daily bliss: teachers

This summer I saw my two favorite elementary school teachers. 

Mrs. M taught first grade and crated a fun classroom, complete with a corner called Australia that students could visit when they were having a "no good terrible very bad day." On one memorable occasion, she had to explain the concept of tardy to me, as my little friend and I would walk the short distance from my home to the school, meandering in ditches, following our whims and keeping a lackadaisical pace. In general, though, I was an excellent, albeit quiet, student, a bookworm with her own reading group (aptly named "pink") until I started joining the second graders for reading lessons. 

I saw Mrs. M at Morningstar Cafe, home of my favorite pancakes. Having seen my Mom a few weeks earlier, she knew the general details of my life, and kept repeating "how cute are you?" I beamed, suddenly that little girl again, so happy to be pleasing my teacher. 

Mr. K taught fifth grade, and he was innovative and fun. We read long chapter books in his classes, and played softball outside on warm Spring days. I remember heading outside to play ball, the song "Let's Hear it For the Boy" echoing in my head. Long after I was a student of Mr. K's, he took to playing Santa around town. One year we visited him, and my brother L, nine years younger than I, was astounded that somehow Santa knew so very much about him. 

I saw Mr. K at the Holland Farmers' Market, and he was in the thick of things, making a promotional film. He stopped action to talk to me and he kept repeating how proud he was of me and my achievements. He remembered the adjustments I faced in fifth grade, what with a new brother and a new last name. 

***

As I sit here on the Eve of Back-to-Schoolness, I think of my favorite teachers and how seemingly effortlessly they encouraged, inspired, and engaged me and many of my fellow students. I always loved school and I attribute much of that affection to my excellent teachers, who reached out to a quiet, nervous, imaginative girl and reeled her into the world of words and ideas and greatness. 

I often joke that my current job is a way for me to stay perpetually in school, and in many ways it is. Though I teach, I'm constantly learning. Students have so much to teach us about their lives, struggles, needs, dreams, stumbling blocks. The day I stop being open to learning from my students is the day that I should stop teaching. 

After an amazing summer far outside of my academic role, I'm eager to return to the not-so-Ivory Tower with my renewed energy and optimism, my new dreams and my new supports as strong foundations for the work I do.

I can't wait to talk about the joy of words, the frustrations of the blank page, the challenges and opportunities of college, and feminist approaches to vampire romances with my students. To engage, to learn, to delight.

daily bliss: what i did this summer

A grey, drizzly night, humid yet chilly. Summer is slipping away. All day I've been melancholy. All day I've been off: burning my finger with a rookie baking error, overcooking my vegetables, snapping at my Mom.

I vowed several weeks ago to follow the rhythms of nature's calendar, marking the seasons with solstices and equinoxes, but now that I'm on the eve of my official return to work, to the academic year, it's hard to remember that summer is still here. For another month.

My heart is so full that I don't even know how to gather the words and share them with you. Or maybe I do and I'm still scared to write them here. "Just write for yourself. You have to. You can't worry about who might be reading," he says, and I know he's right. And yet...

I queue up a selection of summer songs, lyrics of home and moments echoing in this otherwise quiet pink room. I make a mug of vanilla black tea laced with milk and sugar, which I sip for courage and sweetness and comfort. I resist the urge to pick up the phone and instead I tap these keys, my burned fingertip aching with every "c" and "d."

I sift through blog entries written on the other edge of this summer, when I had a simple goal—to enjoy a Summer of Fun, a summer of being me and not thinking about work, allowing days to unfold as they would. And as they did.

I read my bittersweet melancholy at the close of a school year, with all the summer before me, wondering how to find the rhythms of relaxation. A smile lights up my face as I realize just how simple it was to find myself, to fill my days with words and laughter and companionship and walks. A tear traces down my cheek as I now try to remember my way back to that other rhythm of alarm clocks, bubbly encouragement, efficient productivity, firm compassion.

I find an early "to-do" list for the summer, including 14 items, the 14th one being the pivotal item around which everything shifted into a kind of happiness I had almost given up on: love.

And I know there will never be another summer quite like this one, a magical season in which time flew and lingered, in which days stretched into forever and whole weeks disappeared. Moments that seemed inexplicably predestined, somehow, strange and familiar all at once. Hours that melded into one another and any worry of accomplishing anything other than just being alive and happy and real disappeared like the fog over Lake Michigan on a hot summer afternoon.

All I want is to bring this zen-like ability to savor life as it's unfolding into the next season—fantastical fall— and those stretches of time in which I wrangle more with others' words than my own, weeks that demand an extroversion that I've tucked away in favor of quieter connections, months that challenge the soul with ever more greyness and chilliness.

And yet. I know, somehow, magically, elementally, that these seasons too will be full of heart, of discovery, of bliss. And so I settle in, ready to slip into heels and shoulder school bags, ready to walk into classrooms and meetings, ready for new writing ventures, ready for music and trips, and ready for long meandering conversations that never end.

I'm ready for the fall...

daily bliss: i am...

...standing in my kitchen, peeling and slicing peaches.

...walking down the stairs, carrying trays of food to put on the grill.

...sitting on my couch, talking about a book.

...standing in my kitchen, saying a long goodbye.

