"On bended knees, Father, please..." These are the last words I remember singing before a scene that had played through my head over a hundred times left the fringes of consciousness to become reality. I don't know when the music stopped.

I wonder if we know the moment life ends, or if we only become aware that it did when we find ourselves on the other side of it.

This side is entering a darkened park around midnight to sit in a tree by the river where the only indication that one year has become another is the line of fireworks going off on the other side of the water. It's watching a field change colors in the sunlight or the sea of stars speckling a deep black and realizing that, for all your travels in this world, "home" never really leaves you. It's the brilliant white crescent moon against a deep sunset that later fades to a dim magenta smile skimming the skyline before disappearing completely. It's the timelessness of the warm wind caressing your hair and the intense silhouettes of masts against the glowing orange that signals the close of another day.

This side is the laughter of a trio reunited for a few short hours. It's the scent of a hug that awakens your memory, and the way the toll worker's face illuminates when you pull up and flash them a genuine smile. It's gazing into the eyes of a worn teddy bear and seeing the little boy he loves; a boy now grown and days away from the first phase of his dreams. It's somebody you didn't think was supposed to remember you saying you haven't been forgotten. It's the perspective that comes from listening to one talk about the difficulty of finding employment in a place where your job was handed to you, and another tell of somebody your age called half way around the world to share faith and culture in a country being rebuilt.

This side is revisiting a good-bye you've already struggled through once before. It's knowing those most concerned about you can do nothing - not because you're past saving, but because effort on the unchangeable is wasted. It's the pain of knowing the one thing you spent your life barely daring to hope you'd find finally got a face, and then dismissed you. It's the inevitable lack of understanding created when words fail to convey the truth despite every attempt. It's the tears you cry long after they should have ended and the struggle inside your head that neither party wins.

It's what I spent months crying out to be taken from, yet it's what I chose when my breaks failed to slow me enough and I swerved into the median. It's what I feared I might lose when the very car I was fighting to avoid did the same immediately in front of me.

I know I saw the engine light, yet somehow the car never stalled. I never found the obstacle or vehicle that scared the SUV I would have collided with at around 50 miles per hour. All I could do was drive away asking, "What the heck just happened here?"

And I still don't know when the music stopped.

Captured At:2324

It’s been a long time since I sat down and wrote with such little forethought as to what I was going to say. It’s 11pm on a Friday. I’ve been home just over half an hour, a banana and two handfuls of M&Ms are the only things I’ve put in my system all day, my head hurts, and yet none of that fazes me. These things, to me, remain trivial in the grand scheme.

While this week has flown by, it has been tremendously difficult. I revisited places I was sure I would never see again. As I finish that sentence I see there are multiple levels there. I wish everything didn’t always have to be so complex.

I began several of my days in a fog from dreams I thought were finally gone. I couldn’t tell which upset me more: that I’d had them, or that I had woken from them.

Last night as I drove home I came to the conclusion that I’m simply not happy. I was once. There was a time when I was alive and had so much joy for life it was contagious. I remember the things people would tell me about that girl and how she would laugh them off with a hint of childish charm. I miss her. This person walking around in my body is not me.

Somewhere during this week I came to the conclusion that of all the things I used to believe about who I was, there isn’t a single trait I feel I can still claim. I’m always lying to somebody, even if all that means is leading them down the wrong trail about where I am right now. I can only come up with one “secret” that wasn’t told sooner or later. I traded my integrity for a string of empty promises. I’m helping no one, wasting most of the time that’s given to me. The list goes on. How can anybody possibly tell me I’m good? Look at what I do! Are they blind?

And I worry people. My family. My friends. My co-workers. They all have their reasons. As well founded as those may be, it appears the more I need people the harder I push them away. I’m oddly particular of who I’ll accept concern from, yet the selection process remains a mystery. Right now I simply don’t trust anybody. I wish I had somebody to talk to who would understand where my words are failing and take me as I am. There has to be at least one teeny tiny piece of me worth something. I keep desperately hoping I’ll see a sign of something real in someone around me, but nothing connects even when I know they’re trying. That only makes me feel worse.

