Death--Or Something Like It

I hate saying goodbye, and yet it feels like that's all I've been doing lately.  Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.  I'm not sure why we even preface a "bye" with "good."  What, I want to know, is good about a bye?  Bye means waving at someone's back when they've turned away from you, when you know you won't see them soon--or ever, maybe.  Bye means releasing desires, hopes, dreams from the fists you have so tightly wrapped around them.  Bye means losing pieces of yourself, pieces that create holes in the wake of their absence, holes that you only wish could be filled again, but never will because what once filled them can't ever be again.

I said goodbye last night.  Lying in my bed, pillow cradling my aching head, I wept over what I've had that I don't have anymore.  I cried because only hours earlier a band that managed to weasel its way into my college memories was playing for the last time in a barn in south Marion, Indiana, my home for four years, the home I just said goodbye to seven months ago.  I cried because I live ten hours away, ten hours I couldn't justify spending on yet another trip to see them play.  I cried because I felt removed from my old life, from the things that were at my finger tips only months ago that now are hundreds of miles away.  

I'm saying goodbye in less than two months.  I'm leaving my friends, my family, these United States, to go to a country that I've been to before,  yet have dreamed of living in since I was a child.  And I know that I'm already setting myself up for more pain--more goodbyes--when two months later I will return, with more holes, more pieces of myself that have abandoned me, choosing to stay overseas in a place that I may not ever revisit.

And then, because this seems to be an ongoing theme, I am saying goodbye to Atlanta when I get back.  Even though the city has lost its charm, has grown old and dowdy to someone who enjoys (too much) new things, new explorations, I still will miss so much about it.  I will miss who I became while living here, the independence I gathered up inside myself after spending three summers away from anyone I knew.  I will miss the people I have met--though few and far between, they have helped me, encouraged me to press forward, to pursue goals I've only made within the few years that I have been here.  I will miss the High, the Fox, Atlantic Station, Ikea, Virginia-Highland, L5P.  I will miss getting lost, determined, though, to find my way even when it seemed hopeless.  I'll miss my bakeries, sweet tea, sweet potato fries, a culture that embraces both "sweet" and "fried" in their culinary vocabulary.  I will miss a lot.

So I'm saying bye, not with a "good," but with a huge, awful sigh.  I am crying over the things I am losing: music, experiences, home.  And I am resigned to the fact that I don't know what the hell I am saying hello to.  That at the end of these byes, there doesn't seem to be any sort of glimpse as to what will greet me.  If these are deaths, if these byes are a letting go, then I want new life.  I want birth.  I want something to hold onto.

I'll See You In April

Last weekend, my mom and I drove up to Indiana for what would be my last stateside road trip until April when I return from the UK.  With a stop in Nashville, two days in Indianapolis, and a visit to my alma mater, I found that I kept saying the same phrase over and over: "I'll see you in April."  Sometimes, succumbing to self-doubt, I would say, "Hopefully I'll see you in April," or "I'll try to see you in April."  But often I just stuck to the former, knowing that no matter what I wouldn't be seeing any of my friends for at least five more months.  At least.  

One good thing (among many) that came out of the weekend was an impromptu reunion with my quadmates from sophomore year.  In 2005, Jess, Libby, Elise, and I made the crazy decision to live together in one room at the end of one of the residence halls.  Difficult?  Yes.  Life changing?  You betcha.  The summer after that experience, I made a collage of pictures and statements for their birthdays.  During our first week of junior year, I presented each with her own frame filled with memories.  I came across part of that collage the other day.  And since I didn't make one for myself, thought that I would dedicate this post to them, my dearest of friends.  Here's to you, ladies...

You know you lived in the Quad if...

There is at least one video or picture showcasing your mad dancing skills.

You competed in a “Poop Race” even though you knew you’d never win.

[before it all began... 80's skate night freshman year]

You’ve hated at least one boyfriend (either your own or someone else’s).

The most stressful times were reasons to start a dance party.

[at the beginning... Island Party sophomore year]

You let your quadmates talk you into wearing pajamas to Steak ‘n Shake, staying out until 2 in the morning, and sleeping on the hard floor instead of your comfortable bed.

You made a resolution to work out with your quadmates every Saturday morning, but only hit the treadmill twice.

