One Rabbit's Journey

It was Easter, twenty-two years ago, that I received the best present from my Grandma & Grandpa Tanner.  At the time, I am sure they did not realize what significance this small stuffed animal would acquire over the next two decades, and to be honest, I do not think my six-year-old self could have fathomed the many things she would be a part of. Back then, she just happened to be an adorable gray bunny dressed in a pink shirt and denim overalls, complete with a small hole for her faux-cotton tail. I fell in love instantly, and Peta became a constant presence in my life. 

I was a strange child, as many of us undoubtedly were, and as such, I needed to create a back story for my new friend. Looking to her attire for inspiration, I noticed that emblazoned on her shirt was the word Greatland (at the time, the store brand from Target). In one of my more fanciful throes of imagination,  I decided that this was name of her home planet. The planet itself was not all that exciting, one filled with animals of all kinds of crazy colors (my pink cat...aptly named Pinkie...also hailed from Greatland). Peta was a prominent leader there, but her insatiable curiosity led her to explore other lands, and she eventually found her way to me. I felt lucky that she stayed with me for so long. She would go on to own a restaurant, lead a few coups, and star in a few of my clumsy childhood stories. She had her own voice (which sounded oddly like mine, but with a higher pitch and a bit of a quaver) and often engaged in conversation with my other stuffed animals. To their credit, my parents and sister were quite indulgent in all this, never discouraging me from creating this exotic, sprawling fantasy world.

More importantly though, Peta has stuck by my side through some pretty difficult times. Whether it was a debilitating migraine (of which I had more than my fair share even at the age of six), recovering from sinus surgery, or even when trying to cope with things I couldn't quite grasp at the time (my mother's injuries/disability, my sister's emotional issues, etc.), I had her for comfort. When I felt so sick, just having her in my arms made me feel one hundred times better. Holding her in my arms while I cried made it a bit easier to gain perspective, to take control of my emotions and move on. And it is clear that I turned to her more often than I can ever quantify. Her once lustrous coat is now worn away to the point that she looks almost bald. There has been more than one occasion when her left ear has required surgery, and her glassy black eyes now have cataracts. In all honesty, I am surprised that she hadn't met the fate of the Velveteen rabbit considering how many germs she has come in contact with over the years...thank goodness my parents would have never done that and had deemed a couple hours in the dryer on high heat would suffice.

As I grew older, I turned to Peta less and less. She still was (and is) a constant presence in my room, staying on my bed throughout high school traveling with me pretty much everywhere.  However, I was beginning to feel slightly silly to be so old and still have a stuffed animal with me. She became less of a companion and more of a symbol of my past. She reminded me of my grandparents, my childhood. No matter where I went, as long as she came with me, I had a small piece of home. And for me, that is something I have never outgrown. Despite how conflicted I can feel about Texas, it shaped me more than I can say, and Peta is a good reminder of that.

What is really interesting is how Peta has become an integral part of my family's bigger story. My Grandma Hayes bonded with her over the course of a few years (she is not the one who gave me the rabbit), and in a way that only family can, we have decided that Peta has grown into a bit of a troublemaker. My parents go along with it as do several of my aunts and uncles. My Grandpa Tanner (who gave me Peta in the first place) still asks about what she is up to lately.  As I have grown and evolved, so too has the rabbit. Where once she was a source of comfort and support, she has become a bit wild. No longer burdened with the responsibility of easing the emotional woes of a young girl, Peta has embraced life, and her antics have become notorious. Something broken in the house? Peta did it. Empty cans of beer or bottles of liquor strewn about the house? The rabbit did it.  String of robberies throughout the city? She was the mastermind.  Are we nuts?  Perhaps, but only in the way that all families have their idiosyncrasies, right?

One Wild Night

Anyway, my Grandma Hayes is the one who suggested I started taking pictures of her when I travel (you can check more of them out on my facebook page...more pictures to come in a few weeks after we visit Kazakhstan). At first, I was embarrassed to carry a bunny around my backpack and pull her out in front of large crowds of locals and tourists alike. My friend Lauren helped me through this with her enthusiasm for the idea.  It was this that made me realize why there is no reason to be ashamed of it. Yes, I am twenty-nine, and I still have a stuffed animal. So what? I also have lots of fun memories and great pictures. And for those willing to listen, a great story that remains unfinished.

