My name is Erin. And I have hips.

"Hi Erin."

Let's talk for a second about curves. In our current world, curves on the road in a fast fancy car commercial? Good. Curves on the girl driving (or, more likely, riding in) said fun fancy car commercial? Not so good.

I've been thinking a lot lately about the role body image plays, in my life and beyond. This is largely (no pun intended) on my mind because I, who used to be the stick-thin, long-legged, gangly girl am...well, no longer stick thin and gangly. I've grown up, in some sense of the phrase, and have recently had to accept that the body I inhabit has also grown up, changed, and perhaps doesn't WANT to fit into those jeans from college. That realization alone is enough to send you straight to the pint (of Ben and Jerry's, that is). However, recognizing this shift and dealing with this change is not what upset me. What really gets to me is that my first reaction to this whole situation was guilt. How could I let this happen to me? I'm going to have to *gasp* go up a size! How dare I allow my body to mature past the age of 18!

A look at art throughout the ages is often used as an illustration that heavier women were once the ideal shape in the Western world, and how bodily ideals change as a result of the current societal and cultural views. And to an extent, I agree. A part of me is convinced that the "ideal" body shape is dictated only by the shape for which current fashion designers create clothing (Can't find a blouse that fits? Your body must be the wrong shape). But don't you also have to take into account that artists from the Renaissance and beyond painted many different shapes of women, not to mention they all had patrons who dictated the image they were to create? Ideal, schmideal.

A recent article in the Salt Lake Tribune reported that neither the hourglass figure, nor any figure for that matter, are "ideal" as once was thought, stating that all body shapes have their trade-offs ("the human body is a compromise"). It goes on to remind people, "In the past, women were their bodies. Now it is about what we're doing in our lives and who we are as people." So yes, bigger hips may mean scientifically more fertile, which at one point in time may have been an "ideal" way for women to be. And maybe now, as an assertion of our independence from that mode of thinking, we somehow managed to create a culture that worships straightness, flatness.

My bottom line with all this? Beauty doesn't have to be (and SHOULDN'T be) curves or no curves or some magic ratio in the middle. Why is there so much importance placed on what size we are and not how healthy or happy we are? If we actually are the strong, independent and no-nonsense women we claim so loudly to be, why do we let the number on the tags of our clothes dictate how we feel and treat ourselves?

A little help?

Untie my brain that it may be drop kicked into clarity;
fuse open my eyes that they may always see;
unclench my heart that it may absorb the incoming;
reprimand my negotiator for serving negativity over easy,
like an elegant Sunday brunch.*

(I've always been hopeless when it comes to making decisions)

* Susan Mrosek, Leaks

A dash of ambition...

I prepared the entire Thanksgiving feast this year for my family. I know what you're thinking. Isn't this the Erin that subsisted solely off of mac n' cheese, special k, and takeout during college? The same Erin that was terrified at the sight of uncooked chicken until a few short years ago? And yes, you are correct. My mother (who, by they way, is the oldest of seven children and has always held a not so secret grudge against me for my lack of cooking, sewing, and other domestic skills) has been threatening me for years with the prospect of taking the lead on this most important culinary day. And this year, I was ready.

I am, by no means, an excellent cook. But I began preparing for the big day weeks in advance, planning my menu, scheduling dishes that could be made in advance. The preparing began on Monday last week with the baking of pumpkin bread and continued through Thursday, the day when roasting, mashing, stuffing, peeling, chopping, and simmering took up a solid 8 hours(!) of my day. And by 5:00, the 26 pounder came out of the oven, and dinner was served.



I didn't get pictures of all my tasty sides (like this butternut squash soup- SO delicious), and they didn't stick around for long after we sat down, but I did snag a look at my maple sweet potatoes and green bean casserole. The meal was lovely, and I was asleep by 9 pm, full, exhausted and a little bit proud that a frozen pizza kind of girl can evolve so much in just one short year.

Important lessons my mother wanted me to learn from this experience: that she is a saint for having made Thanksgiving dinner for our family for over 25 years; that we all owe her for the rest of our lives; and that her methods of cooking are the best ever employed.

Lessons I learned all on my own: I will never marry a man/have children that don't help me cook (they don't peel potatoes, they don't eat potatoes); cooking is WORK and you shouldn't have to clean up (luckily my lovely father already knows this); spending all day working with your hands, not listening to tv or answering your phone, and actually having a real conversation with your extremely wise mother is a beautiful way to spend the holiday.

