You say goodbye, I say hello. Hello Hello...

(The Beatles)

"People change and forget to tell each other." That's a quote from one of the meditations in Mediatations for women who do too much. I'll maybe try to find out who said it. Right now I think I just need to get this out.

I'm not a gracious person when it comes to goodbyes. I want to stay in a place forever, stay friends forever, people to not move away or make decisions that change the status quo.

Case in point: I have not moved for twelve years, I didn't even move when I left this garret for my parent's house for three years. I kept the apartment because a) I didn't want to change 2) I knew I wanted to come back, and finally, because it made sense at the time.

I hate goodbyes. I, who have said a final-seeming goodbye to someone at least once every three years of my life--they're moving or I'm moving. I, who often have associated these final-seeming goodbyes with the telling of secrets (appropriately and inappropiately). I, who have feared abandonment, who still fears it, deeply.

I have stayed in relationships longer than I should have because I didn't want the change. I have stayed so long that when I ended it, the other person had no idea that I'd been thinking of ending it for months.

Even though I'm not exactly happy with where my life is going right now in some departments, I don't want to rock the boat, add or subtract something, for fear of CHANGE.

For my first semester of my senior year of college, I had a paper on my wall. On it were these words: Change is the only constant, in different color markers. It was the worst year and the most full of changes of all my college years (well, except for my freshman year.) (It did have some "it was the best of times" moments too, don't you worry your pretty little head.)

Change is the only constant. You can never walk in the same river twice. That's Hereclitus, my favorite Greek philosopher. I think he was pre-Plato. I think there's a name for that.

If things don't bend, they become brittle. If things don't change, there is a stale odor. And yet, I resist change. I know change is healthy, and yet, I resist it. Tooth and nail, I cling to the familiar.

All that to say: I am watching my friends move on. They are changing jobs, getting deeper in love, they are getting engaged, married, having first babies, having second ones. This is wonderful. I applaud them for where they are going. I do. I am. But the selfish part of me that clings to what is familiar says no! You have to stay here, with me. We'll be crochety old ladies with arthritus and we'll sit on the front porch and watch the world go by. We'll hate everyone and everything, but we'll have each other and it will be the same and familiar!!

See how crazy this is? See how worked up I get? And why? Because if you're changing and I'm staying the same, maybe we can't be friends anymore. Or if I'm changing and you're staying the same, maybe I'll leave you in the dust. Or maybe we're both changing, just in different ways, in different directions and that's scary too.

Meanwhile, I am changing: I'm becoming a better librarian, I'm trying new things, meeting new people, moving furniture around, and always and forever changing purses, sometimes on a daily basis. For me, the girl who moved again and again, this staying in one place is a real change for me. For me, the girl who worked for Fox Books for four years in which she sent out resumes every six months, to be at a job that I can imagine retiring from. Over half of my life was spent in the three year cycle: move somewhere, get to know it, get ready to leave. This not moving, this staying put, it is for me, a change. Maybe I'll stick around. Put down some roots.

I didn't really see how this had anything to do with Lent (and I did say I'd be writing about Lent this week) but it does. I am Peter. At the Transfiguration, I want to build a tent and stay there. When Jesus says he must suffer, I say, you know what, you don't really have to do that. And yet, when he is a criminal, being taken off by soldiers, I deny once, twice, three times that I even knew thee. It hurts less. Go. Just go. We were never friends. I don't know what you're talking about.

A movie image just came to me, of the little boy in Jerry Maguire, when Dorothy is about to drive off to San Diego for "that job." And Jerry tries to say goodbye and the boy says "Go. Just go ahead and go," fighting back tears, pretending he doesn't care, but caring, deeply.

Also, if you're changing/leaving and that's a part of a healthy decision on your part, and I'm not-changing/staying, am I being unhealthy? The mind plays all these questions, baiting the heart, saying, "You must! You should! Why aren't you?"

• Keeping up with the Joneses?
• Shopping retail?
• Drinking free trade coffee only?
• Finding a boyfriend, getting married, having babies?
• Reading these books?
• Blogging less?
• Blogging more?

And none of these things are the point!! If making bread is your thing, go! Make bread. Knit! Have babies! I applaud you. I'll be over here, re-reading the Jennifer Weiner oevre, blogging at my own pace, living my life at my own pace, shopping at Goodwill, giving away perfectly good Ikea shelving, thinking about an MFA in Writing, rearranging furniture, being a darn good librarian...

Which brings me to a man I love. He has been in and out of my life since I was four, and he's still here, very much alive on Channel 13, even though he's been dead almost five years.

I love Fred Rogers. Of all the shows I think I missed out on the most as a child, I think his is the one. I remember watching Mr. Rogers in our living room in kindergarten and well, when we moved to Germany in the fall, he just wasn't there. Thankfully, he made shows until I was a library student, and I actually met him once...but I think if I'd had him there with me in Bonn, when the kids made fun of my last name, if I'd had him in Tegucigalpa when the kids made fun of my non-talented kickball playing...

So in this current crisis, I think that Mr. Rogers would have a song to sing to me about not wanting to change, to grow. I don't want to change! I don't want to grow! And you shouldn't either!

Do you hear him, in the corner of the room, softly singing? "It's you I like. It's not the things you wear. It's not the way you do your hair, but it's you I like."

