Today I visited Cornell. Here are some pics (using instagram). I’ve been up since 4:30AM and had an adventurous day! Excited to explore more tomorrow and see about a potential job.
Goodnight from NY.
Are you a pull-the-band-aid-off fast or pull-the-band-off-slow kind of person? Common wisdom tell us to pull it off fast. It’s painful but it’s quick. Yet there are people who will peel the band-aid off ever so slowly, head turned slightly away, peering back out of one eye as they watch tiny hair by tiny hair lift skin off skeleton. It’s slow, it’s agonizing, but the extremity is less. The way I see it, it really comes down to a choice between intensity or duration. Pick your poison.
My choice? Neither. I prefer a third method. I like to call it the where-did-the-band-aid-go method. Let me give you an example. You step into the shower wearing a somewhat worn down band-aid that has gotten a little rustic-looking on your forearm. You wash your hair, your body, etc, etc. When you step out onto the mat and begin to dry off, you notice your band-aid is no longer on your arm. Just like that. It’s gone. No fast or slow pain – just a natural shedding that eluded your awareness.
This is how I prefer my life to unfold. But this is not how my life has preferred to unfold the last few days. This week has been a pull-the-band-aid-off-fast kind of week. The ripping off of old to make room for new growth has been quick and intense. I feel fragile. I feel exposed. I feel in need of my old bandages.
Between Monday and Friday of this week I have undergone two anxiety-inducing phone interviews with a nonprofit in Almost Canada. By the time I am writing this post, I have a plane ticket to Almost Canada. They want to meet me. I leave Sunday. We both think a lot of the other on paper. Telephone conversations have enticed us more. Face to face interaction will confirm or disappoint expectations.
My favorite kind of change is the gradual kind. Growing out one’s hair, for example, happens right before your eyes everyday; but the growth is so subtle, you barely notice it until 6 months later you look back at an old photo. That’s the pace of change I crave. It’s not the pace of change coming my way. I am very aware of the change that is happening in my life. It is rapid. It is intense. It hurts. It thrills.
While I do prefer the natural shedding during times of change instead of a sadistic ripping off of my skin, I am hopeful and leaning towards excitement as I gaze down at my raw flesh and await what is ahead.
xoxo,
tiff
source: pinterestI’m going to save you the blog post about the massive amounts of anxiety I am trudging through this week. Short version: I’m stuck in the space between initial job interview and second job interview with a nonprofit in Almost Canada. Initial interview happened Monday. Second interview happens tomorrow. All via telephone. Stomach in knots. Yeah, whatever. A post about what I’m mostly dealing with this week will only serve the purpose of boring you and stressing me further. Moving on.
Thankfully, it was pre-ordained (and by “pre-ordained,” I mean I bought tickets in January) that this uber-stressful week would also include my dear, my darling, my demure rock goddess St. Vincent (aka Annie Clark). A loyal fan of hers since oh, about 2007 I could not have been happier to find out she was coming to Tulsa this spring. It would be my first time to see her.
Defying all aspects of my adulthood self, I got ready to (insert gasp) go out on a Tuesday night. Furthermore, I got read to go out on a Tuesday night to a standing room only venue. Standing. Room. Only. Or as my eyes translated it: Ugh. Really Guys?
Lo and behold, I was so you know, being adult and stressed about Almost Canada stuff that I forgot my former concert self of days past. My former concert self was all about creating happenstance run ins with musicians. I had a partner in crime for this and she knows who she is. I will readily admit that “creating happenstance run-ins” is mostly a contradiction in terms; but we had it down to a fine art until well, those times our fine art turned into fine stalking. But that’s another post. You need this background to understand how far I’ve evolved from days of concert past. I’ve evolved so much so, in fact, that I failed to even notice what was unfolding right before my eyes last night.
Having had much difficulty finding a parking space (Tulsa, I’m surprised at your appreciation of St. Vincent!) Luke and I finally settled on a somewhat remote side-street/behind the venue parking spot. Emerging from the passenger seat of the car, I spent way too long trying to decide whether or not to wear my dress-me-up-or-down- black-blazer into the venue. Again, hello 31-year-old. 25-year-old self would have had concert regalia planned out at least 24 hours in advance; and I assure you, this would not have included a blazer, casual or not.
