this is my chance

the sixth installment in a week-long series exploring the rituals of starting again

in the voice of candace, 18 years old

cut it off.
just cut it all off.
really short.
i want it really short.
i've had long hair my whole life, and i'm sick of it.
you know what?
can we dye it, too?
blonde.
well, white blonde.
just the tips, though.
let's do that.
this is good.
this is gonna be good.
this is gonna feel like me.
i want to walk in there and feel like me.
this is my chance.
i need to do it now or it'll be too late.
once people meet you one way, you're stuck.
i don't want to be stuck the way i am now.

i love

the fifth installment in a week-long exploration of the rituals of starting again

i love || TROSA

TROSA, i love you

because you not only give people who are recovering from substance abuse issues a chance to begin again, you give them a really super strong chance to begin again.  we're talking about 85% of program graduates who don't relapse in the first year.  i hope you're shouting that from the rooftops.

because visiting your christmas tree lot to choose our tree each year is one of me and my husband's very favorite holiday traditions--and one of the first traditions we started together.

oh, and because the guys at your christmas tree lot do not mock me when i talk to the trees to see which one wants to come home with us.  at least not that i know of.

because one of your moving service guys carried my husband's very heavy amplifier a very long way a few years ago.

because you have an impressive business + donations income model that allows every person in your program to receive treatment free of charge.  i'm a sucker for an impressive business + donations income model.

because you are here, in the triangle.

a place called front porch

the fourth installment in a week-long series exploring the rituals of starting again

citronella and cigarettes
the tiny glow of five candles scrounged from various corners of her apartment
and assembled here
on a dusty little table
beside a makeshift ashtray
(she doesn't smoke, but he does.)
her chair creaks as she lifts her butt and folds her feet underneath her in the seat.
wine sloshes as he pours too quickly into each of their glasses.
a car goes by
headlights over-brightening the railing, their faces, the front door
and then it's gone.
she notices the envelopes poking up out of her mailbox
the cobwebs in the corners of the windows
the way she is blinking a lot like some kind of weirdo
and tries to relax.
he is a kind person.
he is not noticing these things.
a breeze blows through as if to remind her
that this is new
fresh
that there is possibility here.

shhhhh: i'm starting something (again)

the third installment in a week-long series exploring the rituals of starting again

i didn't tell my husband that i was going to re-start my blogging this week until after i had posted.  and when i first re-started going to the gym a few years ago, i didn't tell anyone until i had used my membership three days a week for at least a month.  and a year before that, i didn't tell anyone that i was going to re-start on a program to help me keep my house clean until after i had finished the first 28 days of babysteps.

i've realized that, when starting on a goal or a project or a life-improving scheme, telling other people what i'm about to do doesn't motivate me to start.  i actually do better getting started if i make a quiet, but firm, promise to myself and don't tell other people about it until i've started (again).  it's almost a secret.

this strikes me as strange.  this is not what productivity-goalbuster-makestuffhappen gurus advise.

i do need to talk about the stuff i'm working on once i've got it going.  but for the getting-started part?  not so much.  no.

i'm so curious:  when is the best time for you to let people know you're starting something (again)?

metallic

the second installment in a week-long exploration of the rituals of starting again

he clamps his teeth together so hard he can feel his jaw muscles clenching
birds scatter and squawk at the creaksqueakscreech when he lifts his right arm right out in front of him.
he wonders what the spiders and the ants on the cement below him think
when they get caught in the snow flurries the rust flakes that float down from his elbow as it extends.
a rush of blood and his fingers are all tingly as he extends his palm.

he is vaguely aware that he is forgetting to smile
but he makes eye contact and considers that a victory.
he shook one hand at the entrance of this one interview and even if it all goes to shit from here
that's more than he did yesterday.

later
he clatters down the sidewalk
and the trees in their planters wave and cheer him on.

how to start again when you've stopped doing something you love doing

the first installment in a week-long exploration of the rituals of starting again

step one:  decide you're going to start today no matter what comes up, no matter how small your effort, no matter what the result, no matter how late you have to stay up

step two:  end up starting the next day instead

note:  i originally had all sorts of steps in here that included things like "beat yourself up for a while about having stopped and then realize that's getting you nowhere," "give up the perfect ideal of having never stopped," and "become indignant at some person, place, or thing that clearly caused you to stop."  but really, the two steps above are what it comes down to for me.

