The Prettiest Thing Is The Dinner Table After a Dinner Party

When the last glass is poured and the last napkin thrown there you are, alone, at the center of the table, whether you truly are or not it feels like the world has turned in on itself and you are there looking out from behind a bottle of amber liquid that makes your head spin. When the last candle drowns itself in a teaspoon of wax so that the black stick stands alone, smoking lightly where the fire used to be. When the dishes pile up, shinning white on white, night on light. Perfect is nice but the beauty is better where wine is smudged into the wood and clam sauce dribbles down your chin and the music lets you in. 

What It Feels Like to Be a Woman:

So let's talk about what it feels like to be a woman in today's world. It's confusing. Let's talk about what it feels like to be a woman who is on the fence in life. On the fence between wanting a man to come and sweep her off her feet but also wanting to pack it all in and travel on her own. On the fence between wanting to be a caretaker and wanting to be cared for. On the fence between wanting to pursue her passions but recognizing that her bills won't pay themselves. Let's talk about that disconnect between being assertive and being submissive. Which is it? Or how confidence comes in waves--it ebbs and flows. To be a woman is a powerful thing. A man couldn't do it. To walk around with the complexity of emotions that we carry every moment of every day and still have the strength to type an email or warm up a cup of coffee--we are like tiny ants carrying shredded pieces of leaves and it looks easy but the leaves weigh a million pounds and they are heavy but we do it because we are strong.

I turned another year older and with that year came clarity, and patience, and balance. It felt before like I was maybe floating a little in the air, maybe a breeze would pick me up and put me someplace else for a while. But the universe gave me gravity and some extra pounds and now it feels like I am tethered to the world--to do what and to say what, I don't know. But at least I'm here now, I'm not going anywhere.

The Fair:

9 Days to 26:

A worry-wart, that's what some people would call me. Did I say the right thing? Am I going to get sick? Did I leave my curling iron on? Where are my glasses? What happened last night? Mundane little question marks used to punctuate my life--they would creep in like army ants and leave tiny black dots all over my mind. And just like army ants I would squish them, but the next day I would look down and there would be more black dots, more question marks. But there is something about turning another year older that has caused me to hate these little question marks. It is exhausting to run around like Woody Allen wondering what will happen next--I would rather embrace what is in front of me. I would rather embrace the avocado green walls of the machine shop where I work. And my chipped nail polish. And my tiny apartment. And the things I say that don't always come out right. Because life is not perfect and I am not perfect. I am learning that it takes far more courage to be happy with what is in front of you than it does to try and "fix" everything about your life.

In 9 days I will be 26 and I feel positive. I feel like I've finally settled into a good place at work where I know what I'm doing and I can joke with Pete about his giant beard or communicate with clients while holding my own. I faked it until I made it. I love my family, and my friends, and my alone time. I love the idea of visiting new places. I love the books I'm reading and the recipes I've made. I love seeing a different sunrise every morning from my window at work. I love Phoenix. Mostly I love knowing that while I do not know where I will land, I know that I am on the right trajectory for myself.

Just Words:

When I was five years old my aunt asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I responded very resolutely, a cheerleader. That was the pipe dream of a toddler. When I was seven years old, another aunt gave me my first journal. It was deep purple with gold stitching and from that moment on I thought I wanted to be a writer. Slowly over time my courage to be a writer failed me but my love of writing did not. I continued to fill journal after journal, scrap of paper after scrap of paper with words. I buried them, I kept them hidden. But recently, for no reason that I can explain, I feel the strongest desire to let people read what I have to say. I feel a desire to acknowledge that little part of me that still wants to write, I want to wave at that little part of me and say "yes, I know you." 

One of my favorite things to do is to sit at The Biltmore with a coffee and a book and watch people. I like to jot down things that I notice about people. Like the three women walking through the grass, linked arm-in-arm. It reminded me of Italy, that's the way women walk through the streets there. That's the way to complete a proper passeggiata. Or the man with his little daughter. I caught myself staring at him, kneeling in the grass, getting down on her level. There is something attractive about watching a man become vulnerable. He stayed that way, crouched down, to straighten her skirt or tickle her belly. And I thought to myself that it's the same with adults, sometimes we need to get down on each other's level. Sometimes we need to look at things from a different perspective, maybe a little closer to the ground.

Travel Dreams:

I will continue to live in a tiny shoe box for forever if it means I can afford to visit these places:

                                                         Montmarte, Paris

                                                        Fall leaves in Vermont

                         Sleeping in an igloo to watch the Northern Lights in Finland

                                                 Lavender fields in Provence, France

Walt Whitman and Car Accidents:

Yesterday on my drive home from work I witnessed a car accident. I was stopped at a red light and in slow motion a shiny, teal truck spun around over and over into the intersection. He hit another brown truck and they both came to a tumbling stop, crooked and mangled with bits of broken glass strewn about. It happened so slowly and so near to me that I could feel my hands reach for my mouth as I gasped and screamed from within my own car. Then the light turned green and as I inched through the intersection it seemed as though nothing had ever happened at all. Some country song was whining in the background and a man from the gas station was running across the street in slow motion. I stole one last glimpse as I drove on through the neighborhood. Everybody drove on. Humans are so resilient. You witness something that punctuates your otherwise monotonous day with a moment of terror, a blinding worry for everybody around you--and like a flash of lightning it is gone and you are driving down a sleepy street again.

I recently discovered that I really love Walt Whitman. He writes poetry about nature and the human experience and I like it.

Look down fair moon and bathe this scene,
Pour softly down night's nimbus floods on faces ghastly, swollen, purple,
On the dead on their backs with arms toss'd wide,
Pour down your unstinted nimbus sacred moon.

I really want to get out of town, I really want to see something new--new nature, new grass, new rocks, new people.
I have these little adventures to keep me excited:

Fly fishing with dad in October
Freezing in Michigan in November
Sunning it up in Puerto Rico in November

Eating a baguette in Paris in December (this trip still haunts me, am I brave enough to spend Christmas alone in Paris?).