And as we close 2010

Today is cold and rainy. I have a roast on the stove and a dog asleep with her head on my hip. The new park I found can be explored tomorrow when the rain has stopped. My thoughts turn, as I guess is traditional, to reflections on the past year. What can I say about 2010?
I've remained debt free. By August, I saved five grand. I completed 3 of the 25 items needed to ready myself for relocation. I could have done more, but changing the wiring in my house to accommodate the new ceiling fan set me back nearly a grand.
Meanwhile, some things didn't turn out so well, or didn't turn out at all. Emotionally speaking, I invested in someone I really cared for, at every level. He outgrew me. He apologized. I thought it was because he hated hurting someone he loved. I realized it was because he didn't love me, but hadn't wanted to hurt me. I thought he was My Person. Being wrong has officially been the hardest lesson of 2010.
Fair enough. I have spoken up and I don't need to again. Surprisingly, one big lesson I also learned this year came from a random comment made by a person who doesn't know my future plans. The comment was that focusing so much on where you are NOT just emphasizes the deficits in your life. I have done that often this year. Too often. The result was that I've felt anxious and defeated a lot this year too. There were other things I could have been doing. Like practicing birdwatching. Like hiking, camping and being outdoors. Like learning everything I can from park rangers. Like becoming someone I admire more before moving where I want to live, so when I get there I can take full advantage of my surroundings when I get there.
As the year winds down, I think the silver lining amidst a personally rocky year is that with so many personal goals accomplished, I can see more clearly. Eliminating debt has been important, but it wasn't the only thing holding me back. I've been waiting for ideal conditions. I'm a pretty careful person, so that's comfortable for me.
In 2011, I'm going to do it less.

--Laura

The Delicate Center of Life

In the spirit of stating the obvious, life is hard. All around are examples of Broken Things. Broken dreams. Broken families. Broken minds and spirits. Broken promises. Broken hearts.
I struggle with a broken heart. There was a time when I gave my heart to someone who seemed to ask for it; seemed to want it. I gave him my heart freely and discovered my mistake too late. He has moved on, easily it seems to me, and now shares a roof with another woman. It costs me to admit this, because it is not easy for a strong, proud person to admit when they falter, but I have had a much harder time moving on myself, realizing that I was a disposable part of his life.
I share that place with you because I often write about the silver linings in hidden places. Truthfully though, sometimes you face something so completely out of your control that you break inside. You have to seal that break to keep going, but you always know it's there. It aches in bad weather. It makes you turn stations when certain songs play on the radio.
I am not sure how I would move past the Broken Things in my life without being able to focus on something higher than myself. Some call this God. For those who don't, there is a higher Common Good out there. There is humanity. There is "doing the right thing."
This evening, I indulged a yearly tradition at Emory University's Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols. It takes place each year in the university's chapel - a commemoration not only of creation, or of the creator, but an acknowledgement that we strive for that common good. The pastor phrased it beautifully - The delicate center of life. We believe that place exists. We pray for it. We sing of it. We share a vision of it with each other in the hopes that it will uplift those who most need it. People who, long ago or recently, sealed off a broken place in their heart to control the damage it did. Everyone who has lived a life has a few tombs hidden in the delicate center of their lives.
Every year, in that gathering space for both the finest of Atlanta's elite and the most ordinary of Atlanta's suburbanites, a safe haven is created. The room is dimmed. Candles are lit. Voices are raised. It is quietly powerful and wonderfully made. I hope the beauty of the evening seeped past all the hard, toughened places in people's hearts and reached the delicate center of their lives. I hope it reached into mine as well, and strengthened some of my own broken places.
My wish for all of you during this holiday season is that you encounter at least a moment that touches the delicate center in your life, and gives you peace, healing and rest.
-Laura

Replacement Parts

NOW AVAILABLE, originally uploaded by lalapapawawa.

My dad had his total knee replacement surgery on Monday. Both parents insisted I not be there. I could see their point. My parents have an amazing community of friends. It has always seemed to me, in the past, that mom was the social glue in our family. She was the one who made the introductions and the friends. But this is not the case here. Both mom and dad have skin the game, and both participate in their community.

So, the last time I was in a hospital with them, those people were there, keeping us company whle mom had her bypass surgery. This time, I knew they'd be just as attentive to my mom, while dad went through his surgery.

The results was a mixed bag. First and foremost, the knee surgery was successful. The doctor remarked that he should have had it five years ago, that there was so much mess behind his kneecap that it took lots of cleaning. But underneath that, solid bone. The day after surgery, the old man was up on his feet. And walking. And that's something.

Unfortunately, it seems dad also suffered a heart attack. He displayed an inverted T-wave and elevated enzyme levels, and during surgery he sweated down on the table. He was kept in ICU to monitor his levels before being released to a regular room. We are hopeful that it will not result in too much damage. So far, he's been without symptoms.

So this month gives me alot to be thanful for. I have great folks celebrating my birthday with me. My dad begins a new, less painful chapter in his life and all seems to be moving forward. The boss I had back in college tracked me down the last few weeks, and I've been able to reconnect with a really good guy. In three days, I will be driving my mom back to my house for a nice visit while dad does his rehab. It sounds like it may be shorter than we originally expected, but for all the right reasons. And in a little over a week, I will be exploring vistas two time zones away from here, even if just for a weekend.

More on that later. I have some packing to do.

Random Wednesday

In stark contrast to last week, this week has been without turmoil. My car passed emissions, work has been steady, and I've made more headway toward paying off my student loan ahead of schedule.

