holding hands in the backseat

On Sunday night, I rode home from dinner in the backseat. Abby, the 20-month-old of the couple I live with, sat next to me, her carseat facing the back window. I remember when she was just a baby, she would scream during these car rides, and any attempts on my part to soothe her or distract her with play only made her cry louder. So I let her have her space. She probably didn’t need my crazy baby faces so close to hers, or my hands trying to find a sweet spot on her tiny body.

Now she’s a chatty toddler, eagerly pointing out everything new with the two syllables “na –na.” Everything is two syllables. Cracker is “ga-ga.” My name is “Bat-ta.” She says words all the time — to sing to herself, to express what she wants, to make sure she keeps the attention of everyone around her. She says the same words over and over, like she doesn’t care if she sounds like a broken record to everyone around her. During the drive, we saw Christmas lights and she said, “pree ites” (pretty lights) again and again. Then she wanted to dance, and started moving her arms and twisting her tiny body inside of her car seat. In the front seat, her mom put on Christmas music, and I took her hand. We danced with each other for a few measures, and then I let her hand go and looked out the window again at the houses and lights, lost in my own thoughts. “Bat-ta, Bat-ta!” She said my name until I looked at her again, then “more!” She held her hand out, and I took it again. It was tiny and warm, and her palm fit into mine like a head resting on a pillow. Abby put her other thumb in her mouth and looked out the window calmly as we sat holding hands.

These days, children are teaching me so much about relationships. Having lived more than thirty years, I know now that loneliness isn’t easy to escape, and sometimes I figure it’s what we’re all eventually destined for. But children are just learning to connect, and they are so much more fearless about it than I am. There’s no second-guessing whether I want to hold their hand, carry them around the house, feel their wriggling in my lap. A few months ago, some friends came to dinner, and when they were getting ready to leave, they prompted their four-year-old son to say goodbye and thank you. He approached me and gave me a hug, and then he didn’t let go. I felt a bit awkward — not because I don’t love this kid or his hugs, but because it was so unexpected, and so out of the ordinary for me.  I know these kids are really reaching out for their own needs to be met, to feel loved and comforted and connected, but I have to wonder if they know how much love they are giving to adults, how many hearts their tiny bodies are healing, how they are showing us to connect again.

trying something new

"How do you feel about being tall?” he asked. We were on our first date together, and we hadn’t even been seated at our table yet.

“Wow, you’re just going for it,” I said, trying to smile and make light of his question. I looked awkwardly around the busy restaurant and willed the host to come back and rescue me from having to answer. Then, causally, “I mean, I don’t really think about it all that much.” 

That was a lie. I thought about it all the time. It was hard not to. People are always trying to reconcile my height with my gender, and so am I. When I ride the elevator at my office building and the doors open to allow new guests to join us, they without fail look down at my feet. I think my heels only partially satisfy their curiosity. Growing up, I was asked about basketball all the time. Today I know I played in part so I would have an answer to everyone’s question. And now, dating in Southern California, half the men aren’t even options because I want to be able to at least look my husband in the eye. At 5’11”, I’m more often peering at the bald spot men are trying to deny. Or looking over their heads.

My date was tall, and offered a generous smile. “I’ve never dated a girl as tall as you.” 

It took me a second to register that this wasn’t a judgment, but a simple fact. The host came and led us to our table, where we sat next to each other, our bodies slowly reflecting our openness to each other. I was glad to know we were both trying something new.

permission

Follow your own weirdness. - Annie Dillard

Thank you, Annie.

until it overflows

You treat me to a feast...
You honor me as your guest,
you fill my cup until it overflows.

-Psalm 23: 5

When I woke up, it was gray and cold outside. The perfect day to roll over and go back to sleep. I tried to locate some sort of excitement for the day, some kind of positive outlook despite the mist that was already dampening my day. It was Thanksgiving, after all. As I lay in bed, willing myself to get up and run, I heard a small voice that reminded me to be thankful for what happened that day, regardless of my expectations. 

As it turned out, I needed that reminder. My run was slow, our big meal happened way behind schedule (and I was getting irritable), a friend backed out of evening plans, and the sun never showed up. In the late afternoon, as dark was beginning to settle in for the night, I sat in my room and lit some candles, and I decided to be thankful. I don’t remember the specifics, but I’m sure the things I gave thanks for were very mundane: my bed, my housemates, a job, unconditional love.