I really can’t win here. I don’t even like to be where I’m told I’m wanted. Nothing fits. Nothing’s right. I hate this. How many more miserable pieces do I have to be broken into before the glue comes out? Just put me back together already! Give me my life back. Please.

Captured At:2351

DC Three

I was working on a post, but my concentration has been completely thrown and there's about a zero chance it will get finished tonight, if ever.

I think I'm going to brave the chill and find a beach. I need to get out of here.

Outside of a school field trip or two I am fortunate to be able to say that I have never visited a cemetery. This made lightly treading the hallowed ground of Arlington National a truly unique experience. In a way it's sad to me that the place is a tourist attraction; people flock to the area to see a few select markers while most of the others receive no attention. Are these deceased who were once willing to offer up their lives for the protection and prosperity of our country really less important than those with more recognizable names?

I would have preferred to walk the pathways alone, but the natural flow of pedestrian traffic did not allow such solitude. I was immersed in something fully aware that I did not understand it. Why do we flock to headstones as if the person we're looking for is waiting for us? Much like the tears shed at a funeral, are these markers not actually for the living? Is it not so we feel there is a place we can go to connect with something lost to us? As I pondered my own end I found myself torn. I wouldn't want to deny my family that comfort, but I would rather have my ashes scattered on the winds I enjoyed in life than have my body confined to a box until the world burns away.

Crowds began packing the area around the Tomb of the Unknowns right as the changing of the guard started to take place. I was impressed at the reverence drifting through the silence of the masses. Still, I wondered who of those witnessing the ritual understood how seriously the men honored to pace that worn stretch of ground take their assignment. How many people appeared to pay their respects, and how many arrived just because they heard it was something to see?

The only other stop I wanted to make was at the Challenger/Columbia memorial. I feel foolish sometimes for how attached I am to the second accident, but there is no disputing the fact that my life is different because of it. Three of the seven crew members are buried in Arlington; their graves sit behind the large rock outfitted with a plaque of the mission patch graphic now known around the world. As I bowed my head in silence I could picture the family members I had met standing near the headstones. I could imagine a young blond boy leaving behind the flowers that rested before one of them. After a pause and an unspoken promise to do my best I turned away to escape the group of people closing in around me.

It was a very solemn walk back down the hill

Captured At:2022

My 5am alarm managed a scare sufficient enough to prevent me from falling back to sleep, making today the first time I have been awake before the sun since... Jeez, I don't even know. I was able to take my time getting ready for work for a change, stopped to get something for breakfast on the way, and was still the first in the office at 730. This shocked one co-worker, and another arrived only to comment I was right where she had left me.

It was nice to see the dawn again; to watch patches of fog rising from between the rows of orange trees and trace my eyes across the glassy surface of water being slowly defined by the first rays of morning. I didn't even mind that there was a chill to the air rushing into my window. It was fantastic.

This afternoon one of my co-workers was kind enough to extend me an invitation to join a walk around the O&C high bay. Somehow I made it onto the roof of the VAB in less than two months, into first shuttle to launch during my employment at KSC while it was on the pad, and yet didn't get into this large, generally dormant space until now. I've surveyed it from the observation area a number of times, but this was my first time viewing from the ground floor.

The segment of the building I'm talking about is one I'm told they used for capsule processing during Apollo before rolling them to the VAB for stacking on the Saturn V. It houses altitude chambers that have been there since the 60s for testing flight hardware. They used it for processing SkyLab and pieces of the International Space Station until the SSPF was completed.

More importantly, I learned that for some of my co-workers it's a vault of memories. When they were my age, this is what they were doing. Moment of perspective number one.

It's probably silly to say this, but just looking at long abandoned work stands I was amazed. Something about wandering areas like this drives home the history of where I am, the things we've accomplished, and reminds me I'm privileged to be part of something many only dream about. As I climbed the steps up from the tunnel - which was my first experience with basements since I left New York - I was told I had just been where very few people have. Moment of perspective number two.

The final moment of perspective came as I sat in on the rest of the meeting I had crashed. It dawned on me that I actually am part of this vision for exploration. The projects I've been pulled into little by little are what's going to help make the moon and Mars a reality. I have a combination of knowledge nobody else does - one that grows a bit every day. What's more, I'm in an environment with people who not only try to encourage me, but seem to put the odds in my favor no matter what they challenge me with.