Crater Lake -- Me: Age 25, Peta: Age 19. She looks a little worse for the wear.

Nostalgia

There is something about this time of year that makes me reflect on memories of old. Actually, I am fairly certain it has something very much to do with the beginning of a new school year...even though I have been out of academia now for two years (since finishing my masters), I still find myself feeling that the end of August/beginning of September is meant to be a time of new experiences, transitions, change, but feeling the distinct absence of change, I look to the past to remember what all I have done.

It was around this time eleven years ago that I officially became a TLU Bulldog (complete with an orientation that mercilessly had on repeat "Who Let the Dogs Out"...there were some things I could have done without!). While there, I would meet my best friends, encounter great professors, and refine my interests, perspectives and principles. I also learned just how far a metal slinky would stretch before it would no longer retain its springy shape (about the length of a dorm hallway, if I remember correctly), how not to argue for the defense during a mock trial (it is not encouraged to make your 'jury' run up seven flights of stairs to prove a point), and how to avoid going camping with honors students at all costs (intelligence and practical knowledge are not always guaranteed to show up together). 

About halfway through my time at TLU, nine years ago, I found myself hopping on a plane to London, convinced that a semester in Wales would sate my ever-growing wanderlust. Looking back, I cannot help but laugh at such naive thought--that one semester would ever be enough to 'see the world'. I embraced the experience, forging fast friendships and throwing myself into what it meant to be an American abroad. Within three weeks of immersion in the land of missing vowels (tell me how you would pronounce the following: twydd, gwlyb, heddiw), I knew one semester wasn't going to do it. (I distinctly remember being on a train from Munich to Wurtzburg in Germany, watching the Alps zoom past, when it struck me that I couldn't go back to TLU that January. I blame this revelation for making the mistake of my travel companions and me getting off at Wurtzburg South. Note to future travelers--they are NOT the same place.) Good thing I stayed, otherwise I would have never had the chance to get hopelessly lost in a Cornish bog, sing in a Welsh choir, or make a brief cameo on the local television news (it was a walk on role, and really, my friend Lauren hogged the spotlight...). I became a much more confident, independent person during my time abroad, and I often think if I had a chance to revisit any part of my life, this would be it.

Seven years ago, I moved to Chicago for a year of volunteer service with Amate House. Having packed all I would need for the next year in two large suitcases and an overly-stuffed carry-on, I boarded my one-way flight to Midway, and I began my life in a convent with eight other volunteers. Not that I was a nun. Or any of the other volunteers for that matter. Far, far from it.  Nuns did live above us though.  My housemates taught me so much about what it meant to be socially aware, passionate, loving. While there were times I hated living in community just for its occasional claustrophobic grip, I couldn't have made it without each of my housemates. Their humor, their compassion, their love. I miss them more than I know, really, but in many ways, I know that they all are making a huge difference wherever they are today, and seriously, I am not sure how I ever got to be a part of such a wonderful group.

Beyond the interesting living quarters, my time with Amate House was perhaps the most formative in learning how different life can be for those who did not have the benefits and privileges I had growing up.  I taught English to high school freshmen, sophomores, and juniors during my time there. I was in over my head in not knowing how to control my classroom or be an effective teacher, and it was the first time I had ever been confronted with a challenge far bigger than I could handle. That didn't stop me from loving my students dearly and pushing myself constantly to do the best I could do for them. I learned just how difficult a career teaching is...that the good teachers out there share not only their knowledge but their hearts, their energy, their time...everything, really. But there was something about the community at St. Greg's that was more like a family. I never missed a boys' home basketball game. I helped out with the girls' softball team. Thinking back to my students, I cannot help but smile. By now, all of my students should have graduated from high school, and hopefully, some of them were able to attend college. I started out my year with the intent of changing the world through my students, and brashly dismissed the idea of planting a seed--I was going to do so much more than that. But as is always the case in these situations, I probably came out the better. 

And just like that, I have already written so much, and I have barely scratched the surface of these memories. I should stop now, lest this post become even longer. One day, I will come back, flesh out some of the more entertaining memories (for those of you who have been part of the journey all along, you will find I am repeating myself, I am sure).  But until then, what do you think of this time of year? Were you like me, excited by the prospect of new classes, new friends, new experiences? Or did you want the summer to linger that little bit longer?  What are some of your fondest memories, the ones you revisit time and again?

