Though I suppose it wasn't lost time at all, it was actually time very well spent!
I moved to Philadelphia in August 2011, after having graduated from college in May 2011 and had a horrible break up with Hillary and moved from Boston to Connecticut for a month in July 2011.
Life was extremely complicated for that brief period of time. I felt pretty lost and alone. There were times when I really wondered what everything was all about, if it was even worth it for me to go to seminary, if I really knew what I was doing with my life.
It's safe to say that now, February 2013, I still don't know if I really know what I am doing with my life. But I have never been this happy and content before.
I met Carrie and she changed my perspective on everything. If it wasn't for that nasty break up with Hillary, and those weeks of contemplating my life and spending a lot of time growing up, I never would have been ready to meet Carrie.
But she changed everything. It was like a lightbulb flicking on. Or like waking up from a dream, though sometimes I wonder if I'm not dreaming all of this.
When I lived in London I had the absolute time of my life. Everything was perfect, almost dreamlike. But this, this love with Carrie, it's so perfect.
Sure we argue, and we fight. Sometimes I feel like she is going to drive me insane. Other times I feel like my heart is going to explode with how much I adore her. She cooks for me, and take such good care of me. She holds my hand and smiles at me. She has the greatest smile! She kisses me goodbye in the morning. We have so much fun together, just being silly and laughing together. I feel content with her, and I know she feels content with me. I am absolutely in love with this person, the crazy passionate love that makes me feel foolish at times. But I can't imagine feeling any other way, I don't want to remember what it was like to not have Carrie in my life. And I can't wait to marry her in June. I can't wait to spend the rest of my life loving her. I am the luckiest person in the world.
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Saturday, February 9, 2013
Friday, February 8, 2013
Gettin' Hitched
It's really funny. I honestly never really thought about getting married or any of that. Lots of people spend their whole lives dreaming about their wedding day, and spend months or years making that day extravagant.
But I'm just kind of like meh, if I'm married to Carrie at the end of the day that's really all that matters.
Life has been crazy ever since I graduated from college in May 2011. I had been blogging pretty sporadically before then, but after I graduated, and had to abruptly move home that summer, and then I moved to Philadelphia in fall 2011... I just really lost track of things with this blog. I've said it before and I'll say it again now, I am going to make an effort to post here. Because not to toot my own horn but I lead a pretty random, weird, and fascinating (at times!) life.
The wedding is on June 29, 2013 in Connecticut. There has been lots of drama surrounding the wedding, but for now I will leave you with some pictures of Carrie and I.
As for school, I am in my fourth semester of seminary, loving it, getting lots of hands on ministry experience. I have A LOT to say about being a queer person in ministry, but I will save that for another time.
Cheers, and I will be back soon!
Saturday, March 3, 2012
The Story of Us
Once upon a time there was this girl, then there was another girl, and they started talking. A lot. And they got along really well. The first girl started to really like the second girl, but didn’t know if the second girl liked the first girl back. The first girl was “a stupidhead” (Carrie’s words, not mine), and did something stupid, that resulted in the two girls temporarily disconnecting. She realized her error almost immediately.
One day the girl decided she couldn’t stand not talking to the other girl, so she got in touch with her, hoping she would talk to her but thinking she probably wouldn’t. The other girl was so happy to hear from the girl. And they reconnected. Over time they started flirting with each other. They fell in love almost immediately. After a short while the girl asked the other girl to be her girlfriend, and she said yes and they were both so ecstatic.
“And now they’re fiancees!” Carrie says. ”And they’re going to love each other forever, and they’re going to have lots of animals, and they’re going to have babies together, and they’re going to conquer the world. All because they fit each other, because they are each others soul mates. They are going to live happily ever after.”
One day the girl decided she couldn’t stand not talking to the other girl, so she got in touch with her, hoping she would talk to her but thinking she probably wouldn’t. The other girl was so happy to hear from the girl. And they reconnected. Over time they started flirting with each other. They fell in love almost immediately. After a short while the girl asked the other girl to be her girlfriend, and she said yes and they were both so ecstatic.
“And now they’re fiancees!” Carrie says. ”And they’re going to love each other forever, and they’re going to have lots of animals, and they’re going to have babies together, and they’re going to conquer the world. All because they fit each other, because they are each others soul mates. They are going to live happily ever after.”
Monday, October 18, 2010
Finding Love and Acceptance
The coming out process is often very difficult for the individual identifying as GLBT or Q. Sometimes (and in fact, more often than not) it is also difficult for that individual's family and friends. I have been blessed with family and friends who could not care less, and who truly desire only that I be happy. Many people, when coming out, hear family members or friends say that they only want their happiness, but in the end if they cannot conform to their family/friends' picture of their happiness, they become unhappy (or at the very worst, insane trying to conform).
It is a struggle to accept who one is, particularly if one does not fit the bill for the "normal" person (obviously depending upon one's culture, gender, upbringing, etc.) That struggle is only compounded when one can't truly be oneself around the most important people, or when family or friends are perpetually of the belief that in time, one can change. Sexuality is fluid, but not so fluid as to completely alter one's mindset.
What I'm trying desperately to say is that, if you have ever come out, you know how terrifying it can be. You know how lonely is can feel, even though so many people have done it before you and so many will follow. If you haven't come out, or you are struggling, don't isolate yourself from the people around you. They love you and they want the best for you. If at the end of the day they don't make you feel good about yourself, let them know. If they make you outright feel bad about yourself, cut them out of your life as best you can, and make sure they are aware that they are loosing you, you are not loosing them.
The phrase "all you need is love" is only partially true, and perhaps misleading. We all need love, yes, but we also need to love ourselves. If you don't love yourself you cannot POSSIBLY love anyone else, and if you don't respect yourself you cannot respect anyone else. Certainly love and respect come from within, but they are taught from without, and a great deal of learning is necessary when one sees the lack of love and respect in one's life. If you have no love in your life, find it, and find it within yourself before you go looking for it with someone else. We are all very good at something or another, and when you find what it is, cling to it with iron talons.
I'm so grateful to the people who love me, and I know if I told them that they would be glad to hear me say it, but also sad that it is necessary to be thankful for love and acceptance when both of those things should be given freely. I hope that everyone who is struggling to accept themselves can come to find love, acceptance and peace with themselves.
It is a struggle to accept who one is, particularly if one does not fit the bill for the "normal" person (obviously depending upon one's culture, gender, upbringing, etc.) That struggle is only compounded when one can't truly be oneself around the most important people, or when family or friends are perpetually of the belief that in time, one can change. Sexuality is fluid, but not so fluid as to completely alter one's mindset.
What I'm trying desperately to say is that, if you have ever come out, you know how terrifying it can be. You know how lonely is can feel, even though so many people have done it before you and so many will follow. If you haven't come out, or you are struggling, don't isolate yourself from the people around you. They love you and they want the best for you. If at the end of the day they don't make you feel good about yourself, let them know. If they make you outright feel bad about yourself, cut them out of your life as best you can, and make sure they are aware that they are loosing you, you are not loosing them.
The phrase "all you need is love" is only partially true, and perhaps misleading. We all need love, yes, but we also need to love ourselves. If you don't love yourself you cannot POSSIBLY love anyone else, and if you don't respect yourself you cannot respect anyone else. Certainly love and respect come from within, but they are taught from without, and a great deal of learning is necessary when one sees the lack of love and respect in one's life. If you have no love in your life, find it, and find it within yourself before you go looking for it with someone else. We are all very good at something or another, and when you find what it is, cling to it with iron talons.
I'm so grateful to the people who love me, and I know if I told them that they would be glad to hear me say it, but also sad that it is necessary to be thankful for love and acceptance when both of those things should be given freely. I hope that everyone who is struggling to accept themselves can come to find love, acceptance and peace with themselves.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Hypocritical?
I get hit on occasionally, it's never really anything to write home about and for the most part I keep it to myself. I'm in a committed relationship (the term "committed" makes me think of padded walls), living with my girlfriend of one year and four months and our cats doing, the domesticated thing.
The last time I reallly got hit on I was buying a new pair of hiking shoes at Eastern Mountain Sport. I walked over to the wall-o-shoes looking for the pair I wanted and this chick descended upon me like no one's business. If I had been single (or a lesser person) I totally would have flirted back. There is a girl who keeps coming back to my work (I help students at my school with papers) and signing up for my time blocks and sitting realllly close to me when I'm working with her. When her fingers brushed my hand one time it was everything I could do to not fall straight out of my chair. That was less being hit on and more being bashed over the head, in my opinion (in that there was nothing subtled about that action).
I usually tell Hillary when I get hit on, I don't know why. Maybe it's a subconscious desire to make her jealous. Maybe it's a subtle hint to her that she best appreciate what she has (because if she doesn't someone else will appreciate it for her). For the most part we have a good relationship, certainly better than average. The fact that we enjoy cooking together and cleaning together (most of the time) definitely helps, and being able to sit quietly and read or write or do homework without disturbing each other (again, most of the time) is good. A lot of the time we bicker like sisters, and then I wonder to myself "is this really what I want?" I don't know if this is really what I want. I don't know if I want to be twenty years old and in a committed relationship, I'd love to be able to go out with that girl from my job. Sometimes in the morning though, when the orange morning sun is peeking through the curtains in the bedroom, the glow will land just right on Hillary's hair and I'll see more clearly how beautiful she is, how beautiful she always is. I'll remember all the good times we have and have had and will continue to have, forgetting all the rough patches and all the (really) bad times. I'll reach my arm around her waist and pull her in to me really tight, and when the alarm clock goes off at 7:30 she'll wake up in my arms and it will be the start to a better, brighter day.