...walking down the lakeshore trail, talking about blueskys and picnic tables.

...sitting in my living room, drinking in conversation and sauvignon blanc.

In all these moments, I thinkfeel happy. My heart swells with gratitude for whatever good fortune has aligned all these moments, this feast, these friends, all together on this day.

daily bliss: risk

"The day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom." Anaïs Nin


roses, the american club, kohler, wi, august 2009

daily bliss: meteor showers

A cool August night. I step out onto my deck, talking on the phone as I watch the sky, looking for familiar landmarks of dippers and myths.

"If you can catch a few, it's amazing," he says.

My reply is interrupted with an involuntary "ooooh," as a long, bright meteor streaks across the panoply of stars in the blueblack sky.

Magic.

I hang up the phone, layer on fleece, and wrap my trusty pink pashmina scarf around my neck. I brew a cup of vanilla scented tea. I perch on a cold chair on my deck, arching this way and that for views of the whole sky. Nothing. I stand, eyes scanning the sky for a streak of brightness against the pinpricks of dying light, traveling so far across space and time. I bend my back, yogi style, to see the sky more perfectly.

I think of special relativity, and my most basic understanding of the phenomenon that perspective alters how we experience space and time and distance.

I think about this summer, how moments have seemed to stretch beyond eternity, how months almost seem like years, how new conversations seem to have been started before I was even born.

I catch a tiny meteor on the edge of my vision, nearly imperceptible as it trails across the bowl of stars.

I drink in the quiet of this summer night, the stillness even in my city neighborhood, the gentle din of air conditioners the only sound. And then the sudden, swift rustle of a small animal scaling the neighbors' tree, startling me into spilling the steaming tea all over myself.

I breathe in the sheer magnificence one last time, eyes searching the sky for moments of wonder, finding plenty, even if not of the meteor variety, and then head inside to sleep, perchance to dream serendipitous dreams.

"the most beautiful and most profound emotion we can experience is the sensation of the mystical. it is the sower of all true science. he to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer stand rapt in awe is as good as dead. that deeply emotional conviction of the presence of a superior reasoning power, which is revealed in the incomprehensible universe forms my idea of god." Albert Einstein

twd: brownie buttons

In honor of these diminutive treats, I--along with a small cadre of others--am writing a tiny post, in which I claim that these are good, but not great, simple to make and cute, but not, ultimately, the most satisfying of brownies I've ever made or eaten, all in the space of one sentence (though no limits were set on the length of said sentence, though the understanding is that it should be grammatically sound, yes?!?); Jayma of Two Scientists Experimenting in the Kitchen selected these wee goodies for our weekly recipe, and, as always, you can check out the other TWDers' narratives, whether long or short (select the full blogroll , or here for a list of one-sentence groupies).

daily bliss: rainy weekdays

Back when I was a young girl and teenager, I spent most of July and August out in the blueberry fields, hand picking fruit. Or in the packing shed, watching berries spill down a conveyor belt, attempting to perform quality control. Rainy weekdays were blessings: days we couldn't work on the farm, and days that we packed with everything good and fun and non-agricultural related. Trips to the library to check out towering stacks of books. Back-to-School clothes shopping at Rogers Department Store in Grand Rapids. Days spent reading or baking cookies.

Rainy August weekdays like today are perfect days to fill with syllabus planning, and brownie baking, and closet cleaning, and vacuuming, a mix of intellectual and domestic work rather than play. Days to work ahead so that when the sunshine returns I can linger outside under the dappled light. Days to work ahead so that when I go back to school I have a handle on the weeks unfolding.

(although i just may need to do a little preliminary online back-to-school clothes cyber window shopping:)

daily bliss: julie & julia

julia's kitchen, smithsonian, seen *just* before they added her pans:(


"It seems to me that our three basic needs, for food and security and love, are so mixed and mingled and entwined that we cannot straightly think of one without the others." M.F.K. Fisher, "The Art of Eating"

What I love most about Julie & Julia, the film, is how well Nora Ephron evokes Fisher's famous statement throughout the film, though particularly in the Julia storyline. Every foray into eating and cooking and writing is filtered through a deep abiding love of life, of discovery, and, most certainly, of Paul. And the film beautifully captures the power of this trifecta of food and security and love, illustrating how blissful life can be when these elements are strong and true.

And then there is the writerliness. We see Julia feed onionskin paper and carbon sheets into a typewriter; we see Julie settle in with her laptop, tapping keys, and creating an online narrative confessional of her search for something more. The sheer joy at possible publication, the thrill of comments, the sense that our words can give shape and pleasure to others, the arrival of that first finished book, well, aren't these the kinds of validation that most writers crave?!?

Oh, and the food. The sizzle of melting butter. The playfulness of a chocolate and slivered almond covered cake. The sparkle of champagne in coupes. The pleasing, rhythmic thud of a chef's knife meeting a wooden cutting board. The smiles, the joy, the little happy sounds when people eat said food. A revelation in simple, elemental happiness. The surprise that something so wonderful and tasty and transcendent can be created not in a four star Michelin restaurant, but right here, at home, in crowded kitchens.