Plus, tomorrow is my birthday.

Birthdays for adults aren't the same as for kids, eagerly awaiting the excesses of toys and sugar and party games. I think for me, they serve as reminders, as a time for evaluation and assessment, and as a way to set milestones. For example, I spent one birthday with friends in a plaza in Madrid. This year, I will spend it with friends in a restaurant in Buckhead.

There is special significance to my birthday this year. I decided in the last few days to tailor my original statement about being in Colorado by 2009. I looked at my driver's license as I was driving home a few days ago and I realized that it will expire on my birthday next year. So I decided to be more specific. I decided that I will not renew this driver's license. My next license will be from Colorado, and I will celebrate my birthday there. It will take some time before I know if I will make my birthday with months to spare or if I will make it by the skin of my teeth. We'll just see.

I suppose it sounds sentimental to set a goal like that around your birthday. First, I'll tell you that I did it because I'm realistically on track to make it happen. Even after months, I am still on track to pay off debt #1 by January. Clearing debt #1 will free up reserves for debt #2.

I realize that clearing debt doesn't get me moved, but I've made progress there as well. I've spoken to someone who is buying homes in the area, not to fix up and sell, but to fix up and rent. It turns out that this economy has required many people to rent because they can't qualify for loans. It turns out, there are property managers out there who will take care of my property, and it turns out that I can afford them. As I was saying to my mother, heck, I'd love to have those people manage my property NOW. The point however, is that I'm no longer worried about the house. It will rent until it can be sold. I will put it in hands more capable than my own to maintain it, and I will move. The house will not hold me back.

Will I transfer with my company or get a new job? Well, hand me $150K and I'd buy a franchise in one lucky Colorado city, set up shop and live off ramen until the business began to prosper. Odds are, however, that not only will no one hand me $150K, but no business started right now to sell birdwatching supplies would prosper. But I realized one thing recently. I really don't need to wait for market conditions to begin my life. I can pinch pennies just as well in CO as I can in GA. How exactly will I do this? I don't know, today. All I know is that I will do it. With debt#1 and debt#2 gone, I will need a lot less to live on for a while, and that will help. A job will not hold me back.

So I refined my arrival date to "by October 2009" because I realistically believe I can manage it alone. But I'll tell you, I don't mind if the goal is a little sentimental too. I'm a sentimental person. As much as I like taking care of business with my head on straight, I also like being cared for. Because, the truth is, while I can do this alone, with discipline to pay off these debts and courage to put my house in the hands of a property manager, I don't want to do this next year alone. I'm sure I will need the patience and support and encouragement of those who love me, because there's something I believe is true: if those who love me will have some faith in me and invest in me this year, I will be richer than if I'd been handed $150K. And I sincerely believe that they will be too. By a longshot.

So on the eve of my birthday -- to all those who've been a gift and a blessing in my life this year -- I love you. Thank you for all the support you've given me. I hope I have done the same. Here's to another year.

- Laura

Village Elders

My encounter with Tom, the pool guru, got me thinking about my elders.

The African proverb, made so popular by Hillary, claims that it takes a village to raise a child. That can be taken to mean that lots of people contribute to a child's well-being, in fact to the well-being of... well, anyone's being. But there's more to this than meets the eye.

I've always been fortunate to have lots of older people in my life. They say in some of the "birth order" literature out there that only children will develop the strongest relationships with people years younger or years older than themselves. This has been true for me. As a young girl, I loved to visit Mrs. Margie, who taught me how to make sugared violets. In college, most of my friends were 3rd or 4th year, even when I was a freshman. When I graduated and moved to the mountains of north Georgia, I befriended the "blue haired" set because of my work schedule, and delighted in their company as much as they delighted in mine. Today, even as a young adult, I spend a fair amount of my time with adults old enough to be my grandparents.

And if you don't do this, I caution you. I think you're making a mistake.

I don't think it's healthy to surround yourself only with people your own age. This is why I've never felt comfortable in social settings geared to Young Professionals or Young Singles or Young Adult Catholics. These people are all in the same boat I'm in. Heck, some are a lot worse off than I am, so the only real satisfaction I get is in knowing I'm not quite as screwed up as the guy sitting next to me.

I prefer the multi-generational approach to living: people much older than myself, people younger than myself, people my age and people from all walks of life. People in different stages of life are interesting. They have things to teach you.

One such couple befriended me in the north Georgia town I lived in prior to moving to the Atlanta area. I first met Rita when I began taking instruction in the church. Because I worked 3-11, I could pop by the church and help her and the other "Garden Angels" tend to the church grounds. She was a silver-haired, practical woman who despite living the last 2 decades in the south had still managed to retain her Minnesota accent. She and Gordy lived on the lake and had made a hobby out of adding onto their house. They were healthy and industrious people, and by now it was the size of the Pentagon.

By the time I entered the church, they had both become good friends, and once a month or so I was invited to their house for dinner. Those were some of the most enjoyable evenings of my time in that town. We'd talk about everything from history, politics, religion, dating, work, you name it. In fact, we often covered all those topics in one night, until we were all tired and yawning, and they were still reluctant to see me go. Keep in mind, these were not lonely elders. They had 6 kids who were regular visitors to the river house. They were constantly on the go, involved in both their community and their church. Gordy had taught himself how to design web pages "just to keep myself out of the bars."

They were interesting. They weren't like me. They had things to tell me about how to live my life. They were interested in what I had to say. They respected me, and I respected them.