When I was in Warsaw, some of the darkest times of my life (haven't written much about that side of Warsaw, have I?) I would make myself smile in the mirror by singing "It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood..." (i have always wanted to have a neighbor just like you. i've always wanted to live in a neighborhood with YOU.)

Here's one about growing and changing, though:

"You're Growing"
You used to creep and crawl real well
But then you learned to walk real well.
There was a time you'd coo and cry
But then you learned to talk and, my!
You almost always try.
You almost always do your best.
I like the way you're growing up.
It's fun, that's all.

CHORUS
You're growing, you're growing,
You're growing in and out.
You're growing, you're growing,
You're growing all about.

Your hands are getting bigger now.
Your arms and legs are longer now.
You even sense your insides grow
When Mom and Dad refuse you. So
You're learning how to wait now.
It's great to hope and wait somehow.
I like the way you're growing up.
It's fun, that's all.

CHORUS
Your friends are getting better now.
They're better every day somehow.
You used to stay at home to play
But now you even play away.
You do important things now.
Your friends and you do big things now.
I like the way you're growing up.
It's fun, that's all.

CHORUS
Someday you'll be a grown-up, too
And have some children grow up, too.
Then you can love them in and out
And tell them stories all about
The times when you were their size,
The times when you found great surprise
In growing up. And they will sing
It's fun, that's all.

I had a conversation with an old friend after church on Sunday. We hadn't talked in ages, as he goes to Bellefield and I to the Open Door. He and his wife are moving to Washington, PA, where he'll be a resident, to finish up his medical training. How have you been, he asked. And somewhere in the telling him, I blurted out this: "I'm watching all my friends get married, have kids, move on." And bless his heart, this is what he said. "I bet that's hard." NOT, "You'll find someone." NOT, "hang in there." No. He validated where. I. was. He wept with the weeping, even though I wasn't literally weeping, nor was he (though I am now, writing this, tasting the tears as they fall down my face to my lips.)

Wow. That feels better. A year ago, I came home from Massachussets after having spent two weeks there: one at a library conference and one at a friend's house. I spent April Fool's morning picking up trash in Highland Park with Nick and Lauren, who live in ENGLAND now, talk about changing and moving. My Massachusets friend and I are estranged right now. I'm actually estranged from three other key people from last year this time. One I doubt will ever rekindle, but the others are question marks. And if you have read this far, you know that I don't like question marks. Exclamation points, yes. Periods, commas, yes. But question marks? Something's not certain? I'm not too crazy about those things.

Somehow this post wants to end with some more poetry, so I'll cull some key lines from a man called merely "The Preacher."

For, there is:

A right time to cry and another to laugh,
A right time to lament and another to cheer,

A right time to embrace and another to part,
A right time to search and another to count your losses,
A right time to hold on and another to let go,
A right time to rip out and another to mend,
A right time to shut up and another to speak up,

For there is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven. (Ecclesiastes 3:1-8)*


*I took a few liberties by using two translations (The Message and the NIV) and choosing only verses I wanted to highlight and by putting the first verse last.

Hope College and me: Six degrees of Separation

You might be familiar with the game, Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. There's even a book! You might even be familiar with the play which became a movie, Six Degrees of Separation.

Well, in Pittsburgh, there's only one degree, usually. We're a city with a small town feel. (For instance, I just transferred a hold on a book from our library that will go to another Allegheny County consortia library--for a woman I went to library school with.)

But, you might be asking, right about now, "SL, I have no clue WHAT you are talking about." Okay. So. Degrees of separation: there's a theory that everyone can connect themselves to everyone else by six degrees of separation.

When we lived in Poland, I got to shake Bush Sr.'s hand as well as Lech Walesa's hand. So that would put me one degree of separation between Bush Sr. and one degree of separation of separation from Lech Walesa. Since Bush Sr. is the father of Bush Jr., our current president, I am two degrees of separation from Bush Jr.

Okay. So, of all the places I've been, of all the connections I've made, the connection that has brought the most connections is Hope College, the alma mater of my grandparents (who met there and later got married) my parents (who met there and much later got married) and my brother (still single, and living in Austin).

Hope did send me my first college acceptance letter, but I decided to not attend due to many factors. I have one or two regrets: I always wanted to have a radio show, which my brother did and I'm pretty sure my dad did too. Also, Holland, Michigan is a super cool place with a ton of taquerias. (This is due to the fact that Heinz has their pickle picking operation there--a lot of Mexican migrant workers came up and stayed and so there is a large Mexican community in Holland) (Michigan!! not the Netherlands). My dad quips that the pickle pickers became pickle packers. There is no welfare system--local churches and civic organizations pick up the slack for community needs. Also, this a weekend in January, (THIS POST IS FROM 1/13/07) the college is hosted a symposium with such giants as Lauren Winner (Girl Meets God) , Donald Miller (Blue like Jazz) , and Jars of Clay (the band? I'm sure you've heard of them). Oh, and Derek Webb, formerly of Caedman's Call.

My cousin used to be the president of Western Theological Seminary, which is in Holland, Michigan, home of Hope College. He has had major correspondence with the author of Housekeeping and the more recent Pulitzer Prize Winning (and amazing--I'm reading it now) Gilead, so that would be two degrees of separation: My cousin, 1, Marilynne Robinson, 2.

