“Go to the woods,” says a voice. “You’ll feel better.”
“No!” cries another voice. This one is much louder, confrontational, in my face.
“That’s a terrible idea,” she says. “This time of year they woods are full of poison ivy, so much poison ivy that you can’t avoid walking right through it. The oils from the plant will make your skin itch, and you will be impossibly uncomfortable for days, and it will be distressing. It isn’t worth it.
“You can’t go to the woods,” the voice continues, “because in the woods there are mosquitoes that swarm around the pools of water. The mosquitos will eat you alive, and the bites will be uncomfortable and distressing. It isn’t worth it.
“You can’t go to the woods because of the raspberry canes that’ll snag your skin as you try to push through them, and you’ll feel that terrible panicky feeling of being caught, like a fish on a hook, and freeze
“You can’t go to the woods in the sun and the heat of the summer, because your skin could burn, or worse you could overexert yourself in the heat, struggle and sweat and sway until you crumpled over with tiredness…
“You could get hurt.
“Think of the aftermath, when your body is dried up and burning, and your skin is full of blackberry scratches and mosquito bites, and sunburns and poison ivy rash
when your physical self is in distress and you can’t sleep and every waking moment feels horrible.“
Fear hides her face in her hands.
“I’m just trying to keep you safe,” she tells me. “I don’t want you to be in pain, or get hurt. Stay here. Stay indoors where you can’t get hurt. Don’t go to the woods. It isn’t worth it.”
More often than not, fear is only a niggling feeling in the back of my head; fear is not so much a collection of articulated reasons as a hodgepodge of half-images. I get fuzzy memories of the last time I lost sleep because the bug bites itched, fuzzy pictures of ivy leaves and bugs.
It’s that niggling feeling that so often holds me back from doing the things that I love to do.
And so often, I felt trapped.
cut off, not just from the discomfort and distress, but from all the gladness that awaits beyond the posted signs
Until I stop to listen. Until I stop to identify which basic emotion is at the root of that feeling, and wonder what it’s trying to tell me and why.
It isn’t generally nonsense, but it’s often an incomplete picture of what’s real.
This morning, I put on a pair of very tall boots, to keep the poison ivy off my skin
And I spritzed myself with Eucalyptus. It smells horrible enough to keep the mosquitos go away
And I set off towards the woods, in the narrow strip of shade on the west side of the corn field, because even on hot days walking is bearable in the shade.
Last night I packed my backpack as though I was about to go traveling again. It was soothing.
I got so used to traveling without much to carry, you know? Because I had to carry everything I had, and I know that I can only carry so much on my back. My energy is a finite thing, no matter how strong I am, no matter how much I want to hold on to.
So I mostly held on to the things that I knew would come in useful. And I got a very clear picture of what actually was useful, what I needed. What served me and what didn’t.
Open the lid, and look inside, and say “alright, what am I carrying that is superfluous? What can I let go of?”
(I never let go of the books. They’re heavy and they take up space but you have to know when to be human.)
I just
I miss traveling. So much. I miss carrying so little and waking up in the morning and wondering “where am I going today? Am I staying or going?” I miss having no clear direction, no agenda, no plan. I miss learning about the places I was in while I was in them. I felt so free.
It’s selfish, because of COVID-19, because my sister is having a graduation party this weekend and I have to be there, for her. But I almost want to run away. Tomorrow or the next day, maybe. Throw a pack over my shoulder and slip out into the evening. I could tent camp across America. I could go north and attempt to sneak across the Canadian border. It can’t be that difficult.
I was driving in the rain today on the way to see a group of people that I spend New Year’s Eve with. It’s – well. It’s sort of like having a girls’ night, or it used to be, and then it turned out that a solid percentage of us weren’t girls. Looking back, this kind of makes all the sense in the world.
It’s a safe space. It was a nice night. We shared junk food and soda and laughter and each of us took the rice purity test and made fun of each other for how high or low our scores were. We caught up.
But anyway.
I was driving out to Ari’s house and I was about thirty minutes earlier than I should’ve been so I drove around the block a couple of times so that I wasn’t showing up ridiculously early
and I was listening to music and driving in the rain
And there’s this amazing album that was cobbled together by Neil Gaiman and Amanda Palmer, a handful of years ago.
These two happen to be two of my favorite human beings in the world. They’re a bit married. They recorded this show together and he read his short stories and poetry and she played her songs and it was a silly and sweet and spooky and powerful thing.
And then Amanda played this song…
as I was driving in the rain
And it got me in the way that sometimes only a song can, when it sneaks up on me when I’m least expecting it.
And something clicked.
I might’ve cried at that feeling a week ago. But this time I didn’t. I didn’t cry.
But my intuition shifted. I could almost hear it creaking and groaning as it settled into something that made more sense that anything in the world.
It was like that moment when you solve a tricky puzzle that’s felt uncomfortably unsolvable for too long. Then there was the embarrassed moment of “why didn’t I see this before, it’s been right in front of my face” and then there were heaps of other questions
But just for a moment, my head and my heart felt clear, and lighter, and just an odd mix of hopeful and sad.
I’m not sure if I’m ready to write about the details of that moment in this space. Not right now. But sometime, when it’s a little easier to articulate. Someday.
I have listened to the whole album about twice now. Neil’s stories and Amanda’s songs. Her melodies, his words.
That’s the thing about art, about stories. That moment when you see something that reminds you of yourself, in somebody else’s work and time and vulnerability and selfhood. Or when you witness the selfhood of somebody else, woven into a song or a poem or a story, and basically just think that it’s beautiful. And it makes you want to grow.
I’m thankful for all of the circumstances that came together for that moment, driving to a friend’s house in the rain and listening to Amanda and to Neil
I’m just feeling thankful for the shift. The push. I needed that. I hope this will make sense in the morning.
The rain tumbled out of the sky like a river, and thunder cracked over the roof. Cool air from high above got caught up in the rush of things and fell to earth. Hot and cold air stumbled over each other and mixed together and shifted, ‘til the wind picked up and thrummed its way over the yard.
The storm rough-housed a little with the tree branches and the power lines, the raspberry canes, the tomato plants, with every door in the house.
I unplugged the radio and the television and wrote, up in the attic. I waited it out. My mother ran around outside, soaked to the bone, shoving buckets under the drain spouts, collecting the water for her garden from the roof. She was happy.
When the storm passed it was like a fever breaking. The heat we’ve been having for too many days softened from scorching to something that’s been easier to breathe.
I needed that, so badly. So did the raspberries and tomatoes. It hasn’t rained in just long enough that nobody noticed that anything was missing. But the grass was turning brown.
Sometimes the sky forgets to rain, but I think, maybe… nothing ever stays the same for long.
This is going to be an interesting handful of days to look back on.
Like… ah, yes. That was the time she watched John Mulaney & the Sack Lunch Bunch, cooked a pot of rice, switched her major to philosophy and listened to that one Willie Nelson album twice.
There’s been so much noise, in my head, recently. You know the kind. It never really stops.
But I’ve got much better things to do with my time than to actually listen.
In the sweltering heat in the summer, keep to the shade.
Sit in a camp chair on the porch. Take a second to notice the tiger lilies, the Queen Anne’s lace, the chicory, the milkweed. Pick a handful of raspberries. Listen to the bees.
Color in the cracks in the pavement with sidewalk chalk. Blow some bubbles and try to catch them on the wand. Close your eyes and hum into an electric fan. Doodle patterns with the condensation on the outside of a glass of iced tea. Skip a rock across the water and notice what shape the moon is.
And when you’re surrounded by the booming of fireworks and the buzzing of mosquitoes, the smell of smoke, the murmur of people all around
feel the bug bites and the sun burns and the thistles in bare feet and the ache that comes from somewhere on the inside
Notice the world. Wade out past the depth of your knees, reach in above your elbows. Watch closely. Listen.
And for a moment all there is and all there ever will be is one long evening in the summer, standing there, watching the fireflies light up the world.
Take some of this with you for the car ride home. The days are getting shorter again. Take some courage.
I’ll be taking classes at SUNY Geneseo in the fall, in whatever form that takes in the midst of the pandemic. It’s less than half an hour away from my house when the roads are good, so I’m going to live at home. Also, my dad works in the health and counseling center on campus, which means that I will probably be able to catch a ride to school more often than not.
Between carpooling, living at home, and unemployment benefits, I don’t think I’m going to have to take out loans for this year. I can live with that.
The other thing that’s evolving is a shift in a major for my bachelors degree. Again.
It’s been a lot of things. I still don’t know what I want to do when I grow up. It’s been like this for a long time, now, and I’m starting to think that’s just how it’s going to be.
But there’s this pressure to choose, in academia. Every interesting field seems cut off from all the others. And the way the system is set up, the more time you spend walking down one path the harder it is to change your mind and start again.
I think I might have been taking all of it much too seriously.
Since choosing Geneseo I may or may not have formally changed my major three times. And bickered with the advising department about not being able to make my own schedule in my first semester. And argued in favor of them letting me take 18 credit hours. And then changed my mind.
The folks in the advising department are containing their exasperation exceptionally well.
The other evening, I was laying in bed and thinking about taking three years of biology and chemistry and organic chemistry and biochem and there was this dread in the pit of my stomach that started to feel like nausea and I was pondering just not going back to school
except that path didn’t feel right, either.
I watched John Mulaney & The Sack Lunch Bunch. I did some research and sent some emails and asked questions. The advising department listened and wrote back and did not get angry with me for changing my mind too many times, which was really nice of them.
here is a schedule that I put together with the ridiculously patient folks in the advising department:
ancient philosophy, eastern philosophy, intro to logic, western humanities, and introductory German.
I’m actually feeling excited, for this.
I am guessing that there will be a lot of reading, and writing, and due dates, and I will have to adjust. But there are lots of lengthy gaps of time for walking up the hill to the library in the village and sitting in the big comfy chairs on the second floor and doing homework
if they’re open, in September
and that prospect seems manageable.
I don’t know what I want to do yet, but I would like a bachelors degree that leaves my options open. It feels sensible to study something that will teach me how to think and communicate and ask really good questions, and possibly get comfortable with an arbitrary set of writing conventions. Those skills are going to be useful no matter what happens.
I have time, no matter what anyone says. I just know about myself that I have to keep moving forward.
Do what feels right, as hard as you can, all the time. Just keep moving forward.
Dandelion wine has been racked off, siphoned into old and very clean wine bottles, corked, and stored horizontally in a makeshift wine wrack in the basement.
She’ll probably be ready to drink by like Christmas.
It’s been sitting on the back of the counter in a gallon jar for weeks, fermentation lock bubbling away. I’m a little more than nervous about my winechild.
It might’ve gone bad. Tasted off, or turned to vinegar.
But she burns like alcohol, and she’s sweet like wine. She tastes like dandelions.
I hadn’t noticed how much I’d been holding my breath over this.
I notice that I’m feeling relieved and hopeful. I’m feeling like I have that much more to be careful with, as I get through to the end of bottling and aging and the rest of this. I’m also noticing a strange absence where there might be resentment about one more thing to watch over and worry for.
I think it’s because I happen to really like this.
And it’s just – some stuff in a jar on the back of the counter. It’s a small thing. The world isn’t going to fall apart if it goes south.
But the little taste I had made me happy, on some random Monday in June. And I think that makes it important.
Bundles of wildflowers, tied together with hemp chord, hanging from a length of twine I strung across the ceiling.
Buttercups and daisies, red and white clover, chickweed, deadnettle. Mugwort, also. This week I learned that mugwort is a very mild psychoactive and it grows all around my house. (My little sister told me that bible pages are thin enough for rolling a joint, which would be useful if I owned a bible.)
There’s homemade soap curing in my room.
The first batch came out crumbly and brittle and streaked with veins of lye and soda ash. I’ve read that some folks think rebatching is disgraceful and isn’t true soap making and I think that is silly. I took what I had and melted it down and mixed it with beeswax and oats and milk and honey. Came out fine and smells delicious.
There’s plantain salve tucked away in a drawer in my room.
Broadleaf plantain grows almost everywhere where humans live. It’s known to be astringent, bitter, and is believed to draw impurities from small cuts and bites and stings on the skin.
There’s mead fermenting in my room.
I took a taste when I racked off the solids the other day. It’s very clearly alcoholic, but there’s still a background taste of honey. I’m worried because it’s stopped bubbling – it’s stopped making carbon dioxide. I think this means it could start to go bad if it comes in contact with oxygen, unless I bottle it quickly. That’s a tomorrow thing.
There’s a half-done crocheted sweater in my room. There’s a sand candle burning on an old clay tile. There’s a guitar in the corner, and it isn’t covered in dust. There’s a bookshelf. There are strains of Aoife O’Donovan and Crooked Still and Driftwood humming in the background.
All of these things –
all around me. While I’m reading, gaming, writing, trying to sleep.
It’s all very grounding. It’s good to have something to show for my time.
I knew it was coming. I’ve known this for a while. It’s the pandemic. People are dying and laying low, and the state is broke.
Suck it up, buttercup. You don’t exist in a vacuum.
Last year a classmate told me to let go and get out of this place while everything was still lovely. That if I stayed here too long, the beautiful things about this place and the happiest memories would begin to go sour and stale. She said that if you stay too long in a place you love, you’ll end up being forced to leave, or leaving willingly because you don’t like it there anymore.
Right now, I’m –
I wasn’t sure how this was going to turn out. I’ve thought that my time here was unraveling and shifting and changing and going to end so many times.
And each time that things have changed so much that I’ve thought it could never be the same, I’ve been wrong.
Friends come and go, and chemistry in a group changes. The physical space changes, moves around. Leadership is passed from person to person. Administration does its thing. The ridiculously draining things about this kind of work take their toll. Imposter syndrome comes and goes. I learn, and grow, and I am constantly II becoming.
And I keep finding myself in a new incarnation of an old familiar spirit of a place.
When I started working in the math center we were located in a big room in the corner of the third floor of the library. There were whiteboards on the walls, and there was this perpetually-stoned-looking gremlin in a purple sweatshirt, and there were plants all over the place, and there was a safe-zone T-shirt and there was a bookshelf with a go board on the top shelf and there were old math textbooks and they were a mess, and it was excellent.
I think the first time I went to visit that room for help there was a small group of people in the corner and they were laughing and I think they were talking about snakes, and I was fairly sure that I was nowhere near cool enough to go up to those people and talk to them.
And then somehow I ended up working alongside some of those people, and laughing with them, and loving pretty much all of them and I don’t think most of them will ever actually know how much.
This job has taught me how to go up to strangers and talk to them and ask them how I could help. And that turned out to be easy next to learning how to admit when I didn’t know what I was doing, how to reach out and ask for help, how to listen, how to become more accepting and nonjudgmental than anyone had ever required me to be, how to read body language and communicate with silence, how to coax people into being self directed without them noticing it was happening and how to take someone from feeling confused to feeling like they were finally starting to understand.
Those fifteen weeks of that first semester changed who I am as a person. Those fifteen weeks are untouchable.
I have absolutely had moments of feeling useless because I didn’t understand or couldn’t remember how to do the things that people came to me for help with. I have had moments of feeling useless because even after I tried everything I could think of, my students didn’t seem to understand.
But I don’t think those moments of feeling useless negate everything I’ve learned from working here, or the moments when I believe I have been able to help.
I’m glad beyond words that I was able to be working in the math center when the pandemic happened. I’m honored to have been here to help, even in the moments when I knew that there was nothing I could do. I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else, or with any other group of people.
In all the weeks of working remotely, I only helped one student. His computer didn’t have a working microphone, so we had to get creative about how to work together.
He kept coming back until the end.
I always knew my time here was finite. But I wanted this place to be a haven for the nerds who needed somewhere to go for a long time after I was gone, after all of us had gone. In this moment, I’m wondering if it will be. I’m a little frightened.
Noticing that I haven’t written a blog post in what feels like a long time.
A long time ago, my older sister told me that she used to write, but that she doesn’t really write anymore because her time spent writing seems better spent doing the things she was writing about.
And I – hmm. I guess I can only speak for me.
I think that the process of writing and stringing words together brings me a particular kind of satisfaction that nothing else does. I think that writing takes my brain to a space where it can better see the patterns and recognize what’s real. So I think time spent writing is time well spent, for me. I think it’s some of the best time.
But there’s also something to be said for spending time doing the things I write about, because most of the things that I find myself writing about are very much rooted in life. I think it’s good to spend time living.
Writing is just thinking written down, and sometimes I use thought as a way to get away from life. It feels right to me to try to temper that with occasionally living so much that I look up after a while and find that I’ve stopped thinking.
So I’ve been – out there, living. Mostly by myself, but not always.
I’ve done and and made and learned some fascinating things. And it’s given me that much more to think about, more to write about. It’s added something, changed the color and the texture and the flavor of my thoughts. I think they’re all the better for a little change.
I’m trying to get out in the world and live the things I think and read and write about. it’s been lovely. And sometimes – frequently – it really, really hurts. But if I’m not there for the things that hurt, I think I miss so many other things. And there are so many other things.
So many.
And right now, I have to stop writing for a moment and get back to them.
Added like half a teaspoon of yeast nutrient and a handful of raisins for luck.
First small batch of dandelion wine. Started primary fermentation on Thursday, May 7th. Should be ready to rack off the solids, start secondary fermentation in about 2-3 weeks. After that, bottle and age for six months to a year.
Dandelion coffee is nothing like coffee, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t good.
I think my roots were just a little over-roasted, a little dark. I added a couple of cardamon pods and some cinnamon to help the flavor. Boiled everything in about 2-2 1/2 cups of water for 20 minutes, then removed from the heat, strained out the solids and let it cool down enough to drink. I prefer my coffee cool or cold with a little whole milk, so that’s how I tried the dandelion not-coffee.
And I – well. I honestly hadn’t actually expected to like this. I was expecting something overpoweringly bitter and green, or burnt and charred and blackened.
I was happily surprised.
(Relatively frequent happily-surprised-ness is like the only upshot of being stubbornly pessimistic all the time.)
Between the additional spices and the whole milk, dandelion not-coffee has a smooth and creamy consistency and a flavor that’s almost sweet. I think because of the spices I selected, my not-coffee was especially reminiscent of chai tea.
NB: a little bit of cardamon goes a long way.
The dandelion roots contributed some darker, smoke-like notes, almost like coffee; I think that’s what sets this beverage apart from the tea that I’m used to drinking.
Also, there’s a residual echo that tastes like – well, dandelions. That dirt-bitter greenness. It’s faint, it’s buried somewhere in the aftertaste, but it’s definitely there.
This was a relatively labor intensive cup of not-coffee. It took a moderate investment of time and work, but didn’t cost any money. It helped to get some weeds out of the strawberry patch. It was fun to try something new. And the end result was actually quite good; I would drink this. I like how this came out.
There was enough sun and wind to hang a load of laundry out to dry on the line today. Now all my jeans and sweaters smell like the outdoors, and it’s honestly the best.
I helped my parents, a little. Took care of the dog and the cats, cleaned up the kitchen, made a batch of enchiladas. My mother thanked me for all of the help.
I also pulled up some weeds in the garden.
Specifically, I pulled dandelions up by the roots. With a shovel, as necessary, as it frequently was; dandelion roots grow deep.
Earlier I cut the roots away from the rest of the plant, and scrubbed them and peeled them and chopped them and roasted them in the oven, and hopefully tomorrow I can brew them into dandelion-root tea. Theoretically, this is going to taste toasted and earthy and a little bitter – almost like coffee, but without the acid. Not coffee. Poor man’s coffee. Broke-and-procrastinating-college-student coffee. Without the buzz from the caffeine.
I also washed some of the younger greens and boiled them and saved them in a mason jar in the fridge. Boiling softened the bitter/green harshness; I think they’d be delicious in an omelette or a stir-fry. Something involving frying pans and a little garlic, anyway.
And the petals are stripped from the blossoms and added to an almost-full half gallon jar in the freezer. I almost have enough for a test batch of wine and I am soo excited. I am also 100% stalling this process until the champagne yeast arrives in the mail, which is taking forever, but is also good practice for the six months to a year that I’m going to have to wait for the wine to age enough to be delicious. It’ll be the middle of winter before I find out if this turned out alright, assuming that nothing explodes.
I’m noticing that it’s getting easier to do this – the waiting thing. The acceptance. The knowing that just because something isn’t physically present and happening right here and now, it’s still out there somewhere, and I’ll get there whenever I do.
Patience.
Patience for the end of a pandemic, for society reopening, for seeing my friends again and holding them and laughing, for leaving the house to go to work or go to a library, for the possibility of travel and school and expanding horizons. And patience for dandelion wine.
My cousin on the other side of the pond has recently become interested in foraging for edible plants. She’s been harvesting and researching and designing recipes and creating dishes, and she published her first cooking video this week:
I think this is exceptionally neat.
For one thing – speaking as a soon-to-be-broke-again college student – foraging sounds like an excellent source of free food!