[after it ended... my birthday celebration in Fort Wayne junior year]

You know every guy Liz had a crush on, when she started liking him, why she shouldn’t like him, his nickname (if he had one), and Elise’s prediction for her love life.

You find yourself shortening every word that comes out of your mouth. (i.e. libe, din)

[the beginning of a new era... graduation 2008 senior year]

Every week involved at least one emotional breakdown and you were prepared.

You spent more than one occasion dressing a quadmate for a spontaneous outing.

[multiple generations... libby and jodi, lise and georgie (from the block), jan and liz, jeannie and jess]

The nicknames “Hairy Mother,” “Red Beard,” “Black Top,” and “Crying Mustache” bring back fond memories.

Your quadmates will not only be invited to your wedding, but will be the ones keeping you sane.

[nothing can keep us apart now... lise and austin's wedding summer 2008]

The thought of Jess yelling at you while half asleep was enough to make you shut up.

The thought of Elise staying up late was enough to make you take a nap.

The thought of Liz asking you to be quiet was enough to make you cringe.

The thought of Libby ever being a nuisance was enough to make you say, “Yeah right!”

[forever besties... impromptu reunion fall 2008]

Your shoulders were always wet with tears, your brain was always zapped for advice, your eyes were always weary from late night counseling sessions, but your soul was always ALIVE.

[I love you, girls]

What to Make of Decisions

We make decisions every day.  Mostly mundane.  Sometimes stressful (oh the amount of hair I have lost over a doozy of a decision!)  But certain decisions, whether mundane or stressful, get lost in the shuffle of life, in the minutes and the hours that we spend distancing ourselves from those nail-biting moments until we forget that we ever made one.  And we forget, too, that certain decisions we made in our past can and will affect our future.  Sometimes we try to forget; other times we had no idea that one would carry more weight than we thought it would.

I decided nearly four-and-a-half years ago to attend a private Christian university in a small town in Indiana.  I left palm trees for corn, an ocean for the plains, a city for a bypass and gravel roads.  I left friends--good friends, the kind of friends you spend more time with than your own family.  I left a church that seemed healthy on the outside, but was beginning to decay.  I left it all to go to a state I had only visited a few times, and to live among people I had never met.  Best decision ever.

I made more friends--great friends, the kind you stand next to when they're saying their weddings vows.  I boycotted church (another good decision) so that I could find God outside of four walls with a steeple.  And I gave my heart to a place that wasn't really home, that didn't belong to me, yet somehow evolved into everything I needed.  

I thought that with the end of college came the close of four of the best years of my life.  Graduation meant good-bye, waving one last time to the crossroads of America.  I knew I would be back, but never quite knew how.  That is, until my parents made the decision to look for a new church.

Their decision has now led them to Joliet, IL, a city southwest of Chicago where, incidentally, the family of one of my dearest friends from college lives.  It is 3 hours away from Indianapolis (where several of my dearest friends from college live).  And it is smack dab in the middle of the Midwest, a place I decided to go to when I was only 18, never knowing that it would lead to this.  Never knowing that I had been preparing myself for where my family may relocate and where I will probably settle for at least a little while.  

Ah, decisions.  How soon I forget that I made you long ago.  How quickly I forget that you are all part of a plan that is bigger than me, one that extends beyond where I am going, yet always forces me to turn around and face where I came from.  I am praying that the church decides to take on my dad.  But I also hope that I take stock of the decisions that I have made, of their impact on my life; that no matter how mundane or stressful, any one of them may lead to something more. 

The Difference Between Coats and Cameras

This past Saturday, I worked from 5 til close at Talbots with my store manager, Franklin, and dear coworker, Suze.  We just did a set up last week with all of our new merchandise, but some pieces were shipped late.  One of those pieces happened to be a double-breasted black and white houndstooth peacoat.  

Understand that almost nothing at Talbots fits me.  I did buy a white sundress last summer, but even that had to be altered (at $22!  And even then it doesn't fit nearly as well as a dress would from, say, The Gap).  Needless to say, I take home pretty much all of my paycheck from the store.

This past Saturday, though, I made the mistake of trying on said peacoat.  Slipping into the lined arms of this 100% wool beauty, I thought that the tailors at Talbots Inc. must have been thinking of me when they made it.  With each button pushed into place, I looked at both Franklin and Suze, shock overtaking my face, and thought, "Why the Hell did I try this on?"

