NPM 2018: Coffee Haiku #2 & #3 (Day 26)

Coffee Haiku #2 & #3

That man could be found
with a paintbrush in one hand
up on a ladder

In the other hand
poised like a trapeze artist
Grandpa had coffee

NPM 2018: Spiraling (Day 21)

Spiraling
Written April 20, 2018

I, fearlessly,
the one with fire
in my blood,
who pushed you down
and now hopes
to hold you up,

would, without pause,
at a moment's notice,
if you just said the word,

do, immediately,
with all the love
in my heart,

anything
for you.

A complaint for the ages

I know I've led a semi-privileged life. Aside from the brief period when Joey and I were both unemployed, I've never gone hungry. I've never been (really) homeless, even though I don't have my own home right now. I tended to outgrow my snow boots every winter as a child, but have never gone without shoes, even if they were the wrong size. I rarely received the toys I wanted, but I wanted books more, and I was filthy rich when it came to kid lit. School came easily to me for the most part, and when math became too difficult my parents were able to get me a tutor for a short time. I didn't have a lot of what the world thought was necessary for happiness, but I had enough. My family loved me, I had a few good friends, and it was enough.

But I'm in a strange period of life now. This in-between-ness. I have enough... for now. And just for right now. The future is coming at me fast and I don't know what I'm going to do when it arrives. I just know that what I have now, which is enough for right now, won't be enough for later.

I miss my clothes. Maybe that sounds stupid, but I can't tell you how frustrating it is to walk between seasons and know that I own a coat, a really nice one, but I can't get to it. I also have lots of nice "professional" clothes but when I had an interview last month I didn't have anything. I had to improvise. I miss my blouses and my nice shoes and my winter boots and all of my many pairs of warm socks.

I have bought more socks in the last month than I've bought in the last year, simply because I cannot access my sock collection. It's a nice collection, too.

I miss my books. I brought only three books with me on the trip out to Seattle. This complaint is not about having enough reading material (I mean, I could always buy more, right? Or borrow some.) It is about the comforting presence of my own beloved books, the sacredness of their weathered pages and illicitly written-in margins.

I miss the treasure trove of coffee mugs Joey and I kept. It's strange to only have four mugs to my name. Two I bought at a thrift store out of necessity, and two I inherited from my grandmother's house.

On that note, I miss my grandmother. This is possibly a strange place to mention such news, but she passed away in late September. She was 92. I have no hard feelings about her passing--she led a good life. She filled us up with her love and wisdom. My grief is soft, like a blanket. I miss her because she was wonderful and warm and she loved me. I think perhaps her greatest gift to me was that she received my love for her so willingly. She wrote fondly of my artistry and appreciated every picture I drew for her, every card I sent her, every doodle I might have scribbled. She soaked it up. I suppose that's a grandma's job.

I miss my desk. I have a "new" one now ($5 at Goodwill) and it has its own drawers, but the surface area isn't as big. I also miss all my office supplies. I miss my white board calendar and my hot glue gun and my stash of fancy markers. I have a stash of less fancy markers now--and by less fancy I really mean they are just terrible markers. Just the worst.

I miss my church and my friends in Waukegan. I miss holding hands and standing in a circle with all my CNC friends, singing "I Need You to Survive" and wondering at the double meaning. I needed them to survive for their own sake. I needed them for my own survival. I still do.

And I miss my dog. I miss the quiet moments when she would rest her big floppy head on my feet. I miss her warm little body against mine in the bed. I felt her loss most painfully the first cold morning here in Renton. How she used to love naptime with me on a chilly day. She would be so happy snuggled under the blanket for an hour or so. She wouldn't squirm or grumble, she just pressed herself into my chest and sighed contentedly in that way that a dog sighs with their whole body.

But of course, missing things doesn't mean I'm unhappy.

Goodness gracious. I am so happy. I am so sad, and so happy, at the same time.

All at once my heart is so light, and yet so burdened. There is such joy at what has been restored to me and such heavy sadness at what I've lost. All at once.