As I’m finally determining to throw my blazer back in the car, I catch a glimpse of a girl who very much resembles Annie Clark and an older woman coming our way along the sidewalk towards the back of the venue. Black curly hair. Fair skin. Big black sunglasses. Skinny. Doll-like face. Stylish clothing. Former concert self would have been all kinds of tuned into the context clues here! (Looks like the musician. This is the back of the venue. Hello.) Current concert self was still mostly concerned about whether or not sans-blazer was the right choice, and hoping the opening band didn’t play too long because it was already pushing my bed time.
Giving a slight nod to Girl-Who-Resembled-Annie-Clark (GWRAC) and older woman, Luke and I fell into step right behind them. We were literally the only four people in eye sight on this barren street. My mind continued to suggest to me that wow, this girl looks a lot like Annie Clark. I dismissed the truth of that suggestion as quickly as it arrived. “Wannabe,” I actually recall thinking of this girl.
While moving forward down the sidewalk, GWRAC, older woman, Luke and I were simultaneously trying to determine if we could cut through to the venue via a side route instead of walking all the way up to the next street where we would approach the venue from the front. About the time Luke and I realized we couldn’t cut through, GWRAC and older woman also come to this realization. Older woman asks GWRAC what she wants to do. Older woman looks pretty concerned.
Luke and I resolved ourselves to taking the long away around to the front of the venue since that was the only option. As we began to move forward, I saw GWRAC give her take-home box to the older woman who is also holding her own take-out box. Older woman asked GWRAC with a smile, “Are you going to climb the fence?”
And this is when the transformation happens. GWRAC suddenly transforms into the actual Annie Clark that she is. This is no wannabe. This is Annie Clark and she is scaling the fence like a lithe spider. She needs to enter through the back of the venue or she’ll have to face the massive crowd at the front entrance. As she climbs up the fence, I see her giant tour bus staring right back at me from within the gated back side of the venue.
Doh.
And that, my friends, is the story of how Annie Clark was inches from this loyal fan of 5 years and I did not even realize it until she was climbing the fence up and away from me. Any suspicion I had that this was her was confirmed when a much more rock-star looking Annie came out on stage and said that her mom (aka older woman) was with her and at the show tonight.
Former concert self would have rushed back to the fence to say “Hey! Annie! Looking forward to the show!” Current concert self just let her go up, up, and away over the fence without a word. I’m still debating which response is the more tragic one.
xoxo,
tiff
Though no Indiana Jones moments have presented themselves, 31 has been good to me so far. Is it unusual to determine the worth of a birthday by the food one consumed whilst changing ages? Alright, alright, yesterday was much more than glazed donuts and paneer tikka masala; it was also sleeping in, beautiful, personal gifts from loved ones, barefoot porch time with the smell of pinon, knitting, spending the day with Luke, and concluding the day with one of my favorite movies – Sabrina.
Many love Audrey most for Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I love her most for Sabrina. She had me in the first few moments of the film when she says, “I hate girls who giggle all the time.” Be still my heart.
Yesterday also included plans to make strawberry ice cream in the ice-cream-maker my in-laws gave us for our anniversary last Fall. Someone (ahem…ahem…) failed to fully absorb the instructions and by the time we got the ingredients it was too late to start the process. No problem. This dilemma simply gave me the good opportunity to declare, “oh well, we’ll make it tomorrow because it’s my birthday weekend, after all.”
Because I have changed ages, or perhaps because I’m feeling a bit out of control with the upcoming move to Almost Canada, I have been giving myself an online makeover. As you can see, I’ve made some changes to my blog look. I’ve also organized a few photo blogs on tumblr dedicated to a few of my loves: home, gardening, knitting, and biking. The links are just right over there to your right so visit as often or as little as you like. It has given me an enormous sense of satisfaction to organize my online world as my offline world continues to feel disorganized and unsettled.