I've been home in Connecticut since last Friday, and Hillary has been alone in the apartment. I bet she is lonely, and understandably so, but I needed some time to spend at my house with my mom and my friends and my animals over my spring break.
Today Hillary called me and told me that some guy who she had a meeting with yesterday (a big meeting of the big shot college admission counselors) flirted with her today. I think it's funny, Hillary is so goofy it never even occurred to me that someone else would think she is attractive. She's a very attractive person, but she's just so darn goofy, and she's not a stereotypical pretty girl. She loves her job and she does it well, she's not out there to meet a man (or a woman, for that matter) so I guess I am kid of surprised at how presumptuous this guy was.
Apparently he emailed her asking her about something from their big meeting yesterday and they emailed back and forth about work stuff for a bit and then he asked her for her number (although, I have to wonder, why would you give some near-stranger your phone number?) and she gave it to him. He started texting her and initiated the flirting with something to the effect of "you should be happy that you have a cute guy's phone number."
Hold. the. phone (literally). Did he just compliment HIMSELF? Bold. Homeboy's got balls.
She texted him back something to the effect of "not really, I don't think my girlfriend would be too happy about it."
Annnnnndddd in comes the stereotypical "girlfriend??" and the wonder at the fact that yes, a woman MIGHT choose to be with another woman because there are guys like you (addressing this gentleman who made the decision to flirt with my girlfriend) out there.
I can't wait for him to text her asking about a threesome, because that's all lesbians live for obviously.
College is a strange world, not quite high school (where heterosexuality is the ONLY sexuality) and not quite adulthood where (at least on the East Coast of the U.S.) sexuality and "love relationships" are left to the adult's choosing or inclination.
Boys still assume girls want them, even if that girl is a lesbian. Girls still assume boys are going to drool over them if they come to class with their tits hanging out, even if that boy is gay.
If I were a man, in a heterosexual relationship with Hillary, I would have every right to be pissed off at this guy and to be protective of my girlfriend. I feel like, since I'm in a homosexual relationship I don't have the social ability to be pissed off and to be protective. I'm supposed to just go belly up to any advances made on my girlfriend. She's not my property and she has the ability to make her own decisions and defend herself, but I still feel kind of... I don't know... hurt?
Not hurt I guess... but funny. People don't usually hit on Hillary because she's goofy, and that goofyness is part of what I love the most about her. I also love it when she laughs because she has the FUNNIEST laugh. She has a cute nose and a beautiful face. Anyone with two functional eyes could see that about her and love her for it, so I can't really blame this guy. But he doesn't know that she's a really good cook and a really fun cooking partner. He doesn't know that she'll slip her hand into yours when you least expect it when you're meandering the grocery store. He doesn't know that she loves gummy candies (especially those fruit slice candies) and watching Greys Anatomy on her laptop instead of reading files on Thursday nights. He doesn't know anything about her, and the fact that he thinks he knows her and he thinks he has the right to know her is what pisses me off the most. I don't even know this guy and I know he's not good enough for her, and he never will be. And that's what really bothers me.
The last time I reallly got hit on I was buying a new pair of hiking shoes at Eastern Mountain Sport. I walked over to the wall-o-shoes looking for the pair I wanted and this chick descended upon me like no one's business. If I had been single (or a lesser person) I totally would have flirted back. There is a girl who keeps coming back to my work (I help students at my school with papers) and signing up for my time blocks and sitting realllly close to me when I'm working with her. When her fingers brushed my hand one time it was everything I could do to not fall straight out of my chair. That was less being hit on and more being bashed over the head, in my opinion (in that there was nothing subtled about that action).
I usually tell Hillary when I get hit on, I don't know why. Maybe it's a subconscious desire to make her jealous. Maybe it's a subtle hint to her that she best appreciate what she has (because if she doesn't someone else will appreciate it for her). For the most part we have a good relationship, certainly better than average. The fact that we enjoy cooking together and cleaning together (most of the time) definitely helps, and being able to sit quietly and read or write or do homework without disturbing each other (again, most of the time) is good. A lot of the time we bicker like sisters, and then I wonder to myself "is this really what I want?" I don't know if this is really what I want. I don't know if I want to be twenty years old and in a committed relationship, I'd love to be able to go out with that girl from my job. Sometimes in the morning though, when the orange morning sun is peeking through the curtains in the bedroom, the glow will land just right on Hillary's hair and I'll see more clearly how beautiful she is, how beautiful she always is. I'll remember all the good times we have and have had and will continue to have, forgetting all the rough patches and all the (really) bad times. I'll reach my arm around her waist and pull her in to me really tight, and when the alarm clock goes off at 7:30 she'll wake up in my arms and it will be the start to a better, brighter day.
I've been home in Connecticut since last Friday, and Hillary has been alone in the apartment. I bet she is lonely, and understandably so, but I needed some time to spend at my house with my mom and my friends and my animals over my spring break.
Today Hillary called me and told me that some guy who she had a meeting with yesterday (a big meeting of the big shot college admission counselors) flirted with her today. I think it's funny, Hillary is so goofy it never even occurred to me that someone else would think she is attractive. She's a very attractive person, but she's just so darn goofy, and she's not a stereotypical pretty girl. She loves her job and she does it well, she's not out there to meet a man (or a woman, for that matter) so I guess I am kid of surprised at how presumptuous this guy was.
Apparently he emailed her asking her about something from their big meeting yesterday and they emailed back and forth about work stuff for a bit and then he asked her for her number (although, I have to wonder, why would you give some near-stranger your phone number?) and she gave it to him. He started texting her and initiated the flirting with something to the effect of "you should be happy that you have a cute guy's phone number."
Hold. the. phone (literally). Did he just compliment HIMSELF? Bold. Homeboy's got balls.
She texted him back something to the effect of "not really, I don't think my girlfriend would be too happy about it."
Annnnnndddd in comes the stereotypical "girlfriend??" and the wonder at the fact that yes, a woman MIGHT choose to be with another woman because there are guys like you (addressing this gentleman who made the decision to flirt with my girlfriend) out there.
I can't wait for him to text her asking about a threesome, because that's all lesbians live for obviously.
College is a strange world, not quite high school (where heterosexuality is the ONLY sexuality) and not quite adulthood where (at least on the East Coast of the U.S.) sexuality and "love relationships" are left to the adult's choosing or inclination.
Boys still assume girls want them, even if that girl is a lesbian. Girls still assume boys are going to drool over them if they come to class with their tits hanging out, even if that boy is gay.
If I were a man, in a heterosexual relationship with Hillary, I would have every right to be pissed off at this guy and to be protective of my girlfriend. I feel like, since I'm in a homosexual relationship I don't have the social ability to be pissed off and to be protective. I'm supposed to just go belly up to any advances made on my girlfriend. She's not my property and she has the ability to make her own decisions and defend herself, but I still feel kind of... I don't know... hurt?
Not hurt I guess... but funny. People don't usually hit on Hillary because she's goofy, and that goofyness is part of what I love the most about her. I also love it when she laughs because she has the FUNNIEST laugh. She has a cute nose and a beautiful face. Anyone with two functional eyes could see that about her and love her for it, so I can't really blame this guy. But he doesn't know that she's a really good cook and a really fun cooking partner. He doesn't know that she'll slip her hand into yours when you least expect it when you're meandering the grocery store. He doesn't know that she loves gummy candies (especially those fruit slice candies) and watching Greys Anatomy on her laptop instead of reading files on Thursday nights. He doesn't know anything about her, and the fact that he thinks he knows her and he thinks he has the right to know her is what pisses me off the most. I don't even know this guy and I know he's not good enough for her, and he never will be. And that's what really bothers me.
Monday, November 30, 2009
And if I'm Gloomy, Please Listen to Me, Till it's Talked Away
Paper writing makes me gloomy. I'm one down, two to go at this point. I finished my paper on Leonardo. What talent, too bad there is barely anything on this Earth left from his genius hand. It was between Leonardo and Michelangelo, and I have no doubt that Leonardo was the more genius of the two, and that Michelangelo was probably a psychopath and definitely a narcisist, so he doesn't really deserve my words.
I've been in a Billie Holiday mood ever since Hillary left yesterday. I'm just about the most pathetic creature there ever was. I was not at all homesick until Hillary got here, and now I can't stop thinking about home. Everything about it makes me giddy.
I'm going to miss London though, it's such a dreamy place. I'm going to miss the way the lights in Piccadilly Circus reflect in the glittery pavement after a gentle London rain. I'm going to miss meandering through the halls of the National Gallery, or sitting on the steps of Trafalgar Square, staring out over Parliament, Big Ben and the Eye. I'm going to miss the plays and the musicals and how you're never too far from home in London. I am far from my home though, my real home, my creaky hardwood floors and my soft mattress, with the permeating smell of cats and rabbits and dogs and people all intermingling, with a warm cup of tea sitting beside the green chair in the living room. I miss traipsing into the house with my best friends at 10 pm, greeting my tired mother and taking over the living room of the basement, having tea parties or hot chocolate parties or pizza or everything in sight. The house feels so right when all my friends are there, because they're like a family to me. My family is so small, just me and my mom, and my best friends really make me feel like I have bunches of other sisters (and my brother Rob of course).