Sufjan Stevens, the sweetheart of indy music, went to Hope College. I have been to the café his best friend runs, Lemonjellos. I even have a bumper sticker on my car. So that would be the café, 1, the owner of the café, 2, Sufjan Stevens, 3.

Or, I'll be at a party and start talking to someone. "Where are you from" is my opener (I find it's much more interesting that "What do you do?") and inevitably I'll meet someone who says, I went to school in Michigan. Oh really, what school? I've met at least five people from Hope College this way.

Oh, how could I forget the Beleza Seven? My brother is friends with every one of the seven Hope graduates that formed a community coffee house on the North Side of Pittsburgh. I've been there once--and it was so much fun saying to the girl behind the counter, "Do you know (my brother's name)?" "Yes..." "Well, I'm his sister, and this is his mom, and his dad." My mom even got a picture with the girl, whose name escapes me, but apparently my brother was one of her first friends at Hope College.

Other connections? Robert Schuller, the televangelist who hosts the Hour of Power from the Crystal Cathedral once spent a summer working for an aunt of mine. Both he and his son went to Hope.

Lynne Stewart didn't graduate from Hope, but neither did my aunt. They were, however, roommates at Hope in the early 1960s.

Um, also, for those of us who were the person of the year for 2006, we share that title with Rob Malda, creator of Slashdot, which pretty much revolutionized this thing we call the blog. Yep, he went to Hope.

This is all very fun for me, because unless you're from Pittsburgh, you've never heard of Carlow College University (where I spent my first two years of college) and unless you're from Maryland you've never heard of Washington College (my Alma mater).

I cling to the greatness of Hope College...

Momma said there'd be days like this...

...and it's not over yet!!

Our dept manager in Children's called in sick for the second day in a row. I sent my co-worker (also sick) home at 2pm and am staying an hour extra to man (woman?) the desk from 5-6. (Making it a 9 hr day--fun.) Which also means I've been on the desk (serving the public) since 2 pm. Thankfully it is now 5 and I can soon (51 minutes and counting!) go to dinner!

And I don't have to cook--we're discussing the practice of eating at BJ's!

Two Mother Goose sessions went well--I had 50 in the first session and 9 in the second. (This includes mothers, babies, and siblings.) It was nice to have an intimate group for the second session--I haven't had so few folks in AGES! Also, a woman called around 2:30 (right about when I was feeling a little blue) and said, oh, are you Sarah Louise, did you do the storytime at 10? Ye-es, I said, thinking, is this a lost and found question? She sung my praises. To me! She loved it and is thinking of rearranging her work schedule so that she can come more often. WOW! I told her, you just made my day. She said, you just made my week. (Don't you love that kind of a competetive conversation?)

Sometime later, a woman said, your hair is getting long (it's up, how can they tell?) and said it looked nice.

Around 3:40, I had an unanswerable question about Accelerated Readers and so I called Children's at Carnegie Main. I ended up talking to one of my professors from Library School, who part times in that department. (He was an adjunct, but still!) (Also, very cute, AND my age AND Christian, but he doesn't like girls, drat!)

And just now, I helped a nanny pick 5 books each for "her girls" off (guess what) an Accelerated Reader list for each one. We walked the stacks and I just handed her books, it's so much easier than looking them up in the computer.

Did I mention that I love my job? Did I? Cuz I do.

Also, I was disappointed when I didn't get to have lunch with our new Children's District Manager, because (see above) our Department Manager was out sick. And I didn't know lunch was cancelled until noon, although she had known since last night!! (I could have brought my lunch and or my homework for Patriarchs and or my 30 page questionaire!!) Instead, I went to lunch at J.Clarks and the waitress called me "hon." Even when she had to run my card through twice (Friday is payday, thank God!)

23 minutes to go...I am exhausted!!

One of my major projects (do not laugh!) has been purging my email files. I have a bad habit of keeping everything and our email only has 66000 mb or something like that. So every day I have been getting "Your email account is full." So today, as I had four hours on the desk, I have purged tons of emails. Trashing a lot. Sending the good stuff (articles from my dad from the New York Times--actually a lot of obits of people like Paula Danziger, Czeslaw Milosz, and articles about friends of friends of the family like Avery Dulles, and articles about places, like, you guessed it, Warsaw) to my Gmail and Yahoo! email accounts.

(I hit publish at 5:45 when my replacement showed up. It is now 40 minutes into tomorrow, Thursday and I am up b/c I fell asleep in front of PBS and Charlie Rose woke me up. I watched an interesting interview with Sandra Bullock and some guy who plays Truman Capote in a new movie and then Anna Quindlen. Hmm. A guy I worked with at Fox Books loved watching Charlie Rose. I was thinking about him on the ride into work today. Wondering what has happened to him. Thinking mayhap it's time to google him again. Thinking mayhap I should not. So--I was asleep when Carolyn commented, and I'll cuddle under the covers in a few minutes. Dinner at BJ's was great--it fascinates me week to week who the "key players" are in my mind. Ah, people watching.)

Jesus wants me for a sunbeam...

No, this is not the song I woke up with. But it came to me whilst washing my hair in the Poconos, back in August (has it been that long?).

A sunbeam shines. A sunbeam cannot administer anything but beams.

And so it is with me. I cannot fix anyone, nor should I. (I have this meglomaniac ego that if I don't do something, it a) won't get done or b) won't get done right.)

