The parking lot outside was everything I have come to expect at this time of year.  Inside the music had changed.  Instead of the satellite radio broadcast of Top 40 hits to cater to the young patrons Christmas music echoed past the doors.  I accepted paying full price with only an hour left to go and guessed small on the footwear.  It probably wasn't ideal, but it would do.

My first trip to the rink was about four years ago.  I remember how good it felt to get on the ice and realize I could stay on my feet.

I made my laps alone, slowly navigating a crowd that included pre-teen hockey players at the usual antics and small children clinging to walkers as if their very life depended on it.  Josh Groban assured the crowd he would be home for Christmas as I continued cutting new trails through the closest thing Florida has to snow.  I traced the tracks of others with my eyes, felt the persistent cold against my fingers, and wondered how to make things right.  

One of my most trusted allies had postulated that it was a case of two sides trying to reach out to each other and failing to connect.  The love and good intentions were all present, yet somehow even the best aim missed the mark.  There was no advice to give, but none had been expected.

On the drive home from church - a visit that truly lifted my spirits for the day - I had determined that I should write it all down.  The letter would be long and done in the clearest English I could compose.  I would have to explain the intent and the perspective up front if I wanted to avoid gross misinterpretation.  I would pray that God would gift me with the words I needed, and I would pray for an open mind to accept them when consumed.  None of it would be easy.

The buzzing of the phone later that evening immediately provided a sense of dread.  Did I really have to attempt another round?

I was amazed when the words came and the honesty flowed.  I explained myself without the usual frustration and exhaustion, and it seemed that what I provided was actually enough.  Nearly three hours later I returned the phone to the table top.  It was too soon to tell if anything would be better, but there was no desire to vent in any way available.

My own family has not escaped the myriad challenges my nature and personality present to others.  An excellent point was made: they believe they know who I am from years of living with me, yet I don't show them enough to confirm or deny their assertions.

I believe a person is the summation of three things.  First is upbringing.  We are a product of our environment, as some might say.  Second, experiences from decisions made.  What we do both makes us and shows us for who we are.  Third, the innate qualities God weaves into every one of his children.  Some attributes we just have without any identifiable reason behind them.  

I remain without knowledge of where my aversion for sharing in full came from.  If there was one thing I could adjust in myself, that quality might be it.  The people I love the most in this world should not be at arms length, yet I am apparently incapable of having things any other way.

Later that night I thanked God for the assistance - for making my phone ring, for giving me one of those rare moments where I'm not analyzing to death the words exiting my lips, and for making every step I had hoped could come from a letter I never had to write.  If that isn't a gift, I don't know what is.

Captured At:2253

December 11, 2008

5-5-7

Within the first few notes my body tensed up as if reliving the sensation from the airplane.  Exhausted at the post-midnight mark it had sprawled across the empty seats to my left, twisted to accommodate the seatbelt and curled up close as possible to its usual sleeping position.  The thin blue blanket draped over its form could provide only the illusion of warmth.  In the next few notes the road stretching before me transformed into a tiny monitor tracing my plane's progress across the Atlantic.

I knew what had come next.  My restlessness would cause the next several hours to be spent alternating between asleep and awake.  The only action upon opening my eyes would be to glance at the monitor for the latest confirmation of my fears before trying to drift off again.  I sensed the music and the darkness and the hum permeating the headphones.  When the wheels touched the ground I would be in a foreign land - alone and left behind.

I shook my head as I guided my car into the left lane.  I wondered why the memory was so strong.  I wondered how the same song on a cycling album managed to be playing every time I gained consciousness through that night.  I wondered how it is that something can deteriorate so badly in a matter of months.

Though frustrated, my conscience was clear.  I recalled a friend once saying something along the lines of "I'm past caring, I just have to figure out how to be past caring," and realized I could relate.  I knew who I was and I knew I was being falsely accused of malicious intent that did not exist.  I knew I wasn't the enemy I had been made out to be, and I knew that even gentle words had been met with hostility.  Most importantly, I knew I refused to accept that world anymore.

