Home for the Holidays (Whatever That Means)

The view at 10,000+ feet somewhere over Riverside County

The only annual holiday tradition I've managed to create and honor as an adult is traveling back to my parents' house for Christmas every December. My tradition is not unique. No, it appears I share this tradition with loads of other singletons. I see them waiting in the security line at LAX or stranded in Terminal D trying to balance Christmas gifts, laptops and giant coffee served in red cups.

What I've come to wonder is if these other singletons share my holiday experience--you know, after the ritual of traveling cross-country is complete. Do they also find their childhood bedroom has become a storage room / gift-wrapping station / gym / playroom for Princess the puppy? Do they--usually chatty with most any living being--find it hard to formulate conversation with childhood friends, now married and covered in the paraphernalia of children? Do they have an unusual desire for a large Manhattan with each and every meal?

Maybe it's just me.

At any rate, the holidays were lovely and rushed and full of dear ones. It was good to get back to Los Angeles with it's wild and apocalyptic sunsets. In LA, I feel a bit more myself, which is such a contradiction because if you saw me you'd never think I came from this particular city. I probably look way more Tulsa than LA.

The Life I Should Have Had

The latest edition of Southern Living arrived in my mailbox today. The cover was adorned with a gorgeous Thanksgiving spread; inside were testimonials of the life I should be leading back in my homeland. Married women, dressed in their Sunday best even though it’s only Tuesday, smile alongside their delicate mantle displays and open-planned kitchens. In another room, two perfectly groomed children do whatever perfectly groomed children do. Upstairs, The Catch watches football.

I probably should have worked a little harder to earn that life. To land The Catch and push out two perfectly groomed children. I should have a smaller waist and bigger diamonds in my life. My mother should live down the street—close enough to babysit but far away enough so as not to annoy The Catch. But I daydreamed through high school, and I focused more on planning for a career than planning for a wedding all through my college years.

So, this is the life I lead instead. In lieu of breezy porches gracefully extending from brick homes, I live in apartments without central heat or air. I’ve forgone streets lined with scrappy pine trees always dripping sap and chosen manicured streets accented with sycamores and coral trees. The air smells more of sage and that powdery sigh roses let out than of barbeques and freshly cut grass. The men here are too busy dating models to worry about finding a mother for an heir. This is the life I lead. And while it’s not gracing any slick magazine covers in my mailbox, this life is all mine.

Image found here. It's a really good issue with some very delish recipes.

Sometimes God Takes Song Requests

It is a rare moment when I can recite a poem or lyric, so when it comes to church hymns I usually get the chorus but not much else. There are three hymns I can almost sing entirely without the aid of a hymnal: “Amazing Grace” (an obvious choice), “Be Thou My Vision”, and a hymn I learned at university, “From the Depths of Woe.”

That last one, though a bit dark, is a cherished one for me even though I've not heard it since my school days. I had often thought of jotting down a request to hear that hymn and slipping it in the offering plate on Sunday, but I never did. Rather, I opted to periodically remind God that I'd really like to hear that song.

I finally heard my request this past Sunday, the 13th of September, the one-year anniversary of the weekend my sister fought an arduous battle with crystal meth.

I don’t recall the exact date my mother frantically drove from place to place desperately seeking help for my very ill sister. I don’t recall how my dad told me my sister had been admitted to the hospital. By phone? In person?

Instead I remember the grief of finding a charred spoon and crusty needle in my sister’s eyeglass case, the drive up Highway 14 to collect two Rubbermaid containers holding my sister’s worldly possessions, and the smell of cheap laundry detergent that permeated the house where she had been staying.

