Just reminiscing...

This is something that I meant to post a while ago, but I just got busy and never got around to it. It's a list I kept all summer of all the reasons that Interlochen is the most amazing place on the planet.

Things I love about Interlochen...

1.  Being surrounded by trees

2.  Knowing people stayed in my cabin long before I was born

3.  Seeing the sun on the lake

4.  The way the rain sounds on the roof

5.  The smell of dryer sheets when you walk by Hemmingway

6.  Knickers and kneesocks

7.  So much ice cream at the Melody Freeze

8.  All the graffiti on the cabin walls

9.  Wearing a uniform

10.  Feeling the breeze from the lake

11.  Seeing the lake from my cabin window

12.  Sleeping with the windows open

13.  Being surrounded by people who understand

14.  Looking out at division from my cabin

15.  Girls in red knee socks

16.  The way nothing is ever really dry

17.  Friendship bracelets

18.  The way music comes from everywhere

19.  Waking up early and going to sleep early

20.  Falling asleep as the sun goes down

21.  Taps and slumber music

22.  Never setting an alarm

23.  Watching girls play amazing music

24.  Cabin nights

25.  Co-rec and mixer prepping and primping

26.  Black squirrels

27.  Morning flag and sleepy faces

28.  Using a flashlight at night

29.  Sandy cabin floors

30.  Reading to my campers at night

31.  Braiding so many french braids

32.  Trips to the beach and the dunes

33.  Incredible co-workers turned close friends

34.  First-time leadership roles

35.  The fact that jeans feel like a luxury

36.  Waking up at night when all the kids are asleep

37.  Singing Sound the Call

38.  Watching WYSO

39.  Being around such talented kids

40.  Being exhausted at night from working and playing so hard

41.  Bunk talks at night

42.  Hearing people practice in the practice huts during rest hour

43.  Bad coffee in Pinecrest

44.  Working office shifts and talking to kids and counselors

45.  Trips to the craft hut

46.  Being a part of such a huge history

47.  Feeling completely at home

48.  The Junior girls in Pinecrest

49.  Peanut butter No-Bakes!

50.  Jewish Services announcements

51.  Teaching kids to be well-rounded

52.  Hearing my senior recital music coming from an Intermediate practice hut

53.  Using a whole bottle of bug spray

54.  Wearing sweatshirts in the summer

55.  Team building games

56.  How live makes so much sense here, but no one at home will ever get it

57.  Knowing you're being changed in a good way

58.  Getting and giving hugs all the time

59.  Hunting for ghosts on nights out

60.  Dreading LSP's

61.  Having minimal things and clothes and being content

62.  Handwriting mail and getting letters

63.  Looking out at the water in Kresge

64.  Being myself and being ok with it

65.  Wearing socks with flip-flops

66.  Appreciating processed chicken

67.  Ad staff meetings when everybody is happy

68.  Knowing you're touching kids' lives

69.  Appreciating 7 weeks of summer camp more than 5 1/2 years of college

70.  Kayaking

71.  The wildflowers that grow everywhere

72.  Cherry yogurt in Pinecrest

This post can go on forever, and I know I'll think of more things, but that's a solid start.  Man, I miss that place.

