Pushing

I have been thinking a lot.  Too much, probably.  Trying to figure out when I just gave up.  I gave up on love, on my friends, on me.  I somehow believed the lies my depression told me.  That I wasn’t worthy of love.  That I was nothing but a burden to my friends and family.  That I was not worth much of anything.  I wish I could pinpoint the moment I just threw my hands up in the air and washed myself clean of me. 

Slowly, I have been trying to put myself back together.  I tell myself daily that depression lies.  That those close to me never saw me as a burden.  That I deserve all of the wonderful things life has to offer me.  But the problem is that the lies are easier to believe.  They don’t come from within me, they come from some deep dark place I battle every day.  And when I tell myself the good things, it feels completely fake. 

I have been avoiding friends and family, turning more and more inward.  Afraid to admit to them that I bought into it.  I fell for the lies.  I am weak.  I am surrounded by some of the strongest people out there – what would they think of me when I admit that the reason I have pushed them away is because I believe with all my heart that I am just not good enough for them to waste their time with me.  That I have nothing to contribute to them – they are all better off with smarter, prettier, more interesting people than myself.  That I am too weak to be in the same vicinity as they are. 

I don’t take the initiative to reach out and contact people.  I am horrendous about getting back to those who reach out to me.  Because I have no right to.  How I manage to be in a grown-ass relationship is beyond me.  But it has helped me to break through the web of lies ever so slightly. 

I want to rejoin life.  I want to get in touch with everyone I have neglected over the past few years.  Myself included.  I want to believe, truly believe that I have every right to be in people’s lives.  I am hoping once my insurance at my new job kicks in that I will be able to find professional help, but for now I am slowly pushing depression away (and I mean slowly) by reaching out to those who I have pushed away.  Please do not give up on me.  I mean, I wouldn’t blame you if you did.  But I promise – I will do better.  It may not seem like much of a promise, but for now it’s all I can offer.  To you and me.

Touched by an Angel

Lately, I’ve been watching a lot of “Touched by an Angel”.  There’s a Christian channel that shows re-runs, and sometimes does marathons.  I TiVo it, and like to watch it before work, or sometimes at the end of a long day – it just lifts my spirits.  Usually, I like fast-forward through the commercials (isn’t that why TiVo was invented?), but sometimes I just let it play.  There are these little segments that run where people talk about how they’ve been “touched by an angel” in their lives, and it got me thinking about moments when I have personally felt the presence of God – or an angel.

                On the show, the character of Monica used to work in Search and Rescue – she’d swoop in and push a child out of the way of a car, catch someone as they fell off the roof, guide a sleepy pilot, etc.  And when I watch the show, and hear a reference to Search and Rescue, I can’t help but recall the time I had an angel on my side.

                It was fall of 2001.  Davy Jones was playing at the Vermont State Fair in Rutland.  Being a huge Monkees fan, I bought tickets as soon as they went on sale.  I even convinced my friend Erin to go with me.  I didn’t sleep much the night before – I was way too excited.  I was also, for some insane reason, sleeping in my hardwood floor.  I think I was on the floor because I was in the process of getting ready to move, so I had a ton of crap on my bed.  Or I was just in a weird phase.  Those happen often. 

                I woke up at a ridiculously early hour – like 3 am or some nonsense.  Once awake, I grabbed my copy of Shoeless Joe and read until finished.  I then decided to futz around on the internet (dial-up, yo.  Old school.), and finally it was time to go.

                I picked up Erin, and we jammed out to the Monkees from Lebanon to Rutland.  Once at the fair, we hit up the death-trap rides, junky fair food, and local artist tables.  I had brought a record for Davey to sign with me, but it wound up staying in the car because I figured I probably wouldn’t be lucky enough to meet him.  I also didn’t want it to be crushed on the Tilt-a-Whirl.

                Once the concert seating opened up, Erin and I bounced into our seats.  I was pleasantly surprised to see she was pretty excited for the show.  Not as excited as I was, but also not giving off a “forced to be here” vibe.  Before The Man took the stage, a woman came out to welcome us to the show.  She also announced that Mr. Jones would be staying to sign autographs (but not to pose for pictures) after the show.  Well, shoot.  I should have brought that record in after all.  Oh, well. 

                The concert was amazing.  Say what you will about The Monkees –they were actors playing musicians, they couldn’t play their own instruments – they are all in fact honest-to-goodness musicians and showmen, Mr. Jones not excluded.  I was thoroughly entertained, as was Erin. 

                It’s all a bit of a blur, and I don’t remember much about the show itself (aside from the spin Davey did during the chorus of “A Little bit Me”, and how we all turned into squeeing fangirls when he busted out his trademark maracas), but alas, I will forever remember what happened after the show.

                We stood in line for autographs.  His “people” were kind enough to provide 8x10 headshots for autographs at no charge.  I grabbed one, and rehearsed what I wanted to say to this man I had waited the bulk of my lifespan to meet.  I believe it was to go something like this:

                “That was an incredible show.  I’ve been a fan for my whole life, and I think it is wonderful for you to stay and sign autographs like this.  You’re amazing.”

                When I finally stepped up to the table, seeing this idol from my youth, my mind had a minor malfunction.  My eloquent, thoughtful, well-rehearsed speech turned into this:

                “Hi.  That was an awesome show.  And this is… awesome.  You’re just so… awesome.” Can you tell I’m a child of the ‘80s?  With a “you’re crazy, so I’ll just keep smiling” thank you, I was pushed aside for the next person.  I stammered a “Thank you so much!”, turned around, and proceeded to trip over the yellow rope they had put up to keep the crowd of horny 50-somethings and one crazy twenty-something in check.  Oh, how at that moment I wish there had been a “save from embarrassment” angel on my side.

                Clutching my autographed headshot and what was left of my pride, Erin and I headed to my car to make our way home.

                The straightest shot from Rutland to Lebanon is Route 4.  It is a windy Vermont highway without a whole lot going on.  On the way, you pass through a couple of small towns, including Woodstock and Quechee.  In Quechee is the famous (to New England folk, anyway) Quechee Gorge.  It’s a huge crack in the mountains with a river at the bottom.  Not as impressive as, say, the Grand Canyon, but a lethal drop down.  And pretty.  Also, popular with the suicide crowd.  A two-lane bridge is all that gets a car from one side to the other.  The gorge is usually my visual cue that I am about 15 minutes from Lebanon. 

                On that drive home, Erin dozed off while I struggled to stay alert once the euphoria of meeting Davy Jones wore off, and the exhaustion brought on by too little sleep and too much fun at the fair kicked in.  At one point, my eyes flew open, my head jerked up.  I must have nodded off for a few seconds.

