Taking my own advice

As it turns out, practicing ‘rest’ is ridiculously difficult.

I’ve been waking up before my alarm lately, and not because I’m pleasantly well-rested. (I’m pretty sure my sleeping habits are a carryover from college life, or toddlerhood, or something.) I wake up when the light leaks from behind my bedroom curtain with my daily plan already cycling through my brain. My life is mapped out these days, nearly every minute accounted for.

I’ve picked up a few work projects and a part-time job (shoutout to student loans). I’ve started a few projects on the side, too, things I know I need to learn if I want to continue in my field.

It’s not all work, though. There are messages to receive, replies to send, groceries to buy, miles to run, bills to pay, people to see, household appliances to fix, words to read, things to learn. There’s always something to pay attention to.

I enjoy being busy. I like knowing I’m doing things, keeping my mind in motion, staying on my feet. I firmly believe (to the chagrin of my mother and at least half of the roommates I’ve had) that a messy desk means a full life. I look with pride on my kitchen table, piled with yesterday’s mail and tomorrow’s drafts. I also know that I tend to assign myself value according to what I do and how much I can contribute.

I spend a lot of time in my life coaching my friends and family to disengage, step away from their responsibilities and unwind. I’ve seen enough burnout to know that overworking, even doing valuable work, tears a person inside-out.

For me, the bigger problem is the niggling feeling that I should be doing something, the guilty feeling I get after I stop working for an impromptu dance party or opt to read for fun rather than research when I get home from work. It’s the voice in my head saying, “Really, you could be productive right now,” and, “You haven’t responded to that email yet, have you?” and, “After three consecutive days cereal doesn’t count as a meal,” and, “Shouldn’t you be writing?”

It’s kind of annoying.

However, all the things it’s telling me to do — they’re good things. Things I value. Who doesn’t want to excel at their career? Be accessible to friends? Have functioning kitchen appliances?

As I sketched out this blog post during a morning break (irony?), I could hear the news blaring from a television, and I scribbled something in the margin of my notebook about a story I wanted to include in today’s paper. I think — I hope — this constant awareness makes me a better editor. It makes me automatically interested in the communities around me, excited to learn more and experience more.

But sometimes it comes back to that value thing — measuring myself based on how successful I am, how timely my responses are, how much I accomplish.

How little I relax.

The voice in the back of my head saying should helps with productivity, I think. It doesn’t do much for quality of life.

Sometimes, I’m learning, I can’t rest on my own.

This week, when I went to spend time with “serious” friends and talk about “serious” things, we toured a bit of Worthington I hadn’t seen yet and then went for ice cream.

And sometimes — when I think I can get away with it — when I wake up before my alarm starts chirping, I turn it off and go back to bed. It doesn’t feel like a victory — the should voice goes crazy — but I think it might be one anyway.

Rest. It’s a lot of work.

Friday, whether or not it’s good

I have had quite enough of grief these days.

Lately I’ve been reading stories with endings I already know, laughing harder than warranted at my own jokes, watching really horribly scripted rom-coms on Netflix. On Easter weekend, while most of my friends have a few days off for friends and family, I’ve opted to work extra, covering for co-workers out of town. I’ll be working Easter Sunday — just another Sunday for me. I’ve been keeping busy.

But I grew up in the church, and certain traditional impulses run deep, so Thursday evening I skip dinner to slip into the back row of a Maundy-Thursday service. After all, it’s the day on which Christians around the world celebrate the day their God was tortured to death.

It’s not a very nice holiday.

By the end of the service I am sitting criss-cross applesauce in the pew: my heels had been starting to pinch, and isn’t bare feet on holy ground also a part of Christian tradition? It feels somehow inappropriate, like I am getting away with breaking one of the unspoken rules because everyone is too polite to tell me off. I don’t mind. I feel more like myself, head tipped back as I listen to others sing.

I know Good Friday services are meant to be times of reflection, pondering mortality and, you know, the dying God, but I keep having to call my mind back from the dinner I’m missing, the work I have left to do once the service is over. I have laundry to do — maybe two loads, enough to sort into lights and darks. Blood of Christ shed for you, I remind myself sternly. Maybe I’ll wash dishes while I wait for the machines.