If I had not come home when I did, I never would have been able to say goodbye to my grandma. I couldn't have painted her one last picture or held her hand. The last thing she said to me was, "I love you," and I remember that. I remember her face when she said it. I wouldn't have that memory if I wasn't here. I couldn't tell you the last thing she said to me, or when it was.

If I had not come home when I did, I would feel her death more intensely. I have spent many years being absent for funerals and memorials and it is pointedly awful. It is so isolating. Death is so much more ominous and somehow haunting when it is unapproachable.

I am glad to be here, home, to have my goodbyes. I'm glad to help plan the memorial and wade through the ocean of photographs that embody my grandparents' lives. I'm glad to be able to support my mama and be the daughter I've always wanted to be but couldn't, because I was too far away.

This seems like a list of complaints. It is, but it isn't. It's just the way my life is right now. These are simply facts. I am so happy, and so sad, and so excited for the future, but so anxious.

And the most beautiful thing is that God is sitting with me in all of it. He holds my hand when I drown in the photographs and sticker collection at grandma's house. He gives me sleep when I am reminded, yet again, that I can't say goodnight to my dog because she's gone. He does not expect me to only see the good in life, but doesn't want me to see only the bad. He does not expect me to toss off the life he helped me build in Illinois, nor does he wish for me to drown in grief. He allows me to be in the middle, between feelings, between stages, between periods of having and not having enough.

Having him with me, in darkness and light, is the greatest privilege of all.

Thanksketching: Day 14

I am thankful for

the affection,

provision,

and wisdom

of my parents.

Say Something

The old saying goes, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all."

Maybe this phrase satisfies the hearts of children and helps them think before they speak. Maybe it allows the most sarcastic and cynical adults to function among the moronic masses without losing their jobs or getting slapped. Maybe it reminds us that some situations call for patience and tactful words instead of brutal honesty.

Realistically, however, this simplistic phrase does not accurately reflect how the modern world works--for two reasons.

1. The word "nice" is absolutely meaningless. I usually say, "That's so nice!" when I literally have no positive feelings about something and I can't appropriately express myself. Like many expressions it has come to mean the opposite of its original. For example, two dudes are skateboarding and one scrapes his knee. He shows his bloody knee to his friend and the friend says, "Oooh, nice." Nice really does mean nothing, and it's almost inexcusable to use it in formal speech. When I was teaching middle school I reminded my students on a daily basis that "nice" should be removed from their vocabulary and replaced with... pretty much anything else in the "nice" spectrum. Nice is boring, nice is insincere, nice is hovering above the surface of an ocean of excellent synonyms.

2. If we took this phrase literally and only ever said nice things, the world as we know it would fizzle and disappear. Stories would never be told and a million lessons would go unlearned, no one would sing the blues in a beautiful baritone, and people would walk around with diseases because it's certainly not nice to say, "I'm sorry, sir, but you have The Bubonic Plague." Furthermore, marriage proposals are not "nice"--powerful, moving, but not nice. Pregnancy announcements, likewise, are not nice. Asking for a raise or you'll quit, telling the news of a relative's death, warning the country that the British are coming, or correcting a student's paper and writing 'F' at the top are all very not-nice things.

The reason I mention this is because in today's society everything you say in social networking circles or public domains can be criticized and crushed for the most insignificant reasons. Our friends, on the other hand, never say anything critical to us on these platforms simply because they want to show us support. (Siblings are not part of this equation.) We say nice (meaningless) things to our friends and rip apart strangers. It really should be the opposite.

We should say the not-nice things to our friends. To our families. We should give them words full of meaning and power, words to uplift them and encourage them grow. We should share thoughts that bring us closer together instead of keeping us at a comfortable distance. Our nice words--the ones that are polite, appropriate, and meaningless--save them for strangers.

There are so many words we use and things we say that are not nice but they are necessary. They sustain us! A life based on "nice" may be pleasant but it will be empty of meaning. And a life without meaning is no life. A nice life is detrimental to life. 

