So, I won't really say a whole lot this time around. The last post was clearly written from a place of great frustration and anxiety, so perhaps I exaggerated the gravity of the situation. I wholly admit that I often do that within the first 24 hours of receiving any kind of news like that about my mom and grandpa. But anyway--so, it seems like the spots on my grandpa's lungs were just pockets of fluid. At least, that is the initial findings. Huge sigh of relief for that. He was released from the hospital on Friday, which is great.
My mom was released on Friday, too. I am not sure how she is doing really, but she sounded alright when I talked with her yesterday. She has a long way to go before she is really okay, but at least it is a step in the right direction for now.
Thanks for all the thoughts and prayers, and really, just for letting me vent in this space. Funny, but I never wanted to be this kind of writer where it all became about the crises that occur...
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Tired
There are times when it just feels like the weight of the world falls upon your shoulders. There isn't anything you can do really to shift the burden, but it sits there, making it a little bit more difficult to do normal activities. Right now, in spite of a plethora of good fortune that has befallen me over the past few months, there is a pall of illness affecting my family that makes it hard to see what is good in my life.
After an exhilarating trip to Peru, I came home only to find out that my mother had been in the hospital pretty much sense I left for my trip. To be honest, this itself isn't a surprise—it really is not unusual for my mother to have extended visits in a hospital for her various medical issues—but it wasn't exactly the first kind of news I had hoped for when returning back to the States. And, considering I had been gone for almost two weeks, it had been a long stay even by my mom's standards. OF course, I hadn't actually been talking with my mom since it was my dad who was relaying all the information.
Let me point out something for context. My dad is perhaps one of the strongest people I know. Not necessarily physically (although is body has endured a lot on its own) but emotionally and spiritually. I wish I were as resilient as he has been these past 20 or so years where uncertainty is the only constant. Somehow amidst all the crap that my family has gone through (my mom's illnesses and injuries, my sister's defection and struggle with her own health and mental issues, caring for my mom's parents, etc.), he has always maintained that things will get better, that this will one day come to an end. For the first 10 years or so, I gladly joined him in this pronouncement, waiting for the day that my family would once again be healthy and whole. That day has yet to come, and although there is still a part of me that holds out for that…the inner 10-year old who believes that everyone can and should be happy…I have adopted a cynical shell to block out some of the more deceiving rays of hope. I cannot endure many more of the bruises that one incurs after an abrupt reality check knocks you back to earth. I used to think my dad was impervious to those bruises, but the more and more I talk with him, it appears his reserve is finally cracking, and that breaks my heart. I guess in some ways, his hope is one of the few things I could still hold onto in an occasionally bleak situation. With that slipping away, I don't know where to grasp, and while I know that as things develop, I will find a way to cope, it is hard to watch the one person who embodied stability begin to fall apart.
The one person who is still in Texas to help my dad cope with all that goes on with my mother is my grandpa. He, too, is in the hospital now. Yesterday, he was admitted with an infection and a fever. An MRI revealed a few spots on his lungs. While the results are still pending, my mind immediately jumps to the worst. I don't really know how to articulate what losing my grandpa would be like for me personally or for my dad and mom, but it would be huge. I hate even to think much about it, but of course, my mind doesn't really allow me to look beyond it at the moment.
As for my mom, she is still in the hospital. She may be transferred soon to a long-term care facility or a rehabilitation center. Or she may just be discharged altogether. It all depends on the whim of the doctors over the next couple of days, or so it seems. I won't even try to go into what is going on with her in the first place because I cannot wrap my own head around it. Let's just say there are a lot of complications from the medicine she has been on for the past 15+ years, complications from a botched surgery 10 years ago, and a lot of residual mental stress that exacerbates both problems in a way that none of us can quite figure out how to help.
And that is where I feel the most burdened. Here are three people I love and care about very much, and yet I have no clue how to help them. I very much want to be there to help and support them in person, but I am also aware that in doing so, I will lose myself. There is some kind of tacit understanding that if I were to be in Texas, my life would be put on hold as I shuttled Mom to appointments, took care of the house and yard, cared for the household things that are currently neglected. It isn't the life I want for myself and it is not the life that my parents want for me either. The selfish part of me shudders at the thought of even visiting because I do not want to return to that kind of life, particularly when right now I have so many good things in my life. Yet, the guilty part of me feels like I am being a negligent daughter, ignoring my duty to my parents and grandpa, to be the support that they need during this challenging time. My selfishness right now outweighs the guilt, but I have a feeling that soon the scales will shift depending on how much longer this continues.
This could just be another mini crisis in a long series of crises, and things will find their equilibrium once again. Well, at least until the next flare up brings us yet one step closer to that edge. The edge where my mom finally makes good on her threats to just end it all. The edge that will send my dad into complete collapse and I am the only one to help pick up the pieces. The edge that I fall over as I try to grasp too tightly to the world I know, afraid that letting go will be more damaging than anything else. I fear that edge more and more. I am bracing myself for the day we go over it, but I don't think that will be enough. I try to make myself numb and impervious to emotions swirling through my head, but those are impossible to ignore completely and in burying them, I become a bitter, cranky person, someone who I hate to be. I am sad, scared, angry, frustrated. I feel powerless and hopeless. I wish that for once my parents could catch a break from the universe. I wish that there were some way to bargain even for a few good days for them—if I could take on their pain for even a couple of days to give them a respite, I swear I would. But the world doesn't work that way, and we all have to learn how to cope with the hand we have been dealt. I know in a few days, I'll be doing okay. But right now, the world looks so bleak, the future a dark swirl of uncertainty and awfulness. I really am just tired of it all.
After an exhilarating trip to Peru, I came home only to find out that my mother had been in the hospital pretty much sense I left for my trip. To be honest, this itself isn't a surprise—it really is not unusual for my mother to have extended visits in a hospital for her various medical issues—but it wasn't exactly the first kind of news I had hoped for when returning back to the States. And, considering I had been gone for almost two weeks, it had been a long stay even by my mom's standards. OF course, I hadn't actually been talking with my mom since it was my dad who was relaying all the information.
Let me point out something for context. My dad is perhaps one of the strongest people I know. Not necessarily physically (although is body has endured a lot on its own) but emotionally and spiritually. I wish I were as resilient as he has been these past 20 or so years where uncertainty is the only constant. Somehow amidst all the crap that my family has gone through (my mom's illnesses and injuries, my sister's defection and struggle with her own health and mental issues, caring for my mom's parents, etc.), he has always maintained that things will get better, that this will one day come to an end. For the first 10 years or so, I gladly joined him in this pronouncement, waiting for the day that my family would once again be healthy and whole. That day has yet to come, and although there is still a part of me that holds out for that…the inner 10-year old who believes that everyone can and should be happy…I have adopted a cynical shell to block out some of the more deceiving rays of hope. I cannot endure many more of the bruises that one incurs after an abrupt reality check knocks you back to earth. I used to think my dad was impervious to those bruises, but the more and more I talk with him, it appears his reserve is finally cracking, and that breaks my heart. I guess in some ways, his hope is one of the few things I could still hold onto in an occasionally bleak situation. With that slipping away, I don't know where to grasp, and while I know that as things develop, I will find a way to cope, it is hard to watch the one person who embodied stability begin to fall apart.
The one person who is still in Texas to help my dad cope with all that goes on with my mother is my grandpa. He, too, is in the hospital now. Yesterday, he was admitted with an infection and a fever. An MRI revealed a few spots on his lungs. While the results are still pending, my mind immediately jumps to the worst. I don't really know how to articulate what losing my grandpa would be like for me personally or for my dad and mom, but it would be huge. I hate even to think much about it, but of course, my mind doesn't really allow me to look beyond it at the moment.
As for my mom, she is still in the hospital. She may be transferred soon to a long-term care facility or a rehabilitation center. Or she may just be discharged altogether. It all depends on the whim of the doctors over the next couple of days, or so it seems. I won't even try to go into what is going on with her in the first place because I cannot wrap my own head around it. Let's just say there are a lot of complications from the medicine she has been on for the past 15+ years, complications from a botched surgery 10 years ago, and a lot of residual mental stress that exacerbates both problems in a way that none of us can quite figure out how to help.
And that is where I feel the most burdened. Here are three people I love and care about very much, and yet I have no clue how to help them. I very much want to be there to help and support them in person, but I am also aware that in doing so, I will lose myself. There is some kind of tacit understanding that if I were to be in Texas, my life would be put on hold as I shuttled Mom to appointments, took care of the house and yard, cared for the household things that are currently neglected. It isn't the life I want for myself and it is not the life that my parents want for me either. The selfish part of me shudders at the thought of even visiting because I do not want to return to that kind of life, particularly when right now I have so many good things in my life. Yet, the guilty part of me feels like I am being a negligent daughter, ignoring my duty to my parents and grandpa, to be the support that they need during this challenging time. My selfishness right now outweighs the guilt, but I have a feeling that soon the scales will shift depending on how much longer this continues.
