Bubbles

After the wedding reception this weekend, two of my fellow bridesmaids and I went back to the hotel and played Sorry. A little while later, we heard someone trying to get into our room. Our laughter stopped immediately, they ran and hid in the corner, and I was sent to look through the peep hole. A little old man, still dripping in his swimsuit, tried the card key in our door again, looked at the room number, and hung his head. I could see every wisp of his hair. After a short silence, he shuffled off down the hallway and out of sight. Although we laughed about the situation afterwards, it was an intimate and precious moment for me, this glimpsing of his life through a small bubble. I hope he found his way home.

The Inner Feminist

Have you ever watched a movie and gotten really worked up about its plot? I've been feeling this way a lot recently. Last night, I saw The Duchess (I love Kiera Knightley), and it was a beautifully portrayed story of yearning love and the entrapments of Old English society. What made it worse for me was the fact that this--the terrible treatment she endured from her husband and her hopeless search for happiness--was a true story. I wanted to step into that dining hall and smack the husband around a little bit, scream in his face. How dare you cheat on your wife! How dare you blame her for not giving you a male child! How dare you view her as merely your sex toy!


Which would've promptly placed me in prison. Or an asylum. Or in the case of The Tudors (a fantastic show about the life and wives of King Henry VIII), I would've been beheaded. Maybe I should stop watching things that accurately portray the time periods I fantasize about. Being a woman back then would've sucked, royally. I don't know what kept them from killing themselves.

So, thank you, God, that I was born in a time period where the rights and views of women are heard and respected. Let me use my freedom to its fullest, and maybe, somehow, make up for the injustices done to all those trapped and miserable women of the old days.

Memoir Practice

"Now I feel a new power to write, the sentences just pouring out. I feel the books in a stack inside me. I have only to open them up, open myself up, and read off those words." - From Sam Savage's The Cry of the Sloth

How much I long to be experiencing these words, to be so filled with inspiration that I can't keep my fingers still! But I'm dry, and have been for quite some time now. I keep telling myself it's because I'm so busy, but really? My busy consists of a lot of sitting, dreaming, reading, watching the Bachelorette, playing with my hamster, and trying to elude boredom. So clearly, "busy" is not an excuse I can honestly use. You'd think with all this free-time I'd be wrapping up a novel! But no, instead I live off others' words and wish that I had written them.

I suppose I need more discipline in my writing life. Josh gave me a great book filled with writing prompts, but I've hardly broken the surface. It's called Old Friend from Far Away by Natalie Goldberg, and it's a great book; I highly recommend it. Let's see--why don't we do one together!

Give me a memory of your mother, aunt, or grandmother.

In Maine, Mom ordered lobster. It was fresh from the sea and stared at her from the plate. When the waitress set it down, Mom turned the plate with the tips of her fingers so that the eyes faced Dad. I was so fascinated by this boiling red animal that I could barely eat my shrimp. I'm surprised, even to this day, that Mom even attempted to eat a creature that, but for its being boiled, could've walked off the plate and snapped a fork in its claw.
Mom picked at the lobster valiantly with all sorts of utensils, laughing and ewing the whole time. The tail was good, she said. But then, she busted open the midsection, where the lobster housed its now-cooked dinner. The substances inside were grey and mushy, and a shiver ran down my spine. Mom quickly pushed the plate away, sticking out her tongue. Our waitress laughed.
Before the dissected meal was removed from the table, though, Darwin ripped off the antennas and made them dance across the table, sometimes swirling them in his water glass while he made sucking sounds.


Alright. Now it's your turn!

Dreams

In my lifetime, I hope to accomplish many things. But more importantly, to experience many things. I firmly believe that art is born through experience. Below, I've listed some of the things I hope to do in order to enrich my life, and in return, touch others' lives through the art I will create.