Only a little bit like gardening. My mother has a garden. From watching my mother in her garden I’ve learned that gardening requires a herculean investment of work and time and careful attention. I don’t know how she does it.
Foraging is different. The weeds grow up everywhere, all by themselves; you usually can’t stop them.
All you have to do is know what to look for.
And you have to go looking. Go out for walks, with a knife and sharp eyes and a paper bag or a basket.
To be honest, oftentimes you probably don’t even need all of that. If you’re willing to get a little dirt under your fingernails, if you can live with the mud and the grass stains on your clothes, your elbows, your knees – the willingness to go is usually most of what you need for the going.
And so I’ve been foraging, on my own side of the pond.
It’s become an unexpectedly sweet way to stay connected to my cousin. Because on my side of the pond, some of the same plants grow. (Some of them are invasive species, but this does not necessarily mean that that they are not delicious.)
Wild garlic mustard, for one. Grows under trees and on roadsides, tastes bitter with a savory aftertaste, and if you crush the leaves in between your fingers you can smell a hint of garlic. (Kathrin noticed it was growing in the background of the picture of the deer skull on the front page of this blog.)
Garlic mustard, and ribwort plantains, and purple dead-nettles, and dandelions leaves before the flowers…
This week I learned that in order to cook dandelion leaves and still be able to eat them, you have to mix them with strong flavors to complement the bitterness. Soy sauce, garlic, bacon fat, coconut oil. (Maybe not all of them at once?)
nb: dandelions aren’t poisonous! Anything but, actually; allegedly they’re quite nutritious and the whole plant is technically edible. You can make wine from the petals and a coffee-like beverage out of the roots, in the fall. It’s just that the leaves taste like dirt, but greener. Especially later in the season, after the blossoms. I think they’re a lot more palatable when they’re new.
I’ve spent the better part of the last handful of days researching dandelion wine recipes, and I’ve discovered that there are easily as many ways to make the stuff as there are people who’ve written about making it. But most of them have the same basic processes in common. Dandelion wine is made up of dandelion petals, yeast, sugar, citrus, a couple of handfuls of raisins, and enough time in the right conditions for the yeast to convert the sugar into alcohol.
I have access to a kitchen and some fermentation materials, because I live with my mother. I have some old wine bottles and a few corks. And the backyard is covered in yellow blossoms…
To be fair – I’ve never done any home brewing before, my research has been made up of sources that are probably varying degrees of credible, and there’s a chance that if I do this wrong I’ll wind up with a couple of interestingly loud explosions and subsequently a very sticky mess.
(I know this on a rational level, but I haven’t actually had to clean up any particularly sticky messes yet)
So this weekend I’ve been picking dandelions in the morning, when the blossoms are open, and then separating the petals from the green stuff at the base. It’s oddly meditative work, and it’s something to do.
There’ll be this brief internal argument about which is worse: the sound of the alarm clock screaming or the prospect of leaving a comfortable space
(in my half-awake state, I never remember about the nightmares)
but the screaming wins.
this is what’s going to happen.
I will sit up and get to my feet and move across the room, and I’ll fumble in the dark until I manage to get the clock to stop screaming.
I will seriously consider going back to bed. In thousands of parallel universes, that is exactly what happens.
And in most of those universes, the nightmares are sure to follow. Dreams so vivid I’ll forget that they’re not real. I’ll wake up at eleven with a bad taste in my mouth, a fuzzy feeling in my head, a “you’re-pathetic-and-nobody-likes-you” feeling in my belly.
But when I get out of bed before the sun tomorrow and I feel cold and my stomach hurts a little and I’m groggy and I only want to rest, I’m not going to go back.
I’ll take a gulp of a tall glass of water. I’ll curl up in a chair, with my arms around my knees. I’ll turn on the candles or the Christmas lights, because they’re comforting and I like them. The sun will come up, and the cat will curl up in the crook of an elbow somewhere and purr loudly.
And I’ll reach for a book, and I’ll read and get lost in a world that isn’t real. But I’ll know it isn’t real, and that’s the difference.
And though it’s raining on the roof, I’ll put on jackets and old shoes, and I’ll sneak out of the back door and I’ll walk down to the woods
and though it’s freezing cold and raining I’ll be glowing on the inside
It’s not because I don’t think I can take a photograph that does the subject of the picture justice. I’m damn near positive that I can’t. But that doesn’t usually stop me trying.
I sometimes feel hesitant to take pictures, because there are some moments, some places, that are too sacred for that.
When I stumble on things that feel unreasonably lovely, I feel like I’ve been let in on a secret. Like I’ve been trusted. And I don’t want to share that, not at first.
It’s the same reason you don’t kiss people before you get to know them. If I took a picture of a place like this, before I knew my way around – it might be an aesthetically pleasing picture, but it’d be an empty picture. I’d have an image of a collection generic trees and earth and sky, but they wouldn’t be those trees, that earth, this sky.
The first few times I went to the swamp, I didn’t take any pictures. Now…
I’d found three or four different pathways from the field edge to the water, through a tangle of dense brambles and slick mud and fallen logs. I’ve noticed twisted vines that look suspiciously like poison ivy, and I’m careful not to touch, but I’ve scored myself some raspberry-cane scratches that are still healing. And I’ve left a mess of footprints.
I know which mushrooms grow on what trees, even if I couldn’t tell you what they’re called. I’ve counted shades of moss and lichen, I’ve noticed bones that are picked clean. I’ve heard the birds singing and sung back to them. I’ve scared a group of deer and they’ve scared me.
I’d stood and leaned against a tree trunk as it started hailing, and I’ve rolled up sleeves and pant legs against the heat on Easter Day.
It hasn’t been an especially long time, but it’s been an exceptionally good time, and for right now I feel okay about taking pictures. I feel like that’d be alright with this place, if I there was some way for me to ask.
I was out of the woods at exactly 8:59 this morning, which was cutting it close. But I did manage to take this back with me:
I’ve started to lose track of which days are which.
Was it last Sunday that I went west instead of east and found a swamp and a creek and tiny bones? Which afternoon was it warm enough to tie a rain coat around my waist?
When did I march into Evie’s room and announce that we were going on an adventure? The day we got caught in the rain, and our mother picked us up in the car and brought us home, and we made cocoa…
When did I walk six miles in the rain? Wednesday, I think. I remember that I listened to Bruce Springsteen and saw little white flowers and snail shells by the creek bed.
When did I find the pickup truck in the woods on the other side of the field? Was that the same day that I lay flat on my back and looked up through the tree branches and then tried to climb a maple tree and fell and sprained my dignity when nobody was watching? I can’t remember.
I know for certain that it was Friday when I got up at sunrise and went trespassing. In the snow. And it was beautiful. I agree with Aldo Leopold about the posted signs.
Clarification: I have a problem because there is a deep, dark chasm where my confidence should be. I have a lack-of-confidence, and that is a problem because it creates unnecessary stress in my life. One of the manifestations of that stress was the accidental gap year.
I have a lack-of-confidence problem, and I am mostly not sure what to do about it.
This evening, I curled up at the foot of my sister’s bed and asked if she could be a support and she sighed and asked me what was up and I said “I have a lack-of-confidence problem” and she said “SAME” which surprised me because she is the strongest, sassiest, most passionate and comfortable-in-her-own-skin woman that I have ever met in my life. She told me to put on an exterior persona that makes me seem more confident than I actually am, and I laughed because I’m so utterly helpless at pretending to be something I’m not. I am almost sure that the most effective mask I wear is my quiet social-awkwardness.
When I told my sister that I was worried about acting too confident, coming across as too sure of myself, too secure… it was her turn to laugh at me.
“I think you’re safe,” she tells me.
Between the two of us, the best coping mechanism we could come up with in a fifteen minute conversation was essentially “shout positive-sounding things into the void where the confidence should be and listen to the echos and pretend.”
I wonder what it feels like, pretending…
If I had a confident voice, what would I say?
“I have a void where my confidence should be. You know what else I have?
I have a math degree.
I have a math degree because I really, really wanted a math degree.
I have a math degree because working through an algebra problem is one of life’s simple pleasures, for me. It has been for a long time.
I have a math degree because I wanted to push myself outside of my comfort zone in my first two years of college. I wanted to take on something challenging so that I would be pushed into learning new coping skills, discovering new limits inside of myself. I want to be learning and growing, always.
I have a math degree because I went to what seems like hundreds of hours of math lecture. I showed up and took notes and asked questions – lots of questions – and I put in the time outside of class to try to make sense of what was going on. I focused my energy on something and made progress.
I have a math degree because I was curious, and interested, and I wanted to truly understand.
I have a math degree because I wanted to have enough understanding to support students who needed help, because I have empathy and compassion for feeling full of math anxiety and stressed and I have empathy and compassion for folks who are not sure what to do.
I have a math degree because I got an A in every math class that I took in college except for discrete and that was an A- and that’s because I did not do my homework all semester because it seemed easy and I needed to focus on other things that were also important
I have a math degree because I was able to admit that I needed help. I have a math degree because I swallowed a lot of pride.
I have a math degree because I learned how to make mistakes, and not understand, and still not understand, and be some kind of comfortable with that lack of understanding until I had enough understanding to feel competent.
I have a math degree because I am exceptionally stubborn. I was stubborn enough to find endurance, and perseverance, and strength in moments when I was at my most confused and vulnerable. I have a math degree because I was committed to getting through to the end of those two years.
I have a math degree because I have integrity. I asked for help, but I also tried very hard to honor the expectation that the work that I did, and completed, and handed in, was my own work and a fair representation of my own level of understanding.
I have a math degree because I can recognize patterns, and apply abstract concepts to different situations, and ask questions and think through the best thing to try next, and because I …”
Fuck, this is hard.
“I’m smart. I’m not-not intelligent. I am intelligent. I have a good brain.
I have a math degree because I am intelligent.”
Right now –
I am having a confidence problem.
There’s something that I’m not completely understanding, about – me. About my strengths and weaknesses, about where I belong, and what to do and how to foster the skills that I do have. About what I know, and how best to share it. About the kind of person that I want to be.
Not completely understanding is making me extremely uncomfortable.
And yet somehow – I have been uncomfortable with not understanding so many times before that I – at the very least, I understand.
Someday, sometime, I hope that I have grown enough that I know how to feel comfortable with being uncomfortable – comfortable with not understanding.
It was raining, but it wasn’t cold. The ground was soaked, but not too muddy for waking in old shoes.
I can’t tell you exactly where I was, this afternoon, before dinner. I wasn’t lost – the backwoods are small, and I usually have a halfway decent sense of direction. But if I told you where I’d been, then I’d be admitting to breaking the law. Technically. There may or may not have been posted signs that clearly read “NO TRESPASSING- Violators Will Be Prosecuted,” and I may or may not have seen them. So I think it’s better if I don’t tell you.
It’s probably in my best interest to tell you that I definitely did not go exploring in the woods beyond the fields, on the hill at the end of our own little lane.
Because it isn’t our lane. It doesn’t belong to us. We just walk there, like the people who lived in our big drafty farmhouse before us. We’ve walked there almost every day for twenty years, and nobody else ever does. But it isn’t our lane, and the fields aren’t our fields, and the woods are not our woods.
So unfortunately, I can’t describe to you the lovely place that I didn’t discover today because I wasn’t there.
Or anywhere.
but just say for a moment that I *had* stumbled across something
in the woods beyond the fields
in the rain, as I was
slipping down a gentle slope
with a blanket of dead leaves and tangled undergrowth
picking my way carefully between young saplings and rotting stumps and fallen trees
What if there had been something. A greener patch of ground off in the distance; pools of still water between patches of just slightly higher ground. It wasn’t, of course, but if it had been, it would have been almost like a maze. An overgrown, tricky, unpredictable labyrinth – tread carefully. Mind your step, and don’t get lost. If you can see reflections of the sky in the path ahead, jump across them.
but if you slip, it’s only water, after all
If I’d been there, in such a place, I’m sure I would have heard the peepers singing, and the low, insistent humming of the wind, the clattering of branches blown together high above.
But I wasn’t there, so I couldn’t have heard them.
I couldn’t have.
Which won’t help you to understand why my old shoes are soaked through, or why my coat and hat needed hanging up to dry, or why there are mysterious splattering of mud around the ankles of the leggings I’d pulled on that morning
An uneventful hour of walking down the lane and back again, alone, can’t quite explain the fae behind her eyes
I suppose if it was there all the time, it wouldn’t be half as special.
“If your knees aren’t green by the end of the day, you need to seriously re-examine your life.” ~ Bill Watterson
The day before the day before the day before yesterday, my knees were green from kneeling on the ground in the backyard and digging for snails in the dirt. I stood and watched the Lara-dog roll in the grass, and I hula hopped in the wind.
The day before the day before yesterday, my clothes were soaked through because I went outside to scrub out the inside of my Jeep with hot water and soap. When I was tired, I sat in the yard at the base of a tree to journal in the sun.
The day before yesterday, my shoes and socks and pants below the knee were splattered with mud from the dirt road across the way because I – I needed to run, around the block, after work, because work had been infuriating and I needed to put something between work and home
And the next day my legs were so sore but the sun was shining so I pulled on a sweatshirt, and old leggings with holes the most. awkward. places, and I laced up my battered old shoes. I ran around the block, again, and it was like pushing through molasses because it’s been a while since I’ve asked my legs and heart and lungs to work like this. But they did what I asked of them, for two miles. And then I doubled over and caught myself thinking that I was feeling old
(and Stephanie burst out laughing, and Sara just looked at me over the tops of her glasses, and Trista sat up indignantly and demanded that, if I was old, what did that make her? and my father rolled his eyes and smiled. And I had to laugh, too.)
and the morning after that, I ran outside in boxer shorts and mud boots to take photographs of daffodils, first thing
And later I tried to run but the muscles in my legs were full of acid and there were tiny, sharp crystals building up at the ends of the veins. So I mostly walked around the block, in the cold and the wind and the rain.
By the time I made it back to my parents’ house, I was happy to be inside – to wash my clothes, take a shower, change into clean sweaters and fresh jeans.
Gratitude for running water, for hot water especially, for a washing machine and a drying machine at home. Thanks, Mom & Dad. I love you.
I’m stuck at home – by choice, for right now. But I don’t have to be stuck inside, if I don’t want to be.
When all of this is over… when we’re all a little older
I’m going to set up a big tent in the back yard – like the kind they have at weddings. And under the tent I’ll build a dance floor, with more than enough room for everybody and all their family and friends. And we’ll fill that space with people and with music and with food
I’m not sure how, but we’re going to do it. Not just canned music, but the living kind of music, channeled through and in and out of real people, people standing together in the same space.
When all of this is over, we’re going to dance.
Big, full, shameless dancing. Klutzy, awkward, careful dancing. Peaceful, in-the-moment dancing. Old familiar dancing beside unfamiliar dancing. Shy dancing. “We’re going to fucking figure out how to do this if it’s the last thing we ever do” dancing.
We’re all going to dance, together. All of us in the same place. Not just faces and voices in a conference call, not just words appearing on a screen. Humans connecting in person.
It’s old-fashioned, but so help me – it’s a good thing for a body to do.
“If I could choose the way I was to die — I would go falling through the hot summer sky. With ribbons and bows tied to my hands and my feet — I’d gaze across the world, and I would feel complete…”
~ Richie Sterns
Speaking for me, I think that I’d be up for dancing like we’re none of us sure that there’s going to be a tomorrow. I’d be up for dancing into the wee hours of the morning, under the stars.
And when all the dancing’s over, when the people have gone home …
I’d be up for sitting in camp chairs around a fire, curling up in an old quilt that smells a little like the inside of a barn, like grass and sunshine and dirt. I’d be up for sitting in silence, all worn out from dancing, or for listening to stories and watching the sun rise. I’d settle for a forehead kiss and a deep sleep, and no dreams until the late into the next morning.
When all of this is over… I say that like I know it’s going to end. I don’t know. I feel more shaken and uncertain than I have in a long time. Here I am, thinking about dancing in the aftermath of what is not going to be end of the world because we’re not going to let that happen
when right now I’d dearly love to be able to go spend one solitary hour in a coffee shop, or a library, a safe space in school.
I miss the rocks and the trees by shore of a lake and I miss standing around in parking lots. I miss being surrounded by the little movements and the sounds and the conversations between real live other people. I miss passing familiar faces in the hallway. I miss you.
And so, when all of this is over, when we’re all a little older…
When all this is over, I promise, we’re going to dance.
In the deli at the grocery store, there is an age-old feud between the morning-shift people and the night-shift people.
Nobody knows exactly when or why it started, but everyone understands why it’s lasted as long as it has.
I’m a rookie, and therefore expendable, so I have worked both shifts, and I can confidently say that there’s a palpable difference between them.
Morning shift people are responsible for turning on the lights and the machines, for uncovering and unwrapping the foodstuffs, for prepping ingredients and setting up processes and making up prepackaged meals. Morning shift people are very particular about things being just-so, which I suppose I can understand. They have to maintain an exhausting level of urgency and perfectionism, and create things, and push back against entropy, and I think that it’s often exhausting. And if the night-shift people have left even one small thing out of place – and we usually have – they tend to grumble about us, loudly.
Whereas the night shift people are – well. It’s like Newton’s third law.
We are responsible for turning off the machines and lights, for covering and wrapping the foodstuffs, for taking things down and putting them away and throwing them out, if they won’t keep, and scrubbing surfaces until they are gleaming. And we tend to wind up cleaning up the halfway-through-a-day-in-a-kitchen messes left by the morning-shift staff, and we tend to grumble about it, loudly.
Night people undo the work of the morning people, and morning people undo the work of the night people, and there’s a bit of unsurprising friction, to be sure. But we balance each other out, and complement each other, and that is how the kitchen continues to function over time.
And I think it’s a little funny that I seem to have gone from a relatively objective outsider to someone who has already decidedly chosen a side in a little bit over a month.
I like night shift energy.
I wouldn’t say that it’s less work, but I think that the atmosphere is a tad more peaceful, more laid-back. We are still pushing back against entropy. But I think maybe setting things up is like trying to swim upstream, whereas taking them down and apart is like – kicking along with the current. It’s still work, but it’s the kind of work that leaves room for thought and conversation around the edges.
But it doesn’t matter.
Because right now we are all essential personnel. Because even in the midst of a pandemic, people have got to eat. And I’ve gone from applying for a job on a whim a couple of months ago to risking my personal health, my family’s health, to leave the house and interact with the general public, for hours, several times a week.
When I tell people that I work in a grocery store, I sometimes feel embarrassed
I’ve been steeped in this academic-oriented culture and the message is that I need to go on in school and better myself and get a “good job”
but in the middle of a crisis, we are the ones that are still out here – on the front lines, if you will. Because we’re essential to the fragile way in which this society works, essential to supporting so many of the little things that I know that I have sometimes taken for granted.
Last week, when all of this started to really hit home, I didn’t have time to feel embarrassed about working in a grocery store. I was too busy serving the rush of stressed-out customers who had come to us for one of the most basic human needs – food. And all I could do was smile at each customer, and care a little for each one of them, for just a second. No matter how shaken they seemed, or I felt.
Together my coworkers and I take turns shopping for each other on our breaks, and get caught in untrue rumors about martial law. We watch the bread supply in the aisle across from the deli dwindle from half-full shelves to empty in one afternoon.
And today, I do have time to feel all this, and reflect on it, because the store is getting so little traffic that they didn’t need me to come in today, because people are practicing social distancing and holing themselves up in their homes.
I feel lucky to be witnessing this pandemic through the eyes of a blue-collar job. It’s been eye-opening.
This has also been the second or third week of watching the schools shift from in-person to online, from open on-campus housing to students being sent home. It feels like the Harry Potter stories I grew up with, and I can’t help thinking of Harry saying “Hogwarts is my home.”
I am thinking of FLCC.
The shift on the academic front feels unprecedented, and sudden, and neigh on impossible.
Behind-the-scenes work is being done by so many people as we try to adapt to this, as we try to work out how to support each other through this. I am so proud of everyone.
I think about such tiny particles – so small, impossible to see – that seem to have the power to close down nations. The libraries, the restaurants, the schools, the coffee shops. I think of the people in Italy, singing with each other from their balconies. I think of the cruise ship off the coast of Japan, or close to the shores of California. I think of my little sister’s senior year, of all the events that will not happen. I think of the markets, the music industry, the basketball season, the nursing students, the old folks’ homes. I think of the domestic abuse situation that has just gotten jarringly worse. I think of mental health and social isolation. I think of the college students with no access to internet. I think about the people with no homes. I think of another epidemic, and of all of the people who didn’t care.
And I think of the blue skies in China, and I feel a tiny flicker of hope
I have too much time to think, when I’m sweeping the floors, washing dishes.
I think of the twitch of a butterfly’s wing, far, far away.
I hear that garlic is good for preventing colds and flu, and for easing the symptoms of the sick.
Rinsing the back of one’s throat with hot saltwater helps a body fight a sickness. In my experience, this practice also functions as a preventative measure against sickness – especially if someone living under the same roof is symptomatic.