In the Details

Have you ever wondered what it would be like if (God forbid) one day you were found lost without any clear form of identification, unable to say who you were or where you were from?  If the only hope of figuring out who you are came from the possessions you carried with you? For some strange reason, I find myself doing this on occasion, and while I admit it is a bit narcissistic to dwell so much on myself (should these solipsistic exercises really seem so shocking?), it is interesting to think about how I have decided to construct myself every day. 

I always start to think about the few things that are always there. What would they think about the ring on my left hand, encircling my middle finger? A band of seven cherubs, all of whose features are no longer distinct through years of wear. Would they discover that it was a gift from a high school friend, someone who saw me as a better person than I ever was? That I wore it to remind myself that in spite of all my self-doubt and insecurities, there were people out there who truly cared and who really did think I was a good person. That sometimes, I thought through wearing it, I could actually live up to those perceptions and be a better person; to act as a guardian angel for others, guiding and supporting when they most need it. As the years wore on, I let this friend down, probably numerous times. And while the distance has become significant, the memories are still very important. 

On the other hand, a Claddagh ring, a souvenir from my second trip to Galway, bought in a tiny jewelry shop just off the path from the open market. The small hands hold not only a heart, but hundreds of memories of a year abroad. Bike rides, long hikes, walks in the rain. Nights at the pub, the frenetic pace of the disco, the mornings after. Different language, different culture, a world apart. A time of growth and discovery and a time of challenges and frustration.  It is worn with the heart facing out, according to tradition, to indicate the heart is still free. In all honesty, purchased with the hope that one day it would face inward. (There was a particular man in mind at the time of purchase, but as the years have elapsed, he is not much more than a shadow, and while his influence is still there, it is more the idea of him that I cling to than the actual person. Ah...unrequited love; a power stronger than many of us can honestly fathom for something that is mainly generated in the mind.) Almost ten years later, the heart is still free, and no real sight to that changing.

The only other piece of jewelry (if you can call it that) is a simple watch. The date is perpetually set to the 26th. Something with the mechanism broke within a year of buying it. However, it still manages to keep the time, and really that is all that matters. The watch may seem a bit of an anachronism for someone my age, an outdated piece of technology replaced by the ubiquity of cell phones and their precise, satellite-driven time. Indeed, the lack of a cell phone on my person would probably seem strange. What 20-something (okay, almost 30-something) does not have a cell phone somewhere within hands' reach? I own it out of necessity, but I rarely, if ever, carry it with me. It sits forgotten most days, ringer on silent, hidden in the bowels of whatever purse or bag I have used for the day. You would not learn a whole lot from it. There wouldn't be any incoming call history (no one ever calls the phone) to check, and the outgoing calls would list only one number, a number with a Texas area code that hasn't changed in over 28 years and will always be, in some way, home.

Moving beyond the simple accessories, a quick assessment would show a woman of inexpensive tastes. On any given day, you will find me wearing at least one article of clothing from Target (if not the entire ensemble), supplemented by pieces picked up here or there on clearance from other major discount chain retailers. The style is basic--vaguely professional in that what is worn is a step up from jeans and a t-shirt, but nothing that calls attention to itself either. Colors tend to be neutral, cuts classic. It is possible that some of the dresses are a bit more feminine, but never really blatantly 'girly.' The shoes will most likely be a pair of flats, worn down from excessive use and long, drawn out walks during lunch. I don't bother with make up, and my hair is allowed to do whatever it feels. While I do care what others think about my appearance as much as I don't want to be dismissed as slovenly or tasteless, I don't make much more of an effort than that. If it's clean, matches, and comfortable, then it will suffice.

A Little Sing-Along

Time and distance do a lot to alter one's initial impressions. So much can happen in the intervening weeks between the vacation and the transition back to reality that the glowing memories begin to fade. They do not tarnish, but their freshness, their vitality seep away, and it is difficult to evoke the intensity first experienced while traveling. Still, certain things can trigger an explosion of memories that instantaneously transport me back a few weeks ago. Perhaps the most effective for me is music.