• Travel to England and Scotland and soak up all the beautiful history and literary genius of that island. And sip a few cups of tea.
• Live in Kenya and go on a safari, learn how to make African art, and dance alongside the lovely people who love God like I do.
• Travel to France to expand my French-speaking skills, stroll the halls of the Louvre, and experience romance the Parisian way.
• Visit Rome (well, all of Italy) because of its rich roots in the Western World. The art is incredible, and the language is sexy.
• Go to Australia and scuba dive (or snorkel) in the Great Barrier Reef. Where else could you go to see every color God created?
• Ride a hot air balloon over crisp autumn leaves.
• Hang glide down a mountain.
• Learn to waterski.
• Master archery. There will always be a part of me that will pretend to be a great warrior woman from the past.
• Go white-water rafting.
• Ride an ostrich. Ever since I saw Swiss Family Robinson as a child, I've wanted to do this. I have no idea where it could happen, but I can assure you that if the opportunity arises, I'll be on that bird!
• Gallop a horse on the surf of a pristine beach. Romantic much?
• Have an old-fashioned picture taken of me as a Western saloon girl. Gotta let that girl come out some time!
• See Josh Groban in concert. These are the only tickets I'd ever camp out for.
• Adopt a child, hopefully from an African country. I want to learn that child's culture and incorporate it into our American life so that he/she will never forget his/her heritage.
• Publish a book. Could be of my adventures. Could be a story for children. Just something that another person will hold and smell and find inspiration.

It's a Small World After All

A few weeks ago, I watched When Harry Met Sally, and I was greatly intrigued by the fact that Harry and Sally walked past each other, even had a passing conversation with each other, before they actually met and fell in love. Which got me thinking: How many times did I encounter Josh before I met him? What about my other best friends? And then I came across this remarkable video of a husband and wife who discovered they were both at the same place at the same time fourteen years before they ever met. Obviously that peeked my interest. Check it out:



Doesn't it make you want to go through all your photo albums with a magnifying glass? I know that when I'm in a big crowd and I see a camera flash in my direction, I always hope I don't have a stupid look on my face. I don't want to be the laughing point of someone's family photo, after all. But could it be possible that a background shot of me links me to someone else, makes our world fit into a 4x6 frame without our knowledge? Oh, it kills me that I'll never know!

But In Dreams

Revolutionary Road. A heartbreaking and powerful story of a couple who achieved "the American dream" only to discover that it's not all it's made out to be. In a moment of inspiration, they decide to move to Paris, to escape the traps suburbia has set for them and to rediscover themselves. But the world is out to get them and they remain trapped.

I absolutely understand. I'm scared that if I'm not careful, I will slip onto the fast track to the suburban trap, scared that if I wait too long to do something, I will lose my motivation. Which may be why I no longer have a desire to go house shopping. Which may be why I'm so disgusted with the way people judge each other based on their belongings. Which may be why we're thinking of leaving this place, perhaps go to Africa, if only for a little while. I want to (re)discover my purpose, to experience new places, meet new people. But most of all, I want to find a new appreciation for life. I need to know that there are still children who get excited to learn and who respect their elders. I need to know that there are places where family is central and the wisdom of the elders is treasured. I need to be reminded that there is happiness in the world and that it can't be bought with money.

I don't want to settle for the Dream and then force myself to smile.

Toy Story

I can't believe it's been eleven years since the first Toy Story movie came out! Back then, I was fascinated with the movie's premise. Even before it came out, I had an inkling that my Littlest Pet Shops and Pound Puppies led double lives, had more fun amongst themselves while I was at school, and Toy Story affirmed my suspicions. I remember setting up all my animals in their little toy homes, memorizing their positions, leaving the bedroom, and closing the door behind me. I waited a few minutes before bursting back inside, hoping to catch them off guard, sprawled somewhere I hadn't left them, or even see one still wiggling. But they were too good, too swift.

Later, I figured the closed door is what gave me away. I never closed my door when I left the room. They must've sensed something was up.