The moon is full. It is morning, and I know the sun has risen in the east, and outside my window, to the west, I can see the full moon peeking behind my neighbor's tree.

Off I go to the third and final day of The Heart of the Emergent Church. Last night, instead of getting there early enough to go to Applebees for dinner, I mistakenly drove PAST Zelionople (FAR, FAR away) and so had enough time to go to Target and get my necessaries and a hot dog for dinner.

But first my walk. I generally walk east, but I wonder if I walk west I'll get to see the moon...

No, I need to walk east. I need to see my gardens. My heart aches for Warsaw. (I bet you no other blogger says that more than once in her career...)

**********

'm back. Terzo is getting christened this weekend. Last night in the conversation about "Missional in the Suburbs," David said something that hit me, just as I danced past a woman scowling at me in a car. (Hey--it's a free world.) The attractional model says "Behave first, then we'll accept you." The missional model says, "I'm coming to you, where you live. You already belong, because you belong to me." Is there any dearer way to say this than to a child who doesn't have even language to say no? It's like the Runaway Bunny.

Carrots, anyone?

And yes, I'll be late to the third day. But the prayer last night made my heart curdle, though it tried to have the opposite effect. You can't microwave a moment. Elijah only heard the "still small voice" after an earthquake and a storm. It was a prayer that didn't take into account that I would be driving home alone after having a married man look at me "The way God sees that person." And the thing is, the woman who said the prayer is single too. She should have known better. Or maybe I am still learning how to protect my heart--I shouldn't have sat next to that man.

And a wise woman once said, "It's your retreat." Well, I paid my $16. I showed up last night and the night before. I needed to take my walk and spend some time with God as I haven't been able to the past coupla days. I needed that much more than I need to hear what Doug Pagitt has to say about the Emergent church. I'm sure he will be wonderful. (HE IS TALL!) But I needed my refreshment. I needed my best friend to play tennis with me. I needed to cry and to laugh. And I didn't know it, but I needed some dogs to smile at me. Which they did.

I am Sarah Louise. I chose this city. I chose to be far from my family because I love the geography of Western Pennsylvania--it feeds me. I am a writer because "a writer writes." (and rewrites--this has been gone over now three times at least.) I am a photographer because my mom gave me her brownie camera when I was a girl. But often enough, I am also an orphan. I try so hard not to be.

And my darn car no longer gets AM radio, so I will have to catch The Fantastiks in its matinee, tomorrow. When I'll be making a feast for church. We'll be practicing the practice of "Eating." Hmm...what will I make? (I won't tell!)

There's a hole in the bucket, dear Liza...

(traditional song, Wikipedia article)

This song was one I learned on Sesame Street. SS, being one of those shows that repeats content (which stacks up with brain research for early childhood), now I have lost the grammatical thread of the sentence. What I was trying to say is that SS repeats content. So "There's a hole..." is a song from my first childhood (when I was wee) and my second childhood (when the sibs were wee.) I wouldn't be surprised if it is still featured on Sesame Street. For the record, I'm on my third childhood (where all my friends have wee ones and I am a children's librarian.)

Another tangent. I spoke yesterday with a dear friend who reads this blog daily. It was a bit bizarre that he knew exactly what I was talking about because he could reference blog entries as I was filling him in on my life up to date. His daughter is five. As a reflex, I asked him how old she was, and I knew before he answered, because of course she's five. All my friends that could be, were parents five years ago. So I know at least three five year olds in Pittsburgh alone. Four, if you include Cranberry. I know more than five if you include the lower 48 and extend it out to include the world. Of course she's five. What other age could she be?

It is either way too late or way too early for me to be up, but there you go. I had an exhausting but satisfying Sunday and came home to crash on the couch (with the TV on) at 9pm. I woke up at midnight to Sis' favorite show, Alias, which I'd never seen before. LOVED IT. I mean, few network shows feature Warsaw as one of their stops around the globe. That wasn't the only thing I loved, but I am too tired to expound.

I impulsively check email upon awakening. It's not the best habit, but there you go. Yesterday I didn't talk to anyone at 304 Walnut but last night my father sent me four emails: an article about Billy Graham, an article about Evangelical Christianity moving to places in the third and second worlds (i.e. not the "Western World," Europe and the US), a column by Art Buchwald about being a hospice dropout (It starts out with these opening lines: "The summer is over. As I reported in June, instead of going to Heaven I went to Martha's Vineyard."), and an email in which he recorded that today (yesterday at this reading) was Jim Henson's birthday. He would have been 70.

Three of the emails were articles he'd referenced in phone calls we'd had. My father is one of the most well-read men I know. When he worked the Econ desk in Warsaw or Tegucigalpa, he would read three newspapers a day. He reads more now, I think. He goes to Panera with his laptop because while Starbucks has the New York Times in print form, Panera has the Wall Street Journal, and you can get most of the print content of the NYT online, while the WSJ online has a hefty subscription fee. In another life I think my father would be a librarian. He keeps up email lists that are pretty much clipping services to former collegues about Brazil, Columbia, and Poland. It's not something I think about often, but I think the church will be standing room only when he passes.

