I know something you don't know...

I was pretty young the first time that I smelled my bellybutton fuzz. I don't know what possessed me to do so. I shouldn't say possessed; that makes this deed sound almost demonic, or if anything, just wrong. But I don't think it was wrong. I have always been curious about a lot of things. And this is one that I rarely confess to others. It's not even that I often think of this instance (or multiple instances as, and I will shamelessly admit, I have more than once checked out the scent of what gathers in those tight folds at my core) and decide not to tell others. It's really not like that at all. To me, it's just not a really big deal. I thought everyone did it. I was certain that everyone knew what their bellybutton fuzz smelled like. I thought this was just another childhood discovery for everyone who was ever aged 6-12, (i.e. everyone).

Notice the past tense. This was what I thought. Until it came up in conversation the other day that I never really liked the idea that stuff gathered there, and I especially didn't like that it was stinky. The reaction of others was far from agreement, not near what I was expecting, like, "Oh I know! Isn't it gross?" or "Why does fuzz gather there?" or "Why does it have to be stinky?". (Oh, it is stinky, if you at this point still have not dug your finger into your own unique crevice in your belly and taken a good whiff of what you can pluck out. Or maybe it isn't. Maybe it doesn't stink for everyone.) By stinky, I want you to imagine the smell of a wet pool towel that is thrown into the trunk of the car after a lazy summer day of swimming and is neglected for at least a month, but possibly a good part into the school year. You know, just another one of those deeds that makes every teenager appear "unorganized" and just plain "gross". But that is a digression. Bellybutton fuzz smells like mildew.

I thought it was normal that I knew this. But I should never overestimate the understanding nature of my close friends. It's not that I never considered this childhood discovery laughable. It is a little ridiculous, I know. But I never thought that I would be the center of laughter on this subject instead of my past childish curiosity, not to mention the topic of bellybuttons. They are just weird in themselves, ok? Why not just stick to this topic, rest content in laughing about bellybuttons. It is what holds your laughing belly together, anyway. You are laughing about the place from which the laugh is coming! Isn't that FUNNY? Hahaha! Just keep laughing. Haha! I want to laugh just thinking about it.

I am not ashamed, however. Far from it, actually. (That's why I'm posting this anecdote on my blog, which is a wide and open page for all who surf the net.) Know what your crevices hold, my friends. Embrace the dig, pull out the lint, sniff, and laugh. But, just in case you are yet to learn this important lesson, do it alone, and don't tell your friends.

Over the river and through the woods

I'll make it short, I'll make it sweet.

'Twas last night on a not-too-terribly-late drive home, when I was still pretty awake and capable of not only an awareness of my surroundings, but also an appreciation. It snowed here in Asheville last weekend (a week ago tonight, to be exact) and a hell of a storm it was. No matter how far in advance this city gets a warning, we are never prepared when the storm actually hits. It's sweet really, how freaked out mountain folks become in a blizzard, how we don't even attempt to plow the roads sometimes. I like to think that this task is purposefully neglected though, for the allowance of the magical moment that may only come two or three times a year of waking up after a wild snow, looking out across the lawn and not being able to spot where the yard ends and the road begins. So after a few days of recovering from this (unnecessary) shock that is snow, we began driving safely on roads again a few days back. The snow is still here though, maybe no longer on the roads, but teen degrees does not allow for the disappearance of four inches of pure white bliss anytime soon. Which is great, because snow is just that: purifying, refreshing, and memory-evoking.

Unless your childhood was spent in a snowless place, where tropics ruled over seasons (and for you, I am heartily sorry), a good snow will most likely always lead to memories of snowy days years ago. Christmastime is definitely always blanketed in snow in my mind, even if there was snow on Christmas only two or three times in Cincinnati. But the stories we know of winter, the films we watched, and the books we read all only help to magnify this snowy magic, and although summer was wonderful, it is the snowy memories that will rule my childhood stories now and for years to come.