Relief.

"I loved that he cleaned up after himself before leaving an ice cream shop in Wapello, Iowa. He didn't have to. The event was over and the press had left. He is used to taking care of things himself and I think this is one of the qualities that makes Obama different from so many other political candidates I've encountered."

My new President cleans up after his tasty cone. And I think that says a lot. These incredible photos taken by Callie Shell throughout the campaign cause the goosebumps that began the moment "Barack Obama elected 44th President" appeared on my TV screen to continue, two days later, and allow me to fully realize that I am part of something so big, so exciting, and so important that I will be proud of this week for as long as I breathe.

America, welcome back!

Catching up

I do believe I missed September. The same sad post sitting at the top of the page for far too long. Let's fix that.

It's funny (or bizarre) how the universe takes so much time barely nudging you to do anything greater, become anything greater, and then SMACK out of the blue, in the least subtle way possible, it provides an obvious and clear path that moments before was completely shrouded. And my restless self jumps all over this exciting realization. Story of my life. Make a big change, adjust to said change, be comfortable and happy, become restless for next big change. Repeat as necessary.

I got a bit of my restlessness out a few weeks ago when I, along with my lovely parents, ventured to California, where I had never been before. I've got a lot of country to see in between here and there, but it was a good start to exploring this big ol' land. We went to San Francisco first.

We hiked through quiet redwoods as the morning fog lifted, saw and heard the loud sea lions at Pier 39 (the whole time I couldn't get Feist's "Sea Lion Woman" song out of my head), explored both the deep hills of the city and the calm Marin headlands, ate absolutely fantastic food, and generally enjoyed ourselves. We stayed at Old St. Mary's, California's first cathedral, where my mother's best friend is the pastor. The part of me that feels a bit bad about not attending Mass as regularly as I used to (damn Catholic guilt!) was concerned with this idea, but they have an entire hotel-like setup for guests, and were such funny, kind, witty men that I quite enjoyed it. And being so close to church bells, so close to a sacred space stirred up something that can wait until another post.

After a few days in the city, we rode to Napa to meet up with family for the wedding that occured that weekend. Wine tastings, beautiful weather, dancing, lovely new friends and spending time with family are five things very much my style. It was incredible. And very very easy to forget that a completely different, and much more responsible life awaited my return.

Traveling normally settles my restless feet for awhile, but now I find that I'm even more restless, or perhaps just ready. Ready for the next step. For so long my focus has been on the present, on being happy being exactly where I am, regardless of what will happen eventually. Now I'm beginning to feel the shift to what's coming next. No drastic moves in the immediate future, but still it seems the restlessness has settled in for good. At least until the next big change occurs.

Figures.

It figures that the one day I actually feel like going for a run is the same day we have torrential rain and a tornado warning.

I guess that's the universe's way of telling me to finally make those phone calls to faraway friends, light a candle and doze off with book in hand.

Or maybe I'll sit on my dark porch, catching glimpses of my still unfamiliar street as the lightning crackles from above.

I think this qualifies as a win-win situation.

Oh August.

"Don't you love New York in the fall? It makes me wanna buy school supplies. I would send you a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils if I knew your name and address." You've Got Mail

I will always always associate August with new beginnings. Possibly more so than springtime and definitely more than New Year's. In August I get the itch to start something new, to revamp my routines. To buy new colored pencils and take on crafty projects. To navigate the messy, picked-over aisles of folders and glue sticks in search of something new and bright to make me want to be organized and on top of everything once again.

If new trapper-keepers and locker combinations don't get your heart racing anymore, you'll be happy to know that August hosts many other worthy reasons for excitement. It happens to be Romance Awareness Month, National Picnic Month, and Admit You're Happy Month. So head outside with blanket and basket in tow. Lie in the grass and admit that you have it good. And bring along someone kind of special, you know, if you feel the urge. Annnnd...if you do all this tomorrow (August 6) go barefoot in recognition of National Wiggle Your Toes Day.

~Stephen Frykholm, Herman Miller Summer Picnic August 5, 1977~

A Good Day

I have, literally, the most amazing friends in the world. I mean, who would meet Matt Nathanson, hear him mention "making the kids", and STILL think of little ol' me?

Summer reading

Tonight I ventured to the lovely public library to:
a) return my embarrassingly overdue books
b) check out more books to maintain the overdue tradition, and
c) continue my now-annual light summer re-reading of (wait for it...) the Harry Potter series.