Pre-Easter services seem shockingly inappropriate to me — people gathered around a torture implement, symbolically re-crucifying again the God of the universe. There’s a hymn I know snatches of — Ashamed, I hear my mocking voice call out among the scoffers. Of course we are all too well-bred (or well-trained) to giggle in a church, but there’s a rather memorable similarity between the crowd of Christians staring upward in a dark church and the crowd we read about, watching a man die.

A few weeks ago, at my grandmother’s funeral, the biggest gift people offered my family was standing beside us, watching us try to wrestle through irregular grief. They couldn’t fix it, of course. But the watching seems to help, somehow.

Christianity is built around contradiction — Thursday’s service prominently featured songs about wounds that bring healing, blood that washes clean. One of the most difficult contradictions for me to understand is the idea that the work of Christianity is to not work. Blood of Christ, shed for you. Christians just drink it.

It grates against the way I think. You rarely get something for nothing, after all. The Puritan work ethic is practically genetic for me. It feels jarringly wrong that the prescribed labor of Christianity is to watch someone else work.

Sabbath rest comes before murder in the 10 commandments.

I am trying to remember to rest, these days — to unclench my fingers, set aside the cloud of klutzy motion and angling opinions and general busyness I surround myself with. I’m definitely not there yet.

Still, there’s something to be said for trying. And something for giving up.

Happy Easter, friends. May you have time to rest.


Grandma’s memory

Alzheimer’s and dementia run in my family, and my grandmother knew she was showing symptoms. When she was diagnosed with incurable cancer, she and my grandfather considered it a blessing. She didn’t want to forget her family.

I got the message Monday afternoon — her fall and resulting broken arm the week before were worse than expected, hastening the effects of the tumor — and it takes me until evening to process the information, translating a week, maybe longer into come soon. I cut short sleep the next morning to drive north and “say my goodbyes,” whatever that means. I’m bad at goodbyes, even short ones,  even to strangers’ pets. How do you say goodbye to a life?

Grandma taught me piano lessons once a week starting before I turned six. I didn’t like to practice. While she taught my siblings, I’d wander into the kitchen. Molasses crinkles and strawberry milk, fresh smushed raspberries with ice cream. (Five-year-old priorities at their finest.)

When I reach my parent’s house on Tuesday, we talk about Grandma, and also about road conditions and something funny my dad saw on a t-shirt. We show emotion and don’t, I suppose.

People keep trying to prepare me. “She’s worse than you expect.” She’s not speaking. We think she can hear us. We tell her about piano lessons, tell her we love her. We don’t have many words to use. My aunts and uncles — her children — are calling to check in, relay messages. Nobody is holding it together.

My sister is stroking her forehead and I’m holding her fingers underneath the covers and we’re trying not to count the space between breaths until we realize it’s been too long.

It makes me smile, in a way. She died as she lived — graciously, and not wanting to make anyone go to extra trouble.

It’ll hit me later.

At the funeral (in true Fultz form, the speakers have been instructed to keep it short and not cry) she is compared to “The Proverbs 31 Woman”: an unattainable Christian goal of industry and kindness, dignity and wisdom. We are inclined to glorify the dead, and she didn’t want that. Still, the idealized description didn’t ring painfully false. She was riddled with imperfection like the rest of us, but how do you follow behind someone who will be remembered for their goodness?

She raised seven children. All of them steady, level-headed, diligent. Hard-working.

“We decided to raise our children so they weren’t afraid of hard work, and we may have succeeded a little too well,” Grandpa says, and we laugh. It’s true, after all. The Fultz family never stops. I was taught to value hard work, not only for the result but also for the sake of its being hard.

She was a tad gullible, for raising a family of jokers. My dad and his dad and — well, everyone, really — would tell her dramatic stories of risk and injury and loss in a nonchalant but sincere tone, and she would gasp in heartfelt concern before her serious face shifted into the “oh come on now” expression. She’d shake her head at them as they laughed; she didn’t seem to mind being laughed at.

The shaking-her-head expression — and the smile-behind-the-hand, and a bit of a grin with an eye-roll toward us when her husband said something preposterous — are favorites of mine.

“I think you’ve got a little of her snark, the quiet stuff,” my sister tells me. A high compliment. We rarely noticed Grandma was poking fun until after the fact, when we’d turn to her and laugh, partly in surprise. She caught us off guard. She caught herself off guard, too.