After many failed attempts to catch the toys in the act, I came to the conclusion that they would always be one step ahead of me. It made sense that they could read my mind, because after all, it was my mind that gave them names and homes and scenarios. Even today, I still like to believe that tucked deep in my closet and out of sight, my little animals have county fairs and school days, birthday parties and barbecues. Wouldn't that be a great world?

Birds of Prey: Part Two

When Josh and I went to the Minnesota Zoo last week, I was struck with sadness. On exhibit was a bald eagle with a shattered wing. She would never fly again. And as such, she could not survive in the wild. On a rock next to her was a dead bird, the only way she could eat. It was such a pathetic sight. And it got me thinking, What kind of life is this? Are the zookeepers really showing compassion to her by feeding her and keeping her alive? Or is her confinement and pampering a slow kind of torture?

I admit, she was a beautiful creature and I greatly enjoyed seeing her up close. But I've found greater joy in watching an eagle eat carrion along the side of the road, dip and fall with the thermals, and dance with his mate through the air. All things she will never do again.

Josh did make an interesting point, though, because he too experiences a twang of sadness when he sees animals in captivity. It's good for us to see her up close like this, to learn about her and understand her. And it's especially good to teach children about her (and all animals), because they are the ones who will look after this earth once we're gone. And teaching them early and showing them the majesty of the creatures will hopefully instill in them a sense of wonder and a sense of duty.


I really love my husband. And I feel a little better about the plight of the eagle. Perhaps she is serving a greater purpose. I know I won't forget her!

Birds of Prey: Part One

One of my favorite things to see when I'm driving:

Hawks have always been high on my list of favorite animals because (1) they are majestic, (2) they have beautiful colorings, (3) they fly, and (4) they evoke visions of mountains and open skies. Seeing them along a busy street reminds me that all the world works together, we all belong and we all need to take care of each other. But it also reminds me of the potential hawk tragedies.

A few years ago, while I was visiting a nature center with my family, a man came in with a stiffening but still-warm red-tailed hawk. She had been hunting along the side of the road, swooped in front of the man's car. It all happened so fast. There was nothing I could do! The man's face was helplessness and pain. The nature center workers consoled him with words like "Don't blame yourself" and "It's only natural." But their words were hollow. We could feel them ringing in the air. There was nothing natural about automobiles invading the hawk's territory and killing her. I wished there was something I could do.

Now that I think about it, I'm not sure why exactly I smile when I see a hawk sitting on a light post. Perhaps because at that moment, he's safe and proud. Perhaps because the mere fact that he's alive makes up for the death of his sister. Perhaps because his presence is a constant reminder that we are being watched, being judged, and being protected.

Memory Loss

On Nightline, they interviewed a man who had slipped in the bathroom and hit his head in such a way that he lost ALL his memories. All 46 years. I can't even imagine that. When he woke up in the hospital, he noticed a beautiful lady standing next to him and figured she knew him because she kept hugging and kissing him. When he was brought home, he walked into a closet and because the clothes appeared to fit him, he figured he must live there.

For the past year, his wife has gone through their photo albums and video recordings with him, explaining each person and each event. Nothing has triggered a memory spark, not even his wedding video or pictures of his child. How sad! He is reliving his life through someone else's eyes. I wonder if he'll ever be able to grasp who he used to be.

On a good note--if anything relating to losing your entire life can be good--he is experiencing incredible days of discovery and adventure. He's basically a one year old in an adult body, needing holidays, food, and animals explained to him. To his family, he brings a new sense of wonder to everyday things. But at a great cost.

What was most heartbreaking to me was when they interviewed his wife and she said, "We didn't just lose all his memories. We lost all our memories together, everything our marriage was built on. I have no one to share those experiences with anymore."

Maybe this doesn't strike a cord with everyone, but to me, this--and all memory-loss illnesses--is one of the most frightening and miserable things that could happen to a person. Being a writer, I rely on my memory, my experiences and observations. I treasure them. Without them, I am nothing, I can do nothing, I can create nothing. And being helpless in my own body terrifies me. That's why the movie Atonement resonates so deeply with me. I must write to remember, and I must remember to write.