I have the pleasure, the blessing, the advantage of living in an city with a breath-taking landscape, and even more so when it is covered in snow. While driving home from a merry time with new friends, I passed one of these landscapes to my right, one that was naturally lit enough that I could make out the shapes and shadows of the snow on this wooded hill. Without even wanting it, without desiring a blog-worthy moment, childhood memories began flooding my mind. Literally, flooding. Tears from the flood welled in my eyes, my (already running, courtesy of those freezing temps) nose began leaking a little bit more, and the preciousness of my own self as a small child with wild dreams and desires and the memories of overwhelmingly wonderful blessings I had then, but did not appreciate as such, were just too much for my vulnerable emotions last night. Looking into that snowy patch of woods reminded me of one simple desire for a magical moment, one that was never fulfilled.

Really, it was so simple. My infatuation with the snow and the romance it allowed for cultivated these wild desires in my heart to take full advantage of the snow, the way Lydia Maria Child did. Yes, I wanted to arrive at grandmother's house on a sleigh, for the horse would know the way to carry the sleigh... and you know the rest. I never understood why it wasn't possible. The risk of freezing in the what probably would have been 3 hour sleigh ride (and that's with Super Saver leading the way) never dawned on me. I just wanted to ride on a horse through the woods to get to Grandma's. Maybe there weren't even woods to ride through, I don't know. Perhaps there wouldn't have been white and drifted snow on that Thanksgiving Day. But I was sure that it could happen.

My dream was never realized, though. It actually didn't snow that much in south-western Ohio. Six would have been a tight squeeze, and we definitely didn't have access to a sleigh. Nor a horse, for that matter. The interstate seemed a much more comfortable (and safer) route, and the terrain was not too woodsy but mostly plains anyway. The magic that I craved in my childhood was never discovered, and at that age it was quite a disappointment. What I never appreciated though, what as a child seemed just like life and nothing all that special at all because I didn't get to ride a sleigh in the snow to get to Grandma's, what I never saw was that childhood was magic. A magic that, with an intense imagination, lightheartedness and many other childlike attributes we adults pine for, has vanished from my present life. It was magical to have time to sit and read Child's poem, over and over and over again. Magic was time to daydream. Magic was having a grandmother's house to which imagine taking a sleigh ride, grandparents with whom to celebrate the holiday. All of this is now gone, replaced with reality and voids, wisdom and memories. Magic because all of these things seem unreal, like a dream, or something from a long time ago in a far away land. When really, that magic was reality.

Oh, to be a child. How fleeting, how sparse were these precious moments.

A coffee mug saga

I am big on details.

Every morning is (practically) the same story. Wake up, really wake up, roll out of bed and out the door, walk into the kitchen, make coffee. I have to stop there. Because post coffee-making is where the dilemma begins. If you're like me, there is no nonchalance when it comes to the presenting of my cup of coffee. It isn't just a cup of coffee, you see. It's the first substance I'll put in my body today, it's what will determine the difference between readiness to take on the day with great fortitude and a downright pouty demeanor because I missed my morning treat. (Am I alone in this? Please tell me I'm not alone in this.) And the vessel it comes in has as much of an effect on my day as the 200+ mg's of caffeine (not to mention the mouth-drying bitterness) pumping in my blood. So, yeah, everything up to watching the coffee brew is simple compared to the next decision. You see, I can be ready at any minute of the morning to start sipping my coffee. It's what gets me out of bed in the morning, thinking about sitting with a warm mug in hand at the kitchen table, looking across the yard to the park, taking in the Pisgah National Forest mountain range that is ever-so-clear from my seat here at this table. Knowing the significance of what each morning holds, how can I not give so much care and attention to my coffee intake?

Some mornings are more difficult than others, however. You see, after pressing the big black "START" button on the Cuisinart, I (subconsciously) avoid what comes next. I turn away and walk out of the kitchen, determined to become preoccupied with another task so as not to have the next daunting decision hanging over my head as an oversized interrogation point. But this really only tends to worsen the situation. My insides know the sound of brewing coffee, and like a Pavlov dog I crave what that sound means before the aroma fills the house. And then when the coffee is ready, I am not. Because I haven't chosen my mug. I cannot just blindly grab one off of the shelf. I have to ask myself, "How am feeling today?" and, "Do I need to feel texture on my fingertips as I sip?" or, "Am I feeling overzealous enough to take on the 20 ounce cup? Or should I not give my hands too much to handle?" Usually after about 30 seconds of working through my needs, emotions, determination, and everything else that factors into this integral part of my day, I can pluck a mug hanging from the wall (almost) fully satisfied, hoping with crossed fingers that I've made the right choice for myself. But what made this mornings decision all the more elongated was this; my roommate has been decorating for Christmas you see, and unbeknownst to me she threw up some snowman mugs where once hung the everyday ones. I had to step back. Where did these come from? Oh, my coffee can't go in that! That's for Christmas, not coffee. How could she do this? She uses the same mug everyday without getting in touch with her inner self and asking how she needs to take her coffee that day. It is so easy for her. Dang it, what do I do?

