end one way

I looked up, a new habit that I am working on. Through the paned glass, orange and crimson leaves held fast to their branches, carried by the wind without being carried away, at least not quite yet. The sky was bright and blue outside and I was cozy inside, nested away within the warmth of the Fox in the Snow cafe. Content with the moment, and with myself for looking up from the article I was reading, I noticed it - an actual sign. End One Way. I laughed out loud, delighted by the freedom in those words. There is more than one way ahead of me.

How do we let go of the path that we once imagined? There are expectations that we will reach our originally-intended destination, despite (or even because of) the detours and road blocks we encounter along the way. I had an old GPS that would announce “recalculating” whenever I made a turn too soon or missed my exit. The assumption was that I still wanted to get to wherever I had decided upon when I first left home. 

I might be ready for a new way.

steadfast: a look back at 2016

There are certain things in life that forgive good intentions, when tomorrow becomes someday and running shoes aren't tied and words remain tucked away, unwritten. The inertia of inaction becomes more arduous than the task itself until I simply start, again. The pace is slower than before, in writing and running, and yet the words come and the miles pass, always ready to forgive, to welcome me back.

In 2016, I kept my head down, seeking respite from the "what's next?"-ness of my life. I focused on morning coffee and to-do lists, a year of treading water. I'd like to think that I've simply been "letting my land lie fallow," an idea inspired by an episode of Rob Bell's podcast. My word for 2016 was steady / steadfast, inspired by 1 Corinthians 15:58: "Therefore, my beloved brothers, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the LORD, knowing that in the LORD your labor is not in vain." There is a sacredness in the stillness, but looking back, I may have held back more out of fear than contentedness. I'm ready to be free - to cultivate this moment instead of pining for what might be.

Forever - is composed of Nows -

'Tis not a different time -

Except for Infiniteness -

And Latitude of Home.

Emily Dickinson

Even in this year of lying fallow, there has been life, shared. Love, celebrated.

It all started with a run on January 1, on a new trail in a city that didn't quite feel like home yet.

In March, I traveled to Lewisburg to celebrate my sister's acceptance into the Catholic faith.

I hosted my sister's bridal shower in April, a cozy gathering with friends and family, all nestled together around one large table.

In May, I ran the Pittsburgh Half Marathon. I was unprepared for the hills, having trained in Ohio, but gritted my teeth and finished, anyways. Spotting my mama at the finish line might be my favorite part of race day. I also traveled to Toronto and New Orleans for conferences in May, and caught up with an old friend over beignets and coffee at Cafe Du Monde.

At the end of June, my mama and I spent a few days lakeside. We rented a golf cart and drove around Kelly's Island, and I felt like a kid again, unencumbered and carefree as the wind whipped our hair and we laughed and laughed.

My sister's bachelorette was in July, a weekend in Cleveland, complete with outdoor yoga, paddle boarding, painting, and a fancy dinner.

In September, my sister and I ran The Great Race together. Sole sisters reunited!

On October 8, my sister got married. Every detail was exquisite. There was a completeness to the day, even without our dad there, knowing his spirit was with us. We cried and smiled and danced, fully aware that those moments would become some of our most precious memories.

I voted in November, full of hope and a deep sense of awe and wonder - that I would be a part of history, electing our first female president. The story unfolded in a way I never imagined possible and yet now, I believe the story is still unfolding. How we respond is simply the next chapter. What my role will be is yet to be written.

Our Christmas Eve was cozy, complete with a trip downtown for cheese and biscotti and coffee. The Steelers' victory on Christmas Day? Our own Christmas miracle.

Peppered between these milestones were moments: when my family visited me in Columbus and we spent our mornings at the Fox in the Snow cafe. Steelers games with my uncle. I read books, such good books, and finally hung art in my apartment.

Here's to being free in 2017, to explore and grow and find my voice.

that moment

Maybe it's because my mama read Goodnight, Moon to me so often as a child, but I love that moment when I tuck my apartment into bed. There are no more expectations - whatever dishes remain in the sink will become tomorrow's business.

Hush, candle - let your wick rest. The day is done.

This moment is gentle, and not just because I'm burrowing under my quilt. Quiet arrives and I gratefully welcome her home.

It's in this moment that there is space to read. I need not be waiting in line or avoiding the gym in order to justify turning a few pages. There is no multi-tasking.

How I love this moment.

a lesson from Project Runway

I'm still unpacking boxes. Actually, I was worrying whether it will be possible for me to unpack these boxes. I'm tired after work, and I still don't have much furniture. It's hard to organize office supplies without a desk in which to store them. I had spent a good portion of tonight considering all that needed to be accomplished. The anticipation created a lake of molasses between me and action.

And then my sister texted and asked for a progress update.

I hadn't made any progress.