The coat was gorgeous.  I didn't want to take it off, and neither one of my coworkers wanted me to walk out of the store without it.  "You have to buy this, Liz," Suze said.  "It will be perfect for London!"  London, houndstooth, patent red shoes--it was as if all the stars were aligning within this one outfit.  

But I have a winter coat already.  In fact, I have three.  Three winter coats, a Columbia fleece, and a long sweater jacket.  I knew that I did not need another anything to ward off the cold.  Even when Franklin and Suze offered to buy it for me (at 50% off due to a special associate deal) and let me pay them back because they assumed I couldn't afford it right now, I turned them down.  Despite my resistance, I could afford it.  In fact, with the price being $134, I could have bought around 8 coats.  Yet I didn't need the coat, and in the end, I never did buy it.

What I bought, instead, was a new digital camera.  I should have done this 2 or 3 years ago.  I have been toting around a clunky hp since my freshman year of college; the experience has been less than fantastic.  My pictures are often faded, blurry, or washed out.  I have few settings and little patience to wait for the flash to finally kick in so I can get a picture.  

At $174, I spent $40 more on a Canon Powershot than I would that coat.  But I didn't have 3 cameras lying around--only one defunct relic.  So I think my resistance was worth it.  And maybe someday I will buy a black and white houndstooth peacoat.  I promise to take a picture with my new camera and post it.

blessings, 

liz

Travel Like a DeKlavon

Much love to my parents for teaching me how to navigate these great United States. I certainly put my travel skills to work last week as I drove up to Cleveland, OH to celebrate the union of Austin Rampey with Elise Richardson.

For fear that this post may miraculously morph into a book I will spare details, instead focusing on destinations, and perhaps provide a few anecdotes along the way.

I left Georgia at around 2 PM on Thursday, July 31, and drove to High Point, NC to stay with Bethany Limpach. She only lives 5 1/2 hours away and yet it has taken all summer for me to finally make a trip to see her! This was necessary, and the perfect beginning to an amazing week.

On Friday, I left High Point at around 11 (later than expected--Bethany and I got to talking in her bathroom). The trip to Cleveland was, for lack of a better word, looooong. But I survived, meeting up with the bride, her groom, and several other friends for dinner at Lise's sister's house. Jess drove up from Hudson, joining Libby, Lise, and me on a trip to the airport to pick up the other bridesmaids.

Time with the quadmates was also necessary as we have not all been together since first semester of our senior year. How I have missed those girls!  

The rest of the weekend went like this: coffee/breakfast on Saturday morning, getting our nails done, a bridal luncheon at Lise's house, the rehearsal/rehearsal dinner/a trip to the Sullivans' house in Hudson to retrieve Jess's things so she could stay with us at the hotel.  We visited with Tom and Jen Chamberlin for awhile--it was wonderful.  On Sunday, the b'maids made a trip to Dunkin' Donuts to get coffee for Elise and bring it to her at the wedding site.  We were surprised to discover that only the Richardson family was there to help, and when I say Richardsons I mean the immediate fam.  So we did what all good b'maids would do: we pitched in and decorated until everything was done.  The rest of the day we spent getting ready to make our "smashing" debut at the ceremony.  

Lise and Austin were married on Sunday, August 3rd, a little after 5:30 pm.  It was a great ceremony, and an awesome wedding--probably one of the best I've ever been to (and I've been to a LOT!)  On Monday, I met my friend Danielle for lunch in Cleveland, and then drove 5 1/2 hours to Indianapolis.  I went to Yats and my favorite bookstore, Half Price Books, with my friend Neil.  He was quite the trooper, being sick and all, but he survived.

Tuesday and Wednesday were devoted to Indy excursions: there was never a dull moment. Between meeting a friend of a friend to talk about L'Abri, to driving up to Anderson to see Libby, to going downtown with Strickland, Kaufman, and Lisa, I felt so grateful to have such amazing friends.  And that was just Tuesday.  On Wednesday, I hung out with Bethany Limpach again, going to dinner and seeing our friend Julie, and ended this crazy trip playing dutch blitz and eating ice cream at Julie's boyfriend's house.  

