In a poem we can do whatever we want

“When I was a girl, my life was music that was always getting louder. Everything moved me. A dog following a stranger. That made me feel so much. A calender that showed the wrong month. I could have cried over it. I did. Where the smoke from the chimney ended. How an overturned bottle rested at the edge of a table.
I spent my life learning to feel less.
Every day I felt less.
Is that growing old? Or is it something worse?
You cannot protect yourself from sadness without protecting yourself from happiness.”
— Jonathan Safran Foer 

They laughed “like birds” and didn’t care what people thought of them, which really means they wanted people to think they were interesting. They were interesting. Two years ago I would have done anything to be their friends. Now, I wasn’t so sure. I’m not really sure about anything.

Really, I was out of place at this table. My sweater was from Bananna Republic. My personality too reserved, too mainstream.  My thoughts a million miles away from the table conversation of indie bands and French kissing and after parties. I wanted to leave but stayed. I went outside with the smokers but did not smoke. I leaned againt the brick wall hoping that no one noticed me. I didn’t want anyone to ask what I was thinking.

In the brisk night air, all I wanted was warm hands to touch my cold skin. I wanted to feel my molecules dance, for my cells to expand and contract and make a special noise that only my heart can hear. I wanted it so bad it hurt.

Because of weddings and funerals and my mother’s bribery, I’ve been to church more in the past six months than I have been in the last six years. This Saturday I will attend church again for my second funeral this year. My reluctance to attend church is not because I’m not spiritual:  I am. But my spirituality is better served standing under a giant oak tree than seated in a pew.

Lately, I’ve come to grips with mortality and acknowledging that the one guarantee of existence is an end. When I read on Twitter that someone had died yesterday in a fiery crash on I-70, I scanned the photograph of the wreck worrying that the car in flames was a familiar Honda or Toyota. Someone can be gone just like that.

Today, I was a bad public health student. In the middle of our discussion on the future of public health in third world countries and developed countries, I wanted to raise my hand, and say, “You do know that everyone eventually dies, right? Why are we fighting so hard for a never-ending uphill battle?”

I was surprised when my mother told me that Ernestine had requested to be buried in Anna, IL and had discussed other arrangements for her funeral when my mother visited her in Memphis. How could Ernestine – the aunt who never was practical, who lived in a world where she made the rules – accept her own death? But, I suppose, if your doctor told you that you had six months to live after losing a battle with colon cancer, you would find a way to face mortality.

I do not know how religious my aunt was. I never knew her that well to ask. I think she would have preferred to talk about Elvis or shopping or about how times were better in the ’50s and ’60s, anyway. I do remember my conversations about religion with Kirk. I’m pretty sure I asked him if he was atheist the first night we kissed, a night when I hadn’t exactly invited him over, a night when he just told me he was coming over to watch Short Bus with me. We stayed up until 5 a.m. talking about philosophy, listening to White Stripes and making out.

The last time I had a meaningful conversation with Kirk was in May. He had come to Columbia to help me move, but showed up after we moved all my boxes. I hadn’t really invited him to stay at my place that weekend but he did. I remember I came downstairs that morning, and the blankets on the couch were empty. I was worried that he disappeared and pulled “a Kirk.” I found him outside sitting on the lawn furniture smoking and drinking tea. For the first time, I noticed the bandage that covered his bed sores. He called me motherly that weekend because I made sure he had enough blankets and enough food. That morning as he smoked his cigarette, we apologized, without really apologizing, for the things that we had said or done to each other since our first kiss.

Sometimes I still expect Kirk to show up and invite himself to my house. Or to be drinking at the bar. Or send me a random message on Facebook. But he won’t.

In sixth grade, I really wanted to punch Ernest Hemingway in the face. I had just finished watching the movie, “In Love and War,” and  the Ernest Hemingway I wanted to suffer was played by Chris O’Donnell.

The movie is loosely based on the real-life events of Hemingway during World War I. In 1918, the 18-year-old Hemingway was wounded by a machine gun fire and a shrapnel. At the military hospital in Italy where he is treated,  he falls in love with his nurse, Agnes von Kurowsky. The romance eventually ends with Agnes’ ”Dear John” letter. Henry Serrano Villard, author of “Heminway in Love and War,” described these events as ”a relationship that would first captivate and then wound him [Hemingway] deeply.” Eventually, Hemingway would memorialize the relationship in several pieces of writing, including a ”Farewell to Arms.”