To my father, (I've said this before, so humor me) a stranger is a friend he hasn't met yet. I remember one time as we were in the airport in Brasilia, on the way to my gate as I was going back to Pittsburgh, we ran into, of all people, my dad's barber. Yes, the man who cut my father's hair. We stood around for at least five minutes while my father bantered on with this man. (Did I mention there was a blizzard on the Eastern Seaboard and I didn't know if my flight would depart?) But that's the kind of man he is. As annoying as it sometimes is, I love him for it.

Emily and I have been talking about fathers lately. How knowing an earthly father aids us in constructing a relationship with Father God. How true I am finding that these days. In my walks, as I gaze upon my Father's world, I think about how dear I am to Him. And that is where we come back to the bucket. Remember the bucket? There's a hole in the bucket.

Dwight L. Moody, when asked if he was filled with the Holy Spirit, replied, "Yes, but I leak." As I have been supporting my friends in this time, as I have been supporting myself in this time, I have found that I need to refill my bucket daily. If I don't have time with God, either in solitary prayer or corporate worship, I'm doomed. Because no human can fill my bucket. No human can fill the need I have for agape love. I love my family. But they are not always around. I love my friends. But they are often wounded, cracked pots, just like me. There's a saying that crops up on bumper stickers: Hurt people hurt people. We don't have to try very hard to hurt someone's feelings. And sometimes we hurt their feelings without even trying. We didn't know that today was their birthday or that they love that song/movie/book/person we just ranted about.

"All my life, I've been in hiding, wishing there was someone just like You." These lyrics only really work if we're singing them in worship to God. Most love songs on popular radio are in the same category. I've heard Peter Gabriel's song "Your Eyes" done a cappella by a Christian group, and the words made so much more sense referring to God's eyes. "In your eyes/I am complete/in your eyes/I see the doorway to a thousand churches/in your eyes/the resolution of all the fruitless searches..."

So my friends, the joy I share with them, is just icing on the cake. I need them as much as they need me, but if I don't have a solid relationship with God, I am no use to them. Because I leak. I offend. And I get lonely at two in the morning.

Over time, I have become more comfortable with mystery rather than certainty. (Phillip Yancey)

This was one of those wrestling with God weeks. A friend said to me, well, Jacob didn't give up (refererring to the dream where Jacob wrestled with God and got a new name, Israel, and a limp.)

Literature on bi-polar says that a regular schedule is what will keep you in check (read: healthy, out of the hospital, etc.). Literature on first borns (me) and only borns (I was an only until 10) say that I should be organized, using a Palm Pilot, and spoiled. Well, guess what, I'm un-boxable. I have seasons where I keep a regular schedule (if you can call it that) but I am pretty free-form and my doctors are always pleased at how healthy I am. I have a Palm Pilot (or is it a Pocket PC) that I used to play the games. I'll probably sell it, as soon as I locate it in my garret and get my ducks in a row. Literature on Global Nomads says that we either wander for the rest of our lives or find a place and stay put. Yes, I have found my stay put. I do not ever want to leave my garret. (Well, not never, but I do not want to have to move!) I love Pittsburgh and am forever discovering new things to do, new people to befriend.

And I love the old (make new friends, but keep the old, one is silver and the other gold.) I mourn the loss of old friends but work hard at making my new ones into faux and real antiques. Change has been the currency of my life, and I want stability! I've done my globe trotting--I want to go back to the places I've been before and see them again. Yesterday I found a picture of Old Town Warsaw, Poland (Stare Miasto) which was rebuilt after WWII. (So it's really new, based on the old.) I put it on the wall by my desk at work, so I can look at it. Places sometimes mean more to me than people--I wonder if Le Petit Trianon is still there, a French restaurant where my mother and I would go for crepes in the middle of the afternoon. I long to re-visit the sculpture museum, where they had a sculpture of three pregnant women. Oh, and a Rodin.

There are places I'll remember, all my life, though some have changed... I think of Paul McCartney, now 64, and not having someone to love him like in the song (will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm 64?).

Right now I'm in that sweet place. It comes and goes, but it's that place where I have a smile lightly dancing on my lips. This week, contributing to the sweet place:

• Grocery shopping with Babs and Terzo. She knows I rarely say no. And she found individual yogurts--6 oz! (They used to be 8 oz, at the same price but this is about sweet moments...)
• Marzipan with chocolate for breakfast (due to Babs recommendation.)
• Second dinner and beer at the Sharp Edge with Babs, last night. Oh, it is so good to have friends!
• Listening to Back when we were grownups (Anne Tyler), read by Blair Brown. (need I say more?)
• Reading blogs: Telfair is moving, bb is traveling, and Babs is reading more books than humanly possible. Oh, and Erin is finding Play Doh in her car!

This was the verse that hit me this morning (Yes, I've gotten back to reading the Bible, mornings.)

Proverbs 25:2 It is the glory of God to conceal a matter; to search out a matter is the glory of [queens].

(I changed kings to queens. It's my blog, I get to do that!)

Because God is clearly concealing a whole heck of a lot from me these days. But he is also reavealing to me that I am such a broken vessel, in need of grace and glue. I thank all y'all who have donated your Elmer's moments to me, whether you knew it or not.

This Post brought to you by the letter P...

I've been tagged by Carolyn! And the letter she gave me is P.

P as in Pink and Pink Sneakers. Pink has been my favorite color since kindergarten. Julianna and I were going to go to New York and be famous ballerinas. I have always wanted a pink car since I saw a pink punch-buggy (no punch-backs) when I was in five or six in Germany. Hence the whole Mary Kay career...hello, can you say Pink Cadillac?