I genuinely like where I am, but that poses a slight problem in that it would be difficult to leave. I walk around the high bay and I want more experience with operations. I watch my managers tweaking spreadsheets that track their people and projects and I want to know more about what goes in the background. I want a look at all of the pieces. How does this all come together in a way that allows us to do what we do? I want to know how the machine works.

I have decided any day that starts with Little Prince quotes waiting in the IMer and a gentle sunrise, ends with a mysterious halo around a bright moon, and sandwiches wonder, perspective, and a true thirst for knowledge between them can't go down in my book as anything other than good. It was nice to feel like me again; to remember that I have been blessed and that every second of the life I've had to get me this far has truly been a gift. It's nice to actually want tomorrow, rather than dread or merely accept it.

Maybe that bottle of Elmer's is finally coming out...

Captured At:2213

Tonight, somewhere in adding things elsewhere on here, I'm thinking of my grandfather enough that I want to take a few more minutes before I go to bed. I don't know what brought it to mind, but what I'm seeing most vividly is a scene from when I visited in November.

One of the duties I know my grandfather had during WWII invovled working as a translator for the Italian prisoners of war. A couple years ago as he was showing us treasures stored in his basement he pulled out a thin, yet surprisingly solid piece of cardboard that had been given to him by one of them. The man had painted a lovely scene on one side of it.

I can't be sure if the sun is rising or setting behind the hills, but there are beautiful highlights on the rocks sticking out of the water. The right side boasts a walled garden one could access simply by pulling a boat up to the entrance. Were it possible, it's the sort of image I would melt into because of the calm and beauty it portrays.

On that November afternoon I arrived a bit earlier than expected. My grandmother was having her hair done, which left Grandpa and I sitting in their TV room to catch up. On the wall to my right I noticed they had finally hung the prisoner's painting. I can still see it on the wall as I sat there learning about how perfectly placed it was.

I can hear Grandpa telling me that at a certain time of day the sunlight comes through their tiny window in such a way that brings the picture to life. I was told it looks like the sun is really glowing gold behind the mountains and trickling light over the rocks and into the garden. I never saw this with my own eyes, but I can imagine it just as described.

I miss having that sort of time with my grandparents, and I know how fortunate I am to have had all of them in my life for this long. As their ages stretch into the 80s I'm all too aware that any unexpected ring of my cell phone could be to tell me I've lost one. This fact of life is not an easy or pleasant thought. People don't live forever.

With memories like this, though, they're never quite gone.

Captured At:2343

In New York it would have been marked by a large party. Some banquet hall would be rented for an evening of merriment with family and friends brought together for the occasion. Fifty required this. Reaching half a century in age was a milestone not to be overlooked.

Six hundred miles away from the clan of relatives it could pass like any other day. Evenings later a party of eight raised their glasses once in acknowledgement of why they were gathered and returned to friendly conversation. For an event most take as an opportunity to scream "Look at me!" the preference had been close company over the commotion.

This is a small picture of my father. I am, without question, his child.

As I drove my parents home that night something in the conversation opened a door I had wanted to walk through for a while. I asked them how they did it. How did they succeed in raising three children who believed and valued the things they felt were important; children who generally possessed a vastly different view of life than their contemporaries and were, by most accounts, good kids? How did they know this was how we would turn out?

"We didn't."

I was told that, as parents, you do the best you can to direct your kids with no way of knowing how they'll actually respond. Yelling, for example, scares some children into obedience. Others it drives to rebellion. My dad said that if I liked who I was I should thank God for that; that I was the lump of clay they were given to work with, but everything that's me was already there.

What it causes me to wonder is what drove me to look so intently at the shape I have spent the last quarter of a century becoming. Was it mixed in with me from birth, or did years of being called on my actions move me toward this intensive process of self-evaluation I'm constantly under?

These days I do a great deal of watching. I watch myself because I'm responsible for me and need to be more aware than I have been. I watch others because I want to see and understand, and because I'm desperately searching for something I lost that it took almost my entire life to find the first time.