Honey and lemon in hot water will ease the discomfort of a sore throat.
Acetaminophen helps with fever.
When I twisted my ankle badly in the last week before the musical, in my senior year – I drank mug after mug of home-made bone broth, for something like three or four days. I think it helped.
For sprains, remember the acronym RICE – rest, ice, compress, elevate. Don’t walk on it.
Higher stress levels increase the risk of getting sick because stress saps the resources that a body should be using for baseline maintenance things, like digestion and healing and immunity.
Some of the best things for stress reduction, for me –
Reading. Laughter. Fresh air and time outside. Walking, or sometimes running. Movement. Showers. Comfy pants. Tea and cats and candle wax. Wholesome intimacy – most often hugs and conversations, for me. Intentional solitude. Familiar songs, or things, or places. Singing harmony.
It also helps me to take action on the things I know I need to do in order to keep going. Fill up a gas tank, pay a phone bill, fill out a time entry, send in an application, write an email. Afterwards, I feel lighter.
Some of the more dangerous self-soothing things:
Driving at 80mph down the back roads, at night. Drinking coffee after sunset. Getting lost on purpose. Arguing for my side of things, for what I want, instead of compromising enough to keep the peace. Scrolling through social media. Turning the music up too loud. Hidden whiskey. Impulse-buying, especially food. Putting things off.
I know that sometimes I try too hard to help everyone, to know what to do, to know everything. On the other hand, I often catch myself curling up into a useless little ball, and falling silent, and feeling powerless compared to all the things that are wrong in the world.
I think that for me the most effective kind of distraction from the hard things in life is time spent worrying about them.
I hear that the topical application if lavender is good for burns and for sleeping, and tea tree helps to disinfect the air. Eucalyptus keeps the mosquitoes away. I also know that some people’s lungs and noses are sensitive to these smells, and that it’s baseline decency to ask.
I hear that burning sage helps to keep the bad spirits away, and that smudging can help cleanse a space of negative energy.
I believe that all of this is somewhat silly and arbitrary, but this morning I needed something to write about, and focus on, and think through.
Stay healthy and take care of yourselves and each other.
On the other side of the attic windows, there is blackness.
I crack them open to let the smoke out, and cold air slaps me in the face as it tumbles into the room. I don’t mind it. Cold air is easier to breathe.
On my side of the windows, there are candles burning, their flickering light reflected in the glass. I am bundled up in a snug, worn jacket and the yellow scarf from Amsterdam, jeans, and an extra pair of socks.
I’m tired and I’m hurting on several different levels.
I’m cradling a mug of hot tea in my hands, and it’s too hot to drink just yet, but breathing in the steam – the contrast between hot air and cold – feels wholesome. I feel like I’m healing something on the inside.
I feel apprehensive about trying to sleep. Lately I’ve been having nightmares – I don’t remember the stories, but I remember the feeling that goes with them
– the shock in the moment when a knife slips, or when there isn’t one last step at the top of a familiar staircase in the dark –
I don’t want to feel that feeling, but I’m so tired.
Candlelight is comforting. Flame and smoke, and warmth and yellow light. Familiar smells, and memories of sitting around a campfire, sharing stories. I feel closer to all of the things that are earthly and tangible and real, and untouchable, and for always.
There is also a cat who lives in my room – or I’m allowed to sleep in her room, depending on your perspective. She hates everyone but me. When I’m in her room, she makes it quite clear that she requires attention – chin scritches, behind-the-ear scratches, a lap or the curve of an elbow to curl up inside. If I don’t give her attention, she will climb up my limbs like branches of a tree, and bat gently at my face. If I close my door, she needs to be on the other side of it. We share warmth, and she smiles and purrs soundly when she’s happy. And when she’s had enough, she tells me.
The tea, the cats, the candle wax – they nudge me towards a safer state of mind. I can rest here. I’m tired and it’s okay to let everything be. It’ll be here for me in the morning.
I’m a tiny speck on the surface of a tiny world, and everything is hurtling through space, and why of all of the arbitrary ways to experience this universe am I looking out at the world through Loren’s eyes…
Sometimes in the morning, I get up before the sunrise.
When I stumble out of bed, I notice that the uneven attic floor is freezing. I must have forgotten to close the window the previous night.
I reach out in the darkness for my glasses, shove them haphazardly onto the bridge of my nose. There.
The cat is napping peacefully on a tangle of blankets that have fallen to the floor – evidence of restless sleeping and bad dreams. There are droplets of hardened candlewax on the wooden headboard, dregs of herbal tea in the bottom of an old chipped mug, a small heap of half-charred sage leaves in an old ceramic bowl. Teetering stacks of books and paper are scattered all over the table, the floor, the bookshelves. My great-grandmother’s ancient and very ugly vanity is almost completely covered with notes and old pictures, strung with dried flowers and Christmas lights.
From the odd bits of mirror that aren’t covered up with old photographs, a worried looking girl peers out at me. Roundish glasses frame dark circles under grey-green eyes. A mess of brown hair that wants cutting surrounds a plainish face, with early-morning blotchy skin, blue lips, boyish eyebrows and my mother’s nose.
I scoop as much of my hair as possible into a ponytail, and pin the rest of it back with cheap plastic hair combs to keep it out of my face. After a few moments of bleary rummaging and split-second decisions, the rest of me is presumably somewhere in among the oversized sweaters and old jeans.
I need coffee.
I pad barefoot down the stairs and make my way into the kitchen. The radio is quiet. The dishes are put away, the counters are halfway between mom’s cluttered and dad’s sparkling. Dad has already left for work, and left me a mug half full of black coffee by the coffee maker. My mother is still sleeping, my sister is in holed up in her bedroom. There is black market milk in a glass jar in the second fridge.
A few moments later there is a little less milk in the open jar and my coffee is the perfect color, and I’m sitting with my legs crossed on the kitchen chair, and I’m drinking with my eyes closed.
It’s knowin’ that your door is always open And your path is free to walk That makes me tend to leave my sleepin’ bag rolled up And stashed behind your couch
And it’s knowin’ I’m not shackled by forgotten words and bonds And the ink stains that have dried upon some lines That keeps you in the back roads by the rivers of my memory And keeps you ever gentle on my mind
It’s not clingin’ to the rocks and ivy Planted on their columns now that bind me Or somethin’ that somebody said Because they thought we fit together walkin’
It’s just knowin’ that the world will not be cursin’ or forgivin’ When I walk along some railroad track and find That you’re movin’ on the back roads by the rivers of my memory And for hours you’re just gentle on my mind
Though the wheat fields and the coastlines And the junkyards and the highways come between us And some other woman’s cryin’ to her mother ‘Cause she turned and I was gone
I still might run in silence, tears of joy might stain my face And the summer sun might burn me till I’m blind But not to where I cannot see you walkin’ on the back roads By the rivers flowin’ gentle on my mind
I dip my cup of soup Back from a gurglin’, cracklin’ cauldron in some train yard My beard a roughenin’ coal pile And a dirty hat pulled low across my face
Through cupped hands ’round a tin can I pretend to hold you to my breast and find That you’re wavin’ from the back roads by the rivers of my memories Ever smilin’, ever gentle on my mind
When I’m with you, my chest feels full to bursting.
I would like to take this feeling
Put it safely in a bottle
Set the bottle on a shelf, or maybe
keep it in my pocket
So when I want to feel this feeling
I can reach out, absentminded
Fingers brush against the surface
Cool and heavy in my hands
And I’ll take a sip, and worry
That I have less in my bottle
than before.
And I’m terrified that one day
I will need to feel this feeling
And a sip won’t be enough
I’ll swallow till the bottle’s empty
Drink until the feeling’s gone
I have dreams about the bottle
Slipping, falling to the floor
Slow motion, shattering in pieces
I’d be reeling, I’d be numb
But then you’re standing right beside me Telling stories, and I’m laughing And my chest feels full to bursting As I’m reaching for your hand
I can’t bottle up this feeling
I can’t put it on a shelf, and I can’t
Keep it in my pocket
I can’t take a sip whenever
I am searching for this feeling
When I’m feeling less than whole
If I can live without this bottle Maybe I will catch the feelings Made of everything around me Harsh or gentle, bittersweet
So when I’m standing right beside you
Telling stories, and you’re laughing
I’ll be proud to have found something
in the intervening time
I can share to make you happy
Even one smile is an honor. Two is precious.
And it’s silly, but true.
When we’re apart, my chest feels full to bursting…
I work at a community college that was built into the side of a hill, by the water.
On the third floor of the college, there is a hallway, and at the end of the hallway there is a door. The door leads outside into a small alcove – thick cylindrical pillars supporting an overhanging roof over the doorway, two trash bins, a quaint flat space surrounded by knee-high cement walls and wooden benches, a picnic table. A flight of cement-block stairs follows the curve of the hill up and past the O-building and into a parking lot. Daffodils and myrtle cover the side of the hill, and the branches of a big cherry tree settled over it all. There is always a hint of cheap cigarette smoke in the air. Hoffman.
I have a vivid, almost year-old memory of this place in my head. It was almost the end of my last semester as a student here. The weather had turned gentle and warm, and there were several of us sitting outside at the picnic table; we were working on our Linear Algebra homework before class. The breeze was playing with Emma’s hair and the pages of our notebooks. Both Alexes were struggling, but with different things.
I was struggling to block out the voices that were anxiously trying to gauge where I was compared to everyone else in that moment. I was noticing the warmth of the sun on my back, and it was a welcome kind of soothing.
In another memory, I am sitting alone. The sun was hidden behind a veil of clouds, but the air was warm. I think it must have been raining earlier that day. Think of the smell of dirt in the spring after rain.
The cherry tree’s white blossoms are a little past their prime, and every time the wind blows – even a little – a flurry of white flowers tumbles down. There are cherry blossoms everywhere: caught in the droplets of water on the picnic table, in the myrtle on the hillside, in my hair, on the lined-paper algebra notes open in front of me.
It was the very last day.
I shouldn’t even have been studying. I shouldn’t even really have been on campus, that day. Every other classmate had presumably taken their last test, handed in their last paper, locked away the schoolbooks in a drawer for the summer and thrown away the key.
But Hoffman had let me take all the time that I needed, and so I was still there. At the picnic table, under the cherry tree, worrying at thin pencil lines on white paper.
That feelings that’s something like uncomfortable and peaceful at the same time.
Yesterday I was curled up on that same picnic table in the sun. I’d skipped Alice, because I needed a moment to breathe.
Hoffman jumped down off the wall, smelling of cigarette smoke, landed on his feet. I was startled.
He told me that discouragement is valid, but also that taking a moment to disconnect from the dysfunction in the world and step away from technology and just – be – is so important. And it helps him.
But if I had children, I would read to them, from the beginning. Rowling, and Tolkien, and Madeline L’Engle. Terry Pratchett, Neil Gaiman. Lewis Carroll and L. Frank Baum and Arthur Conan Doyle. Bill Watterson. So many others. We would hang out in libraries, and I wouldn’t feel ashamed and hush them if their voices were too loud.
I don’t want children, but if I had children, I would take them to the woods and build fairy houses, and teach them to climb trees, and hold their hands as they clambered across fallen logs like balance beams.
I don’t want children but if I had children I would dress them in bright colors until they learned how to dress themselves. Yellows and greens and blues and reds. I’d teach them how to knit. I’d teach them how to teach themselves how to knit. We’d visit thrift shops and try on jackets. I’d try to teach them about the versatility of button-downs and they would roll their eyes at the void where my fashion sense should be.
I don’t want children but if I had children I’d sing to them at night until they were old enough to remember it after they’d grown up.
I don’t want children, but if I had children I would sit on the floor with them and teach them how to draw pictures on rainy days. I’d teach them about numbers and fractions and algebra and calculus. We’d watch science documentaries, and make the Socratic method into a game for long car rides. I’d try to teach them how to think.
I don’t want children but if I had children I would want to shove them out into the world. I would give them space and time to wander and get lost. I would coax them out of their comfort zones. I would let them make mistakes and figure things out for themselves. And I would let them exist separately from me.
But you can be damn sure I would give them a safe place to come home to.
There would be chickens, and a muddy back yard with a creek and lots of trees, and there would be dogs and cats and possibly alpacas or maybe goats. There would be a radio long after radios were obsolete. There would be the smell of a wood stove burning and coffee brewing and bread baking and something simmering on the stove.
I don’t want children I don’t want children I don’t want children
I’m not sure why I painted my nails this weekend. I think it must have been a subliminal response to my very own personal formaldehyde deficit.
Nail polish application isn’t usually a thing that I do, because I’m not very good at it.
This time, I only managed to paint the fingernails on my left hand. I really wish this was symbolic of something – my distracted perfectionism, or the self-doubt I carry around, or some kind of internal duality, or gender questions. But I’m actually just excruciatingly right-handed and I barely had the dexterity for the left one.
And I – yeah. I am always learning. Learning happens when I try things that are new.
For instance! I found out exactly how long isn’t enough time for the polish to dry, when I forgot what I was doing and tried to turn the pages of a book I’d borrowed from someone I don’t know very well and left a streak of red.
And, you know. The universe will keep presenting me with the same lesson until it is learned, so there is also nail polish in my hair, from when I tried to push it back out of my face. And on my forehead. And on my knee, for some reason. And all over my fingers. My little sister told me she uses the green side of a sponge to get the nail polish off her skin.
I found out what happens when you spill a drop of red nail polish in a bathtub of hot water when the bathtub in question is made of fiberglass that – well, it used to be white.
And I found out what happens to nail polish on the thumbnail that catches a groove and spins a wheel on a lighter, creating a spark, igniting the lighter fluid that’s escaping where a thumb is pressing down
creating just enough space for the flame to turn a dried-out sage leaf black
I found out what happens to painted nails when you spend six hours up to your elbows in a kitchen sink, scrubbing greasy metal pans with steel wool and mystery chemicals. Even inside the plastic gloves, the paint is chipped.
I haven’t done the fingernail painting thing since – I must have been five or six years old. I remember that my mother was good at it, but didn’t usually like to. She spent too much time playing in the dirt, and wasn’t inclined to sit still for long enough for the paint to dry. Later, I remember her objecting very strongly to the smell of the fumes. To be fair, I’m almost sure that the first ingredient in nail polish is the same chemical they use to preserve the fetal pigs we dissected in biology in like tenth grade. So I hear her concern for us. I just haven’t decided what I think.
Still, I remember how daintily perfect my fingers used to look, for the first few days, when I was little. And I remember watching the paint crack and chip and fall apart, and crumble to nothing. They’d spend more time being imperfect than beautiful. And I didn’t mind.
I remember Evie helping me turn them gold, for my 2016 Prom. They stayed that way all summer. I am just remembering this, just now.
I’m not sure why it came up again, this weekend. Maybe it had to do with an overheard conversation between coworkers at the grocery store about what this kind of work does to their hands, and I was curious. Maybe it was a conversation with Evie about an old homeschooling friend who used to paint his toenails different colors. Either way, I stole a bottle from my sister with permission and cautiously attempted about two coats. And it was messy, but I learned things. It could take me years, because I won’t always have the time or the inclination to work on this. And I will probably keep creating messes and having to clean them up, and sometimes the stains will be permanent. But someday I will add this to the list of things that I know how to do with some degree of grace.
(Hi. I am in a super comfortable space rn and I am wanting to practice a small change in writing style. More adjectives. Outside of comfort zone! Could be really really bad, but probably interesting, and I have to try to do this for an audience or I – won’t care. Also practicing noticing things, if that makes sense.)
Deliberately showered for like twice as much time as usual, this morning! May or may not have accidentally kicked out the pump.
Got lost inside a frumpy-looking combination of the old black corduroy pants that used to be my mother’s, my dad’s baggy green wool sweater, the loose-knit winter hat that Donahue made me one Christmas, and a pair of somebody’s old grey socks with holes in the toes.
Stretched out under a heavy, off-white afghan that is at least as old as the sum of the ages of both of my sisters and I, all together.
(36 & a half, 21 almost, 17 & a half…)
Evie asked me if I was cold.
There’s a cat curled up on the blanket over my knees, and we are sharing bodyheat between us. She’s a grown up incarnation of the kitten we rescued from the top of a tree, in July, two years ago.
Beneath us is a new-to-this-house brown pleather couch that was probably worth a fortune, a long time ago, which my parents somehow scored for free
Halfway through this morning’s allotment of coffee. Dad used to drink dark roast brewed so strong that it tasted like ashtray, but it’s been getting lighter over time. Add black market whole milk from cows we know – if I said any more than that I’d have to kill you – until it’s the right color. Dad can spare about half or two thirds of a mug out of each pot he brews. It’s nice of him to share.
There’s a book. Of course there’s a book. Always.
This time, it’s a remarkably angsty fantasy romance story about witches. Something between JKR and Dan Brown.
Maybe later there will be Star Trek.
Yesterday, I drove to Mansfield PA to watch Tigh performing in the musical Chicago.
Hour and a half of the repetitive, French Louisiana thrum from Keith Frank’s accordion, in the fast lane on 390, there and back again.
So worth it!
Taking an afternoon to feel physically comfortable and read. I feel like I earned this.
I just cleaned my room for the first time since Germany!
There were piles of paper to sort through, drawers to flip upside down and reorganize, dust bunnies under the bed…
I may have lit enough candles in the attic to accidentally scare the shit out of my poor mother.
Also, Spotify helped me listen to some of the best of Leonard Cohen, and Bob Dylan, and Paul Simon, and also to The Dresden Dolls’ “Yes Virginia” album*
*because AFP liked my comment on her Instagram post a couple of days ago and I – that’d never happened to me before, and like I said it’s been a couple of days but I’m still kind of glowing on the inside
I may or may not have put on a floppy summer hat and the shoes I snagged at that one Goodwill in Burlington and had myself an impromptu and not particularly graceful dance party, in front of the mirror, by myself.
My cat was pointedly unimpressed.
But after a while, somehow, the attic felt cleaner. I unearthed my birth certificate, a medical insurance card, a set of earbuds that still seem to work, a jar of honey, a dusty stack of old CDs, and two diplomas. Plus I found an abacus and some origami paper to take to the college and also a handful of books I’ve outgrown to hopefully sometime donate to the library.
It felt like a relatively successful archeology dig. You can actually see some horizontal surfaces, in places.
I opened the windows to let the smoke out, earlier, and now the air in the room smells like candlewax and snow instead of dust
It’s been a comfortably productive time.
My little sister just sent a scholarship application in to Brockport.
My brother-in-law had a solid job interview at another brewery a couple of hours away, which has the potential to shift things around in my older sister’s life. The Chairman is old and sick, so things are already changing.
And I know that sometimes change is hard, and I almost got in the car today and drove down to Greensboro to be with all of them for shared beer and some bluegrass music and coloring, and too many things in the world were telling me not to, and so I didn’t.
So I didn’t want to let this day slip away from me, so I put engine oil in my rustbucket of a vehicle and cleaned my room all the way back to the corners
And there is pumpkin pie waiting for me in the kitchen downstairs. I hope it’s a good night.
(This is the one day of the year when it feels weirdly socially acceptable to be vocally cranky about relationship status.
This entire post is objectively funny because I’ve just spent like a year or so being awkwardly determined not to be cranky about this thing, for – oh, probably messy complicated horrible personal reasons.
and the thing is – every other day of the year, I am usually mostly content to be single
because it’s honestly kind of the best. I mean, think about it.
Rationally.
(Odd one, when you’re by yourself…)
There’s nobody who’s constantly around to piss you off with all their bizarre, intimate, idiosyncratic human-ness
There’s nobody who needs anything from you that you’re somehow obligated to give to them to keep them happy, or keep them with you
There’s nobody there to get mad at you for having faults when your faults don’t jibe with their own
There isn’t another life’s worth of trauma and baggage and awkwardness wrapped up in your day-to-day existence
There isn’t anyone you have to sacrifice things for. You can put yourself first, take care of yourself, your friendships, your family, channel your energy into things that are important to you
And, just
on this day, of all the arbitrary days, there’s a voice in my heart saying “yes. All those things, yes, sure, okay.
“but just for once – just this one time – wouldn’t it be nice to be held by somebody who loves you, and hold them back because you love them too.”
It hurts, that feeling.
Maybe it’s good to compartmentalize time to just – let it hurt.
Maybe I could have just one day of the year to feel that messy, complicated feeling I don’t let myself feel, consciously, at like any other time, and be present with all that awkward conflicted loneliness.
Maybe.
I really do think it takes vaguely badass levels of confidence – (even if it’s just pretend confidence!! it still counts for something) – to take all the time that you need to be alone, and be present with yourself, and do your own growing. Because goodness, does it get uncomfortable.
And it hurts on days like this,
when the world stops to celebrate the sweet things about partnerships, from the fluff on the wind to the root systems that seem intertwined centuries below the surface
It’s a reminder that it takes a badass level of courage and confidence to learn how to love, too.