All in all, it was worth the gas and mileage put on my poor car, and the hours I sat in front of a steering wheel and windshield.  I hope to make it up to Indiana one more time before leaving for Europe.  But if not, I will wait impatiently for April, for the chance to rejoin everyone permanently.  

blessings,

liz

Weeping (often and unknown)

It would seem fitting that the newest soundtrack of my life would be "Say I am You" by the husband/wife duo The Weepies.  I readily admit my interest in music is so outdated, and so behind.  I could care less about knowing the newest "it" bands, the newest "unknown" bands (and then abandoning said bands because they become too "it").  I just decided one day to listen to their MySpace stuff, fell in love, and play their songs nearly all day every day because that's how I operate with a lot of my favorite music.  All this to say that "The Weepies" make me weepy.  Or maybe I was weepy to begin with and they just seal the deal.  

I've been frequenting Barnes & Noble on a regular basis.  I don't know if it is a good thing that it is located in the same outdoor lifestyle center (a stupid name for "fancy mall") where I work at Talbots, but I take it as so.  This frequenting has led to my finishing a book that I only read because my dearest friend, Lissa Joy Fecht, told me that I had to read it.  This is the same friend who told me I had to read Sex God by Rob Bell (despite my resistance of hopping on that theological band wagon--I may run alongside it, now, but I still refuse to hop on).  Anyway, the book is called Cold Tangerines by Shauna Niequist.  While I wouldn't have picked it out for myself, I am grateful that I did read it.  The whole thing.  And I didn't buy it (is that bad?  I figure B&N owes it to me for purchasing so many toffee nut frappucinos over the past six years).  

I am grateful because Shauna wrote with honesty--even when it sometimes felt stilted or vague, she was still honest.  She was honest about life, about Christianity, about rebelling and returning to a Creator who she readily acknowledges for her ability to write.  And I couldn't help but cry through several chapters; not because they were particularly poignant, but because they made me think beyond her prose, digging into my own past and pulling up weeds that I, too, should be writing about.  If anything, Shauna inspired me to keep plugging away at my book, a relatively silent endeavor since finishing college.  An endeavor eagerly awaiting a weighted heart and life filled with lessons others can learn from.  

So I've been weepy.  And listening to The Weepies.  And writing--slowly.  I need to change my lifestyle--I know I do.  I need to drink in these words like an alcoholic would wine, and I need to know that whatever comes out will actually satisfy and hopefully leave me yearning for more.

blessings,

liz

If I Am Dreaming, Please Let Me Sleep

Yesterday, I drove the 40-minute trek to a Starbucks in East Cobb.  I was going to meet with Penny, a friend of one of my dear coworkers who also happens to be a publicist.  After three hours of talking about family, friends, relationships, and writing, this is what I learned: she has two brothers who either own or have owned publishing houses, she has worked with authors such as Andy Stanley, Bruce Wilkinson, John Piper, and counts Louie and Shelley Giglio as friends. In a world where who you know seems to trump what you know, meeting with Penny helped me see that having a writing major happened for a reason.

When I went to college, I did not expect to leave with this writing major.  I expected anything but.  Now that I have those three years (I did little writing freshman year) under my belt, I've struggled to figure out what to do with it.  I have very few connections, very little experience within the field (outside of classes that required oodles of peer editing, I haven't had internships or garnered tutoring skills or edited anything of professional value).  I am hardly ambitious and wrestle with inadequacy on a daily basis. When Penny asked me the ultimate question, "If you could do anything right now, what would you do?" I had to answer, "I have no earthly idea."  When she asked me if I was interested in editing or copyediting, I told her that I was very interested, but again I had little experience.  "I know the top editor at a publishing house in Colorado Springs," she told me.  "I will call him and see what it would take to have a recent grad come on as a copy editor."  

Huh?  I sat, stupefied, the ice in my vanilla latte slowly melting in front of my wide eyes. The fact that I am leaving for England in seven months didn't seem to deter Penny from her desire to lay some groundwork as she called it for when I get back.  "I know an editor at Brio [a magazine for teen girls]" she said, "I should call her and see if they would want to have you write some articles for them while you're away in England."  Okay, now this is getting freaky. 