I don't want a nice life. I want an incredible one.

Thirty Thanks, Day 21: Homespaces

I am slipping this post in just under the radar, I know. But it's my first "do nothing" day in over a week. I have been busy. I've been hostessing, and having doctor's appointments, and teaching children and teaching adults and planning plans. I'm a busy woman. My mind is at 110% capacity 200% of the time. (I am also really bad at math.) I am never not thinking about something, even if I look like I'm relaxed. It's this never ending cycle of being strong enough to handle all of it but fighting myself every step of the way because I either feel like I'm not doing enough or I'm sure that if I don't stop I will actually explode.

I used to call it "fighting my own strength." I wrote horrible poems about it in high school.

But you know what makes all of this fighting worth it?

Homespaces. Yes, I just made that up. But it's a real thing, which I will explain.

A homespace is a space (...) that feels like home. Obviously. You probably could have figured that out. But the root of it is that it doesn't have to be home. There are other elements that make it feel that way. This can make life tolerable, especially if you don't actually have a place to call home.

I've felt homeless for a while, really. My parents no longer live in the house I grew up in. My apartment, while it is the place I sleep, is not exactly homey and the fact that the property owners won't fix our leaking wall definitely doesn't give me a sense of belonging. And, in general, Illinois has never felt like home. The weather makes me miserable year-round, and most of my favorite people are very far away. I will always call Washington my home, even though I personally don't have a place to live there.

And that's because a homespace isn't about the location... it's about the sense of belonging.

So when I'm with my husband, I'm in my homespace. I belong where he is. When I'm with my parents in their apartment, I'm in my homespace, because I belong with them. When I'm with my dearest and closest friends in a coffee shop or at the movies or walking around the city, I'm in my homespace, because we belong with each other.

I am thankful for the many homespaces in my life. I am thankful for the group of wonderful women who have supported me this last year, and the ways they see me and love me and make sure I know I belong with them. I'm thankful that despite my apartment's shortcomings, it is a place where I can be safe with my husband or with friends. I'm thankful for the opportunity I had last December to visit home for Christmas, to experience a different homespace with my family. I'm thankful for the friends I've made at work, and the homespace there where I can be challenged and can touch the lives of students. I'm thankful most of all for the Holy Spirit, in allowing me to find "homespaces" in so many different experiences and places and situations.

Thanks, homespace. (Not homeslice...) You're incredible.

Thirty Thanks, Day 19: Coffee (200th Post)

This is the 200th post on this blog. I'd say that's quite an accomplishment. So we have a very special topic for today's "Thankful" feature. Enjoy.

A long time ago in a faraway land called Montana, my mother gave five-year-old Katie two ounces of coffee in a tiny tupperwear container. It was part cream, part coffee, part Sugar Twin. It was perfectly flavored, and I fell in love with that perfection.

Fast forward to July 4th, 1996 in Seattle. It was my family's first (or second? I can't remember) trip to Gasworks Park for their fourth of July celebration. We ate sandwiches in the car and, because I was so accustomed to "dipping" my PB&J in milk, I needed something to quench my thirst. My father had a gigantic travel thermos--I swear, that thing held at least 40 ounces. The lid was used as a cup and I begged to take a drink. "I NEED coffee!" I exclaimed. Dad was driving and mom took care of the coffee-dispersion. "It's just plain, black coffee," Dad warned me as Mom passed back the cup-lid. I don't remember much else except that I was reprimanded for not saying "please", and of course that I was actually fancied the heavy flavor of black coffee.

Fast forward once more to 2001, just as I began 7th grade. Because I'd started private school my parents now drove me to school on the way to work. There was a coffee stand at the end of our street (something common in Washington) and on Mondays they had $2 mochas. My mother and I began a long tradition of stopping here each Monday, sipping our coffee on the way to school and work.