Yesterday I heard quite a bit about loneliness and how people are that way because we're hiding and not being real. I wish I could say this provided some great insight, but none of it was new to me. It took what I would identify as the single greatest cause for unhappiness in my life and repeated it back in fewer words. There's a reason I say I know too much for my own good. The problem is that for as much as I know I never seem to have the right answer.

I won't pretend I'm not lonely or haven't been that way most of my life, but the ironic truth behind the reason for it is that I don't want to do the very things I'm being told cause it. I don't want to hide, but you can't be found when nobody's looking. I want to be real, but the sad truth is that people don't care about real. The story, the image and the opinion are all far more important.

Some people can bare their soul to perfect strangers and think nothing of it. I'm not one of them. And perhaps it's a failure on my part to communicate successfully, but when I reach the point where I try to talk it does little good because they don't seem to get it.

It was recently said to me that I'm wrong when I say people don't understand. I'm told they get me just fine, but I've somehow built it into my head that I'm so far out there nobody could even begin to comprehend. Sadly, this remark only proves me right. Understanding between two people is far more than a nod of the head or a sympathetic remark. It has to be felt, and if it isn't perceived by the one who desires it every word and action comes across as empty.

Somebody else once observed that throughout my life it seems people have accepted me, yet somehow I never actually felt that acceptance. Enter one who understood.

When I don't believe I belong where I am I set myself apart. This is why I'm sitting alone on a staircase instead of at a table with the hundreds of people below me, or on a desk running the perimeter of the lunch area. It used to be that I didn't like to appear someplace unless I was explicitly invited, yet these days even complying with those requests feels forced and unnatural.

And maybe I'm trying too hard to recover what's missing. Maybe if I stop and relax I will find it all falling into place so that it can have a new face and a new name. And maybe then life won't feel quite like it does now because its new shape will plug most of the hole that was left behind.

But there are too many maybes and they're too far away. What I really need is that pair of eyes across from me, watering much like mine because they know. Because they're right there with me and they can see and feel it all.

Captured At:1236

We launched a rocket today. A spacecraft years in the making has finally departed for its final destination. As dumb as this may sound, a small part of me wouldn't mind being a thousand pounds of flight hardware right now. It's where it's supposed to be and well on the way to fulfill the clearly defined purpose it was designed for. The view for the trip is also unquestionably spectacular.

There's a certain laziness as launch time approaches, partly because there's no telling where in the window liftoff will take place or how many times it will be delayed before the countdown is allowed to reach zero. That sort of ambiguity in schedule coupled with an anticipatory atmosphere isn't conducive to productivity; at least not for me.

Two days ago I sat on the roof of the O&C for the first time. Spring was so boldly pronounced in the air that I was fooled for a minute into believing I was skipping a class to sit under the white wisps decorating a brilliant blue Florida sky. Somewhere in one of many assemblies of co-workers that afternoon I began goofing off in a ridiculous manner. Bad jokes and an incident that involved jumping on a cubicle wall were enough to drive me back to my office in slight embarrassment, but it felt fantastic to be laughing so genuinely.

Monday night I realized just how much I miss having friends. I miss having people to win over for my next random idea, or to laugh and goof off with just because. I miss singing along with the stupid songs coming through the computer speakers and the inside jokes that are somehow still funny long past their expiration date. I miss not catching the shooting stars from the beach that everyone else in the group I gathered saw. I miss lodging a Frisbee into the bushes in the SUB Plaza and playing Tetris or tripping over myself to DDR as the minutes fly past and it's suddenly midnight.

This world is a very lonely place. There are people everywhere, yet not a soul for hundreds of thousands of miles. We have more ways to communicate than ever, yet we starve for a real connection. I see it in people every day.

I am those people. That needs to change.

I miss...playing.
I miss...laughing.
I miss...sharing.

Through observation over the last week it has come to my attention that I don't do any of those nearly enough anymore. For any number of reasons, they're not as easy as they used to be.