Watching the film made me long to write and cook and share, to write and cook and not be alone. And that's exactly what I/we did. And it was lovely.

daily bliss: bridges

southbound

The waters were not troubled. They were bluer than blue. I paid my three dollars, and deliberated whether to drive on the inside or outside lane. The inside lane turns to a thick metal grate that rumbles under the tires 1/3 of the way up the five mile bridge, whereas the outside lane is concrete all the way, but it is...close to the edge. The road crews working on the outside lanes made my decision for me. As I left da UP behind and crossed over to the Land of the Trolls, my spirit soared and the word home echoed throughout my being. I was sorta almost there, to my summer getaway and favorite place I've ever been, the Leelanau Peninsula.

On the way back to Wisconsin today, I drove over the bridge again, stopping and going along the highest spans of the structure, imagining the air rushing up under the metal grate, feeling every rumble of car tires, sensing my heart accelerate, and my fear of heights and weightlessness activating. I may have shed a tear or two or four at leaving my LP (lower peninsula) home behind, and facing the long expanse of da UP before reaching my new home.


lost highway, us 2

I often ponder how this lake I adore has shaped my life--through presence in childhood and absence in young adulthood, and now, largely, through making journeys farther than they would be if it weren't there. But, if it were not there...I wouldn't be here, or there, or even me.

One time a tourist approached my friend B and asked her where the bridge was.

"What bridge?"

"The one to cross the Lake," she insisted, even as B told her there was no such bridge in our town, and that the only bridge "across" the Lake was the Mighty Mac.

On days like today when I make epic drives around Lake Michigan's curvaceous shores, I almost wish for such a bridge, or at least a really swift boat, or, better yet, people with Trekkie powers to beam me home, making the transition between my past, present, and future smooth and quick and painless.

And yet. The time, the distance, the space between, whether traveled on slow boats or long two lane roads or congested freeways or delay-prone trains, clears a space in my heartmindsoul to feelthinkbe. And that's where I usually find...me.


northbound

daily bliss: road trip + restoration

Look for me to cross the bridge noon-ish tomorrow...

Eight hours of sheer beauty.

Eight hours of swell music.

Several days relaxing with one of my best friends and her family at the most magical, restorative place I know. Long walks on the beach. Splashing in the waves and digging in the sand with my "niece" S. Tasting (and buying) bubbly wine with H. Enjoying meals with the whole gang. Sharing 'sconnie goodness (a sampling of cheeses and a bottle of prairie fumé). Exploring the city and the smallish resort towns. Marveling at towering dunes.


from atop the 200 foot dune at sleeping bear dunes national lakeshore, 2008

Endless satisfaction in a mini-vacation before work and routines begin anew.


H and I, 2008

daily bliss: community

The windows are open and a cool breeze blows in. I hear neighbors singing happy birthday and then clapping. I imagine a towering cake, a smattering of candles, wavering flames, and a rush of smoke. I wonder what flavor the cake is, if it's homemade, whose birthday it is, and whether or not they're happy...

I walk past the rustic ball diamond at the elementary school around the corner from my house. A group of boys practice softball on the diamond. On the side of the field, on the shaggy lawn, a handful of girls practice softball. Parents watch, encourage, clap for both groups. Hands twist in the air, and balls land with a thud in the center of gloved palms...

My friend B and I take her two boys for a walk/bike ride. M shows me all the toys in the garage, and covers his face with his hands when I have to go home. Little B smiles a bright eyed, full toothed grin before ducking his head on B's chest...

Young G sits on my lap at BW3 and we talk about fashion shows and the proper technique for applying lipstick (it's important to use a color and a gloss, I say, for maximum effect). She smooths my wayward bangs across my forehead in a glamorous swoop, and tells me we should fill our hair with tiny pink and blue braids *or* buns for the aforementioned extravaganza...

A roomful of sixty+ people gather on a late July evening to hear poetry and music, clapping, laughing, and sitting transfixed as poets--professional and amateur--musicians--polished and raw--take the stage...

I help J sell vegetables at the farmers' market, and love the diverse conversations with customers who clearly love and appreciate good food. Recipes are shared, smiles widen, and bags fill with the season's harvest...

I, slightly nervous, bake and take a warm blueberry crisp to G's family gathering, offering something from *my* family, from my kitchen as a sign of goodwill. They, in return, offer kind words, laughter, and praise (for said crisp), as well as a delicious meal. Later, as orange campfire flames lick the sky and throw up showers of sparks, I feel nothing but warmth.

daily bliss: summer salads

There comes a moment in summer when there are almost too many fresh, seasonal fruits and vegetables. Each meal becomes a true omnivore's dilemma--whatever will I eat this time?

There also comes a moment in summer when temperatures rise and the desire to turn on the oven or stovetop decreases. (note: a chilly midwestern summer means *these* moments are rare, but i pretend, out of a perverse desire for a hot, humid summer. must be all those years spent living south of the mason-dixon line).

At these moments, your best friend is a summer salad, crafted out of the freshest ingredients, and arranged in endless iterations. My go-to food reference, Mark Bittman, just posted a list of 101 salads on the NY Times website last week, and he's the inspiration behind this post.

Here are two of the many salads I've been making lately.

