My poor sister experienced this firsthand when, on the way to the movies earlier this week, she innocently said, “Slow down - I wanted to show you this house, the one we can rent.” I really wanted to say, “I don’t want to see that fucking house!” but managed to edit out the swear as the words came spilling out of my mouth. She went on to express her concerns that it wouldn’t be possible to keep the house. “I’m just so mad!” I exclaimed and couldn’t get over it for the rest of the night.

What is it, exactly, about this house? About this town? My first thought was independence. At an age where in my hometown I was only allowed to go to the corner and back, I was given free reign of the entire town of Gladstone, MI. Granted, it is a small town (if you’ve seen two cars, then you should go home, my grandpa would say, because that’s the most excitement there is), but it was an amazing feeling to be able to take the bike wherever I wanted to go - all by myself. As the youngest child, I was never alone. But there I could be alone. Somewhere around seven, I remember taking Grandma’s bike and ending up at The 4 J’s Family Restaurant. I sat by myself in a booth and ordered an ice cream cone, mostly because I could. I was served with a smile and no one thought it odd. Now I see that happening with my nieces and nephews, though these days a few more eyebrows are raised. “We’ve never quite had a situation like this,” the local librarian said to Nathaniel (10), Anna (8) and Lydia (6). “Three children quietly reading books for three hours without a parent. I am not quite sure what to do.” Back on the porch, the walkie-talkie crackled, “Mom! We might have to come home,” Anna said. “Then come home,” was my sister’s unconcerned reply.

My second thought was the tie to my grandparents. My grandparents were special, special people. My grandfather loved us kids loudly - with stories and songs and a skip in his walk - and my grandmother loved us quietly - with freshly baked cardamom bread, pinches and countless hands of Uno and Skipbo. Together they teased and laughed and supported each of us grandkids and we knew we were loved.

But the answer revealed itself this trip, over breakfast. I walked into the dining room to hear my dad say, “I don’t know what it is about this place - at home I’d be running all over, worried about church and stuff, but once I get up here, I’m like blah - I don’t think about anything; I just relax.” And then I realized. Part of it is the independence and part of it is thirty years of memories of my grandparents. But my grandparents gave all of us a gift - a gift we wouldn’t realize the significance of until years after their death. They taught us how to relax. How to sit. How to do one thing at a time. In fact, it was the rule. We’d eat dinner together, lunch was on your own and you had to be back by 6:00 for dinner. After dinner and before 6:00 was your time to do whatever, and sitting on the porch was completely acceptable.

I love Chicago. To tell you how much I love Chicago could very well reduce me to tears, so it might surprise you to know that it also wears on me. The pressure of the job, the grind of the daily commute and the requests for bits of your time, money and personal effects stresses me out to the point of feeling suffocated.

This house is my ticket to sanity. A chance to go to a place that feels like home, where I am trained to relax, and decompress from the pressure of city life. I was driving home from the U.P. today and heard a song by Ingrid Michaelson that captures my sentiment exactly:

Far Away

I will live my life as a lobsterman’s wife on an island in the blue bay.
He will take care of me, he will smell like the sea,
And close to my heart he’ll always stay.

I will bear three girls all with strawberry curls, little Ella and Nelly and Faye.
While I’m combing their hair, I will catch his warm stare
On our island in the blue bay.

Far away far away, I want to go far away.
To a new life on a new shore line.
Where the water is blue and the people are new.
To another island, in another life.

There’s a boy next to me and he never will be anything but a boy at the bar.
And I think he’s the tops, he’s where everything stops.
How I love to love him from afar.

When he walks right pass me then I finally see on this bar stool I can’t stay.
So I’m taking my frown to a far distant town
On an island in the blue bay.Far away far away, I want to go far away.
To a new life on a new shore line.
Where the water is blue and the people are new.
To another island, in another life.

I want to go far away.
Away away, I want to go far away, away, away
I want to go far away, far away.

Where the water is blue and the people are new.
To another life, to another life.
To another shore line
In another life.

“You know,” my sister said this morning as we sat on the porch, “I always think I am going to do contemplative thinking while I’m up here, but then I get here and all I want to do is read fiction.”

And you know what? That is perfectly acceptable.

I spent last weekend in Missouri - Springfield to be exact.  A former colleague was getting married and my friend and I were to attend.  As I was walking out the door to head to the airport, I received a call saying she was unable to make it.  After a few minutes pause, I decided to make the trip by myself.