There's nothing in this world more pleasant to me than to be sitting in my living room, surrounded by my friends and my mom, drinking tea and talking or watching a movie.
I think when I get home, I'm going to hold on to those last few days in the house with all of my heart and all of my soul and make it last forever before I move to the apartment and everything changes. I'm ready for change, I just hope I remember what it feels like to be in my little brown house, surrounded by the best friends in the world and my mom, and to know that there is nothing better.
I've been in a Billie Holiday mood ever since Hillary left yesterday. I'm just about the most pathetic creature there ever was. I was not at all homesick until Hillary got here, and now I can't stop thinking about home. Everything about it makes me giddy.
I'm going to miss London though, it's such a dreamy place. I'm going to miss the way the lights in Piccadilly Circus reflect in the glittery pavement after a gentle London rain. I'm going to miss meandering through the halls of the National Gallery, or sitting on the steps of Trafalgar Square, staring out over Parliament, Big Ben and the Eye. I'm going to miss the plays and the musicals and how you're never too far from home in London. I am far from my home though, my real home, my creaky hardwood floors and my soft mattress, with the permeating smell of cats and rabbits and dogs and people all intermingling, with a warm cup of tea sitting beside the green chair in the living room. I miss traipsing into the house with my best friends at 10 pm, greeting my tired mother and taking over the living room of the basement, having tea parties or hot chocolate parties or pizza or everything in sight. The house feels so right when all my friends are there, because they're like a family to me. My family is so small, just me and my mom, and my best friends really make me feel like I have bunches of other sisters (and my brother Rob of course).
There's nothing in this world more pleasant to me than to be sitting in my living room, surrounded by my friends and my mom, drinking tea and talking or watching a movie.
I think when I get home, I'm going to hold on to those last few days in the house with all of my heart and all of my soul and make it last forever before I move to the apartment and everything changes. I'm ready for change, I just hope I remember what it feels like to be in my little brown house, surrounded by the best friends in the world and my mom, and to know that there is nothing better.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
"Depressed" doesn't even begin to describe how I'm feeling right now.
Hillary left this afternoon to go back home to Boston, and oh how jealous I am of her. I can't wait to get home, I'm probably going to kiss the ground, the customs officers, the baggage handlers, everyone. I love it here in London and I've had such a great time but:
I. am. ready. to. get. my. ass. home.
I haven't been homesick this whole time. I've been sick of traveling, sick of being "on" all the time, sick of not being near my animals, sick of being around strangers 95% of the time and sick of not being with my family and friends, but none of that even compares to how sick, physically and emotionally, I feel over Hillary leaving.
I had to write about it because I can't just lay in my bed and cry all night, so I need to get this out.
Twenty-one days feels like an eternity. I'm just about ready to throw in the towel, but I know that would be ridiculous since I'd miss finals and fail all my classes. I just want to go home so badly at this point that it's the only thing on my mind.
Hillary brought me four of those easy mac in a cup things where all you do is add water and microwave, and I ate one for dinner tonight and I nearly cried with bliss, it was so delicious. I can't handle the food here anymore I think it will drive me insane. I miss my mom's leek and potato soup, I'd even take her crumby tendony chicken right about now. My roommate's family was here this week also and they fed me a homecooked dinner one night and I just about died.
At least when I'm missing Hillary when I'm home I can go for a drive in Rhonda and clear my head and blast my music, or wind down the streets of my town to the park, and hop out and smoke a cigarrette with my friend, or fall asleep in the green chair in the living room with my cat on my lap, watching the food network. But now I sound like my mother, which makes me even more miserable.
My roommate doesn't get back until tomorrow afternoon, so until then I am alone in this big old room. Loneliness is setting in.
I just hope Hillary knows how much I love her, and how much it meant to me that we could spend our one year anniversary together, and that we could start a new year together in Paris. As soon as I get home and we move into the apartment things will be absolutely blissful. I'm just hoping I don't feel this despondent for the next twenty-one days.
Hillary left this afternoon to go back home to Boston, and oh how jealous I am of her. I can't wait to get home, I'm probably going to kiss the ground, the customs officers, the baggage handlers, everyone. I love it here in London and I've had such a great time but:
I. am. ready. to. get. my. ass. home.
I haven't been homesick this whole time. I've been sick of traveling, sick of being "on" all the time, sick of not being near my animals, sick of being around strangers 95% of the time and sick of not being with my family and friends, but none of that even compares to how sick, physically and emotionally, I feel over Hillary leaving.
I had to write about it because I can't just lay in my bed and cry all night, so I need to get this out.
Twenty-one days feels like an eternity. I'm just about ready to throw in the towel, but I know that would be ridiculous since I'd miss finals and fail all my classes. I just want to go home so badly at this point that it's the only thing on my mind.
Hillary brought me four of those easy mac in a cup things where all you do is add water and microwave, and I ate one for dinner tonight and I nearly cried with bliss, it was so delicious. I can't handle the food here anymore I think it will drive me insane. I miss my mom's leek and potato soup, I'd even take her crumby tendony chicken right about now. My roommate's family was here this week also and they fed me a homecooked dinner one night and I just about died.
At least when I'm missing Hillary when I'm home I can go for a drive in Rhonda and clear my head and blast my music, or wind down the streets of my town to the park, and hop out and smoke a cigarrette with my friend, or fall asleep in the green chair in the living room with my cat on my lap, watching the food network. But now I sound like my mother, which makes me even more miserable.
My roommate doesn't get back until tomorrow afternoon, so until then I am alone in this big old room. Loneliness is setting in.
I just hope Hillary knows how much I love her, and how much it meant to me that we could spend our one year anniversary together, and that we could start a new year together in Paris. As soon as I get home and we move into the apartment things will be absolutely blissful. I'm just hoping I don't feel this despondent for the next twenty-one days.
London, Paris and the Adventure of a Lifetime
What a city. Paris is beautiful! It's like London, only in French!
We stayed at the Best Western Nouvel Orleans, and if you're ever in town you should definitely check it out. The accomodations are small and cozy, but the beds are comfy and they have typical Parisian balconies overlooking the rues.
Showing Hillary around London made me so terribly happy. I do love London a lot, and I'm going to miss this town when I leave (in twenty-one days, can you believe it!), but I absolutely cannot wait to get home. I miss my cats and my puppy and my rabbits. I can see it now, I'm going to walk through the front door and be smothered by a big old blind kitty who is going to give me scratchy tongue kisses all over my face (especially my eyelids, because she's weird) and she is going to make me carry her 15 pound self around for an hour or so and when I finally get her to calm down and realise she isn't dreaming I'm going to be pounced upon by a slobbery dog, who is then going to make me carry her 40 pound self around for an hour or so. The rabbits won't slobber, pounce or smother, they will just see me and jump all around and give me those big rabbit eyes and silently ask me for yogurt chips. Buns will request that I give him a kiss on her twitchy nose and that I rub him between his eyes.
Gosh I'm such a sucker.
But back to London and Paris. London is a fun town, and it was awesome to be able to share it with my most favourite person in the world.
Paris is just amazing, and fortunately they have very effective public transportation. We saw the Eiffle Tower at night, all lit up and glowing. We went to the Louvre and saw the Mona Lisa, which was okay but I've seen better art since I've been here (and there are better Da Vinci's elsewhere).
Walking around Paris was by far the best part of the little trip. Walking through the streets and little cobbled alleyways, arm in arm or hand in hand. Notre Dam was impressive, but the little Sant Chappelle across the street was better (but not free). I hope to get back to Paris someday, and to get back to France someday as well, just like I hope to return to Spain and Barcelona, and Norway and Oslo.
We had dinner at this little Italian restaurant (if there is one Italian place in a 5 mile radius, I can find it simply by following my nose, trust), both nights. We had the same waiter both times, and he remembered our orders (and laughed when I got the same meal and said 'I'm not very adventurous'). On the second night we had our glasses of chianti, our still water, our pastas, and then our desserts (she had the fruit tiaramisu and I had this DELICIOUS sorbet with fresh fruit with CHAMPAGNE, ugh it was like I literally died and went to heaven). When they brought our dessert out the waiter comes over to the table and hands us to LARGE glasses of amaretto (and the two cups of tea we ordered, post dessert) and said "from us" with a smile. They totally knew it was our one year anniversary, and they made it so entirely special.
When we got back into London last evening, we were starving and exhausted, so I brought Hillary to Marleybone High Street, where all the cute little restaurants are (and the best gelato in London, if I didn't know better I'd swear I were Italian), but we were so hungry that our eyes were bigger than our stomachs and we barely ate any of our food. We stopped at a bar on the way home, after sharing a 1/2 bottle of red wine at dinner, and I had a double shot rum and coke and she had a double shot vodka cranberry and then we shared a pitcher of a drink called "purple rain" which is basically vodka and lemonade and anything else they feel like throwing in. We stumbled home in the rain, got ready for bed and passed out.
