Day 27. The friendliest person you knew for only one day
Dear orientation leader,
It took a while to realize that you didn't really like us. That it was your job to be friendly & make us feel welcome, which is nice don't get me wrong. I needed that. I was 18 & alone. I'd purposely gone to a school where I didn't know anyone. I'm not good in crowds of (more than five) people. I clam up. Your kindness opened me up. A bit.
I still didn't like the "ice breakers." All those games we played to remember each others' names. I forgot the names, & most of the people, within a few days. It's funny how much you can love & need people in proximity–then they're gone & we let ourselves forget. We would pass each other on the street & pretend not to notice each other, not to see each other. I'm not saying this because I thought you did a bad job. You gave us your all. You just got dealt a bad hand. We were an odd group.
I was new to Facebook at the time, hadn't even heard of it before I arrived on Ball State's campus. I didn't yet understand the guilt that came with friend requests–how people quickly realize (if they're the stalking type) that you've un-friended or denied them. So I'm sorry that I did that to you, made you add me I mean. I knew when I saw your Facebook picture (a rather tight leather-ish outfit, you in a bar) that I would never be someone you considered a friend. I was okay with that, but you were boosting my friend numbers, and that seemed important enough for me to keep you for a while.
Thanks for being really kind to us. I know it's hard to smile for that many hours in a row when you're around people you don't know, wearing a bright red shirt so that everyone knows you're a leader. You handled it well, & I know that people were jealous of us because we obviously had the COOL group leader–the one in the know about parties & where to hang out & what campus life & what dangers we were really putting ourselves in.
Hope you're doing well,
Megan
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Showing posts with label 30 days. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 30 days. Show all posts
day 26, to the one that got your last pinky promise
Day 26. The last person you made a pinky promise to
Girl Scout Troop 78,
There were lots of promises made & broken in that last year–lots of friendships shifting & alliances cracking. I know a lot of the girls started to hate me. I know I pretended to hate them, too. I know we were all trying to be cool & dissatisfied with "the way the troop was developing." I know we all wanted to stop wearing those green vests before people at school found out & labeled us as something Uncool.
Screw that. We blew it.
If on the bus, instead of insisting that we all quit together in a last act of defiance, you had asked me to stay a part of it forever, I would have done it. It's a promise, made with both pinkies, that I would have been glad to keep. And when they started to make fun of us, we would just say, "Yeah? Well when's the last time you Macgyvered a Thanksgiving craft out of stuff you found while walking through a woods?"
Or better yet, "When's the last time you did something NICE for someone?"
My mom still decorates with the crafts we made–the snowman from a Pringles can, the pumpkin from a dryer's accordion-like hose. I still remember the chant as we dropped our money into the coffee tin each week. I still remember the feeling of getting out of the car at night & walking down the bank's stairs to our meeting room, the embarrassment at being the first one to arrive.
I still want to be a girl scout troop leader, if I ever have girls. I want them to cook grilled pizza sandwiches over fires & put pie filling between two slices of white bread & roast it until it's oozing & cook things in aluminum foil dutch ovens & help old people.
To remember those we've made & forgive the ones we broke, I pinky promise to remember the good times & pass them on. To leave a place cleaner than I found it. To live by the Girl Scout law. To buy cookies every year. To not judge my daughter when she wants to sell enough cookies to win the highest prize.
I miss you,
Megan
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Girl Scout Troop 78,
There were lots of promises made & broken in that last year–lots of friendships shifting & alliances cracking. I know a lot of the girls started to hate me. I know I pretended to hate them, too. I know we were all trying to be cool & dissatisfied with "the way the troop was developing." I know we all wanted to stop wearing those green vests before people at school found out & labeled us as something Uncool.
Screw that. We blew it.
If on the bus, instead of insisting that we all quit together in a last act of defiance, you had asked me to stay a part of it forever, I would have done it. It's a promise, made with both pinkies, that I would have been glad to keep. And when they started to make fun of us, we would just say, "Yeah? Well when's the last time you Macgyvered a Thanksgiving craft out of stuff you found while walking through a woods?"