Taps

I can't believe it's all over already. I'm back in Athens, back in my apartment, and about to get back into the swing of school. I spent the majority of the evening unpacking and trying to get my room into some semblance of organization. I folded away all my blue polos and navy knee socks, not without smoothing them over one last time, promising myself I'll be using them again in only ten months. Unpacking today had a sense of finality, a feeling of taking my summer and spreading it back into my life here. Everything I took out of that suitcase had a memory, a thought, an image, all creating a picture of the most extraordinary thing that's ever happened to me. The bear lying next to me right now is wearing a blue Interlochen sweatshirt, not unlike the one of mine that is hung over the black wrought iron of my bed. I can't bring myself to cut off the friendship bracelets just yet. My glittery locker tag has a proud new place on my door, and with just a glimpse of it, all of the feelings I experienced this summer wash over me at once. It's an odd mixture of utter contentment and a twinge of nostalgia for something I feel like I've known for far longer than seven short weeks. It's a feeling of finally being at home, of making mistakes and growing, of meeting people who've change my heart. It's bitter tears, regret, and hope. It's french braids and laughter, slumber music in the night, and the immense spattering of stars across the darkest sky I've ever seen. It's knowing that the place that I've always longed for is real, and it holds the same power for someone else. It's the tremendous roar of rain on the cabin roof. It's learning more of who I am while finding a world I fit into. It's ice cream cones, the giggle of teenage girls, and the promise of something bigger than ourselves. It's the jumble of music on the pathways, the call of taps at night. It's girls in bright red socks. Yes, yes. It was a good summer.

Europe 2008 - Pertuis

So my arrival at the Dublin Airport was timely and without much confusion, and I found the Air France desk, checked my bag, and got my boarding passes. I made it though security in record time and made it to the terminal thinking I'd just chill out a while. Wrong. My flight was delayed by a half an hour, which normally would just be a drop in the bucket, but it's a bigger deal when you only have a forty-five minute layover to catch your next flight. If I were going to be on my own, it wouldn't have been a problem, but one of Liz's friends was supposed to pick me up and take me to her concert of The Magic Flute, and I didn't know when that started. So, if I missed that connecting flight, I didn't know when I'd get to Marseille, and I didn't know if I'd miss her concert. I tried to call her and the stupid calling card didn't work. Thank goodness there were computers in the terminal with pay-as-you-go internet, so I sent her a frantic message of "Possible Missed Flight." So, needless to say, it wasn't a relaxing flight as I was all worried about how I'd get to Liz if I missed the next flight. The only saving grace was that the gates were very close. So I thought. Who would have imagined that it would have taken running as fast as I could, in heels, through the Paris Airport for almost twenty minutes before I got in between gates 7A and 7C. I was fairly certain that I'd missed my flight by this point, and I'm starting to panic, and cursing the fact that I tried to dress nicely and now had incredible blisters from running in dress shoes. I finally get through all the security and passport checks, etc, only to find out that my flight has been delayed by an hour. So I didn't miss my flight, but I was hot and sweaty and out of breath and I really had to go to the bathroom. I was going to have to use my French for the first time, and I was really nervous. I sat in my chair, rehearsing what I was going to say over and over. When I finally got up the nerve to actually speak to someone, I walked up and said, "¿dónde está el baño?" What?! Where the hell did that come from? And to make me feel even more stupid, the lady looked at me and said, "The bathrooms are at the end of the terminal, Ladies' room on the right." So she spoke English on the first place. Fantastic.

So I made it relatively on time to Marseille, and I was all prepared to find someone with a card with my name on it. I walked into baggage claim and there was Liz! She had said her friend Jean-Paul was going to pick me up, but she surprised me by coming, too. It was a really fantastic surprise, and I think my heart rate slowed down for the first time since Dublin. We talked all the way to her concert, which wasn't actually a whole performance of The Magic Flute, but selections. The music was good, though the soloists were iffy, and as bad as it sounds, I had to fight not to laugh during the Queen of the Night solo. Yikes. That night I got some much needed sleep.

So, Liz's city is adorable. I'm sure it would be much different if I were to actually life there, but I really enjoyed being there. The first day, we walked around the market that happened literally right outside her door. There were fresh fruits and vegetables, clothes, other food goods, and probably a lot more stuff that we didn't see. Then we walked down to the end of the street and there was a beautiful view of the city. We walked around some more, just looking at the buildings on her street, which were all made of stone with heavy wooden shutters because the wind blows so hard. I really loved all the painted shutters and doors. They were all in blues and greens. Most houses had window boxes with geraniums or the like, and I just loved it. I have a soft spot for window boxes anyway, and I know that when I have my brownstone in Boston Common, I'll have window boxes with flowers. I loved the shutters, too. I've never seen shutters that weren't just glued to the house for decorative purposes only. I really enjoyed that you opened them in the morning and closed them at night and that you could open the windows wide and let the fresh air in.