I got her to the airport today with 70 minutes to spare (they close the check-in for flights 60 minutes before departure, so we were sincerely hustling), held her hand and played with her soft brown hair the whole time. When we kissed goodbye while she was running to get to security I felt the biggest pang in my heart. I miss her so much, I miss home so much. It's like taking someone's heart and ripping it right out of their chest, and then sending it over 3,000 miles away.
But I'll only be here for another twenty-one days, and then I can go home and everything will be perfectly right with the world.
Hope everyone in the States had a very happy Thanksgiving!
We stayed at the Best Western Nouvel Orleans, and if you're ever in town you should definitely check it out. The accomodations are small and cozy, but the beds are comfy and they have typical Parisian balconies overlooking the rues.
Showing Hillary around London made me so terribly happy. I do love London a lot, and I'm going to miss this town when I leave (in twenty-one days, can you believe it!), but I absolutely cannot wait to get home. I miss my cats and my puppy and my rabbits. I can see it now, I'm going to walk through the front door and be smothered by a big old blind kitty who is going to give me scratchy tongue kisses all over my face (especially my eyelids, because she's weird) and she is going to make me carry her 15 pound self around for an hour or so and when I finally get her to calm down and realise she isn't dreaming I'm going to be pounced upon by a slobbery dog, who is then going to make me carry her 40 pound self around for an hour or so. The rabbits won't slobber, pounce or smother, they will just see me and jump all around and give me those big rabbit eyes and silently ask me for yogurt chips. Buns will request that I give him a kiss on her twitchy nose and that I rub him between his eyes.
Gosh I'm such a sucker.
But back to London and Paris. London is a fun town, and it was awesome to be able to share it with my most favourite person in the world.
Paris is just amazing, and fortunately they have very effective public transportation. We saw the Eiffle Tower at night, all lit up and glowing. We went to the Louvre and saw the Mona Lisa, which was okay but I've seen better art since I've been here (and there are better Da Vinci's elsewhere).
Walking around Paris was by far the best part of the little trip. Walking through the streets and little cobbled alleyways, arm in arm or hand in hand. Notre Dam was impressive, but the little Sant Chappelle across the street was better (but not free). I hope to get back to Paris someday, and to get back to France someday as well, just like I hope to return to Spain and Barcelona, and Norway and Oslo.
We had dinner at this little Italian restaurant (if there is one Italian place in a 5 mile radius, I can find it simply by following my nose, trust), both nights. We had the same waiter both times, and he remembered our orders (and laughed when I got the same meal and said 'I'm not very adventurous'). On the second night we had our glasses of chianti, our still water, our pastas, and then our desserts (she had the fruit tiaramisu and I had this DELICIOUS sorbet with fresh fruit with CHAMPAGNE, ugh it was like I literally died and went to heaven). When they brought our dessert out the waiter comes over to the table and hands us to LARGE glasses of amaretto (and the two cups of tea we ordered, post dessert) and said "from us" with a smile. They totally knew it was our one year anniversary, and they made it so entirely special.
When we got back into London last evening, we were starving and exhausted, so I brought Hillary to Marleybone High Street, where all the cute little restaurants are (and the best gelato in London, if I didn't know better I'd swear I were Italian), but we were so hungry that our eyes were bigger than our stomachs and we barely ate any of our food. We stopped at a bar on the way home, after sharing a 1/2 bottle of red wine at dinner, and I had a double shot rum and coke and she had a double shot vodka cranberry and then we shared a pitcher of a drink called "purple rain" which is basically vodka and lemonade and anything else they feel like throwing in. We stumbled home in the rain, got ready for bed and passed out.
I got her to the airport today with 70 minutes to spare (they close the check-in for flights 60 minutes before departure, so we were sincerely hustling), held her hand and played with her soft brown hair the whole time. When we kissed goodbye while she was running to get to security I felt the biggest pang in my heart. I miss her so much, I miss home so much. It's like taking someone's heart and ripping it right out of their chest, and then sending it over 3,000 miles away.
But I'll only be here for another twenty-one days, and then I can go home and everything will be perfectly right with the world.
Hope everyone in the States had a very happy Thanksgiving!
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Another Letter I'll Never Send
As I'm leaving for Norway tomorrow, and I will be there until Sunday, I feel compelled to write something that I have been giving a great deal of consideration for a long time now.
Dear Daddy,
On Saturday, November 21st, 2009 at 5:05 pm (Eastern Standard Time) it will be twelve years since you lost your battle with cancer. It will be twelve years since my big, strong, courageous Daddy gave up his last breath. Sometimes it feel like you took me with you when you went. Sometimes it feel like I can't even go on another minute for the sadness of the whole thing. And then I remember how badly you wanted to live, how desperately you loved life, and clung to it with every fiber of your being.
Life was a gift for you. You never took it for granted, even before you were diagnosed with cancer. I remember when you scooped the little baby cardinal out of the pool one summer and cradled it and quickly fashioned a make-shift nest to stow in the pine trees so that its mom would her it calling to her and she would come rescue it. You had such respect for life, and such an understanding of nature. I miss playing basketball with you, when you would lift me up so high so that I could make a dunk. I remember the time you let me ride my bike by myself on the sidewalk around the neighbourhood for the first time, but you had to drive alongside me the whole way. Some woman pulled over and asked me if you were bothering me and I casually replied "no, that's just my dad."
I loved everything about you, your thinning grey hair, your blue-yellow eyes, your bright smile. You were all legs, just about the tallest man I've ever met in my life. It doesn't seem fair that cancer could come and steal such a healthy and wonderful person.
I was in the flower garden on the side of the house when you told me you were sick. The tulips had just come in and the air was fresh and rich with spring. We had just moved to the new house, it didn't seem fair that you should get sick.
I remember being in the kitchen, many months later, when mom told me you were dying. No one ever candy-coated the issue for me, no one ever treated me like a child. I would go up to your bedroom every day after school and lay with you and Candy, reading or watching videos or just talking. I was so scared to let you out of my sight.
When you went to the palliative care unit at Hartford Hospital, we all knew you were very near the end. Ducky and Candy took it the hardest, they loved you so much. Ducky died within a week of you, she couldn't bear to live in a world without you. I know Ducky is curled up on your shoulder, I bet you can hardly get the darn cat off of you. It took Candy eight years to follow you home, but I know she's sprawled out across your lap right now, like any giant overfed black lab.
It's a lot easier to pretend like it doesn't hurt that you died, as I imagine it's easier to pretend that a lot of things in life don't hurt. But it does hurt that you died. It hurts every single day of my life. It hurts every single day of mom's life. It hurts every single day of Becky's life. We miss you so much.
Twelve years is too long for a daddy to be away from the people who love him. But I know that someday, when it's our time, we'll all be together again, and there won't be pain or fear. There will just be boundless love and happiness.
I'm blessed to have had a father who loved me more than the sun the moon and the stars. I'm extremely blessed to have had two parents who loved each other more than oxygen, and loved their child with every fiber of their beings. I'm equally blessed to rest easy knowing that my mother and father will love each other into eternity, and my parents loved me and wanted me. I only wish that my daddy could have been there to see me walk across the stage at graduation. I wish you could have been there to give me flowers when I performed in orchestra concerts and competitions. I wish you had been there to carry me home when I broke my arm (roller-blading on the ice) when I was ten. I wish you had been there on my sixteenth birthday to hand me the card you had made and the beautiful pearl necklace you made sure to get for me before you passed away. More than anything I wish you were there when your three beautiful grandchildren came into this world. I wish you could carry them on your shoulders, cradle them gently in your strong arms, walk with them wrapped around your legs.
Life would be so different if you were alive today daddy, who knows if it would be different for the best or for the worst. I often say "I would not give just anything to see my daddy again," but the older I get, the more I believe that to be a lie. I would give anything to see you again, to smell you, to hug you, to hold your hand.
My last memory of you alive is curling up alongside you in your hospital bed, two nights before you died. We both fell asleep alongside each other, you with your arm as my pillow and me with my arm wrapped around your stomach. I have the best memories of you. Thanks for being the reason I can honestly say that I had the greatest dad ever.
Love you forever,
Rachel
Dear Daddy,
On Saturday, November 21st, 2009 at 5:05 pm (Eastern Standard Time) it will be twelve years since you lost your battle with cancer. It will be twelve years since my big, strong, courageous Daddy gave up his last breath. Sometimes it feel like you took me with you when you went. Sometimes it feel like I can't even go on another minute for the sadness of the whole thing. And then I remember how badly you wanted to live, how desperately you loved life, and clung to it with every fiber of your being.
Life was a gift for you. You never took it for granted, even before you were diagnosed with cancer. I remember when you scooped the little baby cardinal out of the pool one summer and cradled it and quickly fashioned a make-shift nest to stow in the pine trees so that its mom would her it calling to her and she would come rescue it. You had such respect for life, and such an understanding of nature. I miss playing basketball with you, when you would lift me up so high so that I could make a dunk. I remember the time you let me ride my bike by myself on the sidewalk around the neighbourhood for the first time, but you had to drive alongside me the whole way. Some woman pulled over and asked me if you were bothering me and I casually replied "no, that's just my dad."