and you?

a place called glovebox

part four in a week-long series about the rituals associated with napkins...yes, napkins

one registration, signature smeared
three pens, one that writes
two pencils
one glasses case, empty
one throat lozenge, ricola
four pennies
seven napkins, crumpled but mostly clean

she flips the top open
tosses the glasses case on the passenger seat
and grabs the fistful of napkins

she blinksblinksblinksblinksblinks
not crying
defiantly
not crying
jamming the napkins at her shirt
at her lap
at the sticky sweet diet coke staining her favorite sunshine dress.

the paper tears and leaves little brown bits of detritus on the field of yellow.
she drops the napkins in her lap
she drops her head
she drops it all and sits there
knowing she will not be making the best first impression today.

the abundance of cloth

part three in a week-long series about the rituals associated with napkins...yes, napkins

i used to love having dinner at friends' houses who used cloth napkins.  the napkins weren't fancy, but for some reason they gave me a real sense of abundance.  it took a couple of years before i realized that i could have cloth napkins at my house, too.  somehow i had subconsciously associated them with an abundance that i didn't feel, even though a pack of four wasn't very expensive at all.  funny how we do that.

and now: i love my cloth napkins.  and you know what makes them even better?  our napkin rings.  metal napkin rings!  they were a gift, ordered from etsy, and they have our names on them.  it seems silly, but those cloth napkins in those etsy napkin rings make me smile.  they make me feel at home.  they are a mealtime ritual that reminds me how simple and personal and sustainable abundance can be.

i'm curious:  what rituals make you feel abundant?

torn

part two in a week-long series about the rituals associated with napkins...yes, napkins

i look in her eyes and notice
for the first time
how often she blinks.
she laughs raises her eyebrows lowers her eyebrows presses her lips together.
i start to speak and she is nodding
already
before i've gotten two words out
she is nodding.
her chin is tipped down
slightly
and her eyes are looking up at me
slightly
so that i know she is
righttherewithme.
what i do not know
is that she is sitting on her hands
because her therapist has suggested that she try it.
what i also do not know
is that if she weren't sitting on her hands
she would already be three rips into her napkin,
on her way to having 64 perfectly-torn squares in a little stack,
on her way to having six of those stacks in a row beside her fork before the entree is served,
on her way to arranging those six stacks in a three columns of two and then two columns of three.
what she does not know
is how long she can sit still.

i am ever-so-slightly obsessed with napkins

part one in a week-long series about the rituals associated with napkins...yes, napkins

i have a very tiny obsession with napkins right now, so i've done a very tiny bit of research about them.  i do believe that any amount--even a very tiny bit--of research into napkins indicates some level of obsession, because who thinks about napkins, really?

since i'm interested in ritual these days, i fell down a napkin-rituals-rabbit hole.  and here's what i learned:

1. see the tablecloth swagging down in front of the table in this painting of the lord's supper?  that's the napkin.  it's a communal napkin for everyone to use. and according to this blogger's first generation italian mother, the communal napkin stuck around for awhile, at least in italian families. she remembers growing up with a mopina at the table, "a communal dish towel set on table used by all greasy hands young and old." in our hand-sanitizer-tastic society, i'm not real sure the communal napkin is gonna make a comeback. we are too germ-conscious to be truly communal.
2. even when napkins made the move to individual, they used to be huge because eating was a messy, tactile endeavor.  then, along came the fork in the seventeenth century.  suddenly, eating became a neat, polite affair, and napkins got much smaller.  we traded fun and immediacy for refinement and politesse.
3. and finally, it seems there was a time in roman civilization in which, if you were invited to dinner, you brought your own napkin.  yep, b.y.o.n.  and when the meal was over, these roman napkin-bringers just wrapped up leftovers in their napkins and took them on home.  next time you spy your great aunt slipping a napkin full of wedding cookies in her purse, know she has history on her side.  these days, we use styrofoam and plastic containers with all kinds of toxic crap in them when often a cloth napkin would do just as well.  sigh.  we make things so complicated.