                As we drove along, I started to wonder how much further I had to drive.  Surely we’d come to the gorge any minute, right?  Not 5 minutes after that thought tripped across my sleepy brain did we reach the turnoff for White River Jct. and Lebanon.  Apparently, I had nodded off for some time, for the gorge was behind us and I had driven over it unconscious. 

                That was one of those moments of faith restoration.  That night, God and his angels did not prevent me from making a fool out of myself.  No, that night they made sure that I would live to tell the story.

Big Picture Thinker

This has been a strange couple of months for me.  I have grown increasingly dissatisfied with my job, and doing a lot of soul-searching (a term which I am beginning to tire of).  This past week was the RA selection season at my alma mater.  It’s weird being entirely removed from the process.  I started to think about my time as an RA, and tried to figure out where it all went so terribly, terribly wrong.  I came to the realization that I was a horrible RA.  Indeed, I totally sucked at it, and the fact that I thought I could continue in that line of work is astounding to me.  But, why was I so awful at it?  Was it because I cared so much in the beginning that I let myself down?  Was it because I had the wrong idea of what my position was?  Was it because I was too old?  I think it was a combination of these things.  Then there was the other factor: my perfectionist curse.

I wanted to badly to be the best, I never tried to be my best.  I wanted to be the best RA ever, and never took the time to truly evaluate my strengths and weaknesses, to be the best I could be.  I never made the position mine, I just kept pushing myself to be that ideal I had in my head.  What I wouldn’t give to start over.  But, short of installing a flux capacitor on my car, that is not going to happen.  So, I move on. 

This need to be the best extends to every other aspect of my life, as well.  I keep telling myself that everyone has that one thing that they do better than anyone – baking, cooking, writing, drawing, listening to problems, math, science, you name it.  I feel like I’m just adequate at a lot of things, but not the “best” at anything.  When other people I know cook or bake, I see it as instant competition.  And I am terrified to share my stuff with them because I know it will fall short.  I don’t like sharing my writing because there are so many better writers out there.  Hell, I have a hard time playing video games with my boyfriend because he’s amazing at it, and I am so not. 

I had all these resolutions this year, all of which were skirting the main issue – I need to accept my imperfections, asses what can and cannot be adjusted, and really focus on being the best Beth I can be.  Whatever that means.  I cannot continue to focus on this idea of perfection.  I am incredibly stubborn, and so used to seeing myself in a certain way, it will not be easy to change my way of thinking, but it has to be done.  It is going to be a slow and painful process, but I am blessed to have wonderful, supportive people around me to help guide me through. 

For those of you who were just hired/given an alternate spot at KSC, let me give you this one piece of advice: be the best RA you can be.  Acknowledge the influences of past RAs (either the inspirational “I want to be like them!”, or the “I can do so much better”, which I’m sure former residents of mine probably think), but don’t let it dictate who you will be.  Don’t suck at the job because you didn’t allow yourself to find your own way.  Basically, don’t be like me. 

I am throwing away my resolutions.  Except for the one I made to write a page a day.  That’s a good challenge.  And I’m sort of following through.  But rather, I am focusing on the whole person, not just a few areas in desperate need of improvement.  I always was a good big-picture thinker. 

Magic

As most of you probably know, I work in a movie theatre.  It’s not the fanciest theatre – far from it.  We have six theatres crammed into a small space, a lobby that, on a major opening weekend can at times feel about as large as a residence hall room, and out of date décor.  But hey, a movie is a movie, and most don’t need a particularly shiny box to play in.

What some people don’t know is that I “grew up” in this theatre.  I was there the night it opened – Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure was playing.  Of course, everything sold before we could even catch a glimpse of the lobby through the glass doors.  So, we went home and came back after things had calmed down a bit.

The movie theatre played a major part in my life.  Driving home from shopping in West Lebanon, we’d always make sure to drive by the theatre to see what movies were listed on the sign, often having a good chuckle over the funny abbreviations and combination of titles they’d put up there (“Die Hard Bambi” is still a personal favourite).  I got to see re-releases of classic Disney animated features with my family, anything I could get into with my friend Susan in elementary school (to this day when I have to card someone for a ‘R’ rated movie, I remember the time we were denied access to Parenthood – it was PG-13, and I was only 11), and when I was older going on holidays with my sister when we just needed to get out of the house.

I saw Sneakers with a group of friends, and had my first (and only) experience of the projectionist having threaded and run the wrong movie.  It was also one of the few times I hung out with a group of my peers and didn’t feel like the odd one out.  When Titanic opened, I was there opening night.  When The Wizard of Oz was re-released fore the 60^th Anniversary, I sat in the theatre of my youth, watching the movie of my childhood.

Over the years, the theatre has fallen into disrepair.  The carpets are rundown and worn from the hundreds of moviegoers seeking a few hours of escape from their lives.  The concession stand is dated (the same one I used to buy candy from as a child).  And even though I spend most of my time there, even though I have seen where the magic comes from in the projection booth (I even get to run the projectors some nights!), and even though I know all about the business end… when I come in to see a movie, as soon as I walk down that long, dark hallway, open the door and choose my seat, it is all magical again.  I still catch my breath as the lights dim, and the “click, click, click” of the projector can be heard.  Sadly, that is soon a thing of the past, as now all theatres (including mine eventually) are being forced into the digital age.  But, that is a rant for another time.

Yes, I work in a small, run-down theatre in an age of fancy theatres with stadium lounge chairs and full-on meals out of their concession stands.  But truly, when the sparkly packaging is stripped away, you are still left with entertaining stories being played out on a screen in a dark room; yes, when you strip away all the fanciness, you are left with magic.

Ritual Sacrifice. With Pie.

Happy Thanksgiving!  As a student of history, I could go on about how as a society, we collectively lie about that first Thanksgiving, direct you to articles and documentaries about the history of Thanksgiving, but really?  Who cares.  Today is a day we stop for a moment, look at where we are at, and take note of the things we are thankful to have.  And then we partake in a ritual sacrifice.  With pie. (It’s a Buffy reference.  You’re welcome). 

So, this year, before I indulge in all the foods, I will share what I am thankful for in my life.

Ø      My Family.  My family has been here for me throughout all my craziness, and hasn’t given up on me yet.  My parents have always taken me in when I need a roof over my head, and have loved me unconditionally my whole life.  They have been patient with me, supportive, and proud of my accomplishments.  This includes my sister and my niece, whom I adore.  I am always especially grateful to have my niece in my life – she was a big reason that I not only went to college, but worked so hard and graduated.  She provides endless entertainment and is so full of love and light.  Yes, I am very thankful for my wonderful family.

