Favorites Now Part II.

Gold Dots: These have become quite popular, and I love them. I love them on black, white, pink...probably any color. Searching for "gold dots" on Pinterest brings up so many examples. I have a print from Paper Source that says "You Sparkle--You Shine" in gold script with gold dots. It catches the slightest light even when the room is dark. I'd love to have all the journals, wall art, file folders, pillows, and other objects that use gold dots. 

Milkshake Straws: I didn't know these existed. I find them at Food Lion. The are pastel and individually wrapped. I haven't tried them with actual milkshakes, but they are great when I'm drinking water, want a straw, and don't want to sip daintily.

Canada Dry Blackberry Ginger Ale: My soul companion, Bruce, got me into this. We walk together a few times a week, and one evening, he brought a 2-liter bottle with a little soda left. I swigged it like a pirate, not expecting to like it (I'm a picky and not-at-all-adventurous eater/drinker). But it was delicious, and I've been buying it ever since. It's limited edition, so I'll be bummed when it's gone. It tastes like ginger ale with grape soda but not so sweet.

Anthropologie Glasses: Can you tell that I'm taking medication that makes me extremely thirsty and therefore obsessed with all beverage topics? I bought these last year when Mom and I went to South Park, a fancy mall in Charlotte, for my birthday. I have the glasses in that striking green and bashful tanzanite. Josh washes them by hand for me. I love using them for juice and lemonade.

Cinderella Bag: I'm fairly obsessed with the live-action movie itself and quite disappointed that it won't be out on DVD until September. The costumes, the music, the greater focus on Cinderella's childhood, the mere sight of Kenneth Branagh's name in the credits...perfect. Mom and Shane gave me a bag based on the movie for my 30th last week. I never thought I would have a Le Sport Sac purse...I feel pretty fancy. The silver thread in the straps and the baby pink lining are gorgeous details. The bag can hold my journal and books along with the usual.

Image: https://www.lesportsac.com/Hailey_Tote?color=P669

Favorites Now.

I've been away from work on FMLA for several months now, and this gives me a little time to think about what fortifies my days and sweetens (or gently challenges) my mind. I'll share some here.

PB Teen Catalog: I've always loved PB Teen (a Pottery Barn brand), and it's my first choice for furniture. But the catalog itself is a gem. I'd love to be on the styling team (or whatever it's actually called). The rooms are like stories because they actually capture the personalities of the imaginary teens who live in those rooms. I don't pay much attention to the boys, but I get fascinated with the environmentalist girl, the wahine who is also class president, the fashionista who loves 19th-century literature. I love looking closely to see what the selection of furniture, decor, books, and objects reveal. It's great inspiration for writing characters or just for reminders to embrace one's passions, down to every labeled polka-dot canvas storage bin (I amass blank journals in a green under-the-bed one I got on mega sale a few years ago!). Get on the mailing list!

Denim Chaise: I worked extra last summer to be able to buy (on sale, again) this gorgeous chaise from PB Teen (of course). Apparently, it's not for sale any more, but it's this shape. It was part of the awesome Emily & Meritt collection, which I could gobble up in one bite. The chaise is under the window in our guest room, which is often my quiet, thoughtful spot in the apartment. I'm a great collector but often neglect to use what I love. I don't know if it's a feeling of being undeserving or a fear of messing up something marvelous. But I've started adding "15 min chaise" to my goal list every day. I just go enjoy the chaise while I read, feast on Pinterest, or gaze out in thought. The denim is soft like lightly worn jeans, and it will go with anything. Right now, I'd like to have pink pillows. I think it's important to have at least one piece of furniture that encapsulates the feeling of home. Oh, and here's a quick collection video that makes me feel calm and creative:

Design Book: I have a big photo album with sturdy pages and protective sheets between. I've had it for eleven years, and for most of that time, I wondered what to do with it. Recently, I started filling it scrapbook-style, mostly with rooms. I'd see a beautiful room in a magazine, adore something, see a scene unfold or imagine what might happen in the room, and I'd tear it out and paste it into my big book. It's nearly full now, so I need to find another album like it. But I love looking at those rooms, displays, corners. They take me to other quiet or exciting places, and it's like having all my favorite bits of magazines and catalogs in one place. I like having it when I can't use Pinterest. But I do something similar there with my Stories of Rooms board.

