Washington's Wharf

Today we returned to a haunt of my childhood: George Washington's Mount Vernon Estate.   As we trekked along the winding gravel paths leading us from Washington's mansion to the slave quarters and the dock on the Potomac river, Mom described forgotten memories from the time when we lived in the neighboring town of Alexandria. The Potomac took my breath away.  It was silent and gray and still in the soft December sun.

Nenna

I nicknamed my daughter when I was ten years old.

She is my earliest memory of a time when I wrote for someone else, simply because I wanted to. Although she was—and continues to be—only a dream, I wrote to her in a silky smooth journal with all of the earnest, motherly love my precocious heart could muster.

 I never actually intended to name my daughter Nenna. Rather, I envisioned that it would be a mysterious, affectionate nickname that she would never really understand until her tenth birthday when I gave her the diary. Flipping through the pages of the lavender spiral-bound notebook, she would find quotes, magazine clippings, recipes, and pieces of advice from her ten year-old mother, all addressed to “Dearest Nenna."

This was the first time that I recognized the ability of writing to transcend time. It didn’t matter that I was only ten years old; it didn’t matter that I wouldn’t have a daughter for years and years. It never occurred to me that my advice might seem outdated and juvenile, or even humorous. I wrote for myself, what I wished I could hear from the past.

I wrote for my daughter, a more distant piece of me, imagining the echoes of my past colliding with the future.

"My darling girl,

When are you going to realize that being normal is not necessarily a virtue? It rather denotes a lack of courage."

--Alice Hoffman
 
Taken from Wily Brunette

Unfamiliar Familiarity

There is something strange about coming home after four months.  It's unfamiliar familiarity.

You step through the threshold and the aroma of the house floods your nose, strong enough to evoke emotion-memories, subtle enough to prevent you from ever being able to recall it anywhere else.

You have to re-adjust your habits: simple motions and repetitive actions.  The microwave is too high, the counters are too low.  You grope around in the dark, swatting at the walls, trying to remember where the light switch is. Your foot rises and falls on level ground--you imagined an extra stair.

As I return to old places, detailed memories I'd let go flood back.  Stepping into my room, I'm reminded of the new-house smell that marked my first months in West Virginia.  The smell of paint and new carpet, blended with the memory of the music from my alarm clock, wearily sounding the return of another 5 am morning.  And other vague sensory details associated with the swollen heart and twisted gut I thought would never fade. 

My room heater hums and I think of lying on the floor, soaking in the heat like a reptile, phone practically melded to my ear, mouth spewing nothing and everything. Which reminds me of my first winter here: the endless snow days, trudging through a forest knee-deep in snow, sledding and eating pumpkin waffles with good friends. Beauty that I didn't fully see until it had passed me by.

 Friends come and go.  Years melt together.  A little pain here, a lot of joy there.

Time, rolling forward, never stopping before the unfamiliar becomes the familiar, and the familiar becomes the unfamiliar again.

Sometimes

Sometimes you leave seven page papers to the day before, relying on your ability to write like a madman under extreme deadlines. . .
It's finals season.
Sometimes you live off of frozen GoGurts like you're ten again. . .
It's called a healthy coping strategy.
Sometimes you don't get the job you wanted for external reasons. . .
And sometimes it's because of internal ones.
Sometimes it doesn't snow in December, and in fact, feels a whole lot more like a balmy October. . .
But you grin and bear it because it's prime running weather.
Sometimes you realize that what you thought was the worst place in the world. . .
Is actually beginning to feel like home.
Sometimes you're impressed by how much you've changed over the year. . .
Until you realize that the same things still make you laugh and cry.
Sometimes the best thing in the world is a hot shower. . .
With December's playlist blasting.

Breakdown

Well, here it is, the last two weeks of the semester have arrived!  These past few months have just flown by and I barely know where the time has gone.  It feels oh so good to see the assignments on my various syllabuses get checked off one-by-one.  I'm going to push through two more weeks of partying and studying (er--sorry, other way around, study then party), and then, as my good friend Jack Johnson relates, I'll be about ready to breakdown. Too bad I can't just surf and beach-bum my cares away.  I can't tell you how much I've missed my queen-sized bed though.  It'll be nice to settle between my fifteen pillows, and my huge, heavy comforter, as the snow drifts between the West Virginia hills.  And maybe go to sleep before 2:00 am?  Nahh, probably not.


(Wish I took this--photo courtesy of templesquarehospitality.com)

This Friday some friends and I went to the Gateway, walked around Temple Square and checked out the lights, and even took a trip down memory lane as we drove through my old neighborhood.  This morning I was back in Salt Lake with a fellow Canadian to listen to Music and the Spoken Word in the Conference Center.  It was such a nice way to usher in the Christmas season!  I can hardly believe it's here. Between Relient K Christmas albums, and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, I'm starting to get into the spirit of things.

Here's a blurb from the spoken word portion of Music and the Spoken Word that I enjoyed:

"Observe any family or neighborhood and you will find that the most precious moments usually take place during day-to-day living: a sister helps her younger siblings with homework, a mother tenderly cares for a sick child, a father plays catch with his son, a widow invites friends to her home, a neighbor shovels the snow, a teacher explains a concept at a child's desk.  These events are not to be ignored or diminished just because they seem small or ordinary. They are meaningful in the most profound way, yet they are cloaked in the commonplace, the everyday. . . We may not hear angels sing or see a new star in the heavens, but we can sense in our souls when something significant is happening. When we do, we will find that these are not ordinary events at all."

Good luck with finals and wrapping up school, everyone!  West Virginia, I'll see you soon.