Nicoise inspired Salad

boiled new potatoes
steamed green beans
chickpeas/garbanzo beans
scallions
olives
lemon juice
olive oil
basil (italian and thai)
salt
pepper

This vegan salad is tasty and adaptable. Some kind of potato and bean is essential, as is the lemon and olive oil dressing. A traditional Salad Nicoise also contains hard boiled eggs and tuna, neither of which I like.



Trattoria Stella inspired Salad

Trattoria Stella is a gem of a restaurant, tucked into a former mental hospital in Traverse City, Michigan. (the buildings are gorgeous, with a touch of the gothic. the whole "campus" has been transformed into upscale housing, restaurants, and shops).

Two summers ago I enjoyed a salad of butterhead lettuce, sweet cherries, and goat cheese that was transcendent. I had just started eating sweet cherries, and this salad was a revelation.

My version is built around some of my favorite ingredients.

local lettuces (whatever is available, from butterhead to spring greens to heirloom iceberg)
toasted pecans (don't skip the toasting--it adds the perfect level of complexity)
sweet cherries (halved and pitted)
bellavitano cheese (an amazing wisconsin cheese, a fruity parmesan style that crumbles)
balsamic vinaigrette (olive oil + aged balsamic vinegar)
maldon salt
black pepper




Imagine a lunch with *both* of these salads and a little wedge of bread, and you'll have my staple lunch this week. Yumm. Next week I'll try some new combinations...

daily bliss: pink paper + fabric folders

Yesterday I stopped in OfficeMax to buy my requisite ream of pink paper. Yes, I use pink paper at home. It's just so...pretty. And cheerful! Whether I'm printing out really boring things, like academic calendars (boo!) or mapquest directions for a fun road trip (yay!), the pink paper is a nice touch.

I had a little chat with myself before entering OfficeMax, a la Stephen Colbert's formidable opponent bit:

"It's not time for school supplies yet."

"But see the sign? They already have them on special!"

"It's not even August yet! Don't do it."

"But..."

"Okay, you can look at pens and folders. That's all."

I picked up my paper, and sauntered over to the folders, when one solicitous OfficeMax worker, complete with headset, approached me: "Do you need help finding anything, young woman?"

Young Woman?

Wow.

Oh, the temptation to say "I need some school supplies for college, yo." (which would be true. he doesn't need to know that i'm a *professor* and not a student, right?!?)

But I didn't.

He walked away and I looked longingly at folders and binders in shiny pinks and greens. Then I saw a fabric covered binder that looked familiar.

Glee! Delight! Squeeeeee!

The folder was covered in a fashionista Parisian fabric, a fabric I fell in love with a few years ago, and commissioned my Mom to make me a few throw pillows with. The folder claimed to be 100% ecofriendly and was also made in the USA. With a quick glance at the price tag (ahem!), I lovingly scooped it up.

Carolyn asked for photos of my finds, so here they are. I don't usually keep reams of paper and folders in my bedroom, but I had to take a shot with the matching pillows.



And, last night, talking to G, I decided what to do with my new folder. It will be my new journal. I hole-punched some of the new pink paper and added it to the folder. This will be a great journal to play around with and do some more creative things like collaging and drawing and adding other bits of goodness other than just the random musings of my mind. Yay!

twd: vanilla ice cream + fresh blueberry pie

I've gone missing from TWD the past few weeks and have dearly missed the baking camaraderie! I'm back this week, with Dorie's delicious version of vanilla ice cream, chosen by Lynne, of Cafe LynnyLu.

I've mentioned that custard freaks me out. Visions of scrambled eggy bits floating around ice cream or pudding just terrify me. And so, yesterday, with much trepidation and deep yogic breaths, I faced my demon. And, you know what? I don't know what the big deal was. The custard was simple to make. I remembered reading a tweet from one of the TWD crew that explained the consistency of a properly cooked custard, and how it is only slightly thickened, which was immensely helpful. Without this little bit of wisdom in my head, I likely would've overcooked the hell out of the custard, and had more than scrambled bits.

I made a pint, and used the last chunk of vanilla bean in my baking stash drawer, as well as some vanilla extract. I used 1% Organic Valley milk and heavy cream. I chilled the custard for several hours, and started up the LOUD ice cream machine last night, sequestering myself in my bedroom with the door closed in order to carry on a phone conversation. Except I had to keep checking the ice cream, tasting it part way through the process. You know, to make sure it was okay.

And, oh, this ice cream is wonderful, with a voluptuousness that Philadelphia ice creams just can't match. Think Marilyn versus Audrey. Both are fabulous in different ways. Most of the time I'm more of an Audrey girl myself, but sometimes, you want a little Marilyn to push you over the edge.



***
Last week my Mom visited for a few days, and we had great fun browsing at greenspace galleries and vintage shops. She brought me three big bags of blueberries, the first of the season, fresh from our farm. I'm still not accustomed to eating blueberries plain out of hand, but I love, love a fresh blueberry pie. It's my Dad's favorite pie, and he used to have most of the pie to himself as he and my Mom were the only ones who liked it. My brother L and I were too scarred by all of our childhood farm labor to partake (just kidding--the farm days were mostly fun. dirty. hot. seemingly endless. but fun. and profitable). Now, L and I not only love the pie, we make it ourselves at our respective homes.