Pinterest Desks: I also love working on my Deskscapes board. Any beautiful or inspiring offices, studios, craft rooms, desks, or desk accessories I find go there. I ask myself what I could do in that space. Could I write letters, stories, poems? Could I make a collage or dream up some new path for myself? Or who else might create there?

from The Glitter Guide at theglitterguide.com

More to come!

My 30s.

Growing up, I thought a lot about my 20s. I thought that would be the best decade of my life--youth and freedom, creativity, love. Those did come, but so did more pain and difficulty than I could have imagined. Just before my birthday (yesterday), I realized that I'd never really thought about my 30s. So here are some thoughts.

• I want my 30s to be financially stable, even if we don't have much to spend on extras. 
• I want my 30s to be a well-read decade. I'd love to read 50 books each year and come out with 500 more books.
• I want to be creatively productive--25 or more journals. Collages. Design books (albums in which I paste photos, mostly of inspiring rooms), expressive makeup.
• I'd like to get back to writing letters and see how it feels to have more friends, at least on paper.
• I want to follow all my treatments well and learn more about them.
• I want to be an engaged mother and introduce Oliver to fantasy, science fiction, theatre, art....
• I want to be deeply connected to the theatre too.
• I want to keep my closest connections and build on them. 
• I want to travel at least a little.
• I want to be thinner and more fit.
• I want to maintain my blogs at least somewhat.
• I want to stay connected to myself.

The Narrow Hallway.

Here is how it is. At least, these are the images that contain the experience for the moment.

On the brighter days, life is a hallway with peeling strips of tin foil on the walls. The ceiling is one long fluorescent light; I can't see anything but white glare. The floor is white, almost reflective, seamless tile. The hall is narrow, so narrow that it skims my shoulders on both sides. Sometimes, this opens out for a while, and the wider spaces make me want to run, test echos, slide on my knees. For some reason, I see myself wearing black cropped leggings, a short white cotton T-shirt dress, and low-top Chuck Taylors. The foil catches and tosses the light in long prisms that don't strike and don't shatter.

But then, the hall gets narrow again. I keep moving, but I'm aware of the almost-pressure at my shoulders, like people breathing on me. And the light is too harsh. The foil rustles like metal icicles. Then it catch on my hair or clothes and tears, sending that tiny shrill scream of it's silvery rip sliding like a fingertip from my sternum to my chin. Torn and featureless reflections of me catch my peripheral sight. And I see other blurs and slices in those sheets that could be me, or the continued reflections from the other wall, or something else I can't see beyond the glare. And a torn curl of foil contacts my arm just right, leaving a stinging thin cut worse than paper.

The worse days offer no wider passages. The walls are jagged vertical shoots of brushed steel. The light is gauzy and gray, and the walls give no reflection. I have to shave past protrusions, hoping no spur will open my skin. And before I see it, another sudden outcrop may bruise my chest or collarbone. All this would be easier if these rough gray clothes weren't so loose and if the floor weren't thick with something black and slippery. And if there weren't strange noises, or if I could at least know whether or not I am making them. I can't find enough flat space to lean back or to drop my forehead to the wall. I pull something in this knee and that hip as the black slick sends one leg back and one leg forward and left. A metal rod, blunt enough, keeps me from falling by digging between my ribs. If I cried, I could see even less. Somehow, I know better than to call out.

Another Kind of Pregnancy.