Ø      My Friends.  My friends are right up there with family.  The ones that truly matter have also stuck with me, even during my crazy periods.  They have offered shoulders to cry on, ears to listen with, and laughter aplenty.  If I was ever away from home during a holiday, they took me in so I wouldn’t be alone.  I have always been one who doesn’t have a lot of friends, but the ones I have are truly special and amazing.  Y’all know who you are.

Ø      My Job.  I bitch and moan about my job all the time, but the fact that my bosses think I am capable of running a movie theatre when they’re all away instills such confidence in me.  I have learned a thing or two about the film industry from the theatre’s point of view, and have been lucky enough to get to work with the film projectors before they are retired for good.  I have also been given the opportunity to continue to use the leadership skills learned during my time in ResLife.  And in this economy, having a job at all is truly a blessing.  Especially one that will help me in my future plans.  And free movies?  Hell yeah.

Ø      My College Experience.  I graduated college this year.  Thusfar, the greatest accomplishment of my life.  Not only am I thankful for having the perseverance to push through that last semester, I am thankful for the entire four years I spent at Keene.  I grew so much, I can’t even say.  I am forever grateful and thankful for the fact that ResLife not only took a chance on me initially, but kept me around for three years.  I was never the perfect RA, but I tried, and came out the other side a new confident woman.

Ø      My Boyfriend.  I know, I know.  I’m that girl.  But truly.  I have been in some ok relationships, some good ones (that I screwed up), and some downright bad ones.  This has been the most honest and real relationship I’ve ever been in.  He is unbelievably supportive of me and my goals.  He makes me feel beautiful and desirable.  And he makes me laugh.  A lot.  He is a decent guy who has his own goals and drive, who is thoughtful of others and just a lot of fun to be around.  He’s also super cute. J  I am also very thankful for our mutual friend Blair, who threw the shindig at which we met, and who talked us both down from ledges when we thought we’d messed up before we’d even had our first date! 

There are a lot of things to be thankful for today.  These are merely a few.  So, take the day, relax and reflect.  Enjoy your feasting, and your families.  For those who are stuck working (as I will be later today), hey, at least we have jobs! 

And for those who are partaking in the insanity that is Black Friday, try to remember the spirit of the day – it started as the day people kicked off their Christmas shopping, to find gifts for friends and loved ones.  Not the day to get out there and buy, buy, buy for themselves.  If you are out shopping for you, try to remember to pick up a little something for someone else.  

Saying Goodbye

            Well, I did it.  Yesterday, I applied to graduate school.  My application to Chapman University’s M.A. in Film Studies program is now in God’s and the admission office’s hands.  I should be feeling all weightless and shit.  But now the waiting begins.  First, waiting to see if the two recommendations and my transcript make it there on time.  Then, waiting to find out if the next step is in Southern California or not.  And let’s face it – waiting is not something I do well.

            Stalling, however, is a skill which I have honed for years.  I had chosen Chapman over a month ago.  I had sort of started my essays with ample time, contacted people for recommendations, all the while telling myself “you’ve got plenty of time!”  Then November hit.  Well, fuck.  I have one month to get my shit together.  But I was dragging my heels.  Why?  Well, there was the fear factor (what if I don’t get in?!).  But really, it was quite simple – before I could begin this next step in my life, I had to say goodbye to previous ones.

            My boyfriend and I traveled to my alma mater, Keene State College, this week.  I wanted to show off the campus, introduce him to people; treat him to the Dining Commons.  But something felt off.  I felt like I was intruding on a world that I no longer belonged in.  Then I realized why I’d wanted to go back to Keene so badly.  I wanted to say goodbye.

            During my four years at Keene, I made some friends, got involved and connected and found a home in ResLife.  I worked my butt off academically, and finished with a GPA just shy of honors.  Still a sore spot, but also something to be very proud of.  But being so much older than the rest of the students (combined with severe social anxiety/awkwardness), I always felt like an intruder of sorts.  Like I didn’t really belong there.  And in a way, I was right.  I will always cherish the time I spent there, but the illusion of belonging has been shattered. 

            Once I was able to say goodbye, I was able to complete my application to Chapman without hesitation.  I can now only hope that it was not in vain, and this is the next step.

Four More... What?

So, today was Election Day.  This was my fifth presidential election.  Starting in 1996, I voted (absentee) for Bill Clinton.  2000, Al Gore; 2004 John Kerry; 2008 Barack Obama.  This year, I voted once again for Obama.  Why?  Because I don’t like anyone treating me, or any other citizens of the United States, like a second class unimportant person. 

There are people who wonder why we should even vote.  I don’t know about everyone else, but I have always had a hard time expressing my opinion.  Mostly because I have thought for a long time that my opinion doesn’t matter.  But voting is one way that I get to voice my opinion; to quietly stand up for myself and what I believe in.  Please do not confuse quiet for passive – exercising your right to vote is anything but passive. 

If you are someone who is disenfranchised or uninformed and is exercising your right to not vote today, this is your decision, and I respect that.  However, in this day and age it is not difficult to not only find information, but to find ways to process and understand the information you have found, and that excuse will only fly so far.  Find the issues that matter to you, and choose the side that supports your opinions and values, whatever they may be.  Don’t let others browbeat you into voting one way or another, because in the end whatever you do at those polling stations is between you and whatever higher power you believe in (if any) and that is that.  I voted how I felt was the right way for me and my personal beliefs and values today.  In the future, I encourage everyone else to do the same.

And on a lighter note, if all else fails, vote like this guy:

'Til the Storm Passes By

A couple of Sundays ago, we sang one of my favourite hymns as the choir anthem.  It is called “’Til the Storm Passes By”.  Not only is the melody just great fun to sing, the lyrics are very meaningful to me.  My whole life, there has been a tornado raging in my head, winds taking thoughts and whipping them around so fast that I can’t always catch them.  Lightening and thunder drown out the good thought and provide amplification to the bad.  But every now and then, I remember the words to this hymn, and the storm calms just long enough for me to breathe, relax, and continue on my path. 

The past couple of days I have been thinking about this song as a massive “Super Storm” has been winding its way up the East Coast.  As is often the case in times like this, humour has been getting people through, while funny memes and Twitter accounts circulate our virtual lives.  It is easy for those of us a little more removed from it to laugh about the situation, but when it starts to hit closer to home, the laughter is silenced.  I myself was in denial about just how bad it would be, until last night when I saw images of my beloved New York City being downright devastated in some areas.