There was nothing to say, so I tried to provide my mom with a reservoir of energy and assistance. At one point, late in the night of that hellish first day, I was asked to buy new clothes for my sister. You see, a body expelling poison is not kind to the wardrobe. In the darkest of night, I headed to a nearby Wal-Mart. There, standing under blinding fluorescent lights, I stared vacantly at rows of bedroom slippers dyed pale shades of pinks and blues. I reached for pink, my sister’s favorite color, and allowed myself to ask the question I did not want answered: “What if, this time, she doesn’t win the fight.” I must have been a sight, crying over fuzzy slippers in a Wal-Mart at two in the morning. Or maybe not. This is Wal-Mart I’m talking about after all.

A year later, in the high school theatre that houses my church on Sunday mornings, I allowed my mind to return to that hospital room. My sister was in the bed, sleeping. My mom was in the recliner next to her, distraught, lost, and desperate. There were far more questions than answers, and fear constantly hummed in the back of our minds. I could see all of these things clearly even though I was a year older and now on the other side of the country.

And then the pastor said a word of encouragement from 1 John while the piano softly announced that God had indeed granted my request.

A portion of "Psalm 130 (From the Depths of Woe)"

From the Depths of Woe I raise to thee
The voice of lamentation;
Lord, turn a gracious ear to me
And hear my supplication…

Though great our sins and sore our woes
His grace much more aboundeth;
His helping love no limit knows,
Our utmost need it soundeth.

I've Arrived. But Just Where Am I?

A couple of weeks ago (or was it 3?), I went to see Matt Hale perform at The Hotel Cafe in Hollywood. Matt usually goes by the moniker Aqualung, so if you're shopping around for some new albums full of well-crafted songs, look for that name.

When he took his seat behind his upright piano, he announced to us all: "I've arrived." We clapped, of course, and enjoyed 40 minutes-or-so of songs and banter.

I've been thinking about that announcement these past few days. I've arrived. Usually you tell someone you've arrived at a destination as in, "I'm outside your house now," or "I landed at the airport." But we can also arrive at ideas or stages of growth. And those places aren't easily located on a map.

The place I've arrived at recently doesn't come up in any GPS system or on Mapquest. I hardly know what to call this place at which I've arrived. Instead, I find myself frequently (as recently as this morning, in fact) telling people that I'm here in LA for now. Or I'm here at this job for now. I seem to be focusing on "now" a lot, now that I think about it.

A couple of friends recently challenged me to be more aggressive with my career aspirations. For the record, I climbed off the corporate latter a long time ago with no intention of ever getting back on that blasted thing. Well, this place I've arrived doesn't really seem concerned with career aspirations. Instead, this place I've arrived is more concerned with the intangible: relationships, education, experiences. These aren't things usually scored on employee reviews.

While this place may be difficult to describe or locate, I know exactly how I got here. By way of a life-changing year abroad and a challenging year at home. One year gave me opportunities to work with magnificent people who thought and operated completely differently than any of my former colleagues. The other gave me opportunities to work with people I had literally known since my infancy. Both were challenging. Both gave me perspective. And from where I sit now, life seems especially fragile and resilient all at the same time.

This past week my sister completed a long and grueling program that will hopefully right her course. Next week she moves into a new home. In many ways she begins a new life next week: a new job, a new return address to write on letters, a new set of challenges. But I am praying fervently that she savors this moment. For such a time as this, she has arrived at this this season of new relationships and lessons to be learned.

For such a time as this, I am in Los Angeles working alongside incredible people in an incredible field of work. For such a time as this, I am living in a small apartment with a big kitchen and neighbors from far away cities. For such a time as this, I've arrived at this time of uncertainty full of routine.

And I am determined to make the most of it.

Maybe Thomas Wolfe Was Right

Talk about an appropriate fortune. Last week I got this fortune in a cookie, and this week I packed up my car for a cross-country move.

After a year of trying on my hometown with little success of a fit, I am moving back to LA. I can't help but think that maybe Thomas Wolfe was right.

When I Grow Up, I Want To Be A Riter.