In my rented Chevy Malibu, I cruised the highway.  I oddly at home, even though I haven’t spent a lot of time in Springfield specifically.  Dillard’s!  Kum-n-Go!  QuikTrip!  Oh my.  Now if only I could find a Sonic.

True story.  I drove around looking for a Sonic for lunch on Saturday to no avail.  I even called my friend from the area for directions but ended up running out of time before the wedding.  On Sunday I tried to go to Dillard’s before I headed to the airport, but the mall is closed until noon because church.  (And all God’s people said, “Amen!”)  Instead I followed the instructions given to me the day before and - lo and behold - I found Sonic.  It was just as delicious as I remembered, which made me a little thankful they aren’t in Chicago.

I headed back to the airport and returned the rental car.  I approached the security line that had all of five people in it - I was second in line.  “Good afternoon,” said the woman, calling me by name.  “How are you doing today?”  She looked at me, waiting for an answer.  “Um, fine, thank you,” I responded and then she looked down to check my id.  This same exchanged happened twice more before I made it through security, each person pausing for an answer before letting me through.  I forgot that people are friendlier, but security is tighter.  Both my purse and my luggage were inspected at the Springfield airport.

I miss it a little, if I were being honest.

A large part because of the friends I made, a small part because of the carefree (read: irresponsible) days of my mortgage-free, easily-accessible-credit-cards, boy-kissing, three-dollar-big-ass-beer-drinking mid-twenties.   But those days are in the past and I prefer them to stay there.  I am content in Chicago, which is something I never really was in Kansas City.

But there is something just a little thrilling about starting a night with no idea how it ends.  And true to form, Missouri did not disappoint.

But the thing that has been bothering me was mostly resolved on Friday. Enough for me to feel a massive sense of relief. Instead of feeling like a weight was lifted, I felt drained. The tension I’ve been living with for the last three months left and only then did I realize how taxing it was physically. At church last night I was not confident that I would be able to stand through the entire service, even though it was a “short” one.

After church today, I came home for my post-Liturgical nap. Usually this is more of a rest, since I rarely fall totally asleep. Not today. My head barely hit the pillow and I was out - for three hours. I had to tear myself awake. And it hurt. I just think my body is thankful for a reprieve from the stress.

Yesterday I left work at 3:00 and hung out at church until Vespers at 6:30. For about an hour or so I practiced being still. I didn’t read the book I brought, I didn’t engage in conversation, I didn’t fidget in my chair. I simply sat; taking slow, deep breaths, quieting my mind and my heart.

It was really hard.

The sheer act of it made my heart race. I felt nervous and crazy; desperate to reach for anything to distract me from being alone with myself. After a while, though, I was able to stop. To breathe. To be still.

It sounds like a crazy thing to practice, or more over, to need to practice. But it definitely does not come natural to me, as someone who likes to do at least two things at once. My godmother posted a quote on her blog that reminded me of why this was a worthy exercise. “…hush your tongue that your heart may speak, and hush your heart that God may speak.”

He chastens and hastens his will to make known;
the wicked oppressing now cease from distressing:
sing praise to his Name, he forgets not his own.

Isn’t life funny? I was planning on writing a blog about my weekend spent with dear friends and family and how that relates to the idea of community and how true community is such an incredible, amazing blessing. And then Monday made me resent community and prefer to be invisible. And now it is Wednesday and I am feeling unexpectedly encouraged after a chance conversation with my dear friend’s husband.

Let me explain.

There is a favorite quote of mine, one that puts into words my feelings about my faith that I am unable to explain without it. It is an excerpt from “One Flew Over the Onion Dome” by Fr. Joseph Honeycutt and reads, “One thing is certain and bears repeating: You cannot be Orthodox alone. Those who try are handicapped. We work out our salvation in community. That community, the one that God provides for us, is full of sinners and will never be perfect in and of Her individual members. The Church is a spiritual hospital. Communion is the medicine of immortality. Love is paramount. With this in mind, Converts to American Orthodoxy and Cradles, struggle toward salvation together, intentionally, in community.”
I am reminded of this quote when my “spiritual family” gathers together over good food and wine. My spiritual family is a collection of people who at one time attended the little Orthodox parish on LaSalle Street that I still call home. To explain how we are technically related gets pretty confusing, as it is a mix of blood relatives, college roommates and a godparent family tree that would make your eyes cross.