What makes that different from friends your own age? Well, that's hard to put into words. Maybe it's because you aren't in the same stage of "figuring things out." They have seen things you haven't, and they listen with a relatively neutral ear.

The other thing is that they teach me to be a little less harsh on myself. Older people like to take breaks. They don't tackle the whole day at one time. They get where they are going by pacing themselves, but they get there nonetheless. Sometimes, I forget that I should stop for a while and rest, refresh and renew myself between projects. Much like the observation that "you always will have the poor with you," there will always be a task set ahead of us, with things to take care of. Your ability to do this hinges on the time you take for yourself, to restore yourself, to keep yourself physically and emotionally strong, and the time you take to learn from your experiences. Otherwise, life stays pretty much the same, and you become a mindless cog in the wheel, endlessly repeating the same behaviors and getting the same results.

Sitting a spell, talking it out with an older friend who wants little more than your company is insurance - against turning your life into an endless assembly line of duty and responsibility.

I heard this once: Yankees will spend thousands a year to sit on a couch and talk to a stranger, calling it "therapy." Southerners spend an afternoon with friends, sitting on a couch and call it "just visiting."

If that's just a southern thing, I'm sorry, it's time to expose the secret. The economy is bad these days, people, so take advantage of this tip. Consulting with the village elders is free, and the rewards are immeasurable.

--Laura

A Real Goal Getter: Part II

Continued from here:

So was being a reporter a worthwhile goal for me back in college? Probably, but it wasn’t one I was attached to strongly enough to tackle the obstacles.

People who know me say I am my own harshest critic, but as I evaluate the past, I think I’ve done this more than once, too easily letting obstacles determine my path, better known as the path of least resistance. It’s easy to do. Why not take the path where you can see further out, where the future is clearer? And then after doing it once, why not do it again? And so on and so forth, and in so doing, a life is shaped.

But here’s something to consider. Goals are a refection of your values and principles. People don’t set goals to be losers, they set them to achieve something they want. So if you stay focused on your goals, what you’re saying is that you see yourself. You see where you want to be, and you’re willing to invest in decisions that will get you there.

On the other hand, obstacles are the things getting in your way. They don’t reflect anything about you, they obscure goals. Does it make sense then that if you take the path of least resistance, guided by whichever way the obstacles guide you, that sooner or later, you lose all sight of yourself?

I think about it like this. Obstacles are challenges. When you overcome them, you grow and become stronger. If you avoid the obstacles, you skip lessons you need to learn. Goals remind you that there’s something out there larger than the immediate obstacle you’re facing. Goals help us get things done.

Here’s how it works. When you set a goal, let’s say you want to drop 30 pounds, the obstacles become navigable. What’s your obstacle? Maybe it’s your diet. So you do some reading, you educate yourself and make lifestyle changes to eliminate the obstacles.

Try approaching someone with, “I’m so unhappy I can barely breathe.” How would you respond if someone said that to you? Now try this. “I am unhappy with my weight and I would like to lose 30 pounds.” Well! Eureka, the advice starts to roll then, doesn’t it? I’ll bet you could list five things to change without even thinking about it.

So a goal gets things done because it creates a purpose. When you have purpose, often the resources needed to fulfill that purpose magically spring from nowhere. Only they aren’t coming from nowhere at all. They’re simply more obvious because you were looking at things a new way.

When I realized I’d need an advisor in the University of Colorado’s School of Journalism, I dodged that obstacle, thinking I was pretty clever. And today I read that the Atlanta Journal Constitution is cutting jobs by 8% because of the economy, so maybe I could content myself with the fact that I chose a profession doomed by the internet, and think myself clever still.

But the story made me consider this: had I graduated with a degree in Journalism, would I be in Atlanta, waiting to see if my job is affected? I don’t think so. The reason I don’t is because I know I didn’t thoughtfully evaluate my move to Atlanta based on its commute, its quality of life and whether or not I liked the climate. Simply put, I moved where my job transferred me. So after years of living here, is it any wonder that despite the friends I’ve made and the activities I participate in, I feel no particular affinity for this location?

So did I lose myself by allowing my obstacles to determine my path? I’m not sure I know the answer yet, but I’m working on it.

More on this later.

-Laura

The (S)Low Country

Savannah is known as "The Coastal Empire." Just across the river, coastal Carolina is known as the "Low Country." Its nickname: The Slow Country.

When the marketing folks were picking out labels, you just have to wonder, "Did they mean to?"

My mother's family is gathering this week in south Georgia for a reunion, my grandfather's family name is Rollins. That side of the family is more shadowy to me than my grandmother's side of the family, dominated by close knit sisters. Two of those sisters married three of the Rollins brothers; my grandmother married one (Ralph) and my great-aunt Helen married two. Bennie died before his first son was born, and his younger brother Walter felt it was his duty to provide for the widow of his brother. This is a picture of their family in 1963.

So in a true southern cliche, our family contains double first cousins, or "kissing cousins" as some call it.

So this weekend I will drive mom down to see everyone. I will try to take lots of pictures, I will help my mom get the fruit tray which will be her contribution to the reunion potluck, and people familiar and unfamiliar will sit around a table at some random gathering hall to share stories I've heard in one form or another most of my life. They'll talk about Minnie Jean. They'll talk about Freddie. They'll talk about Harold, Walter, Austin and Ralph.

I've been to Savannah several times since I left home in 1988. This weekend it will be a distinctly different perspective, punctuated with family stories and connections. We will all pause from our usual weekend activities for a day to recall where we came from.

It will give Slow Country a whole new meaning.