(Thank you to Bucket for the validation about posting this today, I needed that)
Last week, I washed a lot of dishes, folded cranes, made a hip-hop playlist, co-lead an unexpected tutor training, and read half of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.
To celebrate, I had myself a comfortably scruffy weekend. I only had to wear actual pants like one time.
Because there was company, Saturday. A friend of a my parents’ friend came over for dinner and I liked her because she’s this sassy old Italian lady with a degree in mathematics and a masters in social work and we had things we could talk about.
She’s feeling burned out – because social work – but she said that she doesn’t want to switch to working at a college because conversations about diversity and gender identity and and sexual orientation make her feel uncomfortable.
At which point, my parents, bless them, smiled down the dinner table at us and said, practically in unison, “actually, we’ve got quite a lot of diversity in the room right now. Evie’d be happy to talk to you about any of this whenever.”
And I don’t know if it was the wine and i hope it wasn’t but I heard myself saying, “I mean, I’d happily talk to you about this right now…”
So she got to have a conversation about diversity and gender identity and sexual orientation. With young people.
At the dinner table.
Evie was there, and we kept talking over each other filling in the details and making important points and it helped. Our parents were mostly quiet and listened, but were 100% supportive, and that also meant the world.
I could tell that this dinner guest was trying to meet me in the middle and be receptive, and she kept asking questions, and if she hadn’t been that open I don’t know if I could have done this.
We started with the definitions of binary and non-binary, and we talked about what all the letters stand for, and we touched on what can happen to young people who don’t have support and we covered the prevalence of intersexuality and the nuances of asexuality and the validity of polyamory
and then we talked about how labels are comforting for some people, and how there are probably at least as many different interpretations and combinations of those labels as there are people in the world
but no label is as important as the whole life inside the person who’s sitting in front of you, and no combination of words matters next to supporting their health, and respecting the everliving fuck out of their boundaries, and making them laugh
and we talked about how it isn’t just about the sex, and from 5000 feet up why would you ever judge someone for loving somebody else
and this social worker’s transfeminine patient had just recently asked for support around her decision to get a surgery, and the social worker didn’t feel comfortable with that because – among other reasons – the patient wasn’t consistently presenting “feminine enough.” She’d come to sessions with no makeup, or the shadow of a beard, or wearing grey sweats and a T-shirt. When asked, the patient said she didn’t have enough time to get ready in the morning.
I wondered if she just felt like wearing sweats that day. I wondered what else was going on in her life. And I, just – I asked this social worker if, as a woman, she felt like she needed to dress herself up to look feminine, all the time.
And she got it. I think, for just a second, she had it.
Last week there was a sassy old Italian lady out there working in social work who didn’t get it. Now there’s a sassy old Italian social worker out there with a little more information and vocabulary, and maybe a slightly more inclusive perspective.
Two days later I was working in the kitchen and I overheard a coworker saying that he doesn’t want to say to his little brother that he thinks his lifestyle is disgusting, and all of my alarms went off. I moved closer so that I could hear, and then very quickly felt like throwing up because the thinly-veiled hate and intolerance that was tumbling out of his mouth was like nothing I had ever heard in person
I have walked Auschwitz and am only just beginning to emotionally grasp the kind of hate that has existed in the world before. But I’ve never stood next to that kind of blatant homophobia and transphobia, and heard it spoken so plainly and carelessly out loud.
I’ve been lucky.
I think for a second I wanted to actually wanted to smack this speaker upside the head. I didn’t. I opened my mouth to speak and I have no idea what I was going to say, but it was sure as hell going to be something, except that somehow amazingly another coworker beat me to it
In a surreal way, it was comforting that the person who called him out was the only other middle class white guy on the clock. This other coworker also pointed out that this probably wasn’t an appropriate subject of conversation in a work environment, and he was probably right. It was those words on his part that gave me a reason to step away, and cool down, and not scream at the punk who had said these things that got to me.
Later the original speaker noticed that I was angry, or about to cry, or something, because he apologized in case he’d said anything out of turn. “I didn’t mean to make you feel – some type of way, or anything” he fumbled. And I really didn’t mind telling him that he had, but when he asked me what it was specifically I told him that I couldn’t talk to him about it on the clock.
Because if I had spoken in that moment, whatever I’d been able to say would have been so far from constructive. The story that I’m carrying around in my head was that it could made his beliefs deeper, somehow, because I would have said something from my own place of hate. And you can’t fight hate with hate.
I told him that sometime, off the clock, I’d be happy to sit and talk with him.
“Oh, I don’t mind being enlightened,” he said. “I feel like if you’re going to be against something, you should at least try to understand it.”
And then the shift manager chewed him out for standing around and talking instead of working, and five minutes later he left to go home early and I told him to drive safe because it was all that I could do
I went home to my dad and told him what had happened and told him how heavy other peoples’ hatred is, and he hugged me and whispered that the hardest thing is not to hate them back.
And I am trying.
This week began with four hours of discworld in a waiting room at a dentist’s office and some impromptu hula hooping & hip hop music in my parents’ driveway and a surprise Calc II tutoring session with Anthony in the deli and the construction of roughly seven sandwiches in one shift.
I’m feeling the wind in my face from unexpected directions, and I feel like if I just keep walking for long enough, I am sure to get somewhere.
“Fare thee well My own true love Farewell for a while I’m going away But I’ll be back Though I go 10,000 miles
10,000 miles My own true love 10,000 miles or more The rocks may melt And the seas may burn If I should not return
Oh don’t you see That lonesome dove Sitting on an ivy tree She’s weeping for Her own true love As I shall weep for mine
Oh come ye back My own true love And stay a while with me If I had a friend All on this earth You’ve been a friend to me…”
~ 10,000 Miles, Mary Chapin Carpenter
This song was featured in the 1996 motion picture Fly Away Home.
The film was based on a true story about a car accident, some interesting father/daughter dynamics, small airplanes, environmental conservation and Canadian geese.
The song is based on a traditional English folk song that has been traced back to the 18th century. The title is “fare thee well” and it is sometimes referred to as “the turtle dove.”
Remembering that I never listened to hip-hop until the road trip to Vermont.
The trip was Kartikey’s idea. The three of us – Emma and Kartikey and I – went for a walk down by the lake after dark. It must have been early spring because it was still jacket weather, but it was also warm enough to sit on the end of the public dock and dangle our legs over the edge. That was where we first talked about piling into a car and renting a house, for a week or so, in the summer.
And I’m not sure any of us expected that conversation to come true, but somehow it existed in our heads as the last time all of us would be together. Kartikey was going Out West, Adam was going to be a computer science and mathematics major in Binghamton because they had a disc golf course he liked, Emma still hadn’t decided between RIT and the UofR, and I hadn’t told anyone that I wasn’t sure about Potsdam. Victoria was mad at all of us for leaving her behind.
Somehow that made it important.
So a handful of months later we were carpooling in silence at – far too early o’clock in the morning – and Kartikey was driving, and Adam was half-asleep on Victoria’s shoulder, and Victoria was playing pop song after pop song through the speakers from her phone.
And then we picked up Emma and she then she was driving, because of course she was driving, and the music changed.
Seven and a half hours of unfamiliar songs, with the signal cutting out more and more frequently the farther north we drove into the mountains.
We’d all split the cost of an AirB&B in Vermont for something like five nights
and in between nights we went grocery shopping down the road
and played Yahtzee and Monopoly and ping-pong in the basement
and visited The Ben&Jerry’s factory, and went thrift-shopping in Burlington
and Emma and I made it to the summit of the highest mountain in Vermont even though both of us kept wanting to turn back, and then climbed back down through a thunderstorm
And then she had to leave us a day early to go to a mathematics conference in Ohio & present on her research* on graph theory.
*over the course of the research program that summer, she was only arrested one time
We drove her to the airport.
and the four of us that were left went wading in a creek near the house and climbed up the banks by the side of the waterfall and then Victoria and I ditched the boys and walked barefoot over a blanket of pine needles through the woods, for what felt like miles and miles
and they were more than a little pissed off and worried when they finally found us
And on the drive home, we listened to Emma’s playlist, again, even though she wasn’t there. Eminem and Childish Gambino and Lil’ Dicky. So strange to me, but somehow wrapped up in all of it and part of this experience
And it was on that drive that I found out that Adam can fucking sing, and not only that but Adam can rap like nobody’s business and for months I looked and looked for that one song we heard in the car and I couldn’t remember the name
And I just found it again, last week.
And now Adam is at Binghamton
And Emma went to the University of Rochester and got a B+ for the first time in her life
And Kartikey is flourishing Out West and still snapchats Victoria every day and last I heard it sounds like he met a girl
And Victoria is probably literally in this same building every day but I’m being shy and busy and working too many hours and I should probably get over all of those things and go and talk to her because that one day in the woods was a good time
And this morning, I listened to those songs on the way to work. One after the other, in all of their strange harshness and sharp corners and words that aren’t in the language that I think in, and there’s a beauty in them that’s connected to that time.
And I miss them.
There is a five-day-old box of cold pizza in the front seat of my car that cost $3 at the end of the night at the grocery store, and that is breakfast
And I’m balancing a chipped ceramic mug half-full of coffee as I’m driving, the way that Emma used to, probably still does
And I am teaching myself the words to that same song Adam sang in the car on the way home, and I am pulling over to the side of the road and jumping out of the car and running through the snow because I need to catch a photo of a rainbow over canandaigua lake even though the math center opens at 8:30 and I’m cutting it a little close
And I miss you, but I’m glad that you’ve gone on, and I am so proud of you. I will see you when I see you, if I do.
It has been about a week of working in a job I didn’t expect to get.
I kind of sent in an application on a whim, and then they called me back ten minutes later asking if I wanted an interview, and now – somehow – I am working in a fast-paced kitchen environment in the back of a grocery store ten minutes from my house.
I have still not gotten to make a sandwich yet but I have washed an awful lot of dishes.
I like the people the most.
Melinda is patient and down-to-earth and pedantic in a way that isn’t condescending. She tells me when it’s time for me to take a break, and is grateful in a puzzled way when I ask if I can mop the floor or clean out the rotisserie. We get along swimmingly.
Joan has a sweet smile and is a little worried all the time. I get the sense that she initially liked me very much, and then I did something that bothered her and she – didn’t, for a while, and then she forgave me because I was able to take her criticism halfway well. She spends about as much time being encouraging as she spends telling me what I’m doing wrong. It’s probably good for me.
Joy homeschools four children; she told me that she wanted twelve, because she’d grown up homeschooled on a big woodsy property with eleven brothers and sisters. She loves Terry Pratchett’s work, and is writing a fantasy anti-romance because she wants it to exist.
Anthony is something between a flirt and a smartass and is one semester away from an associates degree in chemistry that will hopefully someday become something to do with biochem. I find this out because we ended up walking each other out to the parking lot at the end of a shift. No one in my hometown had eyes like his, and I’d like to be friends.
Terry is a half-grey and somehow familiar and immediately sets off the frustratingly inaccurate gaydar that until a handful of semesters ago I didn’t know I had. We started this job the same day.
Patrick is an ageless giant who doesn’t like to be criticized and has just enough of this tired inclination towards laziness that some of the older and grumpier ladies tend to yell at him all the time. He seems pleased when I ask if I can watch him do things.
Jordan is the one who emptied out the pans of hot water in the Alto-Shaam at the end of my first night — (that’s the machine that sits in the corner and stays warm and nobody seems to know what it does) — and told everyone matter-of-factly that it was not the hottest thing he’d ever argued with. He also fills me in on where the cameras are in the kitchen – where to stand and which way to turn in order to get away with sneaking bites of food. He is the deli’s third newest employee and is enjoying a sense of seniority over Terry and me.
And I –
I’m realizing that I don’t need to learn how to do everything perfectly right away. It’s a process, and I’m new here, and it’s going to take time.
When I feel too nervous I can hide in the walk in refrigerator and try to breathe, or close my eyes and listen to what is inevitably either going to be John Waite’s “missing you” or Tina Turner’s “what’s love got to do with it” because there is only so much variety that a single grocery store playlist can provide.
My secret is how much I love washing dishes, which is the thing that secretly nobody else likes to do. This is kind of silly, but once I was volunteering at a music festival in exchange for a weekend pass and I’d been working on this pile of dirty pots and pans and empty milk jugs for a couple of hours one morning when some stranger in charge of organizing the volunteers came up to me and said “thank you for just standing here and washing dishes.”
There is just something about simple physical repetitiveness that works for me. It’s a peaceful space to think. I tried to communicate to Melinda about this, and I think she understands.
Joan knows that I’d rather wash four and a half hours of dishes than interact with customers and so she intentionally makes sure that I stop once in a while and talk to people, practice my “HihowcanIhelpyou,” learn how to recognize three different kinds of Swiss cheese or whatever it is and how to weigh out exactly half a pound and print the correct labels on a machine that’s probably older than I am.
Patrick and Anthony and Melinda all agree that it takes time to feel like you know what you’re doing. Jordan says it took him about a month. And I’ll get there.
Oh, and Terry has already made her first sandwich. I am only a tiny bit jealous about this.
TW: imposter syndrome, dropping out of school, math, anxiety/depression, negative self talk, burnout
My brain will not let go of a comment that an old professor made about how he is glad my parents are supportive of my choice to take a gap year, because “there are some people that wouldn’t be.” I think that I see judgement in his face.
I told him that I have soo much time, and he laughed at me, and it was bitter laughing.
My brain-voice tells me that he’s mad because one of his best Calc I students dropped out of school, and then immediately proceeds to turn around and question the word “best.”
And then a very small voice in the background asks me, “dropped out? Is that actually what happened?”
I have had to tell so many people yesterday and today that I am not in school. That I am taking some time to figure things out and that I’d rather do that now than later. That I am not sure what is coming next, and that somehow that’s okay.
I am imagining that everyone is disappointed in me. That they think I have strayed from some path I’m supposed to be on, because I am the kind of person who gets A’s in community college math classes.
This train of thought is objectively interesting, because when I was getting those A’s in mathematics, the voices in my head never stopped telling me that I did not belong on this path, because I am neither clever nor gifted enough to do this kind of work – I am too slow, I will never see the answers by myself, I will always have to push through my own ego and embarrassment and ask for help in order to see the simple elegance of those patterns.
And that same breath I am capable of letting my stupid, gets-A’s-in-mathematics, over-patterning anxious brain take over, and I can let the marker slide over the whiteboards and carefully unravel a tangle of algebra until I know that I have an answer that is correct.
And in the next few breaths, I am capable of turning to another human being who has come to me for help and listening and asking questions until they smile and say “I have never understood this idea before and suddenly it makes sense to me. Thank you.”
And for a heartbeat I feel like I could do this work for the rest of my life.
But that would mean knowing for sure, and I don’t. I do not know for sure. I am pretty certain that not knowing for sure is true for a lot of people.
I am being honest with myself about it and I am doing things in my own goddamn time, and it is terrifying.
My father in particular has always told me not to compare myself to other people, because that way lies madness, and also that what other people think of me is none of my business.
I haven’t actually told him that I’m feeling any of this, but I know that it’s what he would say.
When I think about how he would feel if I said all these things, I imagine that it would be hard for him to watch me standing in my own way. I know he would tell me that I am enough just the way I am, and a very small part of me wouldn’t be able to know for sure, and it would make both of us sad.
He’s got this idea in his head that I will help to find the equation that will save the earth from climate change. He is positive that I could do this. And I’m not afraid not to live up to his expectations, because I know he will love me no matter what.
Ingham was right about my parents, at least.
Even if I don’t know about being enough for academia, I am always sure I’ve got my father’s love.
Which is good, because – I don’t want to be the one who finds that equation. I don’t want to have to do that by myself. I would like to do exceptionally well in my own little corner, and work side by side with people who are doing the same.
This is the truly hard work. This work, inside my head. And I am doing the best that I can.
If there was, then I feel like we’d all disagree and argue over what it should say.
I feel like there would be at least as many versions of that rule book as there were humans doing the writing. Each one would be just a little different, even though I’m almost sure that most would have a few things in common.
In my head, I can picture us as this spectrum of different colors – bright red on the one side, deep blue on the other – but most of it’s just different shades of purple.
Sometimes red goes well with other shades of red, or blue works well with blue, and I – I guess the truth is that sometimes they can’t, and don’t. Sometimes two colors from opposite sides compliment each other perfectly, in the beginning, but then become faded and weathered by time
but most of us
so many of us
are purple, from indigo to violet to magenta and maroon, lilac purple, rich and royal purple, easy-on-the-eyes purple, your grandmother’s favorite sweater or fallen plumbs or the tattered case for that first CD you got when you were ten PURPLE
Sunrise on the pond purple. Amethyst. Flecks in her eyes when she smiles.
The lucky ones sometimes find just a few other shades of purple that match up pretty well with their own purple, and shine a little brighter, with each other, for a while.
And even when they’ve all run and faded and crumbled to dust, they’ll remember…
we’ll seem somehow all the brighter, even after all this time.
and blue can look at red and see the beauty in it
and rivalry or rapture is a choice
but I think that the answer is somewhere in the middle of this purple
The meeting of edges, the mixing of opposites
compromise, harmony, androgyny, and light
It might take a lifetime to see it. I’m trying to open my eyes up, when I can.
Meet me in the middle, purple.
so when we stumble on the yellow, and the orange, and the green
maybe sometime we will all know how to dance after the rain
It was dark outside, and the crickets were singing in the woods around us, and the campfire was just embers anymore. Both of us were getting our own selves ready for bed when we met on the path that lead up to the house.
“Look at that,” she said, pointing upwards at the canopy of tree branches.
I followed her arm and looked up, and at first I didn’t see anything, and I said so. She helped me, until I was standing where she’d been standing a moment before. Perspective shifted. Objects in my personal foreground seemed to move more than the things that were farther away- from the tree trunks to the interwoven branches to the sky.
And there it was.
A gap in the trees, with a patch of starlight framed inside of it. The smallest detail, the easiest kind to walk past with your gaze pointed downwards and never see at all. But so lovely.
“Look at that,” she breathed, again. “Shit like that keeps me alive.”
I’m not sure if I completely understood what those words meant, then. But I absolutely believed that she meant them.
In Europe, I started taking photographs – not for the sake of photography, but because I wanted to remember where I’d been. Every travel blog, every backpacker I met on the road, everyone told me that memories fade, and many had experienced the regret of not having kept a record. So I was doing my best.
In the middle of a handful of UNESCO world heritage sites in Potsdam, Germany, I stepped outside my door in the morning and hadn’t made it half a mile down the road before literally stumbling across some ancient palace grounds, now a public park, that I didn’t know existed. I spent the whole day taking pictures. There was no way I could do justice to that experience with words. There were elements of Auschwitz that I also don’t believe I will ever be able to write down, but I might be able to allude to them with pictures.
But then – fast forward to a time when I’m not traveling. When I’m trying to adjust to the massive shock of coming home. And I did come home, but I also got stuck in the Doldrums.
Since the day my dad called and helped me get up off the couch, I’ve been walking almost every day. I’m not running a 5k every morning. I’m doing a halfway decent job being at peace with myself on the days when I don’t get outside. And every time I go outside, every time I’m walking, I reach into my pocket and open the camera on my iPhone 6s and start to look at the world through a different lens. It’s a habit.
When I was standing with Sara and looking up at the gap in the trees, part of me was acutely aware that she’d noticed it and I hadn’t. Sometimes I feel like I’m losing touch with reality and worldly things because I’m too caught up in my thoughts to see them.
But when I look at the world through a camera lens, everything clicks into focus. And I begin to notice the little things, so easy to miss.
Bubbles on the surface of the water, or the texture of moss or the curves of the mushrooms growing on tree trunks. Intricate shapes of unfamiliar seed pods, a trail of footprints, or the twining of grapevines and wire.
The gaps in the trees.
Taking pictures is pulling me back to a place where I feel like I’m almost a child. It’s grounding as fuck, and it helps me. So much.
The other day my dad called me from work to ask how I’d been doing, and I told him that I hadn’t gotten up off the couch all day. And there was this pause on the other end of the phone, and then he said, carefully:
“so get up off the couch. Bundle up, go outside, go for a walk.”
Context: it was like two o’clock in the afternoon. I had slept straight through the previous night, almost woke up close to morning and lay in bed and tossed and turned and drifted for a bit and felt frustrated with myself for not being able to wake up until I finally managed to pull myself up and out of bed
— got dressed, walked downstairs, brushed my teeth, checked my phone, stood in the kitchen and just —-
didn’t want to face the world.
curled up on the living room couch, and went right back to sleep.
That’s where I was when my dad called me.
He stayed on the phone with me as I swung my feet over the side of the couch, stood up, went looking for my socks and shoes, my hat and coat,
a leash for the dog who kept curling up next to the couch and worrying
and my dad was just there and listening to me talking myself through each tiny little intermediate step towards getting outside. At one point, I needed both hands to tie my shoes or something and I needed to hang up. So I promised that I would let him know when I was out the door. It took me longer than I wanted it to, but I did it. I send him this picture:
And he just told me I’d done a good job.