I was then infuriated at the current students at my alma mater bitching and moaning about having to attend their classes tomorrow.  Yes, a day off every now and then was always welcome, especially in the dead of winter when it was always preferable to hole up under the covers and order Dominos then to schlep to class.  But in this case, where the worst they got was some wind and heavy rain, it was downright petty whining.  There are people who have lost so much in just one day, who may have lost jobs and loved ones.  Who may not be able to pay for college because of the damage this storm has caused.  Count yourselves lucky that you are not one of those people.  That you were kept safe and sound, and that you are able to resume your lives and your education without issue. 

Today the storm is moving on, it will eventually be stopped and there will be calm.  In the aftermath, in the bigger, emotional storm to follow as people try to put their lives back together again, just remember.  It, too, will pass and you will once again find that calm.  Until then, may some of you find the same comfort I have found in this song. 

New and Exciting

If anyone had told me a year ago that I would be living at home, working as a supervisor at a movie theatre, and dating an amazing man now, I would have given them a healthy dose of “Man, you CRAZY!”  But here I am.  Nowhere near where I thought I would wind up.  But surprisingly content.  For now.

Do I still want more?  You bet.  I have decided to apply for grad school in the field of film studies, with the ultimate intent of being a professor.  But now there’s this guy.  This guy who makes me beyond happy.  He makes me laugh, makes me feel beautiful and special, he listens when I talk and values my opinion.  He has taken the time to get to know me.  We can be absolutely ridiculously silly together, and still have a real conversation.  So far, even with the usual little bumps, this has been very easy and natural.  Even when we have told each other things we know are hard to say/hear.  I don’t live in fear that if I say one wrong thing, everything will fall apart, a problem I had with many of my past relationships.  There is no walking on eggshells here.  What he sees is what he gets, and so far (for whatever insane reason) he likes what he sees.  This is no new and foreign to me. 

The thing is, we haven’t been together all that long.  Only known each other existed for about 6 weeks.  Only been dating for about a month.  But it feels like we’ve known each other for ages.  And not in a bad way.  There was this connection that neither of us could pinpoint, and still can’t.  It’s not intense in the cinematic sense, it’s just there.  And for the first time in my relationship-having life, my relationship is the one thing that I am not worried about.  Money?  Absolutely.  My career?  Yup.  Grad School?  Uh-huh.  But my relationship?  Nope.  The only thing that is up in the air is where I go to grad school, and how that will effect us, but like the grown-ass people we are, it is an ongoing discussion and something we will deal with when the time comes.  When did I stumble into a real relationship?  The hell?

So what about the things I am worried about?  Fuck if I know.  I do know that I have made the right choice, grad school studies-wise.  Cutting ResLife out (for now) still stings, but I know that it was what I needed to do.  For the first time, I get excited about the curriculum and programs offered in the film studies programs.  This is my passion, and I am going to go after it no matter what.  My only regret is that I didn’t have that “Ah-Ha!” moment sooner!

Shorten the Path

I have made a decision.  It was not an easy one at all.  But, I am no longer going to pursue the ResLife career path.  It was never my end game, anyway, and I have decided to just focus on that.  And what is that, you ask?  First, let me tell you about my initial plan…

The plan was to go to grad school and get a Masters in Student Affairs/Higher Ed with a focus in Residence Life.  From there, I was going to get a gig as an RD, and get a masters in History.  After all that, I wanted to apply to the Film Studies PhD program at Harvard.  The end goal was to be a film studies/history professor at a small to midsize, liberal arts college, not unlike Keene State College, while serving as a liaison between Academcs and Student Affairs.

A lot of work, a lot of school, a lot of years.  

Since I’ve been removed from ResLife, I realized that this is not how I want to go about things.  That I can still be a professor and be involved in the “other end of campus” without having been more than an RA and involved in some student organizations.  I still want the opportunity to be a mentor and teacher, but I would rather go at it academically than in the Residence Halls.  It is easier to connect with people who share your passion than not. 

I am also taking my age into consideration.  When I was a fulltime student in the thick of it, I was able to relate to them, albeit the “what the fuck are you thinking?!” thought danced through my head on a regular basis.  But there was always a little bit of a distance, and the older I get, the more that distance will grow.  Also, I m 34 years old.  I don’t want to be 45 before I set foot in a classroom. 

So, I did what any normal person these days would do – I posted on Facebook.  I asked for suggestions of what I should do.  And Crystal asked me a question that gets asked a lot – what are you passionate about?  The first thing that came to mind was film and writing.  That was my wake-up call.  That the end goal I’d been planning should be the focus, and I need to shorten the path to it – not meander around in circles to get there.

I want to be a Film Historian.  I want to study, watch, analyze and write about films.  I want to teach Film History, and a course on the use of history in films.  It is what I have wanted since Freshman year of college, I just got distracted a little.

I will be forever grateful for everything I got out of ResLife.  I am a more confident, well-put together person because of my time as an RA.  The people I have met over the years will always be in my life, one way or another.  I would not have had the experience I had in college if it were not for being an RA.  I will continue to be supportive of and loyal to Residence Life and the Student Affairs programs that exist, because they are so important to the college experience, and changed my life.  But my role now is just that – one of support. 

I have found the next step, and I am certain of it at this moment.  I am looking at grad schools for film studies, and instead of being stressed about it, I am excited.  That’s gotta be a good sign, right?

Lost in the Woods

Today, I went for a walk in the woods near my house.  I was inspired by this guy I’ve been seeing the last few weeks, as he takes a daily walk, and is committed to self-improvement.  I grabbed my camera, my newly found iPod and my water, and I was off.

I once wrote about a moment when I felt the peace of God for a writing class (posted it here).  I had another one of those moments as I stood over a little log bridge.  The sun was peeping through the trees as a light breeze kicked up and leaves freed themselves from their branches to float to a resting spot on the ground.  I felt calm and secure.  But still uncertain about my life.

As I walked up and back down a big hill, I noticed something.  My eyes rarely left the path.  I never look too far ahead, for fear that I’ll trip on something right in front of me and fall.  I do the same with my life.  I only look ahead in small doses – where will I be this time next month?  In the next six months?  Next year is pushing it, but it crosses my mind.  But if I try to plan out too far ahead, inevitably I will get tripped up by something, and the plan changes.  So, I keep my head down and my eye on the path before me.