Twenty-three grandchildren, and a generous handful of great-grandchildren. Somewhere in a box I still have pajamas she made for me that I outgrew years ago but didn’t want to let go of. She used to have a scrap-bag of fabric squares, printed with patterns for “easy” embroidery. I would find them after my lesson ended and try them out. Mine always looked angular, thread pulled tight through fabric. She could make the thread curve, and I’m still impressed by that. I saw her do it, and I still don’t get the mechanics.

Some of my parents’ friends come to the funeral, people that never knew Grandma. Another brings muffins to our house. This is more reassuring than anything else — the reminder that things continue, even after. Sometimes my dad needs to know that people love him. Or, at least, I need reminding that people love me, and I am my father’s daughter.

The visitation is full of other people’s memories, sides of Grandma I didn’t know. I like thinking of her as the curious one, the risk-taker. Tenacious and adventurous. Willing to put in enormous amounts of effort. The stories fit into what I know of her, even if they’re not all pieces of Grandma I remember.

Consistent is the word Grandpa uses to describe her. Married for 62 years, a steady legacy. She understood commitment. Trustworthy, dependable, effort in one direction, straining toward God. She loved her Lord. She was looking forward to seeing him.

When my dad bought a second-hand piano — a baby grand — and had it moved into our house, we found a kit in the bench compartment advertising, “Learn To Play The Piano Overnight!!” We brought it to Grandma at our lessons the next week. She was, understandably, skeptical.

“You better play all night,” she said.

I don’t have any more words for this.

How to be an adult

This is the year: I am determined to figure out how to make real food.

“Real food,” of course, means food that doesn’t come from cans or boxes. It’s made using individual ingredients that have to be mixed together. By hand. (Or, you know, by spoon.)

This wasn’t a new year’s resolution; I didn’t exactly make any. This was more of a semi-despairing life decision: Girl, you’re 22 years old, you should know how to feed yourself.

It shouldn’t be that hard, right? I’m not promising to invent fabulous new recipes or become a gourmet chef; I just want to eat a few meals a week that aren’t provided courtesy of Campbell’s or Kraft. Meals I can enjoy with pride rather than a vague sense of shame and immaturity.

Let’s face it, being able to cook seems like a basic skill to qualify for adulthood. Food is on the ground level of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. And sure, most of us can survive (even thrive) on frozen pizzas and “just add water” mixes, but there’s something about being able to cook from scratch that makes it seem like you’ve achieved the next level. Congratulations! You have crafted a delicious potato soup and may advance to the next round.

Due to some late-running meetings on Monday, I had an extra-long dinner break and decided to try out a friend’s recipe for banana-chocolate chip muffins. And let me tell you, they were delicious. They were so tasty that all I ate that night was carrots’n’dip and then a few (several) (too many) muffins — which, for the record, totally qualifies as a full meal. (All the major food groups, right? Grains, fruits, vegetables, chocolate…) I felt like I had officially checked off one of the requirements for true adulthood.

The sense of victory was somewhat short-lived when I remembered last week’s cooking adventures.

The plan was to make some grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner — a two-ingredient meal. Not that hard, right?

I managed to get distracted in the four minutes it takes to fry one side of the sandwich, only remembering my cooking attempts when I began to smell it. Melted cheese fused to the pan, blackened bread, a lingering smell of burning carbohydrates in the apartment —

Not to be defeated, I washed the pan and tried again… and became distracted, once again.

Two inedible sandwiches and a blackened outline shaped like a slice of bread permanently seared into my frying pan, and I gave up. I ate bread-and-cheese that evening. Finger food, right? The smoky smell only took a couple hours to waft out of my apartment.

Baby steps.

So I’m not there yet. This whole “competent adult” thing is harder than it looks. I keep trying, and maybe someday I’ll have a success rate higher than 50 percent. The odds aren’t good enough to bet, but I’ve got my fingers crossed.

However, this regular failure when it comes to cooking has given me a solid comeback when it comes to kind friends, family and coworkers encouraging me to settle down.

“Do you know any nice men?” they ask. “Are you seeing anyone special?”

A boyfriend? I say. I can’t even keep track of a grilled cheese sandwich.

Yoo betcha

I’ve always been interested in accents.

I’m not good with languages — it takes me ages to learn even the simplest of phrases — and maybe that’s why I listen so closely when it comes to little things, like the way people from different sides of the country make vowel sounds and drop consonants. (Sometimes I find myself listening more closely to the way people talk than what they’re actually saying.)