Happy Saturday,
tiff
It is the eve of my 31st birthday. Because I firmly believe in savoring the heck out of every May 11th, I have taken tomorrow off of work. Do grown ups do this? I have no idea. But I do it. And I relish it.
As I relayed the message of my taking tomorrow off to our current receptionist who just happens to be a temp, male, and a mere child at 25-years-old (think Ryan from The Office, only kinder), he had nothing but admirable things to say about being in one’s 30′s.
“I can’t wait to be in my 30′s,” he said matter of fact, without a hint of sarcasm.
“It’s the best decade,” he continued, “it’s the decade of life when the great ones…the heroes….they all excelled in their 30′s. Everyone should want to be in their 30′s. I mean, Indiana Jones is someone who became great in his 30′s.”
So how’s that for a good start to turning 31? The problem is, I plan to sleep in tomorrow and well, exist in my pajamas until at least late morning. Is this the behavior of a 30-something action hero?
I’m not sure it is; but I will tell you this – if my year turns out to be anywhere as adventurous as an Indiana Jones movie, I think I’ll be glad I gave myself one day off from saving the world. Every 30-something potential hero needs a day to herself, and what better day than her birthday?
goodnight and goodbye 30,
tiff
Allow me tell you what I like most about preparing to relocate to what I will call Almost Canada (aka upstate New York). Well, on second thought, let me tell you what I like least: the free falling into uncertainty. Lying on my back in corpse pose at yoga Monday night, my mind was anything but empty and serene. Synapses fired in my head like it was the 4th of July.
I have exactly three thoughts making of themselves a carousel of shiny horses in my brain right now: Will I find a job? Will we find a house? Will we sell our house? It is a peculiar experience to search for a job and a home when I currently have both that suit me just fine. Having been fortunate enough in my life that most of my major life changes have been guided by internal rather than external forces, this experience feels alien. External forces are propelling me out of the familiar and comforting into the unknown and discomforting.
These external forces are not bad forces, just forces outside of myself. My brilliant husband was accepted into an amazing school of Architecture. I am excited for him. I am thrilled for this new adventure in our married life and the opportunities it will provide. But I am also anxious to the umpteenth degree. Having never seen Almost Canada I have no concrete schema for what is ahead for me. Having no job lined up and no walls to enclose my family make me uneasy. Duh.
Talking with my dear sister on the porch last Saturday, I verbal vomited my anxiety all over her lap. As we talked, we both acknowledged how quickly these circumstances can change. One day you have no job, no house, and your home is not sold - but one of those realities can change on a dime. I think that is the part that gets me most – the anxious anticipation of what might happen in five minutes or what might not happen in five months.
As if foreshadowed by our porch dialogue, I received a phone call Monday morning from a nonprofit in Almost Canada to whom I sent my application on Sunday. The Executive Director wants to interview me. Dime turned. Just like that I have a phone interview scheduled for next week. I feel good about this. It is the position I want most. Excitement begins to build for myself and my future not just his and ours, but mine.
Getting this job (fingers crossed) will mean a speedier timetable for my move to Almost Canada. But I must meet this free fall into uncertainty one clouded altitude at a time because that’s the gravity works – that’s the way adventures unfurl. Securing this job would equip me with not only the necessary landing gear, but landing gear that might just be in my favorite color and tailored just for me.
I am hopeful and inching towards excitement,
tiff
What does loss smell like to you?
You read that correctly. What does loss smell like?
The past two weeks I have been inexplicably drawn to the exquisite Tulsa Rose Garden during my lunch breaks. The past two weeks I have also been mired with the feeling of loss in my bones and a look of vacancy in my eyes. Loss feels like a hole in my chest. It looks like a tear-soaked cheek and red eyes.
I know what loss looks and feels like.
And I think I know what loss smells like.
Last week, as I sat on the weathered bench at the helm of oh, about 100,000 roses powerful feelings of grief and loss surged to my consciousness like wildfire as the wind delivered the overwhelming scent of roses to my nostrils.