I got up and emptied a box, and then another. (The thought of disappointing my sister infuriated me.)The progress isn't noticeable and the books I did put away aren't organized chromatically on the shelves. But I have to trust that it mattered -- that I'll start someplace new tomorrow because of what I finished tonight.

What is possible may not be the most appropriate metric to gauge progress. There is a kind of implicit accounting that takes place when we invest in the possible but our returns fall short. I become wary, reluctant to try again.

I may have too many books (clarification: too many books for my bookcases at the moment) but putting one away now doesn't have to mean one less spot for another book later. I must trust that I can "make it work" - - thanks, Tim Gunn.

Time out

Growing up, I shared a cul-de-sac with four families' worth of kids, our own version of The Little Rascals. We played fiercely. Our competitive games were fueled by a naïve sense of idealism, in which every soccer goal counted and you risked your own capture to "release" your teammates from the big oak tree, where they were guarded by someone from the other team. We followed the rules, often brokered amongst ourselves minutes before starting. More than a handful of us grew up to be doctors and lawyers, but our fastidious adherence to the rules ran deeper than our natural predilections.

The rules made sure we stayed in bounds, forcing us to find creative ways to run / pass / tag / hide, depending on the game. And the rules granted us permission to yell time out. We didn't abuse that privilege, implicitly recognizing that - like in the "boy who cried wolf" fable - it was up to us to preserve the sanctity of those magic words.

Whatever happened to time out in this place called adulthood? Perhaps it was less the actual pause and more the possibility - a chance to say, "hold on" and "let's re-group" - that allowed us to invest so fully in the game as children.

I know that calling time out won't unpack the boxes at home or wash the dishes in the sink; time out was never allowed as an avoidance strategy, even back in the cul-de-sac. And yet I can't seem to figure out the grown-up version of this childhood tool, a way to say "we need to figure this out together" with dogged optimism.

I say we bring it back.

a Sunday night whisper for the week

Embrace the unexpected

and cherish imperfections.

The way we adapt

is a testament of character.

Surrender to big changes

and take small steps.

Try a little harder

with grace and grit.

 

 

Live to be whole, not perfect. -Oprah

sisters in the city

When I lived in Philadelphia, "sisters in the city" meant a day trip to NYC - Central Park, Laduree, The New York Public Library. We are expert tourists, having perfected the art during our times abroad when we armed ourselves with a guidebook and camera, not trusting ourselves to remember without capturing the memory.

 

 

Sometimes, though, it's the stories - the candid recollections of unexpected moments that caught us by surprise, becoming more valuable in their  repeated retelling - that hold more truth.

 

I want to capture them as much as those recommended in guide books.

 

- - - -

 

The post-Orange Theory coffee at the North Market, when my Sister - knowing that I'm braver with her by my side - helped me create a new Saturday morning routine.

 

 

 

Picking out wedding fonts on Pinterest after unpacking some boxes in my apartment. Laughing until our sides hurt (or is that the post-workout burn?) while watching Matt Ballassai's Whine about it.

 

Here's to capturing the essence of this weekend's edition of "sisters in the city" - Columbus edition.

 

what doesn't change

Once, we ate Thanksgiving dinner at a restaurant when our kitchen was out-of-commission. I was 12 or 13 and completely unsettled by the prospect. I wanted us to dig in our heels and somehow find a way to preserve what had always been. I imagined that if we gave ourselves permission to adapt, then nothing would be considered sacred. Would we abandon Christmas Eve candlelight service next?

I feared change, even back then. But I didn't know change, having only ever experienced its proxies - transitions, disappointment, uncertainty.

When my dad passed away unexpectedly, Change became an unwelcome guest who moved in, without notice or regard.

Suddenly, the traditions that once defined my family could not be. It wasn't fair that he wasn't there to put together our Christmas tree while we unraveled the tangle of lights. We couldn't bear to go through the motions; his absence was overwhelming.

And yet we were still a family, glued together with grace and forgiveness. We've tried new summer spots and forged a Christmas Eve tradition for the three of us. Family isn't about holding on, although there is beauty in heirlooms.

Instead, it's my Sister knowing I will need her before I realize it, and she's in the car crossing states to help me unpack. It's an "everything will be okay" ethos that we borrow from one another.

i carry your heart (in my heart). e.e. cummings

Three majors, two countries, one calling

I remember visiting Princeton on my Grand Tour of Colleges the summer before my senior year of high school. We sat in a room lined with books, floor to ceiling, and the Person in Charge asked each prospective applicant to introduce herself. Name and hometown and what you wanted to study.

I haven't a clue what my response was, but I cannot seem to forget one girl's desired major - Greek mythology. I remember feeling contempt for her boldness - how could she know so definitively? Yet even then I knew that my disdain was rooted in envy. Growing up, I couldn't stick to just one "when I grow up" fill-in-the-blank reply.