I couldn't understand how two people who had once been members of each other's inner circle could come to such strong blows over nothing.  And that's really what it was about, yet the explanation of it being nothing was never given the opportunity to be communicated.  When I had said the initial confrontation had been forgiven, I meant it.  I removed it from my mind and focused on the tasks at hand as the world attempted to adjust in the aftermath.  Apparently it wasn't good enough, but what ever had been?

My desire for rightness often consumes me.  The passion is in the belief, not in the situation.  This delineation might be one of the most difficult things about me for others to understand.  In the end my sense of right trumps my emotions.

Back at the house I hoped I had done the right thing.  I hoped that the help I had called on would be able to make more progress than my many failed attempts had.  I remembered a time when I didn't have to try so hard.  Whatever trust in me had existed before was clearly gone.  

But when the music played, for a moment I could forget.  With the ghosts of fear and exhaustion would also come the memory of the unexpected package in my knapsack when the songs were first given.  They were a gift in celebration, traveling music for a new adventure, and an opportunity to reciprocate the sharing of self I had already done.  Where all else failed the notes would remain, and with them I would have a piece of the good forever.

Captured At:2224

December 14, 2008

Our group stood in a small circle outside the restaurant chatting about one thing or another.  At moments it may have come across as rude, but I meant no disrespect in the long pauses to look over my shoulder.  My attention had been stolen by the Moon brightly climbing its way up the eastern sky and I wondered if we really would make it back.  Members of the present company, each extremely competent, were dedicated to that goal.  They had nothing to do with my skepticism.  Time had the opportunity to prove me wrong, but I remained disheartened with the belief that the democrats' victory the week before meant the Moon had been lost.

Somebody else in the group noticed my night light and commented how cool it would be the next evening when the shuttle launched beside it.  The shuttle had me torn as well.  In three hours time the Rotating Service Structure would no longer serve as an obstruction to one of the most amazing man made images in existence: a brilliant white spaceship poised for launch against the blackness.  

Everything in me wanted to go take one last look before Endeavour - the first vehicle to truly capture my imagination - sprang into the heavens once more.  But three hours was a long time away.  To drive home and drive back two hours later was madness.  It would likely be after 3am before I could attempt sleep, and the early donut run for an 8am start wouldn't allow much time for rest.   Besides, there would always be next time, right?

So why was that answer insufficient?

I casually mentioned my inkling to visit the pad later that night and the crisis of common sense it created.  The group agreed that such an adventure was insane.  "Yeah, I don't think I'm going to do it," I announced.  "Good idea."  

We parted ways shortly after, but it quickly became clear I wasn't sold.  The entire drive home I walked through the required time tables.  I also rationalized that if I were planning to take pictures of the launch the next night, I should have some idea of what the camera settings needed to be.  After all, what could give me more confidence at T-0 than a practice run?

When Milo came to his final stop I composed a short email to a potential partner in crime.  "I said I wouldn't do it.  But now?  I dunno.  I think I might."  I also messaged another co-worker who had left a Facebook comment indicating his excitement for launch.  "...if you're awake and up for a silly adventure, give me a call."

Then came the most dangerous part of the entire plan: the pre-adventure nap.  Odds were strong that I simply wouldn't wake up to go, especially with nobody signed on to meet me on the other side.  Alarms and potential phone calls would come from the phone resting on the coffee table.  I flopped on the couch and did everything I knew to calm a mind that has often kept me awake.  The embrace of blankets and darkness were not permitted.

I vaguely remember the alarm going off.  I also recall letting the phone buzz and debating whether I would make good on my offer.  When I forced myself up and dialed back I learned that the new co-worker on the other end had gone out and bought a prepaid cell phone just to call me back.  He was excited and ready to leave immediately.

We were to meet outside the O&C shortly after 1am.  Again the Moon commanded my attention, this time from nearly overhead.  I stood alone in the parking lot soaking in his glow and the mystery that surrounds KSC at night waiting until the other car arrived.  Sheer craziness didn't seem so bad.