napkins:  who knew they had so much to say?

what s/he wrote

tim sanders posted this about four years ago, but i thought of it immediately when i embarked on a rituals of summer-vacation-taking week.

one of the rituals of taking a vacation used to be coming back to an email inbox that you imagined would be chock full and would require several hours to deal with.  now, you don't have to imagine it because you can just-real-quick check your work email from vacation on your fabulous smartphone, and you already know what's awaiting you when you return.  in fact, you've probably half-heartedly dealt with some of it during vacation.  and you've certainly thought about one or two items, whether you've responded to them or not.

i like tim sanders' idea for managers, co-workers, and clients:

when I worked at yahoo, i put my employee’s vacation days into my calendar to remind me to leave them off threads or bcc/ccs. when there was an email that they would eventually need to see or be copied on (when they got back), i would part [sic] it in the draft folder, then send all of them the day they returned.
i'm going to try it.  i'm going to put emails to people who are on vacation in a draft folder and send them when they return.  it sounds to me like a kind ritual to put in place.

the non-negotiable breakfast

part six in a week-long series about the rituals of summer-vacation-taking

when i was growing up, my dad had only one demand when we went on vacation.  that demand was breakfast.  he didn't care much whether we spent all day in the ocean or walked the pier 25 times or sunned ourselves into oblivion around the pool reading magazines with our walkmans turned up.  but breakfast was non-negotiable.  and it was early.

at around 7:30 in the morning, he'd start to get antsy, and no later than 8, we were dragged out of bed, pulling our hair back in sloppy ponytails or grabbing a baseball cap, and sliding on flip-flops or jellies or those adidas slipper-shoes to go to some spot that would serve us bacon and coffee and maybe some biscuits and molasses.  we protested mightily.

but now, so many years later, guess what each of my siblings and i consider to be an inviolable part of going on vacation?  yes, indeed:  breakfast.

i'm curious:  what are your vacation must-dos?

i love

part five in a week-long series about the rituals of summer-vacation-taking

installment ten || kure beach pier

kure beach pier, i love you

because you make me feel like it's the year instagram photos try to replicate, but you do it without a special filter.  i reckon being the oldest fishing pier in the atlantic coast helps with that.

because you have photos of happy, sunburned people with their biggest fish catches hanging on your walls.  real pictures.  developed at a drugstore.

because you sell ice cream.  really, really good ice cream.

because you are open 24 hours, and that is awesome.

because walking on a wooden pier at night and peering into the black of the ocean and hearing the crash of the waves is simultaneously so romantic and sad and present and nostalgic that i have no choice but to let go, relax, let the tension slide away.

because fishing is meditating, and it is amazing to walk down a long promenade and see people of all shapes and sizes meditating together in the same way.

because you used to have the best baseball pinball machine, which my cousins, my siblings, and i played approximately one billion and seven times.  it was yellow, and if you managed to get that silver ball to go up the metal ramp in the middle, you scored a home run.  i know you don't have it anymore.  that's okay.  the ten-year-old in me will always love you for it anyway.

a place called boardwalk

part four in a week-long series about the rituals of summer-vacation-taking

the sun is up but the sunrise pinks are still in the sky
and the sounds of flip-flops and tennis shoes slapping against the wood haven't yet begun.
a fat seagull is perched on dumbo's nose
on the flying dumbo ride
right where the shiny gray paint is peeling off.
the garage doors are pulled down and chained on the arcade,
the shop where you can buy jewelry made of fake shells produced in taiwan,
the shop where you can buy airbrushed t-shirts circa 1984,
and the tattoo parlor.
the garage door is up on the doughnut shop
because it's hot in there already
and because the sweet sticky smell is too much
and because there is one more teenager who has yet to arrive for work.
a lost phone chirps a low-battery warning where it was dropped last night in the sand near the trash barrel.
the pavement is heating up down here
as the locals have their coffee in their kitchens
and the tourists sleep off their beers in their hotel rooms and rental cottages.

smartphone vs. vacation

part three in a week-long series about the rituals of summer-vacation-taking

smartphone, you are the enemy of the true vacation.