However, I’ve never been able to identify my own.

“Y’all have such cah-yewt ahy-ak-sents!” my Texan relatives say when my family heads south for a visit. I don’t know how to respond, because I notice that they stretch out every “ah” and “ay” sound into an extra syllable, but I can’t hear anything in mine. To me, my ahy-ak-sent sounds like naked English — no frills, no personalizations, just words in their truest original form — because, after all, I am the universal standard for correct pronunciation.

I suppose I’m too far inside my own accent to be objective.

“That’s not a word!” my mom said when my siblings and I discussed the process of re-shingling the roof of our house. To me, roof has the same vowel sound as book and put. To my mom, a military child with a bit of a pan-American accent, roof has the same sound as rude and crew.

I started to notice the Minnesotan edges of my accent when I visited my hometown of Bemidji — the far north — on my first trip home from college in St. Paul. At home (among my own people, I suppose), I noticed myself speaking in a hyper-Minnesotan accent.
“I left my baigs on the counter,” I’d say, referring to my grocery bags. Everywhere else it has the same sound as apple and act, but in northern MN it has the a of flavor. (Though it makes me cringe to encourage the stereotype — think of the Canadian eh.) I’d notice belatedly when I started dropping t’s from words — mitten and don’t now pronounced mi’n and don’ — and I’d start to grin whenever I heard the phrase, “How about yourself?” bunched into, “Howbowcherself?”

I know I’ve absorbed snatches of accents from the places I’ve traveled and the people I’ve met, and I like the idea that my accent is a bit of a patchwork. I can only identify a few of the pieces — a conspicuous r from a friend in Washington; an odd, unwriteable vowel sound in the word sorry from a few months in England. But it’s my own voice; for the most part, I don’t notice when it shifts.

So when a friendly woman I meet at a church potluck says, “You have such a great accent — where’s it from?” I’m confused for a moment. We are in Minnesota. At least to some extent, we are both from Minnesota. Honestly, I thought we were speaking exactly the same.

I’m used to tracing other people’s accents, but where’s mine from? I honestly don’t know.

One year anniversary

Come Tuesday, I’ll have lived in Worthington for exactly one year.

It feels weird, honestly. I haven’t lived in one place for this long since… Well, since high school. It feels oddly stable, like my life should be in flux right now. The balance is dizzying.

“One year,” I told myself. If I was really going to do it — move to a city smaller than my hometown, heavy with wind and harsh weather, a place where I didn’t know anyone and nobody knew me, for reasons I didn’t fully understand and couldn’t explain — if I was really going to do it, I was going to last at least one year. So I loaded up my parents’ minivan with all my earthly belongings and made the trek south to an apartment and a job at the Daily Globe, braced against the next twelve months.

And then — I don’t know when, I wasn’t paying attention — it became my job and my apartment. My town, sort of. I can’t engineer investment in places, people; it has to grow on its own. These days I sometimes find myself — on my off days — reading about the progress of a particular bill as it travels through the Minnesota Legislature, or looking at the way a local charity effort is impacting Worthington, and I wonder when that happened. When did this change from a thing that I simply do to a thing that I care about? I didn’t notice the moment I switched from observer to participant.

“This is a leaving town,” someone told me. Full of new arrivals and people who have lived here their whole lives. Relationships start to feel like they have expiration dates. When I meet someone here in town, I’m almost always asked the same two questions: “How long have you been here? Planning to stay?”

I’ll give it a year, I said. And now it has been a year, and instead of leaving I’m finding new ways to connect to the community.

This town is shaped by wind — ever-present, inflexible — and for me that applies to character and relationships as well as landscaping. The wind scrapes out the excess, everything that isn’t securely tied down, revealing rough edges and vulnerabilities, tearing open injuries. It has been a hard year. I’ve learned a little more about the things I cling to.

I’ve also met some of the kindest people I’ve known — people who have made me laugh, welcomed me into their communities. People who thought, “She won’t stay, she’s one of the leavers,” and took me in anyway. That kind of warmth, acceptance — I’m not used to it. It makes me wonder if I could have that kind of strength, that kind of generosity, and what kind of practice it takes to earn them.