Did you realize I was such a nerd? Don't answer that. The truth is, I allow myself to relax and read "comfort" books during the hazy days of summer. Like comfort food, comfort books are familiar, filling, and predictable. There's no risk of the unexpected, and mental exertion is kept to a minimum. I love getting cozy with a well-worn book in the afternoon, drifting into a light doze, and awaking to pick up at the exact same sentence, no re-orientation necessary.

This doesn't mean that I completely rule out new and more literary options (my current recommendation is Jeffrey Eugenides oddly touching and often unsettling anthology, My Mistress's Sparrow is Dead.) But my main goal during the summer is to relax, devour easy pages and take things a little less seriously than I usually do.

So when I go to the library to check out the next volumes of my light reading, on a night specifically set aside for me to read/sleep at my leisure, and all the copies are checked out, I have to improvise. My first thought?..."Well, this is the perfect time for me to pick up one of the titles on my 'Books I Can't Believe I Haven't Read Yet' list." And, I happened to land in the Fal-Fea aisle, bringing me to The Sound and the Fury (quite the leap from Harry and his Hogwart's pals). I haven't battled with Faulkner since American Lit. And I'm a little nervous because last time I'm pretty sure he won...wish me luck.

Lesson of the night? Gas prices and stamps aren't the only commodities creeping up in price. The unfriendly woman at the desk wouldn't let me walk out with the book until I paid my exorbitant late fees. $11 people! And I've lived here less than a year! And to think that not too long ago, a few nickels would settle the score..

Columbia Haiku

The last steps to home:
A new place to rest my head
And old, true, close friends.




The everyday-ness of love in my life right now is a bit overwhelming, and definitely not something I've experienced in this capital city before. But as I prepare for a bit of reading this Tuesday night, I feel full. For the first time in a long time.

ps- I thought of writing an ode. But odes are lonnnng. Haikus are much better for my about-to-go-to-sleep, writing-on-a-whim style. 5-7-5 and done. Woot.

"A loose interpretation of work"*

After a little too much recent web browsing, I stumbled upon this funny nugget. My personal favorite is the entire text of George Orwell's "Animal Farm" disguised as an ad agency's power point. Geeeenius.

(Now, obbbviously, I would never dream of doing this at work. But it is certainly original and if you find yourself in a mind-numbingly boring job with a computer monitor that faces office traffic, it may be just the stimulation your intellect needs to survive until 5:00.)

Also, the lovely Skirt! Morning Muse directed me to the 'advice to sink in slowly' site. I love all these quirky posters created by recent graduates with words of wisdom for first year students. If you're the gift buying sort, I need nothing more than the postcard pack wrapped in a big blue bow. And it's only 6 quid!



What will you be doing with all your extra light on this solstice day?

*Andy Warhol

There is only one man in the world allowed to take care of me.

I have a pretty good track record with males in my life. And I think my luck, or good judge of character, can be traced back to the very first male in my life- my father. This is a man who laughed instead of getting angry when my brother and I accidentally set the toaster on fire. A funny man with leathery skin that smelled like summer after he would mow our lawn. A man who taught me to make the gooiest grilled cheese sandwiches, the value of working hard, and the art of asking for help. Financial adviser, roadside assistance operator, and giver of honest hugs.

I was able to be home on the day we are told to honor and recognize all the father figures in our lives. We celebrated with church, a trip to Best Buy (how cliché) and arguing over who would fill my car with gas (I lost...surprise surprise. I'm a spoiled girl, but at least I know I'm spoiled, right?)

I was also home long enough to scrounge up these gems of us in all our 80s glory.

Weekend Lessons

Summertime is here, and that means great live music in abundance. Sadly though, almost all of these shows require a bit of travel, and travel requires tanks of extremely pricey gas. So even though one of my favorite bands was playing at one of my favorite venues this weekend, I opted to play it cheap and find adventures here in town.

I finally visited the local art museum, and while the flashy Egyptian exhibit was impressive, I was drawn mostly to two smaller galleries upstairs. One displayed the amazing photographs from Constantine Manos' book, "A Greek Portfolio." The other was a small collection of etchings by Alfred Hutty depicting Charleston and various lowcountry beauty. Hutty arrived in Charleston in 1919 and immediately sent his wife the message, "Come Quickly. Have Found Heaven." Oh Al. I know exactly how you feel.

In addition to the museum, I fought off the triple-digit heat by lounging in the pool, hopping from one air conditioned boutique to another, and grabbing gigantic iced mochas from Adriana's. I also realized that Publix commercials will make me tear up for the rest of my life (have you seen the new Father's Day one? I'm such a sap), and that I could probably spend entire Sunday mornings in bed (and probably would if the sun didn't come out).

It was a good weekend. But that doesn't mean I'm not willing to travel for some of the good music happening this summer. Who's with me?

Magicians and motorcyles.

On my way home from work yesterday afternoon, I found myself behind a man riding a motorcycle. He was wearing a fancy suit with a bright green shirt and (are you ready?) a top hat. A tall top hat. My amusement was immediately followed by concern because top hats, while dashing, do not usually function as helmets also. But I concluded that since he was obviously a skilled magician, on his way to pick up his magic scarf/doves, or his rabbit to later be pulled out of the fancy hat, he probably didn't need the protection anyway.

I tried to take a picture as I passed.



















Obviously, my taking-pictures-while-driving skills need vast improvement.

Summer Storms. mmmmmm.

There is the most magnificent thunderstorm happening outside right now. I LOVE thunderstorms. Nothing can really live up to a good storm in the mountains, but this one right now in the middle of this city comes pretty close.

I was supposed to work an outside event tonight, which ended up being canceled, but it gave me the opportunity to witness the energy of the storm gather, to smell the first cool drops hit the dark pavement. I've been frustrated lately with my current music selection, and it seems God responded with heart-shaking thunder and startling cracking lightening. The rain is coming down in sheets and my porch door is open and I can feel the dampness seeping into my bones and it feels right.

What to do with my unexpected two hours off of work?
Blog?...check.
Laundry?....maybe.
Cloud gazing and curling up early with three good books?...definitely.

Remember, God, that we are the plants in your fields
so connected to the
earth

that you know what would happen
if you did not rain
upon us.

St. Teresa of Avila
(who, fyi, was a badass. obviously.)

Will Travel For Hugs.

Let's all pack up and move this year
Slip the liars and disappear
Leave memories for auctioneers
And those just standing still
M.N.

There's something both comforting and tragic about having so many close friends living so very far away. On one hand, if I close my eyes and imagine these friends, it's as if the earth is pulsating with warm, gentle vibes just for me, with epicenters in San Francisco and Copenhagen; Brazil and Colorado; Amsterdam and London and Washington DC and even (on particular Wednesday evenings) WaKeeney, KS. I am a lucky and loved girl.

But when my eyes are wide open and I have a hard day, imagining these love-vibes is not a sufficient replacement for a deep strong hug. And even the magic of skype can't recreate a hearty laugh with an beautiful friend over a few cold beers under a warm starry sky (How's that for a lesson in prepositions?).

I crave physical connections. If I like you at all, on any level, chances are you have endured being hugged, patted, poked, squeezed, punched and generally touched by me. And when a separation happens and you leave or I leave and I'm unable to love/abuse you physically, I feel a little bit disconnected with not only you, but myself. Note to self: become better at phone conversations. And find new people in my geographic region to prod and jab.

It's so exciting to watch how everyone's path is being laid out before them, stone by stone. Or rather, to see which stepping stones we're all choosing. Jobs, marriages, families; it's all so adult of us. Yet most of the time I still feel like a pre-adolescent version of myself, watching from the outside, itching for my adult adventures to begin but secretly being happy that I have some more time to just be a kid.

"You can't fill up when you're holding your breath."*

For the handful of you who are kind enough to occasionally click over and see what's going on in my world, I apologize for the extreeeme lack of activity. You've begged, you've pleaded, you've even given me gifts to lure me back. And I'm sorry to say it, but this is not probably not exactly the return you had in mind.

Turns out that right now I'm focusing on a few very key things, the most prominent being a spiritual rut I've recently found myself in. When this happens, I read. A lot. Not necessarily books on faith, but I try to allow words to reach in and move SOMEthing inside me. I hate feeling stagnant, bored. And while I'm now attending church regularly, I'm going to different churches each time, searching for something...better? more comfortable? And trying to decide why the place where i worship seems to matter so much to the strength of my faith, and if that's a healthy balance. But it's not all about finding a church, it's also about redefining who I am and what I believe. Which some days feels pretty damn daunting. And maybe also a tiny bit more important than thinking of a clever blog topic.