I loved everything about you, your thinning grey hair, your blue-yellow eyes, your bright smile. You were all legs, just about the tallest man I've ever met in my life. It doesn't seem fair that cancer could come and steal such a healthy and wonderful person.
I was in the flower garden on the side of the house when you told me you were sick. The tulips had just come in and the air was fresh and rich with spring. We had just moved to the new house, it didn't seem fair that you should get sick.
I remember being in the kitchen, many months later, when mom told me you were dying. No one ever candy-coated the issue for me, no one ever treated me like a child. I would go up to your bedroom every day after school and lay with you and Candy, reading or watching videos or just talking. I was so scared to let you out of my sight.
When you went to the palliative care unit at Hartford Hospital, we all knew you were very near the end. Ducky and Candy took it the hardest, they loved you so much. Ducky died within a week of you, she couldn't bear to live in a world without you. I know Ducky is curled up on your shoulder, I bet you can hardly get the darn cat off of you. It took Candy eight years to follow you home, but I know she's sprawled out across your lap right now, like any giant overfed black lab.
It's a lot easier to pretend like it doesn't hurt that you died, as I imagine it's easier to pretend that a lot of things in life don't hurt. But it does hurt that you died. It hurts every single day of my life. It hurts every single day of mom's life. It hurts every single day of Becky's life. We miss you so much.
Twelve years is too long for a daddy to be away from the people who love him. But I know that someday, when it's our time, we'll all be together again, and there won't be pain or fear. There will just be boundless love and happiness.
I'm blessed to have had a father who loved me more than the sun the moon and the stars. I'm extremely blessed to have had two parents who loved each other more than oxygen, and loved their child with every fiber of their beings. I'm equally blessed to rest easy knowing that my mother and father will love each other into eternity, and my parents loved me and wanted me. I only wish that my daddy could have been there to see me walk across the stage at graduation. I wish you could have been there to give me flowers when I performed in orchestra concerts and competitions. I wish you had been there to carry me home when I broke my arm (roller-blading on the ice) when I was ten. I wish you had been there on my sixteenth birthday to hand me the card you had made and the beautiful pearl necklace you made sure to get for me before you passed away. More than anything I wish you were there when your three beautiful grandchildren came into this world. I wish you could carry them on your shoulders, cradle them gently in your strong arms, walk with them wrapped around your legs.
Life would be so different if you were alive today daddy, who knows if it would be different for the best or for the worst. I often say "I would not give just anything to see my daddy again," but the older I get, the more I believe that to be a lie. I would give anything to see you again, to smell you, to hug you, to hold your hand.
My last memory of you alive is curling up alongside you in your hospital bed, two nights before you died. We both fell asleep alongside each other, you with your arm as my pillow and me with my arm wrapped around your stomach. I have the best memories of you. Thanks for being the reason I can honestly say that I had the greatest dad ever.
Love you forever,
Rachel
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Veterans Day
In Flanders Fields, the poppies blow,
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place, and in the sky,
The larks, still bravely singing, fly,
Scarce heard amid the guns below
We are the Dead. Short days ago,
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders Fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders Field.
- In Flanders Field, John McCrae 1915
This poem was written in World War I by a Canadian solider serving for United Kingdom. Sophomore year in high school we had to choose a theme and find poems related to that theme. The theme I chose was war, and naturally I came across this poem. I've never been able to get it out of my head, and I hope I never do. It is so poignant. So beautiful. So well-written. And so simple.
Peace.
Thank you, veterans, for serving your countries, for fighting valiantly and giving your youth, your talents, your lives, your all. It's a job I could never do, and I give you all of the credit in the world for fighting old men's battles for them. God bless everyone who serves, no matter what side you are on. And one day, when old men no longer run the world, when we aren't plagued with old thoughts, old deeds, old wrongs and old rights, we can live in peace, and we can all lay down our weapons, and there won't be any more fighting. Until then, though, I'm praying for everyone who takes up the quarrel, with any foe, and hoping peace comes sooner rather than later.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
To Whom It May Concern
If you're reading this right now, I mean anyone at all, whether you've commented on my blog before or if you're just passing through...
I have a question for you.
If I moved to Canada, would that be giving up and admitting defeat?
I love my country, my country that hates me. I love Canada too, but it's not my home.
I'm giving strong consideration to finishing off undergrad, applying to graduate programs in Canada and applying for permanent residence in Canada.
Is that giving up?
Please, I need an objective opinion. You may not know me (though if you read my blog, you certainly know a great deal about me), and you may not care to know me, but I need you advice, as an objective party.
Thanks in advance.
- Rachel
I have a question for you.
If I moved to Canada, would that be giving up and admitting defeat?
I love my country, my country that hates me. I love Canada too, but it's not my home.
I'm giving strong consideration to finishing off undergrad, applying to graduate programs in Canada and applying for permanent residence in Canada.
Is that giving up?
Please, I need an objective opinion. You may not know me (though if you read my blog, you certainly know a great deal about me), and you may not care to know me, but I need you advice, as an objective party.
Thanks in advance.
- Rachel
Maine... I Can't Believe You!
Epic fail in Maine yesterday. And across the country, as far as I'm concerned.
How can we continue to deny an entire population our rights as human beings, our ability to live freely and pursue happiness?
How can the Catholic Church throw MILLIONS of dollars into the hands of BIGOTS, when there are hungry who need to be fed and naked who need to be clothed? HOW CAN THIS BE?
What the HELL is going on in this world and why the HELL are gay people so scary??
Just because we want to be happy too?? Is that why we're scary??
Well a big F YOU to Maine and everyone who threw their money at the bigots and everyone who voted against equality, because gay people have money too, and we WON'T be spending it in your effing state. We'll go to Vermont, or Massachusetts, or Connecticut, or New Hampshire, or Iowa, or Canada, where freedom rings and rings and rings and won't be silenced.
We WON'T be silenced. Last summer was the LAST time I paid a visit to Maine, the absolute LAST time. I'm never going back to Maine until EVERYONE is equal and until my rights are as important and valued as any heterosexual.
I'm so angry I could just about spit.
How can we continue to deny an entire population our rights as human beings, our ability to live freely and pursue happiness?
How can the Catholic Church throw MILLIONS of dollars into the hands of BIGOTS, when there are hungry who need to be fed and naked who need to be clothed? HOW CAN THIS BE?
What the HELL is going on in this world and why the HELL are gay people so scary??
Just because we want to be happy too?? Is that why we're scary??
Well a big F YOU to Maine and everyone who threw their money at the bigots and everyone who voted against equality, because gay people have money too, and we WON'T be spending it in your effing state. We'll go to Vermont, or Massachusetts, or Connecticut, or New Hampshire, or Iowa, or Canada, where freedom rings and rings and rings and won't be silenced.
We WON'T be silenced. Last summer was the LAST time I paid a visit to Maine, the absolute LAST time. I'm never going back to Maine until EVERYONE is equal and until my rights are as important and valued as any heterosexual.
I'm so angry I could just about spit.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Doesn't Anyone Understand?
We toured Toledo today. The city is very beautiful, very old but very very beautiful. We saw the oldest synogogue in Western Europe. It's no longer a working synogogue, but now more of a museum. For a long time in Toledo there were three groups, Jews, Christians and Muslims. The three groups lived in relative peace and harmony, as far as any records can tell.
Then Queen Isabella came and ruined it all and had all the synogogues torn down and all the jews basically converted or killed. Very unpleasant times indeed.
The Spanish didn't take part in WWII (from what I recall from high school history lessons), because they were dealing with their own civil war at the time. Francisco Franco, the fascist dictator of Spain from the 30's until relatively recently, being a facist, let Hitler use his country and his people for target practice for testing out bombs and weapons of destruction. That's where Picasso's famous "Guernica" comes in (I'm seeing it tomorrow, I hope I don't weep). Joan Miro, my most favourite artist, has some very insightful pieces reflecting on the civil war and the years of tumolt for Spain. We went to the Miro museum in Barcelona, which was such an astonishing experience for me. The first time I saw a Miro first hand was in Hartford in 2004, I believe, at the Athenium (if you're from Connecticut you've probably been at one time or another, it's very small but it's a cute museum and I believe it's the oldest public art museum in the United States, but I could be mistaken). He is a contemporary artist, and most of his works seem very primitive and unrealistic, but what you really must do is look beyond the figures, the paint, the frame, the palet, and make the painting something for you. I like art that becomes whatever you want it to become.
But this wasn't meant to be a rant about Miro.
In Toledo today, I noticed there to be a lot of graffiti of swastikas. I don't understand how anyone, particularly someone in Europe, particularly someone whose country suffered under a fascist dictator for decades, could possibly promote the fascist way. Don't they know how their parents and grandparents suffered? Don't they know how all the people of Europe suffered? Fleeing from bombs falling here and there, shrapnal everywhere, air raids, no food, never knowing if you'd live to see tomorrow or if your children would live to see the end of the war. Or worse, if you were one of the direct victims of the fascists, if they stuck you in a ghetto and then huddled you into a cramped box car and sent you off to never be seen or heard from again. Spain is a Catholic nation, don't they know what the Nazis did to the Catholics? Don't they know, don't they understand? How can anyone draw the swastika without silently killing their soul?