This could just be another mini crisis in a long series of crises, and things will find their equilibrium once again. Well, at least until the next flare up brings us yet one step closer to that edge. The edge where my mom finally makes good on her threats to just end it all. The edge that will send my dad into complete collapse and I am the only one to help pick up the pieces. The edge that I fall over as I try to grasp too tightly to the world I know, afraid that letting go will be more damaging than anything else. I fear that edge more and more. I am bracing myself for the day we go over it, but I don't think that will be enough. I try to make myself numb and impervious to emotions swirling through my head, but those are impossible to ignore completely and in burying them, I become a bitter, cranky person, someone who I hate to be. I am sad, scared, angry, frustrated. I feel powerless and hopeless. I wish that for once my parents could catch a break from the universe. I wish that there were some way to bargain even for a few good days for them—if I could take on their pain for even a couple of days to give them a respite, I swear I would. But the world doesn't work that way, and we all have to learn how to cope with the hand we have been dealt. I know in a few days, I'll be doing okay. But right now, the world looks so bleak, the future a dark swirl of uncertainty and awfulness. I really am just tired of it all.
Monday, June 4, 2012
Peru -- A Brief Glimpse
Somehow, two weeks have passed since returning from my trip to Peru, and it already is beginning to feel like the whole thing never really happened, that it was just this amazing dream. Perhaps it is because the whole thing seemed a bit like a figment of my imagination—who would have thought I could manage to hike for four days and camp out for three nights without finding myself completely worn out, bruised, or battered? I never dreamed that I would have a chance to explore the Amazon Basin and encounter monkeys, tarantulas, frogs, and more. (Not many mosquitos, though, which was a very pleasant surprise!) And, even more importantly, I held myself to my goal of reaching my fifth continent before turning thirty. That in itself is pretty amazing because I am not one to set goals, let alone achieve them.
But this isn't really what you want to hear about. What you are more interested in are the stories. What interesting things transpired while I was immersed in a completely different culture and landscape? What did it really feel like to hike up to a point 13,5000 feet above sea level (particularly when I normally live only at 1,026 feet sea level)? What was the food like? Would I do it again?
My history with exploring the great outdoors really isn't as rich or abundant as one may think. Outside of the occasional camp trip with my family (which rarely involved hikes over 2 or 3 miles), I didn't do a whole lot in the outdoors. I dabbled a bit more in the adventuring lifestyles while in Wales, where I took a course called Outdoor Pursuits. It encouraged me to hike, climb, and kayak my way through Wales, helping me experience the country in a way far different from your average tourist. Still, my attempts at this were a challenge. At 20, I was out-of-shape, a bit lazy, and not in the best of condition to be trudging about in a cool, clammy climate. I also had the misfortune to experience such interesting mishaps like watching my tent fly off a cliff, being lost in a bog, and finding myself perpetually wet either by virtue of the rain or by having our self-constructed raft collapse in the middle of a freezing cold pond. I also remember being battered, bruised, and sore. Strangely, none of this would deter me a few years later from pursuing similar activities which had the potential to replicate many of the above results.
So, when I signed up to hike the Inca Trail, I wasn't sure what to expect. I knew for certain that I would immediately be put at a disadvantage because of the difference in altitude. Being that high up literally takes your breath away and makes even the slightest amount of effort feel like a gargantuan task. I also knew that there would be a lot more steep inclines, stairs, and general overall ups and downs. Kansas City has a few hills, but nothing compared to what I would encounter. Still, in a paltry effort to prepare, I walked. A lot. I figured at least I could get the distance down if I couldn't get the elevation. And, strangely, I think it helped. Really, I was surprised by how little anything ended up hurting after the hike. Outside of my poor calves (the 20,000 or so stairs were a bit much for them), I didn't feel any muscle soreness, which was a shock. I thought I would ache all over and wake up on the second morning unable to move (as was my experience when hiking in Snowdonia ten years ago). Strangely, 5:00 a.m would come around and I would be ready to begin again without any complaint. Something truly strange was happening in those mountains.
I think that the only reason I was able to make it, though, was because I had the support of a wonderful team of porters, two excellent guides, and a great group with whom I was traveling. It is amazing just how much a support system makes a difference in a situation like this. The porters worked behind the scenes, rushing ahead to beat us to our camp site, our resting points, and anywhere else it was they were needed. After a long day of hiking, we would arrive at our campsite with our tents already in place. Within the first five minutes of getting situated there, a basin of steaming hot water would be available to wash away the grime accumulated throughout the day. Some people (not me) would even soak their feet once they had finished washing. Funny how such a small thing quickly became a luxury. I mean, when you have to deal with things like squat toilets along the path (stinking cess pools of all sorts of things you do not want to think about, really. I guess it is a better solution than finding some bushes, but you quickly learn how to hold your breath for a long time when you enter), dirt, sweat, sunscreen, oily hair, dirty clothes…a small bowl of hot water is gold.
Meal times were also strangely luxurious. We would arrive at the site, and there would be a separate tent furnished with tables and stools for us to sit at. Upon sitting, we would have tea and water availble for us, and eventually, the first course of our meal. I had so many delicious soups along the trail, it was amazing (and I didn't realize that with limited supplies, you can have six different kinds of soups. And six very different kind of cooked meals, ranging from spaghetti to stir fry to potato dishes…I felt kind of bad because I asked for vegetarian meals, so I always got my own personalized dish. It felt a bit too much for me). I felt like I was eating so much all of the time that I swore I would be one of the few people who actually gained weight while hiking the Inca Trail. I know, a silly thing to worry about…I think one of my favorite things that our chefs prepared were the cheese wonton things—fried wontons with melted cheese in the middle. Like many people, I have a weakness for all things cheesy and deep-fried. Still not sure how they managed to make them, but they were delicious. As was the freshly popped popcorn. That was amazing and impossible to stop eating even when trying to ration oneself. And there were desserts, usually fruity concoctions of some sort. If there is one thing that Peru has a lot of, it is different varieties of fruit.
Add in the support of a good group and two amazing guides, and you have everything you need for success. I did require a little more patience with myself than I normally allow. Particularly on the second day, there was not going to be any quick sprints up the stairs. After about five stairs, I was ready for a breather. While doing it, I felt rather pathetic, but looking back, it was just the kind of thing I needed to keep pace. To be honest, I would have killed myself trying to keep an unsustainable pace if it weren't for a few other group members. At the steepest part of the climb, there were six of us walking together. We would pick an object in the distance ("Okay, that boulder, right there. Let's go!"), and keep moving until we reached it. Sometimes, the climb was easier than we had anticipated, sometimes far more grueling. No matter what, though, we made it to the next part of the trail until finally we were at the summit. We didn't stay long, and really we didn't need to. Funny thing about hiking—one minute it feels like your heart is beating out of your chest, the next minute it feels like you haven't been doing anything more taxing than a casual stroll.
Along the trail, we passed through three or four different ecosystems, seeing cacti and orchids, waterfalls and arid grasslands. There were times it felt like I had been transported back in time, left to forge the trail through the jungle myself (okay, fine. I let my imagination help shape that a little bit. The trail was always clearly marked, and there was never any need to wield a machete to clear through some overgrowth or anything). It felt almost like I were in an Indiana Jones movie or something—the caves also helped add to that feeling. In many ways, this trip helped me embrace those childhood dreams of being an intrepid explorer. So, thousands of people had passed this way before and there wasn't really anything new to discover. I still was discovering it for myself, and that was what was important, right? In the end, it wasn't about what other people thought about my journey. It was how I felt about it, and in all honesty, I feel pretty darn good about the whole thing. Despite all my reservations, all my previous catastrophes in the natural world, I managed to get through this adventure wholly in tact and feeling like I could conquer the world. I am not exactly quick to repeat the endeavor again, but looking around at what is out there, I know I can do a ton more hikes in the area without a problem, and perhaps I can seek out a few in the Rockies…it is high time to explore my own country and see what else is out there.
But this isn't really what you want to hear about. What you are more interested in are the stories. What interesting things transpired while I was immersed in a completely different culture and landscape? What did it really feel like to hike up to a point 13,5000 feet above sea level (particularly when I normally live only at 1,026 feet sea level)? What was the food like? Would I do it again?
My history with exploring the great outdoors really isn't as rich or abundant as one may think. Outside of the occasional camp trip with my family (which rarely involved hikes over 2 or 3 miles), I didn't do a whole lot in the outdoors. I dabbled a bit more in the adventuring lifestyles while in Wales, where I took a course called Outdoor Pursuits. It encouraged me to hike, climb, and kayak my way through Wales, helping me experience the country in a way far different from your average tourist. Still, my attempts at this were a challenge. At 20, I was out-of-shape, a bit lazy, and not in the best of condition to be trudging about in a cool, clammy climate. I also had the misfortune to experience such interesting mishaps like watching my tent fly off a cliff, being lost in a bog, and finding myself perpetually wet either by virtue of the rain or by having our self-constructed raft collapse in the middle of a freezing cold pond. I also remember being battered, bruised, and sore. Strangely, none of this would deter me a few years later from pursuing similar activities which had the potential to replicate many of the above results.