I remember both the massive responsibility and the keen comfort of being pregnant, of carrying my baby with me at every moment. I had to be careful. I controlled my reaction to loud noises and sudden stressors. I turned down my music and anticipated strains that might be abrupt or frightening. I drove more carefully. I didn't let myself get hungry or thirsty or hold my breath. Every moment impacted him. But I had his company, and I knew that his safety was almost as much in my control as my own safety was. If something were wrong, I would know it (This did not turn out to be true, but still, after the first agonizing months, I felt that way). I couldn't see him, hear him, or touch his skin and hair, but I held him. Even then, I knew that I would miss that containment. Once he was outside of me, I would feel helpless, clueless, and afraid. How would I protect him, anticipate his needs, comfort him, and keep up with him then?

Last summer, I read How They Met and Other Stories by David Levithan. Lucy, devastated over a relationship that turned out to be mostly one-sided (and over much else), teeters between a longing to disappear and an urge to demonstrate every stabbing emotion. Her best friend, Teddy, does not let her avoid him.

"'Spill,' he said.
'I can't," I told him.
'Why not?'
'Because if I start, I might not stop.'
That's what it felt like--that if I let a little of the hurt out, it would keep pouring out until I was a deflated balloon of a person, with a big monster of hurt in front of me."

I couldn't forget this.

The analogy is distorted. This isn't about motherhood in any literal sense. This is not about my experience as a mother to my tiny elfin treasure. Still, it works in some ways, so I'll go with it, at the risk of misunderstandings.

Therapy. Even talking. Dealing with it. All the black mass that is it. Maybe it's more disease than pregnancy. Maybe it's more parasitic twin than child. Why do we try so hard to protect our hurts as if they were children? Maybe it's the child versions of ourselves, really.

No body is built to carry a pregnancy past its term. Many are not built to carry even to term. I wasn't. Still. What is inside seems safer, more manageable--the care more automatic and instinctual. And of course, giving birth is painful and lonely at best. It can be dangerous, terrifying, and scarring. I did everything everyone said, everything I could have done, and it was still not okay. And now, even though it turned out okay...it is not okay.

I know it won't be something I can endure for twelve hours and finish. No twilight or full anesthesia afterward. It will be, as my nightmares told me repeatedly in the hospital, something I have to do again and again and again. For months or years, something will keep moving, pressing under my ribs. And my body, my mind, will weaken, will churn and filter and consume me until I go back. And back.

And I won't be able to leave the monster of hurt in book-lined office, on a Steno pad, or in a filing cabinet. Empty, I'll stumble out when my time is up, and all I've expelled will be with me still. Outside me. And I will be responsible for what it does. And I will have to hear its whimpering or shrieking. I will have to look in its face.

And life will not pause for that. Because no one, not even those who know, will know.

And what if it doesn't work? What if my arms can't hold them all, and I still have all those extra heartbeats, and my body continues to deteriorate in response? I don't even know what is there.

I guess I'll have something like an ultrasound soon. And maybe I'll have some idea of what I'm facing.

Earning 28.

This is a bit late.

I turned 28 yesterday. This is the first birthday that has bothered me. But I remind myself that I probably shouldn't have seen 27, and my mom reminded me that I have a pretty great life for 28. 

My usual birthday-time practice is to look back on the year and see how I made use of it, how I earned my birthday, what was worthwhile. I'm often surprised over how much I've actually done. I accomplished and endured so much when I was 26, but 27 was probably more impressive than I realize.