We – Lara and I – walked for maybe a mile and a half or two. And with each step, it got a little easier.
Münster, Germany, is too small to deserve its own labeled dot on many maps. One can walk or bike anywhere in the city.
Like a lot of cities in Germany, Münster began with the construction of a church. As time went by, folks settled down and built their homes in the shadow of that church, and a village was born, and then the merchants came and traded around the edges. Just another stop along the river, by the harbor, before there were train stations and steam engines, back when a boat on the water was nifty shortcut that could change the shape of the world.
The oldest buildings and streets are in the center of the city, in downtown. Even as the city expanded and sprawled outwards, the oldest part of the city remained at the center, like a heart. It’s like looking at the rings of a tree. But it’s not a perfect cross section across time, because Münster, like a lot of places in Europe, did not escape the bombs, and humans had to rebuild in places.
As one does.
I can sit here and I can talk about taking a cross section of time. But since the beginning, there’ve been people taking the long way, moment by moment. For lifetimes.
So the city continues. Every week, there’s still a market in the square by the church. The streets come alive with people. Friends and lovers and children and street folks. Bakers behind the counters of cafés on every corner. On market days, butchers, gardeners. The invisible people who put up the posters on the walls under the bridges. Musicians. People drinking beer on the sidewalks, perusing the displays in the shop windows. People on bicycles, so many bicycles, everywhere you turn…
There’s a bicycle path in the shape of a ring, called the promenade, that loosely defines the edges of downtown. The bike path is lined with warm, globular street-lamps and old trees, and there’s a footpath along one side of it, and playgrounds and parks, and it cuts across streets every few hundred yards.
There is this one place where the promenade slopes down under a bridge. Bicyclists can stop peddling, for a moment, on the otherwise level path, and feel the wind in their faces and watch the bridge whoosh by above their heads before the peddles click back into gear, and begin to push back against gravity.
While I was in Münster, I read Kathrin a wonderful book in which witches swooped across the sky. I doodled them at Kathrin’s table and tried to write about them on napkins in coffee shops. They seemed – almost at home, in a place where the buildings and the culture were so beautiful and old. Almost.
When my fingers got cold holding onto the handlebars of a bike, I wondered if that’s what it would feel like to hold onto a broomstick.
When the sun had set and the mists crept out from behind the trees along the promenade, the air felt thick with magic.
When Alyssa’s hair and Kathrin’s coattails trailed out behind them as the three of us went flying down the hill and under the bridge on our bicycles, it was easy to pretend we were witches.
The earth’s orbit is not a perfect circle, but rather an ellipse. Because the orbit is not a circle, the distance between the earth and the sun is not a constant.
Because of the way the earth’s axis is tilted, the amount of time that any point on the earth’s surface spends facing the sun depends on two things: 0. Latitude 0. The earth’s location in its orbit
The the length of daylight in the northern hemisphere is actually shortest when the earth is closest to the sun.
I have a vivid memory of a high school science teacher turning off all the lights and climbing up on top of a desk with a flashlight and a globe to demonstrate this phenomenon.
It’s almost the darkest day of the year.
“I like this one.”
“Eehhhh. It’s crooked near the bottom.”
“What about that one?”
“Isn’t it a bit tall? Plus, the needles are too sharp.”
“Look at that one over there!”
“Pffft. It’d never fit in the house.”
“THIS ONE!”
“It’s the perfect height!”
“Actually, it’s kind of lovely.”
And then, from the last of us:
“Yes, okay, but – look at that big gap in the middle, d’you see…”
Etc., etc., for the appropriate amount of time. Then:
“What about this one?”
“Ooo…”
“Loren?”
“I like it. Also, my toes are cold.”
“Mom? What do you think?”
A pause, and then an approving nod.
“…Okay, yeah. It’s a nice tree.”
And so it was settled.
We joined hands around the tree for a minute, and said something like a thank you. It’s a thing my family does.
This time, Evie cut it down. In one go. All by herself. She was all pink in the face and proud of herself, after. Then I picked up one end of the tree and dad grabbed the other, and we began the walk back up the hill to the barn.
People dressed in red and green appeared out of the woodwork to help my dad lift the tree and set it on top of the Jeep and strap it down, carefully, while the young ones snuck candy-canes into our coat pockets. And then we all piled into the car and drove, carefully, until we turned left into the driveway and were home.
And then it was time for the tree stand, and untangling ropes of Christmas lights, and carrying boxes down from the attic. Someone put a John Denver and the Muppets Christmas CD in the player. A stand mixer was retrieved from the depths of a cupboard, and a cookbook was flipped open to the correct page, and someone added
half a pound of sugar,
some vanilla,
a package of cream cheese, and
a tad less than a stick of butter
into the bowl, and mixed them up, and set it outside in the snow to chill.
And in the back of my head, I remembered other Decembers, a long time ago, when Sara was here, and we’d roll out cookie dough on the island in the kitchen and cut out the shapes of rabbits and snowmen and pine trees and angels, and you could tell the exact time they were ready to take out of the oven by the smell.
And then I looked up to see my little sister, who wasn’t little any more, standing at the kitchen counter and meticulously mixing drops of food coloring into the frosting until she’d found exactly the right shade, until she had a rainbow laid out in front of her.
And it was dark outside, because the days were shorter, for a while.
But on the inside there was joy, for just a moment, and the house smelled like cookies and pine needles.
And soon there will be familiar ornaments – old friends, almost forgotten – and my Dad will read the first stave of A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens.
And I’ll stay up later than anyone else and I’ll set down my phone and I’ll lay on the couch and look at the lights on the tree and breathe in the smell of pine.
And it’s so dark outside. Dark, and cold, and forbidding. And there’s this stupidly illusive feeling that I almost remember from childhood, that I often think I should be feeling, when 101.3 switches over to their Christmas playlist, when the choir starts singing carols on the street. But it’s sometimes very, very hard to feel.
Until that moment. When it’s so dark outside that my sister insists that it’s time to get a tree. When the lights go up in the garden and around the edge of the front porch, not just at our house, but at every house in the town and across the city and around the world.
I’m not sure, but I think it’s a manifestation of an ancient, stubborn human impulse – to make our own light in the darkness, to strike a match against the cold. Even as we’re closest to the sun.
At the very beginning of an excellent children’s book – A Wrinkle in Time, Madeline L’Engle – there’s a scene where Meg can’t sleep for worrying, so she goes downstairs to the kitchen for a cup of hot cocoa.
She found her little brother, and a saucepan of milk on the stove, and they were mostly exclusive about it.
Sometimes, when I’m alone in my own attic bedroom and I can’t sleep for worrying, I get up and go downstairs and make hot cocoa, and sometimes it helps.
This evening, I also made a largish batch of macaroni & cheese for the weekend, and cleaned up the kitchen, and listened to my parents’ Christmas CDs, and played with a dog who also kind of needed that.
Solace comes from the weirdest places. Sometimes the most effective act of self-soothing and a bad habit can be exactly the same thing. Sometimes the thing that you know you need to do to take care of yourself is the one thing that you know is going to hurt the most. Letting go, speaking out, turning around and going back, saying the words you’ve been keeping inside. Those moments can fucking sting like anything, and they’re also frequently the moments when the multiverse shifts and everything changes for good.
“It’s in every one of us to be wise. Find your heart, open up both your eyes. We can all know everything without ever knowing why. It’s in every one of us, by and by…”
~ John Denver
Never stop changing, continue to grow, do the uncomfortable things over and over again until you are comfortable being uncomfortable. You are constantly becoming.
And – somehow, at the same time -remember that it is also okay to rest, to set down the burdens for just a little while. They’ll be there later, when you come back, if you choose to. Take a moment to just be where you are, and appreciate the little things. It’s all we’ve got, you see. And at the same time, it’s everything.
✨
When I was very little, I used to fall asleep in the back of the car on long car rides at night, and I can remember my dad scooping me up and carrying me up the front steps and into the house. Specifically, I remember his whiskers, I remember his footsteps, the gravel of under his shoes and the creaking of the hinges of the front door.
We used to look up at the stars, and feel so small.
It’s an unexpectedly comforting perspective.
“It is clear that we are just an advanced breed of primates, on a minor planet, orbiting an average star, in the outer suburbs of one among a hundred billion galaxies. But, ever since the dawn of civilization, people have craved for an understanding of an underlying order of the world. There ought to be something very special about the outer conditions of the universe. And what can be more special than that there is no boundary. There should be no boundaries to human endeavor. We are all different. However bad life may seem, there is always something you can do, and succeed at. While there’s life, there is hope.”
~ Stephen Hawking, in the movie The Theory of Everything, muchhh paraphrased
Coming home is an awkward shift, and sometimes it takes time.
I’m thinking about my dad coming home from work, every day, for years and years. His car would crown the crest of the hill, and he’d swing over to the mailbox across the road, and then pull in the driveway, turn the engine off.
The dogs would get so very excited about this.
Those first few minutes after arriving were a sacred thing. “I’m not really here yet,” he used to say, not unkindly, if we tried to talk to him before he was ready. He’d walk up the front steps and into the house, greet the dogs or cats or whoever was there, and put his dishes in the dishwasher and his bag on the hook on the back of the door, and then he’d say “I’ve got to change out of my work clothes,” and disappear into a closet off the laundry room, and take a minute to himself. He’d emerge in his comfortable sweats, tired, and then he’d be ready to be caught up in the things going on at home again. Or maybe not ready, but willing.
I’ve never thought of this habit as a ritual, but it could have been. I think that routine was most of what separated his work life from his home life, his work-self and home-self, his out-of-the-house mask and the face he wore for us.
Because, I think – the person you are at home isn’t quite the same as the person you are anywhere else in the world.
To anyone who needs to hear this today:
When you come home, remember to change into your comfy clothes. Take off your work face. Adjust to being surrounded by people who know all the things about you that a well-crafted facade can hide. The quirks and flaws and breaking points, the little-known strengths, all the growth and changes you’ve been through to get to where you are. It’s a messy and vulnerable and awkward space, and – not without work – hopefully a safe space, most of the time.
Most of the time. But sometimes there’s so much friction where the edges meet that the earth quakes. So I think that it helps to know where those edges are, just so that you can keep an eye on them.
When you’ve stepped out of the picture for a little while, and then you’ve come back, it sometimes takes time to remember where you used to fit in. Because the shapes of the edges have changed a little in the intervening time. Nothing stays the same – and it shouldn’t, really.
The place you came from won’t look the same as it did before you went out into the world and did the things, and you’re not quite the same, either. Going out into the world and doing the things has this way of doing that to a person.
And the genuinely uncomfortable thing is, things might not fit exactly the way they used to. And it might take time to acclimate, even in a familiar space. There might be shaky moments of wondering if there’s still a place for you, where there used to be.
But there is one. That’s the amazing thing. Somewhere, there is a place where you can put your feet on the table and snag food that you didn’t pay for out of the refrigerator and fall asleep on the couch and exist in a space where there are people who aren’t strangers who love you even though you’re frequently cranky and tired and very far from perfect.
It might take time, and that’s okay. But there is always a place to come home to, even if you’re different than you were before.
“Why do you go away? So that you can come back. So that you can see the place you came from with new eyes and extra colors. And the people there see you differently, too. Coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving.”
When I touched down in Germany, Kathrin met me at the airport. I think I saw her first, and we hugged for a good long time. She was so good to me. She helped me let my parents know I was with her and safe, and insisted on carrying my backpack for me, and guided my sleep-deprived, travel-weary self through the airport halls and train stations and buses and dark, rainy streets of Münster and up the many flights of stairs to home.
She also gave me food.
The first thing I ate when I got there was a homemade Snickers bar from one of her roommates. It was sticky and gooey and nothing like a Snickers bar, and it was perfect.
Then there was a plain joghurt (yogurt) drink, and a Turkish pastry wrapped in paper with sheep’s cheese and spinach and pine nuts on the inside. I’d been living on coffee and cheap snacks for too many hours, and it was soo good. Everything was.
Her apartment smelled like someone had just finished cooking with spices, and other smells that I liked but couldn’t identify. I later gathered that I was probably picking up on a mixture of scented candle smoke and possibly hops and weed.
On my first night there, close to midnight, I sat at the kitchen table while Kathrin stood at the stove and minded a frying pan, with her hair tied up in a floppy bun.
Kathrin had just gotten back from her own adventures in Italy, and had brought back peppers and greens and garlic that grew there. She mixed them with chickpeas – she told me they’re called “giggling peas,” in German.
Kathrin loves cooking the way my brother-in-law loves beer, the way my little sister appreciates anything that can be loosely interpreted as even a little gay.
That was the first warm, home-cooked food since shepherd’s pie at the kitchen table with my mom, dad and little sister. The vegetables from Italy were a wonderful beginning, and afterwards I went to bed and slept for hours.
That was the first night.
In the following days, no small part of experiencing Münster was trying the food.
Several days a week, there is a food market in the cobblestone square by the Dom – the church in the center of Old Town, Münster. It’s crowded, and colorful, and smells amazing – like fish and bread and cake and cheese and meat and strawberries and fresh orange juice and street food. That first morning, with Kathrin, I tried sausage and saur kraut and fried potatoes. Later, there would be cheese and apple cider and sausages and ham. She ran into a friend she knew on the other side of a vegetable stall, and they exchanged hugs. Later, that friend ran over and brought us a paper dish of pistachio ice cream.
Kathrin works in the kitchen at the Hafenkäserei, the harbor cheese factory. I first visited during a party after the whole crew met to discuss the menu for the fall. She stood up at the end of the table and said “this is my cousin from America,” and I sat in a corner and tried to blend into a wall for awhile until the shyness thawed.
I’d never had Pizza & Beer before and I immediately understood why that is a thing.
Specifically, I tried a radler, which I found out is essentially like bubbly fruit juice with a bitter aftertaste and a roughly 2% alcohol content.
A few days later, I found my way back to the cheese factory
(left out of the apartment, left and then another left onto the promenade, left at the statue of a giraffe, through the intersection, under the bridge, right at the apothecary with the rainbow over the door, left towards the golden tree at the intersection with the pizza place on the corner, straight past the water, left into the driveway and you’re there)
and I sat at the bar and I tried a fried cheese ball and cheesy soup and bread and a salad with lemon dressing and a mango sorbet for dessert. I think there was peppermint tea, afterwards, and then I biked home and went to sleep.
The first phrase I learned how to say out of necessity was “Ich hätte gern ein Kaffee mit mich, bitte.” (I would like a coffee with milk, please.) At first I was shy and quiet and most people couldn’t hear me, much less understand my broken German. I became more confident with time.
I’d eaten sort-of-gluten-free for years and years, because for various reasons that’s how my family eats, at home. I’d decided that in Germany I would experiment with not worrying and just trying things. For one thing, in most of Europe the growing of wheat crops is done without some of the methods practiced in America that make my mother worried.
And so it was here that I re-discovered bread.
Not just the pre-sliced, whole wheat bread of my childhood, or the crumbly homemade gluten-free alternatives we sometimes make at home. Round rolls that were crusty on the outside and covered in seeds. Thick, triangular wedges, layered like pastries, that melted like butter in your mouth. I went to town in the bakeries, for a while there, and I don’t regret a thing.
Grocery shopping in another language, much less with a different currency, was fascinating for me.
When I met Kathrin’s mother, I fell asleep on the couch while mother and daughter cooked greens and squash and lamb chops for dinner. We talked about astrology over quark with applesauce for dessert.
When I left Münster and visited other places, I found that each city had its own signature dish. Amsterdam offered waffles, sandwiched together with syrup inside. Hamburg’s tradition is called Lobskaus, fried eggs and pickled herring served with a mash of beets and potatoes and arugula. Allegedly, sailors used to eat this dish to cure hangovers. Prague served a cylindrical fry-bread called Trdeník. In Kraków, street vendors on every corner solid a pretzel-like bread twisted into the shape of a ring the size of a dinner plate.
At almost every hostel, I made myself a frying pan of vegetables – peppers, onions, mushrooms, greens. Cooking helped me feel at home, and centered, and I think it was probably good for me.
At every hostel that served breakfast, I would stuff rolls and fruit and hard-boiled eggs in my pockets, while the staff looked the other way.
In Oświęcim, after visiting Auschwitz-Birkenau, I needed a little chocolate. I threw a small piece into the woods, to say thank you to the company that walked with me and got me through that day.
In the train stations on the way back to Kathrin, I slipped into a pattern of Starbucks and McDonalds that had never been a lifestyle of mine before then. It got me through for a little while, but I missed the good stuff, the things that don’t taste the same every time you eat them.
I’ve just landed back in Münster. Today I got coffee with Kathrin, and she was surprised at the confidence with which I ordered my coffee and orange juice. Apparently I also agreed to try oat milk by mistake, but that’s okay with me. We also split a bagel with onions and cream cheese, and she told me she’ll eat that whenever she’s feeling homesick for the states.
I’m feeling homesick for the states.
Right now I’m sitting at a small Lebanese grill called Karamna – it’s close to the cheese factory, across from a movie theater. I can confidently say that they serve the best cheeseburgers anywhere I’ve been in the world. I found this place in my first week away from home – I tried to order in German but kept tripping up, and this was the first place where someone I didn’t know switched the conversation to English for my sake. It’s happened to me many times since, and it’s a simple thing, but it counts.
When I was younger, I used to hate geography. I wanted to learn my way around the back-roads and woods around my house. I didn’t care about the names and shapes of places I’d never been.
Oh, I understood about continents and oceans, and countries, states, and capitals, and climates and borders and whatnot. Just one of those things I vaguely know and can’t remember how I learned. I just never paid attention to the names for things. They were far away, not part of my little world.
I was also mostly unschooled, as a kid – which doesn’t mean I didn’t learn, it just means I was free. I did a lot of listening to grown-ups, talking, but not necessarily talking at me. I mostly read books and played with fractions, and stretched out on my trampoline in the sun, and sat on the porch during thunderstorms, and walked around barefoot in the dirt.
It was a good time.
A few years later, I’ve somehow become the kind of person who can decide to take a sabbatical from getting a math degree to go backpacking solo around Western Europe with several books and absolutely no plan.
Now that I see those two people written down next to each other, I am noticing that they have some things in common.
When backpacking Europe, a little knowledge of geography is nice to have. Google maps became my friend, and possibly a crutch. I think that physically traveling – working out the logistics of where things are relative to each other, of distance and time – has a way of teaching me things in a way that’ll stick. There’s a difference between staring at small, labeled dots in the middle of seemingly random squiggly shapes, and waking the streets of a city.
It’s something about the feel of the sidewalks under your soles, the subtle details in the colors and shapes of the buildings, the weather, the light, the breeze in your face. And then there’s the spirit in the people. Each place has a distinct character, a personality, a self. A city is living thing, made up of/maintained by/shat on by a lot of other living things… a city has a center, and a rhythm, and a history and constant growth, and just a touch of pride. They are all so different, and it’s beautiful.
When I got home to Münster I stayed in a hostel because I’d woken up covered in bug bites somewhere in Poland and I didn’t want to take the risk of bringing anything to Kathrin’s place by sleeping there.
And it was a nice hostel. The walls were stenciled with the words “I haven’t been everywhere, but it’s on my list,” and also a rough map of this side of the world. I slept in the top bunk, that time. Just like when I was a kid. I also rebelled and slept with my feet pointed the wrong way so that I had a better view of the map on the wall. I thought about how far I’d come, all the places I’d been, how big it had felt. And then I was struck by how little Germany looks, compared to Europe. Compared to the whole world. There’s so much there I’ve never seen, and some that I never will.
I fell asleep staring at the map on that wall, and when I woke up, Kathrin was somehow miraculously there and shaking me awake because I’d overslept and missed the train we’d booked and I wasn’t answering my phone and she’d gotten worried, and I put on my boots and coat, and slung The Backpack (too heavy, that backpack, why did I pack so many clothes) over my shoulder, and we ran like hell to the train station at 5AM because I needed to catch a plane because Evie wants me home for Thanksgiving.
The last time my boots touched the earth in Europe was running with Kathrin through the mist and the dark of that morning. I was running too fast to stop and say a proper goodbye. (Train stations and airports exist in a sort of alternative dimension of their own, at least in my head, and somehow they don’t count.)
And so – well, you know, darn. I guess I’ll just have to go back.
In Leipzig, I met a man from San Francisco who has been traveling for nine months out of the year for seven years. I asked him how he does it. He says he’s an electrician and a Pizza Delivery Guy, and he travels to the more affordable countries, and he is extremely frugal. I told him I’d washed my laundry in the sink, for the first time, just a few days ago. We both agreed that this is not my last adventure away from home.
He was going home for Thanksgiving, too.
Because we all have to go home, once in a while. It’s where the deepest roots are. And I – I’ve asked myself to do and acknowledge and marvel at so much, and a person gets tired, after a while. It is important to remember that it’s more than okay to take breaks. It’s vitally important. And Evie wants me to be there.
So I’m coming back.