Sadly those aren't the first swastikas I've seen in Europe. There is a little shrine, with candles and swastikas in chalk on a stoop near my school in London (in one of the most affluent neighbourhoods in London, might I add). I got so angry and sad when I saw it, that I blew both the candles out, and I don't even care if CCTV saw me do it. They're English, the Nazis tried to wipe London off the map of the world, don't they understand?
On a MUCH happier note, I just got word that Obama signed the Hate Crimes Bill into LAW! How awesome is that?
Perhaps there is hope after all. Yes, I'd say there is a lot of hope. Things are getting better all the time :)
http://www.hrc.org/13699.htm
Miro, 1973, "The Smile of a Tear" very appropriate for today
Then Queen Isabella came and ruined it all and had all the synogogues torn down and all the jews basically converted or killed. Very unpleasant times indeed.
The Spanish didn't take part in WWII (from what I recall from high school history lessons), because they were dealing with their own civil war at the time. Francisco Franco, the fascist dictator of Spain from the 30's until relatively recently, being a facist, let Hitler use his country and his people for target practice for testing out bombs and weapons of destruction. That's where Picasso's famous "Guernica" comes in (I'm seeing it tomorrow, I hope I don't weep). Joan Miro, my most favourite artist, has some very insightful pieces reflecting on the civil war and the years of tumolt for Spain. We went to the Miro museum in Barcelona, which was such an astonishing experience for me. The first time I saw a Miro first hand was in Hartford in 2004, I believe, at the Athenium (if you're from Connecticut you've probably been at one time or another, it's very small but it's a cute museum and I believe it's the oldest public art museum in the United States, but I could be mistaken). He is a contemporary artist, and most of his works seem very primitive and unrealistic, but what you really must do is look beyond the figures, the paint, the frame, the palet, and make the painting something for you. I like art that becomes whatever you want it to become.
But this wasn't meant to be a rant about Miro.
In Toledo today, I noticed there to be a lot of graffiti of swastikas. I don't understand how anyone, particularly someone in Europe, particularly someone whose country suffered under a fascist dictator for decades, could possibly promote the fascist way. Don't they know how their parents and grandparents suffered? Don't they know how all the people of Europe suffered? Fleeing from bombs falling here and there, shrapnal everywhere, air raids, no food, never knowing if you'd live to see tomorrow or if your children would live to see the end of the war. Or worse, if you were one of the direct victims of the fascists, if they stuck you in a ghetto and then huddled you into a cramped box car and sent you off to never be seen or heard from again. Spain is a Catholic nation, don't they know what the Nazis did to the Catholics? Don't they know, don't they understand? How can anyone draw the swastika without silently killing their soul?
Sadly those aren't the first swastikas I've seen in Europe. There is a little shrine, with candles and swastikas in chalk on a stoop near my school in London (in one of the most affluent neighbourhoods in London, might I add). I got so angry and sad when I saw it, that I blew both the candles out, and I don't even care if CCTV saw me do it. They're English, the Nazis tried to wipe London off the map of the world, don't they understand?
On a MUCH happier note, I just got word that Obama signed the Hate Crimes Bill into LAW! How awesome is that?
Perhaps there is hope after all. Yes, I'd say there is a lot of hope. Things are getting better all the time :)
http://www.hrc.org/13699.htm
Miro, 1973, "The Smile of a Tear" very appropriate for today
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Eleven Months
We are in Madrid this lovely warm evening. It's been a very long day of traveling and touring and eventually eating, so now we are resting for the night.
Today is my eleven month anniversary with Hillary, and it is sad that we have to spend our anniversary apart.
However, we'll be together next month for our one year anniversary. We'll be in Paris then, it will be que romantico.
I can't believe it's been eleven months, it feels like just yesterday we were driving home from Ani, got hungry for Wendy's and spent the better part of an hour sitting in a dark parking lot eating and talking about life, silently telling each other that we couldn't put on this facade anymore.
Love happens and it knocks you right off your feet. It's the best, most stupifying feeling in the world, to be sure. Perhaps numbing is a better word for it. I don't know if I like the feeling of numbness, or fluttering about, but I do love being in love with a wonderful person and I am very glad that we found each other in this big scary world.
There is no one out there who would climb mountains with me on a whim, who would stand by my side from 3,000 miles away, who would so thoroughly entertain me while simultaneously captivating me. I fall in love with every pretty face I see, but I have never been so completely in love with not only a pretty face, but a wonderful mind and a beautiful soul.
Here's to Madrid and eleven months with Mogli.
Today is my eleven month anniversary with Hillary, and it is sad that we have to spend our anniversary apart.
However, we'll be together next month for our one year anniversary. We'll be in Paris then, it will be que romantico.
I can't believe it's been eleven months, it feels like just yesterday we were driving home from Ani, got hungry for Wendy's and spent the better part of an hour sitting in a dark parking lot eating and talking about life, silently telling each other that we couldn't put on this facade anymore.
Love happens and it knocks you right off your feet. It's the best, most stupifying feeling in the world, to be sure. Perhaps numbing is a better word for it. I don't know if I like the feeling of numbness, or fluttering about, but I do love being in love with a wonderful person and I am very glad that we found each other in this big scary world.
There is no one out there who would climb mountains with me on a whim, who would stand by my side from 3,000 miles away, who would so thoroughly entertain me while simultaneously captivating me. I fall in love with every pretty face I see, but I have never been so completely in love with not only a pretty face, but a wonderful mind and a beautiful soul.
Here's to Madrid and eleven months with Mogli.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Everyone Deserves a Chance to Fly
I saw Wicked the other day here in London Town.
It was absofreakinlutely phenomenal. I love love loved it. It made me kind of sad and nostalgic, though, because (although it was my first time seeing the musical) my friends from school and I (my best friends at school) would after get together at night and sit around and sing songs for Wicked. I remember sitting in my car, my baby Rhonda, blasting Defying Gravity, my friends all around me shouting the words and trying to keep up with Idina Menzel and just laughing and laughing and having a wonderful time just being together and being utterly silly.
I wish I weren't a grown up, almost constantly.
Yesterday we walked around Camden Market. The place reeks of incense, in fact the smell still lingers on the clothes I wore yesterday. Incense reminds me of high school, coming home after a long day and lighting a stick of incense and just relaxing.
Tomorrow I have to get up super early to meet my professor at the train to go to Cambridge for an out of class field trip. I like to sleep in on Fridays (or travel), but it will be nice to get outside of London for a bit.
Then next Friday we leave for Spain where we'll meet up with the Madre and have a wonderful time, to be sure. I'm excited to see my mom, I've missed her. I wish my sister and the kids could come visit, but I know that's impossible. I feel terrible that my baby niece will be five months old, almost six, by the time I get home; and about 10 days after I get home my oldest niece is turning seven! Where does the time go?
I also feel pretty bad that the thing I am looking forward to the most out of this whole trip is seeing Hillary. I've been trying to convince myself that I don't miss her, that I'm fine without her and that four months isn't that long to go, but it truly is. I can't wait for her to get here so I can show her how amazing London is, walk her along the lake at Hyde Park and take her into the little used book shops near the British Museum. I'm looking forward to Paris, too, eating good food (hopefully!) and drinking great wine. But mostly I'm excited to see Hillary, and I might not even care if we did anything the whole time that she is here (besides the fact that I want to show her around and for her to see as much as she possibly can in the short time that she is here).
It's strange, I never thought I'd be in love. I certainly never thought I'd find anyone like Hillary, she's perfect for me.
But no more of that mushy stuff. Hope everyone has a productive Friday and a wonderful weekend :)
It was absofreakinlutely phenomenal. I love love loved it. It made me kind of sad and nostalgic, though, because (although it was my first time seeing the musical) my friends from school and I (my best friends at school) would after get together at night and sit around and sing songs for Wicked. I remember sitting in my car, my baby Rhonda, blasting Defying Gravity, my friends all around me shouting the words and trying to keep up with Idina Menzel and just laughing and laughing and having a wonderful time just being together and being utterly silly.
I wish I weren't a grown up, almost constantly.
Yesterday we walked around Camden Market. The place reeks of incense, in fact the smell still lingers on the clothes I wore yesterday. Incense reminds me of high school, coming home after a long day and lighting a stick of incense and just relaxing.
Tomorrow I have to get up super early to meet my professor at the train to go to Cambridge for an out of class field trip. I like to sleep in on Fridays (or travel), but it will be nice to get outside of London for a bit.
Then next Friday we leave for Spain where we'll meet up with the Madre and have a wonderful time, to be sure. I'm excited to see my mom, I've missed her. I wish my sister and the kids could come visit, but I know that's impossible. I feel terrible that my baby niece will be five months old, almost six, by the time I get home; and about 10 days after I get home my oldest niece is turning seven! Where does the time go?
I also feel pretty bad that the thing I am looking forward to the most out of this whole trip is seeing Hillary. I've been trying to convince myself that I don't miss her, that I'm fine without her and that four months isn't that long to go, but it truly is. I can't wait for her to get here so I can show her how amazing London is, walk her along the lake at Hyde Park and take her into the little used book shops near the British Museum. I'm looking forward to Paris, too, eating good food (hopefully!) and drinking great wine. But mostly I'm excited to see Hillary, and I might not even care if we did anything the whole time that she is here (besides the fact that I want to show her around and for her to see as much as she possibly can in the short time that she is here).