That second night I went with Liz to one of her band rehearsals. She played horn and I played her bassoon, and I really had a blast. Even though I didn't speak the same language as they did, I still immediately felt comfortable with them and enjoyed the rehearsal. At one point, while I was studiously counting rests (this is my weak point as a musician), I brought her bassoon back up to play, and the trombone player behind me had folded a piece of paper over my reed, just to be silly. Jean-Paul, sitting next to me, kept leaning over and saying, "I hate zis piece." It was great. After the rehearsal, they usually stay and drink wine and talk and laugh for a few hours, and it was so much fun. We had champagne to celebrate Liz's test scores and ate fresh cherries straight form someone's trees. We also had some "spice bread" which Liz and I decided that we didn't really like, but we were hungry and slightly drunk, so it didn't matter. I took a picture with all of them before I left that night. (Left to right (and I might butcher the names): Dominique, Eve, Jean-Paul, me, Michel, Christian)

That night we went home and pretty much crashed, and Liz, being the good bassoonist that she is, got up and practiced at the music school in the morning. I did not. I was still sleeping off jet-lag. Saturday was a good day, but I have to say that Sunday takes the awesome award. It was stormy outside, thundering and lighting, with the wind whistling in the windows. And I love a good storm. We both stayed in our pajamas all day. We watched movies, listened to music, took pictures, read, napped, and were just guiltlessly lazy. It was wonderful. I do have to say, though, that drinking wine and eating fresh French cheese on a baguette right from the bakery, all while watching Friends, was about the highlight of my life thus far.

Wine, cheese, fresh baguette, and Friends. Heaven will be like this.

On Monday, Liz had her bassoon lesson at the conservatory in Aix-en-Provance. We rode the bus to Aix and while she was playing, I walked around the city, stopping in shops and such things. I realized that my love of books is not just for books in my own language. I spent a good hour looking around in a bookstore in which the only English books were Harry Potter and some Stephen King. I loved looking at all of the cafes and food vendors mixed in around the streets. I was waiting for Liz for lunch, so I had a snack of a baguette, which I ordered myself. We rode the bus back and had a delicious dinner that Liz made.

Tuesday was the day I was scheduled to leave, and I woke up sad. When you miss someone so much, it's almost cruel to get to spend so much time with them just to have to say goodbye again. I'm not very good at saying goodbye. I hate is almost more than spinach. But we got up early and I went with Liz to one of her schools to see her teach. I thought the little kids were adorable, probably because I don't teach them once a week and because I couldn't understand what they were saying. It amazed me that all these little kids could speak French when I struggled so much with it, and how it's just normal for them, and that got my brain all tied in knots. Bottom line? Little French kids are cute. Her first class was about second grade aged and according to her, kind of dumb and ill behaved. Again, the cuteness outweighed that for me. She started by asking "How are you today?" and every little kid raised a hand wanting to answer with either a strong "hI'm appy!" or "hI'm sick!" or a couple other things, but I loved that most of the kids were appy, and that it never had an H at the beginning. I'm never happy that early in the morning. After recess, her kids were awesome. She liked the class, and you could tell they liked her. They were very curious about what it's like to grow up in the United States, so they had lots of questions, some odd, including the following:

• What is your favorite kind of science? (When I said I didn't have one, Liz said, "Then make one up!")
• What are your parents names?
• Do you know the Eagles?
• Do you like merry-go-rounds?
• Do you practice religiously? (Which lead to the discussion of the difference of Protestantism and Catholicism, which is of course a very appropriate school discussion for second and third graders.)
• What's your favorite food? Favorite flower? Favorite color?
  
• What color are your eyes?
  
• Did you ever have to repeat a grade?