For the past three years, the plan has been a career in student affairs, reslife.  But now, seeing posts that friends and acquaintances who are still RAs or starting their professional careers in grad school, I can see just how much better suited they are for it.  That just because I love reslife doesn’t mean that it loves me, or that it is what I am meant to do.  And if not ResLife, what?  I have no clue.  So, I am back at square one.  Not sure if I want to move to NOLA, not sure if I want to follow the career path I had set out for myself, not sure if there is anything out there that I would be good at.  Suggestions welcome, because the path has changed, and I am seriously lost in the woods.

Portfolio Piece #12: Summer Breeze Makes me Feel God

Trying a little something new.  Something I’ve wanted to do for a while.  For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I submitted for my Writing Minor Portfolio.  They are all from classes I took Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College.  Most of them are memoir in nature, but a few are slightly different.  These are pieces I love, but know still need work.  If you would like to know more of the stories behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share!  Also, any and all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these were the final versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.

Oh, and also?  These are mine.  Do not steal them.  Thanks.

Summer Breeze Makes me Feel God.

Written for Theory and Practice: Memoir, Written Senior Year

It was one of those perfect sunny days.  A gentle breeze, blue sky, big fluffy white clouds everywhere.  I was walking across the field at Camp Sentinel, a Baptist camp in Tuftonboro, NH.  This was my second or third year attending Sentinel, so I must have been around 12 years old. 

            At this point in my life, I was fairly secure in my faith.  I felt like I was somehow lacking because my Biblical studies left much to be desired, but being a Minister’s daughter, it was just understood that I believe in God.  Every year at Sentinel, there was a different “Head Minister” who would determine the focus of the week.  They all blended in with me, I couldn’t tell you any of their names or what they looked like, except for this particular week, I recall he was a larger man with white hair.  I suspect many of the Ministers we had were retired.

            This particular week was all about accepting Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savoir.  Something I assumed I already had done, since I went to church every week and prayed all the time.  I thought maybe I had missed something, and that once again my Christianity was up for debate because I hadn’t actually made this claim out loud.  But still, I pushed it aside to the corner of my brain while I focused on all the cute Christian boys the camp had to offer.

            A few days into the week, one of my cabin-mates got sick.  She was stuck in the Nurse’s cabin for at least a day.  At lunch that day, our counselor asked us if someone could bring her lunch to her.  I volunteered.  It was the right thing to do, and it made me look good.  It was also a gorgeous day, so it would mean some time out in the sun by myself.

            As I crossed the field over to the Nurse’s cabin, a slight breeze picked up and stopped me dead in my tracks.  I closed my eyes and breathed it in.  A strange feeling came over me – absolute calm.  For the first time since I had been born, everything in my body quieted down.  I opened my eyes and took everything in: the clear blue sky, the clouds, the green trees, the giant boulder in the middle of the field where we all met for morning activities, simply known as “the rock”.  In that instant, it came to me, I finally got it.  My faith suddenly turned from an assumed knowledge to a real understanding.  Without hesitation, without question or doubt, my mouth opened up, and the words “I accept Jesus Christ as my personal Lord and Savoir” flowed from within me into the breeze.  It wasn’t a definitive statement; it was a statement of wonder and awe.  My chest bubbled up with joy, a smile crept across my face, and a satisfied sigh escaped from within me.  With a nod to the beautiful day, I went along my way to deliver lunch to my sick cabin mate.

            I have not felt that kind of peace since.  I would like to say my faith has come as easy as the breeze that day, but faith is not that simple.  Even though two years later I was Baptized, even though I taught Sunday school and sang in the church choir, I question my faith every day.  I ask why it can’t be as simple as a summer day at Baptist camp, and I don’t think I will ever understand why.  So I keep that day in my back pocket, and pull it out when I fear that God isn’t listening, take a deep breath, and hope to catch the breeze.

Portfolio Piece #11: Strings

Trying a little something new.  Something I’ve wanted to do for a while.  For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I submitted for my Writing Minor Portfolio.  They are all from classes I took Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College.  Most of them are memoir in nature, but a few are slightly different.  These are pieces I love, but know still need work.  If you would like to know more of the stories behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share!  Also, any and all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these were the final versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.

Oh, and also?  These are mine.  Do not steal them.  Thanks.

Strings

Written for Theory and Practice: Memoir, Written Senior Year.

Most people who know me know that I love music.  I have it constantly playing, whether it’s on my computer, the radio in my car, or on my iPod as I take walks around campus and town.  If I don’t have my tunes, I am lost.  When asked what my favorite music is, I always answer “everything”.  A trite answer? Yes, but an honest one.  I was raised on everything – from the contemporary music of my childhood, back to classical greats such as Bach and Vivaldi.  My music of choice varies dependant on my mood, and the task at hand.  Happy, care-fee mood? Dance music or pop, and sometimes big band.  Feeling sexy?  Some Cibo Matto, or Back to Basics era Aguilera.  Feeling pensive? Jukebox the Ghost.  Stressed to the hilt? Classical.  Preferably Edvard Grieg or any composer from the Baroque period. 

            My love of classical music, especially the pieces that heavily feature stringed instruments such as the violin or cello (my absolute favorite instruments) comes from Mrs. Johsnon and her violin classes.  In fourth grade, we could take violin if we wanted.  In fifth grade, you could take up a band instrument.  Many took violin to tide them over until they could play something more compact like the flute, or cooler like the saxophone.  Myself, I took the violin because when I heard the strings teacher, Mrs. Johnson, play for us in a demonstration, I was transfixed.  The way her body swayed with the music, the way the bow slid across the strings to create such a beautiful melody convinced me – I wanted to play the violin.  I went home that day and excitedly told my parents I wanted to play.

            I was both grateful and a little surprised that they let me take the violin.  For years, I had begged them for ballet lessons, and every year I was told “Not enough money this year – maybe next year”.  I suppose the reason I was allowed to take the violin was because it was offered through the school, and we were given a free violin from a family friend. 

            The violin I had was too big, but I learned how to grow into it.  At first I practiced every night, imagining that I was playing for a big crowd in some ornate theatre.  The music swelled from my instrument, my bow gracefully danced over the strings.  The notes were clear and so beautiful, they would bring tears to my listeners eyes.  In reality, the “music” I made from my violin surely must have brought tears to people’s eyes – tears of pain.  It was not an instrument that came easily to me, mostly because I quickly grew lazy and did not practice as much as I should have.  Besides, I had decided I wanted to play the flute instead – my sister and my dad played the flute.  I wanted in on that.  But my dad convinced me to stick with the violin, telling me that there are a million flute/woodwind players, but only a few stick with the strings.  So, I toughed it out.