It's strange, I never thought I'd be in love. I certainly never thought I'd find anyone like Hillary, she's perfect for me.
But no more of that mushy stuff. Hope everyone has a productive Friday and a wonderful weekend :)
Friday, October 9, 2009
How Do You Cope?
No one has ever asked me that question before, until last night.
Basically my story starts out with a bunch of twenty-year olds drinking and having nothing to do. But the drinking and nothing to do part is unimportant. The debauchery was only the bridge from polite conversation to indepth conversation.
We started the night out with five of us, sitting in our dorm room, drinking and talking. By the time we left the room we were all feeling good. We went to a bar and I had a few drinks, and by the time we left the bar I was almost too drunk to walk, but I did all right. I can still remember everything clearly, and that's all that matters.
We went back to our room, five of us had become six by this point (we ran into one of our friends in the dorm lounge). We all went back to the room and listened to music and talked (loudly) into the wee hours of the morning. I was trying to stay awake to talk to Hillary at 2:30 am my time this morning anyway (9:30 pm her time), so it was nice to have some company while I waited. We never got to talk anyway, but staying up late was worth it.
Eventually the numbers dwindled and six became four. We were all sitting around in true college fashion, drunk and wrapped in blankets to keep warm in these chilly London nights. We were also playing truth or dare, and since we are all too lazy to accept any dares we all chose truth. The main topic was, naturally, sex, because what else is there to talk about after all?
So it is understandable that I was very taken aback when my friend (a new friend, might I add, who I only just met a month ago) asked me how I cope with my father's death. Thankfully I was sober enough to not cry in emotional drunken sadness, but too drunk to give her a concise answer.
So I rambled on for the better part of fifteen minutes about how people who didn't watch their parent literally waste away and die before their eight year old eyes are clueless as to how I feel, and that it is an incredibly lonely place to be. I have so much pressure on me to be the best, to never cry, to never show weakness because I'm my mother's rock, I'm her one constant. And she's my one constant, so she feels compelled to be strong for me. We have to be srong for each other and neither of us can ever cry or ever grieve or ever shout out in fear and sorrow and anger.
But I mess up, I'm human, and sometimes I'm not constant and sometimes I'm weak. All the time I'm messing up and I am disappointing someone because I can't be what everyone wants me to be.
The hardest part of having to cope with my father's death is that my father was my best friend. The strongest love I've ever felt for another living thing in this life I felt for him. He was amazing, one of the greatest people God ever put on this Earth, and I'm not just saying that because I'm sprung from his loins. He was truly amazing, and a definite blessing to everyone he met. No one on this Earth can compare to my father, my love for other people can't compare to the love I still have for my twelve-year dead dad.
The saddest part of his dying is that his grandchildren never got the chance to meet this man. This man who would have loved them so much.
I don't really cope with it. I don't cry about it and I don't talk about it (unless someone directly brings it up, ordinarly). I still feel like a trapped eight year old, lost and alone searching for her daddy everywhere and never finding him because he is long gone. I guess I'll always feel like an eight year old, lonely and heartbroken and wishing God would have taken me instead of smashing my heart into tiny pieces of jagged glass that can never be repaired.
And that's what I told them, in a long drawn out soliloquy of no tears and no other noise besides the hum of my soul coming out of my mouth.
I don't know if they heard me, or if they know how sad I am and how fragile I am. But I do know it felt so so so good to be asked how I feel about my father's death. No one has ever asked me that in twelve years. No one has ever wanted to know how I feel before. And finally someone asked, and it was the most relieving experience I've ever had. Finally someone cared about me and my ability to handle something no eight year old should ever have to handle. I just felt so good.
Basically my story starts out with a bunch of twenty-year olds drinking and having nothing to do. But the drinking and nothing to do part is unimportant. The debauchery was only the bridge from polite conversation to indepth conversation.
We started the night out with five of us, sitting in our dorm room, drinking and talking. By the time we left the room we were all feeling good. We went to a bar and I had a few drinks, and by the time we left the bar I was almost too drunk to walk, but I did all right. I can still remember everything clearly, and that's all that matters.
We went back to our room, five of us had become six by this point (we ran into one of our friends in the dorm lounge). We all went back to the room and listened to music and talked (loudly) into the wee hours of the morning. I was trying to stay awake to talk to Hillary at 2:30 am my time this morning anyway (9:30 pm her time), so it was nice to have some company while I waited. We never got to talk anyway, but staying up late was worth it.
Eventually the numbers dwindled and six became four. We were all sitting around in true college fashion, drunk and wrapped in blankets to keep warm in these chilly London nights. We were also playing truth or dare, and since we are all too lazy to accept any dares we all chose truth. The main topic was, naturally, sex, because what else is there to talk about after all?
So it is understandable that I was very taken aback when my friend (a new friend, might I add, who I only just met a month ago) asked me how I cope with my father's death. Thankfully I was sober enough to not cry in emotional drunken sadness, but too drunk to give her a concise answer.
So I rambled on for the better part of fifteen minutes about how people who didn't watch their parent literally waste away and die before their eight year old eyes are clueless as to how I feel, and that it is an incredibly lonely place to be. I have so much pressure on me to be the best, to never cry, to never show weakness because I'm my mother's rock, I'm her one constant. And she's my one constant, so she feels compelled to be strong for me. We have to be srong for each other and neither of us can ever cry or ever grieve or ever shout out in fear and sorrow and anger.
But I mess up, I'm human, and sometimes I'm not constant and sometimes I'm weak. All the time I'm messing up and I am disappointing someone because I can't be what everyone wants me to be.
The hardest part of having to cope with my father's death is that my father was my best friend. The strongest love I've ever felt for another living thing in this life I felt for him. He was amazing, one of the greatest people God ever put on this Earth, and I'm not just saying that because I'm sprung from his loins. He was truly amazing, and a definite blessing to everyone he met. No one on this Earth can compare to my father, my love for other people can't compare to the love I still have for my twelve-year dead dad.
The saddest part of his dying is that his grandchildren never got the chance to meet this man. This man who would have loved them so much.
I don't really cope with it. I don't cry about it and I don't talk about it (unless someone directly brings it up, ordinarly). I still feel like a trapped eight year old, lost and alone searching for her daddy everywhere and never finding him because he is long gone. I guess I'll always feel like an eight year old, lonely and heartbroken and wishing God would have taken me instead of smashing my heart into tiny pieces of jagged glass that can never be repaired.
And that's what I told them, in a long drawn out soliloquy of no tears and no other noise besides the hum of my soul coming out of my mouth.
I don't know if they heard me, or if they know how sad I am and how fragile I am. But I do know it felt so so so good to be asked how I feel about my father's death. No one has ever asked me that in twelve years. No one has ever wanted to know how I feel before. And finally someone asked, and it was the most relieving experience I've ever had. Finally someone cared about me and my ability to handle something no eight year old should ever have to handle. I just felt so good.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Fall
It has become apparent that fall has, at long last, arrived in London.
Much to my dismay, might I add, since I enjoy wearing short pants all year for the most part. The air is getting damp, the leaves are sweeping to the ground in little orange and red puddles. The evenings are chilly, and the bottoms of my jeans are often wet and grainy from being dragged all over the city.
It's almost not fair to have to sit in rooms and read about people who are very much alive in the pages of hundred year old texts, people who did things and loved and lived and lived, and we are cooped up and confined to a classroom and a white board, or a power point slide show or a visit to a museum where the professor will butcher a piece that otherwise would have brought a tear to your eye.
Fall always reminds me of walking to my house after school. The bus dropped me off a block away from my house, and I always remember the sudden surge of excitement at the end of the day when the last bell would ring and then that feeling of disappointment, sitting on the bus and bouncing up and down up and down and knowing it would all have to be done again tomorrow.
Walking home in the fall is particularly vibrant in my memory, probably because there are so many smells in the fall. I think there are far more fall smells than spring smells even. There's the smell of leaves, leaves that you couldn't smell all spring and summer and now that they have made their way to the ground you finally get a good wiff. And then there is rain. It rains a lot in the fall, at least in the Northeast (and in London, it is very very damp), and the smell of the rain falling from the sky, clinging desparately to the bare tree branches and the few remaining leaves. It's all very romantic.
I remember walking home and having nothing better to do than to have conversations with myself (this was before I had a car and I would just turn the stereo on high to drown out the thoughts in my head). Inner conversations of course, I'm not the crazy lady who talks out loud to herself (not yet anyway). I'd think about everything from algebra to charlemagne to why life was so hard to how I didn't think I could do it all over again tomorrow. High school was such a drag.
Sometimes while I was walking, I would look around and notice that I was all alone. I live in a bedroom community, my friends and my teachers and my mother know me, but none of my neighbours even know my name. I would feel so utterly alone. And then there would be a gentle breeze, and the leaves would all start to rustle. The leaves would be swept up with the wind, and they would kind of march alongside me, the breeze pushing them along.