Well, kids, I'm not brilliant, but no, I never repeated a grade, except in Algebra II where I repeatedly got C's on tests. So that took all of her class plus twenty minutes, because they were so excited about asking me questions. After that, we headed home for lunch and I got all my stuff ready to go.

Liz's friend Jean-Paul picked me up to take me to the train station. Saying goodbye to Liz was awful, and how I managed not to cry, I don't get. He speaks English well, so we had nice conversation while driving. He made sure I had my ticket and that I knew were to go and then bought me a cup of coffee in the little cafe. He even waited until the train left before he left, just to make sure I got on ok. He was so sweet and made that transition so easy. The only rough part was figuring out what to do with my luggage. My only experience with long-distance train rides is Harry Potter, so I was looking for the luggage car, only to find there was none and that I'd need to take my luggage with me. There were several tiny luggage racks three tall inside the bottom floor of the train, and when I got on, they were all full, save for a space on the top rack. So, after standing and staring at it for a good two minutes or so, I grounded myself and attempted to shove my ginormous bag into the space, up above my head. I knew full well I wasn't going to succeed, and I figured my struggling would clue someone in that I needed help, since I didn't know how to actually ask them with words in their language. Eventually someone did help me, but it took longer than I'd imagined. The rest of the train ride was good, save for the games of musical chairs that we played throughout the trip.

I got into Paris just on time, thinking, wow, that really was pretty easy. Haha, Kristen, very funny. Nothing is ever easy, remember? Oh yeah, I forgot, silly me.

Then came the saga of getting to the hotel, which proved the only thing frustrating enough to bring me to tears during the entire trip.

Next up, Paris!

Europe 2008 - Dublin

My first experience with Europe proved to be everything that I anticipated, and woah, a whole lot more. I really had no idea what to expect, and since I had no concrete expectations, I was not disappointed in the slightest. It had genuinely not occurred to me that I was actually going so far away, that I would literally be across an ocean, all alone, by myself. Not until I'd texted Jordan from the airplane upon boarding did I realized this, and it was not until then that I started to freak out. See, for me, one of the best parts of going on a trip is getting ready, planning it, and packing. I really love packing (for trips, for moving, etc). I'd had a list started way before classes ended of everything that I needed to take, all typed up on the computer, with things that I needed to buy marked with an asterisk. I packed and repacked my suitcase, and while it was one pound overweight, I was happy with how I'd gotten so much crap so obsessively organized into it. So it turned out that I was so excited about planning and packing that I'd failed to acknowledge that I was actually GOING on the trip.

The woman on the plane next to me was nice enough. She liked to talk and kept yapping to me while I was all like, hello, I'm reading, what part of me holding this book in front of my face makes you think that I want to have a conversation? But she had friends with her and turned her attention to them soon enough. It was awesome to have the middle seat open, so I had a little room to spread out. Even in the regular seats I can stretch my legs all the way out (short people have at least THAT reason to live), so that wasn't an issue, but it was pretty sweet to be able to have the extra room. I can also fold myself up and fit into a ball in the seat, and with being comfy under my blanket and some Ambien, the trip really wasn't that bad. I got into Dublin and out of customs, baggage all claimed, and out of the airport by 7:15am local time, and then thought, well, now what the hell do I do. It wasn't until I was standing outside the airport that I realized that I didn't remember to write down the address of my hotel. How does a compulsive planner feel about that? Pretty stupid.

But after riding a bus for an hour, hopping into an internet cafe to find the specifics of where the hotel was, and only a little directionless wandering, I found my hotel. I got there about 8:45 but I couldn't check in until 2:30. So I dropped off my bags, washed my face, brushed my hair, and tried to make myself look like I hadn't been traveling for 20 hours to go out and see the city. The nice lady at the front desk asked me if I'd had breakfast, and when I said no, she sent me downstairs to the kitchen. I expected some dry muffins, maybe some watery orange juice and a hard boiled egg, a bagel if I was lucky, but no. The lady brought me out a steaming mug of (awful) coffee, a whole basket of toast, and a plate crammed full of two fried eggs, two slices of breakfast ham, what appeared to be some kind of homemade sausage, and-- wait for it-- baked beans. My immediate thought was, ok, what the hell am I going to do with all this food. It was not unlike my experience at the tea place in China where we drank so much tea we were about to explode, just because we didn't know how to leave politely. So much tea. So much unidentifiable meat. But at least it was mostly good and I didn't have to start my day off with finding somewhere to eat.