            I stuck with the violin, and Mrs. Johnson, all through high school.  I was never very good at it, mainly because by the time I reached high school, I was more focused on singing.  Instead of the private violin lessons Mrs. Johnson suggested, I opted for voice lessons.  I sang day and night, my violin slowly falling into disrepair from being neglected.  But for some reason, even though it brought me so much frustration, I loved playing.  The sound of a violin still evokes a sense of peace and joy, especially when I listen to pieces I had once fumbled my way through way back when.  I can remember how badass I felt when I was able to master the complicated runs of Pachelbel’s Canon in D, and how I broke into tears when I heard my peers play the same piece of music in a way I knew I would never be able to.

           I still think about taking up the violin again every now and then.  I know I will never be a maestro, but I loved to play, and that is all that matters.  I wonder if it would be different to play just for me, and not for my patient teacher and an audience of my not so patient peers.  Sometimes I catch myself listening to pieces I once attempted holding an imaginary violin in my left hand, my fingers positioning themselves to form the notes.  All I need is an instrument and a bow.  

Portfolio Piece #10: Etna

Trying a little something new.  Something I’ve wanted to do for a while.  For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I submitted for my Writing Minor Portfolio.  They are all from classes I took Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College.  Most of them are memoir in nature, but a few are slightly different.  These are pieces I love, but know still need work.  If you would like to know more of the stories behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share!  Also, any and all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these were the final versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.

Oh, and also?  These are mine.  Do not steal them.  Thanks.

Etna

Written for Theory and Practice: Memoir, Written Senior Year

            Etna, NH was in the country.  There were no blocks, no sidewalks, barely any traffic.  But it wasn’t completely barren of civilization.  We had a church, a branch of the Hanover Town Library, a Post Office, and a General Store.  I think I always wanted to live in suburbia, because growing up in Etna was so different from what I saw on TV – neighborhood kids who played together, block parties, neighborhood barbeques.  We had none of this.  I mean, there were some kids our own age, but none that ever stuck around long enough to really get to know.  I had a friend named Trent Nutting who lived next door, but his family moved away when we were in early elementary school.  A couple of kids from my school lived within walking distance, but I wasn’t really that close with any of them. 

            The houses that lined our road were a mystery to me.  I thought I didn’t know anyone who lived in them.  Looking back, I knew more people than I realized from church, I just had a hard time placing people out of context. 

            Back in the 80s, there was a big Halloween scare because it got all over the news that candy and other Halloween goodies were being tampered with – razors in apples, poison in candy.  The hospital started offering to X-Ray candy bags.  I thought it was ridiculous – just because the houses were mysteries to me didn’t mean the people in them were.  I assumed my dad knew everyone in Etna, because he was the minister of the church, and he wouldn’t take me Trick-or-Treating at houses that were inclined to kill me. 

            Mom didn’t really interact much with people, from what I recall.  But Dad was a social butterfly.  His dad was, too.  It’s where he got it from.  A quick stop at the Post Office would quickly turn into 20 minutes of us waiting impatiently in the car, rolling our eyes and watching the clock.  Even now, when we stop at the general store after Sunday lunch out to get the newspaper, Mom has to remind him “don’t stay and talk for 20 minutes, just get the paper”, and we sit and roll our eyes and watch the clock.  He’s gotten better, but the man does like to talk.

            The thing I never quite got was that not all of the people Dad would gab with were church-goers, or affiliated with my school.  And since church and school made up my whole world, I didn’t realize there were other people out there worth talking to.  I didn’t get that feeling of community pride, because we weren’t an organized community.  But Dad got it.  He understood the importance of knowing who lived on your road, and who hid out in the woods.  Other than knowing that the best place to buy a bike was from the guy down the road who fixed up old ones and sold them cheap (who will forever be simply known as “The Bike Guy”), if they weren’t a member of our church, I didn’t know them.  My world was very small, but I guess everyone’s is.  Even Dad’s doesn’t really stretch much beyond the Upper Valley. 

            When you get older, you realize that while your world may be small, it can still be rich and meaningful.  When you’re just a kid, you wish it was bigger, with block parties and sidewalks.  

Portfolio Piece #9: Ready for my Close-Up

Trying a little something new.  Something I’ve wanted to do for a while.  For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I submitted for my Writing Minor Portfolio.  They are all from classes I took Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College.  Most of them are memoir in nature, but a few are slightly different.  These are pieces I love, but know still need work.  If you would like to know more of the stories behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share!  Also, any and all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these were the final versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.

Oh, and also?  These are mine.  Do not steal them.  Thanks.

Ready for my Close-up

Written for Autobiography Workshop, Written Junior Year

At the tender young age of 31, I was sitting in my French class, fall semester of my sophomore year at Keene State College.  I was bored, as usual.  I had taken French grades 4-8, and had a refresher when I was in my early 20s, but still took Elementary French I.  Now, before you start thinking Oh, you only took it because you wanted an easy ‘A’, let me explain my reasons for taking such an easy class:

1. I needed it for my major.

2. I like French

3. Need I remind you I.Am.Old. It had been years since I last took French.

Lucky for me, I had a nice (and attractive) French professor who didn’t seem to care that I was never, ever paying attention.  Indeed, I would nod off in that class on a regular basis.  Not only because the subject matter was boring (despite how cute Monsieur Adorkable was I was still bored) but because it was at two o’clock in the afternoon, which is normally reserved for naptime.

So, anyway, I was sitting in my easy ‘A’, boring French class, when I decided to look out the window instead of at the Professor for a change.  It was late in the semester, and the weather was starting to fall right out of autumn and into the void that is New England winter.  My view looked like it had been filmed in black and white.  The twisted branches of the visible trees were bare, and there was nary a squirrel in sight.  It had started to snow.  That kind of small, sideways snow that it is no way the end to a romantic comedy, but a mood setter in a suspense, or as I thought of it, the signal that something dramatic and life-altering was about to take place.  I looked down at the doodles on my notebook (I didn’t even try to hide the fact that I had stopped taking notes a month ago) and when I looked back up, the snow had stopped as suddenly as it had started.  My heart dropped.  If it was going to be grey and gloomy, at least give us something pretty to look at! It’s just like It’s a Wonderful Life, when you know George got his life back.  The snow was the signal.  As this thought sledded through my mind as quickly as the snow had come and gone, I realized that my entire life was about the movies.  Not just that I enjoy movies, or am just a movie buff, but in my mind, my life is a movie. 