The leaves walking alongside me in the gentle fall breeze always made me feel like I wasn't alone, like it was worth it to get up and do it all again tomorrow. I would cut through my backyard, which opens out onto a side-street, and slosh through the muddy grass. The leaves wouldn't roll alongside me in the grass, but it was okay because the gentle breeze remained and, not unlike the warm hugs of summer, the cool breezes of fall are also friendly and gentle in their own way.
It's strange to look back on times like those and think of how insignificant they felt then, and what lasting memories they have become.
I never feel alone in the fall. I feel like someone is watching me, a lot of the time, specifically in the fall, and I can't help but wonder if it isn't my daddy watching me, knowing that these months are the hardest for mom and I to get through. This year will be twelve years since he died. I always say I wouldn't give anything to see him again, to hear his voice, to touch his scratchy face, to play one round of basketball with him, but secretly I would. I know he's in the leaves, he's in the trees, he's in every raindrop and every muddied blade of grass. He's everywhere I am, everywhere I've been and everywhere I'm going. But it doesn't make me miss him any less.
I know it's just me being wishful and hoping that my daddy is watching over me, but I know it's just my heart and my mind playing tricks on me, hoping to see him walking up the path, open the door and catch my eight year old self flying into his waiting arms.
But it's just the breeze, and just the leaves rustling in the gentle changing of the weather. The sky is getting grey and the days are getting shorter. Soon it will be winter, and there will be frost on the bare tree limbs and the flowers will all be long dead.
I do miss being alone and introspective, I hope that there are still lonely and introspective teenagers out there, and that they don't feel so alone when they feel gentle breezes or rain drops that fall on bare cheeks. I hope no one feels so lonely when they hear the leaves rustling in the wind, and that everyone has a marvelously beautiful fall, wherever you are.
Much to my dismay, might I add, since I enjoy wearing short pants all year for the most part. The air is getting damp, the leaves are sweeping to the ground in little orange and red puddles. The evenings are chilly, and the bottoms of my jeans are often wet and grainy from being dragged all over the city.
It's almost not fair to have to sit in rooms and read about people who are very much alive in the pages of hundred year old texts, people who did things and loved and lived and lived, and we are cooped up and confined to a classroom and a white board, or a power point slide show or a visit to a museum where the professor will butcher a piece that otherwise would have brought a tear to your eye.
Fall always reminds me of walking to my house after school. The bus dropped me off a block away from my house, and I always remember the sudden surge of excitement at the end of the day when the last bell would ring and then that feeling of disappointment, sitting on the bus and bouncing up and down up and down and knowing it would all have to be done again tomorrow.
Walking home in the fall is particularly vibrant in my memory, probably because there are so many smells in the fall. I think there are far more fall smells than spring smells even. There's the smell of leaves, leaves that you couldn't smell all spring and summer and now that they have made their way to the ground you finally get a good wiff. And then there is rain. It rains a lot in the fall, at least in the Northeast (and in London, it is very very damp), and the smell of the rain falling from the sky, clinging desparately to the bare tree branches and the few remaining leaves. It's all very romantic.
I remember walking home and having nothing better to do than to have conversations with myself (this was before I had a car and I would just turn the stereo on high to drown out the thoughts in my head). Inner conversations of course, I'm not the crazy lady who talks out loud to herself (not yet anyway). I'd think about everything from algebra to charlemagne to why life was so hard to how I didn't think I could do it all over again tomorrow. High school was such a drag.
Sometimes while I was walking, I would look around and notice that I was all alone. I live in a bedroom community, my friends and my teachers and my mother know me, but none of my neighbours even know my name. I would feel so utterly alone. And then there would be a gentle breeze, and the leaves would all start to rustle. The leaves would be swept up with the wind, and they would kind of march alongside me, the breeze pushing them along.
The leaves walking alongside me in the gentle fall breeze always made me feel like I wasn't alone, like it was worth it to get up and do it all again tomorrow. I would cut through my backyard, which opens out onto a side-street, and slosh through the muddy grass. The leaves wouldn't roll alongside me in the grass, but it was okay because the gentle breeze remained and, not unlike the warm hugs of summer, the cool breezes of fall are also friendly and gentle in their own way.
It's strange to look back on times like those and think of how insignificant they felt then, and what lasting memories they have become.
I never feel alone in the fall. I feel like someone is watching me, a lot of the time, specifically in the fall, and I can't help but wonder if it isn't my daddy watching me, knowing that these months are the hardest for mom and I to get through. This year will be twelve years since he died. I always say I wouldn't give anything to see him again, to hear his voice, to touch his scratchy face, to play one round of basketball with him, but secretly I would. I know he's in the leaves, he's in the trees, he's in every raindrop and every muddied blade of grass. He's everywhere I am, everywhere I've been and everywhere I'm going. But it doesn't make me miss him any less.
I know it's just me being wishful and hoping that my daddy is watching over me, but I know it's just my heart and my mind playing tricks on me, hoping to see him walking up the path, open the door and catch my eight year old self flying into his waiting arms.
But it's just the breeze, and just the leaves rustling in the gentle changing of the weather. The sky is getting grey and the days are getting shorter. Soon it will be winter, and there will be frost on the bare tree limbs and the flowers will all be long dead.
I do miss being alone and introspective, I hope that there are still lonely and introspective teenagers out there, and that they don't feel so alone when they feel gentle breezes or rain drops that fall on bare cheeks. I hope no one feels so lonely when they hear the leaves rustling in the wind, and that everyone has a marvelously beautiful fall, wherever you are.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Love Your Neighbour as Yourself
One day an expert on Moses' laws came to test Jesus' orthodoxy by asking him this question: "Teacher, what does a man need to do to live forever in heaven?" Jesus replied, "What does Moses' law say about it?" "It says," he replied, "that you must love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind. And you must love your neighbor just as much as you love yourself." "Right!" Jesus told him. "Do this and you shall live!" The man wanted to justify (his lack of love for some kinds of people), so he asked, "Which neighbors?" Jesus replied with an illustration: "A Jew going on a trip from Jerusalem to Jericho was attacked by bandits. They stripped him of his clothes and money, and beat him up and left him lying half dead beside the road. "By chance a Jewish priest came along; and when he saw the man lying there, he crossed to the other side of the road and passed him by. A Jewish Temple-assistant walked over and looked at him lying there, but then went on. "But a despised Samaritan came along, and when he saw him, he felt deep pity. Kneeling beside him the Samaritan soothed his wounds with medicine and bandaged them. Then he put the man on his donkey and walked along beside him till they came to an inn, where he nursed him through the night. The next day he handed the innkeeper two twenty-dollar bills and told him to take care of the man. 'If his bill runs higher than that,' he said, 'I'll pay the difference the next time I am here.' "Now which of these three would you say was a neighbor to the bandits' victim?" The man replied, "The one who showed him some pity." Then Jesus said, "Yes, now go and do the same." (TLB, Luke 10:25-37)
Hope everyone is having a great Sunday, and that everyone has a wonderful week.
Hope everyone is having a great Sunday, and that everyone has a wonderful week.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
You Can Hear the Whistle Blow a Hundred Miles
Mary Travers, of Peter, Paul and Mary has died at the age of 72.
It's a very sad day for folk music, for the generation of peace loving individuals who sprouted out of the 1960's, and for people like me who were raised with the tenants of peace and love and grew up listening to artists like Mary Travers.
She was not only radiantly beautiful, but she was kind, and courageous, and she had a damn good voice.
If I Had a Hammer
I'll always remember listening to her on tape, riding my bike around the neighbourhood, or watching Peter, Paul and Mary on the television and feeling completely connected to the lyrics they sang.
The saddest part of the death of such an icon for the peace movement is that there seems to be no one taking up the torch for the cause. I have no power, or fame, or money or really very much talent, or else I would have taken up the cause long ago. People with power, with sway, with the funds to do wonderful things and the talent to command people to listen just simply are not using those gifts for the right purposes. I hope someone comes along, sooner rather than later, who will remind us that justice, freedom and love are the three greatest gifts. I also hope that before any more wars start, that we might be reminded of where all the flowers have gone.
Where Have All the Flowers Gone?
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Newport Folk Festival 50!! Oh, and six months :)
Imagine, if you will, the most ear piercing, high pitched squeel of glee you can possibly imagine. That's the story of my life right now. I got an email saying I can get discounted tickets to the Newport Folk Festival, the first weekend in August, where JOAN BAEZ WILL BE PLAYING *insert another shriek*.
I just... I think I may have died when I read that Joan Baez, Pete Seeger AND Judy Collins will all be there. Just thinking about it gives me palpitations. I'm totally going, whether I go by myself or with other human beings. Probably the closest I'll ever get to utter, pure bliss in my whole life.
Oh, and today is my six month monthaversary with Hillary, heres to many more monthaversaries to come :)
Those are our serious faces... for serious.
I just... I think I may have died when I read that Joan Baez, Pete Seeger AND Judy Collins will all be there. Just thinking about it gives me palpitations. I'm totally going, whether I go by myself or with other human beings. Probably the closest I'll ever get to utter, pure bliss in my whole life.
Oh, and today is my six month monthaversary with Hillary, heres to many more monthaversaries to come :)
Those are our serious faces... for serious.
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