I cool my jets, that's what. I get over myself, pick up one of the new mugs, grab the pot, and pour. Sometimes the comfort zone that I have created for myself weirds me out, so I'm sure others are even more baffled. But I just wasn't ready to be in the Christmas spirit, okay? I guess that from time to time I just have to be a pushover for myself. Or am I a pushover for Frosty? Yes, that sounds more like it.

Code of grey

God never says, "No." He says, "Yes", "Not yet", or, "I have something better planned." We can always ask God for patience, but without believing that He will bless us with this gift, if we doubt that we will receive wisdom, it'll never come.

Saturday, some friends and I planned all day to watch the sunset from Craggy Gardens, a spot that in the past has always proven promising for an awe-inspiring view at this time of day. As we neared the end of our 18-mile trek up the Blue Ridge Parkway, things were looking pretty good. The skyline was clear, the mountains rested in a shadow of blue, goose bumps rose on forearms as the chill set it. We rolled up the windows, pulled sweaters over heads, tucked hands under blood-warm upper legs, and anticipated the arrival. We were hopeful. Maybe a little too hopeful. At least I was. It had been months (8 to be exact) since I had last visited this spectacular spot. Never did I think that too low-lying clouds would veil our view. Craggy does sits at an elevation of 5,500 feet however, and there had been plenty of rainfall the previous few days, so we probably shouldn't have held too high of expectations. For when we approached the final mile of the climb, the grey was encroaching upon us.

“Dang,” I thought, “What a waste of gas.” We drove an hour plus to arrive at one of the best lookouts in the Asheville area, and all that I would bring back were photos of an unwelcome fog. This whole trip was my idea as well. Man.

We continued up the mountain though, determined that this anomaly (or maybe it’s not much of one?) would not obscure the scenery. Even into the hike up to the Gardens though, the air continued to dampen, visibility decreased, and the aspiration of enjoying a gorgeous sunset sunk in my heart like a rock in the river at the end of it’s skip, gliding along with confidence before it hits unbeatable resistance. As I mounted the top of the trail, I couldn’t get over the bummer. An effort that seemed completely in vain.

Deciding to at least enjoy the beauty of the mountainside before descending with an epic failure, I climbed down to a lower lookout where I found myself alone. Yes, I was in solitude, but even if I hadn’t been the only one standing at this point, one can feel pretty isolated when enveloped by a grey cloud. I looked in the direction of what should have revealed a wondrous mountain range, literally as far as the eye could see, but the only view I was glimpsing was a foggy lens in my Rebel.

As I sat on the brick wall surrounded by a cool mist, elbows on knees, chin resting on fists, sulking in my own pot of pity, a sickening but enlightening thought struck hard: how lacking was my faithfulness. Seriously, Teres? You are giving up all hope of seeing God’s majesty because He’s placed a few clouds in your way? If He’s placed them there, He can take them away just as easily. At that moment I was reminded of something God had recently been working my heart into twists about- patience. Virtuous patience. I smiled at my foolishness. It was one of those “duh” moments. Just be faithful, I told myself. “Wait, child. Hold your horses,” God was telling me.

I did, and it paid off. Not one minute after coming to the realization that God was giving me this time to show me his fidelity, the fog was clearing. All my senses were enlivened in that moment of healthy vasoconstriction; I felt the clouds whip through my hairs, between my fingers, across the nape of my neck underneath my braid, bouncing off my tongue, drying my mouth. I heard whistling in my ears, a soothing whisper from my Father, and inhaled the damp, cool disappearing haze. 


I know God. You told me so.

How rewarding is a view when it is first hidden then revealed. How breathless one becomes at this divine revelation. How great is our faithfulness.