Archaeologist.

Journalist.

NASA Engineer.

Editor for a publishing house.

I applied Early Decision somewhere else as an English major, bewitched by the poetry of William Blake and the prospect of one day writing a Great American Novel. Add in Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice and once again I was an eclectic, unable to commit to a particular discipline.

 

I was an English major for less than a month. I worried that reading would become work and I couldn't bear the thought of resenting something so dear to me. I eventually settled on Psychology after pursuing a Government major for several semesters. I only stumbled upon developmental psychology while abroad in London, where only psychology courses would transfer for credit. What if political science courses were available instead? Did I miss my calling or find it instead?

31 days of daily words

The dissertation is done. I wrote it early in the morning and after supper, pockets of time dedicated to corralling my ideas into words. I was a preschool teacher by day and found such comfort in my classroom. We sang and prayed, painted and gardened, played and counted. There was a rhythm to our days and I never questioned my purpose - I wanted to be that teacher who is remembered years later for cultivating kindness and curiosity.

 

I wrote words upon words, some deleted in frustration, others with a sheepish apology. The culmination of my years in graduate school, I saw myself in those words, no matter how many times I reminded myself that I am not my dissertation. Yet what is the art without the artist? I knew, however, that Committee would read my words. Preferring to be my harshest critic, I wrote in that tense space between detached objectivity and fierce wholeheartedness. It was exhausting.

 

What will it feel like to write daily words again? Unlike my dissertation, I can ponder without evidence and ask questions without answers. It is time to treat my words with a sense of reverence, giving them space to breathe and simmer. Let this month be one without fear - of criticism, of falling short of my own expectations.

 



right where I am

I have so many hopes for this year. I see the life I want to live, days of quiet and productive writing, of spending time in His word and walking by faith. I crave an uncluttered life - free of unnecessary things, yes, but also free of worry and fear and regret. I want to name myself "runner" - strong and fast - and feel worthy of the noun form of the verb.

I seek structure, where I find protection from unyielding Time. I hate the helplessness of minutes slipping by and instead of scrambling to make the most of them, I want to create routine, a way with time instead of against it.

I am keen to step into this new life, a life unhurried and purposeful. I'm realizing, however, that I may be setting myself up for disappointment. Sara Bareilles reminds me, "Compare where you are to where you want to be and you'll get no where." That distance can overwhelm; instead of finding motivation in the gap, I retreat.

And yet I read the words of Jeff Olson in his book The Slight Edge - "What most people call a 'problem' is simply a gap, an open space between point A and point B. And if you keep an open mind, it's an open space you can bridge" (p. 155).

I struggle to make peace in these two perspectives - to make peace with my present while at once yearning for what could be.

I'm finding that the salve, the antidote to this struggle is starting (a lesson from the courageous Tiffany Han). To acknowledge the present by refusing to wait until the moment feels right. To take what I have and use it purposefully.

It is in starting that I know that what I have and who I am is enough. In starting I overcome the pull of complacency when the gap between here and there seems too wide. With action comes peace of mind, the peace of progress, however small.

...or you'll catch a chill

Am I too old to catch a chill? I was woefully unprepared for today's constant rain and spent the day in wet socks. I could hear my mama's voice reprimanding me for my wet hair and missing jacket.

I took care of myself, peeling away the cold layers and hunkering down under a warm blanket, because that's what my mama would have done for me.

Sometimes, the grown-up moments sneak in and I don't realize that I've got it covered.

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simplicity in structure || a case for out-of-the-ordinary

Until today, I had never ventured north past Polett Walk. I walk from the train station to my office and back again. My route has been automatic and I know that I like the coffee from a particular food truck along that route. I had no desire to seek out change.

I was content. There was relief in the regularity - no decision to be made, no mistakes possible. By eliminating choice, I rid myself of responsibility - the path of least resistance became the default.

Today, I walked north past Polett Walk with a former student, who suggested Cloud Coffee instead of my usual spots. With my soft spot for alliteration, I agreed, and so we walked on, past the crosswalk where I usually turn toward familiarity.

The latte was divine - nutmeg, cinnamon, and dark brown sugar. It was the taste of whimsy - unexpected and delightful.

I must be careful that sinking into structure - a feather bed of familiarity - does not become settling.

Over the summer, my family hiked in several state parks near Dushore, PA. One particular trail ended at a river. The hike was complete, but I wasn't ready for it to be over. Instead, I clamored over rocks and found a view that has stayed with me - a treasured view of possibility.

hike on

simplicity in structure || 24 points in 2:54

The Steelers scored 24 points in 2 minutes, 54 seconds at the very end of the second quarter.

I decided to watch the game at Planet Fitness, where I am a member as much for the cable television as the treadmills. My sister had run earlier in the evening and although I lacked enthusiasm, I had just finished Laura Vanderkam's book 168 hours: You have more time than you think. Perhaps the most striking lesson that I learned is that 6am is not privileged over 8pm. As an early bird, I would rather go to bed early and start fresh in the morning. Not everything can be completed in those before-sunrise hours, though, and so there is simplicity in structure - to be a runner, run. I went to the gym to watch the second quarter of Monday Night Football.

here we go, Steelers n'at

Lackluster could be a kind word to describe the first 10 minutes that I watched, and I caught myself thinking, "When will it be halftime?".

The Steelers, however, refused to wish away those remaining minutes until they could slink away to the locker room and regroup. They dug in their heels and changed the pace of the game. It didn't matter that the points were scored in minute 13 instead of minute 2 of the second quarter. 

There is certainly grace for those moments when I need a time out. 

Day by day, I'm learning to be judicious in calling that time-out. Sometimes, action - even the smallest of baby steps such as opening the document or putting on my gym clothes- is enough to muster the courage to press on. 

Clear eyes, full heart, can't lose. 

-Friday Night Lights

simplicity in structure || wide open spaces

Tonight was the first cold night of the season. I bundled up and joined my church on a hayride.

an old tradition, updated

Sometimes it takes wide open spaces to feel grounded.

Merrymead Farm

these are a few of my favorite things

Saturday afternoons with the windows open and SEC football on TV.

Roll tide

FaceTiming with sister and mama (and sister's boyfriend's cat- Hi, Rascal!). An empty kitchen sink. The smell of coziness in a pumpkin spice candle, thanks to day eighteen of sister's 30 before 30 project for me. The resilience of my plant ivy (named Fern).

Finally hanging up some prints, some framed, others washi-taped to the wall, reminding myself that it doesn't have to be perfect to be beautiful. Changing the wreath on my front door, to match the season. Setting my kitchen table for dinner with a friend, before a night of line dancing.

simplicity in structure || TGIF

Simplicity in structure is knowing that Friday evenings will be a sacred diminuendo. There is peace in the knowing that I worked hard and now I can settle into the quiet.

Years ago, it was Boy meets World and Luciano's pizza. Tonight, I watched an episode of Felicity and folded laundry, unhurriedly.

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I wonder if there is a word for peaceful adventures - sunbathing on a dock instead of white water rafting. This weekend, to start Tiffany Han's 100 Rejection Letters program, I will be considering what I hope to accomplish in the next year. I am struggling to balance boldness with my yearning to feel cozy, to embrace the slow life a la Tsh Oxenreider in Notes from a Blue Bike.

Jess Lively describes this as finding meaning in the being instead of the doing.

But.

Purpose feels tied to action - serving and creating and learning and loving.

I am going to give myself the time and space and freedom and grace to think about my intention for the next year. "Nothing happens until you decide." I agree, Oprah. I agree.

simplicity in structure || etiquette

There were eight of us, 4 pairs of siblings. We grew up together, sharing backyards and cups of hot chocolate on snow days. The cul-de-sac was our soccer field and roller rink. It was an unspoken rule that the cul-de-sac was common ground; we rallied everyone if someone felt like a game of Life (inspired by the board game) or hockey. There was no "who should we invite?".

Growing up, invitations were paper, and if you didn't have enough cupcakes for everyone, then no one could indulge in the frosting-covered treats. My mama started a "you can't say you can't play" campaign at my elementary school, and I addressed valentines to every classmate.

Etiquette is simplicity in structure. I wonder if I am a bit old-fashioned in my expectations nowadays. To get an email saying "here's what we're doing - feel free to join us" makes me feel like I'm on the second-tier of friendship. To find out that everyone's going to the hayride and of course I can tag along isn't the same as being invited. Being welcomed just isn't as same.

There is comfort in the social rituals, the adherence to rules that prioritize others.

forever in my heart

I remember underwater tea parties, holding my breathe, sinking to the bottom of the pool. That's how today feels - seven years without my dad. I can anticipate the grief that today brings and so I hunker down, holding my breath until the day is over. 

simplicity in structure || someone get me a sippy cup

I spilled coffee all over myself this morning, a day after my breakfast smoothie tumbled all over my car. A very adamant woe is me tantrum followed; tributaries of tears swelled. As much as I wanted to retreat - to crawl back into bed and declare it a "terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day" as Alexander does in Judith Viorst's childhood classic - I didn't.

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Instead, my sister and I sang our "party time" song together and I celebrated day fourteen of her thirty before thirty celebration for me. It's hard to be grumpy while wearing a pink headband.

I needed coffee still and so I decided to jog to the local Starbucks and walk home, coffee in hand. That's the beauty of simplicity in structure - I knew what to do in order to step out of that mess. There is forward progress, a freedom to say "what's next?" and then know exactly what to do, no time wasted in wallowing. 

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