Tonight I put my sister on an airplane; one more person I watched taking steps away as they move toward their destiny. One thing I know: she won't stay in Florida forever. And I also know I'll support and encourage her every step of the journey. That's what you do for the people you love. You let them walk away, wish the very best as they continue on, and hope they know you will always be there waiting should they come back. It's not easy, but I don't think anyone ever said truly loving another person was. That's the conclusion I came to as I drove home from a picnic table near the ocean where I scribbled by tiny flashlight into a thin grey book I hadn't seen the pages of in a while.

As for the rest, it will come with time.

Captured At:2224

I won't claim any sort of certainty in knowing where the inclinations of people originate, or even where mine had come from as I drove home that night with an initially foggy, yet now unwavering agenda that had been further fueled by a dark December sky. The next trip to my car was made in a pair of blue running pants and the maroon sweatshirt advertising my alma mater that I had owned since the winter of my first year, uniquely accessorized on this occasion with a red thermos I had purchased only hours earlier slung over my shoulder.

Late January feels like early spring; insects singing in the bushes, sprinklers spattering water on the sidewalks, trains passing in the distance, clear sky dotted with stars… Walking around the complex all outside seems calm and at peace.

The same cannot be said for the mind making a single lap through the parking lot. Its churning begins constructing the latest apology. It seems that for my entire life I have been telling people I’m sorry, and I have found little indication the future promises any change in that arena.

Life’s recipe calls for mistakes. They never quite bake out, but they do melt as we learn from them. My biggest issue is that I can’t seem to get the oven hot enough. It’s hard to do that when the door keeps getting opened.

Something about what I found first thing this morning left my composure tottering precariously along the edge of self-control. Taking only the trigger into consideration there’s little reason for the sort of reaction I had, but it quickly became apparent in my mind that emotions buried far deeper had been stirred. The things we keep hidden inside truly do have the power to destroy should we adhere too staunchly to the vow we made that first tucked them out of view.

I don’t know quite where it came from. I had little warning before I began pouring forth an ocean of words. I’m often told that it’s okay to talk, but I never feel good about burdening another with my inability to cope with any given situation. And this is why I have to say I’m sorry. This isn’t theirs to fix; if they’re not enabling me to run from life that’s purely my problem.

One of the more frustrating things in all of this is how I’m only further reminded that talking is of no value whatsoever. As calm as I can remain while I perform the dump, there’s a feeling of desperation inside of me. Something strains me like it’s crying out, begging for somebody to see it and convince me that it will be okay; that we’ll get through it. Why hasn’t anybody figured out that if I’m talking, that’s bad? Why does it always seem I’m being placated and that nobody sees how tattered I am? Doesn’t anybody hear me? Don’t they get it?

I was told once that everybody wants to be different. I, on the other hand, am back to desperately searching for confirmation that I’m not. It doesn’t come from words or actions - the two things everybody tries to give. Instead, its fragile form glows from behind the eyes with too much strength to look upon directly. Many days I wish I had never learned that.

And these are the times it hurts the most.

How can you give a full story to somebody who clearly doesn’t understand you enough to properly address the pieces of yourself you risk in the vulnerability of speech? How do you deal with the realization that the limited number of people you have to turn to all fall into that category, or dismissed what you said as quickly as the words were spoken?

So you give the best answers you can without ever really explaining anything. You feel pain as thoughts of the truth come to mind, and they sting more as you know you can’t say what’s begging to be freed.

Truth is not often gentle, but it has importance beyond measure. And it does always come out eventually because people let their guard down with time. You discover you have been betrayed or lied to. You are given undeniable proof of exactly where you stand, what they think of you, and are confronted with the true colors of the individual. Events like these can completely change a relationship, often beyond repair. Other times you’re left wishing they would.

And these, too, are the times it hurts the most.

Captured At:2330

Roll on Tuesday...

Two things. First, this morning's lesson is that when the sun that wakes you up is gold, that's good. When it's white, that's bad.

Second, and far more importantly, my brother's birthday is today.

That said, let's hope the police are nice on the way to the Cape. ;)

Captured At: 843

Truth be told, I am still attempting to process everything that has transpired over the course of the week. I know I can't quite put it into words, so I won't try. Here's one of the higher points of the day instead...