Or better yet, "When's the last time you did something NICE for someone?"
My mom still decorates with the crafts we made–the snowman from a Pringles can, the pumpkin from a dryer's accordion-like hose. I still remember the chant as we dropped our money into the coffee tin each week. I still remember the feeling of getting out of the car at night & walking down the bank's stairs to our meeting room, the embarrassment at being the first one to arrive.
I still want to be a girl scout troop leader, if I ever have girls. I want them to cook grilled pizza sandwiches over fires & put pie filling between two slices of white bread & roast it until it's oozing & cook things in aluminum foil dutch ovens & help old people.
To remember those we've made & forgive the ones we broke, I pinky promise to remember the good times & pass them on. To leave a place cleaner than I found it. To live by the Girl Scout law. To buy cookies every year. To not judge my daughter when she wants to sell enough cookies to win the highest prize.
I miss you,
Megan
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day 25, to the one having a hard time
Day 25. The person you know that is going through the worst of times
A Valentine for my family.
Somehow through all of this, you've been the one comforting me for not being there. That just doesn't seem right. I'm sending as much comfort & love as I can to the States–I got a great deal on the shipping!
I love you, & I can't wait to see you in a few months. You're all wonderful, truly amazing people. I'm really proud of all of you.
Love,
Meg
P.S. Can we watch all of Mad Men Season 4 when I get home?
day 24, to your favorite memory-maker
Day 24. The person that gave you your favorite memory
Chlo-bug,
Remember that time, before we went to California, when I tried to push your bike as fast as it would go and then it sort of, well, flipped over? I'm sorry about that huge scab on your lip. I'm not sorry that you then picked it off while you were eating Mickey Mouse-shaped pancakes at Disneyland. That was awesome.
Remember that time I accidentally hit you in the face with the hose, because I was trying to sprinkle you with the water stuck inside? I'm really, really sorry. Truly. But the toy I got with my Taco Bell kids' meal after we got your stitches was pretty awesome–the dog-shaped thing full of stickers. I put the stickers all over my "I'm really sorry" card for you, and I wasn't even sad that I'd used up most of my stickers. That's how much I love you.
Remember that time we started REALLY collecting stickers? Yours filled up an old box of Christmas cards, but then you got afraid to use them 'cause you didn't want them to go away. Like your Valentine's Day candy that lasts until Easter... and then your Easter candy that we find hidden away at Christmas.
My favorite memories are all with you–even if they're memories of me kicking you out of our room when I was trying to do cool makeovers with my older friends and you were younger and I thought you weren't cool.
I was wrong. You're really cool. Makeovers were always cooler when we did them together. I have far too many pictures of us doing monster faces in green facial masks. Sleepovers were always cooler with you, when we would even pack our bags and pretend to stay the night at each other's house.
Even before you were born, you gave me great memories, like how I tried to take care of a baby doll to get practice being a good sister. She sat at the table with us. She slept in your crib. She cried less than you, but I got really bored with her. I don't get bored with you.
I keep thinking about how cool our memories will be now–when we can drive to see each other, go see rated-R movies (in less than a YEAR), have parties together & have even MORE things in common. You're the thing that matters most to me, & I look forward to all the memories we'll make in just a few months now.
Love you,
Meg
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Remember that time, before we went to California, when I tried to push your bike as fast as it would go and then it sort of, well, flipped over? I'm sorry about that huge scab on your lip. I'm not sorry that you then picked it off while you were eating Mickey Mouse-shaped pancakes at Disneyland. That was awesome.
Remember that time I accidentally hit you in the face with the hose, because I was trying to sprinkle you with the water stuck inside? I'm really, really sorry. Truly. But the toy I got with my Taco Bell kids' meal after we got your stitches was pretty awesome–the dog-shaped thing full of stickers. I put the stickers all over my "I'm really sorry" card for you, and I wasn't even sad that I'd used up most of my stickers. That's how much I love you.
Remember that time we started REALLY collecting stickers? Yours filled up an old box of Christmas cards, but then you got afraid to use them 'cause you didn't want them to go away. Like your Valentine's Day candy that lasts until Easter... and then your Easter candy that we find hidden away at Christmas.
My favorite memories are all with you–even if they're memories of me kicking you out of our room when I was trying to do cool makeovers with my older friends and you were younger and I thought you weren't cool.
I was wrong. You're really cool. Makeovers were always cooler when we did them together. I have far too many pictures of us doing monster faces in green facial masks. Sleepovers were always cooler with you, when we would even pack our bags and pretend to stay the night at each other's house.
Even before you were born, you gave me great memories, like how I tried to take care of a baby doll to get practice being a good sister. She sat at the table with us. She slept in your crib. She cried less than you, but I got really bored with her. I don't get bored with you.
I keep thinking about how cool our memories will be now–when we can drive to see each other, go see rated-R movies (in less than a YEAR), have parties together & have even MORE things in common. You're the thing that matters most to me, & I look forward to all the memories we'll make in just a few months now.
Love you,
Meg
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day 23, to the last one you kissed
Day 23. The last person you kissed
Joe,
If the "last one I kissed" should include all of those I've give a "bisous" while we've been here, then I've cheated. A lot.
I kissed you before you went to work this morning. Your starter-beard scratched my lips, & you were lucky. For once, I wasn't wearing chapstick.
Today, I'll go do laundry. I'll surprise you by taking all of your boxers & that blanket I spilled jelly on. The bag will be heavy when I carry it home, because nothing really dries at the laundry mat. I'll feel like I'm doing something really nice for us, like it's something that will make us really happy.
I've gotten really bad at doing laundry lately–finding all sorts of excuses to pay for it (like the jelly mess) instead of loading up the bathroom sink. It's been cold in the apartment, & I can't bring myself to keeping my hands in that water long enough to rinse, wash, rinse & twist until all that water drips back into the sink. Maybe in March I'll be better.
Thanks for being nice to me these last few days. I haven't made it easy. I'm feeling better, though. Getting there. Not well enough to scrub the mold from the wallpaper or clean out the mess under the bed like I wanted to, but I'm learning to worry less about what I didn't get done–thanks to you. We'll get there, & in the mean time I'll be happy about the laundry.
I can't wait to go to Italy with you & stay in a room that we're not sharing with eight other people (like in Frankfurt). I can't wait to see you walking on the same streets as Italo Calvino & know that we're working on making all of our dreams like that possible.
I'm going to make you take a bunch of pictures with me (since we've sucked at doing that lately but have TONS of pictures of buildings & food). I especially want the ones where we're kissing in the picture, because I know you hate that, but then I can come back & post them all on this post & you will be embarrassed & it will be funny. For me.
Tomorrow is our sixth month anniversary. You have less than 24 hours to buy me something really nice & expensive. Go.
Love,
Meg
Joe,
If the "last one I kissed" should include all of those I've give a "bisous" while we've been here, then I've cheated. A lot.
I kissed you before you went to work this morning. Your starter-beard scratched my lips, & you were lucky. For once, I wasn't wearing chapstick.
Today, I'll go do laundry. I'll surprise you by taking all of your boxers & that blanket I spilled jelly on. The bag will be heavy when I carry it home, because nothing really dries at the laundry mat. I'll feel like I'm doing something really nice for us, like it's something that will make us really happy.
I've gotten really bad at doing laundry lately–finding all sorts of excuses to pay for it (like the jelly mess) instead of loading up the bathroom sink. It's been cold in the apartment, & I can't bring myself to keeping my hands in that water long enough to rinse, wash, rinse & twist until all that water drips back into the sink. Maybe in March I'll be better.
Thanks for being nice to me these last few days. I haven't made it easy. I'm feeling better, though. Getting there. Not well enough to scrub the mold from the wallpaper or clean out the mess under the bed like I wanted to, but I'm learning to worry less about what I didn't get done–thanks to you. We'll get there, & in the mean time I'll be happy about the laundry.