yes, it seems like no big deal when we're shooting a quick email here, and sharing our awesome vacation photo on instagram there, and picking up a short call, checking our office voicemail, and responding to just this one hilarious tweet from our friend from college.

but...
um...
let's compare:


vacation before you could work, plan, and socialize internationally from almost anywhere on the planet:

• 9:00am:  coffee and breakfast
• 10:30am:  horse around in the ocean with your kid, your best friend, and your best friend's kid
• 12:00pm:  read a magazine lying on your beach chair while periodically poking your leg with your finger to see if you're burning
• 12:30pm:  lunch
• 2:00pm:  nap
• 3:00pm:  play bocce on the sand and lose to your dad...again
• 5:00pm:  shower
• 6:30pm:  go out to dinner and watch the server's eyes get round when your whole crew walks in
• 9:00pm:  drink wine and eat snack food you would never have at home

vacation now:

• 9:00am:  check facebook, twitter, gmail, and work email.  make a mental note to respond to 3 work emails after you make coffee.
• 9:15am:  coffee and breakfast
• 10:30am:  send 3 aforementioned work emails while your kid, your cousin, and your cousin's kid start playing in the ocean.  scroll through facebook for just a quick second, and get surprised when your kid comes back out of the water.  say you were just getting ready to go out to join them.  dang.
• 12:00pm:  read your magazine instead of the work stuff you brought along and feel guilty and stressed about it.
• 12:30pm:  lunch
• 12:45pm:  pick up call from this guy you know who is helping you plan a charity event for next week because you've been playing phone tag with forever.  feel the urgency of what he needs from you, so agree to post something to facebook, your neighborhood listserv, and your parents' group listserv by tonight.
• 1:15pm:  nap
• 3:00pm:  try to post about charity event, and discover that your facebook app is telling you it lost its connection over and over again.
• 3:12pm:  give up and go find your dad playing bocce with the kids on the beach.  take an awesome picture that totally captures the moment and realize that it's so perfect you have to post it on instagram immediately.  try out six different filters, narrow it down to three, decide one is too grainy, and finally choose the one that makes it look like csi miami.
• 3:22pm:  play bocce while periodically looking to see how many likes your photo has gotten.
• 5:00pm:  look up best place for reservations on phone.  read reviews of seven seafood joints within a one-mile radius, and choose pirate's cove.  try to make a reservation using opentable, discover pirate's cove isn't on opentable, and call the restaurant instead.
• 5:23pm:  shower
• 6:30pm:  during dinner at pirate's cove, look up blackbeard on smartphone to prove to your sister that blackbeard was shot and beheaded, since she insists he had to walk the plank.
• 9:00pm:  drink wine
• 10:16pm:  tell your spouse to go ahead to bed without you because you still have to post about the charity event.  after you post, check your work email one last time.
• 11:12pm:  lie in bed thinking about the best way to handle the latest wrinkle in your biggest work project until you fall asleep.

hmph.  i've done some varying versions of the second schedule, but that first one up there seems a whole lot more like a vacation to me.

i'm curious: has your smartphone changed your rituals on vacation?  for the better?  or not?

much

part two in a week-long series about the rituals of summer-vacation-taking

she doesn't care for the beach much
but
this is where they have wanted to come
every year
since the oldest one could say the word ocean
so
she packed the sunscreen the bathingsuits the raggedy towels
and proceeded to have fun
their way.
she got tangles out of hair
she held hands jumping over waves
she made rules about how late they could walk on the pier without a grownup.
today
she sits on the porch of the rental, half-reading her book as they and their spouses unload the cars
bringing in water wings and sand pails and sunshades.
she watches them swarm into the kitchen where she earlier unloaded the only kind of macaroni the toddler will eat, the favorite potato chips for the son-in-law, the special milk for the one with allergies
all things she knew to bring without them even asking.
she feels the place fill up with her favorite kind of noise, the unconscious noise of family, and keeps it to herself that
she doesn't care for the beach much.