The fresh blueberry pie really allows the floral overtones of the berries to shine through. And just think of the antioxidant rush eating a slice of this pie will provide!

Fresh Blueberry Pie
from my Mom, K

one 9 inch pie crust, baked to a golden brown (i make an all-butter pie crust)
3/4 c. sugar
3 T cornstarch
1/4 tsp salt
1/4 c. water
4 c. blueberries, divided
1 T lemon juice
whipped cream or ice cream

Combine sugar, cornstarch, and salt in a medium saucepan. Add water and two cups of blueberries. Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly until mixture comes to a boil and is thickened. The berries will turn into a jam like consistency, and it will be clear and thick. Remove from the heat and stir in the lemon juice. Once it is cooled, add the remaining blueberries and stir. I sometimes add extra berries if the ratio of fresh berries to cooked looks off. Place the mixture in the pie crust and allow to chill in the refrigerator. Serve with whipped cream or vanilla ice cream, and think of those dedicated souls who hand picked those berries with love:)

daily bliss: two years

Two years ago today I slept, for the first time, in my new apartment, where I would start to build a life for myself here, on the other side of the lake from where I grew up. I remember, not that night, but those few days of packing, loading trucks, saying goodbye, driving through michigan indiana illinois and half of wisconsin to get here, saying hello, unpacking, saying goodbye, feeling that elemental loneliness one feels when one's a stranger in a seemingly strange land, one in which the natives wear green and gold and report on any and every peregrination of one brett favre (before he disgraced the pack. oh, wait, they *still* report on him daily...).

Fall 2006
But the story begins a little earlier, say, back in the fall of 2006. Back when one ever-increasingly jaded academic declares to her journals and people she trusts implicitly, that if she doesn't land a tenure track job that year, she will walk away. She will move to Traverse City and become a barista. Or attend culinary school. Or live out of her G6/the family hunting cabin. She will not take the rejection and doom one day longer.

After sending out scads of job letters, including quite a few to public and private schools in Wisconsin, she waits. She hears from one Georgia school that wants to interview her at the MLA convention in Philadelphia. She waits. On December 11 she receives a call from one Wisconsin school, wondering if she is still interested in the job, if she knew what it would entail, and so on.

"Yes, yes, I'm interested!" She gushes. Later, she revisits the job description and school website. A good location, an innovative approach. The job she thought she wanted? Not so much. But she is interested.

She waits. A week. No word back from the school in WI. She starts to do that doubty thing. "What did I do wrong? Why aren't they calling?" (she realizes that this conversation with herself nearly perfectly mirrors the conversations that have taken place during her limited dating experiences). She starts making rationalizations, but her heart sinks as she thinks they've gone another way.

She makes a cake for her best friend H's baby shower, and when she's tipping the cakes out of the pans, she sees the name of the town where the school is located pressed into the pan. Serendipity?

A few days later the call comes. They *are* still interested. She's making chocolate babka, drinking an Oregon pinot noir, and eating thick soup with her old college roommate N, and she races for a pen and paper to write down the details. She dances around her tiny kitchen and pours another glass of wine.

January 28, 2007
A ridiculously cold day. She boards the Amtrak in EL, headed for MKE, where she'll drive a rental car to the town where the campus is located. The day is frigid, hovering at or below zero, the sky crystalline blue, the ground barely covered with a skiff of snow. She pulls into town and curves around the lake, looking for her hotel, and for somewhere to eat dinner that night. Everywhere looks closed. She orders pizza and settles in with her notecards and folder of research to practice for the next day.

January 29, 2007
She dresses rather conservatively in her back Ann Taylor pantsuit, a white ruffled blouse, a green cashmere vest. She winds her long hair into a bun and slips on her low heeled black heels. In the lobby, she meets M and B. (B, who will become her bff and co-conspirator of silliness).

The day is grueling--a series of interviews and chats, presentations and happy hours, tours and meals. She's shocked by the smallness of it all--the school, the town. But she's utterly blown away by the kind genuineness of the faculty and staff. She stands outside of the hotel, freezing and exhausted, as C gives her a hug and asks, "Can you see yourself here for 30 years?"

Thirty years? THIRTY YEARS? she thinks, and mumbles something about other interviews, about really liking the school, and hopes she's hidden her shock at the idea of THIRTY YEARS.

***
Over the next few weeks, she flies to Georgia and Wisconsin for other interviews. She hopes that her fate of living in her car and pulling shots of espresso is fading, but she's never one to be overconfident without some concrete evidence, so she waits.

But while she waits, she wonders. She weighs geography and climate. She considers social possibilities for single girls. She tries to intuit that indescribable "fit," that "rightness."

And when three job offers rush in, she flirts with the possibilities. She envisions herself in the different settings. She imagines her life in small towns in a dairy state versus a bustling metropolis in the new south. It's a cold February, and Georgia has a slight edge. But. When the agonizing decision must be made, she thinks about where she felt most welcome, most at home. And she chooses M. She worries about living in a small town. She worries about being the token single girl in a world of married and kidded colleagues. But. Immediately, they all email congratulations and offer boundless help when the time comes for my big move...and I know, in that deep, intuitive place, that this is the right decision.