But now I’ve got my own map of the world, in my heart, and there are soo many blank spaces.
I’ve booked myself a train Leipzig, Germany, and two nights at a hostel there. The hostel has a laundry service and a fully stocked kitchen, which means I can cook the vegetables I bought in Dresden and also dry my clothes.
My boots are still sopping wet and cold. I’m sitting in the train station in the flip-flops I found in Berlin because I think it’s a better idea than putting those boots back on my feet right now. I probably should have just put up with the smell for another couple of days, but my embarrassment got the better of me. Thanks a lot, Cheese Guy.
The interior of the train station doesn’t have heat, so I am sitting in a patch of sunlight by a window. Kind of barefoot.
I’m doing okay.
Since I landed on this side of the pond, I have been surrounded by the street people. At least one person every day has approached me asking for a little money, or some food.
It started in Münster. I was sitting on a bench in the cobblestoned square by the Dom on a Sunday, and the sun was shining for the first time in days, and the church bells were chiming, and a scruffy looking man came up to me and asked me if I had a very specific quantity of change – maybe like 37 cents. He asked in German but I understood, which was a new and strange experience.
A few minutes later, and old woman walked over with a sign in English saying she needed donations for her hungry grandchildren. Her voice was low, and soft, and persistent, and sounded like a morning dove.
When I left the square – feeling a little shaken, this had never happened to me before – there was a woman sitting with her back to the stone foundation of a bakery. She held a paper cup in her hands, and she just smiled at me.
Another man sits everyday beside the entrance to the movie theater, with no paper cup, just a cupped and weathered hand, outstretched.
A few days later, a young woman asked me for money to help take care of her baby. She was younger than I am. I don’t know why, but there was something in her eyes I didn’t trust. Through a language barrier, I offered to buy her food. But she didn’t want food. I opened my wallet and she saw a twenty euro note and she asked if she could have it, so that she could feed her baby.
It was in that moment that I realized that I needed to learn how to say no.
At the bus station in Hamburg, a thin, friendly woman said “speak English? Could you possibly have any spare change?” and smiled conspiratorially, and winked.
Two minutes later, a man came up to me and asked for two Euros towards a barbecue sandwich from McDonalds. He told me that he really liked barbecue.
In Berlin, it was different.
I was walking downtown by the river and a woman marched right up to me and said, “speak English?” When I nodded, she showed me a piece of paper written in English that said she lived on the street and needed money for food. When I gave her a little she insisted on just a little more.
When I visited the East Side gallery, a woman with a clipboard approached me and asked me to sign a piece of paper to help her with her baby’s ear surgery – she told me he was deaf. I gave a little, I signed the clipboard. She got angry and upset with me for not giving her more, and I stood there not knowing what to do, and eventually said “I am sorry.” I walked away feeling angry at myself.
I was about a mile away when I realized that there was an orange in my backback that I could have given her, and I felt even worse.
Sitting with their backs to the Berlin Wall, there were two men with several paper cups and cardboard signs spread out in front of them. The generous could choose to contribute to their funds for either groceries, beer, weed, or LSD.
There were musicians. One man playing the accordion, another with a battered old violin.
There was a woman dressed up as a clown by the Brandenburg gate. “Photo, photo?” she asked, quite cheerfully, beckoning me over. I noticed that her teeth were almost brown. We took a selfie, and then she held out her hand for the spare change.
On my way out of Berlin I bought myself some chocolate, for medicinal purposes. I ended up giving most of it to an old man on the bridge by the train station.
Prague was the worst.
It was cold there, below freezing. And you couldn’t walk down a street in the old town without passing several of them. They knelt, bent over into something like a child’s pose, arms and hands extended holding paper cups, foreheads resting on the ground.
I saw a man eating rotten strawberries out of a trash can.
Many sat with puppies in their laps or wrapped up in blankets beside them – for the possible advantage of the cuteness factor, or for the added sympathy for having another mouth to feed, or for the warmth? I saw very few fully grown dogs, in Prague, and that haunted me.
In Krakow, Poland, a young, good looking fellow stopped me in the street and offered me a rose. He then produced a book and asked me to sign it. I didn’t have change, and I told him so. He took the flower back out of my hands, and walked away.
A few blocks later I happened upon a street vendor that was selling flowers, and noticed some familiar-looking roses.
There was a man standing by the entrance to a church, with his eyes closed and his hand outstretched. When I came back later he had gone, and an old woman stood there in his place.
Later, at night, an old man whose face looked like a skull sat with his back to the wall and a hat out in front of him, arms around his knees. When I walked past him the first time, he almost glared at me.
In Oświęcim… that was a different kind of place. A smaller town, where nobody really had any money. The only time I felt like someone wanted something from me was when I stood in front of the gallows at Auschwitz I, and that time I genuinely could do nothing.
Today, in Dresden – this is going to sound familiar, but – I’d bought myself some chocolate for medicinal purposes, and I found a room in the train station that was warm, with seats, and there was an old man there who was sleeping there and I – well.
When I stop and think, I can’t believe – I am twenty years old, and I didn’t know. I’d never seen. I have been so sheltered.
I can almost say that everything I have is in a backpack on my shoulders, that I can identify with these people. And then I remember that it isn’t true, because far away across an ocean there is a room in my parent’s house, and I’m not a materialistic human, but there are actually quite a lot of books there, and a pretty nice guitar, and there is clothing, and other things I have simply because I wanted them. I remember that I worked through some of high school and all of college, and that I qualified for aid from the state, and that I was unexpectedly gifted some funding towards school for being a halfway-decent student and writing scholarship applications well, and so I’m secure in the knowledge that I can put a roof over my own head every night, and that I can eat, and I have a degree and I have skills and when I get home I can go get a job, and I have identification papers and a bank account, that I have a car that’ll hopefully still work, for a little while longer.
So I can’t identify with their experiences. Not really.
But now I know. I don’t fully understand, I don’t know if I have earned the rite to say I can empathize.
I am sitting on a train to Leipzig, in a seat by the window where I can rest my feet beside the radiator, wondering what the hell I can do.
Yesterday evening was cold, and dark, and it was raining hard. I finally caved and ducked inside a shop on the street and bought a cheap umbrella. It is purple, and I am firmly convinced that it was an excellent decision.
I trudged through the puddles along the promenade, slightly less soaked that I might have been, and shivering. It was a twenty minute walk to Kathy’s apartment. I was later than I’d meant to be, and a little anxious/angry at myself, for that.
But I made it. I hadn’t walked down her street since I’d gotten back, and it felt so familiar. It felt like coming home.
I’d lost my keys, somewhere along the way. I reached the top of the many flights of stairs, rang the doorbell. Left my shoes outside the door, went upstairs, and took a shower. I felt like I recognized every little detail in that apartment – the creak of the staircase, the ceramic soap dish shaped like a hand, the tarnished key in the bathroom door, the light switches, the light and the smell of the kitchen.
Kathrin was already cooking.
She set me to work preparing the Brussels sprouts, and I turned on a John Denver & the Muppets Christmas album that is an almost tangible part of my childhood. She loved it.
There was a goose simmering in the oven, and creamy sußkartofflen on the stove, and she’d already dried bread for stuffing.
Kathrin had brought Thanksgiving to Germany years ago. It makes perfect sense – she’s passionate about food, about researching recipes, trying creative new combinations. She has a gift. And her father – my uncle – is an American; she was born in the states, spent the first few years of her life there. She misses it, and dreams of going back, one day.
So she brought the tradition of an American holiday focused on food to her community in Germany. And everybody loves it. In previous years, she’s cooked enough food to share with friends and anyone from apartment complex who happened to drop by.
This year, it wasn’t actually on Thanksgiving because I’d been told I needed to be home with my parents and little sister by then, but I’d asked if we could share that thing together anyway. And it was only a small gathering. No boys allowed. She’d invited an old roommate and a good friend that I’d met once before, and one of her flatmates was home at the right time to sit down with us.
We all of us were willing to help, in small ways, but she did most of it herself. It’s like watching someone dance, when she cooks. It’s almost a science. All the right things at the right time for a specific outcome. It’ll occur to her to try something, and she’ll think for a moment, and then decide, and go with it.
She’d never made or eaten stuffing before, but I told her about it and on her first attempt she created something from that picture in her head that was as wonderful as the dish I’ve been eating at home for years. But it wasn’t exactly the same. She added two kinds of mushrooms, based on a hunch, and it worked perfectly.
We stood by the stove and ate Brussels sprouts out of the pan with our fingers. They were so good.
We sat together and shared the food, and we were together and happy and complete, and she was smiling. I kept the music from my phone playing quietly through the speakers. There was Amaretto and sweet tea. Her best friend had a smoke in the next room, afterwards. Other roommates came home and were greeted with hugs and leftovers on the stove.
Before I left, she told me she wanted to go with me to the airport to see me off. Either way would have been fine with me, but I’m happy inside.
We hugged goodnight, and I walked back to my hostel in the dark, feeling as full of joy leaving as I’d felt nervous and embarrassed and cranky on the way. I was still playing music on my phone, and it had stopped raining, and I knew exactly how to get to where I was going.
Thinking back over the past week or so, reading over the things I’ve been writing – I’m pretty certain that I’ve been in a negative place. I think maybe walking in concentration camps can do that to a person. I am also road-weary, and tired, and it’s okay to be all of those things. I think perhaps I’ve earned them.
I choose to write from a place of honesty and openness because I think it’s important. I think if I can find it in myself to get up and talk about the challenges I’m experiencing in any given moment, something in my experience is going to ring true with somebody else. We’re less alone, that way.
But I think it also might sometimes be hard to read. I’ve been telling people to put their shields up. I think as soon as I start to give the negative things that kind of floor space, it’s very easy for them to take over, and suddenly the picture is skewed.
Most of it just is, and most of it has something to do with perspective. I’m thinking about trying to write with an intention to pull things into a balance. Like riding a bicycle, or that moment devoted entirely to physical steadiness just after picking up something heavy – like a backpack, or a laundry bag.
I am almost far enough away from these experiences to be able to look at them objectively, and sit with them, and maybe not be at peace, but be present. I won’t forget. Not ever. My intention is to take this energy and try to make it into something good.
But first I need to get myself home, and settled, and shift focus to self-care things, and breathe.
A few days ago, I was messaging back and forth with a good, old friend, and she asked me what it’s been like for me:
“So how is hostel life? I don’t really know what else to call it, lol.”
Hostel life is new, and strange, and exciting, and it’s teaching me how to live with other people, and also how to take care of myself.
Every few days, a different bed, a different kitchen, a different place to come back to.
In Hamburg, I walked an hour from the bus station to my hostel at four in the morning. The hostel was a little grimy and questionable around the edges – but there was a carpeted stage, and a loft, and a long table where I met some of the best people I’ve found on this trip.
In Berlin, the hostel occupied the bottom few floors of an old building with twisting, narrow halls and graphite on the stairway walls. It was the kind of building you could get lost in within about two minutes. If one was to go up too many sets of stairs, the lights went out, and there were piles of dusty old clothes in the corners. Possibly the kindest staff and most efficiently run place I found.
In Prague, it took me about ten minutes to the entrance to the building, even though I was standing right outside of it. The signage was small and hard to find, and the hostel shared a building with a Thai massage business on the ground floor. But there were free cookies in the kitchen, and I stayed there in the middle of the week on a Thursday; I felt like I was the only one there.
Even though each new place has its own personality and idiosyncrasies and quirks, there are some things that they all have in common, (in this one part of the world, at least.)
I typically choose to stay in dorms with six or eight bunks, total. On each unoccupied bunk there would be a mattress, a pillow, and a quilt, non of them covered. The reception desk gives each traveler a clean set of sheets – pillow case, bottom sheet, and a bag-like cover for the quilt. Each guest at the hostel is responsible for making their own bed. Beside each bunk there is a power outlet, a lamp, and possibly a small shelf.
Each guest is also issued a locker – bring your own padlock, just in case – as a safe place to store luggage for the duration of a stay.
I’ve stayed in rooms with private baths, and some hostels with only about two or three showers for everyone to share.
Then there are the kitchens. You never know what you’ll get, with kitchens. Often, the frying pans and spatulas have seen better days, and the knives could use an edge, but at least they’re there. Once, I got to a hostel with a grocery bag full of uncooked vegetables to find that their kitchen didn’t have a stove.
Sometimes, there is free coffee and tea in the mornings; a few places had all-you-can-eat breakfast buffets till noon. (When it comes to filling up a bag for later, it is easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.)
There’s a certain etiquette to shared kitchen spaces. Clean up after yourself. Label your food in the refrigerator. Thou shalt not steal. Common sense things.
That etiquette extends beyond the kitchen, too. A sign in a hallway at a hostel in Berlin reads “Please be quietly! People sleep right here.”
Backpacking hostels are the epitome of those places where tired humans at their best and worst and most open and joyful and grumpy and disgusting are thrown together into cramped spaces, and fully expected to peacefully coexist.
It’s different, from place to place.
Sometimes it’s flooded bathroom floors, and bed bugs, and waking up at seven in the morning because the people in the next bunk aren’t being subtle about it, and sometimes it’s the snoring that you’d swear to god is making the walls shake, and sometimes it’s the smell of boots that’ve been walked in for weeks and weeks.
Sometimes there is a sense of community, of shared responsibility for one another – altruism and generosity and of course you can use the frying pan when I’m done. The best moments are moments of friendliness. “Where do you come from? What brings you here? What have you seen while you were here, and what would you recommend?”
Hostel life is teaching me how to live with people. I need to be able to exist in the same space as another person’s human flaws. I need to be able to speak up and ask for what I need, which is frequently challenging and I need to be able to fend for myself. I need to be able to find out what the rules are, even if it’s through making mistakes. I need to be able to be considerate in the general direction of other people, because it makes a difference. In both directions. And I need to be able to talk to people, be with people, even strangers, because it fends off the loneliness, and it fills me with smiles.
She’s in Florida right now. A few months ago, she got a text message from a stranger who told her a story about playing in a pond in her backyard with her brothers when he was younger. He turned out to be a long-lost cousin.
He dropped by the house last summer. After about five seconds of conversation it became evident that they are very much related, even though they haven’t seen each other since they were little.
He invited my parents down for a family reunion in Florida this month. My mom won’t go anywhere without my dad, even though we’re all pretty sure that she could.
They’re all staying together in a half-million dollar house. They’re a 15 minute drive from a beach on the Gulf of Mexico. Apparently, this cousin also scored them tickets to Universal Studios.
I cannot remember my parents ever doing this kind of thing. It sounds like they’re having fun.
My dad told me that just being able to go for a walk in shorts and a t-shirt in the morning in November, and see a cactus growing in somebody’s front yard, and notice differently shaped trees, and catch the occasional glimpse of the ocean, is more than enough for him. He was walking when I called him the other day, and at one point he stopped talking in the middle of a sentence.
“Dad? What is it?”
“I’m looking at a hedge,” he said, slowly, “that is made of rosemary. A hedge made of rosemary plants.” He was quiet for a minute. “It’s taller than I am.”
I miss my dad.
He’s an introvert, like me. He needs his time away from people to recharge. Opposite end of the spectrum from my mom – when I woke up at 10 here she was still awake, because she stayed up into the wee hours of the morning talking to people she’s related to, somehow, that she’s only just meeting now.
In the last couple of days I’ve felt – I don’t know. Yesterday I kept feeling like something was wrong somewhere, like someone important was in trouble, and I kept messaging people like “how are you? Are you okay?” I told my sister this and she told me in the kindest way possible that I should check in with myself. And I – yeah.
Yep.
There is only one person in the world I can talk to when I feel like this, when I’m on the verge of something like a little child’s meltdown, and be my honest ugly horrible self, and know that I’ll still be loved afterwards.
It’s frequently messy and awful when that person lives under the same roof as me. But when I’m out here alone, in a city I’ve never heard of, and I need to talk to someone, and I am scared that if I open up to anyone else I’ll damage them or drive them away with all of the things that are hurting in my body/mind/heart right now, it’s –
it’s good to have a mother.
She’s a force of nature, my mom. She works in construction. She once met Isaac Asimov asked him if he believed in God. All of the boyfriends my little sister and I have ever had have been at least a little afraid of her. She likes to play in the dirt, and frequently grows more vegetables than a family of four could possibly eat in a year. She’s a licensed massage therapist. She used to make pottery, and it’s beautiful stuff. She was a secretary for something like 16 years and hated every moment of it, except for the part where she met my dad. She’s into alternative nutrition and eats coconut oil by the spoonful because she read that it’s good for your brain. She had us eating gluten free before it became a fad, and she’ll only buy food that’s organic and non-GMO and she sources our meat from places where she believes they had good lives, munching on grass under the sun. She makes her own chocolate and saur kraut. She always wears the same pair of overalls and muddy boots, with her hair tucked back under a ball cap. She and my father like to dance at weddings. She grew up in a house with three older brothers and is consequently tough as nails and perpetually wary. She’s a little scatter-brained, and doesn’t like to let things go in case they might one day be useful, and is usually later than she meant to be. Whenever we’re getting ready to leave the house for more than a couple days, she rushes around trying to do everything that’s been on her to-do list for weeks that somehow haven’t gotten done yet. She spends a lot of time at home, and she can talk forever, if someone is willing to listen. She swears like a trucker. She cried for days when our big orange cat went missing and didn’t come home again.
We clash in so many ways. Not just me and my mom. All of us, in all directions.
But we can also sit around the kitchen table and talk and laugh at my sister’s humor and my dad’s bad puns and cook and eat good food and watch Marvel movies in the living room on summer nights when the days are long, and sometimes we can even get our shit together enough to go camping, and sometimes they’ll dance in the kitchen, my mom and my dad, and it’s a happy and a reassuring thing to see.
This morning my mom listened to all of my unfiltered negativity and tiredness, and then told me matter-of-factly that I need to book myself a plane ticket from Boston to Rochester instead of taking a bus. She told me she’d sleep better knowing I had that ticket.
She asked me what support looks like, and then said that of course she’d help me to make sure that I have an appointment with the mental-health doctor’s office when I get home.
Dresden, Germany, is the first place I ever experienced the feeling of not knowing if I was going to have a safe place to sleep for a night.
I got to Dresden at one o’clock in the morning, on a bus that should have gotten there at twenty-three but hadn’t because we’d been stopped at the border between Poland and Germany for a passport check. (The officer saw my last name and thought of the football team and was like “Ah, cool!!”) The hostel was an hour’s walk away from the train station.
Also, the hostel had messaged me earlier telling me I should let them know if I expected to arrive there after 22:30, because that was when reception closed, and they hadn’t gotten back to me when I’d told them that my bus would get to Dresden after hours. I should have called them.
On top of everything else, I’d sat in the back of the bus, the seat without a power outlet, because it was cheap, and both my power bank and my phone were dying.
I started walking.
Dresden is one of the places that the allies bombed the shit out of in WWII. You can tell because the buildings are new, newer than some of the places I’ve been in America. It’s quiet there. And at night, it’s just a little scary.
I walked over a bridge across the Elbe river that separates Altstadt Dresden from Neustadt, (old-town from new-town.) Strains of Queen – “we will/we will/rock you” and “I can’t get no/satisfaction” drifted towards me across the water.
I found a power outlet in the entrance to a hotel that looked wayyyy outside of my price range; the doors were made of glass. I stood for a moment and plugged in my phone. When the man behind the desk noticed I was there, I sort of ran away.
My hostel had sent me a message. “hey, r u still coming tonight?” They said I could check in after hours.
I walked there. I got settled.
I had a bed to sleep in, and that was a good thing.
Most of the clothes I’ve worn and carried with me are first treated to a good scrubbing in hot water and the suds of the cheapest soap I could find. Drain the sink. Rinse in cold water. Repeat. Wring them out by hand till there’s almost no water left in them, then lay them out or hang them over the back of any and every available surface in my hotel room.
I am immediately concerned about making sure there’s something dry enough to wear tomorrow. Opening the window to let the breeze in lets in the cold and doesn’t seem to be working, so I crank the radiators up to full blast. I remember from a ninth-grade earth science lesson that warm air can hold more water vapor than cold air.
In the back of my head I am vaguely hoping that nothing catches on fire this evening.
Afterwards, my hands are papery-dry and so wrinkled that my phone doesn’t recognize my fingerprint.
The improvised spritzer-bottle/plastic water bottle with holes punched in the lid worked fine. Higher ratio of H2O2 to water than anticipated – I had to play with it a little to get the balance right. I think my boots are better than they were before, and it’s something, and something is good enough.
I just want to say that I’d never done this before. I am learning to make due with what I have and also recognize that there’s an alternative thing to try when one thing seems overwhelming and too much and I really just need clean clothes in the morning and have been putting it off for long enough.
And now it’s time to sleep, because the time will pass by faster that way, and hopefully the clothes will be dry in the morning.
Follow the link above to watch my YouTube video, in which you can see my face and hear my voice as I talk about: stinky shoes and what to do about them, doing laundry in a hostel sink, and what it’s like when neither of the people having sex in the dorm room you’re sharing is you.