I know that I am not unique in having specific songs remind me of certain experiences or people.  There has to be something about the nature of music that we humans instinctually grasp onto, and it certainly is something through which we can bond. I found this to be especially true with my touring companions in Croatia. Driving back from one of our hikes, there happened to be an uncharacteristic lull in the conversation. So, when a hush descends like that, it makes perfect sense to turn up the music. The selection from the day ranged from traditional Croatian music from the Dalmatian coast (a type of a capella choral called klapa) and Croatian music associated with the North (tamburitza, which explores themes of love and village life with the accompaniment of stringed instruments) to modern American pop music and classic American rock. And it was the distinct music stylings of the Eagles that elicited a good old-fashioned sing along.

An example of the tamburica

Several times, I had heard songs that reminded me of friends from college, from Chicago, and even from work. With those, I quietly mouthed the words, fondly thinking of whomever the song reminded. If any sound ever escaped, it was soft, carefully muted so as not to give away me away. But when the first few chords of "Hotel California" crossed the air waves, my ears immediately perked up and I began keeping time with the music, listening closely for the cue to make an entrance. It is not a song to sing under your breath, but one that demands being sung out loud with feeling. (Okay...so I say this perhaps as an excuse as to why I sang much more loudly before.I will even admit I was probably showing off a little since singing is one of those things I have been told I do well.) And so when the mesmerizing guitar solo at the beginning drew to an end, I didn't even bother singing softly. I joined right along with the others (who also felt the compulsion to sing) and let the song overtake me.

The fact that we could share this music, this song, meant something. Perhaps it was one of those instances where we ascribe far too much meaning to a simple occurrence, but I would like to think not. (Something which I often do, I admit.) The fact that Tom, Marty, Davor and I could sing along without inhibitions or self-consciousness struck me as an example of the bond we had developed in our short time together. Music is something friends share and something that I think defines us. It brings people from all different backgrounds together, and this moment symbolized that for us. And I am certain that from this point on, any time I hear the Eagles, I will find myself not in the room where the music is filtering in but rather in the passenger seat of a van driving through the beautiful Croatian countryside with good friends around me joining in the song.

It's Only Rain

As I type, I cannot help but listen to the sound of the rain falling on the carport outside my window. Occasionally, the steady stream is punctuated with a flash of lightning and a crash of thunder, just in case I had any doubts about the what the weather was like outside. No matter how hard the rain falls or how loudly the thunder roars, I feel no anxiety. This is a far cry from the feelings nighttime storms evoked in me as a child.

It may help to know that much of my childhood was spent living in a tiny mobile home in South Texas. Sitting several feet above the ground, tied down by what seemed to be tenuous threads of wire, this little trailer was all that separated me from the raging Texas storms and complete devastation. Needless to say, as the winds buffeted the trailer like a ship on a raging sea, the cacophony of pounding rain amplified ten-fold on the aluminum roof, I lay in my bed, wide awake, afraid that the next gust would blow the house away, that my parents and sister and my beloved pets who somehow managed to sleep through it all would not wake up in time, and that I would fail them by not saving them from destruction.  I was a bit of a worrier as a child, I admit, and my mind jumped to the worst-case scenario. Despite the indulgence in melodrama, my fears were real, acting far better than any caffeinated drink in keeping me alert. If a storm raged on, I maintained my lonely vigil in my self-assumed role as family protector until I was certain danger had passed. Even then, I slept lightly, unconsciously keeping an ear out for a sign that the worst had not moved on. Funny how something that can be so fascinating and even exciting during the day transforms into something so frightening and unrecognizable, and funny how I assumed the responsibility (needlessly, I realize now) for everyone in the house.

Storms no longer faze me. I can appreciate their power and respect what they can do, but I do not live in dread of what they can do. No, I have moved onto more insidious fears to tackle during the night, the kind that are not so tangible, those that are worse because they originate from within. As a storm seemed a million times worse during the night, my anxieties, insecurities, and worries are magnified to the point that I have a hard time keeping them in control. Even though a small part of my mind tries to keep everything in perspective, it is drowned out by the more persistent nagging from the day. I know that everyone has periods of time that they think back on the day or reflect on how there life is going, but I have the horrible habit of taking those small, normal things and adding layer upon layer of 'significance' upon it. I fret over my job (what if one day someone...myself included...discovered I have no clue what I am doing some days?), over interactions with my co-workers (should I have asked how they are doing? Should I have been more supportive? Did I offend them in some way by one of my off-hand comments?), over how I acted during my commute (I should've let that person merge instead of blocking them), and even over what I write in this blog (seriously, some of my phrasing in an earlier post seemed potentially offensive to the point I woke up at 3:00 to remove it from the entry).  