There was a time when I would have favored a fancy night out on the town, but now - knowing the encouragement of this community we’ve built together - I would much rather spend my night with these friends, location secondary. While the kids play with water balloons or are finally settled in bed, secret thoughts are confessed. “I am not sure who to vote for . . .” “I thought everyone hated me . . .” Words of encouragement and support are offered, from someone who shares your same world view. Through these conversations over the course of the last four years, I’ve grown in my own faith - understanding, cherishing and appreciating it in a way I could never have predicted. When I leave these gatherings my soul feels restored.
Then Monday I was reminded of a different community I am a part of and how I let that community down. I’ll spare you the details, but the notification of how I’d completely spaced on a responsibility was pointed and less than understanding. The weird thing is I didn’t feel as bad as the person seemed to want me to feel, as it was a simple mistake. But I was mad that I was called out in front of a group of people in an unprofessional manner, but I was mostly mad at myself - both for not fulfilling my responsibility and for letting myself get pissed about the approach. Mostly I just wanted to hide under my bed and quit everything. Dramatic? I suppose. But like it or not, being in community comes with responsibility.

On Tuesday I let my coworkers know that I was cranky - an admission that would both force me to put on a happier face and maybe get them to cut me a little slack if I wasn’t immediately successful. That confession was quickly followed by one of those tough business meetings you leave just feeling shitty. Hum.

So it is Wednesday and I am still a touch on the cranky side. I got home from Vespers and called a friend to catch up. She wasn’t home, but her husband was and I ended up talking to him for a while. “I just really like you; I don’t know why,” he told me, which made me laugh. “You are happy and love life and deserve someone who loves you for just who you are, really. You deserve that - don’t settle, I mean it.” It was an unexpected piece of advice, somehow stumbled upon from the initial exchange of general pleasantries and work updates.

I hosted a dinner party, which involved a lot of prep and trips to multiple stores. As I was preparing, I decided it was high time to clean the oven so I set it to self-clean. The last time I made pizza a sausage fell off to the bottom of the stove, so when I set the stove to clean, it started to smolder.

“FIRE, FIRE, FIRE,” the feminine alarm voice warned. I pulled a chair over, only to find I couldn’t reach. I ran back to get the ladder, all the while Ms. Alarm saying, “Warning, warning! FIRE, FIRE.”

I couldn’t find the batteries, if my alarm is in fact battery operated. By this time smoke filled the air and I was terrified my neighbors would hear and come a-knocking. I was in my pajamas, so I ran to quickly change clothes.

“WARNING, Carbon Monoxide!” The female alarm voice had something else to complain about.

A full five minutes, which seemed like forever while the high-pitched screeches rang throughout my condo, and the woman shut up.

Sigh.

This week also brought my first (and hopefully last) ocular migraine, something I had never heard of before - it is a migraine in your eyes, and usually has nothing to do with your head. It freaked me out and thankfully Monica was there to book a conference room and tell me to lay down and relax. My other coworker said if she had been at her desk, she could have called the paramedics. I think I would have died of embarrassment. It is hard to explain what an ocular migraine is, so if you are interested, I suggest clicking on the link. There is a picture that describes it better than I can in words - simply put though, I could not see. Once the ocular migraine went away, I got a head migraine that made me sick to my stomach. Yuck. It was a gross-feeling day all around.

Here’s to a better week this week!

As a thank you for being her maid of honor, my dear friend commissioned her jewelry designer to make me a necklace. It’s beautiful and perfect, featuring the colors I wear the most. I wore it today and my coworker complimented it. I explained the back story and he said, “It looks good on your neck.” Huh, good to know.
I’m sleepy a little. Perhaps I should go to bed. I am hosting a dinner party on Thursday. I only bought half the ingredients so I need to make another run to the store. And a pie. And garlic bread. And stuff.

Sigh.

In my closet hidden away is a small photo album that holds the evidence of a few of my girlfriends’ last night as a single woman. In some cases, these celebrations were weeks or months in advance of the wedding but enough risque things happened that warranted their exclusion from the general public photo albums.

I spent my last two weekends celebrating this rite of passage with two different girlfriends - the first in Vegas and the second in Lake Geneva.