So, when I signed up to hike the Inca Trail, I wasn't sure what to expect. I knew for certain that I would immediately be put at a disadvantage because of the difference in altitude. Being that high up literally takes your breath away and makes even the slightest amount of effort feel like a gargantuan task. I also knew that there would be a lot more steep inclines, stairs, and general overall ups and downs. Kansas City has a few hills, but nothing compared to what I would encounter. Still, in a paltry effort to prepare, I walked. A lot. I figured at least I could get the distance down if I couldn't get the elevation. And, strangely, I think it helped. Really, I was surprised by how little anything ended up hurting after the hike. Outside of my poor calves (the 20,000 or so stairs were a bit much for them), I didn't feel any muscle soreness, which was a shock. I thought I would ache all over and wake up on the second morning unable to move (as was my experience when hiking in Snowdonia ten years ago). Strangely, 5:00 a.m would come around and I would be ready to begin again without any complaint. Something truly strange was happening in those mountains.
I think that the only reason I was able to make it, though, was because I had the support of a wonderful team of porters, two excellent guides, and a great group with whom I was traveling. It is amazing just how much a support system makes a difference in a situation like this. The porters worked behind the scenes, rushing ahead to beat us to our camp site, our resting points, and anywhere else it was they were needed. After a long day of hiking, we would arrive at our campsite with our tents already in place. Within the first five minutes of getting situated there, a basin of steaming hot water would be available to wash away the grime accumulated throughout the day. Some people (not me) would even soak their feet once they had finished washing. Funny how such a small thing quickly became a luxury. I mean, when you have to deal with things like squat toilets along the path (stinking cess pools of all sorts of things you do not want to think about, really. I guess it is a better solution than finding some bushes, but you quickly learn how to hold your breath for a long time when you enter), dirt, sweat, sunscreen, oily hair, dirty clothes…a small bowl of hot water is gold.
Meal times were also strangely luxurious. We would arrive at the site, and there would be a separate tent furnished with tables and stools for us to sit at. Upon sitting, we would have tea and water availble for us, and eventually, the first course of our meal. I had so many delicious soups along the trail, it was amazing (and I didn't realize that with limited supplies, you can have six different kinds of soups. And six very different kind of cooked meals, ranging from spaghetti to stir fry to potato dishes…I felt kind of bad because I asked for vegetarian meals, so I always got my own personalized dish. It felt a bit too much for me). I felt like I was eating so much all of the time that I swore I would be one of the few people who actually gained weight while hiking the Inca Trail. I know, a silly thing to worry about…I think one of my favorite things that our chefs prepared were the cheese wonton things—fried wontons with melted cheese in the middle. Like many people, I have a weakness for all things cheesy and deep-fried. Still not sure how they managed to make them, but they were delicious. As was the freshly popped popcorn. That was amazing and impossible to stop eating even when trying to ration oneself. And there were desserts, usually fruity concoctions of some sort. If there is one thing that Peru has a lot of, it is different varieties of fruit.
Add in the support of a good group and two amazing guides, and you have everything you need for success. I did require a little more patience with myself than I normally allow. Particularly on the second day, there was not going to be any quick sprints up the stairs. After about five stairs, I was ready for a breather. While doing it, I felt rather pathetic, but looking back, it was just the kind of thing I needed to keep pace. To be honest, I would have killed myself trying to keep an unsustainable pace if it weren't for a few other group members. At the steepest part of the climb, there were six of us walking together. We would pick an object in the distance ("Okay, that boulder, right there. Let's go!"), and keep moving until we reached it. Sometimes, the climb was easier than we had anticipated, sometimes far more grueling. No matter what, though, we made it to the next part of the trail until finally we were at the summit. We didn't stay long, and really we didn't need to. Funny thing about hiking—one minute it feels like your heart is beating out of your chest, the next minute it feels like you haven't been doing anything more taxing than a casual stroll.
Along the trail, we passed through three or four different ecosystems, seeing cacti and orchids, waterfalls and arid grasslands. There were times it felt like I had been transported back in time, left to forge the trail through the jungle myself (okay, fine. I let my imagination help shape that a little bit. The trail was always clearly marked, and there was never any need to wield a machete to clear through some overgrowth or anything). It felt almost like I were in an Indiana Jones movie or something—the caves also helped add to that feeling. In many ways, this trip helped me embrace those childhood dreams of being an intrepid explorer. So, thousands of people had passed this way before and there wasn't really anything new to discover. I still was discovering it for myself, and that was what was important, right? In the end, it wasn't about what other people thought about my journey. It was how I felt about it, and in all honesty, I feel pretty darn good about the whole thing. Despite all my reservations, all my previous catastrophes in the natural world, I managed to get through this adventure wholly in tact and feeling like I could conquer the world. I am not exactly quick to repeat the endeavor again, but looking around at what is out there, I know I can do a ton more hikes in the area without a problem, and perhaps I can seek out a few in the Rockies…it is high time to explore my own country and see what else is out there.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
What is Cleveland?
I never intended to go to Cleveland. At least, it wasn't high on my list of places I wanted to visit in my lifetime. Not that there is anything wrong with the city. It is very nice, actually. And it has a gorgeous public library in the heart of downtown. But, I can honestly say I would not have discovered this fact if I had never had a chance conversation at work with my good friend Shelley. I am not sure how we got on the topic of Jeopardy, but I remember the conversation spurring me to check out when the next online test was going to be. Strangely enough, it was only a couple of weeks away, and I since I had nothing better to do that Wednesday evening, I went ahead and signed up. A quick reminder was added to my calendar, and I didn't think much of it.
The night of the online test, I made sure to let my grandma know that until I came back out of my room, I was not to be interrupted (I wanted to take it a little bit seriously, and I admit, I wasn't really sure how long it would take). I sat at my desk, eagerly watching the minutes tick by until I could log in and the test would start. At exactly 7:00 p.m., the first of fifty questions popped on the screen. The test was over in less than 15 minutes. There were only three questions I knew I had missed. Still, 47 out of 50 wasn't all that impressive in the context of Jeopardy, right? So, with this thought in mind, I relegated it to a fun experience that maybe I would repeat in another 18 months if I even remembered to do it.
Three months later, I am sitting at my desk again, reading some article or another online when I clicked over to my email. Immediately, I saw something I never thought I would see: "Jeopardy Contestant Search." My heart already beating quickly, I opened the email inviting me for an audition in Chicago on May 18. And with that, I laughed a little as my heart sunk. Of course, they would be in Chicago when I was going to be in Peru. Although being on Jeopardy has long been one of my (unvoiced) dreams, I couldn't rearrange my trip to Peru for something that may not ever amount to much. In a last ditch effort, though, I responded back explaining why I couldn't make this particular audition and practically begged for an invitation to any other audition they had available. Three long days later, I received an email that I would be considered for auditions in Cleveland. The fact that they were still considering me was encouraging, but no date was set, and I wasn't sure if I would even be able to make that audition. I gave it a good shot, but perhaps Jeopardy was just not meant to be.
Fast forward a couple weeks later when I am at my desk at work, doing a quick check of my email (a bad habit I am trying to break, I swear), when I saw another message from Jeopardy. I almost bounced out of my chair I was so excited. I saw the date, calculated that I could slip away from work on those days, and emailed my RSVP within ten minutes of receiving the email. I was giddy. Ridiculously giddy, to the point that I was beaming ear-to-ear and could not sit still. I popped out of my chair and told my co-worker Alison right away. I was going to audition for Jeopardy! How was this happening? I had always been under the impression that this kind of thing never happened to me, but it seems that this is going to be my year for a lot of great things happening for me, so if I am going to get on the show, this will be the year to do it.
And so, with a great deal of anxiety (but also a great deal of support from the world's best friends and co-workers) I found myself in Cleveland on a warm, humid day. After killing as much time as possible by walking around the downtown area, I finally headed to the hotel where the audition was being held. I found my way up to the suite, and there I was amid all the other hopeful contestants. I don't know why exactly, but as I listened to the conversations around me, I worried that I was hear on some fluke--surely I didn't belong in the same class as these people. After shaking off this crazy notion, I headed into the auditions ready to do the best I could. After a short explanation about what to expect and a brief video from Alex himself, we began our written test. Overall, I think I did alright--really, it boosted my confidence pretty high, actually. The producers went out to grade the tests, and we were left to wait for our "mock" game assignment. Some idle chatter ensued, but really, I think all of us were just ready to get to play with the signaling devices.
The producers came back in, all of our applications now carefully organized by whom they wanted to see first. As it turns out, I was the second contestant called, so that meant I got to get my turn out of the way immediately. The game itself was a blur...I remember holding my own on the literature questions and maybe a couple of others, but it was done in the blink of an eye. Then, it was time to go through the personality interview. When my turn came up, the first thing I was asked to do was sing. In Welsh. I knew I shouldn't have put that down as one of my interesting facts, but since I came here to prove I was Jeopardy material, I put aside all humility and sang one of the only Welsh songs I knew. I got a little bit of applause, so I guess I did alright with it, and that was that. I got to sit back and watch the rest of the people go through their games and listen to them answer questions about themselves.
