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  I readily admit my interest in music is so outdated, and so behind.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.