July 27 and 28, 2007
Journal Entry:
Can't sleep--though very sleepy--because today's the day of my move--well, the first day of my two day move. I'm sad, excited--just had the thought: it's time for my life to be my own, to own my own life. I think this move will be very good for me, but also very hard after being so comfortable here--but I also know my life is meant to be bigger than all of of *this*--how to explain? or why is it necessary to explain--is it enough to simply *feel*?

one door closes
another opens
and life expands...

***
And then. The loneliness. The worry about fitting in and doing well. The stress filled stomach, the fluttering heart. The missing my family, my friends. A feeling of utter aloneness. The wrenching goodbyes when I travel from one side of the lake to the other.

Moving to a new, cozier, posher home after five months helps alleviate some of the homesickness, but as temperatures dip ever lower and snow swirls ever deeper, my spirits sink.

Mom and I meet in Chicago one weekend in April and I don't want to come back. I know I can't return to Michigan either, at this point, but I long to be somewhere that feels like home instead of in this in between place where nowhere is home.

Despite a moment in late April when I write "I feel hope for this place," I teeter between overworked burnout and deep interiority, if the pages of my journal are to be believed. I yearn for those visits to and from Michigan, even as I begin slowly making connections here, planting roots in the community through my job and my personal interests. I'm finding pockets of good, kind, caring people who support me. My home is a refuge. And yet...still not entirely home.

***
May-present 2009
Another grueling academic year draws to a close, and I vow to recharge when classes end and grades are submitted. My friend B and I sit in my office and I make some other declarations with laughter and the kind of certainty that only comes with uncertainty, and I step back and wait...

And it's easier to love this place in Spring and Summer, when greens and blues compose a palette of beauty and hope, rather than drifts of snow and ever-present greyness bespeaking dullness and weariness. I cast away all thoughts of winter, of sadness, and head out into the sparkling, shimmering world.

I travel, I visit, I plan. Michigan beckons and I go and glory in the sunsets and the comfort of porches and my oldest, dearest fans and loves. The place wraps around me like a shawl on a cool June day, and I carry it with me, even as I leave, as I drive around the contours of the lake, and walk up the 10+ stairs into my home. I carry it with me as I frolic in the sun, watch the sun rise, and daydream of the future.

I know that home is somehow the place within me, but to be grounded in a place, well, that's to give that internal home a real home. I've lived a temporary life in many respects, since leaving my parents' home at 17 for college, always returning but never to *stay.* I've learned to live with multiple homes, to have my heart torn between places, to not set down too deep of roots as the next degree program or temporary job beckoned.

To be settled, to know a place, to come to love it for its treasures and tolerate its faults, to know its people in real, meaningful ways, and to become, openheartedly, one of them, is a leap, a stretch. It involves an act of letting go and digging in. It requires both a groundedness and a willingness to lift both feet off the ground in order to give oneself over to the place.

And so, we paint walls.
We hang paintings.
We volunteer.
We plan events.
We forge connections.
We build relationships.

We come home.

daily bliss: berries + waffles

How many ways can you (er, i) enjoy bounteous berryness?

Cakes. (done)
Pies. (on the way)
Jam. (done, with more on the way)
Smoothies. (done)
Yogurt. (done)
Cereal. (done)

Mom inspired me to make waffles...the delicious, handy yeasted variety that rest overnight in the fridge and cook up in a snap in the morning, when I'm trying to wash away somnolence and vivid dreams with strong cafe au lait, tangy orange juice, and something sweet and special.

I was on the verge of whipping cream to top these waffles, but (miraculously, though a moment on my fancy body fat scale certainly helped) exercised restraint. A dab of butter, a drizzle of maple syrup, and a pile of berries--strawberries from Wilfert Farms and blueberries from Creek Water Blueberries (my family! our farm! the best blueberries you'll ever eat, i promise!)--made these a perfect start to a lazy, hazy day.

Mmmm, goodness. sweetness. blissfulness. happiness.

daily bliss: clouds and rainbows

Tonight I'm entranced by the clouds shaping, gathering, and moving across the sky, out over Lake Michigan.

Sun and rain have been playing tag today, and I've had the chance to feel warm rays and cool drops dance across my skin.

It's a quiet night here in northeast wisconsin (if my phrasing sounds reminiscent of garrison keillor's "news from lake wobegon," well, it's stuck in my head as i listened to phc for the first time in, well, months), despite the brief torrential downpours of this afternoon and the rumblings of thunder off to the west some time ago. A few birds chirp, and few cars drive past, a few voices catch a wave of air. I allow the silence to fill the house before switching CDs, selecting the perfect songs: Mindy Smith's "It's Amazing." Matchbox 20's "Hand Me Down."

I walk out on my deck, barefoot, feeling the slick damp asphalt and soggy astroturf under my feet, the gentle lift of my floral skirt as I turn this way and that, trying to capture these clouds.



Look closely, and you just might see a rainbow, evidence of the mingling of sun and rain, the yin and yang of it all.



Cue up Kermit, and ponder...

"What's so amazing that keeps us stargazing?
And what do we think we might see?
Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection,
the lovers, the dreamers and me."

daily bliss: looking ahead...