In the fictionalized version, Agnes pays a visit to Heminway after Italy. He tells her, ”Part of me wants to hold you in my arms…but I’ve changed.” Before she leaves, Agnes tells him she loves him. He doesn’t respond. Agnes later reflects, “I often wonder what would have happened if he put me in his arms that day, but his pride meant he wasn’t able to forgive me.” The filmmakers have you believe these events cause the hurt, young Heminway to turn into the angry, alcoholic Hemingway who eventually takes his own life in 1961 after a brilliant writing career.

In reality, the couple never again cross paths after Italy. Agnes doesn’t marry until she’s 36, and Heminway marries four times. Hemingway’s fictional lack of response to Agnes’ apology upset me the most when I was 12. For days, the story consumed me. It was like the heartbreak was my own heartbreak. I lost my appetite, and I had trouble concentrating in school.

I woke up angry this morning and remembered that movie and how much I wanted to punch Ernest Hemingway in the face. During lunch, I went to Ellis and found a copy of “Heminway in Love and War.” I always open the first few pages of a book to determine if I want to commit to it. The first page read:  Take not from the Past its ashes but its fire. – Anon

I didn’t need to read more. I checked the book out.

“It’s Christmas on crack,” said my roommate after we put two six-foot Christmas trees up in our duplex, lights outsides and garland on the staircase. Yes, not even five hours ago was I complaining about my “Bah! Humbug” Christmas spirit. I forced myself to drag my Christmas decorations out from the garage and storage closet. At some point between hanging  the Abominable Snowman ornament and the ugly angel ornament I inherited, the Christmas spirit came over me.

Notice the Truman the Tiger ornament

As I passed the freshly Christmas-decorated accounting office, I realized how much I am not in the holiday spirit. In fact, I wouldn’t mind if I skipped the holiday season altogether. The thought of Christmas carols, awkward holiday parties and tinsel makes me nauseous.

The only positive aspect of the holiday is I have a week and a half off work to do whatever I want. No work. No school. My nonrefundable ticket to Buffalo has been left untouched. Transferring it to a round-trip ticket to somewhere else will cost me more than it’s worth. I considered taking the bus from Buffalo to NYC or Toronto and spending my break writing Jack Kerouac-style. But spending New Year’s in a bar with a bunch of strangers seems awfully lonely. Would it be more lonely than spending New Year’s with a group of friends? I’m not sure.

I’ll actually probably spend the time packing up my childhood home, the one I watched and help build from the foundation up. Then traveling to Dallas to help my parents choose their new home. It’s weird that my parents are moving. It’s sort of like the last link to my childhood is dying.

I actually do love Christmas. I usually over decorate my apartment with signs of Christmas everywhere and presents for all my friends under the tree. This year all I want to do is take the blue and red ball ornaments and throw them against the wall and watch them shatter.

We throw our parties; we abandon our families to live alone in Canada; we struggle to write books that do not change the world, despite our gifts and our unstinting efforts, our most extravagant hopes. We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep. It’s as simple and ordinary as that. A few jump out windows, or drown themselves, or take pills; more die by accident; and most of us are slowly devoured by some disease, or, if we’re very fortunate, by time itself. There’s just this for consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds and expectations, to burst open and give us everything we’ve ever imagined, though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) know these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult. Still, we cherish the city, the morning; we hope, more than anything, for more. Heaven only knows why we love it so…

I discovered this quote from The Hours by Michael Cunningham my senior year of high school. In an odd way, I found this quote uplifting, kinda like I found The Bell Jar uplifting. Maybe I’m comforted to know that other people struggle. Or maybe I like to remind myself to appreciate those moments that “against all odds and expectations, to burst open and give us everything we’ve ever imagined.” When was the last time you experienced that moment? For me, it was during the Mason Jennings concert when this baby-faced, romantic showed me how to foxtrot during the “Tourist.” I was smiling because it was ridiculous to be foxtroting during a show at the Blue Note. In that moment when I was stumbling to learn the dance with this stranger who for some reason found me interesting, I was happy. I can’t explain it. I just was.

My family is abandoning me in Missouri and fleeing to Texas. This is not how things were supposed to work out. I was not supposed to be the last to leave Missouri. Yet, here I am in Missouri with no real exit strategy and no job prospects.

Everybody around me is moving, changing and growing. And I feel stuck.

I need a new chapter, a chapter more lighthearted, perhaps? Can it be a chapter where I dance and laugh a lot? I want to stumble across a brilliant change. I want to be moved and inspired and walk with 100 percent confidence.

Today, I have a new phone and phone number, and I like to think that this day is the beginning of a new me, a start over.

When the sun hit her eyes this morning, she knew she wanted to tell him.  But there on the sidewalk where she met him this morning, the words remained where those secret thoughts linger.   Her tongue failed her.