how to leave for a vacation

part one in a week-long series about the rituals of summer-vacation-taking

how to leave for a vacation

1. plan to leave by a certain hour.  save up 413 small tasks that you must accomplish before you leave.  begin those tasks 90 minutes before your planned departure time.
2. pack way too much.  remove three items from your suitcase.  feel proud.  put one of the three items back in your suitcase. 
3. water the plants.  think about how you should go on vacation more often so that the plants get watered more frequently.
4. unplug everything in sight:  the coffeemaker, the rickety old lamp in the hallway, the microwave oven.
5. spill something on the floor.  preferably something that makes a big sticky mess or will dye the floor a nice shade of purple if it isn't tended to immediately.
6. decide to set the timers for the lights.  spend 25 minutes looking for the timers for the lights.  get in a fight with your partner/child/dog about where the timers for the lights could be.
7. leave 104 minutes after your planned departure time and feel pretty psyched that you stayed on schedule.  or close enough.  or close enough-ish.
8. feel relieved that you're finally on the way, and then throw a big rock at that feeling by stopping for gas, lunch, and cash before you even leave town.
9. get fifteen minutes down the road and make a joke.  smile for the first time in several hours.  remember that you actually like the person/people in the car with you.
10. relax.

what s/he wrote

part seven in a week-long series all about the rituals of being friends

a long old time ago, someone whose writing i respect said some mean things about my writing--valid criticism, perhaps, but said in a mean, ouchy way.  when a new friend heard about it, she defended me thoroughly, intelligently, and without reservation.  she may not remember it, but i sure do.

in my mind, it cemented our friendship status.  that's one of the rituals of friendship, after all:  leaping to the other person's defense.

fast forward fifteen years, and i still consider the woman who defended me a friend.  which leads me to another ritual of friendship:  celebrating the other person's successes.

that's why this week's what s/he wrote is a little different.  i haven't actually read the thing that i'm going to ask you to read.  it's my defender-friend's debut novel.  her name is emily colin, the book is titled the memory thief, and it's available beginning august 21.  you can see the trailer here.  and if you're a book club kind of person, check this awesomeness out.

p.s.:  the  mean-things-sayer is now my friend, too, and she's an extraordinary person.  but that's another story.

an offer of help (softened with a sprinkle of movie)

part six in a week-long series all about the rituals of being friends

in the voice of two new characters, gary and tim

hey man how's it going
it's alright man how're things with you
can't complain
yeah
well i could but wouldn't nobody listen so
i hear that
nice out here right
oh yeah
wouldn't want to be the one to have to cut this grass though
need a tractor mower for this place
something
welp
hmmm
[insert movie quote here]
[insert movie quote rejoinder here]
[insert laughter here]
so y'all gonna move again?
ah i don't know
yeah
[insert movie quote here]
[insert movie rejoinder here]
i don't know we're trying to figure out somewhere a little bit cheaper but there ain't much out there man
yeah
i don't know
what kind of stuff are you lookin' for
what kinda house?
house job both
oh anything really anything for either one
i hear you
yep
well let us know if y'all are movin' and you need some help i know jennie can't be carrying anything
thanks man thanks appreciate that
yep no problem man just let me know

i love

part five in a week-long series all about the rituals of being friends.

installment nine || elmo's diner in durham

elmo's diner in durham, i love you

because i was scarfing down your french fries the time j + k + i talked about the unconditional love we have for each other (and j creeped us out talking about bones).

because i was drinking your decaf coffee the time g + t + i nattered on about religion-related things and stuff.

because i was having your side salad with extra thousand island the time m + g told me with a gleam in their eyes about their visionary plans way before they actually happened.

because i was eating your chilaquiles the time b had tears in her eyes before she took a big leap.

because i was standing in your crazy crowded waiting area on a sunday morning with a the time the line between friendship and more-than-friendship was blurring.

because i have no idea what i was eating the time what used to be 11 of us (and had grown to 19 with kiddos and a new husband) all went out together for lunch.

because i was lingering over your huevos rancheros the time t + i had an incredible conversation about creating a new model for theatre in the triangle.

because my legs were curled up under me in one of your booths with m the time he made a momentous long-distance drive to see one of our shows.

because i have had three different beverages in front of me at one of your tables for so many hours with so many friends so many times.  and you have never once suggested that we hurry it up.