When I was about 6 or so, I sat down on my bed with a Hello Kitty notepad determined to choose the course my life would take. I made a list of possible occupations that included:

- Teacher
- Nurse
- Vet
- Riter

Then, I asked my dad to review my choices and tell me which he thought would be the best choice. I'll haven't forgotten his reply after reading over my options: "Well if you want to be a writer, you should probably know that writer begins with a "W" and not an "R."

Tomorrow I head to an interview for a job that I really could care less about. It's a position with a company that does good work so it's not like I am interviewing for a job in a chicken factory or something horrific like that, but it's been a long time since I felt excitement about a job. I blame this on my decision a few years back to stop allowing my job to define who I am as a person. It's hard not to fall into this trap when you live in the States. One only needs to attend a dinner party to see what I mean.

"Hello, nice to meet you so-and-so. And what do you do?"
"Oh, I'm an advertising exec."

See? Right there this person has said, "I read 'Vanity Fair,' wear edgy glasses probably made in Germany and listen to Joy Division in my Audi. (OK so maybe the Joy Division thing is more graphic designer than ad exec, but you know what I mean). We all put people in boxes according to information we receive about them -- their profession, the car they drive or the church they attend. It's normal. It's healthy. But for some reason, I don't want to be defined by a job anymore.

Back to that list I made way back when. I don't know if I'll ever become a "riter," but I did join a writing group recently. I am currently working on something that provides a necessary escape from the often-mundane life I now lead, and this project promises to provide a creative outlet even if my job does not.

Now, let's hope that bit about my terrible spelling doesn't come up in a session with the writer's group.

Three Decades Worth of Thought

For a lot of people, the start of a new year is cause for reflection. You know the drill - regrets, achievements and resolutions all washed down with a thin glass of bubbly. I've never been huge on resolutions, though. Sometimes I consider declaring the upcoming year to be the year I will try to learn more French or I will learn piano. While I may say these things to myself, I never say them out loud to other people. I treat such statements as guidelines or a gee-that-would-be-nice goal. Life is too short to stress out about resolutions made while a stereo blasts Prince in the background and you wear a paper tiara.

But birthdays are another matter. To be completely honest, I've been dreading this year's birthday (30) for over a year. Now, I know what you're thinking, 30 isn't such a big deal! In fact your thirties are the time in your life when you finally come into your own. It's not the number that fills my stomach with dread but rather where I am in life.

Before I moved to Belfast, I thought about what I would do once my year abroad ended. Would I return to L.A.? Would I move to another city? Or would I move back home to S.C. I felt that I had missed too many things in the lives of my sister and brother and that I would welcome a holiday that didn't involve LAX, so I chose to move back to S.C. While I am glad to be near my family, I feel completely like a fish out of water in my hometown. It seems that no one wants to hire a girl from L.A. who worked in the record industry for a time. And they certainly don't want to hire a girl who volunteered for a year for Habitat for Humanity in a country that, to them, doesn't really seem to need a lot of help. This market is too small for event planners and youth marketing specialists and guerilla marketing agencies. It is a round hole and I am a square peg.

In just under two weeks time I will turn 30. I will be living in my brother's old room in my parent's house. I will probably have no new freelance work lined up and, since my temp agency seems to be M.I.A., no temp work on the calendar. My dwindling savings account will continue to dwindle and the maintenance-required light will still be shining in my Civic. I will celebrate without my brother and sister because they are in the habit of doing other things on August 29th.

But honestly, who needs a house of one's own at 30 or a corner office or a picture-perfect family sitting like ducks in a row on the front pew of church? Who needs a BlackBerry bedazzled with crystals or a Polo-clad boyfriend driving a Range Rover? Not me.

No, I will enjoy things they way they are because I know this is exactly where I am supposed to be right now. I am thankful for the opportunity to get to know my parents even better that I could have living 3,000 miles away. I am thankful for the wee bit of freelance work that has come my way. I am glad to be rid of selfish and unkind friends. And I am so very honored for the incredible friends I have scattered across The States and Northern Ireland.

Besides, I hear 30 is the new 19 or something like that.