The first time everything had felt unfamiliar. The second time it felt like I was stepping back in time to the previous day, and living it over again.
Except that I got to the bus station early, instead of running for twenty minutes to get to a bus that I knew would leave in twenty-five. And this time, I knew where the bathrooms were, where to store my luggage, where the information desk was, where the shuttle bus was going.
I went to the information desk to ask for help. In a voice that was much clearer and more confident than I was feeling, I said: “I was here yesterday and I saw Auschwitz I. Today I’ve come back because I want to see Auschwitz II. How do I do that?”
The woman on the other side of the glass looked surprised, but she told me what to do.
I would not need a ticket this time. Aside from a few places that are roped off because they are unsafe, Birkenau is completely open to the public during the day.
I took the bus instead of walking. I told my parents where I was going.
When I got to the gate, I started to feel cold and shaky again.
I called in the Grandfathers. I had never done that for myself before. I was clumsy but I did it, and I can confidently say that I felt more supported and less alone. My mind was clear.
You can still smell the ashes. It’s a metallic tang, in the air, in the back of your throat.
Unlike Auschwitz I, Birkenau has been mostly reduced to ruins. It’s rubble, and ashes, and barbed-wire fences, and it is heart-wrenchingly vast.
The first thing I saw when I got through the gates was a faint rainbow in the sky above what used to be the woman’s barracks. It made my heart sing.
I walked a worn dirt road lined with barbed wire fencing, so long and straight that it seemed to go on forever. Those selected for death in the gas chambers were herded along that same road.
All around me, there were the ruins of the men’s camp, the places they used to sleep and eat and hurt on the inside and out. Here, the only remaining corner of a red brick building, there, a free standing chimney. Everywhere rectangular remnants of stone foundations, overgrown with moss and lichen and wildflowers and tall grass. It seemed to stretch on for as far as the eye could see in all directions, all that was left of this place that used to house an industry of dying.
It was so quiet there, so peaceful. I have never been anywhere with as much solemn-ness and reverence as that place. In its own way, it’s strangely beautiful.
I finally got to the end of the road, and stopped walking. I remembered something from a book I’d read about a man who asked his friends to say Kaddish for him after he died, and they’d forgotten.
I tried to say it for all of them. I didn’t know how. It’s a Jewish prayer that is said when someone dies, but is less about death than the greatness of their God. I found the English translation of the words on the first page of google and I don’t know if I did it right, but I tried for them.
I kept walking. I kept expecting someone to come yell at me for walking on the grass, but no one did.
I touched the still barbed wire fencing and found that it was cold. I walked past a pile of broken ceramic, smashed into beyond recognizable shapes.
I stumbled on a memorial to the Roma and Sinai people that were killed here. I overheard a group of visitors praying together and singing, and I stopped to listen. I witnessed a military ceremony, young people standing to attention, bearing flags with blue and white stars of David, listening to a woman singing in a language I did not understand.
I began to think that Birkenau has become almost as full of grief and prayer and loving memory as prejudice and cruelty and dying.
That thought was challenged almost as soon as I’d thought of it. Because that was when I walked alone through the building where the initiations of new arrivals in the camp took place.
These people – people who had been taken from their homes and lives, who had just been ripped away from their loved ones – were stripped naked in the cold among strangers. The pregnant women who had escaped the gas chambers in the first selection because their clothing concealed their condition were particularly vulnerable here. They were sterilized and cleaned. Their hair was shaved, regardless of gender. They were tattooed with numbers that replaced their names. They were stripped of their person-hood, in that building. Anne’s hair was shaven off, possibly so quickly and carelessly as to injure her in the process. In that room. I know, because she lived at Auschwitz, because her mother died at Auschwitz, because she and her sister were spared at Auschwitz, only to die in a typhus outbreak at Bergen-Belsen concentration camp, where their bodies were thrown into a mass grave.
These people’s worlds were ripped apart and thrown unceremoniously into the bottom of a pond, which is still murky with ashes…
I walked out of Birkenau along the railroad ties at sunset. It occurs to me to wonder whether or not it was built by slaves.
It’s not this place that frightens me.
It’s the fact that it came to be.
Otto Frank believed that it is everyone’s responsibility to fight prejudice.
I stepped outside of the death gate. I found my way back to the edge of the woods where I’d called in the Grandfathers and lit the candle for something to focus on and said “thank you. It’s okay to go now. I’m okay,” and blew the candle out.
And I took a piece of chocolate from the bookstore and threw it into the woods, as an offering…
I walked Auschwitz alone. It took me two days to get through it.
When I left off trying to put this story into words, I think I said that I was crying. I didn’t actually stop crying for that entire day, but eventually I was able to breathe again.
The other visitors to Auschwitz-Birkenau all wore the same face. When they stepped out into the sunlight from the dusty dark interior of the crematorium, when they trudged up the stairs from the basement of Block 11, the look in their eyes was shocked and haunted, horrified and tired.
A sign at the entrance to the crematorium reads, simply:
“You are about to enter a place where thousands of innocent people were killed. Please behave accordingly.”
And it’s dark in there, so dark…
I walked the paths between the blocks in something like a daze. I stumbled upon the simple wooden gallows, saw the cruel black hook from which they hung. It was a little way back from the path, and many kept their distance, and I don’t know why but I marched right up and stood in front of it. I felt like there was something or someone there who wanted something from me, like street people asking for spare change. And I couldn’t do anything for them.
Auschwitz I is the part of the museum that has been preserved in the condition it was in when it was a fully functional concentration and extermination camp. In some places it has been reconstructed to show what it was like in the early 1940’s.
That place is evil.
I saw the barbed wire fences. I saw the memorial on the death wall, the place where the rebellious were shot. I saw the glass display case full of children’s shoes, piled higher than I am tall.
I read about the persecution of many different peoples – the Roma and Sinai, the Greeks, the Poles. I read about the experiments performed on women and women’s reproductive systems without anesthetic and without their consent.
I read about the underground ways that people were good to each other. The secretaries who managed to alter records and help their families and friends. The nurses who saved sick women from the gas chambers at the last minute.
I read about the ways that people sold each other out. One man lost his freedom in exchange for twenty US dollars.
I read about families being separated from each other at the gates. Men to the left, women and children to the right, and people clinging to each other, and mothers forcing their children to let go, telling them to take care of each other.
I got to a point where I physically could not read any more. The signs are written in capital white letters on smooth black wood, in English, Yiddish and Hebrew. I could pick out the words, the letters, but I could not make them make make sense.
I kept trying. I’d step inside a building, look around me, maybe snap a photo, see a few panels of an exhibit, and need to step outside into the sun again, take big, deep gulps if cleaner air and lean against the walls. Once I turned and thought I saw a figure of a man in the corner of my eye, crouched, grinning at me, even laughing. But when I looked back he had gone.
I walked out.
I’d barely seen a third of Auschwitz I, and I couldn’t do it any more.
I walked in the general direction of Birkenau. I didn’t have any idea when the camps would close. The sun was going down behind the death-gate, when I got there, and a woman behind the counter at the bookstore told me they were closed. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow,” she told me, not unkindly.
Until that moment, it had not occurred to me that I could.
I spent my walk back to the train station feeling horrible because I hadn’t been able to make it through.
I’d come all this way, and I’d seen so many things, and I’d learned so much, and I’d loved a child and I’d lost her, and I’d traveled for miles and miles to get to a place she was taken before she died, and I hadn’t been able to do it. I felt like I’d failed.
I somehow made it back to my hostel. I talked to Sara and I talked to Cris. They were the people who knew where I’d been, that day. Cris told me that he didn’t think it was disrespectful to the horrors of what happened to say “I see this, and I need to step back and take a breath,” and that trying to look and physically not being able to is not the same thing and never looking at all. Sara told me that I’m not obligated to anything, and pulled a tarot card for me that said I would be enlightened by this experience and that I would be able to separate from this experience soon.
I slept a little. I woke up at 5AM because the Cheese Guy was snoring in the next bunk. I went downstairs.
I made coffee. I remembered meeting an old Italian grandmother in the hostel kitchen who had just gotten back from visiting the camps and was moving in to elsewhere that night. I told her I was going, too, and we shared a moment of sadness. She gave me a coupon for free coffee in a random place in Kraków that she wasn’t going to be able to use.
I wrote a little, and I thought, and looked at bus schedules. And I thought some more.
And yes yep that is a knitted blanket that I am wearing everything else is gross right now
Self care is fucking important.
It is important to take the time to think of myself before going and doing the things that are hard. It is important to sleep and eat vegetables and remember to plug in my phone.
Calling in the Grandfathers helped me today. (I gave them chocolate afterwards.) So did carrying the stones in my pocket/on my lock screen. Washing my hands. Calling my family and connecting with important people. Writing shit down.
It is important to have a plan that includes not asking myself to do unreasonable things.
I do not need to put myself through a 20+ hour bus ride tomorrow or even the next day or ever. I know where I need to go, but I can take my time getting there.
I do not even need to make myself take a train back to Krakow this evening, I can get myself a room right here.
Such small things. Blankets. A toothbrush. Water pressure. Nice towels. Access to internet. Privacy.
The host at this hostel is unbelievably kind. I sat down in the lobby after a 40 minute walk with a backpack full of dirty laundry 🧺 after having spent an entire day mentally preparing to go back to Auschwitz and then riding a bus To Auschwitz with a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach and then walking alone around the remains of the Auschwitz-Birkenau concentration camps and doing all of the emotional and spiritual and mental work necessary to be there and be present and appropriately honor the tragedy and the bullshit that happened there
not to mention walking for approximately 6 hours
and backpacking all over Europe for a month
and this lovely human being comes over to me in the lobby and asks if I need anything and makes me feel welcome and shows me around the hostel and makes sure I’ve got everything I need and Carries My Bag Up The Stairs For Me and is all like “this kitchen is open to all my guests, the kettle’s on, let me know if you need Anything here is my phone number just call oh and here’s the WiFi password” and you don’t find chivalry like this anywhere anymore. I physically could not stop saying thank you.
Gosh, it appears that I needed that.
I just took what felt like the longest shower of my life, I am Putting Off Doing Chores Until Tomorrow, I am listening to my very own music and wearing only the clothing necessary for my own exclusive company which is basically a blanket with some creative knots and Iiii am going to post this all over the internet and I don’t give any shits right now
and nobody here is snoring!!!! unless it’s me, but if that’s the case then shhhh I don’t need to know
nobody else is coming and going and moving around in the dark at 3 in the morning
nobody’s talking on their phone about how much they hate it here
nobody needs Anything from me.*
*if you do, don’t hesitate to ask. Right now I could do almost anything.**
**I still might say no.
And yes. Yeah. It is so important to appreciate the things you have. 💜🍂
As someone very brave frequently says, it is so, so important to be kind to each other.
When I was waiting in line at Auschwitz, I was confused about the best way to visit the museum, and spoke to the person who was in charge of admission. She was helpful; she seemed tired. But when it was time to scan my ticket, I didn’t have my passport out and ready because I didn’t know, and when she said the words “can I see your ID, please,” the expression on her face looked impatient and frustrated and angry and tired.
When I passed through security, I made a mistake and forgot to take my power bank out of my bag, and the alarm went off, and the security officer’s “What are you doing!” was harsh and it stung, especially in that place. I stepped over that threshold and I think I made it a few steps before starting to cry, and it was kind of crying where breathing feels like kicking yourself to the surface for a lungful of air before being pushed back under the surface again.
That night, after dark, when the camps had closed, I was in the town of Oświęcem, the Polish name of the town that Germany dubbed Auschwitz. I didn’t have a bus ticket back to my hostel and I felt so stupid. I asked the woman behind the desk at a souvenir shop for directions to a train station. When I got there, the place was under heavy construction and I couldn’t find the platform or anywhere to buy a ticket. An English couple asked me for directions to the train to Kraków, but I was as lost as they were. So we banded together to look for the train, and found it within about thirty seconds of meeting.
Sometimes in Germany it is possible to travel long distances on public transportation without one’s ticket being checked. This is illegal, but since I knew that train was leaving soon and didn’t know if there was another one coming, I got on the train without a ticket and sort of prayed. This was a mistake.
About halfway to Kraków a woman in black came down the aisle checking tickets. When she came to me, I told her that I didn’t have one. I didn’t know what was going to happen and I was scared. She didn’t speak my language, but she understood what had happened.
She kept her face carefully blank, wrote something down on her device, and then pulled out a credit card machine. 9zł, she told me. I paid. She scolded me in Polish, and then smiled and walked away.
When I got the the train station, I went looking for a restroom. I was so tired. In Europe it’s not uncommon for bathrooms in public places to require and entrance fee, and I didn’t have the right change. A woman who was walking out saw me standing on the wrong side of the gate, reached into her bag, and put the coin in the slot and walked away without a word.
In the cramped, temporary space of my hostel dorm room, one of my roommates snores very loudly and it makes it hard for me to sleep. He, in turn, complained that the boots I have been walking around Europe in for a month and a half smell really, really bad.
Initially, he thought I was hiding some kind of rotting cheese in my locker. And I – yeah. He also assumed I was lying when I was too embarrassed to tell him about my shoes.
The Cheese Guy felt awkward about talking to me alone, because “you know, young people, women” so he asked an Italian guy who was also sharing the space with us for help confronting me about it.
Because of the brokenness of his English and my German, he still didn’t believe me about the cheese even after I broke down and tried to communicate about the shoes and left them outside on the balcony for the night.
The Italian guy immediately understood, and was like “OH, that makes sense, it happens to me too, here, would you like to borrow this stuff I have, it helps…”
When the Cheese Guy finally understood, he was so embarrassed that he could not look me in the eye.
… I gave the Italian guy permission to tell his girlfriend this story because we both agreed that it’ll be funny in retrospect.
I think for a second there I kind of hated the Cheese Guy. Especially at 5AM when his snoring woke me up from a bad dream, and wouldn’t let me go back to sleep.
But it’s too much work.
In the unexpected, awkward, frustrating intimacy of that space, we had to live with each other’s human-ness and faults. Almost like Anne in the Secret Annex, except nothing like that, because both of us had the freedom to leave.
There is a voice in my head that tells me that I don’t have any of my shit together and I am somehow failing at life because of all of the mistakes I made that day. It’s often very loud.
There is another voice in my head – one that usually sounds like my Dad – that says something like “oh, look, another imperfect human. Never seen one of Those before.”
Everyone is doing their best all the time. I made so many mistakes that day, and every day. I’m human. I’m messy and soo flawed. And so is everyone else.
In a world that is capable of containing so much human cruelty and horror and coldness, it is so important to have empathy for other people.
I’m safely back at my hostel, sitting on the window ledge in the bar. It’s warm here, and there’s WiFi, and there’s a gentle yellow glow from the lights hanging from the ceiling. I can hear strains of familiar pop music on the radio that’s playing at the reception desk in the next room, and it’s strangely grounding.
“…she/is something to behold/elegant and bold…”
Soon I will be able to shower, to take off the boots, to sleep. Almost, but not yet.
I’m still wearing the boots I had on when I walked through the crematorium, through the streets of Auschwitz I.
“I’m burning up again, I’m burning up, and I…”
In Jewish tradition, it is traditional and symbolic to wash one’s hands after a funeral.
Here, I can rest my head against the windowpane, and it’s cold. It isn’t late in the evening, but it’s dark on the other side of the glass.
“I never should have told you/I never should have let you see inside/don’t want it troubling your mind/won’t you let it be…”
I can smell coffee brewing, the beads of sweat drying in the yellow scarf I found in Amsterdam.
Amsterdam. I needed to leave, to get away from all the weed. That’s where I found Anne’s diary.
I remember singing top 40 pop songs with my cousin from Germany and a meteorologist from Morocco in the back streets of Amsterdam in the rain. We came from three different places in the world, but we all knew the same melodies, and even some of the words.
“Just give me a reason, just a little bit’s enough, just a second we’re not broken just bent, and we can learn to love again…”
Top 40 pop songs are universal.
I remember talking to Morocco about calculus. I know where I’m at, with calculus, and she did too. She treated me like a little sister, tried to take me under her wing and tell me everything at once about traveling solo, because the beginning of my journey was the ending of hers. She was way better than me at foosball.
I walked her to the train station, and I held the door for her and I carried her bag, and I hugged her and told her to travel safe, and I will never see her again, and that was the best possible way to say goodbye.
“It’s in the stars/it’s been written in the stars of our hearts…”
The bar again. From far away, my real sister tells me about the five senses grounding exercise. “Brings you back to the present.”
I tried it and it worked.
“There’s only us/there’s only this/forget regret/or life is yours to miss…”
She pulled a Tarot card and told me that it said I would be enlightened by this experience and would be able to separate from this experience soon.
Since leaving home, I’ve noticed that I have the best support system in the world.
There’s the cousin who met me at the airport and found room in her heart and her home and her life for me, when I needed a place to land. She feeds me good food, all the time, and gives excellent hugs. And if I ever need somewhere to go back to, I know I can reach out.
At home, social media and I spent a lot of time together, but we weren’t friends. It sucked away my time. Now, Facebook is the cheapest and most efficient way to let everyone know how I’m doing. And it doesn’t matter how many likes I get, it matters that my aunt appreciated a picture that I took of a cemetery, or that my Dad is able to see the beauty that surrounds me right along with me.
Folks from home have been reaching out to me, telling me that what I’m doing is amazing, yada yada, and that’s nice to hear and everything but the thing that gets me is these are my people, and they’re here, and they’re thinking of me, checking in on me, and I needed that so much.
My mother has been periodically asking me for something called a PIES checkin – how are you doing physically, intellectually, emotionally, spiritually. When she asks me that I have to think about it, and often I notice things that are important. She has a habit of messaging me when I’m at my lowest but haven’t told a soul.
I’ve been calling my Dad every few days during his walk in the morning, which is more or less around lunchtime, for me, and because my body still hadn’t adjusted to the time difference, it’s sometimes essentially morning for me too. It is good to hear his voice and hear him say “I love you.”
The pastor at my parent’s church is there if I need to talk about Auschwitz. I hear that they are all praying for me. I can feel them there.
A college English professor – the one I sort of ugly-cried all over at my graduation – is the only other person I know who has ever done anything like this. She says she wishes she could give me a hug, and she loves me. When I get home, we will talk and compare notes, and she will share a poem she wrote after walking Dachau alone.
My aunts are there. All of them. These are the mother-figures-who-aren’t-my-real-mother that I went to for objective advice before leaving, because they’ve known me for my whole life, and I love them, and I know they care for me. Uncles and cousins, too.
The community that I used to sing with in high school, my chorus room people, the people I used to hang out with in practice rooms, the group of shamelessly strange friends who still get together on New Year’s eve and listen to Kanye and Queen and drink sparkling grape juice at midnight and play a game called distraction Mario Cart in which at least half us end up shirtless… they’re gonna be there when I get home, and I miss them, and we send out-of-context memes across the ocean periodically for old-time’s sake.
The families I grew up knowing through homeschooling cooperatives – we used to put on plays we wrote and go sledding down the hills in the city in the winter – tell me in hearts on Instagram that they’re following what I’m doing, that they remember me, like I remember them.
The people that I found in college are there for me. Always. We laugh all the time, and it’s the best, and it is so important.
My sisters are my strongest roots at home. And I miss them.
I have to believe that my cat loves me even though she can’t text. I can close my eyes and picture myself in her room, and she’s there and solid and warm and breathing quietly. And I know.
I’m a young person who thinks it’s important to remember that genocide is wrong.
In Amsterdam, I found a copy of her diary in the train station when I felt anxious and alone and I needed something to read, a physical, tangible book that I could hold in my hands and open and flip through the pages and smell the paper and scribble things in the margins. I needed another world to escape into, and that world was hers.
In Hamburg, I stood at the top of the tower that is most of what remains of the Church of St Nicolai. The rest of it was destroyed by the Allies’ bombs in World War II, as was much of the rest of that city. At the top of that tower, there is a plaque explaining that Germans must remember that those bombings were a justified retaliation to things that Nazi Germany had done first. Things that were unquestionably wrong.
In Potsdam, I saw buildings that were not destroyed in the war. And some of them were older than any man-made thing I’d ever seen, and they were full of stories and personality and life, and they were beautiful.
In Berlin, I walked with children playing in between the rows upon rows of dark monoliths that make up the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe. The stone floor beneath our feet rolled up and down like waves, and the stones became higher and higher the farther we got from the edge – beginning at waist height, and gradually rising – like water, rising – so slowly we didn’t notice what was happening until it closed above our heads. And yet, the columns and rows of stone were perfectly straight, and so was the space between them, so that no matter how deep inside the maze we found ourselves – ducking in and out from behind the stones, giggling and grinning and crying a little inside – we could always see the way out.
In Prague, I visited the Jewish Museum. I saw a room with walls covered in the names of the dead, written in letters the size of fingerprints. I saw an exhibit of children’s drawings, something that became an important part of their education system in the ghettos – after they were forbidden to attend public schools, and before they were shipped off to concentration camps.