Loss smells like roses.
Roses have been a quintessential funeral flower in my life experience. Scent is a most powerful memory trigger. Lodged in my memory and unconscious, I suspect, is an association linking the fragrance of roses with death. Perhaps this explains my peculiar attraction to the Tulsa Rose Garden this month. I am experiencing the alive kind of death.
The events of this past month have spurred significant feelings of loss for me as Luke and I prepare to wrap up our time in Tulsa and move to New York. Because I have not yet seen the place in which I will create a new life, the death of my life in Tulsa has been my natural consumption. There are people here whose physical closeness I will mourn most of all. But there are also places, spaces, habits, and responsibilities.
I welcome these feelings of loss as they arrive. I take them for what they are – messengers that life has been meaningful for me here. I will, therefore, in a sense, take time to smell the roses - the perfume of my grief - as I ponder my losses and anticipate the end of my story in this city.
xoxo,
tiff
My Saturday morning has me seeing pink. Nestled into the corner of my couch (aka, my Saturday morning hot spot) I cracked open the pages of my latest Southern Living magazine and became smitten with the pages and pages of strawberry recipes. Spring is here and I’m feeling the strawberries and the pink. Here is my homage to the pink palette. Welcome Spring!
xoxo,
tiff
I won’t lie to you. When I sit down to write a blog post these days I wonder if anyone still takes time to read blogs. I wonder if blogs are the dinosaurs of social media (they are). I wonder if my ancient act of plopping down in front of my computer to write more than 140 characters about whatever-comes-to-mind is anything more than an exercise in self-indulgence (I have journals for that…).
And then I wonder if I should stop blogging just because those two things might be true.
And then I get all existential on the whole thing and begin to analyze what purpose…what meaning my blog has in my life.
And then I laugh at myself, tweet about the weather, and pin 100 different pictures of wavy bobs.
But the blog draws me back even after months of reckless abandonment. I mean, really. My last post was about CHRISTMAS music. Christmas music, folks. It’s March.
Moving on. I like to write. This is true. I believe this is one reason my blog draws me back into its electronic arms time and time again. And in the absence of blogging, I have been writing. I spent a good deal of December and January hammering out a short story for a local creative writing contest. I lose myself when I write. In a good way. And I got very, very lost in my short story writing this winter. I hope to hear something about the results of the contest soon. But it does not matter if I don’t win (well, it does a little), because writing is my lifeblood.
I have no excuse for February. I cannot even remember what I did in February. It’s honestly my least favorite month of the year. I think I knitted a few gnome hats for nephews and completed the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo series. Oh, and I discovered the show Smash. Well, I didn’t discover it, per se, but I started watching it. It’s the “best worst show” as one reviewer called it. It’s mostly ridiculous, but I can’t pull myself away from a Broadway show.
March. March has been exciting. I’ll save you my rant (for now) about the grief I have experienced over a lack of good, solid, fortified winter (i.e. snowfall), and tell you that Luke has applied and been admitted to 4 out of 4 Masters of Architecture programs: University of Texas – Austin, University of Illinois, Syracuse University, and Cornell University. I could not be prouder. He will travel to the Empire State at the end of this month to explore the worlds of Syracuse and Cornell. And then, decisions will be made for our future – big, blockbuster kind of decisions will be made about what’s next in our lives.
For now, I will try to embrace spring, because it’s happening already whether I like it or not. Our Red bud tree has blossomed (pictured above) and the tulips arrived a little early to the party as well. I tried with all my might to ignore these flowers because I just didn’t feel ready for their beauty. But they just keep staring me down every morning with their friendly little plant eyes so I figure I might as well befriend them and get over myself. (But I missed you Winter!)
Okay. Losing focus.
Much love,
tiff
Happy 2012! I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday season. Having just come out of the Christmas music season, I find myself desiring to contact a few of my favorite artists to ask them to record versions of Christmas songs solely on my behalf. They could get these songs to me by December 1, 2012, right? Totally doable.
Here are the song and artists I would like to include:
