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.

A year for something bigger than ourselves

"Maybe I don't want a Happy New Year, he said.

Maybe I want an intense New Year with a lot of growth experiences
& I had to admit I'd never thought of that."

Brian Andreas

A Good Night.

I found a mountain coffee shop in the middle of the city.

Following crafty signs up creaky wooden steps, the smell of coffee and sound of guitars floats down from the warm shop. I am given a chipped mug and told the internet password is Revolution. I can tell the workers love telling people that. I find my way next to a cold window and set up my area across from a hippie family of four. The mother spends her time gazing at her beautiful girls and knitting...a scarf? a sweater? The father tirelessly draws with the girls, himself as genuinely amused as they are. He laughs loudly and often. I haven't seen a family this happy since the Italian mothers doted on their bambinos near the gray water.

As they get up to leave, the father begins to show fatigue. Yawning through his smile. What a blessing to see God's idea of family in such a real way.

It's a good night to be alone. It's a good night to not make conversation, with close friends or strangers. It's a good night to absorb and make myself another cup of coffee.

I like happiness. Do you like happiness, too?

Listening to my ipod at work is distracting in a necessary way. It almost makes folding over 200 letters and stuffing envelopes poetic. Almost.

On days like today when almost all the leaves have fallen off the trees and the air is mild while the sun blinds city drivers and I sit in front of a computer in a windowless room, suffocating with lack of sleep and inspiration, I wonder if I've already settled. Maybe I needed to understand myself in this realm in order to leave it and move on. But for now it's an uncomfortable challenge, so I'm all in. I know can do this. I just hope I can do it and be happy at the same time.

I could use a good laugh. Give me a tall mug of coffee and a long conversation anytime. I need to stop eating so badly and spending so much time on my hair. I need to sit in the sunshine and eat sliced apples and be ok with being alone for awhile.

I want days and weeks to focus on writing one precious truth that touches everyone who reads it in a place they had forgotten about and leads to good and purposeful action. The other day I was feeling particularly uninspired, and met an older Irish man in the coffee shop who told me that it's better to be a bad writer than to not write at all. He admitted that most of his writing is completely awful. And then he shared with me one of his published novels that was for sale in the shop. Mmm. Bad writing it is.

Back to writing.

I'm uncomfortable and excited.
I am writing again.

There's no way that isn't awkward to begin a new blog. Even that sentence was awkward. So I'm diving in. Again.