P is for Pop (what they call soda in Pittsburgh) and also another name for Dad, and after all, today is Father's Day. My dad's name also starts with a P. So does Paul McCarthy's. (Who is now 64.)

P as in Pittsburgh, the city of my soul. I could write a novel on this, but all of a sudden, I'm shy. The link is so old I had to go to the way back machine (internet archive) for it.

P as in Pete. Pete is a friend who is younger than my sister, older than my brother (he's 24ish) and who "gets" me. The other night I was starting to tell a story and he totally got what I was trying to say before I got the words out. Friends like that are precious.

P as in Pittsburgh Penguins. Today in the coffee shop we had a conversation about Ben R. (not the Seattle Seahawks QB!) and we started talking about our favorite hockey players. Babs and I are going to a game next season, as long as they don't get sold and move...We all love Sidney Crosby.

P as in Pittsburgh Steelers. The World Champions at the Superbowl FIVE TIMES!! I don't get into football except when it gets into Playoffs for the home team.

P as in Pandora. I put in Annie Lennox, hoping for "Walking on Broken Glass," but they haven't played it yet. Right now it's playing Pat Benetar, "We Belong."

P is the 16th letter in the alphabet. I would never use this sign, but it always cracks me up "welcome to our ool--what's missing? P!"

Playful, play, playing, as in what I'd like to be doing 90% of the time. For me, if it's not fun, why do it? (Although my version of fun may not be yours: I like doing dishes, most of the time, and I like checking Dewey Decimal numbers to see if they match the book in hand.)

P as in Pennsylvania, the state I live in.

P as in palindrome, like madam, or nurses run.

P as in pansy, a flower I do not like. I do like: geraniums (red only), tulips (any color), roses (any color).

P as in Poland, the one place I would go at the drop of a hat. My parents lived there for three years while I was in college and I visited them seven times.

pelican, piano, paper, Presbyterian, percussion (other p words I like.)

Printed in books CIP data: "printed in China, not at government expense" (note in book Masters of Movement) and "Design by compisotor name here." (note in a book about Chinese/American foreign relations.)

I could go on, but I want to post this.

The update post and some thoughts about friendship (it's the perfect blendship)

The title's clickable. I haven't figured out the code (Babs?) on that yet. You might get a lovely pop-up, and for that I'm sorry, but hey, it's the Internet, folks. It's a html-java jungle out there.

I woke up this morning after having the same dream twice. It was the cinematic ending of a book (in my dream, cuz in real life I've never read him) by Don DeLillo, called The Road. Oh, it was a dream, it would be too complex to explain. Anyways, that's not what got me off the sofa and to the keyboard right away.

Oh, you want the update?

Wait a second, or scroll down.

My friends are the most important thing to me. Why? Because, honey, they were all I had for a long time. I went off to college and my folks went to Poland. Hello? As in six time zones away, phone calls that cost a dollar a minute, and me, sitting in the hall at the phone booth (the room phones didn't work for international calls) praying I'd get through. We're talking I'd get the message, "I'm sorry, all circuits are full. Please try your call later." Before and after I became a Christian, I just prayed. "Please God, this time!" I didn't pay attention to the polite lady with her "I'm sorry"'s. I dialed again. And again. And again. And sometimes, after dialing eighteen times, I'd get through. I talked to my folks once a week with a short laundry list of business items. So my friends, through the magic of the phone in my room or the postal service (Lorelei and I wrote so often that we had to number our letters--sometimes we'd send 3 in one day) were my lifeline. For the first semester at least, I had mail EVERY SINGLE DAY. God bless Sir Roland Hill (my ancestor, the one who thought up the penny postage stamp.)

I didn't have a boyfriend. I didn't have college friends until my second semester freshman year. I couldn't go home for laundry. My high school friends were it. They kept me afloat, literally. Both of them are married now, and with one or two children. We write less frequently, and for a while, used the phone only for birthdays. Then I got a cell phone. You know, free long distance? Oh, baby! I was talking to Boston on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.... and of course, as with all my married-with-children friends, the phone calls were full of "Come inside" or "Can you see I'm on the phone?" etc. Which I'm totally fine with. Because if the kids come with that package, I'd rather have that than have no package.

I'm still single (and pretty happy with it, for the moment). But I still need my friends, although my parents and I are closer now (we talk at least four times a week). Because in the meantime, I developed this mental health issue that is sometimes scary. And it helps to talk about life. (Enter friends.) But in the meantime, most of my girlfriends are married. I had a conversation with one of them yesterday, another Sally (how can I keep them all straight?). She said, "You know, I don't have any high school friends anymore. I mean, they live near here, but we don't keep in touch. And our college friends have reunions every once in a while, but Joe and I rarely go." Which is why I woke up with this urge to write. It's no sense calling up Sally and saying, "Hello, you got married right out of college, so you've always had Joe, plus the kids, and you live your marriage out in the same neighborhood where you went to high school."

Hey, that is wonderful. But I'm Carrie. (The single part, the girlfriends part. I haven't had a kissing boyfriend in eight years, so don't get me started.) I don't have the house, the husband, the 2.5 children. I respect the h-e-double hockey sticks out of anyone that does. I just haven't met anyone yet that I wanted to spend my life with, besides my girlfriends.