I’m used to having a game plan, and I don’t have one yet. Question two left blank. But it’s been one year, and I’ve looked around and noticed I’ve put down roots here — projects I want to see to completion, relationships I want to puzzle into, community developments that make me excited about what can happen here. It doesn’t decide anything; I have roots in other places, too. But it’s been one year, and I’m still trying to pinpoint exactly when this became my town.

American citizen

He’s an immigrant from Burma, born the same year as my mother. He and his wife have lived in Worthington for several years. Their children are grown and scattered across the states. He probably has the most dignified smile I’ve ever seen.

We meet in a citizenship class at West Learning Center, where I volunteer once a week to tutor immigrants preparing to become naturalized U.S. citizens. Students practice reading and writing in English and learn answers to basic American history questions like, “Who is the father of our country?” and “What are two rights of anyone in the United States?”

He has completed the first stage of the exam when I meet him.

“He passed everything except the small talk portion,” the teacher says, guiding me over to his table. “He answered all the history questions, and he can read and write perfectly, but just — conversations — it’s difficult. Can you two maybe just talk?”

He inclines his head, grants me one of his dignified smiles. He doesn’t speak unless spoken to, I learn. He answers questions but does not initiate.

I think I understand a bit, at least. In college I studied French for five semesters (my teachers despaired of my ever achieving a passable accent), and I still struggle with the most basic of conversations.

There are so many ways to say the same thing. I can recognize the French for “What is the weather like today?” — but ask me “How’s the weather?” or “What’s it like outside?” or “Think it’ll rain?” and I come up empty. The words slur together if they’re not on the script I know, and that’s exactly what small talk is — unscripted.

So he and I talk. I try to remember to talk slowly; he listens carefully, staring ahead in concentration. I know I’ve said too many new words when his smile starts to look pained. He responds quickly to “Do you attend school?” but hesitates after “How long have you gone there?” I mentally kick myself, because long refers to distance more often than time, and gone is more vague than attend, and there refers to the previous question, and that’s far too much to lazily toss at someone who has just begun learning English.

I tap my head and roll my eyes, to show that it’s my fault, and his smile eases a little. He’s working so hard to understand.

“Did you make breakfast this morning?” I ask.

“Breakfast — yes, coffee,” he says, sitting back in his chair.

“How do you take your coffee?” I ask, and the smile starts to slip.

“What do you put in your coffee?” I ask, searching for new words to ask the same question. “Do you put cream, or sugar, or do you take it black — with nothing — just coffee?”

He looks at me silently, staring at the empty Styrofoam cup in front of me.

“One moment,” I say. I step outside the classroom to the coffee cart waiting in the hall, carrying the creamer and sugar back to our table.

I open my mouth to explain again, but he cuts me off, eyes lighting up.

“No sugar, just milk,” he says.

“Yes!” I say, a little too loudly, and he almost laughs at my enthusiasm, but offers his dignified smile instead. He understood the question. I didn’t teach him that.

We talk every other week, give or take. Learning conversation in a new language is practicing spontaneity: you’re methodically training for casual comfort, and it feels completely counterintuitive. It takes time, even if you study every day.

When I walk into class the day after his test, I almost don’t recognize him, because he doesn’t have that dignified smile — it’s an unrestrained grin I’ve never seen before stretching across his face, and he doesn’t have to tell me that he passed.

Snapshots of a road trip

When I was little, my family and I used to take a road trip to Texas every other Christmas.

Most of my mom’s family lives in or near San Antonio. My parents would load up the minivan with a week’s worth of luggage and pile three sleepy kids into the car, then trading driving shifts through the night. The trip lasts approximately 23 hours.

This year, my family decided to relive those road trip memories and make the trek south for the first time in a while. With three adult children. In my mom’s brand-new five-seater car.

“This is a bad idea,” I pointed out. “This is a recipe for murder.”

“We’ll be OK,” my sister said. “Everyone will just have to practice being decent.”

“No one is decent after 13 hours in a five-seater car,” I said. This seems obvious to me. Constant physical contact. Crick in your neck. Shared breathing space. Tired but unable to get comfortable so you keep shifting, changing positions, and the person beside you moves to accommodate and then you have to move again and someone’s knee is cutting off circulation in your arm and —

“It’ll be fine!” my mom said brightly. I was overruled.

I want it down on record that I voted against.