The lights on Endeavour were visible from miles away.  We had both watched them all the way in.  We grinned at each other as the vehicle came into view and grinned even bigger when security allowed us through the checkpoint.  And when we could finally take the whole thing in we just went silent.

For him it was the first time.  For me it may as well have been.  We oohed and aahed, grinned more and snapped pictures.  Outside the fence a pair of guys told me it was 25 bucks a shot or they'd turn the lights off.  "Well, is that 25 bucks for every shot I attempt to take, or just for the ones that actually come out looking like something?  Because there's a really big difference."  They laughed.

We chatted for a bit and I learned more about Xenon lighting and the work their group needs to do than I had ever considered.  If there is one thing about the space program that amazes me more than anything, it's how much goes into what we do.  There are so many small things that generally don't even get considered, yet they all play a necessary role in accomplishing our job and making sure it is done well.

The remainder of the visit was much like my adventure had been on the day of the double shuttles.  We drove to a few other spots for photo ops, shooing away mosquitoes and carefully scouting out places to stop the car before getting out.    We figured out the best view we would probably get of launch, then returned the car and parted ways for the night.  Every minute had been worth it.

I couldn't go to sleep that night without checking the pictures.  4am arrived before I knew it.  Again I took the risk of attempting a short nap, but this time I allowed myself the blankets and the darkness.  I woke, rushed myself ready, made the Krispy Kreme run, and navigated Milo toward the Cape once again.  I had more energy than was reasonable and enough that the group was surprised when I told them I had given in.  The meeting went well, the launch was incredible, and the VAB walkdown provided a nice alternative to sitting in traffic.

When my head finally hit the pillow again I could be nothing but grateful.  It wasn't the exhaustion speaking, it was the awe and the passion.  For all of the frustrations and fears that went with where I was, I resolved that having them in a place that inspired me was better than never getting any of it at all.  And if I could talk some other crazy explorer into coming along with me every now and again, well, all the better.

Captured At:1623

December 15, 2008

The Bittersweet Taste of Success

My alarm sounded right on time at 530a.  I groaned.  Today was the first day of my three week vacation, but it would not begin with rest.  There still remained one matter of business to attend to.  I readied myself slowly, taking time to iron my shirt and blow-dry my hair.  I pulled on a skirt and shoes uncomfortable beyond description.  Even without the mask of make-up I wore, I suspected the sun would not recognize me when I stepped outside.

Two months earlier the email had arrived stating simply "Congratulations".  The attached document indicated I would be receiving a Certificate of Appreciation at the next KSC Awards Ceremony.  I'd be lying if I said my heart didn't sink a little.  It was one of those moments in life that is supposed to be shared with those you love, yet I knew I would have to do it alone.  The thought depressed me.  Instead of accomplishment I saw failure.

I barely mentioned the award, and when I did it was only to inquire of my leadership if I really had to go.  The few coworkers who knew, God bless them, took it in stride.  They encouraged me to attend.  They tried to emphasize that it was a big deal.  They even took the expected jabs as they insisted I would have to wear a dress.  I resigned myself to going, but I still couldn't feel good about doing so.

When the invitation arrived weeks later I casually mentioned the event to my sister.  Somehow the date fell on the one day for the remainder of the semester where she wouldn't be on campus or swamped with studying.  Whether the RSVP would include her husband remained to be seen, but she could come.  I couldn't believe it.

Slowly I began to look forward to the event.  Uncomfortable as the costume would be, the truth was that my managers had thought enough of me to do the write-up, and that write-up was considered worth choosing by somebody else.  If they could put forth that effort, the least I could do was show up and smile.  I owed them that much.

But before I could RSVP with the names of my two guests, the invitation was changed.  The ceremony had been pushed back into my first week of vacation and fell firmly on a date that made my sister's attendance impossible.  The disappointment returned and again I showed up in the bosses' offices.  "They moved the date.  I'm on vacation, my family can't be there, I'm not going.  Sorry."  They were disappointed too, but they didn't argue.