--Laura

Second Self

Last night I went to a pub with a friend to hear a local band. It’s hard to get bands to travel to our side of town and gas prices have curtailed our outings, so we dropped hints to management that we’d come ONLY for the band. But we like this place, recently opened. Joe the Bartender makes good dirty martinis, or so Stacy tells me, and they are a buck less than the ones we get across town.

My friend and I discussed our day, and she told me about a guy who tried to pick her up in traffic by leaning out of his truck window and holding his phone against his ear.

“Phone sex?” I wondered. She laughed and we dismissed the incident. Stacy told me she’d be seeing her boyfriend tomorrow.

“That’s cause for celebration,” I said honestly. Sam lives a few towns away and is a patrolman with horrible hours. While the two of them are dating, scheduling time together has been… challenging. I think this is the forth time she’s been to his house this year.

It’s June.

I mention this and she sobers. “What’s the alternative? The guy who thinks hitting on a stranger in traffic is classy?”

“I don’t know. He’s not a bad person. I just know the relationship isn’t giving you what you want. He doesn’t have to be a bad man to be the wrong man.” I say this because I’ve known Stacy for a while, I’ve seen her second self and I know it’s not happy.

Single women all have a second self. While we live a complete life in singlehood, we’re always feeding that second self – the person we’d be if we were dating. Make no mistake; this isn’t a fake person. It’s just one we keep stashed away to bring out when the need serves. And while we may have a full singlehood, this second self often sneaks out.

It’s like the person who’s remodeling their house. Wherever they go, they notice something they’d like in their own home. “I love that travertine tile! That would like great in my kitchen. Did you put it down yourself?”

The second self sees aspects of people’s character or qualities in a relationship that we’d like in a man, which we’d like in a relationship of our own. Let me be clear. We don’t want your boyfriend. We don’t want your husband. But we do want ours.

And different women want different things. I know for Stacy, while I’m one of her best friends, she’d much rather go to Charleston next month with Sam than with me. Destination with Sam? Any Town, USA. And I remember recently we were returning home from a night out. We were laughing because we’d shared the evening with the table of people next to us, three or four couples. They were obviously old and comfortable friends. They’d joked with us and we’d enjoyed their company. And later Stacy said, “You know, that’s something I want. Spending the evening with friends, having fun and sharing it with my guy.” The wistful tone in her voice turned us both quiet for several minutes. That’s the key. She wants his time.

The rest of her second self I’ll leave to her. I have my own.

My second self emerges in flashes, like memories I haven’t had yet. And the meaningful stuff is what takes places around the house. I want us to be quietly in the house, each doing our own thing. But whenever we pass each other in the hall or the kitchen, we manage to touch, a quiet and affectionate acknowledgement. I imagine him bringing a friend home after work and I invite him to have dinner with us, and we all pitch in for an impromptu cookout.

In the winter, the seed catalogues arrive. We plan the spring garden together. What about cantaloupe? How about an experiment growing Russian black tomatoes? In the spring, we work outside, getting sunburned as we prepare the garden. We share chores during the week. I get a phone call during the workday from him, asking if there’s something he can pick up on the way home. Backyard cookouts. Learning how to do new things together, or better still, him teaching me something he knows while I teach him something I know. Turning the stereo up loud and dancing some crazy dance in the livingroom, laughing the whole time. I want to sing to him. Get lost with him. Walk around the neighborhood with him in the cool of the evening.

There’s bigger stuff too. Holidays, discovering traditions we’d like to share. Being there for each other when something is difficult. Learning to trust each other. Discovering he is my protector and my safe haven. Finding a creative way to tell him that I took a test that morning, and it was positive. Discovering that sometimes he cries when he holds the infant who looks just a little like him and just a little like me. Falling asleep next to him each night.

These things belong on a road I can’t travel by myself. I have friends I plan my garden with. I have friends I share my holiday with. I have friends I go on vacation with. It’s just not the same and it never will be. I don’t like to focus on my second self too much because I think she takes energy away from my present, and I'm seriously proud of who I am and what I’m about. I’m proud of the way I handle myself at work, I’m proud of the way I keep my house and I know I make a contribution to my community.

But my second self is always there, waiting.

Mary Chapin Carpenter, "Only a Dream"
The song isn't really related, but I love it.
--Laura

Help yourself. You're family.

There’s a stage to every friendship, where a person stops being a guest in your house. If they ask for a glass of water, you reply, “Help yourself. You’re family.”

Some people reach this more quickly than others, and while it sounds like a title you bestow on a person when you’re too lazy to get up and get them a glass of water, it’s really a much more delicate arrangement than you might realize. Without being aware of what has happened, an agreement has been established between the giver and the recipient of the “you’re just family” title.

First, the giver is comfortable enough with the recipient of the title that they don’t rush to the kitchen to make sure the glass is actually clean before filling it. This is either because they know they washed the dishes last time instead of their children or significant other, or they realize that if the recipient of the glass doesn’t think it’s clean enough, they’ll wash the glass themselves without giving the dirty glass a second thought. And that thought doesn’t give you the shivers the way it might with random folks, because family won’t tell your business out in the neighborhood.

Second, the recipient actually does know where the glasses are kept, because they’ve been in the kitchen plenty of times and over the years they’ve washed the glasses a few times to boot. They may have even washed a few forks. And they know where the ice is, and they know that there’s a bottle of wine chilling in the fridge for after one of “those days” at work, because that’s the way it always is.

