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…

One Rabbit's Journey

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

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

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

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

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

One Wild Night

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

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

Vanishing Acts

As many of you know, I walk. A lot. And it was during one of these regular perambulations at lunch today that I began to wonder, "What if I kept walking and never looked back?" I didn't have much on me outside of my Hallmark badge and my mp3 player, so at the time I wouldn't have gotten very far. 

But the idea kept tickling the back of my brain as I wandered around. What if I had had my car keys with me, my wallet?  What would it have been like to hop in my car, no explanation given, and just drive wherever the road led me? This is not the first time, and I am guessing not the last time, such thoughts have crept into my mind unbidden. I admit that there is nothing in my life that would require me to disappear, and for the most part, I would never want to. Still, I find the idea of leaving this old life behind completely, divesting myself of all baggage, good and bad, to start new alluring. No longer be Wendy, but choose for myself a new name, a new persona, a new everything. 

In my mind, I was working out how best not to leave a trace, the ridiculous knowledge from watching too many police shows clouding my mind with a Hollywood-type plan.  I would have to ditch the cell phone, the credit cards, find a way to create a new identity with all proper documentation. No longer could I rely on credentials obtained as my former self...hard work and charm would be the only way to secure a job in this fictional new life. I would have to change my behaviors perhaps even my appearance. (However, it seems to be I have that look about me where people assume I am someone they know. It can be annoying after awhile...I know I am not alone, but I feel a bit like I have been blessed/cursed with a face that blends in seamlessly into most cities, a face so...undistinguished  I could be any woman.) Crazy. A lot of work. Wholly unnecessary. Strangely, exciting.

After thinking about all the things that I would have to do, I began to wonder about those left behind. And that is where I began to realize how truly perverse the idea was. While it might seem exciting to plan, I couldn't live knowing about the worry I create for my parents and other family members. There would be challenges I would leave behind at work, gaps in things that I participate in regularly. Even if I were to somehow communicate my well-being to my parents, the "Why" would haunt them forever, I think. In novels, when a character purposely disappears, she may send loved ones an occasional postcard, never from where they currently are mind you, as reassurance that if nothing else, they are alive. But does that add more anguish to those behind?

Why was I thinking all this on a beautiful spring day? I am not sure. I could put it down to the fact that when I walk, I think, a lot. Mainly about me (because I am quite the narcissist in this way). Much of my life has been a struggle of me as I am with me as I want to be. In many ways, a clean slate would be far easier way to approach the world anew than taking who I am now and shaping it into who I know I can be. While my family and friends have always been nothing but supportive and understanding, they have only known me to be the reliable one, the responsible one. I am predictable. I am quiet and reserved. Shy to a fault. It is tiresome to be this all the time, but it is hard to act in a way out of character without fearing for a reaction from others. Instead of hearing questions or criticisms if I veer off my traditional path, it seems as if it would be far easier just to leave it all behind. As I am more and more seriously considering doing just this, it comes top of mind far more often. (This being "veering off my traditional path," not disappearing into thin air!)

I know I am not alone in my thoughts, but in many ways that isn't necessarily reassuring. It seems like a fun idea at first...exciting to try on a whole new persona...but what you leave behind still follows you, and really, your essential self remains the same. Or so I have learned. Perhaps this is why fiction exists. To give its authors a chance to adopt multiple personae and recreate these scenarios without ever having to drive on down the highway, catch that train to nowhere, or hop on that bus to the airport. Something for me to think about, I guess.

Have you ever felt 'this close' to running away from it all? What is the closest you have ever gotten? And, perhaps, would you say there are times it would be wholly justified?

(P.S. As I read the above questions, I had this weird feeling as if I am a teacher asking her class for personal reflections. Oops! Not at all intentional, I promise!)

A Beginning

I used to write all the time. Not just meaningless blog posts that a few of my friends kindly read, but actually stories that I had hoped one day would turn into something more. It isn't so much that I lack ideas--even now, I snippets of stories pop into my head randomly, playing on the edges of my mind begging to be captured and given life. It is that I lack the discipline to see the stories through by discovering the context in which these snippets should be housed.  A scene from the story may be powerful, but without the supporting narrative, it leaves the reader wanting. I am not an established enough writer to do this, and I probably never will be. 

However, in line with the purpose of this blog, I am challenging myself to revisit some of my past works to move them along to a more completed state. Today, I post the beginning of the last story I wrote. It is about four years old (my writers block has been a heavy presence for far too long), and it has a long way to go before it should really be posted, but it is a beginning.  Please forgive some of the hackneyed expressions and overuse of cliche :)

She would not admit that she was lost, maintaining that one could not be lost if she did not have a destination in the first place.  She walked anxiously down the unfamiliar street, looking for places to duck into for shelter in case the threatening gray sky actually opened up with the chilled rain forecast for the afternoon.  Nothing appeared promising. Mist fell from the sky.  Turning up the collar of her thin coat, she walked on. She began to shiver.

Her mind wandered from finding a particular destination to just looking for somewhere to wait out the rain.  The bus would come at 5:00, but it was only 3:00.  She was not ready to head back to the hotel anyway.  She was out wandering these strange streets precisely because she wanted to get away from the hotel.  She feared that a huge confrontation awaited her there, and delaying the inevitable was her most appealing option.  The cold permeated her skin, causing her to ache.  She had to get off the street, but nothing was open.  She came upon a bench, and sat there.  Gathering herself into a little ball to preserve what warmth she could, she gazed ahead of her.  Her situation had no clear solution.  Self-pity enveloped her.

From his window, the young man watched a figure wandering down the street.  He made out that the figure was a young woman, but more than that he could not determine.  To him, she appeared confused and lost, yet determined.  He continued watching her as she drew closer to his apartment building.  As the rain began, he watched as she drew up her collar and bravely faced the weather.  Her shivering soon became apparent, and a twinge of pity touched his heart.  She passed by his window, going only a few feet further and stopping at the bench.  He watched as she curled up like a little child, sheltering herself in the best way possible.  He saw her as something fragile and helpless, and this stirred something within him that led to his grabbing a heavy coat and bolting out of the apartment. 

The shuffling of his boots startled her out of her stupor.  Immediately, she sprang up and started walking down the street.

“Please, don’t go anywhere.  Are you ok?” the words spewed from his mouth in an attempt to stop her before she got very far.  She slowed but didn’t stop completely. 

"You look lost.  If you would like some help, I can get you back to wherever you need to go,” he tried again.  His voice was soft and touched with the beautiful accent characteristic of the area.  Something about it made her stop and even look over her shoulder.  In spite of the rain, he saw that her eyes were red from crying and her cheeks stained with tears. 

“Can you show me how to get to the edge of the world?” she muttered, a bemused smile touching her lips.  “I think that should be far enough away to escape.” 

Not quite sure how to reply, he said the first thing that came to his mind.  “No, but I can show you to my apartment.”

“A bit forward don’t you think?” her face lighting up with a real smile.  “I usually don’t go to a man’s apartment unless I know him, but for you, I might make an exception.”

She thought she caught the hint of a blush, but she could not tell if it was caused by what she said or if the bitter wind was irritating his skin. 

“I appreciate the offer, I really do, but I can’t accept.  I really am not at my best for company at the moment.”  With this she turned on her heel and once again walked into the wind and the rain. 

Before she took two steps, she felt his strong hand on her shoulder and heard his voice saying, “I think you should come with me.  Please.”  Something about his tone, one that was not threatening but rather deeply sympathetic, caused her to acquiesce and follow him to his apartment.