It still wasn't the answer, though.  I knew going was the right thing to do.  I knew it was stupid to miss out because I felt sorry for myself.  I had to choose to not let those feelings win.

Help to do so fell again to the coworkers.  When the organizer emailed to say she hadn't received names with my RSVP I asked one if there was a nice way to tell her I didn't have guests because their change of date eliminated my cheering section.  He told me to give her his name and suggested another I could ask.  The count went back up to two.  Both were supposed to be on vacation, same as I was.  That they were willing to give up some of that time just for me meant a lot.

Of course life, as they say, is change.  At the last minute one of the guys fell ill and the other fell angry.  Neither would attend anymore.  Again I had to wonder why I was bothering but, as I learned a long time ago, the right thing remains the right thing regardless of how I feel about it.  I would go, smile, and go home.  My boss would potentially attend in the absence of everyone else.

Reality hit me as I prayed the night before the "big day".  Who I had in the audience didn't matter.  I was at the ceremony that morning for the multitudes who had encouraged me and supported me and put up with me on the journey to become that person others felt made a difference; for the men who took a chance on me to bring me to NASA in the first place; for God in gratitude of everything he was doing in my life.  That award was a testament to all of them, and when I walked to accept it I would not be alone.  Every one of them would be with me.

The event passed in a blur.  I stood nervously in a line outside the theater waiting my turn to be called and reminded myself that today's task was easy.  There was no speech or presentation.  All I had to do was walk and smile.  And if I could make it there and back without tripping in the torturous shoes I was wearing, all the better.

The final moderator of the line gave me a strong nudge forward before my name was even called.  I shook hands with representatives from center management as they handed me the plaque then turned to face the crowd.  The intensity of the lights made the entire theater seem like a flat black wall.  Half-blinded, I smiled with everything I had.  I never once considered where the cameras might actually be.

Outside they boxed the award and directed me back to my seat.  I watched the remainder of the presentations noting how interactive an event it was.  People would shout and cheer and make cracks at their friends when it came their turn to stand up front.  I knew very few of the other honorees, but I clapped for every single one of them.  Perhaps some shared my condition of walking for nobody specific in the crowd.  Even for little me the room hadn't been silent.  How could I not reciprocate?

When I met my boss at the reception he didn't seem embarrassed at my interpretation of the dress code.  He also mentioned that this event was the sort of thing that happens very few times in one's career.  If I was recognized on this scale once a decade, I would be lucky.  Suddenly I felt foolish for an earlier comment that it seemed a small thing to make such a production of, but how could I have known?

I can now officially say that this award is a big thing.  And I mean literally - it's huge!  Even my diplomas aren't this large.  And in my mind it's still not really about me.  When I pause a raft of names comes to mind.  They belong to family, friends and coworkers; mentors, champions and advisors; people who have inspired me and motivated me and encouraged me at all of those times I didn't even know I needed it.

So to all those I carried with me as I walked today, this one's for you.  Thanks.

Captured At:1343

December 18, 2008

Voci del passato

Social networking has become a way of life for many out there on the World Wide Web.  I have seen countless articles ranging in topic from the idea that all people with Facebook pages are narcissists to the right to remain disconnected.  I have no doubt there's a great psychological study in there somewhere, though I guarantee I won't be the one to conduct it.

When I set up my Facebook account two years ago it was to share pictures with a few people I knew who were still in college.  Today I have around 85 "friends", but most are no more present in my Facebook world than people are in the real one.  The site is a time sink; a stalker's paradise and proof positive of everything I have believed and struggled from in the real social world.  There are a few people I'm glad to have answers about, but I still often wonder why I stay.

My sister has elected not to bother.  Aside from her usual lack of interest in technology, she flat out doesn't want to be found.  Given some of the scars she has, I can't blame her.

And that's why I'm not sure if or how to tell her about the latest "friends" I have acquired.  Or perhaps the better term is "been reunited with."