Meetings at work yesterday and today put me in the mind of fall and of all my work commitments that I have blithely pushed to the corners of my mind during this, the Summer of Fun. A forward glance at the calendar last night quickened the back-to-school anxiety. If I'm not careful, any day those dreams will start. You know, the ones where it's the first day of class and I'm supposed to hand out the syllabus and, um, it's gone missing. Or was never prepared.

A drizzly, hazy morning and a coolish, humid afternoon felt more like early fall than late July, and I felt that old sinking heart return. I pulled on my hooded sweatshirt (only in the upper Midwest will you need such garb on July 22, yes?!?) and walked my favorite lakeshore path, hoping to lift my spirits a bit. Perhaps a different soundtrack would've helped, but a dose of Coldplay and Damien Rice did nothing to make me smile.

As I sat on a log and stared out at a steely Lake Michigan, I thought about the class schedule I had started working on today--plotting assignment due dates, and envisioning hours grading papers. I'm trying a few different approaches this year, namely cutting out mandatory student-teacher conferences for the first essay (they make me sick, every single semester, and i'm not sure the benefit is worth the cost, so to speak), and scheduling paper due dates on Tuesdays instead of Thursdays in an attempt to *not* use my weekends for grading. I'm confident that I can make this schedule work, especially since Fall is my "easier" semester, teaching-wise.

Walking back home, I thought about how to maintain positivity and ebullience in the face of negativity and naysayers, and don't have many answers. In many ways, this is the most challenging aspect of any job. (all and any suggestions will be most welcome).

I climbed the stairs to my apartment, warm enough to remove my sweatshirt, and took refuge in the kitchen, cooking fresh, local veggies and pasta, unscrewing a bottle of Layer Cake shiraz, and playing a CD of a band I saw in concert earlier this summer. Eating dinner, I flipped on the television and wavered between Nora Roberts' Midnight Bayou and The House of Mirth. Tonight's *not* a night for poor Lily Bart, though I love her dearly.

As I type these words, my verb tenses shifting, my perspective tilting, I think that it's *not* wise to worry these last five weeks of Summer away. I think it *is* wise to dig in, prepare my classes, and stock up on school supplies (fashionwise and pen and paperwise and pink stapleswise). I think it *is* wise to find that happy, calm core, and cultivate it at will in the face of doubts and negativity and adversity. I think it *is* wise to focus on the students: the new, fresh, eager first year students, who need kindness and challenges, compassion and courage. Just like me.

daily bliss: dharmagirl's dc adventures

Thursday:
I arrive at the gorgeous Omni Shoreham hotel, after a relatively smooth morning of travel.

"Ma'am, I'll upgrade you to a King room," says the reception clerk.

"Super."

"Oh, but the only King room is without a view."

"Then I'd rather have a Queen, if at all possible."

She returns to the computer, does a little magic. "I have a very nice room for you. It has a view of the park, and a bay window."

I gather up my bags, stroll across the elegant lobby, and take the elevator up to the 5th floor. My room is a coveted corner room, framed by windows on two sides. The plush King bed floats along one wall of the ginormous, sunny room. I set my suitcase in the closet and note the bathrobes hanging there. This space is gorgeous. Comfortable. Posh, yet simple. Perfect.

I head to the conference, where I sit in on a "chat" with Nora Roberts, who cusses and says hilarious things, though I don't agree with everything, and (shhhh) am still not a huge fan of her particular kind of romance. But, damn, the woman is prolific and sassy and divatastic.


proclaiming my scholarly identity for all the world to see

Friday:
I roll out of the center of the giant bed, throw on my yoga clothes, and head to Open City, a corner cafe-restaurant-bar, where I deviate from my daily cafe au lait for something stronger--straight up coffee with cream and sugar. It comes in a huge latte bowl, served with two animal crackers.





I head back to the hotel, prepare for the day by dressing in my new linen suit, pink flowered H&M blouse, and my favorite pink shoes. I can feel my scholarly, presentationey self coming back, after a sun-drenched (and beer soaked) two months hiatus.

I sit in on a panel about using tense and point of view to craft the story, and leave after 10 minutes, during which the terms are defined and an informal quiz on said terms is given.

Instead, I go to the Borders book room, where I buy two writing craft books--Ray Bradbury's Zen in the Art of Writing and Twyla Tharp's The Creative Habit: Learn it and Use it for Life--as well as two RN's, Delicious, a historical involving food, and Seducing Mr. Darcy, a contemporary meets literary meets paranormal (which incidentally won the coveted RITA award Saturday night).

I listen to Suzanne Brockmann talk about writing romances that break social barriers--racial and sexual. I'm blown away by her passion and commitment to writing books that readers will love and will possibly be changed by.