It’s always a bit of a balancing act in relationships: when does someone hear “you’re just family” for the first time? Don’t be too stingy with the title this year, okay? Connections these days are tough. People are so busy keeping families healthy, companies satisfied and their summer lawns mowed that it’s harder than ever to reach out, connect and form friendships. And friendships, once established, are difficult to maintain under those daily pressures.

This weekend my parents updated me on a couple they know. When my mother was in the hospital undergoing heart surgery, one of them stayed with my father and me in the waiting room the entire day. He just took off work, so that dad would have a masculine voice in his ear keeping him distracted the way I did not have the strength to do. Now, he and his wife are so busy that my parents rarely see them, and they are struggling to maintain connections.

The same evening my friend Stacy told me about a neighbor having marital problems because she’s on call so much with her government job that her husband only sees her when she’s rolling into bed.

Another friend of ours lives with her boyfriend, yet sees him less than three times a week because he is caring for his ailing father.

Many people I hold dear are so busy that I’m lucky to see them at all, or only in passing. And these are just my friends, so you can imagine that they hold the same complaints against those they share beds, vows or genetic material with. It’s just hard to stay intact when so many responsibilities pull you in so many directions. No one has an ideal situation. You rarely know when you sign up for a relationship just what kind of challenges it will face. In fact, I think if you know them upfront, you might just be one of the lucky ones. You might just need to feel grateful that you had some advanced warning, because plenty of other people get caught up in the first blush of romance, and the challenges just sneak right up on them.

So this summer, when anyone bothers to check in on you and there’s even a little hint that they might want to see you face to face, worry a little less about the state of your house. Toss everything embarrassing in the spare bedroom and tell them to come right on over. You never know; you may need them as much as they need you. This summer might just be the start of a beautiful friendship. Don’t miss that opportunity to tell a previously casual friend, “Help yourself. You’re family.”

--Laura

Kids Change Things

I pasted these pictures together because they have to be viewed together to be fully appreciated.

When dad traveled across country, he was in drill sergeant mode. Up early, say 2-3 am. He'd do that to have several hours under the wheel before the sun came up. Then when the driving was the worst with rush hour, he'd stop for breakfast. When rush hour traffic died down, he'd be back on the road. There would be drinks and sandwiches in tupperware containers in the back, because he'd never stop for dinner, and past the lunch hour he'd never stop period unless he was filling up with gas. Dinner was never bought at a restaurant, because that was the most expensive meal to buy on the road.

In short, that is how he rolled.

Then I came along. And at first, the practice continued. I would be piled in the back with blankets, and mom would navigate. I was too young to really care.

This particular day I woke from a sound sleep and said, "I need to potty NOW," with the demanding voice only a three year old can muster. Mom said, "You'd better find that child a tree."

But just because I was sleepy didn't mean I wanted my butt photographed. Sometimes the papparazzi is just unsatiable, I swear.

Last night I had a conversation with a friend. His daughter is six, and he was sharing in excruciating detail all the things that went into getting his daughter through a dance rehearsal. Truly non-daddy activities, like finding the sign-in table located in some random room of a large highschool, dealing with hair ribbons, pouting adult dance instructors and the disorganization which comes with a room full of dozens of little darlings under the age of seven.

For some reason, I was reminded of my own dad. Like the time he was the only dad on my Kindergarten field trip. I wonder if he thought all those moms were disorganized too, and if he wished he could be somewhere - ANYWHERE - else during the "Find your buddy and make sure you are holding hands!" part of the instructions. I'm sure he felt pretty out of place too, now that I look back on it.

My friend is a single dad, so he doesn't have the luxury of leaving his daughter at rehearsal to get food while mom waits on her. He has to play the parent in tune with the disorganized adults and the very real demands of a tired and hungry little girl, who is truly too tired and hungry for a late evening dance rehearsal. So while the stories about the instructor are funny on one level, I can see how it would be difficult for a single parent to handle both at one time. It would be nice after all to deal with one thing at a time, rather than divide your energies between a child who needs dinner and an adult who wants your "full cooperation" if you're not paying attention to them.

Life. Exhausting sometimes.

At the end of the day though, kids seem to have the ability to remind you of one thing. We're all people, just trying to muddle through without leaving too much butt exposed. And if you're paying attention, kids can also teach you what's more important than arriving at your destination on time and under budget. They show you that it's important to stop for a while to get your tummy filled and your bladder emptied. Because truth be told, the plans we make really aren't the point of life at all. The time we take to stop and care for others... I think we all know that is really the point of it all. That's where our best memories are made. It's the present, and that's where healthy people live.

This picture is a perfect example. It doesn't portary my dad racing down the road at 2am. It's a picture taken during a break from all that. That's the time, be it a potty break or the moment at the end of the day when you're washing the goop and glitter of ballerina practice from your child's hair, where you rest, heal from the indignities you suffered that day, and find your purpose. And your joy.

My wish for everyone who reads this: Enjoy your day.

--Laura Burke

In Remembrance - Margie Boulware, 2006

My friend Margie died in the spring. I find myself thinking of her this time of year.

Mother called me when Margie died. As chance would have it, I had left the cell phone in the car, vital piece of technology that it is. I listened to the message the next morning. When she said she had something to tell me, but didn’t want to say over the phone, I knew someone had died.

Dad answered when I called, so he was the one who told me. “Laura, Mrs. Margie died.”

I was surprised. Things like that are supposed to happen of course, but sometime in the future, when you’re expecting it. She had been in my thoughts recently. As I was looking through some old Christmas cards, I realized that both my mother and Mrs. Margie had sent me a card with a polar bear on the front in the same year. I laughed when I realized that they’d both been on such a similar wavelength. And with that came the thought that on my next vacation to Savannah I needed to devise a way to sneak over to Okatie for a visit.