The Vegas bachelorette party started tame enough, with mom and the group hanging out on the outside deck of a bar atop one of Vegas’ many casinos. The view was nothing short of amazing, the conversation entertaining and the weather permitting. We left while it was still fun, put mom in a cab and headed to, well, an adult entertainment facility. The picture above is intentionally fuzzy to protect the innocent.

This is how I know I am getting old. I’ve been to this establishment before, years ago when going to Vegas for bachelorette parties was all the rage. Perhaps I had a bit more to drink before I got there, but I remember being - yes - morally opposed but (sorry to say) having a damn good time. This time I was overwhelmed by the mob of men that swarmed our group explaining the various pricing structures. I was thankful for my spot in the middle of the booth, protected by girls on both sides. We purchased the requisite lap and stage dances for the bride and quickly made our exit before the two drink minimum was enforced. I excused myself from the dance club at 3:30 AM, for fear my feet were going to fall off and very thankful I did not crawl in at 5:30 AM like the rest of the crew. Another sign I must be getting older.

The true test of my age was last weekend’s bachelorette party, which I have described to many as “the perfect amount of fun.” After having a birthday brunch with my mother, a coworker and I arrived in Lake Geneva early afternoon. We dropped our stuff off in the room, greeted the group and spent the next few hours hitting all the shops on Main Street. We returned to get ready, joined the rest of the girls for pre-party presents and headed off to dinner. Conveniently the restaurant turned into a dance club, so we sipped drinks while the bouncers threw the tables and chairs out the front door (quite literally). Shortly after, the music starts bumping and the space where we ate was filled with fog. The group headed to the dance floor while I waited for an appropriate song to make an entrance. Bust a Move? Why yes, it is only appropriate. After dancing for a while and enjoying the outside deck, we decided to call it. We were back in the hotel by midnight. Midnight!

The perfect amount of fun - dinner, drinks, dancing and a decent night’s sleep. Yes, I am old.

But rested.

My last post was about “Celebrate Life Day,” and I received the most wonderful gift that day. My little baby cousin returned home from his year tour in Iraq in one piece. Furthermore, his unit was the first since the war started that did not have any causalities. We gathered the family to celebrate his return a few weeks later and my aunts decked out my parents’ porch with USA-related decor. We got the call Joel was close and the family ran out to line the streets holding flags and signs. As he drove up, we clapped and cheered. We ate tacos and cake and heard war stories. We had a pinata for “all birthdays” and watched videos of various family members giving speeches and acting in school plays. Some went for a family walk while others stayed behind to rest and pull out more food for dinner. We ate again and slowly people began to leave, making sure everyone was appropriately hugged goodbye first.

Also since we last spoke, we Orthodox Christians celebrated Holy Week and Pascha. It is my most favorite time of year, and this year was more beautiful than the previous years. The anniversary of my grandmother’s death fell on Holy Friday, which added untold significance to the services that day.

This is turning into a post about everything I have done in the last two months. I can pretty much sum it up with work, church and family. It’s been a stressful time, but good for the soul.
It is funny to me that I now have to blog for my job, expect specifically on matters effecting the world of business-to-business marketing. You can tell what a great blogger I am in my personal life by the insane frequency of my posts. I am just a little worried. Do I have anything to say about business-to-business marketing? I guess we shall see.

But I don’t want to ever be over it.  I’ve changed a lot because of it.

I appreciate every day, even the sucky ones.  I decided to invest in things that matter instead of shoes.  My faith was strengthened.

It still shakes me; usually when violence once again erupts in the neighborhood.  Little things get blown out of proportion over the course of the next few days but then I am fine once again.

Earlier this week, I had an unexpected conversation with a coworker and dear friend where we confessed our secret struggles over a cup of coffee in the kitchen.  “The 20th is Sunday, right?” I asked her towards the end of the conversation.  “That’s so funny you said that,” she looked at me, surprised.  Unbeknown to me, the day also held special significant for her, having experienced something terribly sad a couple years previous.  This lead to an even more raw confession about how we’ve felt on edge the whole week leading up to today.

“I am glad you didn’t die,” she said as we walked back to our desks.  “Thank you,” I replied at the time, but thinking of this conversation today made me cry tears of thankfulness.  I am glad I didn’t die too.

As the angel on the train said that day, “It’s going to be a great day, because now you know what it means to be alive.”

To all my friends and family - I love you very much.  Happy Celebrate Life Day!