I left feeling pretty good about the whole process. Knowing that the likelihood of my being picked is pretty slim (of the 2,000 to 3,000 people auditioning, only 400 will be selected), I figure I won't be hearing from anyone in the next 18 months. Still, I did well, I think I did my friends and family back home proud. And, if nothing else, it helped me realize and appreciate just what a great group of friends and family I have supporting me. It has been a long time since I have felt such overwhelming love.
The night of the online test, I made sure to let my grandma know that until I came back out of my room, I was not to be interrupted (I wanted to take it a little bit seriously, and I admit, I wasn't really sure how long it would take). I sat at my desk, eagerly watching the minutes tick by until I could log in and the test would start. At exactly 7:00 p.m., the first of fifty questions popped on the screen. The test was over in less than 15 minutes. There were only three questions I knew I had missed. Still, 47 out of 50 wasn't all that impressive in the context of Jeopardy, right? So, with this thought in mind, I relegated it to a fun experience that maybe I would repeat in another 18 months if I even remembered to do it.
Three months later, I am sitting at my desk again, reading some article or another online when I clicked over to my email. Immediately, I saw something I never thought I would see: "Jeopardy Contestant Search." My heart already beating quickly, I opened the email inviting me for an audition in Chicago on May 18. And with that, I laughed a little as my heart sunk. Of course, they would be in Chicago when I was going to be in Peru. Although being on Jeopardy has long been one of my (unvoiced) dreams, I couldn't rearrange my trip to Peru for something that may not ever amount to much. In a last ditch effort, though, I responded back explaining why I couldn't make this particular audition and practically begged for an invitation to any other audition they had available. Three long days later, I received an email that I would be considered for auditions in Cleveland. The fact that they were still considering me was encouraging, but no date was set, and I wasn't sure if I would even be able to make that audition. I gave it a good shot, but perhaps Jeopardy was just not meant to be.
Fast forward a couple weeks later when I am at my desk at work, doing a quick check of my email (a bad habit I am trying to break, I swear), when I saw another message from Jeopardy. I almost bounced out of my chair I was so excited. I saw the date, calculated that I could slip away from work on those days, and emailed my RSVP within ten minutes of receiving the email. I was giddy. Ridiculously giddy, to the point that I was beaming ear-to-ear and could not sit still. I popped out of my chair and told my co-worker Alison right away. I was going to audition for Jeopardy! How was this happening? I had always been under the impression that this kind of thing never happened to me, but it seems that this is going to be my year for a lot of great things happening for me, so if I am going to get on the show, this will be the year to do it.
And so, with a great deal of anxiety (but also a great deal of support from the world's best friends and co-workers) I found myself in Cleveland on a warm, humid day. After killing as much time as possible by walking around the downtown area, I finally headed to the hotel where the audition was being held. I found my way up to the suite, and there I was amid all the other hopeful contestants. I don't know why exactly, but as I listened to the conversations around me, I worried that I was hear on some fluke--surely I didn't belong in the same class as these people. After shaking off this crazy notion, I headed into the auditions ready to do the best I could. After a short explanation about what to expect and a brief video from Alex himself, we began our written test. Overall, I think I did alright--really, it boosted my confidence pretty high, actually. The producers went out to grade the tests, and we were left to wait for our "mock" game assignment. Some idle chatter ensued, but really, I think all of us were just ready to get to play with the signaling devices.
The producers came back in, all of our applications now carefully organized by whom they wanted to see first. As it turns out, I was the second contestant called, so that meant I got to get my turn out of the way immediately. The game itself was a blur...I remember holding my own on the literature questions and maybe a couple of others, but it was done in the blink of an eye. Then, it was time to go through the personality interview. When my turn came up, the first thing I was asked to do was sing. In Welsh. I knew I shouldn't have put that down as one of my interesting facts, but since I came here to prove I was Jeopardy material, I put aside all humility and sang one of the only Welsh songs I knew. I got a little bit of applause, so I guess I did alright with it, and that was that. I got to sit back and watch the rest of the people go through their games and listen to them answer questions about themselves.
I left feeling pretty good about the whole process. Knowing that the likelihood of my being picked is pretty slim (of the 2,000 to 3,000 people auditioning, only 400 will be selected), I figure I won't be hearing from anyone in the next 18 months. Still, I did well, I think I did my friends and family back home proud. And, if nothing else, it helped me realize and appreciate just what a great group of friends and family I have supporting me. It has been a long time since I have felt such overwhelming love.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
The Art of Getting Lost
I may have admitted this once before, but I have a knack for getting lost. Not the horrible, irreparable kind of lost that requires a team of skilled trackers to extract me from the wild, but the kind of lost that is enough that I can easily add an additional 30 to 45 minutes to any drive or hike I happen to be on. (Okay, there may have been one or two times professional help would have been much appreciated, but at least then I was with a friend...it is always easier to endure these kinds of things with someone else by your side.)
Anyway, today was one of those days to get lost. At the very least, it was a beautiful day to do so. The sun blazed down and the skies were a resplendent blue. If it weren't for the chill in the air, it would have been a perfect day to sprawl out. I had a need to get a little ways away from the city, away from the urban scene and reconnect with nature. I hopped in my car and headed west, looking for a trail that sounded like it would be a serve my needs--long enough to be worth a good drive, but not so challenging it took all the fun out of it.
I had the directions. I was even sure to write out every single step, mileage and all. And, you are probably wondering why 1) I wrote it out instead of printing it and 2) why I have not invested in GPS. My home printer is old and decrepit. It takes less time to transcribe seemingly simple things like directions. I have not purchased a GPS because...I have no real reason except that I figure that my handwritten directions will suffice, despite having proven wrong far more often than not. Like I was today. In all fairness, though, if I had GPS, I would not have passed the wild turkeys or the soaring hawks. I would have missed the simple beauty of sunlight over a rolling prairie. I would not have been reminded what 'fun' it is to drive on unpaved roads. And, I may have ended up at my destination a few minutes earlier. Still, I found where I needed to be, and really that is all that matters, right?
If my navigation skills while driving are bad, they are even worse when hiking. I had read about the hike I was about to do (a simple 4.25 mile loop), and I felt confident that all I had to do was follow the blue blazes, and I would be okay. And for the first half, it worked. While a few times it seemed like I had lost the path (and there were no blazes until a good third of the way), I always managed to pick it up again, following it through grasslands to the trees and down to the lake. The path along the lake was by far the best part of the hike, and the few moments I spent listening to the water lap the shoreline provided some calm to my otherwise busy mind. (Perhaps this distracted mental state is related to my ability to get lost.) And really, the first part of the hike wasn't where I got really lost. I quickly found myself at the other side of the trailhead, the loop completed in far less time than I had anticipated. (I figured about 50 minutes...I walk fast, but not that fast, especially on uneven ground.) So, being the intrepid adventurer I am (read idiot), I decided to retrace my steps and see if I had missed part of the trail somehow.
I am still not sure if I missed part of the trail. I have no clue, really, if I was ever on it after the first fifteen minutes back in. I thought I did a good job retracing my steps until I reached a fork in the road I didn't remember. Of course, I chose the wrong path. I think no matter what I had decided, it would have still have been the wrong path. But, because this was an adventure, or at least an attempt to recapture the spirit of past adventures, I kept on. My mind occasionally drifted to the most negative outcome possible, but thank goodness my rational self is good at curbing my imagination. What I couldn't quell, though, was my growing frustration. How many times would I allow myself to get into this kind of mess? While this situation was not at all dangerous (I had a ton of energy still, and I knew I could backtrack yet again if I had to), there is no guarantee that the next time I do something like this, it would be safe. At least when I was with friends, there was the comfort of their presence and I knew if I were hurt, someone else would be right there to help. As it turned out, I was able to find the right path, a fact confirmed by locating my own footprints. One benefit of a muddy path, I guess. As I got into my car (after having knocked off as much mud from my car and taking off my sodden shoes), I realized that yet again I was lucky. That what makes my getting lost such an art is my ability to finally get unlost. I have always found my way back, from bogs and fields, mountains and forests. But for how long? Perhaps it is time to be a bit more careful...
This isn't to say that I will give up solo hikes altogether. I will, however, be far more mindful of the paths I choose--those that are well-defined and well-traveled. I am getting to that stage in my life where it is finally sinking in that I am not invincible. Took me long enough to realize this, yes? Yet, a part of me finds it hard to let go because while hindsight reveals to me how every situation could have gone horribly wrong, the experiences remain some of the most memorable, the ones I think back on and smile. I don't want to give up any of those yet to happen...I guess it is finding that balance of spontaneity and planning to allow for chance to guide the path, but not to be caught of guard? Who knows. All I know is that I made it out yet again unscathed, and I drove off with a smile on my face.