I remember the last time I dropped by on my way home from the Savannah Irish festival in February. Ann was there, and I didn’t have long to stay, but a visit to the area wasn’t right without a hello to Mrs. Margie. And as usual she’d been full of plans. She was a little thinner and a little slower in her steps maybe, but she was the same vital, interesting person I’d always loved. It is difficult to grasp that she is gone. That will take some getting used to.

When mother told me the circumstances of her death, I said, “Well mother, if you could choose how you would die, I think that’s what you’d pick.” Mrs. Margie wasn’t a person for nonsense, so it struck me as particularly appropriate that in one breath she was here, and then a few breaths later she was not.

The Margie I knew had an open door policy with me. And she really seemed to love listening to any nonsense that came out of my mouth on any given day and at any time I wished to share it. Since I was a kid, I tried not to let on how important that was to me. Growing up, you can be really dumb sometimes.

But I loved being in that house in front of the fire or sitting at the kitchen table and talking for hours about nothing special. I spent more time talking to Mrs. Margie than I spent with my own grandmother, who thought I was too quiet and bookish “just like” my mother. I don’t know that I had more in common with her, but with her I came fresh and without that genetic baggage that comes with being “just like” someone you raised. And her gift was to listen to me chatter on like I was just the smartest, most fascinating person she ever knew, when I was really just a loner and a kid. I in turn thought she hung the moon. Really.

I always kept an eye out for her truck on Camp St. Mary’s road because I knew she’d wave if she saw me. Being on the river was always better if we managed to spot her in the boat or fishing on the dock with her mother. And there always seemed to be at least one excuse to turn down the dirt road leading to the Boulware Place, so that I could pick up our conversation where we left off.

And I can remember vividly that when I got my college acceptance letter, and no one else was home, my first thought was to walk straight from the mailbox in front of my house over to tell Margie, because I knew she wouldn’t mind one bit. That’s the best kind of adult there is.

I regret that these are the kinds of things you always save up to say about someone after they’re gone. I think about all the good it would do just to have it all said while everyone is alive and healthy and can still appreciate the heart that went into saying it. What I hope is that through all the chattering I did back then, by the fireplace or out in the barn or at the kitchen table or in that hulk of a truck or out in the boat on the water, that she knew already that she was the best kind of adult a kid could have as a friend. I will miss her.

--Laura

On spring

Oh, I'm gonna fry you up. I've got your eggs and bacon right here, baby!

Her voice was terse with another of the many threats she'd made today. I walked to the end of my house quietly and tilted my head around the corner so I could watch her unobserved.

Mama Rose is my friend's mother. She's 75-years old. With one hand gloved and the other bare, she was stooped over my bed of Irises, pulling at a weed while striking it with an evil looking machete.

Not my machete. She'd brought it from home. It's her favorite tool. When I could coax her to put it down, she'd help me pull weeds from the flower bed in front, replacing the weeds with cypress mulch. Unlike me, yard work was something she'd rather do than just about anything. At the end of our first day together, she left her machete and work shoes, so in her words, she'd have to come back for them tomorrow.

She called the next morning at 7:30. She'd been up since 6. Her daughter and I say she's crazy. It's the good crazy though, not Power-of-Attorney crazy.

She lends just the right spirit to spring yard work. I love spring and I'll tell you why. There's a crazy kind of risk in it.

When I started the working in the yard earlier in the week, I was going solo. It was warm outside and sunny. I burned fallen limbs, I cut grass and I pulled honeysuckle vines. When I came inside that night, I had a light sunburn. I invited Mama Rose over the next day because I felt behind the season already and knew I needed help.

The next day, the picture changed. The skies were overcast. A light drizzle coated my burn pile. But the weather was fine for listening to stories from my companion.

I say, don't tell me not to do something, just tell me why I shouldn't do it.

I played along. Don't do it because your mother told you not to and you'd get a whipping.

Shoo. A whipping only lasts a minute. Did I ever tell you how I started a fire with a match and a rock?

And the next day the picture had changed again. Tornadoes came through during the night, passing just south of us but still setting off the county warning sirens. I savored my coffee the next morning, waiting for the weather to clear. Finally, I drove through the fog to pick up Mama Rose again.

Look how many churches there are between your house and ours. Don't you know people just keep building all these churches to have more ways to make money off Our Lord? It's just disgusting.

When Mama Rose's New Orleans accent wraps around this word, I believe even those who don't understand English can get the meaning from her inflection.

DEEZ-GUS-TIN, baby.

Three days. Three kinds of weather. By Friday, I realized my yard work wasn't going to be finished by the end of my vacation. And I realized I wasn't behind the season at all.

I also realized that if I gave Mama Rose cuttings from my flower beds, she'd have something to plant at her house, and I'd get a day off.

There are plenty of lessons to take from spring. They repeat every year and every year they feel new because I've changed from this time last year.

First, I hear change is inevitable. People can pretend that change doesn't happen, but they are just denying the reality of spring, which comes each year with wind and sun and tantalizing activity. My yard is in bad shape because I ignored it two springs in a row. Ignoring it didn't stop spring's invitation from reaching me, nor did it stop weeds from overtaking my flowers. This week I tugged weeds out of my yard, revealing all the lovely flowers underneath. I could almost hear them beginning to breathe again.