At 10:30 p.m., my family swings through Worthington to pick me up. As I’ve just gotten off work, I volunteer to take the first shift driving.

We pull over at the Bob and Steve’s to buy gas.

“Does everyone have everything they need?” Dad asks.

“Yes,” my sister says.

“I think I want to get my pillow,” Mom says.

“Do we have any chips?” asks my brother.

“Can I give you my purse to put in the back?” I ask.

“If you need to get something, get it now,” Dad says.

“Just put it under your feet,” Mom tells me.

“Right there under the brake pedal,” my brother encourages.

I put my head in my hands. We have not even left town and I am reduced to helpless snickering in the front seat as my family unpacks and repacks the trunk of the car, chattering. Every obstacle encountered — “Wait! Where are the chargers? Do you think we’ll need our extra shoes?” — only makes me laugh harder. Even after we’ve finished filling up on gas and pulled into the parking lot, it takes another 15 minutes until everyone is satisfied, the car is set and I have permission to drive out.

Off to a rolling good start.

Just before 5 a.m. we pull into another gas station. My brother is driving now, and I start to blink awake at the change in light. Slumped on a pillow in the back center seat, I’m still hazy when everyone starts talking at once.

“Say —”

“Um, Ben, behind right —”


A crunching noise, and the car rocks sideways. Dad, who had been leaning against the back passenger side door, tips sideways against me.

There are maybe four seconds of dead silence before everyone starts talking again.

The accident isn’t our fault. A pickup truck driver backing out of the parking lot forgot to check mirrors and hit us broadside. She apologizes on replay, and we keep assuring her that no one is hurt. The entire rear passenger door is dented concave, though, and we spend a good half hour documenting the damage and calling insurance before we continue as is. It doesn’t take too long for the collective adrenaline high to collapse, and the car slips back into tenuous early morning quiet.

We stop in Dallas late afternoon to see family friends. We talk, play games with the kids and eat homemade pizza. I don’t say much; the air is filled with words as it is. Mom is getting so caught up in a story that her thoughts are outpacing her words; my brother is tossing sarcasm to the peanut gallery under his breath; my sister is deep in conversation with the family’s youngest; Dad is smirking from the far end of the table. I rest my elbow on the table and lean, smiling drowsily.

“I’d love to know what’s going on in your head,” our host says.

“Just —” I gesture vaguely at the table. “I love my family.”

“I know,” he says, grinning.

I’m happy to report that we all survived the last leg of the trip to San Antonio. Texas was warmer than Minnesota, and we spent time with family we hadn’t seen in years, remembering, talking, re-forming connections. I met a cousin that hadn’t been born the last time we made the trip. I appreciate these Christmases, scattered and far between as they are. Family is still family, to me, but sometimes the ties need to be tied again.

As for the drive home…well, I think we all made it, but I didn’t exactly do a body count.

I think I’ll leave that up to the imagination.

That sneezy time of year

Barring, y’know, Ebola or something, I really only get sick once a year, but it’s a doozy. My immune system seems to organize it like a body-wide event: “We’ll lock up every disease that attacks her this year, and then release them all on the same day.” “C’mon, it’ll be fun!” “Let’s do it again next year!”

I’m knocked off-kilter for at least 48 hours, sneezing and exhausted with a spiked fever and an earache and several symptoms I haven’t yet been able to place. My skin becomes hypersensitive; I can identify small breezes that indicate people two rooms away and one floor below have opened a closet door. It would be like a superpower if it wasn’t accompanied by the sinus system drainage and fatigue.

I usually miss some major life event, too, while I’m semi-delirious and trying to disappear into the couch. My sophomore year of high school I joined the cross country team before I realized I hated competitive running. For the entirety of the season I took my temperature before each meet, desperately hoping my annual illness would strike. It held off, of course, until New Years’ Eve, two hours before a community-wide cardboard box maze I had spent days helping to construct was about to open.

My 10th-grade mind felt so betrayed by my 10th-grade body.

This year it’s been pretty standard — I’ve gone through at least four boxes of tissues and bought the medicine that makes the cashier ask, “You’re 18, right?”

But it’s not all bad — I’ve read more “fun” stories and watched more superhero dramas in the past two days than I have in quite a while. I’ve caught up on sleep and snacked on chocolate chip cookies. And hey, staring at the same place on my wall for several limp hours has given me ideas for redecorating. Really, the annual illness is doing me a favor.