I stood inside of the Old New Synagog, and sat on a wooden bench and leaned my head against a wall that was built before anyone on this side of the ocean knew that America existed. I learned about the intricate nature of Jewish burial rituals, the way that they care for the dying and honor the dead. I walked through the Old Jewish cemetery on All Saint’s day. There was some logistical problem that meant they didn’t have enough space for everyone, so they just started stacking them, twelve layers deep in some places, the crooked tombstones crowded together like teeth, like a dense forest. It looks like it grew.
And I lit a candle and sat for a while, because I’m just kind of like that.
In Krakow, Poland, I went to Kazimierz, the Jewish quarter of the city. There are signs in the buildings in Hebrew, and six-pointed stars. I stepped inside the oldest Synagog in Poland, which has become a museum, and learned about Jewish culture and tradition. About their holidays, and festivals, and memories, and rituals. They are intricate and strict and sweet, and practical and solemn. Speaking as an outsider, it seems like these people value things like light and rest and community, and I can totally get behind all of those things. It’s not my identity, but I can stand here and I can learn about and start to honor yours.
Today in Krakow, I visited a memorial in what used to be a ghetto. There is an organization there that works to return the physical things that were stolen from holocaust victims by the Nazi party to their families. “We are looking for relatives of…” followed by a name, a number, who they were, everything we know about what happened to them. Too often, their fates are unknown.
Tomorrow, I am going to the Auschwitz-Birkenau concentration camps.
I did not set out on this journey with any intention of doing this. At home, the holocaust was something distant, horrifying, over, far away. But here, on this side of the ocean, everywhere I’ve been there is a reminder, a memorial, a sacred space. Europe is singing a requiem, and I was close enough to hear it.
I’m not sure what’ll happen to me. I am frightened. I’ve seen the pictures – we all did, in like tenth grade, and I left that classroom shaking even back then. Now it is something that’s real. And for a second there I thought I wasn’t going to be able to do this. I’m sure as hell going to be exhausted afterwards.
But I have to go. Because she did, once. And I want to say goodbye.
I got to the last sentence of that book when I was sitting at the kitchen table in an apartment in Berlin.
I was couch-surfing at a friend of Kathrin’s place. He was a friendly giant of a man who spoke enough English to say to me, “any friend of Kathy’s is a friend of mine” in this thick German accent before sneaking away to play first person shooter games in the next room. We coexisted fine.
The days were getting shorter, darker earlier. I’d made my way back to the apartment building through dark and rainy streets. I’d been walking nonstop for most of three days, exploring the many sights that Berlin has to offer on foot. My right knee was starting to hurt, and my dad and big sister told me to take a rest day. I could almost find my way there without the help of a GPS. Almost. I felt tired and lonely and a little sad.
I rang the doorbell a few times before anyone answered. There were folks gathered in the living room, sitting on the floor and doing each other’s hair and make up and lounging around on their phones and laughing. They were my cousin’s friend’s roommates and friends of roommates, and they were having a great time, and they were speaking German.
I can speak roughly enough German to order a cup of coffee, and I can understand just a little more. I’ve been trying to learn since January, and am slowly making progress. But in that moment, for the first time since leaving home, I felt isolated by that language barrier. I’ve gotten soo much better in the past couple of years, but I have always been shy, and not understanding the words made that shyness harder to overcome. I don’t think I’d ever realized how much listening in on conversations in a room of people talking made me feel a part of things. I felt like I was on the other side of an invisible wall, and couldn’t find a way through.
So I hid in the kitchen and I cooked. I had some vegetables and butter and bread from Aldi’s. I wish that I had tried to step inside that circle – I wanted to. But I was tired.
So that’s where I was at when I was sitting there at the kitchen table, escaping into Anne’s diary to get away from my own world for a moment, and that’s the day I was having when read the line “if only there were no other people in the world,” and that was the last thing she’d written in her diary, possibly the last thing she’d written in her short life.
I’d loved Anne, her story, her people. I loved her careful self-reflection and commentary and honesty and spark. I’d been stepping inside those pages in the evenings as one way to distract myself from how far away from home I am. Knowing that she’d been real, knowing that she wasn’t going to make it, only made that book more important to me. And then she was gone.
There were a lot of people in the apartment who didn’t know my name or where I was from or who I was, so I sort of hid in the bathroom until I could stop crying.
That same day I’d visited the Berlin Wall. I’d watched children playing between the rows and rows of dark monoliths that make up the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe. I’d rested my chin on my arms on a stone ledge and peered into the tiny screen that is all Berlin has as a memorial to the gay folks that were persecuted under the same regime. “You are steeping yourself in the Holocaust. Be careful” my dad told me in a text. My sister recommended getting some kind of sage action for myself.
I read Night by Eli Wiesel that night. It’s a harrowing experience, “a slim volume of terrifying power,” and I didn’t mean to do that to myself on top of everything else, but something inside of me wanted to. I read it in one go, like drinking an entire bottle in one swallow. It was the only way that I could.
When I got to the end, I put it down. I felt years older and hollowed out and horrified and sad and my eyes were red and puffy and my head hurt.
There’s an ounce of self preservation inside of me that kicks in at moments like these. I put the book down. I took a shower. I brushed my teeth (I think I left that toothbrush there by accident, because when I got to the next city it was missing.) I made some tea. A couple of people from home reached out to me that night – people who usually make me laugh and smile and feel centered and connected to home – and I didn’t have the energy to write back much. I tried to communicate how I was doing, and just said that I needed to shift focus to self care things for a while.
I felt spiritually whooped.
When it gets too heavy, it’s okay to set it down for a while. It will be there if you want to pick it back up later. And it you don’t, that’s okay, too.
The next day, I got kicked out a coffee shop by a cranky German lady for not having enough cash for the coffee I had ordered, although she grudgingly gave it to me for free. On my way to the station, this older, homeless looking black guy smiled at me and asked if he could have a sip of the coffee. I gave him the whole thing. He grinned at me over his shoulder as we walked away, and called out a “you look good. I love you,” and I smiled.
I said goodbye and thank you to Kathrin’s friend. He gave me a hug and said “always again.” His girlfriend smiled at me, a little awkwardly, and waved goodbye.
On the bus out of Berlin, I read a lot of Terry Pratchett. I also got myself a lot of chocolate and proceeded to eat all of it. The sun was shining. The city was beautiful. The world was still turning.
“Oh, you know. When you’re up someplace high, and you want to jump for no good reason.”
A flash of understanding.
“Or like when you’re standing on a sidewalk and get that urge to step out into oncoming traffic?”
“Yeah. That’s the one.”
“Can’t remember.”
“I know there’s a word for it. Call of the – something.”
“Call of the abyss!”
“That’s the one.”
We were looking down over the edge of a bridge in the old warehouse district in Hamburg, Germany. The three of us together represented three different nationalities – Denmark, Finland, and the United States. We’d met in a twelve-person dorm at the youth hostel. It went like this:
“Where you from?”
“New York.”
“Nice city.”
“Actually I’m not – well, yeah. Yeah, it is.”
“Big.”
“Yeah. Where you from?”
“Denmark. ‘s beautiful there. What brings you here?”
“I-was-studying-and-I-needed-a-break.”
“That’s fair. What were you studying?”
“Math.”
“Come again?”
“Mathematics. I loved it, but I felt tired.”
“I don’t blame you. I never got the hang of numbers.”
We talked about gap years and the United States education system. (She asked.) The woman from Denmark dressed in black, and liked blues music, and, recently, photographing insects. She and another woman from Finland were going to look at cathedrals, and would I like to join them? Everyone else was going on a walking tour.
“Never liked walking tours,” she said. “I’m a bit independent. I like to do things in my own time.”
And so we went.
The warehouse district in Hamburg is made up of old brick buildings built along a canal system, designed for the transportation and storage of goods. Some of them still serve their original purpose, housing spices and carpets and coffee from around the world. Hamburg is a harbor city.
The space itself isn’t pretty in the way that cathedrals are pretty. It’s beautiful, in the way that only brick walls and intricate masonry and bridges over dull brown water under a grey sky can be.
We found a set of old stone steps along the side of the canal, covered in muck and slime and algae, that allowed access down to the water’s edge. Murky water lapped at the bottom steps. The stairs were sealed off from the rest of the word by a single chain between two posts.
Denmark caught me staring, looked around to make sure no one was looking, and unclipped the chain.
“You know you want to.”
And I did.
I did not slip and fall. The steps were narrow, there was no railing between the water and me. The stairs went down further than I’d expected – the last few steps of the staircase were underwater. It was quieter down there. Surreal.
Denmark smiled down at me.
I shook my head, and grinned, and made my way back up into the world.
Denmark had to leave to catch a train – she was meeting up with a friend that she met in a video game. Finland and I exchanged numbers and parted ways. We’d planned to meet up later to go on a boat tour at night – but I got lost, and my phone died, and I almost crashed an electric scooter trying to find my way to the docks, and I accidentally got on the wrong boat, and by the time I got back to the hostel that night I was soaked through with rain and cold and grinning like an idiot because there was good news from home that night and I’d finally figured out how bus schedules worked.
That was the hostel that I walked to at four in the morning, because I’d taken an overnight bus from Holland…
On my second night there, a backpacker from Canada made cookies, despite the lack of measuring spoons in the hostel kitchen. She just kind of improvised, and they came out sweet and warm and exactly what I needed in that moment. I was sitting nearest at the table when she brought them out.
“Would you like a cookie?
Everyone in the room flocked to them, the way that seagulls converge on a scrap of bread in a parking lot.
We sat at that table, and we started asking each other questions. “Where you from? What brings you here?” It went on like that. There were people from all over the place. Finland and Denmark were there, plus Ukraine, the Netherlands, Malaysia, Australia, Canada. The states. Hi, hello, that’s me. Amsterdam had checked in after hours and was trying to get away with staying there for free by sleeping in the loft. His dream is to start a business that will make the world better, but he doesn’t know what it will be yet.
The next night, the whole lot of us sat barefoot on the floor and talked. About the boarders between countries, and shadows, and the luck of the Irish, and marriage, and drugs, and ghosts, and on and on until 2AM when the last of us went to sleep…
I remember trying to explain to a room full of people why some infinities are bigger than other infinities. They listened. Canada got it, for a moment. I could feel it – her breathing changed. And then we both lost it again.
Hamburg was the first city I ever navigated on my own. I found my way there, I found a place to sleep, I found food, I found people, and memories, and beautiful things to do and see and explore. I did all of those things by myself, but I also wasn’t alone, and I will remember…
When I tell people I’m from New York, everyone thinks of the city.
I’m not from the city. I’ve never been.
I’m from a small town in the middle of a cornfield that’s a little bit south of a different city that sits on the edge of a relatively large lake, and that lake is the only thing, geographically speaking, that is between us and Canada. Personally, I’ve always liked the smaller lakes, the ones that are named for the way that they look like the fingers of a hand.
I keep trying to explain this place to people I meet on the road. It’s hard to put home into words.
I have very deep roots, there. I’ve never lived anywhere else. I’d hardly ever visited anywhere else in my life – a few places, here and there, but rarely.
My mother remembers that I fully intended to never leave home, to stay in my childhood house and take care of my parents until – well, forever. It’s an old, rambling country farm house on the top of the hill, surrounded by miles of corn fields and soy beans and purple clover.
I love that house. It is perpetually cluttered – entire rooms and drawers and cupboards are filled with stuff that only ever sits there accumulating dust. The living room has south-facing windows to let the light in, and a threadbare couch, and a big black dog. The kitchen smells like coffee in the mornings, and sounds like National Public Radio.
Since my little sister and I have been old enough to have separate rooms, I’ve slept in the attic, with a cat who hates everyone but me. The stairs from the upstairs to the downstairs are painted pink. The kitchen floor has a peeling, checkered pattern of squares that I can almost see if I can close my eyes.
Outside, there are overgrown gardens and fruit trees and pines and a wooden swing and a treehouse and a trampoline, and an Austrian pine tree several stories taller than the house and so big around that my little sister and I together still can’t get our arms around it. In the winter there used to be these drifts of snow as tall as me, and we would dig tunnels through them – my little sister and I, and then go inside for the hot chocolate that we used to make on the stove.
I never wanted to grow up, back then. I never wanted to leave…
There’s a bittersweet saying that you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.
But it isn’t gone. It’s still there. I dream about it all the time. I have been afraid of leaving all my life, and now I am thousands of miles away, and it’s still a part of me.
It will always be a part of me.
And it’s strange, but now that I have left, I am full of a feeling of not being ready to go home yet. I keep having dreams where I wake up at home before I meant to come back, and I miss Europe, I didn’t get to say goodbye to Europe, to this backpacking lifestyle I’ve found, and I want to go back…
And so I’m beginning to think that this will always be a part of me, too.
My mother always grows too much zucchini in the summer.
She’s not alone. There are small towns in the north-eastern part of America where people only lock their cars at night during zucchini season, for fear of opening them in the morning to find a small mountain of zucchini in the backseat. People are that desperate to get rid of them. For some reason, this is something that happens every summer without fail, as if no one remembers what’s inevitably going to happen from the previous year. Maybe it’s similar to the way that women forget the pain of childbirth.
And folks get so very creative with finding uses for the darned things. One of the better ones is zucchini bread, which is more of a loaf-shaped cake than anything else. It’s yellow and sweet with green flecks throughout, best served cold with cream cheese or grilled in butter on the stove.
Somehow my mother convinced me to take some zucchini bread with me, on the plane, in my carry on. For my cousin. I’d already flatly refused to bring a box of pears from the tree in the side yard, just on general principles. I didn’t want to carry them.
But she had stayed up until 5AM baking them on one of the last nights before I left, and it really was an excellent batch, and I imagined that if I somehow survived a plane crash on a deserted island, at least I would have zucchini bread from home. So I agreed.
Flash forward several hours later, and I am trying to pass through security at the Boston airport. It’s always a little scary, letting go of my stuff. I’m standing there on the safe side of the TSA checkpoint, barefoot in my socks, clutching my jacket and shoulder bag under one arm and my boots in the other, and I hear the alarm go off. My backpack has not made it through the checkpoint. At this point, I am getting worried.
And officer beckons me over.
“Is this your bag?”
I nod, frozen.
“Okay,” he says, smugly, walks away. I hear him say something to his buddies about going to get lunch.
Shit.
Was there something I missed? Are they going to take me away for questioning? I hadn’t done anything Wrong, I’d double and triple checked everything the night before…
After a few minutes that felt like forever, another TSA officer, a big, dark-skinned woman with her hair tied back in a ponytail, came to my rescue. She unzipped my backpack, lifted out the paper bag containing my mother’s zucchini bread, and gingerly opened the bag as though it was going to explode.
It was so dense that it has showed up as suspicious looking on the scan.
“Bread,” she said, flatly.
I nodded again, tried to smile. I probably failed.
She returned the zucchini bread to the backpack, zipped the backpack shut, handed it to me, and turned away.
Shaking a little, I carried my stuff to a bench somewhere as far away as possible and put my shoes back on.
What I eventually came to think of as “that f***ing zucchini bread” is the reason they stopped me at every TSA checkpoint from America to Germany. It arrived at my cousin’s apartment a little squashed, the paper bag rumpled. We shared it with her roommates, all of whom liked the story just as much as they liked the cake.
It was early in the morning, and still dark out. I’d taken the compost out to the pile in the back yard, and my boots were wet from the dew in the grass. My dad joked that the compost bin was going to be full to bursting when I got home.
I’d also stopped at Jewel’s grave and said a goodbye and an I love you.
I piled into the back of my dad’s bright red midlife-crisis SUV, with my backpack balanced on the seat beside me. Everything I was taking with me was inside that backpack. No way in hell was I letting it out of my sight for that entire journey.
My parents sat in the front seat. Dad was driving. The sky was getting lighter as we took the expressway north into the city. My stomach was fluttering and my hands shook a little. I was knitting. Tying off the last row of something large and blue that covered my lap, something that had started out as a sweater but hadn’t ended up as one. I hadn’t touched the thing in ages, but the night before I had realized I was ready. I had started it at around the same time that I had decided I wanted to go to Germany, and now, through a strange combination of events, I was going. It was time.
We stood at that gate for a long time, my mom and my dad and I. Three of us in a group hug, and we none of us was about to let go.
As we pulled away, my dad remembered something important. He pulled out his phone, opened his compass app, and turned to face the east. Then he grabbed my hand and centered himself for a moment.
We’re not a religious family, but my parents are both spiritual people. My mother, for example, focused her energy on creating a bubble of white light around the plane for the whole time it was in the air, and I know she was doing that without having to ask.
My dad only calls in the Grandfathers at times when he believes we need them, and this was one of those times.
He turns to face each of the directions in turn, and summons them. It’s a simple prayer, with a different meaning and imagery and kind of support associated with each direction.
“Grandfathers of the east, the direction of new beginnings…” he began, and he asked them to be with me and support me on my journey.
I will never remember all of the words.
“…the animal of this direction of the song sparrow, singing in the new day,” he concluded, and his voice broke just a little. We both started to cry. And then we faced the south, and asked for strength. The west for intelligence. The north for wisdom. And so on.
Until it was over, and it was time. I pulled away because if I didn’t do it then I wasn’t going to be able to. And I made it through security. There was almost no line.
I waved goodbye to them, through the glass. I was crying. They were crying. You are crying. We are all crying. And that was okay.
My parents have a vague idea of what country I’m in, most of the time.
The story that I tell people is that I was studying for a while and then I got tired and needed a break, so I ran away from home.
I’m traveling solo around Europe, taking buses and trains from hostel to hostel, staying with strangers, living out of a single backpack, learning how to order coffee in languages I don’t understand.
Right now, I’m in Poland. About a week ago, I wasn’t. About a week ago, I had no idea that I would be going to Poland. About a week from now, I probably won’t be in Poland. But I’m not entirely sure.
I don’t have a plan. I can wake up in the morning and decide where I want to go, what I want to do, how I want to get there. I don’t have to answer to anyone.* And for the first time in a long time, I’m feeling something very close to free.
*Except for my little sister, who wants me back home by Thanksgiving.
I like being able to make mistakes with nobody watching. Which makes it hard when a stranger yells at me in German for biking on the wrong side of the street, or in Polish for walking in the wrong grass in courtyard of a castle, or in Czech for looking at my phone and not watching where I’m going and almost bumping into them. But it’s just a lesson, even if it stings just a little, and I learn.
Traveling is an education in how to operate in this world. How to wash your dishes after cooking, and clean up the kitchen for the next person. What to do if you get on the wrong train. How to ask for help from strangers. How to cope when you get lost in a strange place when your phone is dead and the street signs are written in somebody else’s language and you are completely by yourself. How to worry a little for other people, when you’re sleeping in a room with eight or ten bunks and it’s 8AM and you’re the first one up and the floor creaks like something else, but your mouth feels like something died in there are you desperately want a toothbrush and a toilet and a sink.
Self care becomes a necessity, not an option. For me.
Like, look. You’ve got to sleep, because you’re going to need the energy for tomorrow. You need to eat good food, or your belly will be uncomfortable. You need that fuel so you can walk, so you can think. Same goes for water.
This is why, every time I land somewhere new, I immediately hit up a grocery store. I didn’t plan on this. It was a rhythm I fell into without thinking. It’s like a game, learning to navigate a new currency and a new language, where the end goal is a bar of chocolate and some onions/peppers/mushrooms/something that is hopefully butter, it looks like it’s probably butter, we’re going with that.
The basics. Where are you going to sleep for the next three nights? How are you getting there? Where does the bus leave from? Where is the free WiFi so that you can find out/make sure of all those things?
I’ve memorized my credit card number, my social, my passport ID.
You learn how to trust people, and how to be careful. Triple checking that you’ve got your passport and your debit card and your keys and charger and phone, on you person or somewhere safe. But at some point, you leave your backpack somewhere unattended in a dorm for a couple of minutes and you just sort of pray that no one will steal anything on the inside of it, and you know they won’t because it’s just clothes and deodorant and shampoo and a toothbrush and the tulips you bought for your mother in Holland anyway, and they all brought their own and are all secretly hoping the same thing about their own stuff.
When you are carrying everything you need with you in a backpack, you very quickly learn exactly what you actually need. And over time, the things you don’t need phase out to make room for the things you do need, but didn’t realize you were going to, when you start to wish you had them.
I don’t need more than like two pairs of pants, but a pair of flip flops for questionable bathroom floors at some of the hostels would be lovely.
It isn’t all about the sightseeing, or where I go, or even the history and culture that surrounds me, even though those things are educational and awe inspiring in their own rite. For me, I think I am traveling alone because of what this lifestyle does for me on a personal level. There’s something new and challenging and frustrating and scary and sad and beautiful around every corner. It’s pushing me outside my comfort zone, requiring me to grow, and I am constantly seeking out the things that do that for me.