Change is dirty. I can't pull weeds or dig soil without getting dirty. In fact, digging is best done when it's been raining, making the ground soft enough to release the weeds and soft enough to mess up my shoes. Participating in spring means making messes and cleaning them up. Not getting dirty means letting messes creep up unplanned but never quite unexpected. You can retreat from that, or you can get in the thick of things. It's okay to choose retreat sometimes. I've chosen it in the past. But the task isn't mysterious or insurmountable. Pull the weeds and toss them out. Leave the rest.

Spring also teaches me that the right tools can make a difference. Recently a friend did repairs for me and in the process put a slash in the finger of his pigskin gloves. We didn't throw them away and after he left I found them tucked away in a utility drawer. I'd never worn pigskin before, but I tried them this week, and I have to tell you, they are the most comfortable gloves I've ever worn. They saved me blisters from the rake and cuts from the thorn bushes. I'd have never justified the expense of fancy gloves for garden work if my friend hadn't left the pair. That's a good friend.

Which is another thing about spring, if only for this year's lesson. I learned that accepting help from friends enriches me in ways pride can't. It may go against my upbringing to ask for help cleaning up a mess I made through my own neglect, but none of my friends saw it that way, so I decided to stop seeing it that way myself. I discovered that I got a lot more done when I did. Mama Rose may not have done any heavy lifting in my yard this week, but she was so determined that she inspired all my heavy lifting. Meanwhile, instead of focusing on what hasn't been completed, being with her let me focus on our accomplishments. I enjoyed the yard through her eyes, like a parent appreciating their child's first snowfall.

When the rain finally moved us to pack up our tools for the day, we stood under the carport, reluctant to go inside. I brought the dogs in from the backyard to play at our feet.

This cold weather has got to go. Mother Nature will take care of it.

Not Jesus? I asked quietly, concentrating more on the rain and the streams of yellow pollen flowing down my driveway.

Sometimes he holds out too long. Mother Nature knows when enough is enough.

She sent the rain then, to tell us we're done for today.

Are you tired, darlin'? I could hear the smile in her voice.

Yes, I am. You whupped my butt, old woman. She took this as high praise.

We only have two hands, darlin'. If we did it all today, what would we do tomorrow?

I will get a call on Sunday. You can take that to the bank. My legs and low back are so stiff I have to sit funny as I write this. But I'm looking forward to the call.

The risk that comes with this yard work is that high winds would damage what we'd done. Or that frost would kill the new seedlings we'd put down in hopes of having vegetables this summer.

Or that personally I'd get tired of the effort, that something new would come to upset my applecart and distract me. Two years ago it had been my mother's bypass surgery and months of recovery. I didn't have any energy left for risky behavior those days.

But I like spring, and I'll tell you why. There's hope in it. And that's something I'm planting this year.

--Laura Burke

On dreadful parties

Recently I was at a party with a friend. Most of the people were strangers, in and of itself not a bad thing.

The party was a bit of a train wreck.

There were good things, don't get me wrong. The house was lovely and the reason for the get-together was wonderful. After lots of hard work, a friend is going to become a teacher. She looked great that night, and really happy. So we got together with great food and plenty of beer and enjoyed her generous hospitality.

That was the good part.

And at first blush, the fact that so many were single was also good news. As the beer flowed however, it became obvious that I was surrounded by walking wounded.

Divorced singles outnumbered those who'd never been married almost two to one. And before you comment, this is not a rant about divorcees. I have a number of divorced friends, so let me compare. My friend Stacy wants to recover from her divorce, not just to move on to another prospective relationship, but sincere recovery. She has confidence that she can and will, and that she deserves to find a partner.

Therefore, I think she really has recovered. While she may be lonely at times, she has patience that a person who also wants to be her partner will enter her life. She's even willing to put some effort into that person when they show interest in her. She projects confidence. It is something you can't fake, at least not for long.

But there is the fake confidence. It is a brash kind of loud, tough confidence that sounds intimidating and a little sexy when people are sober. The mask then begins to slip when people are drunk.

As the party wore on, the false confidence began to slip away on these who were in the walking wounded category. What began to show was their deep loneliness. They were people who have settled. By settling, I mean they've not found someone they can share intimacy and partnership with, so they've decided that sex purely for physical closeness is enough. "Just sex" has an allure to it, but watching these people, I realize they aren't happy with the consequences.

What are the consequences? Well, from my perspective, they've put a price on their happiness, and it's been set lower than it should be. They've advertised the price to the public in hopes of getting a buyer. Well, maybe a renter.

Because of that, hooking up doesn't end up feeling all that glamorous. Well okay, it just doesn't look all that glamorous to me. It doesn't even seem to bring much pleasure.

I spent an evening with those people. I felt smothered by their sadness.

But that wasn't all. There were also the ones who didn't even pretend to be confident. In fact, they carried their loneliness around like a badge. One man was in the MIDDLE of a divorce. Right in the middle. All he could talk about was the Soon-to-be-ex-wife (STBX). He had two children, but he seemed much more concerned this evening with how miserable he was.

Strangely, he felt he could solve this by developing, in short order, a "relationship" with a woman. "Friends with Benefits." He polled the assembled womanhood in the room. How does that even work these days? Do you think I'm ready for such a relationship? I haven't gotten sex in so long.

I thought you said you'd slept with your STBX two weeks ago, I offered. He grimaced, but ignored me. What is your opinion on Friends with Benefits, he asked me.

No sex is free, I answered.

This was roundly rejected by the others. If there's an agreement between consenting adults, they reasoned, what is the problem?