And now fast forward one last time... not to a singular moment, or a precise date on the lengthening calendar of my life.... but to a thousand moments, a million separately wonderful instances and events in which coffee enhanced life's greatest treasures.

The first time my husband said he loved me, we were sharing a caramel macchiato. (It was on accident, and I told him to take it back because we weren't even officially dating yet, but still...)

My best friend and I first bonded at a coffee house.

When I was a teenager and my dad and I both had free time in the summer, I felt incredibly hospitable and grown up when I volunteered to bring him more coffee.

In all of my jobs, I have connected with coworkers over coffee.

I have more coffee cups than anything else. More mugs than socks, underwear, spoons, maybe even more than paperclips.

I am so thankful for coffee. I am thankful for how it brings people together, connecting us through sorrow or joy or rage. I am thankful for it's alleviating strength, how it can make an awkward situation endurable or a weakening fatigue less overwhelming. I am thankful for its approachable nature in that "meeting for coffee" can be both a safe way to interact, or an ordinary event that could lead to something more adventures. I am thankful for its many flavors and varieties and methods of being brewed, allowing food-artists the opportunity to be innovative and creative. I am thankful how it is desirable in every season, in every circumstance, for many ages and stages of life. I am thankful for its calming nature, for the way a cup of coffee can bring me back to focus and center and stability, or give me the headspace for inspiration and creativity. I am thankful for its presence in so much of my life, for what it adds to life, for what it exposes in the ordinary and the extraordinary.

Thanks, coffee. You're incredible.

Thirty Thanks, Day 2: The Fambly

Those baggy pants, though. 2001.

When you think of that perfect, quintessential family, the first images that pop into your mind are likely those from television. You think about Leave It to Beaver or The Cosby Show or maybe Full House. Maybe you think about The Simpsons, who knows? And it's easy for me to do it too--it took literally seconds to rattle of half a dozen shows that feature "wholesome" families. But truthfully, television families don't have anything on families from literature. The Cosbys and the Tanners and the Simpsons alike, they all wrap up their problems in less than thirty minutes. A family in literature, on the other hand? Well, they like to take their time.

The difficult thing about families in literature is that the families are frequently incomplete. Often a parent has died, or both of them. Our protagonists get shipped off to live with aunts and uncles, like Pip in Great Expectations or maybe they have a living parent but don't know who it is, like Eragon in the Inheritance Cycle. But they make it work with one parent, or no parents, or foster parents (like Leisel in my favorite novel of all time, The Book Thief) or with just their siblings (like the Pevensies in The Chronicles of Narnia.)

Literary families are much more accessible to me than television families. They process their issues in a more realistic way. Problems arise and are solved (or accepted) naturally, over the course of time, instead of being battled and conquered between belligerent commercials. 

One of my favorite examples of a literary family is that of the Joads from The Grapes of Wrath. Gosh, that family has so many problems. I mean, aside from the era they live in and the situations they are forced into because of the Dust Bowl, they have some serious issues. But throughout the story they make it work. They find a new place to pick fruit, a new place to sleep for a while. They don't always get along or treat each other kindly but most of the things they do are for "the good of the fambly." 

So today I'm thankful for my fambly. Er, family. (Sorry, Ma Joad.) 

We don't always get along. Sometimes I actually think the scales tip more towards hating them than loving them, but it's usually only temporary. (Like when they have tacos without me.) But we do love each other, and we know we can count on each other. This last week my family had a crisis (more than a minor crisis, but I won't divulge the details of that which is not my own story, for it's not mine to tell.) I was both terrified and inspired. My family rolled up their sleeves and set out to do what they could, even if some of us only did it from afar. When it was over, and what was lost was found, I sat back in awe, simply astounded that nobody fell apart. I am so thankful for this family, and their courage.

I thankful for their resilience, and their devotion. I'm thankful for their creativity and their humor. I'm thankful for their compassion and their passion. I'm thankful for their words and their prayers. I'm thankful that they're mine. I find them incredible. Thanks, family.