I can't wait to go to Italy with you & stay in a room that we're not sharing with eight other people (like in Frankfurt). I can't wait to see you walking on the same streets as Italo Calvino & know that we're working on making all of our dreams like that possible.
I'm going to make you take a bunch of pictures with me (since we've sucked at doing that lately but have TONS of pictures of buildings & food). I especially want the ones where we're kissing in the picture, because I know you hate that, but then I can come back & post them all on this post & you will be embarrassed & it will be funny. For me.
Tomorrow is our sixth month anniversary. You have less than 24 hours to buy me something really nice & expensive. Go.
Love,
Meg
day 22, to the one you give a second chance
Day 22. Someone you want to give a second chance to
Indiana,
Don't let this go to your head. I didn't like you the first time. We didn't get on very well. You broke so many pieces of me–my spirit, my heart, my wallet, my faith in post-secondary education. (Ball State was great, but the process is more bureaucratic than you realize. I was naive. I wanted us all there based on merit, on the desire to educate each other.)
I'm not coming back because I miss you. I'm not coming back because I like you in any way. I'm coming back because you happen to be near people I love & holding people I love. I'm coming back because I was told that Bloomington is nothing like the rest of you.
You're like the conservative, Republican grandpa with a large gun collection that just happens to think giving money to education is a good thing. You're a state with one, tiny "liberal" part of yourself, & that's the part I'm going to.
I'm trying to be patient with you, but you're so gray & flat that you're not giving me much to work with. You have to be patient with me too, though. I'm not good at forgiveness; I don't usually consider second chances necessary–just "moving on" & letting it unfold. So, I won't officially say it's a second chance. I'll say it's a fresh start, if we're looking for phrases that mark our experiences.
I'll say that I'm trying to forget what it was like to be there before & take in this next three years without strings of memories or biases attached. I'll even say that I'm excited–truly & childishly–to see how you've made this, a hippie college town, work out. So let's shake on it & agree not to look back for the sake of turning into very sad, disappointed salt. Let's go to Math Camp, ride our bikes around, spend afternoons in second-hand book stores, pick our favorite coffee shop & buy a puppy.
Love Soon,
Meg
P.S. That last bit was a test. We'll see if Joe lets us get a puppy. Yes, we have a rabbit, but that's not always a bad thing. (This just happens to be the kind of dog I want, too. Unfortunately, something tells me Baby wouldn't be so keen on giving up the role as dominant pet.)
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Indiana,
Don't let this go to your head. I didn't like you the first time. We didn't get on very well. You broke so many pieces of me–my spirit, my heart, my wallet, my faith in post-secondary education. (Ball State was great, but the process is more bureaucratic than you realize. I was naive. I wanted us all there based on merit, on the desire to educate each other.)
I'm not coming back because I miss you. I'm not coming back because I like you in any way. I'm coming back because you happen to be near people I love & holding people I love. I'm coming back because I was told that Bloomington is nothing like the rest of you.
You're like the conservative, Republican grandpa with a large gun collection that just happens to think giving money to education is a good thing. You're a state with one, tiny "liberal" part of yourself, & that's the part I'm going to.
I'm trying to be patient with you, but you're so gray & flat that you're not giving me much to work with. You have to be patient with me too, though. I'm not good at forgiveness; I don't usually consider second chances necessary–just "moving on" & letting it unfold. So, I won't officially say it's a second chance. I'll say it's a fresh start, if we're looking for phrases that mark our experiences.
I'll say that I'm trying to forget what it was like to be there before & take in this next three years without strings of memories or biases attached. I'll even say that I'm excited–truly & childishly–to see how you've made this, a hippie college town, work out. So let's shake on it & agree not to look back for the sake of turning into very sad, disappointed salt. Let's go to Math Camp, ride our bikes around, spend afternoons in second-hand book stores, pick our favorite coffee shop & buy a puppy.
Meg
P.S. That last bit was a test. We'll see if Joe lets us get a puppy. Yes, we have a rabbit, but that's not always a bad thing. (This just happens to be the kind of dog I want, too. Unfortunately, something tells me Baby wouldn't be so keen on giving up the role as dominant pet.)