There weren't many kids living on the street of my childhood home.  At our youngest stages we'd ride bikes together and swim; we'd play games and sell lemonade; we'd sleep over at each other's houses and find diplomatic ways to decide who got on the bus first.  There were many times when my mom's friends and visits with their children pulled us away from the neighbourhood, but when those relationships shuffled the tribe on Jennifer Road remained.

And then we started to grow up.

The world changed somewhere in high school, as it does for many young friendships.  We had different personalities and different priorities.  Those that didn't fit the desired mold - usually my sister and I - were left out or forgotten.  I wish I could remember why she got reamed out by one of the mothers, but I know that was the final straw.  Nothing was the same from then on.

Naturally there is a bit of curiosity as to why somebody who stopped speaking to you a decade ago suddenly wants to peek into your life.  Is it out of genuinely wondering where you actually ended up, or is it solely to compare status?  Do they care if you're happy, or do they just want to know if they have a better job and cuter significant other?  Do they ever look back and remember when things were innocent and nice instead of the fact that somehow everything went wrong?  Do they even see the change?

I can hear my sister's reaction to the update.  She'd tell me she doesn't want to know anything.  She'd probably also ask why I would allow any link between me and ghosts some would say are better left in the past.  I guess the truth is that I don't see any reason to hide.  I'm not ashamed of who I am.  I'm not ashamed of what I have accomplished.  I'm not embarrassed by the things or the voids in my life.  I have come to the acceptance that I've become a reasonably decent human being.  Not perfect by any stretch, but apparently one of the good ones.  Nothing they could ever say to me would change that.

(I'm blown away that Google actually has a street view for my old neighbourhood. The even more surprising part was when it dropped me off looking right at my old house. They make the street look much more spread out than it really is, but wow.)

Captured At: 927

For a moment the conversation turned to people watching.  Five days before Christmas and a notable percentage of the crowd was wearing shorts as they shuffled past the stalls.  Although the air outside was slightly cool, the atmosphere immediately over our wrapping station had moments of being suffocating.  I could see sweat and signs of exhaustion on the faces of the others.  I suspected my appearance was similar, but the hours seemed to fly.  Truth was, when compared to anything else I could have done with the afternoon, this activity had been a much better endeavour.

And in terms of getting out of the apartment, it was a success.  In terms of doing something helpful and wrapping gifts, it was a success.  In terms of meeting the alternate objective, for me it was a failure.  I have a difficult enough time engaging strangers in conversations about the weather.  Telling them they should come to church?  Forget it.  But I can wrap boxes, so that's what I did.

Theoretically I shouldn't have even had to say a word.  They'd printed up a bunch of cards to fold around candy canes and give away.  Inside were the service times for Christmas Eve and other relevant information.  Outside was "The Candy Cane Story".  All I really had to do was make sure to give one to everybody with their finished packages.

But I couldn't do so in good conscience.  Not after I heard somebody reading the back of the card out loud.  It began simply enough, but after the first few sentences it seemed condemning and aggressive.  How did we get from a story about a confectionery conception to lust and Hell?  I could recognize the point it was trying to make, but wasn't there a better way?

Nobody else in the group had actually read this thing we were supposed to be handing out either, but they seemed to just accept it as part of the script.  I couldn't.  I knew that if somebody had given one of those to me I would have stopped reading half-way through. They would have lost me and there would be no second chance.  And if I would respond that way, was it really a stretch to believe others might also?  It represented a flavour of saving the world I had never thought well of; one I knew I had no interest to take part in.

So I focused on the presents as the time slid past.  Some people were thankful for the help.  Some were clearly bothered by the whole ordeal that is Christmas.  Some were chattier than others, and I would try to respond accordingly.  I met some who confronted me with a way of life I know I will never understand.  I realized it's far too easy to forget that not everybody walks the same road I do.  On the whole it was a good afternoon.

It was also good to remember that I enjoy giving my time when I have it, offering my hands to help with the work, and sending strangers off with kind words and a smile.  I do those things gladly.  Some things, though, I'm clearly not cut out for.  Or maybe I don't want to be.  Might be a good idea to figure that one out...