Anyway, today was one of those days to get lost. At the very least, it was a beautiful day to do so. The sun blazed down and the skies were a resplendent blue. If it weren't for the chill in the air, it would have been a perfect day to sprawl out. I had a need to get a little ways away from the city, away from the urban scene and reconnect with nature. I hopped in my car and headed west, looking for a trail that sounded like it would be a serve my needs--long enough to be worth a good drive, but not so challenging it took all the fun out of it.
I had the directions. I was even sure to write out every single step, mileage and all. And, you are probably wondering why 1) I wrote it out instead of printing it and 2) why I have not invested in GPS. My home printer is old and decrepit. It takes less time to transcribe seemingly simple things like directions. I have not purchased a GPS because...I have no real reason except that I figure that my handwritten directions will suffice, despite having proven wrong far more often than not. Like I was today. In all fairness, though, if I had GPS, I would not have passed the wild turkeys or the soaring hawks. I would have missed the simple beauty of sunlight over a rolling prairie. I would not have been reminded what 'fun' it is to drive on unpaved roads. And, I may have ended up at my destination a few minutes earlier. Still, I found where I needed to be, and really that is all that matters, right?
If my navigation skills while driving are bad, they are even worse when hiking. I had read about the hike I was about to do (a simple 4.25 mile loop), and I felt confident that all I had to do was follow the blue blazes, and I would be okay. And for the first half, it worked. While a few times it seemed like I had lost the path (and there were no blazes until a good third of the way), I always managed to pick it up again, following it through grasslands to the trees and down to the lake. The path along the lake was by far the best part of the hike, and the few moments I spent listening to the water lap the shoreline provided some calm to my otherwise busy mind. (Perhaps this distracted mental state is related to my ability to get lost.) And really, the first part of the hike wasn't where I got really lost. I quickly found myself at the other side of the trailhead, the loop completed in far less time than I had anticipated. (I figured about 50 minutes...I walk fast, but not that fast, especially on uneven ground.) So, being the intrepid adventurer I am (read idiot), I decided to retrace my steps and see if I had missed part of the trail somehow.
I am still not sure if I missed part of the trail. I have no clue, really, if I was ever on it after the first fifteen minutes back in. I thought I did a good job retracing my steps until I reached a fork in the road I didn't remember. Of course, I chose the wrong path. I think no matter what I had decided, it would have still have been the wrong path. But, because this was an adventure, or at least an attempt to recapture the spirit of past adventures, I kept on. My mind occasionally drifted to the most negative outcome possible, but thank goodness my rational self is good at curbing my imagination. What I couldn't quell, though, was my growing frustration. How many times would I allow myself to get into this kind of mess? While this situation was not at all dangerous (I had a ton of energy still, and I knew I could backtrack yet again if I had to), there is no guarantee that the next time I do something like this, it would be safe. At least when I was with friends, there was the comfort of their presence and I knew if I were hurt, someone else would be right there to help. As it turned out, I was able to find the right path, a fact confirmed by locating my own footprints. One benefit of a muddy path, I guess. As I got into my car (after having knocked off as much mud from my car and taking off my sodden shoes), I realized that yet again I was lucky. That what makes my getting lost such an art is my ability to finally get unlost. I have always found my way back, from bogs and fields, mountains and forests. But for how long? Perhaps it is time to be a bit more careful...
This isn't to say that I will give up solo hikes altogether. I will, however, be far more mindful of the paths I choose--those that are well-defined and well-traveled. I am getting to that stage in my life where it is finally sinking in that I am not invincible. Took me long enough to realize this, yes? Yet, a part of me finds it hard to let go because while hindsight reveals to me how every situation could have gone horribly wrong, the experiences remain some of the most memorable, the ones I think back on and smile. I don't want to give up any of those yet to happen...I guess it is finding that balance of spontaneity and planning to allow for chance to guide the path, but not to be caught of guard? Who knows. All I know is that I made it out yet again unscathed, and I drove off with a smile on my face.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Memorial
Today marks the third anniversary of my grandfather’s death. Three years seems like an eternity ago, and even though I never thought it possible at the time, my life has adjusted to his absence. It didn’t seem to take very long for my grandma and me to settle into a quiet, comfortable routine without him. It has been a while since I have looked for him sitting in the living room chair, blanket covering his knees, television blaring in the background. Very rarely do I wake in the middle of the night to track any movement in the hallway, confirming that the trek from the bathroom back to the bedroom was completed successfully and without incident. Eight p.m. no longer has the same significance as I have no one to prepare a bowl of spumoni ice cream (with a dash of brandy to enhance the flavor) for. So much of my life in Kansas City was spent helping care for him, watching out, listening, that with him gone, I felt adrift. When he was around, I had a purpose, one that I embraced and enjoyed. Without him, there was a void, one that I haven’t quite figured out how to fill.
My grandfather was a good man, dedicated to family, country, and his faith. He wasn’t perfect by any means—he had quite the temper, was stubborn beyond belief, and could be unforgiving. He was even a bit of a scoundrel in his youth, running booze across state lines, lying about his age to enlist in the National Guard, and who knows what else. But, even with his shortcomings, he was an amazing person.
Although born in Omaha, he was a Kansas Citian through and through. Kansas City was the place that would always be home no matter how far he traveled, whether it be out on the Pacific during WWII or following jobs in St. Louis or Atlanta. He went to school here, attended college as well. He met my grandmother here and started his family here. Drive down any street in Kansas City, and he would have a story to share. He knew the gangsters, the elite, the who’s who of Kansas City. In turn, people here knew his name, respected him. I wish I had paid more attention to his stories at the time instead of dismissing them as the ramblings of a nostalgic old man. But, it is always easier to think that in hindsight…
My grandpa was always a proud man. He rarely complained, and he did everything in his power not to feel like a burden to his family. He never was. Even as his health began to fail and his body weaken, his spirit remained strong. Parkinson’s robbed him of so much, but never his mind. When he could barely read, he would pull out his magnifying glass to read the newspaper, keeping on top of the world around him. When he could no longer even do that, he would have either my grandma or me read to him, books about Kansas City that reminded him of his past, and he would add his own commentary where the author had omitted pertinent information. And if he were in a mischievous mood, watch out. He could make a snowball or a water gun materialize out of nowhere, hit you with it, and make it disappear. The only evidence that anything had even happened, besides the tell-tale wet spot on your clothing, would be the faux innocent look on his face doing a poor attempt to hide his amusement.
For a man so independent, it could not have been easy to accept the help of his wife, children, and grandchildren as he did. It was hard to make him hand over the car keys, harder still to ask him not to make minor repairs around the house. He did so with little fuss, but it felt like in asking, we were asking he give up a part of himself. To compensate, we did what we could to make sure he never wanted for anything. I took him and grandma to Mass every morning. We arranged for trips to the store, asked him for advice, anything everything to make sure he felt included and important, as he still very much was. Some days, it was just enough to have someone to sit next to him, not saying a word but just being there.
I do not know if I will ever quite grasp how fortunate I was to spend so much time with him. I just know that I was one of the lucky ones to share in his life. I got to witness his humor, his kindness, and his love. I still think that his relationship with my grandma is one of the sweetest I have ever seen, and if I find something even half as good as what they had, I’ll be lucky. And although he was never one to say it, he was extremely proud of all his children, all of whom shared his good heart and generous nature. When he did finally pass away, he did so realizing that he was leaving things in good hands. I sometimes think that was one of the reasons he fought for so long…he just wanted to make sure everyone he loved was going to be okay. He wanted to be sure my grandma would be taken care of, and his children would support each other in even the most challenging times.
Learning to live without someone you love doesn’t mean you have forgotten. But, I still struggle with find the best way to remember my grandpa. I guess it will be in the stories I tell for the years to come. It will be in how I continue to watch out over my grandma, to make sure that even when she is lonely or missing him, that she knows she is not alone. And, it is in living my life in a way that would make him proud, to ensure that what I do ensures that the name Hayes remains synonymous with character, strong morals, and, of course, good humor.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Big Ideas
Recently, I finished a book that, while assuming the guise of a more articulate/literary version of chick lit, posed some questions about how we view and conduct our lives. Perhaps the most profound observation was about how we (as humans) attempt to fit the story of our lives into a traditional narrative structure—where every major event seems to have a distinct beginning, middle, and end. There is the exposition, the obstacle, and the resolution, all of which are only truly visible in hindsight. Everything happens to move the plot along, no matter how small that action happens to be. We each should be the heroes of our own stories, and each story should have some greater impact on the surrounding world if it is to be one at all worthwhile.
