July, July

It was about a year ago. The cicadas were buzzing and there was always a dripdripdrip in the background from leaky window air conditioners. I got out my cello a few times to practice, the back of my hand sore from the stretch from first to fourth position. And when I knew I wouldn't improve any more, I set up a microphone, turned off our air conditioner and ceiling fan, and recorded myself playing, the cicadas and drips keeping not-so-great time. Or maybe it was me who was off.

her

I see the woman I want to be

in glimpses caught through the trees of too little time and torpidity

like a ghost she floats

and I cannot touch her

prickles

I stopped shaving my legs. And I don't intend to ever start again. Why should I waste my time, energy, money, and water on doing something that does not benefit my life or well-being in any way?

I remember the first time I shaved my legs. I think I was in fourth or fifth grade. We had had a school assembly of some sort and I noticed that one of my classmates had no hair on her legs. I knew what shaving was-- I had two older sisters and a mom who all shaved. But for some reason, seeing those hairless legs on one of the "popular" girls made it suddenly click: shaving my legs was the only way to be cool, pretty, popular. Looking down on my hairy legs that day, I was ashamed. Because how dare I have cute little blonde hairs growing out of my legs when they should be smooth and shiny and hairless. When I went home that day, I asked my mom to show me how to shave. She lathered up one leg and demonstrated. Told me to do the other by myself.

It took me a while to get fed up with shaving. I was on the swim team in high school, after all, and I had to shave to be faster. (This is a funny statement because I was slow, no matter how much hair I had on my legs.) And after that, I didn't really think about it. It's just something that I had to do. But then I started thinking about it, and it's just so ridiculous.

My worth as a human being should not be determined by how hairy my legs are. My worth should not be determined by if I wear makeup, how much sex I have, what clothes I wear, how I do my hair, what my body looks like when it is naked. But because I'm a woman, I'm told that those things are exactly what determines my worth as a person because someone somewhere along the way decided that women should be judged on those types of things.

It was probably a man who made up how a woman's worth is determined. But today, it's mostly other women who make sure these judgments stay firmly in place. And I'm not innocent. I have judged other women for looking slutty, for being too skinny, for wearing too much makeup. It's ridiculous, isn't it? It's almost like a mastermind planned it: "Get them to turn against each other, and they will never rise up."

So I decided to stop shaving my legs. Because I'm a mammal and I grow hair all over my body and it is stupid to pretend like I don't grow hair on one part of it. This does not make me any less of a woman, or more importantly, any less of a human being. Just like a fat woman wearing skin-tight clothes does not make her a disgusting person, but rather someone who is comfortable in her own skin and doesn't give a fuck what you think of her.

And that type of woman is very dangerous. And that's exactly the type of woman I am.

Because this is not disgusting-- it's natural! Albeit not very long yet.

I'm not writing this to say that women should stop shaving or that I'm better than other women because I did stop shaving. I'm not better than anyone else. We all have worth. Regardless of what we look like or what we wear. And my hairy legs remind me that I'm awesome, even if by societal standards I'm a freak. And my hairy legs remind me that this skinny bitch next me is not a skinny bitch, but a person who has thoughts and feelings and worth.

this morning

laying in bed

man woman cat

family

listening to birds chirping 

and the last dregs of raindrops falling from the clouds

and tree branches

cool breeze through the open window

lulling us to sleep

The end

The Office aired its final show tonight, and I am devastated. For nine seasons, I cozied into the lives of the strange, beautiful people of Dunder Mifflin in Scranton, PA. I laughed with them, groaned, cried, and I grew up with them. They were my companions from high school through college and into my adult life. And I can't believe I have to say goodbye. It's like saying goodbye to a person you love and care deeply for, knowing that you will never see or hear from them again.

I know it's a little silly to care so much about a TV show. I know it's silly to say that the characters were there for me. But they were. They were a constant in an ever-changing world. Their problems reflected my problems and I could laugh for 30 minutes (or if I was really lucky, a whole hour!) about them.

I love The Office for so many reasons. The writing and acting was perfect. It was genuine and funny and sometimes deeply profound. The show made me care for all of the characters, whether they were despicable, awkward, stupid, or awesome. I loved them all. So I'm not just saying goodbye to one friend, or six, but to 20. I'm heartbroken.

This week, probably last week too, I've been crying whenever I see an old clip or think about it too much. I think every episode since January has made me cry. Maybe even before that. I guess because I knew the end was coming. And I was so worried about all of my friends, what would happen... if they'd be happy. But tonight's finale gave me peace. It was perfect. It was funny and sad. It wrapped up everything, but not too tightly, and not forcefully.

What I am

For months I had no desire to work on my current writing project. I blamed numerous things-- working too much, laziness, no inspiration. I suppose it was a mix of all.

Not wanting to write was a very different way for me to feel. I was alien, not myself. I didn't even feel like blogging.

Then, something changed. I had to open the next day (which means being at work before 5 a.m.), and I was trying desperately to sleep. But I couldn't because I couldn't stop thinking about this story about a zombie-like outbreak. It's so unlike me... I'm a realism girl.

But the best part? The next day I actually started writing it. And then the day after that I wrote more. And I've written more. Maybe I just needed a break from realism, real life.

It's funny how something so little can have such a big impact. Going to work still isn't great, but it's so much more bearable now, knowing that I can come home and actually get something productive done. To know that I'm not defined by my job, but by what I do on my off time. 

I'm a writer, goddammit. 

I bought myself a cookbook for my birthday. It's for artisan breads and pizza and it's supposed to be very good. I was super excited to buy it, and I thought my birthday was a good excuse to do it.

My birthday is in January. It's March now-- almost two whole months since I've owned the book and I have barely opened it.