At work I generally operate under my full first name. The few people I was in the old group with call me "Bec", but for the most part I'm "Rebecca" and more than okay with that. Unfortunately I have one of those names people always want to shorten, so somebody in the organization decided I'm "Becky". Although I don't recognize it as me and rarely respond, the entire Business Office seems to think this is my name and slowly it has trickled downward. This simply will not do.

When I arrived at work this morning I was told my Division Chief had been looking for me because I was now going to a meeting with him at 10. I was in the TA's adjoining office as he prepared to leave the meeting he was wrapping up and called through the door to see if I was there. The conversation that followed went something like this:

TA: She doesn't like Becky.
DC: I can get away with it.
TA: You can't see the look on her face.
DC: Oh, it's endearing. I'm not going to tell you what my family calls me...
The members of his previous meeting toss out a few wrong ideas.
TA: Benji.
DC: He's always right....
TA: So, from now on, anytime he calls you "Becky", you get to call him "Benji".
Me: Yeah, okay...

Several hours later when I'm back in the TA's office I get called from the other room.

DC: "Hey, Becky."

The almost automatic, no thinking on my part response he got back was a smiling, "Yes, Benji?"

The TA immediately burst out laughing. I looked over at him, smiled, and he continued laughing just as hard as I got up to walk into the other office commenting to Benji about how I had just made the laughing guy's day.

The next time the three of us where in the same general vicinity and he wanted my attention he called me "Bec". Apparently I trained him quickly; it only took once...

Captured At:2312

Two weekends ago I generated a large mess around my apartment in the name of cleaning. While several lingering clusters of clutter remain, I can claim success in that stuff I had needlessly been hauling between living spaces for years finally found its way to the dumpster outside.

The real reason I mention this is because somewhere in the boxes I found the remainder of the six-pack of bubbles I failed to get though during college. Obviously the natural solution was to take a bottle to work with me today and put it to good use. It’s amazing to watch how the simplest, sometimes silliest of things make people smile. One person I had just met walked into the office and decided we have way too much fun. Others borrowed the wand for their own chance to make good use of the sticky solution. And there was also the walk into the Division Chief’s office to blow bubbles at him over his computer monitor. Observer’s comment as I did this: “I think she’s getting more comfortable with us”. Remember what I said a while back about playing? Consider fixing that a work in progress.

In truth, part of me suspects this high is triggered by the knowledge that I get to play all weekend. I’m excited by the opportunity for some time to laugh, goof off, and seek out whatever other harmless mischief there is to be found. It’s nice to see that last week – which I really don’t even want to think about – has turned into two days of feeling like the me I enjoy most.

There was a thin sliver of moon hanging in the sky directly over my building as I exited tonight. I saw him and immediately smiled one of those deep, exaggerated, joyful grins indicative of sheer pleasure. He’s seen me many times, but this is the first in a long while I returned the gesture. There isn’t a thing in my life fixed or more settled than this time a week, a month, or even a year ago, yet I lit up as if everything had melted. Walking the rest of the way to my car I concluded that whatever form it takes, happiness truly is a gift from God.

I wish I could say there was never a twinge of pain accompanying the ups. I wish I could say the smiles didn’t quiver and the eyes never teared, but I can’t. And it reminds me of the “what” that’s missing. It’s not the usual “when”, or even the “who” most would prescribe a remedy for. I have come to realize those two things are all anyone is ever going to see because they’re the only things I can use as pointers in my failed attempts to explain the heart of the matter. The closer I get to the truth, the more people are thrown off and they less they seem to understand.

But this is going in a direction I don’t care to move in, and I’m not about to let it. I should be smiling because I have a planned tomorrow and good things coming in the week ahead. Because there’s a new Train CD to enrich the extra hours of driving I’ll be incurring. Because my self-appointed mentor has been gushing with positive reinforcement all week to the point that on more than one occasion I unknowingly interrupted conversations with others about how well he thinks I’m doing. Because all I still know how to say in response is a skeptical, “Um….thank you?” and wonder what I missed. Most importantly, I should be smiling because it’s not over. Because a bright future still lies ahead if I can just keep holding firmly to what truly matters. And that, perhaps, is the greatest challenge of all.

Captured At:2307