• I taught a total of 15 college courses, 3 of them in the summer.
• I taught my first literature course.
• I taught a literature course that I designed from the concept up. 
• I introduced students to the kind of literature that is being born right now, and they were amazed. 
• I taught creative writing for the third time, having made improvements I feel good about.
• I dealt with a scary fire (arson) that wrecked my apartment building and threatened my boys.
• I researched, documented, and organized detailed information for our renter's insurance, and the adjustors were impressed with the work. I never want to do that again.
• I moved--only to a different apartment this time.
• I started moving away from the college-student, hand-me-down way of decorating and chose my own replacement furniture.
• I bought a living room set from Pottery Barn! Whoa!
• I set up a sweet, open room for Oliver.
• I made home colorful.
• I taught a seminar on English in the workplace to all the faculty, staff, and administration at my college. And even the welding instructors said they enjoyed it.
• I read 48 books.
• I read 5 independent reader books aloud to Oliver.
• I decided that I needed to read more short stories, and I read 12 books of them.
• I wrote some new poems and stories and revised some old ones.
• I probably filled 10 journals (I don't feel like going through them!).
• I put together a literary magazine by myself...in a week...and didn't explode.
• I got my critical thinking students to understand logical fallacies...sort of.
• I went to my first conference.
• I finished some 36 hours of professional development.
• I had my first two short story publications. 
• I finished 14 months of breastfeeding.
• I supported a family of three.
• I supported my husband in beginning his work on a master's degree. 
• I grew my hair long after years of keeping in short (partly in response to a tragedy).
• I got my Snow White hair! That's one off the 30 before 30 list.
• I got through another terrible tragedy without cutting my hair or losing my mind.
• I missed six days of work due to said tragedy and pneumonia--it's amazing that I could bear to do this.
• I handled someone's huge confession with calm, loving acceptance and encouragement.
• I gave good advice even though the situation terrified me.
• Josh and I left Oliver alone with someone else while we went to the doctor. Also amazing though necessary.
• I got comfortable with a new office mate.
• I listened to and comforted students who needed to share their heart-breaking and horrifying stories.
• I was open about my depression and sought help from doctors and from the people who love me most.
• I made a friend. I pushed it! Me! 
• I withstood numerous instincts to bolt from said friendship.
• I formed a deep new bond and trust.
• I told most of my hardest stories in detail, and in the process, I wrote them down.
• I started carpooling to work. Me? Comfortable stuck with someone for a couple of hours a day? While I'm driving? Amazing but true.
• I managed conflicts without completely freaking out.
• I push myself to learn (again) how to communicate my needs and feelings clearly.
• I rebuilt a lot of the memory, concentration, and problem-solving skills that left me after Oliver was born.
• I helped a human learn to say words.
• I watched a human learn to walk, dance, and run.
• I balanced taking care of my son while not pretending that I don't have feelings and struggles.  
• I maintained a strong, connected marriage.
• I gave audiobooks another chance. 
• I invited a non-relative to my house...and had fun.
• I didn't give up during long-term, heavy depression and anxiety.
• I started to get better.

I guess that will do. All right, 28. Let's go.

The Hush.

4:40 a.m. I spoke to his back: “I need you to love me.”

I heard the exhalation that meant he was instantly awake and smiling. He turned onto his back and pulled me to his chest. 

“I’m down,” I said.

“Any reason?”

“I don’t know if there’s a reason.” Pause. “I can feel myself pulling away.”

“From your friendship?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you mean it’s something you’re actively doing, not that he’s drifting away?”

“It’s me. But I’m pretty sure it’s not voluntary. I guess it’s some defense mechanism, and stupid things trip it.”

“That must feel kind of scary.”

I turned onto my back, looking up at the proportionally placed glowing planets on the ceiling. “Yeah. And it’s really sad.”

“It’s not surprising though. This is completely new for you. It’s way beyond anything you ever thought could be your comfort zone. Well, I don’t think he’s going to let you pull away. And I won’t let you either.” He gave me a Peter Cetera look. “I am a Joe who will fight for your friendship.”

I looked at him and hugged him hard around the shoulders. “You’re so nice.”

“I’m in love with you. And I want you to be happy. So, so happy. And I think this is good for you. I’ve felt hopeful.”

“Why?”

“You’ve seemed lighter, not so prone to darkness. Your friend can’t cure it, but I think he’s a good long-term treatment.”

He left the room and came back with his Diet Pepsi and Fruit Loops. “I’m going to eat breakfast and sit here with you, tickling you or whatever you want.”

The smile glowed into the muscles of my face. He read me a brilliant new poem. And I slipped back into sleep.