the airport to retrieve his car and drove back home. By the time he got back to his house I was already in the northeast corner of China.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">And sure enough, I had his keys in my suitcase.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">This is sort of how we operated when we were married. Life with us was a constant series of surprises, goof-ups, and snafus. We had too little time and tried to do too much. But we always managed to get ourselves untangled somehow.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Some people probably looked at us and shook their heads and thought how irresponsible and careless we were. But here’s the thing.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">It’s easy to find someone who knows where their keys are.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">It’s not easy to find someone who will drive out at 8:00 at night to meet you in the airport for just a few minutes to give you a hug and a bag of fresh fruit.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">And if you and that person can get through a marriage and a divorce and still want to say hello to each other when you’re in the same city, then I think that’s a win.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I think that saying yes to that person on that unseasonably cool day in August of 1997 was the right thing to do.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Things tangle and they untangle. Keys are lost and they are found. We are bound together and then torn apart.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">And if I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">It’s easy to find someone who knows where their keys are.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<br />
They sit up. Audrey yawns and rubs her eyes. Grant scratches the back of his neck and squints at me. <br />
<br />
“I know, they’re driving me crazy too, I couldn’t sleep,” he says. <br />
<br />
“It’s so freaking hot in here, why doesn’t this place have air conditioning or at least a fan?” demands Audrey.<br />
<br />
The vacation house their dad has rented for this family reunion sits high atop the mountain and has a stunning view of the Sagami Bay and Oshima Island. It has three bedrooms and two baths, room for the whole family. His mom and dad, his sister and brother-in-law, their son, Buddy and our two kids. And me. They invited me to join them for their family vacation even though technically, I'm not family anymore.<br />
<br />
As fabulous as this house is, it does not have air conditioning or even a fan, and the tatami room the kids and I are sleeping in has heated up as the night wore on. The air is sticky and heavy. I haven’t opened the windows because I don’t trust the screens to keep out the bugs but now it feels like we have no choice, and besides, the mosquitoes have found their way into the room even with the window closed. I slide it open and a mountain breeze drifts into the room like a quiet song.<br />
<br />
“We’ve got to find that thing and kill it,” Grant declares.<br />
<br />
“I’m going upstairs to get us some water,” Audrey announces.<br />
<br />
“Shhhhh!” I remind them both. Their cousins and grandparents are sleeping one shoji-door away and although my kids and I don’t sleep well under these hot and buggy conditions everyone else in the house seems to be having no trouble at all.<br />
<br />
Grant and I inspect the walls of the room, trying to find the mosquito or mosquitoes. Audrey returns with a 2-liter bottle of water and two tiny porcelain teacups of ice. “Would you believe these are the only thing I could find in the kitchen that can be used for drinking? There are no glasses or mugs or anything up there!”<br />
<br />
“Well these will do under the circumstances. Just don’t break them,” I say.<br />
<br />
Audrey pours water into the porcelain cups and the three of us sit down on Grant’s futon in the middle the tatami room. We wait for the mosquito to appear. “There is nothing on this earth I hate more than mosquitoes,” Grant says. “They are pure evil. I call them Chariots of Satan.” <br />
<br />
Audrey and I start laughing and I remind both of us to be quiet and not wake the rest of the family. <br />
<br />
“This is the second worst night of sleep I’ve ever had in my life,” whispers Grant. In a hushed voice he tells us the story of the worst, which was three years ago on a boy scout camping trip in a cave.<br />
<br />
Audrey stands up suddenly and points across the room at a Chariot of Satan. She approaches it with her hands held out in front of her, ready to smack it. It continues towards the window and then vanishes. It seems to have passed straight through the window itself. That’s when we realize how the mosquito must have gotten into the room in the first place. There is a small crack between the window and the screen. <br />
<br />
I stuff two yukatas into the crack and stand with my hands outstretched for several seconds, ready to catch them if they fall back out. They don’t. <br />
<br />
With the window open and the ocean breeze floating through the room it is now cooler and we breathe easier. The crack is plugged and the only known Chariot of Satan is gone. <br />
<br />
I turn out the light and we lie back down. In the darkness the kids whisper about what a hard night this is. They complain about the bugs and the heat and the lack of air conditioning and glasses. <br />
<br />
And they’re right that it is a hard night. But it's also a night we will always remember. People sleep through the night all the time and there is nothing at all memorable about that. <br />
<br />
But a night like tonight - not everyone gets a chance like this in their lifetime.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
A chance to sit together on tatamis in Japan at 2:30 in the morning, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
hot and itchy,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
while brainstorming strategies to kill mosquitoes, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
and laughing, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
and shushing each other,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
and drinking ice water out of</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
tiny</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
porcelain</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
teacups </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRTQP6u8PEnBsTCx89eBGeERTb8lcdHDP7Revaxap8V0zSNNkHmnSzH5CbTF4JwnqhOTstr4ooK62r-tFHnGzTSahLI_X7QEQz0p3Xglpj8dR10qzMdJPfK6HkOjxldqCJ8XcTfriMOec/s1600/teacups.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRTQP6u8PEnBsTCx89eBGeERTb8lcdHDP7Revaxap8V0zSNNkHmnSzH5CbTF4JwnqhOTstr4ooK62r-tFHnGzTSahLI_X7QEQz0p3Xglpj8dR10qzMdJPfK6HkOjxldqCJ8XcTfriMOec/s320/teacups.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<br />