But, does life ever really fit into such a neat, tidy construction? Not really. Indeed, much of what we do is meaningless, at least in the sense of contributing to some universal narrative If life were like a novel, my choice to drive to work via Main Street versus Gillham would have a huge impact on not only the rest of my day but my entire life and potentially, the lives of others (I would show up to work late, have to park in a space far, far from the building, further delaying me from reaching my desk on time, which would mean I miss an important phone call from my manager, etc.). In real life, all of these things may still happen, but there would not be some ulterior reason, no grand cosmic scheme that drove these events. It wouldn’t be the day that my life changed for a grander purpose. It would just be a day that happened to be awful.
Life cannot really be narrowed down to such a fine point. It is far too complicated, far too messy for that. Yet, try as we might to avoid such a conceit, we still have a tendency to see our lives as one big adventure. Or, as I shouldn’t speak for everyone else, I know that I do. Why do I do it? It gives me a sense of purpose. It makes me feel like there is order in the world. Random events make me nervous because I want to understand…indeed there is a need to understand. I don’t like mystery, I don’t like uncertainty. I unconsciously seek out patterns and connections, and maybe, I tend to create connections that really are not there. I want to believe that some of my more irrational choices were not so irrational, that I knew one decision would change the entire course of my life.
I like the idea of being a hero. It is far more exciting to think in those terms than it is to recognize yourself as simply another cog in the corporate wheel. Maybe that is why I tend to seek out different experiences, like traveling to Kazakhstan or hiking in Croatia. It isn’t only because I want to see these places for myself, but also because I am writing my own story in a way to make it more exciting, more intriguing for some invisible audience. So, in a sense, in buying into the whole idea that life is one great novel (or movie if you prefer to think in those terms), I make major life decisions based on audience appeal. If I am bored with my life, then certainly my invisible audience is, too, and that requires a major shake up. I need to change just for changes sake, not necessarily because things are not working as they are. Hmm…
Most likely, I have given this idea way too much thought. I tend to do that with ideas that intrigue me. And, the longer I think about an idea, the more muddled and tangential my musings on it become, as has happened with this piece. Still, it cannot hurt to ponder some of these things. Granted, it isn’t going to change how I live my life, but it does help me keep my mind fresh. I think mulling over ideas isn’t so much about giving credence to them or rejecting them outright…it is more to keep our mind alive and open to possibilities. It helps remind us that the world is infinitely more fascinating and complex than we will ever be able to fathom. Or it means absolutely nothing, and it would be better for all if I leave this kind of thinking to those far more intellectual…
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
The Stars At Night...
I had forgotten just how beautiful a clear, cool night in Texas can be. Away from the city lights, the stars and moon illuminate the earth below, and memories of evenings spent staring up at the sky, time spent searching for some peace of mind, come flooding back. I have been wanting to see the stars...really see them...for some time now. For some reason, I find comfort in seeing the vastness of the universe spread out before me.
It reminds me of my own insignificance and all my problems (not at all as bad as it sounds...a little perspective sometimes is a good thing). It speaks of places yet unseen. And, it makes me marvel at just how impressive the world we live in truly is.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Homeward Bound
I am headed home tomorrow. It sounds strange to say it that way considering I haven't lived at 'home' for over five years. Still, when everyone asked me what I was doing for Christmas, the words came naturally--"I'm going home." At first, I said this with hesitance, perhaps even a bit of dismay. Here I had a perfectly good week of vacation time where I could go anywhere, do anything, and I was heading to the small town of Marion, just outside of San Antonio, Texas, revisiting a past that, if I remember correctly, I was more than eager to leave behind.
As the weeks drew closer and life seemed to be getting more confused and hectic, the sound of home wasn't so bad. My parents are in Texas. My grandpa is in Texas. One of my best friends is in Texas. So is my sister. They alone are worth the trip, right? Quite simply, yes. Because even if I were able to embark on a fantastic trip in some far off land, I would be missing out on time with them, something far more valuable to me than even the greatest trip I could imagine.
Home is complicated for me, which is one of the reasons for my initial hesitance. I have many fond memories of Christmases past, and I have some Christmases I wish I could obliterate from my memory altogether (those were the ones that resulted in yelling, tears, and so much anger). But for the most part, I look back with a great deal of nostalgia.
The festivities always began Christmas Eve, where it was off to church for the Children's Mass (when I was younger, I would be a part of the pageant. As I got older, I acted as a sort of assistant music director). I still go to this Mass, and I still love singing "Silent Night" during communion and belting out "Joy to the World" at the end. After Mass, we would head over to my grandparents and open gifts from them and have dinner. For awhile, we would get things like dolls or tea sets from my grandma. During Christmas, my grandpa was given an allowance, and he would go out and buy jewelry he thought we would like. I still have a lot of that jewelry, many of it still in their original boxes. (He meant well, but his taste is eclectic.) After the gifts had been opened, we would head home and open one gift under the tree, usually the gift from my grandparents here in KC. Then off to bed so Santa could come. We would leave cookies and milk and a few carrots (you cannot forget the reindeer!).
Christmas morning for the first several years was the four of us. Now, it is just me, my mom, and my dad. And while I would be lying if I said the presents weren't important, it was more the small rituals we had on Christmas morning that made a difference. My sister and I would wake up early, but we never bothered waking my parents right away. We would usually take a look in our stockings and asses the presents around the tree, then watch television quietly until a decent hour arrived. My dad would usually be the first up, and he would make up a batch of scrambled eggs (a welcome change to the cereal we were used to). By the time they were ready, my mom would be up, and with painstaking slowness, we would eat. Then it would be time to open our gifts, where inevitably there was some genuine excitement mixed in with the feigned appreciation.
Often, depending on the gifts, my sister and I would change and head outside. (Something I never truly appreciated about Christmas in Texas--more often than not, you did not have to worry about weather getting in your way of enjoying your new toys.) Usually, it was the toys that elicited the most excitement that would be most quickly cast aside, and the present initially overlooked that would bring lasting entertainment. My sister and I often got joint gifts, which meant I spent a good amount of time watching my sister play with it. And yet, I never minded. It was fun, it was exciting, and it was family.
Eventually, we would wander up to my grandparents' place and enjoy Christmas dinner. I cannot recall any of the foods really beyond the sugar cookies that my grandmother, sister, and I (and sometimes my mom) had rolled out and decorated a few days before. They were always in this large plastic Santa cookie jar, that looking back was kind of strange looking. But then again, my Grandma Tanner had a lot of strange Santa things in her house (she collected them), so perhaps I shouldn't be surprised. While the adults talked and my sister did her own thing, I would often sneak away to the den, where laid out on the coffee table was the Christmas village.
Made up of houses of all different shapes and sizes, the village was something I enjoyed setting up each year, and when I could, I would make up stories for its residents. Perhaps the strangest thing about the village, though, was the HUGE nativity scene at the end. The manger itself was huge, at least twice as tall as even the biggest house. Mary and Joseph and all the rest were giants, looming over the houses. The wisemen had a few scrapes and bruises (one had an unfortunate accident that deprived him of a hand), and the animals looked a little more worse for wear. Let's just say that triggered the more imaginative (and perhaps blasphemous/irreverent) part of my brain, and it would be safe to say there was never quite another village like that one. And although we have a Christmas village here, it is nothing like the one from Texas. One of the many things I cannot recreate.
After dinner, and after we had exhausted our interest in our new toys, the day would wind down, and we would all settle in to watch either tv or movies. There was never a particular movie...we didn't always watch "It's A Wonderful Life" or "National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation" or anything. What I do remember is hot chocolate and British comedies. Not sure why that is...
Christmas at home isn't quite like the Christmas of my childhood. Sadly, my Grandma Tanner isn't around to share it with--I haven't made those sugar cookies in years. My sister isn't really around to share my gifts with, and she certainly isn't there to take them away from me so "we" could use them together. After being harangued by my mom for a few years, Grandpa now gives money instead. I kind of miss the jewelry, to be honest. We still do the hot chocolate and tv/movie thing. A few years back, my father stumbled upon this strange old movie with Rupert the Squirrel and Jimmy Durante, and we watch that together instead of British comedies. My dad still makes sure to hang the Christmas lights, particularly the star that has been in his family for years. And most years, we have a tree. We may never had a conventional Christmas, but I cannot imagine how they could have been any better.
Writing this reflection helped me realize something. I am fortunate in so many ways. I am grateful to have such fond memories, I am fortunate to have a place to go, a place I WANT to go. And I know that not everyone out there has this opportunity, and for those of you out there, know that I wish you and your loved ones all the best. For those who can be with family, enjoy them. Have fun. Try to overlook the things that make you most frustrated and focus on the good stuff. Wherever you are, whatever you do, may this holiday season be a good one for you, and may you always find a place you can call home.
As the weeks drew closer and life seemed to be getting more confused and hectic, the sound of home wasn't so bad. My parents are in Texas. My grandpa is in Texas. One of my best friends is in Texas. So is my sister. They alone are worth the trip, right? Quite simply, yes. Because even if I were able to embark on a fantastic trip in some far off land, I would be missing out on time with them, something far more valuable to me than even the greatest trip I could imagine.