In my frantic search on Sunday to find the poem (do a search on my blog search for List Friday--it's not up anymore b/c it was tres personal), I found an old card from Lorelei. It said, "I'm glad you're a forever friend." We haven't spoken since I got back from my trip to New England. I've sent her a few emails, but that's our speed right now. I think she sometimes reads this. Maybe I'll email it to her. It is always a red letter day in the Sarah Louise household when I get a letter in her penmanship that has LKM in the return address area. (Yes, she uses her initials.)

In the meantime, I'm mourning the loss of Boston. I had no idea I would be so homesick while at the PLA conference, translating into probably one of the worst weeks I've ever had, and it had to happen while I was visiting my other high school friend. Somethings you can't control. I refuse to live in the "well, if only I had..." because that week was drenched in prayer. It was also drenched in my own brokenness. Which was the straw that broke the friendship. Which I'm mourning the loss. (Did I split an infinitive there?)

It's gonna take some time. Carole King can sure write some songs: "It's gonna take some time, this time/To get myself in shape/I really fell out of line this time/I really missed the gate/The birds on the telephone line (next time)/Are crying out to me (next time)/And I won't be so blind next time/And I'll find some harmony." (Using italics reminds me I still haven't blogged about Patricia Machlachlan. I also have a post on the letter P in the works.)

Oh, you want the update? Okay, so my gyn. called me yesterday and said I have a small cyst (2 cm), which probably will resolve itself. (We're so cyst-y, women are!) If I want to go ahead right away with the lacroscopic deal, I can. Or I can wait 6-8 weeks and get another sonogram (my bladder is giving me the silent treatment) and THEN decide if I want to do the lacroscopic deal. Oh yes. I like that. If we have the luxury to take this slow, let's take it slow. Meantime, I can find out how much the lacroscopic deal costs and if my insurance covers it. Oh, and I can stop taking the contraceptives. YAY! Because frankly, I am sick and tired of breakthrough bleeding. (Of course, I would have liked to have had that conversation BEFORE I spent $35 on the Seasonale pack, but hey, it upped my Fuel Perks.) I've started taking fish oil again (it's good for so many things, one of them being cramps) and I'm incorporating more veggies into my life. Yes, it's time that Sarah Louise takes control of what goes in her mouth--less Wendy's, more Whole Foods.

And because when I googled Fuel Perks, this wikipedia article came up, a little Giant Iggle history.

Because it takes a giant to make life simple...

I'll be here all week. Oh, and I'll be commenting on that post that says you don't have to post every day. No, I do. I'm a writer. Some day I'll be working on the novel and maybe I'll stop blogging or blog less frequently, but right now, yes, I have to post every day. I don't care if I'm clogging the blogosphere. (More on that later. My bladder gave up on the silent treatment.)

List Friday graduates from college!

Well, Mrs. Pom asked for "advice for the graduate." Being my own creative self, I'm giving more than one list.

Advice/Things to avoid/Things to Do once you graduate:

1. Hug your parents. Whether you got loans or paid for it yourself or they paid, you are a product of their hard work and encouragement. Go ahead, I'll wait.
2. Back so soon? Hug them again.
3. Stay in touch with your parents. A story? So, when I graduated high school, my parents moved to Poland (yes, that country that used to be communist.) When I graduated from college, they moved to Brazil (yes, not the movie, but the place on the other side of the equator.) I didn't take it personally, but it was a little hard to keep in touch. (Time differences, costly phone bills--which they paid for or #3 would have been toast.) My dad reads at least three newspapers a day, easier now in the e-era. He would mail me articles. I would read them on the bus and think of him. I never ever thought I would be the kind of daugther that called her parents every day. And that doesn't happen overnight and not everyone is like that. But I thought at some point my parents would be irrelevant, I'd start going to Vail or the Bahamas when I got some time off, and we'd see each other at Thanksgiving and Christmas.
4. If your parents aren't around (geographically or otherwise) find some wise adults. I have so many mothers it's not even funny. The church secretary and I did Mary Kay together, ages ago and she is dear dear dear to me. We've been in Bible Studies together....anyways, a lot of stuff. I know if I need a hug before work, I can drive through Oakland and get one or two.
5. Which I guess brings me to the one that truly has saved my life: join a church. I know, you're on your own now, you want to sleep in on Sundays... Well, for me, there's a number one reason (Jesus) but even if that's not one of yours, here are the benefits: you will find those wise adults that can stand in for your parents. And if you're lucky, you'll find a priest or preacher who makes you laugh, and everyone knows that laughter is healthy, so there you go. Plus, singing. It's good for you.

Advice for the parents (SL, that list maker...)

1. If you say you'll pay for something (i.e. phone bills home or car insurance) warn them once you think they're ready to pay their way. My first job barely paid the bills and my father was in Brazil so he couldn't really understand that the only way I *was* paying my bills was that he was paying my car insurance. So after six months, he stopped. We didn't have a conversation--he just stopped. I did a major financial tailspin. TALK TO YOUR KIDS ABOUT MONEY!!!