And, soon, it's time for my panel. With trembling feet (clad in the aforementioned awesome shoes), I head to the presentation room. I greet Pam, and then fight my way into the room amongst crowds of women coming or going. I then greet Jenny, who...HUGS me. I'm trying to play it cool, to seem all scholarly and writerly and professional and not be the fan girl I really am. The panelists chat about our plan, Jenny mentions how cool it is that we're talking about her books, and we're off. I talk, I meander, I throw out little bon mots here and there, and then, it's over, and Sarah mentions my awesome shoes and the audience clamors for a glimpse, so I reach down and take one off and hold it aloft, to murmurs of approval and envy. Pam and Jenny raise excellent points, and just like that, the panel is done. I reach into my bag and remove the books I brought--Pam's scholarly tome and Jenny's Agnes and they sign them with sweet inscriptions.


the famous pink shoes

Saturday:
I head to the cafe early, eat a little breakfast outside, as the sun streams down, the birds flit about, and a bad city smell fills the air, prompting the little girl at the next table to say, repeatedly, "It smells like poop! I don't like it!"

And it's back to the conference, for another panel of writing tips that winds up being so obvious I leave once again, and walk around the neighborhood, down by the zoo. I feel alone and lonely. All these groups of friends, these couples, these families, make me long for a little company here, and I think about my favorite people and how much fun this day could be if they were here.

I head back to the conference hotel for Jenny's craft panel, which is absolutely packed. I hear a guy behind me complaining about her panel yesterday, and how he walked out when some college prof was talking about food. OMG! I briefly consider throwing a little PhD slap on him, but realize that he missed the point already. Jenny talks about turning points, and acts, and scenes, and beats, and moments in the story where people are fundamentally changed and they can't go back to how they were at the beginning of the story, and it's fabulous. I scribble many notes. I wave to her at the end, and then I head out.

It's time to explore the capital. I brave the metro, ride to Union Station, where I eat lunch at B. Smith's, and then walk straightaway to the Library of Congress, passing the Capitol on the way...



But, oh, the Library of Congress! Shivers run through my body as I contemplate the wonder at a temple of books. And I love, love America. And I love this place. And I want to sit in the reading room and write deep thoughts, but there's a whole process to gain entrance into that part, so I content myself with gazing at the wonders within and without.




Next, I walk past the various buildings lining the mall, and I head into the Botanical Gardens, marveling at the different climates and the wild blossoms. I snap shots of plants I can't identify, but love anyway, like this frilly flower.



Exhausted, I take the metro back to the hotel, where I relax for a few moments before the fire alarm shrills and I head to the stairs and out to the street, heart leaping. After 10 minutes, we're told we can return to the building, as a water pipe has burst and there's no fire. I still feel bluesy, and not up to another solo meal at a restaurant, so I head to the pool area, where I order a dangerously smooth Lemon Martini and a plate of hummus and olives, a fine dinner.

My spirits artificially lifted, I primp and slip into my new LBD (little black dress) for the RITA awards gala. In a large ballroom, conference attendees watch, cry, and cheer as the winners of best manuscript and published novels speak. Sequins and chiffon and glitter swirl, as does laughter and movie clips, in between the awards. My eyes tear at some of the more moving speeches, and I imagine what it might be like to win such an award...Afterwards, we head to the lobby for pastries, cocktails, and other finger foods. Famous authors flit between award winners and wannabes. I soak it all in, feeling delight from the top of my gleaming hair to the bottom of my strappy silver sandals.



Sunday:
I awake with a plan to head back to the Mall, to see the big monuments, the White House, and a few goodies at the Smithsonian American History Museum. The day is hot, the Mall is long, and I am tired. Still, I manage to giggle at the giant phallus towering over the mall...



say "hey" to Abe...



wave to Michelle and Barack...



and commune with Julia Child...



And then it's back to the hotel to retrieve my bags, ride the shuttle to the airport, fly back to Wisconsin, and drive back home. Back to routines and friends and writing and my glorious life...

...back to write my own stories, to craft art and life with happy endings:)

daily bliss: love and power

During the Golden Heart and RITA awards ceremony at RWA on Saturday, emcee Anne Stuart quipped that RWA in DC focused on "the power of love instead of the love of power," perhaps a slightly different focus than most DC dealings.

This distinction, this inversion of words, highlights the difference between RWA and most academic conferences I attend. At RWA, scores of people--mostly women, though a few men were always sprinkled in the audience--listened and nodded as speaker after speaker extolled the power of both love and of writing, a power seemingly magnified when the two were brought together into the most popular genre of writing in the country.

As I tweeted on Friday, the conference speakers and attendees didn't apologize for their content. They didn't cast ironic glances or make sardonic winks as they told stories of love tested, writing rejected, and, finally, goodness rewarded. Instead, they believed in the power of the genre, the power of words, and the power of love to...fundamentally change people's lives.

From Suzanne Brockmann's impassioned discussion of breaking through social differences through writing romance to Eloisa James' story of the intersection of art and life, smart, accomplished, professional women celebrated everything intrinsic about the genre.

What a revelation.

At most academic conferences, and, indeed in the academy itself, such devotion and affection is often met with derision. Where is your skepticism? Your irony? Your cynical, jaded, world-weary, too-good for all this silliness demeanor?

And yet.

How much of "literature" is about love?

How much of human life is devoted to finding emotional connection and blessed understanding?

How much tragedy and bitterness emanates from the failure to find such connections, or the heartache of connections broken?

Most.

All?

So, why the skepticism?

Why not a happy ending?

Why not emotional satisfaction?

What are we afraid of?

Love?

"But perfect love drives out fear." (1 John 4:18)