Portfolio Piece #8: Word Search

Trying a little something new.  Something I’ve wanted to do for a while.  For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I submitted for my Writing Minor Portfolio.  They are all from classes I took Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College.  Most of them are memoir in nature, but a few are slightly different.  These are pieces I love, but know still need work.  If you would like to know more of the stories behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share!  Also, any and all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these were the final versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.

Oh, and also?  These are mine.  Do not steal them.  Thanks.

Word Search

A Dream Story, Written for Cooking, Eating and Dreaming, Written Junior Year.

I am running around the library, looking for words.  All of the books have been sucked dry, leaving a trail of blank white pages.   I had been working on my senior thesis for months, and as soon as I began writing the conclusion, language escaped me.  I knew there were some books here that could help me get it back, but I couldn’t find them.  I begin to frantically pull books off the shelves, searching for one that still has written language on the pages. 

            My heart skips with excitement when I spy a book open on the floor, ink on the pages.   I race over to it, and pick it up.  Immediately, I slam it shut in frustration.  The printing is just an illustration, and there are no captions or story to go with it. 

  Standing in the middle of the stacks, I want to scream, but I can’t.  I grasp my hair in frustrated fists and scrunch my face in agony.  “Where did all the words go?”  I whisper to the empty books.  Even the labels are gone. 

            I see a figure pacing the stacks, like a panther prowling for a meal.  I poke my head through the open space on the shelf.  “Hey!  You!”  I hiss to the dark figure.  They stop, but do not turn around.  “Are you taking the words away?”  Slowly, the figure turns around, an indigo mask covering their face, their hair covered by the hood of the black cape that was flowing down their back.  An indigo-gloved finger rises up to the painted mouth.  “Ssshhhh…”  And with that, the dark figure turns and prowls away, their black cape flowing behind them. 

            I pull back into my aisle, and flop onto the floor, defeated.  I close my eyes, and lie on my back, arms outstretched, breathing deeply in through my nose and out through my mouth, trying to ease my anxiety. 

A loud “thump” brings me out of my self-pity, and I sit up.  The masked figure is standing at the end of the aisle, a large book at their feet.  They hold out a hand, a gesture of benevolence.  In the blink of my eyes, the figure is gone. 

I crawl on my hands and knees to the book, kneeling in front of it, as though beginning some sort of ritual sacrifice.  I slowly open the cover, and see them: words.  I don’t know if they are what I am looking for, but it is a start.  I close my eyes and place my hands on the book.  Suddenly, the words are in my head and the book is empty.  Tears of gratitude fall down my face.  I rise up and head to the back of the library, for along with words, the book instructed me on where to find the rest.  I sucked the books dry, and returned to my computer, where I was able to turn the words into sentences, the sentences into paragraphs, and complete my senior thesis.  

Portfolio Piece #7: Birthday

Trying a little something new.  Something I’ve wanted to do for a while.  For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I submitted for my Writing Minor Portfolio.  They are all from classes I took Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College.  Most of them are memoir in nature, but a few are slightly different.  These are pieces I love, but know still need work.  If you would like to know more of the stories behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share!  Also, any and all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these were the final versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.

Oh, and also?  These are mine.  Do not steal them.  Thanks.

Birthday

A Dream Story, Written for Cooking, Eating and Dreaming, Written Junior Year.

I had been hiding in my room all day, wondering why my head did not fit anymore.  The clock told me it was time to rest.  I prepare to go to bed, brushing my teeth at a row of sinks.  There is a song I can’t quite name in the distance.  My head rises in slow motion to look in the mirror, but the face looking back is a stranger.  I close my eyes. “One… two… three.”  When I open them again, the face is still not my own.  The eyes, nose and mouth are the same, but it is not me.  A cocktail of confusion and fear enters my body, and I turn to exit the bathroom.  Upon opening the ugly dark wooden door, I am met with another door.  This one is prettier, painted white with a window filled with darkness.  I push the door open, and am face to face with the stranger that had frightened me only moments before.

I ask her what is going on.  “Shhh” is her answer.  She points to her right, her eyes never leaving mine.  “Who are you?” I whisper, afraid to hear the answer.  She simply smiles.  I turn my head and look in the direction of her pointed hand.

Suddenly, I am standing in a field, full of sun, blue sky, and yellow daisies.  My twin stranger is standing on top of a hill, her white dress blowing in the wind.  “Who are you?!” I try to yell, but it comes out as a whisper. 

The sky has turns grey as the stones, an eerie blue tint has fallen on the earth.  I find myself on top of the hill, surrounded by graves. There are no names, but each is adorned with the same date: “June 23, 1978.”  I turn to see my unrecognizable doppelganger standing in front of me, holding a birthday cake with a blue candle, decorated with white frosting, pink trim and black roses.  Her face wears a mask of fear and desperation.  Her blue eyes fill with tears as she blows out the candle.

Slowly she fades away, placing the cake in my hands.  “Wait!” I cry out.  “Where did you come from?  Where are you going?”  A hint of a melancholy smile is formed by her pink lips as one tear slides down her face.

A room of mirrors erects itself around me.  I close my eyes, but this time when I open them, I recognize the face in the mirror.  Bringing the platter to my face, I take a bite of the cake, my face covered in butter cream and chocolate.  Her voice rings out with the song I heard in the bathroom: “Happy Birthday to You”.

Portfolio Piece #6: Gingerbread

Trying a little something new.  Something I’ve wanted to do for a while.  For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I submitted for my Writing Minor Portfolio.  They are all from classes I took Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College.  Most of them are memoir in nature, but a few are slightly different.  These are pieces I love, but know still need work.  If you would like to know more of the stories behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share!  Also, any and all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these were the final versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.

Oh, and also?  These are mine.  Do not steal them.  Thanks.

Gingerbread

A Dream Story, Written for Cooking, Eating and Dreaming, Written Junior Year.

Kayla missed class again.  She said it was due to the snow.  I looked out my window and saw powdered sugar on a gingerbread landscape.  I assured her it’s not that bad, but she had already hung up.  I heaved a sigh of annoyance.  She always missed class at the sight of a snowflake, and doesn’t listen to me anymore.  I feel obsolete.

            Jesslyn and Meghan were making marshmallow snowmen on my lawn, laughing loudly at private jokes they never intend to share, as people wearing gumdrop hats wandered around, smiling and waving at each other.  My window fills with frost, as my heart slips to my feet.  I turn away and see my dear friend sitting at my generic college-supplied desk.  “I love you,” I say to his back.  He turns around, a big warm smile on his face.  “Awww, I love you, too.”  His smile picks up my heart and puts it back in its place.  It is always nice to know that someone cares. 