Home is complicated for me, which is one of the reasons for my initial hesitance. I have many fond memories of Christmases past, and I have some Christmases I wish I could obliterate from my memory altogether (those were the ones that resulted in yelling, tears, and so much anger). But for the most part, I look back with a great deal of nostalgia.
The festivities always began Christmas Eve, where it was off to church for the Children's Mass (when I was younger, I would be a part of the pageant. As I got older, I acted as a sort of assistant music director). I still go to this Mass, and I still love singing "Silent Night" during communion and belting out "Joy to the World" at the end. After Mass, we would head over to my grandparents and open gifts from them and have dinner. For awhile, we would get things like dolls or tea sets from my grandma. During Christmas, my grandpa was given an allowance, and he would go out and buy jewelry he thought we would like. I still have a lot of that jewelry, many of it still in their original boxes. (He meant well, but his taste is eclectic.) After the gifts had been opened, we would head home and open one gift under the tree, usually the gift from my grandparents here in KC. Then off to bed so Santa could come. We would leave cookies and milk and a few carrots (you cannot forget the reindeer!).
Christmas morning for the first several years was the four of us. Now, it is just me, my mom, and my dad. And while I would be lying if I said the presents weren't important, it was more the small rituals we had on Christmas morning that made a difference. My sister and I would wake up early, but we never bothered waking my parents right away. We would usually take a look in our stockings and asses the presents around the tree, then watch television quietly until a decent hour arrived. My dad would usually be the first up, and he would make up a batch of scrambled eggs (a welcome change to the cereal we were used to). By the time they were ready, my mom would be up, and with painstaking slowness, we would eat. Then it would be time to open our gifts, where inevitably there was some genuine excitement mixed in with the feigned appreciation.
Often, depending on the gifts, my sister and I would change and head outside. (Something I never truly appreciated about Christmas in Texas--more often than not, you did not have to worry about weather getting in your way of enjoying your new toys.) Usually, it was the toys that elicited the most excitement that would be most quickly cast aside, and the present initially overlooked that would bring lasting entertainment. My sister and I often got joint gifts, which meant I spent a good amount of time watching my sister play with it. And yet, I never minded. It was fun, it was exciting, and it was family.
Eventually, we would wander up to my grandparents' place and enjoy Christmas dinner. I cannot recall any of the foods really beyond the sugar cookies that my grandmother, sister, and I (and sometimes my mom) had rolled out and decorated a few days before. They were always in this large plastic Santa cookie jar, that looking back was kind of strange looking. But then again, my Grandma Tanner had a lot of strange Santa things in her house (she collected them), so perhaps I shouldn't be surprised. While the adults talked and my sister did her own thing, I would often sneak away to the den, where laid out on the coffee table was the Christmas village.
Made up of houses of all different shapes and sizes, the village was something I enjoyed setting up each year, and when I could, I would make up stories for its residents. Perhaps the strangest thing about the village, though, was the HUGE nativity scene at the end. The manger itself was huge, at least twice as tall as even the biggest house. Mary and Joseph and all the rest were giants, looming over the houses. The wisemen had a few scrapes and bruises (one had an unfortunate accident that deprived him of a hand), and the animals looked a little more worse for wear. Let's just say that triggered the more imaginative (and perhaps blasphemous/irreverent) part of my brain, and it would be safe to say there was never quite another village like that one. And although we have a Christmas village here, it is nothing like the one from Texas. One of the many things I cannot recreate.
After dinner, and after we had exhausted our interest in our new toys, the day would wind down, and we would all settle in to watch either tv or movies. There was never a particular movie...we didn't always watch "It's A Wonderful Life" or "National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation" or anything. What I do remember is hot chocolate and British comedies. Not sure why that is...
Christmas at home isn't quite like the Christmas of my childhood. Sadly, my Grandma Tanner isn't around to share it with--I haven't made those sugar cookies in years. My sister isn't really around to share my gifts with, and she certainly isn't there to take them away from me so "we" could use them together. After being harangued by my mom for a few years, Grandpa now gives money instead. I kind of miss the jewelry, to be honest. We still do the hot chocolate and tv/movie thing. A few years back, my father stumbled upon this strange old movie with Rupert the Squirrel and Jimmy Durante, and we watch that together instead of British comedies. My dad still makes sure to hang the Christmas lights, particularly the star that has been in his family for years. And most years, we have a tree. We may never had a conventional Christmas, but I cannot imagine how they could have been any better.
Writing this reflection helped me realize something. I am fortunate in so many ways. I am grateful to have such fond memories, I am fortunate to have a place to go, a place I WANT to go. And I know that not everyone out there has this opportunity, and for those of you out there, know that I wish you and your loved ones all the best. For those who can be with family, enjoy them. Have fun. Try to overlook the things that make you most frustrated and focus on the good stuff. Wherever you are, whatever you do, may this holiday season be a good one for you, and may you always find a place you can call home.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Something to Smile About
Tonight, I had the most unexpected conversation, and I am still smiling about it. One of my favorite students from my year of teaching messaged me on Facebook, and it was amazing to hear from him for several reasons. First, I never really expected any of my students to reach out to me, particularly since it has been seven years since I taught them. But more importantly than that, I was so very happy to hear that this particular student is only one semester away from graduating from college with a B.A. in Music with plans to pursue an master's in library science soon.
So, I am not really sure how much I have ever shared about my time at St. Greg's, but a bit of background will help to explain why I find this so exciting. St. Greg's served a special purpose, providing students who had fallen through the cracks a chance at receiving an education that might prepare them for a future after high school. As harsh as it may sound, it was apparent college was not an option for the majority of the students, and even our best students faced a long road to getting into college and finishing a degree.
During my brief stint there, I did my best to teach English to freshman, sophomores, and juniors without inflicting any permanent damage to their language skills. (To all you teachers out there, I have no idea how you do it. You are amazing!) This particular student was probably the hardest working of all of them, and it showed as he was always one of my top-performing sophomores. His writing was always thoughtful, his contributions to the class always productive. He never missed turning in an assignment, and he never complained. Really, he was a dream student. And while you may think he sounds like a teacher's pet and that he would elicit the ridicule of others, that wasn't really the case. Something about him was so earnest, so honest, that even his peers recognized it. Perhaps it was because his dedication to all things carried through onto the basketball court, where he may not have been the star athlete but was always the one everyone could cheer for. I still remember one game where he was called out to play, and he managed not to make just one basket, but several. Those of us in the stands were on our feet celebrating with him, and his teammates were right there along with us cheering their hearts out. Like all of my students, he was someone special, and to hear what he has accomplished since then is so exciting.
When we were training for our year of volunteer service, one thing that was drummed into our heads is that in we were planting seeds. It could take years before what we did would ever take root, and even then, the likelihood that we would see it was minimal. Especially being fresh out of college, I was, naively, expecting more immediate results. I quickly learned to scale my expectations back significantly, and in recent years, I hadn't even really thought I would hear from any of my students again. I was content with having done what I could, knowing that I did the best I could.
So, yeah, that flashing bar telling me I had a message on Facebook made my night. It transported me back to that time where I learned so much more than I ever taught. Gosh...my time at St. Greg's really deserves a lot more than a single blog post because it was such a amazing, complex, wonderful experience, where I met some of the most dedicated educators I have known and some of the sweetest, most charming students ever, but there is SO much to share, I never know where to begin. I am so grateful that this student gave me a way to share something about my time there, and I hope that his success is representative of several of my students. He mentioned that one of his classmates (and another one of my sophomores) is studying exercise science at the same university, which is another piece of good news. Now, my curiosity is piqued...I wonder what some of my other students are doing now.
Have you ever had an unexpected conversation like this, one that leaves you happy for the person you just talked with?
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Is It the Weekend Yet?
The one drawback of taking a whirlwind weekend trip where you get little if any sleep is that it eventually catches up with you. It seemed to hit me full-force today. At least that is going to be my excuse for being a little less rational and far more emotional today. If I were to admit that all the stressers at work were finally wearing my defenses down and I was succumbing to all the angers, frustrations, and fears I have been sublimating...well, that would be a sign of weakness, right? And, dang it, I am not weak!
I noticed that I was pretty close to the brink today as I found myself blinking back tears as I made what had to be the fifth Excel spreadsheet to request certain updates for the website, trying to think how poorly I must have communicated the changes the first four times that a fifth request was needed. I realized also that while this particular request would take care of one section of the content on our website, several other areas may have the same errors, so I would have to verify that those, too, hadn't been incorrectly updated. It wasn't as bad as I had feared, but there was a need to create spreadsheet number six.
I apologize if the paragraph above doesn't make a whole lot of sense. To be honest, it makes little sense to me. The way in which I do my job should be much simpler. I am not sure if I am the one who has made it as complicated as it is by 1) not asserting my boundaries or my abilities more clearly or by 2) not having the creativity or insight to think of a better process with the technology/tools we have available. And while I would like to believe that up until this point, I have managed pretty well in my job, I doubt even that. With every update I request, I feel like my grasp on things is slipping. If I were doing my job well, I would be contributing to a positive consumer experience. Instead, I feel like all I do is add noise to the site.