Captured At:2255

December 22, 2008

Signs of the Season

The phone call on Sunday morning immediately altered the plans for the day.  Word on the other end was that the first of the relatives had arrived safely.  Did we want to come hang out that afternoon to visit with them?

If I knew one thing and nothing else, it was that my sister's stress level was likely to blast through the roof.  Preparations for her own house guests would be heavily under way.   The kitchen would also be busy with dough making and filling the crock pot so there would be dinner after the baking and decorating concluded.  We elected to do cookies first and then go over.  Dinner would be abandoned.

Nothing says "Happy Holidays" like stress, family and baking, and the first was in full effect.  Creativity seemed to be in short supply as we donned our pastry bags, resulting in yet another year of frightening cookies.  So far we have all survived.  All except for GingerPhelps, that is.  (RIP, buddy.)



By the time we left that evening, we would know of the next change in plans.  My mother had been put on antibiotics and told not to travel for 24-48 hours.  Any hope of a Monday arrival evaporated, and with it went my sense of urgency. I cleaned a few things that didn't really need it, loading the trash can with components from computers past.  By evening I would be kneeling in the bathroom viciously scrubbing the inside of the tub with a purple toothbrush - a futile effort if ever there was one.

Perhaps the single redeeming element of today was my sojourn at the park.  The iPod filled my ears with music and flashed memories past my mind's eye.  They were all from a third person perspective, and rather than flowing like a video I would get a single frame, almost as if somebody had pushed the pause button.  Every scene was sketched in dark pencil on textured white paper.  Sometimes the drawing would still be in work as I pieced together the story it depicted.  The effect was very powerful.

As I walked past the dog park and looked at light displays sure to be counting down the minutes until they could shine once again, suddenly - going against what was actually coming through the earphones - I could hear Dave Matthews in my head singing, Remember we used to dance, and everyone wanted to be, you and me I want to be too, what day is this...  It was from "Stay or Leave", and the next line if the internal offering continued would be "besides the day you left."

I had to wonder what the significance of this was.  December 22nd...  December 22nd...  

December 22nd...2004, I left a battered apartment complex for points north.  I had no way of knowing at the time, but it would be the last Christmas I spent in New York.  It would mean a week on one of my grandparents' couches, specifically the one closest to the dining room with a view out the picture window.   The outlet next to it would become home to my cell phone, and for as long as I kept it after that the tone that had been my alarm for those days would always take me back to there.  I would remember the stillness at being the only person obviously awake as sunlight slowly crept through the windows.  I would remember the sunrise on Christmas Day.

That year we would wear silly hats:







We would watch the snow fall:



And we would fail at pretending we didn't hate the "picture frame" theme to the gag gift exchange:



I did the very best job I knew to enjoy my family and treasure the time I had with them.  The awareness in me to even attempt approaching life that way had sprung up as my undergraduate career came to a close.  That year I think I did alright, but the truth is that part of me still felt alone and misplaced.  I wanted to be home, but home was a feeling I couldn't locate anywhere around me.  As always, Christmas carried with it an emptiness and a longing that could not be satisfied.

As I write all of this down tonight I find disbelief that I'm talking about five Christmases ago.  I can find next to nothing in the three that followed which stands out to me in any significant way.  I can't be sure if that's due to the change in venue or yet another sign of how many days have slipped through my fingers.  It's an extremely depressing thought; one that carries only a sense of loss and failure.

But this is me we're talking about and these emotions are nothing new.  It wouldn't quite be my version of the holiday season without them.

Captured At:2205

Christmas Eve

When entering through the garage door one might think they had arrived in the kitchen, but the appearance of cabinets and appliances was deceiving.  A few steps in and a rightward glance revealed that the dark marbled countertop was actually an island providing a functional boundary between the kitchen and living space.  The family room boasted some of the latest changes to an ever-evolving house.  Boxy tan sofas had taken the place of the puffy, well-worn, sage green seating that had occupied the space for at least a decade.  Other assorted chairs filled the area to accommodate the influx of people.