During the other hours of my day I work. Work is going very well right now, thank you for asking, however I've recently been given a lot more responsibility and am having trouble reconciling my feeling of accomplishment with my constant worry that it's too much and I'll inevitably screw something up and ruin the foundation forever. And no, I'm not that important at all, but you already know that I exaggerate. But I really am adjusting to this whole concept of responsibility and trying not to be completely abysmal at it, which takes at least a little energy each day.

So, with all of this introspection and 9-5 gobbledy gook, I haven't had much time for this lovely little (lonely) blog. Or much time to clean my apartment. Both are pressing issues that I promise to remedy as soon as I possibly can. I assure you that the wittycreativeandlighthearted girl you seek will return here eventually. When she's not feeling so daggum grown up and little all at the same time.

*I'm convinced that Ann Lamott can read my soul. Seriously.

"I can't tonight Hillary. I have to wash my hair."

Last night I dreamed Hillary Clinton wanted to be my best friend. We went to dinner, coffeehouses, bars, movies, parks, just to name a few. And in this dream, she was constantly trying to convince me to do more things with her. To "hang out" with her more. She became so needy at one point that I started screening her calls. Hillary was desperately seeking my approval, and while I assured her over and over that she was cool and we could be friends and meet occasionally for happy hour and an afternoon stroll, she never stopped wanting me to accept her MORE. It was an exhausting experience.

Now, this may illustrate the degree to which the upcoming primaries and election are affecting me, or it may be that Clinton is now trying everything she can to gain some momentum, even if it means invading a sleeper's subconscious. But I've had dreams like this before. Just last month, Bill Clinton and I were best friends (Hillary would be sooo jealous) and each day we would visit, often going on hikes or reading books or chatting about the world. It was a blast and I was a little sad that morning when I realized that Bill and I wouldn't be hanging out later that day.

I don't know why Barack hasn't made an appearance in my nightly dramas yet. I would really like to play golf with him. He could wear plaid pants and I could help him improve his swing (because in my dream I would of course be an immensely talented golfer) and he would smile a lot and we would end our day with a couple beers and dinner out on the deck of the clubhouse. I'm tempted to hop in my pjs right now just to make it all happen sooner.

Whether or not Barack accepts my invitation, I will continue to love the fact that I have such vivid dreams. From the time I was a small child my dreams have always seemed so real, so close. This can be both extremely terrifying and extremely exciting. I get to feel emotions and have experiences without any of the consequences. Sometimes it takes days for my mind to fully realize that a dream didn't actually happen. I carry the reality of it with me and deal with it in the same way I process my waking moments.

When I saw Hillary's face on the news this morning, I immediately ducked behind my kitchen counter before she could see me. I simply don't have enough time for friends like that.

The Thaw.

Stepping outside into the afternoon sun, I literally feel the earth spinning toward spring.

The heavy winds prove that Mother Earth is as anxious as I am for an end to this dark, dreary season. She’s not losing any time hurtling us back into long days and balmy evenings, flirty skirts and exposed toes, impromptu picnics and freckled skin. My soul could use a heavy dose of sunshine and riding with the windows down.

A part of me worries that I will be never be able to adjust to the colder, wetter climate of my future dream city. But mostly I’m just ready to live in a place I’m not constantly trying to escape, which hasn’t happened since I drove west, away from my low city on the sparkling water.

In other news, I love February. The compactness of it all. Festivals and carnivals; bright purples and greens and pinks and reds which replace the gloomy bareness of January; long weekends with good friends and hot chili; oyster roasts and cold beer and cheering for big games. All of this crammed into the shortest, sweetest month, which this year has been granted a generous 29 days to allow time to complete our annual leap around the sun.

*scampers off to enjoy her well-earned weekend*

Today I'm grateful for

• NPR.
• choosing sleep over fixing my hair in any way this morning.
• not needing caffeine anymore to get through the day.
• learning new and useful keyboard shortcuts at work (literally a highlight of my day).
• the end of Blockbuster's late fees.
  
• the coconut lotion in my desk that magically transports me to a sunny beach with hot sand as I sit in my cold office.
• inexpensive plane tickets.
  
• a long conversation with an old friend where I get to hear about the wedding plans for a couple I watched fall in love years ago.
  
• my quiet apartment.
• being able to devote an entire night to reading without feeling the least bit guilty.
• you, lovely reader

Roger. And Writing.