I occasionally voice some of my frustrations to my very patient and understanding co-workers, but I am not sure I do not convey just how insane this makes me. There are some days I cannot look at the website because I know that the second I lay eyes on it, I will immediately find three things I have done wrong. Seriously, at the end of a day like today, I am convinced that it would be better for everyone if I walked away, leaving it all behind, maybe taking my around-the-world trip I have been dreaming about for so long...or at least finding a job that I wouldn't screw up so badly.
Am I really as incompetent as I feel today? If I were fair to myself, I would say no. Indeed, I would say that on a good day, I do my job well. My greatest frustration comes from the fact that in NOT doing my job well, I feel as if I am not holding up my part of the business. I am not providing the support to my co-workers that they deserve--this year in particular has been stressful, and despite challenges outside of our control, they have created some amazing product. The last thing I want is to do something that would prevent the consumer from seeing their efforts, and in turn, prevent making that sale. I don't want to contribute to an already stressful situation with my incompetence.
Will tomorrow be as rough as today? Probably not. I will come in, foolish optimism renewed, thinking that this time, everything will fall into place, and that maybe, just maybe, this time we will all be able to effect some kind of change. Because if I stop trying, then I really will be letting my co-workers down. In truth, we all just need a break. It feels like we have been running on near empty for so long now, that soon we will just stall altogether. (Know that this is probably my projecting onto others...I have never asked them directly how they feel nor do I pretend to speak for them on this. It is just my impression of department morale.)
Of course, maybe all we need will be the between Christmas and New Years. A little over a week, and we all will have a nice, long break from it all, time to spend with family and friends, doing whatever we please. I'll be in Texas, visiting my parents and grandpa, and also seeing a good friend from high school. That should be a huge help. Until then, I will just count down until tomorrow evening so I can have just two days :)
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Good Times
I think most people have a friend in their lives who, no matter what, can make life a lot of fun. She is the friend that helps you forget all your crazy hangups, who encourages you to lower your inhibitions, and who always manages to make even the most mundane things memorable. This weekend, I headed north to Minnesota to visit her (and to celebrate her 30th birthday), and I have had more fun than I have had in ages.
Carrie and I first met during freshman orientation in college. We were in the same freshmen seminar, and while I don't remember all the details about our first real conversation, I swear it had something to do with getting lost in one of the university buildings and trying to navigate our way out. While not the most auspicious way to meet (FYI: getting lost in random places would become a recurring issue for us), it didn't prevent us from becoming good friends. Carrie has the kindest heart, the biggest smile, and the most fun-loving spirit of just about anyone I know. (You can also include smart, talented, funny...) And, most amazing of all, Carrie is one of the few people in this world who can convince me to do crazy things. Nothing dangerous or stupid mind you (well, most of the time), but things that I would never, ever do on my own--dance in public, sing out loud in random places, go to a frat party (okay, this only happened once in college and never again).
This weekend was no exception. At her party, I didn't stand to the sidelines, an idle observer. Instead, I jumped in, playing all sorts of Kinect games (I am fairly good at ping-pong, fall flat on my back when trying to long jump, and am absolute rubbish at volleyball). I think we probably provided the most amusement when Carrie and I played one of the dancing games. Well, Carrie was good at it. I did my best to follow the moves, but that usually meant being about two steps behind and moving as if my muscles were permanently tensed. Still, instead of giving up after the first song, I kept at it, forgetting how absolutely ridiculous I must look and just had fun. After she beat me soundly in our little dance-off, we each grabbed a beer and headed upstairs to chat a while about old times.
As we sat there just talking, I wondered why we didn't make more time for this kind of thing more often. And while I had first dismissed the idea of even coming--I mean, it is a six hour drive north and heaven forbid I ever do anything to change my routine--I couldn't believe I had ever considered not being there. We are all so busy in our lives that we forget to take that time to nurture our relationships. Life gets in the way, it is inevitable. But sometimes, our priorities get so skewed in the process that we forget that we won't starve if we put of getting groceries for one more day or that the world will not fall apart if you bow out of other obligations every once in a while. It is a hard habit to break, but doing so can be so very liberating. Carrie has always been the best at reminding me of this, which made it all the harder to leave this morning. I am not only leaving her behind, but it was like I was waving good-bye to the part of myself, the part of myself so few people have a chance to see but I suspect many people would like (probably far better than the part of me that I usually show to everyone else).
Is it possible not only to miss someone but also the person you are when you are with them? Perhaps it is a sign of great dependency, but I often find this to be the truth in regard to how I relate to my best friends...but perhaps that is best left to explore at a later time.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
So Many Reasons
Even as a person more prone to seeing the glass half-empty, I cannot deny that in my life I have been so very fortunate, that on even a bad day, I have so much more going for me than I can even begin to fathom. Beyond the basic necessities (food, clean water, shelter, clothing, etc.), I have so much more than I deserve.
Top on my list is a loving, supporting family. Throughout my life, I have never doubted that my parents were my biggest supporters. While we have encountered some challenging times (and quite frankly, still do), without their trust, encouragement, and guidance, I would not be where I am today. They challenged me to do my best, they allowed me to follow my own path. The taught me the importance of honesty, integrity, and compassion; hard-work, dedication, loyalty. Because of this, I feel free to take trips to places like Kazakhstan. I dare to dream of a life that doesn't fit into any mold. I know that love is the greatest gift we can share. I know that I will always have a place that I can call home.
Now, I have to give credit to a few other members of my family...actually, quite a few. I look back on my childhood and realize that I didn't just have my parents looking after me, but a whole slew of aunts and uncles (even great-aunts and great-uncles), not to mention both sets of my grandparents. We are a weird bunch, one that I often question how it is even possible that we function in the real world, or how we work together for that matter. But, we do. As the majority of us were gathered around the table (sadly, my parents were unable to join us) enjoying a delicious feast prepared by many capable hands, there was no complaining, no whining. No one jockeying for the last bits of dressing or criticizing the quality of the gravy (not that it was in need of criticism). I am so fortunate that the rifts in our family our so few, and I pray that at some point everyone experiences the same sense of love and belonging. To belong to a family with so many whom I would love and respect even if they were not my relatives is rare. For them to treat me as a friend as well is my great fortune.
I have to give a special shout out to my grandmother, the one with whom I still live, and my grandfather down in Texas. My dad's mom has the best humor and luckily doesn't take herself too seriously...I think it has allowed her to survive her five sons AND the abuse she receives from her granddaughter. (Considering how many of my co-workers think she spends her days plotting her next liquor store robber, perhaps I am the worst offender)
As for my grandpa in Texas--while I may dream of some fairly ambitious things, he encourages me to take it one step further. Whether he is encouraging me to buy a motorcycle to drive cross-country or to make my way down the Mississippi on a small raft (he promised me he would pay bail any time I was arrested for stealing chickens), my grandpa has always believed I could do anything I wanted...even rule the world..with a little hard work and dedication...and if I became an accountant.
Without my family, I would have never learned what it means to be a friend. And without my friends, I would lead a boring, miserable life. I have such a diverse group of friends that I cannot even begin to describe how each one adds color to my life. I can say this though about each and every person I call my friend. They are intelligent, compassionate, witty, and fun. They all possess beautiful souls and are so incredibly generous and humble. They all in some way help me to be a better version of myself, challenging me to stretch and grow. I often think I take far more than I could ever give, and even in this, they seem not to mind. It gets harder to maintain friendships as you get older, and I admit that some of the people about whom I cared greatly are disappearing into the background. That doesn't lessen my gratitude for them because even those who are a part of my past have given me so much to help me create my future.
I am thankful for my job. As frustrating and challenging (and occasionally monotonous) as it can be, it is still a company that recognizes the importance of its employees. It recognizes the value of its consumers. It gives generously to local non-profits, promoting education, the arts, the food pantry, and so much more. Even better, I get to work with some of the most creative minds in America. Daily, I am astounded by the genius that surrounds me, particularly my little group of co-workers in our department who never fail to make smile. Goodness knows what it is like to go to work with people you don't care about on a day-to-day basis. I am not sure if I could do that for very long...
And I could go on for so very long with the remaining things I am thankful for, but I will try to make the last few things quick:
- Health
- Financial Stability
- Books (particularly mysteries that keep me up way past my bedtime)
- Libraries
- Bread and Cheese
- The ability to travel just about anywhere I want
- Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens (not particularly, but just checking to see if you were paying attention still)
- Wales and all the amazing people with whom I studied while over there (Dw i eisiau mynd i Gymru!)
- Laughter
- My stuffed rabbit
- So many wonderful memories
Okay...that is it. I have run out of steam on this. And I know that this entire post has been one big cliche, I don't care. Because, the truth is I want people to know this. I want my friends to know how much they mean to me. I want my family to know that I recognize just how crucial their love and support has been. And I want the world to see that I am only who I am, at least the very best of who I am, because I have been so very fortunate.
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