One black leather chair in particular found a very familiar occupant.  Bets in the family no longer asked if the pairing would occur, but rather when or how long it would take before the nap began.  Drowsiness seemed the Pavlovian response to leaning back and propping feet up on the matching stool.

Relatives shuffled through and within the house.  Tables underwent the setting procedure, grills were tended to, and the last of the guests had arrived.  The congregation joined the family room's sleeping occupant.  She had drifted off with her arms raised above her head, feet crossed as they rested on the stool, and a glass of water balanced haphazardly on her thighs.  They chatted around her, unaware that she had become conscious behind closed lids.

When they got up to resume cooking she remained.  Their voices added to Christmas music coming from the large plasma television mounted to the wall, but the song was all that resonated.  Faking sleep was easier than fielding questions she knew she couldn't answer about what was wrong.  She could mentally jump back to the scene in a college boyfriend's living room as they watched its host movie on a night in, and she recalled how even then she had been struck in an unexpected way.

Once the blackness of closed eyes disappeared she observed the scene in the kitchen.  Her sister tended to a large pot of pasta as her father mixed Alfredo sauce on a burner beside it.  Her aunt moved in and out of the lineup adding dishes to what would become the buffet.   Her brother and uncle tended to the grill's contribution by cutting chicken and sliding shrimp off skewers.  Some focused quietly on their jobs, others bounced around and chatted.

She drank in the entire scene unsure why she felt the need to commit it all to memory.  Perhaps because, at a time when she realized she had a tenuous grasp on Christmas, the most important parts of it were playing out right in front of her.  The togetherness and high spirits were impossible to overlook.

When dinner was declared ready she waited for the others to serve themselves.  It didn't seem right jump in first when she'd had no part in preparing the meal they were about to eat.  There was no saying grace, just a simple toast of thanks for all who had gathered.  Hers was the sole splash of water in a sea of champagne as the glasses clinked and everybody joyfully offered up their version of "cheers".

As others did the dishes she helped sort and stack the presents.  The family room filled once again, each person taking their turn to complete whatever pile rested in front of them.  Opening presents - the highlight for many - had become one of her least favorite activities over the years.  She hated buying gifts she wasn't sure people would like, and she hated having to pretend she was excited about whatever gifts she received.  She took the job of paper collector to at least be involved in this portion of tradition.  Having a defined role somehow made it all easier.

She watched nervously as her grandfather began parting Styrofoam peanuts in the box of items she had complied for him and her grandmother.  She predicted a strikeout, oblivious at first to what would be her biggest success of the evening.  The one item being a win should have been clear in the way the small blue album was immediately passed around the room for everybody to see.  Gifts seldom received that sort of group inspection.  

She then learned her grandfather had believed his 50th anniversary had passed with nothing to remember the occasion by.  The genuine smile on his face when he discovered the pictures of the event she had assembled spoke louder than his words of appreciation ever could.

Perhaps part of the reason I lose Christmas so easily is because the true spirit is often drowned out by carols, thrown in shadow by fields of lights and plastered over with advertisements.  I consider the idealistic image of the original Christmas night - clear, quiet, humbling.  The world's greatest gift first welcomed not by the wealthy but by the simple.  His advertisement placed across the Earth was without fanfare; visible to all but understood only by those with eyes to see.

So it went this Christmas Eve.  The simplest item in any of the boxes - a composition of paper and ink with the occasional gluey fingerprint - reached deeper than its more elaborate cousins, and for a few moments the care that went into its construction found new residence in a pair of old blue eyes.  The sharing of time I observed that night meant more to me than any of the money expended for my benefit.  I doubt they'll ever know.  

I see it as another reminder of who we should take our lead from.  When we give freely of ourselves, and when we do so with pure and genuine hearts, we unlock the power to change the world.  In the end it all comes down to love.  And that's what Christmas is really about.

Captured At:2359

December 31, 2008

The Last Sunset

When I got back up the stairs from saying my good-byes I flopped on the couch and looked around my freshly empty apartment.  "It doesn't matter who leaves.  I always see the same car driving away, and I know it's the one car that's never coming back.  That's why I don't watch the cars go anymore."  I wasn't sure for whose benefit I spoke, but the truth hung there just the same - small, sad, real.