2. Hug your kids (this is a corrollary of 1, 2, and 3, above). I mean, I didn't exactly take it personally that they moved far far away when I graduated, but graduation and re-entrance into the non-academic world (Sorry, graduates, don't read this part.) JEST AIN'T A PIECE OF PIE. It took me 2 years to find a job I liked enough to stay at longer than a year and it took a Master's Degree and a diagnosis of bipolar and three years back in the nest (yes, I know, you thought they flew the coop permanently, but life happens) for me to find a job I loved at a living wage.

3. TALK TO YOUR KIDS ABOUT CREDIT CARDS! Oh, this is crucial. They may have to learn the lesson on their own, but they will remember the conversation. It's like those commercials where they show kids and parents fishing and they say, "Talk to your kids about smoking." JUST DO IT.

4. Did I mention hug your kids? Even if you are not geographically close, send them a letter. Or an email. KEEP IN TOUCH. And connect them with extended family, if those happen to be geographically closer than you are. Heck, connect them with extended family, period. Family can save a life.

Graduates, you can open your eyes again.

A few closing thoughts:

It took me a long time to get a job I liked at a wage that didn't have me dependent on my credit cards. It took me a long time to figure out if I was still dating guys that looked like my first loser boyfriend, I might want to look into why he had such a grip hold on my heart. It took me a long time to realize that my parents sacrificed a lot for me. Be patient.

When I think back, I know that friends and family saved me. I owe a huge debt to my friends that I'll probably never be able to repay.

I hope that helps.

Oh, and one last thing: figure out early how to get to work on time. If you have to eat your breakfast in the breakroom, do it. This will pay dividends later. I gotta go wash my hair or I will be late for the staff in-service day.

Coming tomorrow: SL celebrates her blogiversary: one full year on the web, woo hoo!

Happy Mother's Day!

My mother:

• looks 10 years younger than other women her age.
• went to Antartica this year with my dad.
• when asked by my sister what she wanted for Mother's day, said, ''help me with the rain garden" (translated: help me pile dirt into this hole in the backyard.) My sister was thrilled...not!
• Nicknames: Aunt Chirp; Ever Crabby Aunt Chirp (by my cousins on my mom's side.)
• Was a camp counselor, so taught us all the songs, including this one about a cannibal king with a big nose ring who fell in love with the dusting maid, and every night by the pale moonlight, it sounded like this to me-eee...
• Loves the outdoors. Loves her garden. Loves tomatoes. Is very environmentally conscious.
• Does not like (but secretly loves) my sister's rabbit. Love in this context is in the sense of taking care of something's welfare even when it pees on your carpet.
• Does not like adultery or sex on TV or in movies.
• Forbade me to watch soap operas as a girl.
• Would give me a toothbrush with dish soap if she heard me using "the Lord's name" in vain with my girlfriends on the phone
• People always say we look alike. We had the same haircut for awhile. People always mistake us for each other on the phone.
• Hospitality is in her blood. The party we had yesterday was not just for my sister, but for *my* master's degree 4 years ago and for my brother's B.A. last year. We had people we knew from Warsaw (Poland), Bonn (Germany), Hope College (my parent's friends and my brother's friend), neighbors from the street, people we knew from Brazil...
• Forever finds me a shirt or something at yard sales.
• Hates clutter. She used to pay me 50 cents a trash can when I was younger. "Get rid of it, get rid of it!"
• Always asks me if my dishes are clean when we talk on the phone.
• Is not one of those moms who most greeting cards are written for.
• Can be exceedingly silly.
• Is one of my favorite people in the world.

"It's still true," James said.

(Cynthia Voight, Homecoming)

In Homecoming, the first book of the Tillerman cycle, Dicey and her three siblings, James, Maybeth, and Sammy, have been left by their mom at a mall in their car, with their belongings in paper bags, with the premise that they are going to go visit Aunt Cilla, who lives in Bridgeport. (Is that CT?) Momma said that Aunt Cilla was rich, and she'd take care of them. After waiting overnight and at least one day (I've given myself 20 minutes to write, so you'll have to read the book to get the actual specifics, okay?) in the parking lot, having eaten the sandwiches they brought along, having ventured into the mall, they decide that Momma is not coming back, at least not to the car, and perhaps they'd better go on to Bridgeport without her.

Every morning, James wakes up and says "It's still true." (Meaning, it's still true that Momma is gone, lost, not with us.) My father gave me this book for Christmas when I was in sixth grade. He'd read about it in the New York Times and was very excited about it. We lived in Honduras at the time, and there was no such thing as online anything, just postal mail, so he must have found a bookstore that shipped to APO addresses such as ours. (APO for those of you unschooled in the mail abreviations stands for...and I have no clue. But it signifies a...oh yes! Army Post Office. It signifies an Army Post Office, which is generally overseas but it has an American address. So when we lived in Honduras, it was APO Miami. When we lived in Poland, it was APO AE New York. Don't ask me what the AE stands for, 'cause I just don't know!) I have a hardcover copy with a tattered dust jacket. Why I did not get it signed by the author when I met her in 1993, I have no clue. I had her sign a copy of On Fortune's Wheel that belonged to a friend's sister and a secondhand copy (that was already showing wear in 1993) of Dicey's Song.

I have Homecoming and Dicey's Song in both hardcover and paperback. I may have a third copy of Dicey's Song somewhere. For years, I'd read it, put it down for a week (or less) and pick it up again. It was my baby blanket book, my comfort.

And it's 9:00, so I've started the water...it takes awhile for it to warm up to the third floor. Happy Humpday.