I got out my map on which I'd labeled and circled the things that I wanted to see and do, and I set out. The first place I saw was Trinity College, which dates back to 1592 when it was established by Elizabeth I. The buildings were entirely made out of stone and was quite impressive. Also there was the Book of Kells on display. It contains the four gospels hand copied and illustrated by Celtic monks approximately 800ad. I wasn't allowed to take pictures of it, but my, it amazes me that people were so artistically brilliant even without the technology that we have. These people ground their own pigments to make paint, and write with the goose feathers from the bird out in the back. It was gorgeous.

Trinity College

Perhaps my favorite part of Trinity College was the library. Being someone who could easily live at a Barnes and Noble, this library was a mansion. It was one long, narrow hall, 65 ft long and two stories high, with a vaulted ceiling. The whole room was made out of solid wood. The wood was the kind that showed it age with grace, having turned dark in color and showing years of wear. I walked through the doors and the sheer mass of books took my breath away. Over 200,000 are housed there, and they are on a constant rotation of restoration and upkeep. They were all old books, bound with stretched leather and tied with some sort of binding string. Every shelf had a rolling ladder, the kind that Belle uses in the Beast's castle and that I've adored since I first saw that movie in second grade. I sat for a while on a bench just taking it all in. I'm not sure if it was the reverent feeling of old books and collected words and thoughts, the sheer exhaustion of travel, or some combination of the two, but I started to feel overwhelmed and a little lonely.

Surely it was almost 2 and I could check in. Nope! It was about 10:15. I left Trinity college and, after having the thickest and strongest cup of coffee I'd ever had, I found my way to Christ Church Cathedral (right). I'm always in awe of the architecture of buildings like these, built by hand with crude tools and for the sheer purpose of worshiping something greater than humanity. It always makes me feel a little better about being human when I walk into a cathedral. This one proved no exception, and I enjoyed the coolness of the stone building, even though the air outside was plenty cold. The crypt was the most interesting part of the building, though, below the church, and I took a few pictures before I read the sign that declared the illegality of photography.

For the rest of the day, I went to see the St. Patrick's Cathedral, which was less grandiose on the outside than I'd expected. I can't speak for the inside-- I didn't go in because I was tired of standing and I didn't want to pay eight Euros to get inside. Instead, I sat outside and enjoyed the park behind the church. There were some gorgeous flowers and a cute playground for the children to play on.

Is it 2:30 yet? Haha, no. So, I went to Grafton Street, the main shopping shopping district in the city, and poked around a little bit. There were street musicians playing some sketchy violin and harmonica, flower vendors with some of the most beautiful blooms I've seen, and weird food carts all mixed in with stores like The Body Shoppe and Guess. All I bought, though, was a scarf, because it was much colder than I'd expected and the wind was blowing at, I don't know, a hundred miles an hour. My hair was in tangles the whole time.

Now it's finally 2:30, I made my way back to the hotel to check in and ok here's your key, the bad news is you're on the third floor. Oh, no problem I said, I don't mind. Oh, there's no elevator? Oh. OHHh. Ok. Alright. So, I'm used to lifting heavy things, I've carried my fair share of heavy crap. This suitcase is big enough that I can fit inside. What they didn't tell me was that there were to flights of stairs for each floor, and that they were very, very steep. So, I hauled my very heavy, very large bag up all six flights of stairs and then wanted to die. I opened the door to my room and saw the tiniest bedroom I've ever seen. Seriously, it was tiny. There was enough room for a single bed and for me to walk sideways by the wall next to it to get in to it. There was a small sink and a shower in the room. To clearly illustrate the size of this room, when I took a shower and opened the folding door to get in, I had to go quickly so I didn't get the bed wet. Seriously.