I am not sure when my fears changed. There is little outside of myself that I actively fear. I have come to accept that many of the things I used to fear are beyond my control. I can take certain measures to prevent them from happening, but in the end, there is only so much I can do. However, when it comes to dealing with everyday life, I am afraid of screwing it up. I am not really sure what that means except that maybe I am human (which, to be honest, some people have questioned in the past--me included). I want to be the best person I can be, but, typical of my perfectionist personality, anything less than that is unacceptable. Even more, who I am tends to limit my solicitation of support or perspective from others.  Just as I took on the vigil to keep my family safe at night as a child, I feel it is my responsibility to fix all my fears. (Kind of like somehow I got myself into this mess, whatever it is, so I must get myself out.) But unlike storms that eventually dissipate, these fears multiply. While the light of day does much to quiet them, once the shadows begin to creep in, it is hard to dispel them. In all honesty, I wish I could vanquish these shadows, at least long enough to quiet my mind for one good night's sleep.  

On a Lighter Note...

So, as I read through my last post, I realized it was heavy on the angst and light on humor (it is important to provide some balance).  I promise I really do not go through all of my life pondering deep philosophical questions or pining for the good old days...just every other Saturday, when there is a full moon, and the entire month of February.

That out of the way, as a kind of get-to-know-me better exercise, I thought I would list six fun facts about me.  (The hard part is thinking of six facts that the majority of my audience doesn't already know!  And facts that may be considered fun.)  Regardless, here are things you may not know about me:

• My favorite childhood stuffed animal, my rabbit Peta, has a special place in my room.  I received her from my Grandma and Grandpa Tanner for Easter when I was six (her back story, about her life before she arrived in Texas is quite elaborate, if you are ever interested), and she has pretty much been at my side ever since...seriously, she has traveled to the Vatican, Ireland, Chicago, and Oregon, among other locales.  She is notorious for causing trouble and has a reputation as a serious drinker...

Trip to Oregon 2007

• When I was in the fourth grade, I had a singing part in the school Christmas pageant.  I played the music teacher.  I sang the song "Everybody Wants to be Santa."  At random times, the only part of the song I remember runs through my brain. It is one of those songs that should never have been written.  And no, there is no photographic evidence of this particular event...

• My favorite food is bread. Seriously. If you were to look in my grocery cart on any given week, you will most likely find at least three types of bread. Sometimes I wonder if I look crazy having a loaf of bread and a package of bagels and a package of English muffins in my cart. (Because I often visit more than one grocery store when shopping, though, I spread out my bread purchases a bit so it doesn't look like I am living on rations of bread and water...or in my case, bread and Diet Dr. Pepper)

• I am the highly suggestible type.  If you are a passionate, charismatic speaker, I am likely to buy into your message with little urging, at least for the next few days.  Knowing that, if you are a scam artist, there is only a short window of opportunity to capitalize on my naivete. After that, my critical thinking skills (and skepticism) kick in, and the promise of buying an acre on the moon for ten payments of $19.99 or of happiness being five steps away with the purchase of this handy-dandy manual  seem a little less like the world's best investment. 

• At one point in my life, I could recite the dialog for just about every Simpsons episode from seasons one through about ten.  This strange talent emerged after my decision to forgo the evermore depressing national news in favor of that quirky family in Springfield throughout my high school years.  Who needs to memorize great works of literature when one can focus her brain power on pop culture icons instead?

• While the thought of speaking up in a meeting at work or talking with a stranger makes me physically ill, I have no problem singing every week at church in front of at least a hundred other people. And I don't do this as a member of a larger choir.  Most often, it is just the accompanist, the music minister, and me. At least during some parts of the service it is just me. And even though I know that music ministry is to enhance the worship experience of others, I recognize that this is my one little way into the spotlight. (Really, I would be flattering myself too many people take notice)  There must be something about the separation between me and those who are in the church that makes it easy to do this.  

There you have it. Something with a bit of randomness to it.  I encourage you to post a fun fact about yourself because really, who wants only to hear about me?