            I walk up behind him and give wrap my arms around his shoulders in a snuggly hug.  “I am so grateful to have you in my life, “Big Brother”.  You always appreciate me.”  He stands up and takes both my hands in his.  “Come on, let’s go out and join them.”

            We walk hand in hand catching powdered sugar on our tongues.  Whimsical music is tinkling around us as we stroll through this gingerbread world.  I wave to Meghan and Jesslyn, their snowmen falling over as they turn to wave back.  Gumdrop-hatted people call out with enthusiastic greetings to him.  It’s always to him – I get polite nods. 

            “Hey, “Little Sis”, you know I’ll always be here for you.  Right?” “Of course I know that.  The feeling is mutual,” I say to the falling powdered sugar that has distracted me with its sweetness.  When I turn to smile at him, my heart once again falls.  I am alone.  I heaved a side of sadness, though I am not surprised.  Gumdrops and marshmallows are always more exciting. 

I try to call Kayla back, to tell her it’s safe to come to school, but she doesn’t hear me.  She is too busy with other people.  I try to join Meghan and Jesslyn in their snowmen endeavors, but they have wandered off together.  I smile and wave at the gumdrop people, and am ignored.  I shrug and go back inside, taking my perch by the window.  “I knew it,” I whisper to the frosty window.  “I am obsolete.”

Portfolio Piece #5: Old

Trying a little something new.  Something I’ve wanted to do for a while.  For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I submitted for my Writing Minor Portfolio.  They are all from classes I took Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College.  Most of them are memoir in nature, but a few are slightly different.  These are pieces I love, but know still need work.  If you would like to know more of the stories behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share!  Also, any and all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these were the final versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.

Oh, and also?  These are mine.  Do not steal them.  Thanks.

Old
A Dream Story Written for Cooking, Eating and Dreaming, Written Junior Year

It had been more than a decade since I last saw Jon.  He used to know me better than anyone, and was the passion of my youth, but I rarely thought of him.  Lately, he had been lurking in the dark corners of my mind, a reminder of who I once was.  Making me nostalgic, and regretful.  My heart ached for him.

I was sitting on my bed when he appeared.  His clear blue eyes and dimpled smile reminded me why I once loved him. 

“You look old.” I say. 

“I am old.” he says. 

“You always were.”  We laugh, my head resting on his familiar shoulder.  I feel at home.  “Let’s get out of here,” I murmur into his shoulder.

“OK.” he mutters to my ceiling.

We are sitting at the RHO meeting, when he introduces himself.  He turns to me and loudly questions my being in college at my age.  “Oh, hey now!” Jana says, her voice issuing an unspoken warning, as she fixes an intense gaze from her scary eyes at him.  I am touched that she defends me.  There is laughter around us, but my heart hurts a little.  I thought he would be proud of me.  I look at him, trying to hide the embarrassment and pain in my eyes.  His face turns apologetic, and he takes my hand in his.  He nods his head towards the door, a signal of his desire to leave.  I smile.

We walk by the pond, two old friends, arm in arm.  “I miss you.” I say to the clear blue sky and the sparkling water.  He melts my heart with his smile, warmth creeping from my belly out.  I snuggle up against him as a breeze kicks up.  His soft lips press against my forehead and my heart drops.  “You know I don’t like it when you do that.  It always means goodbye,” I say to his chest, inhaling the scent of sandalwood oil and pipe tobacco.  He steps away, his face tired.  “I know,” he says as he fades away.

I am left alone and confused, the warm autumn day giving way to chilled blue twilight.  I feel old and run down.  The water has lost its sparkle, and I feel empty.  I meander through the deserted campus, leaves whirling around me, a melancholy soundtrack playing in my head.  As I enter my room, the emptiness of it makes it difficult to breathe.  I climb onto my bed, and smell the sheets, but his scent is gone.  My heart aches with disappointment and loss.  I slide in under the covers and try to sleep, hoping to see his face once again in my dreams. 

Portfolio Piece #4: Go Fish

Trying a little something new.  Something I’ve wanted to do for a while.  For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I submitted for my Writing Minor Portfolio.  They are all from classes I took Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College.  Most of them are memoir in nature, but a few are slightly different.  These are pieces I love, but know still need work.  If you would like to know more of the stories behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share!  Also, any and all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these were the final versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.

Oh, and also?  These are mine.  Do not steal them.  Thanks.

Go Fish

A Dream Story, Written for Cooking, Eating and Dreaming, Junior Year.

“I am a big fish in a teeny-tiny pond.  I need to get out,” I state clearly and plainly to my goldfish.  “You know how it feels, when you outgrow your tank.”  My goldfish swims over to me and swishes her tail in agreement.  “Yes, I do.  By the way… the tank is getting small again.”  I just shrug and turn to face the revolving door in the middle of my bedroom.  “Sorry, Ms. Fish.  Not my problem anymore.”  I push the door…        

            And come out in the Plaza Hotel lobby in New York City.  Everything is black and white, except for the brass door, creaking to a stop behind me.  A piano plays something mellow from the dining room.  The lobby is void of furniture, plants, and and full of a seemingly endless rows of treadmills.  On the treadmills, identical people wearing identical black tracksuits, smooth skin where their faces should be, walk in steady unison.  They all turn their blank faces to me.  There are no empty treadmills, so I have to go.  I turn and push on the door…

            The Chinese Theater in Los Angeles towers over me.  It is abandoned, a breeze gently swaying my skirt, old movie posters scattering at my feet.  I am surrounded by Technicolor, big band music playing from the sky.  I walk over to Judy Garland’s prints, but they are gone.  She has left me a message in the pavement: “Stop trying to be me and find your own way!”  A sob breaks out from my chest as I push my way through the door…

            I land on Appian Way in front of the Keene State College Mason Library.  It is an average fall day, leaves scattered all around, and the perpetual smell of apples surrounds me.  The computerized library bells clang out a Beatles tune.  There is an old woman standing on the stairs to the library, a history book in one hand and a graduation cap in the other.  On the step next to her is the fish tank with my ever growing fish.  The tank is twice the size, but the fish is still the same.  I turn around, but the revolving door has disappeared, a grassy lawn in its place.  I step forward to hug the old woman, take the book and put it in the backpack that has appeared at my feet.  I put the cap on my head, and pick up my fish.  “Yeah, I guess we didn’t really need a bigger tank after all.”