I took a shower and passed out for a little over an hour before going back out to explore more. I hadn't had anything since the ginormous breakfast at the hotel, so I went looking for dinner. I headed to the Temple Bar area, which is a few blocks of the city that has lots of restaurants and pubs and some shopping. It took me a while to find a place to eat that looked good and relatively cheap, and I made a pretty good choice, because those were the best fish and chips that I've ever eaten. Also, that was the first time I'd ever eaten in a restaurant by myself. Lots of firsts here, friends.

Lots of sleep happened after that and I woke up bright and early to catch my bus at 9:30am for the tour out to County Wicklow. It was gorgeous country, and it took literally five minutes to go from downtown Dublin to rural County Wicklow, complete with twisty turny roads (which meant I was carsick almost the whole time), quaint little houses, and lots of sheep.

There were fields of sheep everywhere, freshly sheared, and the bits of leftover wool were floating through the air and stuck in the trees. I saw the monastic ruins of The 6th century monastic settlement in Glendalough. There we saw giant stone buildings built so many years ago and graveyards with the headstones of the people who built them. All of this was surrounded by the mountains and green fields and forest.





Later we stopped at the Avoca mill, which is the oldest working mill in Ireland. They weave wool by hand that came form the sheep that live on the hills nearby. I bought some scarves and a blanket there and had a really awesome meal. The tour ended, and I slept on the way home. I went back to my hotel and packed up, forgetting to set my alarm to get to the flight in the morning. I have the amazing ability to wake up five minutes before I have to, however, and this applies even when I forget to set the alarm. I found my way to a bus, then the airport, and there began the near disaster that was getting to Marseille.

Overall, I really, really liked Dublin. I felt oddly at home there, and I liked that. The people are friendly and the pace is slower than the chaos that I'm used to. I found myself walking a little slower, thinking a little more. (That's possible, believe it or not). Even with the windy chilliness and the overcast skies, the country had a comforting feeling about it. Being warm and cozy in a jacket and a scarf is wonderfully to me anyway, and I feel much more like myself when it's cold outside. I love being surrounded by so much history and I always found myself wondering about the people who lived here so many years ago. The people worked hard, but they didn't seem embittered by it. The pubs were full of laughing and drinking for fun, so different from what you find in many places here, where people drink to forget their lives, not to add to it. Two days was definitely not enough, so I will go back someday, and when I do, I want to share it with somebody.

So, as it turns out, the saying on the back of my Molly O'Shea's shirt is correct-- They do have good Craik.
Craik, I found out is "the laughing, talking, and friendliness that makes life worth living."

Stillness Speaks

I've recently been doing a lot of reading of some not-so-traditional books and been finding myself all but in awe of the seeming truth that's been pouring out to me. It's like I read it and I have this feeling, like, this is it. Today I spent a good two and a half hours at Borders just flipping through about ten different books. What I read just made so much sense and created an emense thirst to read and learn more. I wrote down some of the passages from the book Stillness Speaks by Eckhart Tolle. It's not written in prose form, but rather in small snippets of material that make your head spin with the power and peace that they bring. I highly suggest looking it up.

It's funny that everything that I stumble across, accidently or just absentmindedly seems to apply directly to me and where I am in my life. Many of you know about the trouble I've had in the last few years about my religious upbrining, and making decisions for myself about what I really believe. I don't think I ever bought the whole Southern Baptist package. There are many problems that my adult mind now finds with what I was fed as a child, though I understand that none of it had viscious intent. I know now that condescending authority in the disguise of caring, spiritual people turned me off from the very beginning. I want something different. I am looking for something real. I don't want a list of rules to follow, to be deemed "good" or "bad," or to have to constantly wonder about whether or not I'll actually go to Heaven. The idea of church that I grew up with is very much humanistic. I have a deep ache within me to connect with something bigger than human. Eckhart Tolle says at one point in his book that:

"Dogmas--religious, political, scientific--arise out of the erroneous belief that thought can encapsulate reality or the truth. Dogmas are collective conceptual prisons. And the strange thing is that people love their prison cells because they give them a sense of security and a false sense of 'I know.'"