But I’m really looking forward to having energy again — being able to do basic things like, y’know, move without the thought I-hate-everything-why-am-I-not-asleep hovering in front of my consciousness. I’m counting on it being a 48-hour bug this year, because otherwise I’ll have to shop for groceries in this state, and nobody wants to see me selecting apples at the produce stand. (As a community service, if it comes to that, I solemnly swear to wear surgical gloves and one of those SARS masks, just in case.)

In the meantime, though, I’ll return to my couch — gazing incoherently at my walls until my eyes decide to shut, pondering if I have the energy to remember my Netflix password and hoping tomorrow, maybe, I’ll be back to normal, once again grateful for the glorious wonder of nature that is the high-functioning human body.

See you on the other side.

Thanksgiving split

This year I have a double Thanksgiving planned — one traditional, and one entirely new.

I’m driving north Wednesday morning to help with prep for the hordes of family that will arrive Thursday. Thanksgiving is our holiday to host, and if I know my parents, my mom has already entered “the cleaning zone” while my dad is still pondering last-minute home improvement projects he won’t actually start until an hour or so before guests start to arrive. (Only joking, Dad.) (Mostly…) The kitchen will be a mini-tornado of high stress and buttered potatoes, and my siblings and I will keep circling back to Mom for marching orders until family starts to arrive and we escape to play carpetball with the cousins or brew coffee for Grandma.

One of my favorite Thanksgiving traditions fits into the 20-second speech my dad gives just before the meal. It’s not even the prayer — my grandpa will bless the meal right after. My dad gathers everyone’s attention, announces the food is ready and invites my grandpa to pray, after which, my dad says, my mom will “do what she does best — tell us what to do.”
My mom hits his arm, everyone laughs, my grandpa prays, and then my mom actually does tell us what to do — which way the buffet line will travel around the kitchen island, which dishes are spicy, where to find the drinks. Once she says “go,” the only thing that matters is the (rapidly shrinking) distance between each of us and the pumpkin pie.

I look forward to that annual gibe-and-response every year, and I’m not really sure why. It’s a symbol of things staying the same, certainly — my dad still mocks my mom for her type-A organizational habits and then hands the reins over to her; my mom still rises to the bait and then laughs along. Maybe I respond to the community aspect of it — a personal joke made semi-public, a kind of proof that my parents trust the people filling the room, a way of loosening the instinctive stiffness between people who only see each other a few times a year. Maybe it’s just the tradition — the fact that, planned or unplanned, the same joke happens every year.

But this year I have a second Thanksgiving. On Friday, I’ll hop on a plane to California, where I’ll celebrate again with a few of my closest friends.

I’ve never been to the west coast before. (I anticipate warmer temperatures and a higher concentration of extroverts.) My California friend is in a happy planning frenzy, and we’ve left the details up to her. (I swear she even mentioned something about riding elephants, which sounds like more of a lofty dream than a reality, but I am tentatively raising my hopes … who doesn’t love an elephant?) Honestly, I’m excited simply to see my friends again — letters and texts and Skype don’t always cut it. We built these friendships over 2 a.m. cups of tea and half-successfully smothered laughter in libraries, shared weirdnesses and unintentional vulnerability. I’m eager to see them (elephants or no).

But instead of two Thanksgivings, it feels a bit like I’m splitting one, neither holiday quite adding up to a whole. A shortened weekend with my family — will there be time for guitar-playing and leftovers? And a few days with college friends is not enough to fit in all the words and silences we need to share. It seems like every time you love someone, however poorly, a tiny thread connects you to them, and having that thread stretched tight hurts. I didn’t mean for most of those threads to be tied — usually I don’t notice them until after the fact, you know? I’ve already discovered a few here in Worthington.

People don’t exist in a vacuum, and while some seem to easily balance the space/time continuum as it pertains to relationships, I’ve never been good at the act. It’s forced me to be more intentional with the places I invest my time and energy, to work harder at communication and honesty.

But I guess that’s what I’m thankful for, this year — the people I’m tied to, old and new. Despite my own limitations, they’ve stuck around and been willing to work with phone calls, 160-character limits and half-holidays, because every minute counts. I’m so excited to take part in my family’s time-honored traditions this year — and I look forward to a few new adventures, too.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!