But somehow, it all seemed so right, too.  It is no mistake that I am home for these next few months, no mistake that Penny just happened to start attending my coworkers' small group.  As we connected on so many different levels, I started to see my life beyond where it is now. Watching as my God pulled two strangers together into a likely friendship, I felt abundantly blessed.  For three hours I saw how four years, how 22 years spent running away from and now running toward words may translate into a lifetime of work.  I don't know what will happen as a result of this conversation.  I do know that Penny plans to get together often.  I hope that takes place.  I don't want to waste any time I have left in Atlanta.  I don't want to miss out on the challenges that will come with pursuing things I didn't even know were my passions until this past year.

peace,

liz

If it Happens Again I'm Screamin'

I have to say that my being a size 6 doesn't boost the morale of many women who walk into Talbots. Comparing my body--a collection of limbs and parts that managed to survive adolescence and college with only 15 extra pounds clinging to bones--with that of a woman who has squeezed out four or five children, has developed a strange disease known as wrinkles, and has had a decrease in estrogen and elasticity due to a battle with the blessed menopause seems highly unfair. So stop. Please.

Just let me have a look at you, let me see your battle scars, the marks that make you who you are. And let me be reminded that in thirty years when 15 pounds grows to 30 or when my stretch marks expand and cellulite becomes more prominent than skin, I can remember having seen you, you beautiful, aged women who have worn your years well.  And please, believe me when I tell you that I am not trying to make you look younger: your pants will not sit too low, your shirt will not show sagging cleavage.  I will do my best to hide the bad and highlight the good.  Just let me do my job.  And stop staring at my ass--it isn't a size 2 so you can breathe. It's only a size 6.

I guess I should be writing on here

Ha, who knew that people actually read this?  But now that I know you (Libby and Lise) do I should probably tell you what's going on--even though I expect some phone calls soon!  

My old roommates and I share a blog together where I often write, but I guess I should fill the rest of the world in on life at the moment.

This may come as a shock, but my parents will probably be moving sometime soon (hopefully). Dad finally realized that the whole church plant just isn't going to make it so now it's time to take the next step and find an already established church with an opening.  The only churches within our denomination that have openings are, get this, up north.  There is one in Goshen, IN; Long Grove, IL; Adrian, MI; and a few others.  Ha, how ironic--I knew I was planning on coming back to the Midwest but I didn't know my parents would be joining me!  If they do end up near Indianapolis (where, at this moment, I am hoping to be when I get back from Europe) I'll feel a lot better having them close by.

Speaking of Europe, I am hopefully meeting with someone this week who works with Mom and who I also worked with last summer.  Her husband is from England so she has many in-laws in and around the London area.  I admit I have planned several U.S. trips but never something international!  I feel a little out of my league, and often question why the hell (yeah, I said it) I'm doing this. But then I remember my incredibly supportive parents and how both are probably looking forward to using this trip as an excuse to go to Europe as well.  And I think of the years I have ahead of me to work and earn money and how this is just something I have to do as either one last wild adventure before adulthood, or the first of many more.  I think the things I will learn there will be invaluable to my spirituality.  Anyway, with that said, I am saving and saving and will hopefully get there in January.  Sorry for such a long post, but I figured some of my dearest friends would want to know (again, b/c my phone doesn't ring very often!)

peace,

liz

Spending the Day in Buckhead

Buckhead is the northernmost part of the city of Atlanta, a section all on its own known for its restaurants, nightlife, and famed Lenox Square.  I, for one, hate it.  I find it flashy, pretentious, and borderline obnoxious compared to the neighborhood feel of both Virginia-Highland and Little Five Points or the art-infused midtown.  As opposed to my general sense of direction using Moreland Ave, Ponce De Leon Ave, Peachtree St/W Peachtree  St, 10th Street, and various other markers in the city, I haven't brought myself to memorize anything having to do with Peachtree Road or Lenox Road or, God forbid, the GA 400.  So this morning, jetting out at 7:45 in hopes to catch only the tail end of rush hour traffic, I went to Phipps Plaza--in Buckhead--to help out the Talbot's store there.  I was late.  I parked in the wrong spot.  I worked 9 hours in the Accessories section, so bored I had to result to scratching out essay ideas on blank sheets of paper or folding scarves to look as if I was doing something.  I wanted to chop off my feet; I cursed my kitten heels.  