It just feels so true to me. I think that this line of thinking is very different, and even when I think I understand it, I realize that I really don't. It's so different from what I've been taught. The whole concept of his books is that thought, the humanization of knowing, is what keeps us, the consciousness that is us, from just being.

I think that, even at an early age, I didn't like church because it didn't feel right. I believe I was taught some truth, but not the whole truth, and not everything that I was taught was true. Because the teachers were human and trying to authoritatively speak on something divine. There were too many answers. I agree with Tolle in this area, as I've thought for a long time about this, and his words mirror the thoughts in my head that until now have lacked words:

"A true spiritual teacher does not have anything to teach in the conventional sense of the world, does not have anything to give or add to you, such as new information, beliefs, or rules of conduct. The only function of such a teacher is to help remove what separates you from the truth of who you already are and what you already know in the depth of your being. The spiritual teacher is there to uncover and reveal to you that dimension of inner depth that is also peace."

Just food for thought I guess.

The part that seemed to speak directly to me came next. It was a section about who you really are. This amazed me: People tend to believe that the part of them that does the thinking is who they are. But he says that the consciousness that knows that you're thinking is what is really you. You are a consciousness. Thinking is human, what happens in your human brain-- you simply sift through thoughts. "You are the knowing, not the condition that is known."

To add to this, going along with the things that I've struggled with in the past few years, I read this:

"All the misery on the planet arises due to a personalized sense of "me" or "us." That covers up the essence of who you are. When you are unaware of that inner essence, in the end, you always create misery. It's as simple as that. When you don't know who you are, you create a mind-made senf as a substitute for your beautiful divine being and cling to that fearful and needy self.

Protecting and enhancing that fake sense of self then becomes your primary motivating force."

Very interesting. The one that spoke to me the most, though, was this:

"When you lose touch with your inner stillness, you lose touch with yourself. When you lose touch with yourself, you lose yourself in the world."

I am lost in the world. But I think I am on my way to finding my way out. I cannot wait to read more.

I like the idea that there is so, so, so much that we dont' know. Thinking "outside the box," the tiny little box that I've been taught to believe had all the "answers" is so liberating. I'm sure I did a rather poor job of relaying my thoughts about all this, and I'm sure these little snippets seem hokey outside of context, but really, I think they're worth thinking about.

What do you think?

Memorial Day Cookout with the next-door neighbors

We're sitting in the back yard, finishing drinks and dinner, just enjoying conversation.

Grayson (just-turned-five-year-old): Playing like little boys do, fighting with an imaginary figure, or, in this case, the ceramic lawn statue of a very pleasant looking frog in old-man attire. Turns around towards us violently grabbing his crotch.

Mom: Grayson, do you need to go potty?

Grayson: No, Frog Man hit me in the nuts.

If I weren't such a good person, I'd key your car, you idiot.

Dear Horrible Man Who Tattled On My Cat,

I do in fact think that you are a terrible person. You are probably only living in Polo Club because you are a post-graduate who can't seem to find your feet (despite the fact that you're old and balding) or you have spent the last fifteen years or so still in the bar scene, and corporate ladder is just a little tougher to climb with a constant hangover. Nonetheless, despite your age, you stooped to the level of a toddler today when you went and told the property manager that I had a pet. This will in no way benefit you, making you a complete, selfish dumbass. I do hope that someone takes away the best part of your life and that, while feeling the anguish of the loss, you die, your body to be devoured by a pack of wild, crazed wolves. Best of luck.

Sincerely,
Your Catless Neighbor