Just say "No"

Liberation from the ties of a very big world is sometimes hard to come by. How often are we really able to escape EVERYTHING that's necessary to submit to? Studying, a work schedule, Facebook, and always giving out our name (Really, count how many times you give this information on a normal day)? Or even waking up in the morning, when we have to say "yes" to a new day? Yes to paying the cable bill, yes to reading the newspaper, yes to a godawful babysitting job, yes to a beach date even though I was just there the day before, yes to living life the way that I'm expected to, making my own money, paying my own rent, using my own phone line, drinking my own soy milk, sweeping my own porch? Yes to speed limits, prices, the time, time zones, the color of a pencil? For all of these, we cannot choose our own.

I don't realize my innate desire to scream "No!" just every so often until I'm given the chance to. It's when I am able to finally make a choice of my own that I realize how many yeses I give in one day alone. It happened just the other day when I turned on my GPS in an unfamiliar city, plugged in my address, and began to follow the given directions. But before I arrived at my exit, I got all curious about what else lie off the highway. So I turned early, and Jill wasn't happy. Watching her "recalculate" made me giggle, which made me wonder if I was okay. I was laughing at a GPS for pete's sake. Why was this so much fun? Why did I all of a sudden have the cruel intention of continually pissing off the Garmin? Because it was so easy to say "no".

I continued to create my own route, not oblivious to where Jill was directing me to turn around, but absolutely aware of where I was wanted and diligent about not allowing her the satisfaction of leading me home. At least not for the moment. And so it went, me in control behind the wheel, scoffing the GPS that was only trying to help. I didn't know until after it cracked, but a genuine, only-found-on-this-face-with-true-happiness-present smile (teeth and all!) had taken over my face. It was the simplest (and silliest) way to say "no" without offending, shocking, confusing, or otherwise giving anyone the discomfort that would have come about had I said "no" to, say, that girl in the stall next to me who reached under and asked so nicely for a wad of T.P.

If you don't own a GPS, I really don't know what to tell you. Use a compass? Most people of this century (well, not of because technically I am not, but living in this century) do have one, however. I highly recommend this therapeutic de-stresser the next time you find yourself tightly bound to this earth. Because really, who follows the speed limit anyway? Haven't you ever heard of bargaining for a better price, your willingness to pay? Find a broken watch- you'll never have the right time except twice a day, but you'll never know what those two times are if you use no other clock. Or just don't look at one. You can always travel a few hours (in my case west) and change your time zone. And pencils come in all colors now, so you can choose your color. Don't listen to what I said earlier.

So go on. Cut your ties. Say no. Elevate yourself.

Note: I realize that my helpful suggestion may act contrary to what I claimed in my last post, but please know that I am sharing an experience, and I think that you might find it just as rewarding.

Life 101

What is it about life events that make us feel like we are still beginners? After 22 years of speaking English, attending Sunday mass, singing with confidence, reading history books and math books and biology and geography and physiology books, and then writing and writing, seeing new places and unfamiliar people and forcing myself out of my comfort zone to befriend them for my own benefit, seeing my parents every single day for so many of those years and then just every so often for the past 4, and trying to decide where I fit and where God sees me and comparing that to what I want, you'd think I'd have a pretty steady grasp on how to deal with the unknown. But no matter how hard we try to plan or set ourselves into a mode or a place or a feeling, such as happiness, events that are beyond our control can alter what we thought was happening and going to happen, in a matter of (for me at least) just a few minutes, leaving us feeling irksome in place of our previous contentment, and again, for the four-hundredth time, facing the realm of the unfamiliar.

In my past 22 years of life, I've flown across the Western hemisphere and seen plenty of new places, bought lots of new things, learned a new language in a new school living in a new home with a new mom, created new opinions, attended a new church, and lived in a number of new houses with new roommates, and bought a new, not so easy to use camera and completely refocused my perspective of everything. I've found a new home that I'm soon leaving, a place that I love dearly but am widely trying to escape. I know that there are are always bigger and better opportunities, but I have to decide the largeness and goodness myself; the perspective is my decision. Yes, yes, it is all about the attitude.

Maybe more insignificantly, I've used new laundry detergent, tried a "NEW!" Clif bar (and liked it), purchased new, more expensive stamps, found a new fruit at a new stand at the farmer's market, and taken a new route home. No, these are not insignificant, but only less significant. That's not the same thing, is it?