But amazingly enough, the day ended.  I am nearly $70 richer.  And, for what it may be worth, I finally saw my city--not as charming as it used to be, in desperate need of friends to share it with, but still mine.  If I never stay in Atlanta I will always remember my first independent trip on the downtown connector (made on my way home for spring break 07), will always recall getting lost and finding my way while at the same time filing away in my mind the names of restaurants and stores I could possibly frequent soon.  There's a new Urban Outfitters on Ponce, and Les Mis is coming to the Fox in September--perhaps these 8 months will not be as terrible as I imagine them.

What I am Willing to Do

Not many people know how willing I am to sacrifice an hour or a day (perhaps a week), a few dollars worth of inflated gas, more unnecessary miles on my aged Ford Escort Sport if just to spend a few moments with friends.  Since graduating college more than a week ago on April 26, I have been living out of the smallest suitcase from a three-piece set my mom gave me for my high school graduation as well as a dark green duffle bag spotted with lime green dots.  I find that I spend more time rifling through piles of clothes I should never have brought with me than nearly anything else.  

I have stayed with my friend, Libby, in Milford, Indiana for several nights waiting for the impending nuptials of Jess Focht with Blake Hawk on May 2nd.  The day following the wedding involved me in my car, driving south to Indianapolis, my eyes threatening to close for almost the entire three hours of the trip.  I am staying with Bethany, my suitemate, until tomorrow when I go back up to Milford for Libby's wedding on Saturday.  Bethany and I have found ingenious ways to entertain ourselves, including movies and books (well, my reading books and her studying for her N-Clex).  

We also managed to plan a trip down to Bloomington (well, I managed to put it all together) to see our friend Frank.  We stopped along the way to pick up Neil, our long lost friend from freshman year, and all stayed in Frank's one bedroom house apartment.  The night was perfect: spring weather; eating Thai food outside; Frank, Jen, and Neil--friends whom I love and have not seen in months; music given to us by both Frank and Neil as they passed a guitar back and forth between the two of them.  I haven't heard Neil play music in years and it was nice for his resistance to fall if only to strum a few chords one chilled May night.  Frank made us blueberry pancakes in the morning, a large, purpleish send off back to Indianapolis.

From there, I have had dinner with both Kaufman and another friend, Liz, at Yats in Broad Ripple, had some of my favorite TCBY yogurt, and watched Bella (perhaps one of the most moving stories I have watched in awhile).  My bestest friend, Mandie, called me this afternoon, sending me on an impromptu drive out of Bethany's neighborhood to find a signal.   To talk with Mandie is like finding a home in the midst of all these transitions.  I was grateful.

I will finally be home next Monday.  For eight months I will live with my parents, my sister, my nephew.  I will live in tension with a family I both love and loathe all the while hoping that, like the past two summers, the love will win out.  I desperately want to get into a routine of regular submissions to various literary journals, revising old essays and writing new ones, and contributing evermore to a book I cannot believe (really cannot) I am supposedly writing.  I hope I am in England next spring for a period of time; I would like to come back to the midwest again if only to maintain the friendships I have invested in for four years.  But mostly, I just want to do whatever it is this God has given to me, is asking of me, all the while exhibiting various wild gestures of road trips and visits to those I love.

Oh, Yes, Friends

It's senior year. Second semester. If someone had told me three years ago that I would make it to this point, I would have politely said, "No, I don't think so." When people ask me now how I feel about having made it to this point, my response is never with words, but with fists clenched or watery eyes, and often a long groan of dismay. The words force their way out, though, usually saying,"It's hard."

And it is: I have no idea what I am doing. I didn't know what I was doing when I first came to register for classes, and minus the fact that I will leave with a Writing degree, I still don't know that I have come to any better conclusions.

What I do know is that I will leave with friendships that have, over time, marked these years. Some have already been crossed out or walked over. But some have managed to cause an indent. Some are very large potholes, the kind of potholes I keep falling into no matter how often I try to pass. They are just there, so firmly dug into my life that I can't escape them. Often, I don't want to.

College is a pothole. College is a ditch that I will soon have to cross over. Perhaps the bridge will be made of my memories, the ones that will carry me for the rest of this life. Tonight, after a family dinner with new friends, I dedicated some head space to old friends, looked forward to future friends. And in the meantime, enjoyed another addition to this stockpile I have of the people I have known and loved during these four years.