Later that night — after lighting candles, baking apple crisp, putting a log in the fireplace and choosing thankfulness — friends came over for dessert, and brought with them new friends and beer and warmth. I had to keep pulling out more mugs and plates and forks, and with each scoop of apple crisp and each slice of cheesescake I served up, my heart was more full than it was that morning. 

Somehow, that’s how thankfulness works.

on editing: what is this piece about?

In my day-job as a science/fundraising writer, my favorite part is editing. I didn’t expect this, since I really didn’t know how to do it well before I started. My boss is a terrific editor with a keen eye, and smart as a whip. She asks me questions, states facts (even if they hurt) and tells me what’s missing. When we look at my projects together, I end up feeling a little stupid (why didn’t I see that?) and also schooled, but in a good way. When I finish the revisions, my projects read so much stronger. It’s incredibly satisfying, if also humbling.

I try my hand at editing, too, and am steadily getting better at it. It’s a skill that can be learned by asking simple questions of the piece (mostly, what is the writer trying to say? Does the piece accomplish that? And does each part, as well as the tone, work for it?). Basically, question everything.

Essentially, editing is shaping a piece with a certain goal in mind. I’ve been musing on this idea because in my writing class, I’ve been — almost subconsciously — editing my pieces to fit a certain expectation. Now I’m not talking about the same helpful, strengthening editing my boss has taught me. This kind weakens writing, waters it down like a weak cup of coffee that practically puts you to sleep. It fails on all accounts.

When I was just starting the class, I wrote that I wanted to be daring in my writing. The piece I referenced written by a Mormon woman has stayed with me because she wrote so fearlessly about her faith and how it’s impacted her decisions. Sometimes I hesitate to say that I’m a Christian, or to share that part of my life, in writing to a broader audience because I’m afraid that readers will see that one word as bigger and more important than all the other ones I’m writing, the ones that make up the real story. And yet, in a way, it is bigger, because my love for God, and His for me, really does determine all of my choices. I know a weakness of mine is that my stories lack emotion. While there are probably a few reasons for this, I know that one is because I shy away from exposing my true motivations, feelings, and experiences because I fear being misunderstood. The alternative, however, is being unread, which isn’t very exciting at all.

So back to the questions that editors ask: What is the writer trying to say? Or you could also ask, what is this piece about? People who stand out in their vocation do so because they put themselves into it. They allow who they are to influence the way they wait tables, make art, manage employees, mother children, assist an executive, teach children — and write. I suppose that anybody, then, could ask these questions of themselves as a practice in editing. Take out what’s not important, add what is, make everything work toward what you’re trying to accomplish.

you know you're a nerd when

 You want your room wallpapered to look like a used bookstore.

making soup

Last week, when the high temperature was still reaching ninety degrees, the forecast for Sunday showed clouds, rain, and a temperature twenty degrees cooler. I deemed it soup weather and determined to make chipotle chicken tortilla soup. This one is a staple in my cold-weather rotation. I first came across it a few years ago when Gourmet was still alive and breathing, and hushing me with its inspiring beauty. I admired all of the recipes I saw in that magazine, but few got a corner bend to lead me back to it when I was in my kitchen, not on my couch. This was one of them. 

At that point, I don’t think I’d ever made a stock myself before, but I hated the idea of buying it in a can or box. This recipe had you simmering chicken and veggies for a few hours to create the broth, then cutting up the chicken to add back in. Though it takes a while, very little of it is hands-on time, especially once you’ve made it once or twice. And the tasks it does give you are meditative ones: chopping potatoes, taking chicken from bones, whirring some onions, broth and spices in a blender to make a puree that gets added to the stock for some extra character and heat. The whole time, that homey scent of chicken broth is in the air, which makes you want to stay close to the kitchen anyway. (My mother made chicken noodle soup on Christmas Eve, so the smell holds that extra comfort of memory for me.) 

As with all food, the best part is eating it. Just before you dig in, remember the extras: a squeeze of lime adds some brightness, a slice of avocado brings down the heat just a bit, and some tostados give it a satisfying crunch.

The only thing that made the soup better last night was that two unexpected visitors showed up for dinner. The young one in our household was quiet for the beginning of the meal, always a good sign. Small jars of wine-colored mums sat between the soup pot and fixings. The house was warm with company and a busy kitchen, but when we opened the French doors, cool air seeped in and reminded us that seasons do in fact change, but at their own pace. All we can do is make soup, hope and wait.