Change is scary, nerve-wracking, stressful, questionable, and just plain uncomfortable. But if you think I'm racking up the challenges I've faced in new situations with new people and a different taste in my mouth just to say that my life has been full of change that has scared me and merits some sort of approval, or that I'm saying life is full of the unexpected so be careful, or "Try everything new! Embrace your fears by facing them!", you are dead wrong. I try my best not to be too self-centered, I don't offer anything "self help" and I am not inspirational or motivational in the least, and it would be hypocritical of me to tell the reader to get over their fear, for I am not far from deathly afraid of all things water, and I will never SCUBA dive unless involuntarily nailed to the sea floor.

No, this post isn't meant to serve as a life lesson, despite the title. Because my experiences serve only me in my 101 course; this isn't your text, but my essay. There should be no pointing fingers are bragging about passing the intro class, because for one thing I am not to be ridiculed, but secondly, I am unconvinced. Unless you have predicted every outcome in your life thus far (boring), tasted all the fruits of the earth (bland), overcome the struggle of deciding right from wrong (unfaithful), and mastered goodbyes (heartless), please humble yourself. I'll humble myself- I cannot do any of the above. If there is someone out there who can, maybe I've read the wrong user's manual on life. No thanks, though. I'll stick to exploring the vastness of the earth. Above all fears, the unknown serves to excite me. I will take my chances.

The Charleston Beat

An era ended today. The next chapter of life was forced upon me.  The rhythm has changed to an inconsistent beat, one that at the moment is slow and somber, but still rings with the great possibility of change that will come at an unpredictable time.

It's not that I was completely taken aback when the last batch of the 43A Girls left Charleston today. I knew this day was coming-I've known it would come since the moment I started college, and was even more aware when our last year together began back in August. It's been especially looming this past semester,  emotion-stirring since mid-February (because St. Valentine's Day gets the best of us), and dreaded since the calendar struck the 1st of May, the beginning of the month that has taken away my loves.

This morning was spent packing away the last pieces of the house which at one point (not too long ago at all) were part of a conglomeration of 3 other women's light fixtures, dishes, bed frames, coat hangers, bicycles and a few knickknacks that independently help little meaning, but when stuffed together in the same 1 story, 4 bedroom apartment 3 years ago made their house a home. But much more importantly than the things inside, the women who inhabited their precious, chic and quintessential college apartment made their home into one that undoubtably no past resident had even seriously considered creating. Maybe that's me being biased, but other friends, and even just acquaintances, of these women can attest to their unaltered hospitality, warm generosity, and devoted friendship to many in their community, but especially to one another. Their home was a place of gathering comfortably, because that's the only way the 5 wanted it.

For me, 43A will be more of a home than any other dwelling I've occupied here in Charleston. That's because for the past 3 years it's been a gathering post, a sports arena, a pit stop, a restaurant, a book club (ahem, excuse me, literary society), a movie theatre, or simply a refuge when I needed a breath of fresh air. And most recently, a wailing wall.

Charleston now has a missing piece. But remember, Shel tells us that we can't be completely full all the time. On the contrary, as much as we have searched so long for whatever our piece is that we need in order to roll smoothly and contently, sometimes it's best to let it go and move along in search of what's to come next, whatever that may be. And so it is, and so I did. After shoving the last box-o-shoes between the rarely used tennis racket and well-rusted beach chair, shutting trunks, locking doors, and shedding tears of goodbye forever to the house (but only "toodle-oo" to friends), I waved the Girls farewell into their cars and down the street as they pulled away from 43A for the last time. Even as they curved around the street I continued to wave, unable to accept the looming slowing rhythm, but the Girls didn't see. I reluctantly turned on my heels away from them and the house, which is now simply a house and no longer a home. Strolling back down the street towards my own home, hands in pockets and still quite dewey-eyed, I left a piece of me and rolled along, lightened by a now missing piece, but largely heavy hearted.

Charleston's taught us all much about one-way streets, but never before today was the lesson made a metaphor for the direction of life. As I took my last walk home the two blocks from 43A to 68B, I never turned back but moved only in the arrow's suggested direction.