I am intimidated and lazy, and that's why I haven't delved into it, covered my hands with flour and kneaded.

And I'm beginning to realize that that is where most of my problems with life come from. Being intimidated and lazy.

Silver

I had a sliver hair jutting out from my head at a wacky angle, and I couldn't help but to look at it. Obsess over it. It's not the first silver. I have a well-established one in my bangs; it doesn't actually look bad. But this hair, sticking out as if saying, "HEY LOOK! I'M SILVER!" ... it threw me off. It just reminded me every time I saw it that I'm getting old and that I need to get a move on before I am stuck living someone else's expectations for my life.

My problem is that I used to have dreams... and now I've forgotten what they were. Maybe I just grew up, lost that whimsical child-sense that anything is possible.

And I just need to get over that. I want to know that anything is possible. I want to have crazy-wild dreams and pursue them with crazy-wild abandon.

Uncle Wayne

My Uncle Wayne died in September. It was not unexpected; he had had cancer and many complications from it for quite some time.

But it was still tragic. He suffered a lot in his last few months, and I think that's what is making it so hard for me to deal with the fact that he's not here anymore. I want to reimagine a more comfortable end.

His funeral was simple, informal. Perfect for him. It was in the same place that his wedding reception had been-- one of his and his wife's favorite restaurants. And the last place that I had seen him before he died, where he looked both better and worse than I thought he would and for once I thought he might actually pull through.

We all did a shot of Jameson at the service because it was one of his last requests. He wanted to have one last drink with his loved ones. That moment, lifting the tiny plastic cup to my lips, was so tremendously heartbreaking and humbling. My last (and first) shot of whiskey with my uncle.

I was crying so much after that shot that I couldn't get up and talk about him, memorialize my version of him. Talk about how as a child I was afraid of him, as little things are of big things. About how I got over my fear because he was gentle with me, even as he gruffly talked about the shape of his last turds, giggling about it like a teenager. About how he was such a full person, because could laugh about poop while being incredibly intelligent and enjoying classical music. About his generosity. About his encouragement, and how I'll never stop playing the cello thanks to him.

We had a strange and beautiful bond over music. When I started playing cello in high school, he converted his entire classical library to mp3 discs for me for Christmas. Hours upon hours of cellos, and less importantly violins. Whenever we saw each other he would ask how it was going, my music. He asked with his eyes on me, unglazed, and he spoke quietly because he wasn't asking for the room-- he wanted to know for himself. When he was sick, I sent him CDs of me playing. Just twice. The first one was a concert recording of my string quartet in college. The second was six or seven songs I recorded in early August, with the cicadas keeping time in the background. I don't know if he ever got around to listening to it before he died.

And perfectly, like a well-written book, my Aunt Deb, his wife/love of his life, gave me his iPod. It's an old one, one of the first maybe, 60 gigs. Full of his music. Full of him, because what music you choose to play in your ears is an intimate part of you. When I scroll through all the artists, I am getting a privileged look at my dear Uncle Wayne. I am understanding, posthumously, how complicated and brilliant he was, as he has probably every genre on it, from Billie Holiday to Billy Idol to, of course, those beautiful cellos (and more).

The most perfect part is that there are still enough gigs available that I could put my music on. . .
Uncle Wayne and I will keep having our music conversations.

My Year

Okay. I've redesigned my blog. And I'm hoping to redesign my life, bit by bit. Adjust the colors, change the fonts, etc.

In January, I went to a Naming Your Year Retreat, wherein you unearth your intentions and desires for the coming year. The retreat allowed for inner reflection and creative space. It was really great.

In the days leading up to the retreat, I was nervous and antsy about my somewhat-near future. It felt like I had a strict deadline to decide exactly what I was going to do, and I had a lot of options to choose from-- most of which were pretty dramatic changes.

If you've read some of my past entries, or know me a little, you know that I've been struggling with a lot of things... my job, my self-worth, my identity.

All of that was weighing on me when I headed to the retreat.

After taking some quiet reflection time, here's what I wrote in my journal:

I want to lie naked on a rock
spread eagle, nipples to the sky.
I want all of me 
to connect with the earth
feel its vibrations in my gut and hair and fingernails.
I want it to tell me where
why 
most importantly how.
I want to dive into the pool
inside me
hundreds of feet deep
but I can see the bottom through water like a magnifying glass
clear and clean.
And I want to emerge from the cold water
naked still
and float on the surface
with the water in my ears so
all I hear is it and me
my breathing and my heartbeat
the same as the water's.

This year I'll be 25. A quarter of a century old. It's fine. I'm not upset about getting older. I'm upset that I don't know what I want to do with my life. I do know-- I want to create and help. But how do I get there? This will be the year of figuring that out.

The paths are laid out in front of me. A spiderweb of choices, challenges, changes. It's overwhelming because what if I choose the wrong string to pull?

The Year of Stuck Bugs on Every Strand. Because I'll be fed no matter where I choose to go. It's the year of realizing that there isn't a wrong choice. Or a permanent one. I can always go back to the center of my web and sprawl out naked on my rock, with four limbs or eight.

And that's what I named my year: The Year of Stuck Bugs on Every Strand. Alternatively, The Year of Endless Possibilities.

While I feel more comfort about my life and future now, it is still a little overwhelming. I keep reminding myself that this is The Year of Stuck Bugs on Every Strand. That I have options everywhere. I'll be fed everywhere.

But... change needs to start small, I guess. So I want to start blogging regularly again. And I don't want it to be negative. I want to get back to that crazy positive person that I used to be. I want to enjoy writing again. And I want to be able to share it. Because what fun is it to write to myself?

Here's my art from the retreat, featuring a spider with boobs and a lot of jewel-bugs.