"Us! Us!" we yelled as we brushed the sand off our dresses and buckled on our Sun-Sans.<br />
<br />
Christi was seven, I was five and Caroline was three, and we all knew how to golf. Amanda, the baby, had to stay home with my mom. She would learn to golf in a couple of years when she knew how to walk. <br />
<br />
The golf course was a wide open grass field at the Arboretum. My dad set up the golf tee and instructed us girls to wait behind him at safe distance. One by one he knocked 30 golf balls out into the field. Then at last it was our turn.<br />
<br />
"Okay, go find them!"<br />
<br />
We scampered out into the grass field and searched for the white golf balls like they were Easter eggs. We brought them back to my dad and he counted them as we dropped them one by one into the bucket. I loved the hollow plunk sound each one made. When my dad's count reached about 25 or 26, he cheered us on to go out and find the last four. But if we couldn't find them he was never pedantic about it. <br />
<br />
"It's okay, we'll find them on the next round," he would say, but we rarely did. I'm sure we came back home with fewer balls than we had had when we started out but my dad didn't care. It was not like him to insist on perfection or completion. He wasn't the kind of dad who demanded that things be exact or precise. I don't remember him ever pushing us to do something the "right" way. Instead, my dad valued fun and grace and most of all, he valued the Good Enough.<br />
<br />
We could spend a whole afternoon in this cycle. My dad knocked 30 balls into the field, we retrieved them, he knocked them out over and over and over again. <br />
<br />
He told us this was golfing and we thought it was the most fun sport in the world. It wasn't until years later that we learned that although we were playing a game involving golf clubs and tees and golf balls, we were not golfing.<br />
<br />
When I learned the rules of real golf it occurred to me that it didn't seem very fun at all.<br />
<br />
This is the second Father's Day since my dad died. I wish I could call him. I wish I could hear him say just one more time, "Well, always good talking with you!" - which meant that he was about ready to end the conversation. That was often followed by, "Don't let me keep you" - which meant that he was actually about to hang up.<br />
<br />
I wish we could go golfing again. <br />
<br />
Most of all, I wish he were here to remind me of that Good Enough really is Good Enough. It's okay to stop sometimes. Golf balls are cheap. You don't have to find all 30 of them all the time. Sometimes it's okay to deliver about 80% and trust that things are going to be okay anyway. <br />
<br />
I miss you, Dad. Happy Father's Day.<br />
<br />
Here's to the two most important dads in my life.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
My dad </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And Audrey and Grant's dad</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
Granted, my 36th trip around the sun was a hectic one. That was the year when we sold all our belongings in California and moved to China and started a new life there. I was trying to settle into a new culture and learn a new language. I had done that three times before - once in Germany in 1987, once in France in 1989 and once in Japan in 1992 - so you'd think it would be easy for me. But this was the first time I'd done it with kids and that was a whole new ballgame. As a mother now, my first priority was keeping Grant and Audrey's little heads above water and I used whatever energy I had left to take care of myself. Sometimes, that was very little.<br />
<br />
So you see how I lost track of my age.<br />
<br />
It didn't cause any problems, really, except for the fact that according to the Chinese Zodiac it was my 本命年, my <i>ben ming nian</i>. That comes around once every twelve years when it's your animal year. <br />
<br />
Chinese astrology says that in their <i>ben ming nian, </i>people have offended Tai Sui, the God of Age. They have incurred his curse and will have nothing but bad luck during their animal year. As a result, those who follow Chinese astrology "<a href="http://www.chinahighlights.com/travelguide/chinese-zodiac/how-to-bring-yourself-good-luck-on-ben-ming-nian.htm">pay special attention</a> to their
conduct every twelfth year of their lives, i.e. in their birth sign
years." <br />
<br />
Luckily I slipped by Tai Sui that year when I was 36 even though I paid no special attention to my conduct at all.<br />
<br />
This year I'm turning 48 and it's my animal year, the Year of the Rooster, again.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Worried that Tai Sui might be holding a grudge from twelve years ago, I'm paying special attention this year. There are three things I can do to get myself through this dangerous year:<br />
<ol>
<li>Wear something red against my skin all year along. It can't be something I bought for myself though - it must be something that a friend or loved one gives me.</li>
<li>Wear jade all year. </li>
<li>Spend a lot of time facing due West, which is directly away from Tai Sui.</li>
</ol>
The kids were in China with Buddy and his family for Chinese New Year this year and I asked them to bring me back a red thread to tie around my waist. They brought me one that has little pieces of Jade woven into it - how efficient is that?!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I've been wearing it for four weeks now and it's making me absolutely crazy. I keep getting my thumb caught on it when I'm getting dressed, and it takes a long time for it to dry out after I shower so for the first few hours of the morning it feels like I have a long earthworm around my waist. <br />
<br />
"I don't know if I'm going to be able to stand this for a whole year," I told Audrey the other day.<br />
<br />
"Yeah, we didn't think you would last very long," she replied, nonchalantly.<br />
<br />
Well! That changes everything. I'm posting this on my blog as a sign of my commitment - I will keep this red thread around my waist all year long even if it kills me.<br />
<br />
Which would be ironic. <br />
<br />
I will keep you posted on how this goes.<br />
<br />
If you find me especially frustrated this year, please know that it's not you and it's not even me.<br />
<br />
It's Tai Sui and this damn red thread around my waist.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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