They knew each well by not knowing everything.  She didn’t know what muscles on his face made him smile when he watched her sing aloud to that overplayed song on the radio.  And he wasn’t entirely sure what part of her brain that kept those dark thoughts that were only shared on the phone calls that started with tears.

She didn’t tell him.  She couldn’t.   She was afraid of what the muscles on his face would do if she told him.  The muscles she would never understand.

Later, alone, the pen had the courage her tongue did not.  And the words fell onto the paper.  She signed her name with love to end it.  When she folded it, she knew she had already forgotten the address.  On the walk to the post office, she found an empty bottle.  She turned around walking in the opposite direction.  She started running, worried it was too late.   Right before the sun disappeared, she felt the sand under her toes.   With all the strength she could possibly find, she threw the bottle into the waves still hoping he would somehow know.

Some people are runners. They feel the urge to run in their blood and can run for miles and miles. They get addicted to the “runner’s high.” I’m not one of those people.

I’m a lazy runner and give up after a mile or two. I run for practical reasons  and do not pound the ground to satisfy a primitive need. Usually, to run any sort of real distance I need motivation, such as real running partner or a competition. Today, my motivation was the 5K Turkey Trot.

Waking up at 6:00 a.m. after little sleep and standing outside with the temperature in the low 30s, I decided to be serious about this race. I wasn’t prepared for the race. I didn’t stretch. My pre-race training consisted of running twice in the last month and not making it very far before I found a proper excuse to stop. But, by golly, I would run this race!

The race started, and I found something exhilarating about running with a group of people in freezing weather. For me, this feeling is the closet thing I would have to experiencing anything like fighting an epic battle. At first, I ran with my sister and her boyfriend. My sister, less athletic than me, wanted to walk some after the first half mile. I kept running and decided to keep going. The last time I ran close to a 5K was this past spring, when I found that running on the trail was the only way to get away from my thoughts. I would wake up every Saturday and eat two slices of toast and head to the trail. I ran to escape the thoughts that kept me up at night. The harder I thought about things, the harder I ran. Eventually, the thoughts would give, and I would be running free from the world.

I expected my body to protest my proposal to run so far in the cold. The natural endorphins kicked in and when I saw that I finished two miles without a problem I knew I could finish it. For the first time in a really long time, my head was clear, like I had reached a place that only people who mediate find.

A half mile later, I was nearing the Shrine Mosque Center and some women ahead of me started walking. This killed my state of mind, and suddenly, I really wanted to walk. My body was done. My knees sore. My motivation gone. Somehow, though, I forced my body onward. I said to myself, “Kelsey, you are stronger than you think you are.” Whether I said this to my body or my soul, I’m not sure, but it worked. I kept running and ignored any pain. After I passed the Shrine Mosque Center and rounded the corner, I could see the finish line. I smiled so big and found the energy to run faster, harder. I finished. I did it.

Finishing the race today gave me new motivation. I’m going to start running more. I’m going to believe in my strength. I’m going to make it to the finish line.

10 Things I Love about My Family (in no particular order)

1. We truly love spending time together. Despite a few fights and meltdowns here and there, my family has traveled peacefully to almost all of the 50 states together. These were the best memories of my childhood, hands down.

2. My family embraces silliness. My weird noises were modeled after my father’s weird noises. My mom and sister enjoy silly puns and ridiculous jokes. We manage to find humor in our crazy extended family.

3. My dad’s  excitement for new things and his “kicks.” This time my dad is on a wine kick. He came home with eight bottles and took each out of his wine case that he bought and described them.

4. We love food. In my kindergarten yearbook, I was quoted saying, “My mom is a good cook.” I still believe that.  Now, my sister and I share her love for cooking. My dad, of course, has always enjoyed eating the food.

5. My mom’s instinct of knowing exactly when to treat me like a child instead of 24 and vice versa. Today, for instance, she told me to snuggle with her on the couch.

6. My parents willingness to add to our family. Growing up, we had two exchange students and a cousin live with us. Now, my family includes my sister’s boyfriend into our family activities and thinks of him when shopping. There’s a case of seasonal beer for him in our garage.

7. My parents’ relationship. I actually really believe they love each other. They laugh together. They support each other.

8. How we spoil each other. My family enjoys doing things for each other. I was taught that if you can do something nice for someone you love, you do it.

9. My sister. My sister and I are close. It’s been amazing to watch her grow into the woman she is today. I’m so proud of her.

10. My family’s support.  My family has always been completely supportive, even when I started saying I wanted to be a writer at the age of six. Or when I was convinced I should move to New York.

I am so thankful for my family.