I forced myself to motion, left the apartment, and came back after abandoning the majority of my errands.  It seemed far too beautiful outside to waste the time indoors on burdensome tasks.  The beach was calling me and I had one final opportunity to spend time with him before the year came to its close.  Low tide would be around 330p, perfect for walking.

In the time that passed I allowed myself to become lost in my own words.  I started at the beginning and worked myself through half a decade of my life.  The youth in the early days was apparent, but even then I could see something more to the author.  She had her wisdom and her battles, and it was clear she ached for something her words never conveyed.  I watched her style evolve and marveled at the desires she expressed that my vantage point from the future knew would find some level of fulfillment.  I observed things she said and did and expressed that I never knew had dates so far in the past.  She had always been alive.

I left for the beach late, closer to 4.  I had redressed in a light blue t-shirt, some thin outdoor pants whose legs I could roll up, and the customary thin charcoal jacket.  With earphones engaged and flip flops abandoned I began a walk I hadn't made in months.  I didn't even know the last time I had gone.  An entire year had run away from me.

I admired the colors brought about by a sun in decline as I plodded across the hard sand.  I became lost in the greens and purples of the water, as well as a red-gold highlight spread across the sand that resembled the one my hair gets under similar conditions.  There wasn't a cloud to be seen, just a deepening spectrum across the eastern sky.

The story that wrote itself as I walked wasn't mine, but it wasn't not mine either.  The characters were familiar and foreign.  I saw the details of their interaction pan out before me as if I was standing in their world at that exact moment.  I heard every word running through their heads.  I felt their struggle as if it were my own, and then realized it was my own.  If they could find resolution in their world, perhaps there was some chance I could one day have it in mine.

But the damage had already been done.  Instead of retreating up the stairs I stayed by the water and watched the stars come out.  Orion slowly revealed himself in the east while the moon's smile over my shoulder grew brighter in the twilight.  I looked into a sky I had always known and felt the same loss and emptiness and longing that had existed for as long as I could remember.  I apologized as I told the moon he just wasn't enough anymore.  I cried out mentally asking the same "why's" that never received a concrete answer.  I stood alone in a growing blackness, chest tight and cheeks damp wondering why such incredible pain had to be an undercurrent in my life.  How long could one really fight?

Slowly the internal compression eased up.  My breaths became calmer and I stood there just shaking my head.  Then, once again over the music being fed to my ears, I heard the words to another song echo through me.  But only one line ever played: He dances in the tide.

I had always believed that the Frenchman was dancing as the tide came in, but tonight I pictured him alone, ankle-deep in water just as I was, spinning beneath the stars.  Yes, he was literally dancing in the tide.  I found myself moved to follow the example, slowly at first with little motions that wouldn't have drawn any attention.   With each tiny rhythmless step I let go a bit more.  The distances I traversed became larger, the movements held more purpose, and the tide continued to surge up around me.  I discovered I was smiling, laughing as I splashed and spun without weight or care.  It was free and beautiful, and in that moment I knew without question that I was too. 

As the song iterating from the iPod reached its final notes I turned toward the stairs to go home.  I didn't know what had come over me and I knew it wouldn't have any permanence to it, but I was grateful for it.  I needed that reminder of who I was.  I needed to remember that the intensity of emotion I felt on the negative side of the equation was actually perfectly balanced. 

Anybody who can walk through the sunset in awe of every step, who will wait until the stars run out of spaces to hide, and who can dance in the warm ocean under a smiling moon has to have something amazing inside of them.  It meant my world would always be a different place than for most, and because of that they would never quite understand.  That disconnect is where the incredible pain would always come from.  But to understand that world, to see it as I did, revealed that unfathomable joy and freedom and love were just as present.

I believe there has to be somebody out there who recognizes that.  Somebody who won't stand back and watch, but who will smile with their eyes as they step into the water with me.  And then neither one of us will ever have to dance in the tide alone again.

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