This weekend I was asked point blank if I consider myself a writer. I hesitated, hovering somewhere between humility and embarrassment that this person may actually want to read something I'd "written." Next blunt question? "When did you last write something?" No hesitation here. "Today," I say. And then I realized.

I don't spend nearly enough time writing, and pretty much everything I write is awful and I either throw it away before it can reach another pair of eyes or stuff it between the pages of a forgotten journal. But regardless of its value, I write something every day. No matter what. Most of the time I don't even look at it as writing, but merely recording. During the week I come home from work with stacks of sticky post-it notes covered with my loosely scrawled thoughts from the day (such as the ones this blog entry is being written from). I carry a small green notebook with me everywhere, and in between the grocery lists and appointment reminders are poems and bits of overheard conversations and sometimes simply a word that perfectly describes the light on these tall mirrored buildings. I don't think I know how to fully understand what's happening in my life until I write it out. So yes, I think that makes me a writer.

And what I'm trying to understand tonight, dear reader, is how to deal with watching a close friend accept that he is dying. This sounds selfish, I know, because after all, I'm not the one having to deal with my death. But there is something powerful and scary and important in listening to a person you love come to terms with the idea that he is at the end of his life.

I suppose I should explain a little about my friend. I met Roger last Christmas and have spent the past year growing close to him. Roger is a Catholic priest and like all good priests I've met in my life, he isn't offended that I don't go to church. He doesn't argue when I complain about the conflict I feel over the hypocrisy in religion, and he doesn't judge me when I tell him that there are days I am faithless. We talk about literature and travel and the sadness of family and the hope in everyday. When it was discovered that Roger had brain cancer last year, our conversations were altered slightly. The fact is that Roger is dying, and he needs to talk it out, the same way I need to write things out. Sometimes his acceptance of the situation is unnerving. He jokes that while he's hopeful that the experimental treatment will work, he's not about to rule out the large chance it won't. He calls it keeping his options open. At this point in our discussion, I become quiet and incredibly focused on my cup of tea. I call this denial.

In my typical selfish fashion, I usually ignore the possibility that this might be Roger's last year, that when I kiss him goodbye he will battle many serious odds before I see him again. I haven't written about Roger before now, and therefore I haven't really accepted the reality of his illness. And I'm not sure what this entry is doing other than allowing me to acknowledge that this is happening and that I don't like it or know how to deal with it. I realize this doesn't make for a very interesting read, but don't worry, I have plenty of material for another day. So stay tuned.

There are different wells within your heart.

Some fill with each good rain.

Others are far too deep for that.

hafiz

I never by accident. I only on purpose.

The scene:

I'm sitting cross-legged next to my window on my living room floor, sipping champagne and craning my neck to hold my tiny cell phone to my ear without unplugging it from the wall charger for fear it will die in 2 seconds (which it constantly does), while a robotic woman from Time Warner Cable exclaims repeatedly (for 24 minutes, to be exact),
"Turbo charge your Road Runner!!"
"Who's everyone's favorite Ogre?!?!?!!!!!!"
"Another great idea from Time Warner Cable!!! Caller ID on your TV!! Now you can see who's calling without getting up from your couch!!!!!!!!" (Seriously. That's their great idea.)

The exclamation marks are audible. It's a bit disgusting. And I endure 4 transfers to different departments before I am connected to the right person for the big, complicated job of securing my wireless network, which takes approximately 2 minutes with a nice boy who speaks with the normal, human amount of exclamation marks. All the people in my building will probably hate me now for taking away the gift of free internet. But at least now I'm not constantly worried someone is stealing my music, pictures, personal information, and soul.

My New Year is off to a....well, a start. Despite my persistent cough and the recent spider issue in my apartment, I feel just grand. I'm finally content here, or at least I'm getting there. I think this has a lot to do with having goals and challenging myself to more than the routine in which I had easily fallen. I'm reading 6 books, all different and lovely and I switch them out as often as one might switch the channels on a television. I'm contemplating grad school in a more serious way, and beginning to prepare for the GRE. I'm also pursuing a new volunteer opportunity, disciplining myself to write daily, drinking water more, eating out less, and taking care of all the little things I've put off for the past months, like calling Time Warner Cable....Check.

...some invisible star had risen to eclipse the sun and release the coldness of space.
M. Fusco

Stay warm out there.