It doesn't come without a price, I say.

How many times do you lie to yourself that sex is all you need? And then, when you know you want more, what do you say to convince yourself that you like the person enough to make a relationship out of what began as just sex?

I didn't win anyone over to the idea of befriending someone prior to sleeping with them. Several were too busy looking like heat-seeking missiles for sex and comfort.

So what had I been looking for? I had gone there thinking I was looking for the same. I realized I wasn't. I was looking for a friend. Hopefully someone who'd become my best friend. I rode home that night with Stacy, who unfortunately isn't a boy.

That party was depressing, I said out loud. She agreed with me. I found myself wondering how many of those people had best friends somewhere who were lonely because those people had settled for less. For comfort that was temporary, and happiness what wasn't all that happy.

I felt bad for us all.

--Laura Burke

On Instant Gratification

On instant gratification, originally uploaded by lalapapawawa.

I think one of the biggest enemies to the human condition is the lure of instant gratification.

I see the signs of this where I work. I've been with the same company for 13 years, and in that time I've witnessed the shift from quality to productivity firsthand. People haven't changed, but what we're expected to accomplish - and how quickly we're expected to accomplish it - has changed. Dramatically. Profoundly. Has it made us better or faster? Well, yes and no.

As a company, we process lots of work. Our productivity scores reflect this. Every morning, I receive an email from my supervisor listing me, along with all the other designers in the company, showing how many hours of work I processed yesterday and how many hours she's assigned me for today. This way, we all get to compare each other's productivity, just to see how we stack up.

What this doesn't tell you is how often we've had to email someone people with questions because they handed out instructions they hadn't bothered to understand themselves. It doesn't tell you how many "reworks" we had to make because someone really didn't bother to explain what they wanted.

In other words, the wheels of productivity are turning along happily, but the belt that drives the engine is slipping. The wheel is technology. The belt is the employee. And the employee is on information overload, expected to keep up with changing technology, corporate downsizing, stagnant wages and increased productivity demands.

All owing to that lure of instant gratification. Faster, more and sooner. Now, please.

What does this do to us, over time? Does it change who we are? Does it change how we think? Does it change the value we place on relationships when everyone, including ourselves, is this expendable?

I think it does. You can see so many examples. People really aren't all that different than they were fifty years ago. But our toys have gotten faster and stronger and in some ways more powerful, so the damage they can do has become greater and more costly. And the unforeseen byproduct of demanding this shift in the marketplace has been a change in the way people treat each other at home.

Let's face it, instant gratification is a shortcut. We have always been enticed by shortcuts. But they often spell failure. Do you want instant wealth? Buy into this moneymaking scheme. Do you want quick weight loss? Pay for this surgery. Do you want to dull the pain inside you? Take this pill, have a drink. Are you lonely, needing to feel connected to someone? Sexual passion will make you feel desirable again.

Any gardener will tell you that if you don't prepare the soil properly, plants may spring up quickly, but at the first sign of bad weather, they die. Their root structure, the part which keeps them nourished and healthy, never had the time to develop. And while they look good on the surface, the story beneath the surface is very different. Those plants aren't going to make it; they aren't going to produce a good harvest.

And just so, the bubble will burst on the moneymaking scheme. The person who lost all that weight will have developed little discipline to keep it off over time. The pills and the drink will be used frequently enough to affect other areas of your life. And the sexual passion will do little to lead you to real intimacy with your partner, where you can depend on them without feeling weak, or speak to them honestly about the hidden places in your heart.

Wow, no wonder people are so depressed and dissatisfied. How would we be otherwise? We've been so betrayed by this pipe dream. You too can have it all! Trust us!

What a crock.

Think about this for a minute. When we seek instant gratification, what are we actually asking for anyway?

Think about those emails you get everyday at work. How many do you delete unread? How many do you scan? How many do you take the time to read for comprehension? My guess would be very few.

So why do we use the same behavior at home, skimming over the details of our lives? What does it gain? When we don't take the time to process our feelings, deal with old hurts, listen to our hearts and build our connections to each other, aren't we treating our own lives with the same disregard? What is the impact of this but shallow, dishonest connections with your own insides and shallow, dishonest connections with others?

So goes instant gratification. Quick fix. Long term failure. It acts like an illicit drug, providing temporary relief without nourishment.

A friend of mine once asked me what I wanted for myself and my future. The temptation in me was to outline a five- or ten-year plan that went something like: career advancement, get the house finished to my liking, love, marriage, family, etc. But when I really thought about it, I realized that none of those things really summed up what I wanted for myself.

I want my actions and my lifestyle to reflect my beliefs. I want to act on my beliefs more often. That's what I said to him. Because I felt then and now that actions speak louder than words.

I tell that story because identifying the ills of instant gratification doesn't correct them. I can't change the corporate culture in which I work. So here's the thing. If I dislike the failures which accompany a life seeking instant gratification, complaining about my company isn't going to accomplish much. But resisting the lure of this pattern myself may just accomplish a lot.

And the only way to avoid the pattern is to allow myself some time. Not a timetable, but time - to stop skimming through my life and start listening to my own feelings and desires so that I understand them.

Because if I prefer intimate relationships to idealized fantasies, I should learn to be healthy for myself and the people in my life. I should also seek honest relationships, and not just something to solve the problem of loneliness. No single person - friend or lover - should bear the pressure of being my everything. I can be a better friend than that. A better partner. A better lover. And so can anyone else.

With time.

Time is something I'm learning to appreciate. It's my new weapon against past mistakes. And future ones.

--Laura