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day 21, to a wrong first impression
Day 21. Someone you judged by their first impression
Sam,
We were getting ready for the immersive learning semester–we had agreed to help make a documentary instead of going to classes, because you would do that unless you are stupid because most classes are stupid and documentary films, even when about teenagers playing volleyball, are not stupid. Our professor had sent out biographic notes about about each of us.
Judged.
It only took halfway through our first day together for me to realize that it was hilarious & wonderful that you had been a cheerleader. It fit into the dry, sarcastic humor you used in the classroom & into the eclectic friend I came to love over the course of the film-making-tear-your-hear-out semester.
When you got on stage at the gala & told the story about your grandmother, I found it hilarious. "See?" I said to my family. "She's great. She's just great."
You kept being great, & you've become one of the truest, most understanding friends. I think this is because our hearts work the same way, need the same things, breathe & break the same way. It'll be great to be in the same state as you again, sharing the occasional cup of tea & afternoon in a thrift store.
Love,
Meg
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Sam,
We were getting ready for the immersive learning semester–we had agreed to help make a documentary instead of going to classes, because you would do that unless you are stupid because most classes are stupid and documentary films, even when about teenagers playing volleyball, are not stupid. Our professor had sent out biographic notes about about each of us.
Hi, I'm Megan! I have no film experience, but I'm really organized! I like to do interviews, and I'll spend the rest of the semester freaking out that we're not staying on task. I like scrapbooking & baking. Nice to meet you!I assume I said something like this–or should have if I were being honest. I assume you had plenty of ground to judge me on. I didn't have plenty of ground. I saw your picture–a gorgeous blond in aviator glasses–and say your past hobby. Cheerleading.
Judged.
It only took halfway through our first day together for me to realize that it was hilarious & wonderful that you had been a cheerleader. It fit into the dry, sarcastic humor you used in the classroom & into the eclectic friend I came to love over the course of the film-making-tear-your-hear-out semester.
When you got on stage at the gala & told the story about your grandmother, I found it hilarious. "See?" I said to my family. "She's great. She's just great."
You kept being great, & you've become one of the truest, most understanding friends. I think this is because our hearts work the same way, need the same things, breathe & break the same way. It'll be great to be in the same state as you again, sharing the occasional cup of tea & afternoon in a thrift store.
Love,
Meg
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day 19, to someone on your mind
Day 19. Someone that pesters your mind.
My family is on my mind extra lately. This post is for them.
Feb. 4 is World Cancer Day.
I received this forward from my family, who’s really struggling with this right now. They asked that I continue to forward it, but I thought it would have more success if I put it on my blogs. They ask that we each take a moment to say this prayer with as much sincerity & compassion as we humans can muster–which is a hell of a lot when we let ourselves.
Dear God,
I pray for a cure for cancer. Amen.
"A candle loses nothing by lighting another candle." Pray for all of us, to whoever your God happens to be. We’re all in this together.
My family is on my mind extra lately. This post is for them.
Feb. 4 is World Cancer Day.
I received this forward from my family, who’s really struggling with this right now. They asked that I continue to forward it, but I thought it would have more success if I put it on my blogs. They ask that we each take a moment to say this prayer with as much sincerity & compassion as we humans can muster–which is a hell of a lot when we let ourselves.
Dear God,
I pray for a cure for cancer. Amen.
"A candle loses nothing by lighting another candle." Pray for all of us, to whoever your God happens to be. We’re all in this together.
day 20, the one that broke you most
Day 20. The one that broke your heart the hardest
Joe,
I love you. We've been married nearly six months. We're together. Every. Day. It's incredibly. I'm really happy.
But before that, there was all this other stuff. Like me going back to Wapak for that first summer. Or you wanting to join the Peace Corps and me in some way almost kind of talking you out of it, which makes me the worst person ever. Like me going to France and coming back and you going to graduate school and us feeling differently about what that would mean for our relationship.
Like all of those long-distance conversations and crises that were really painful and that you handled really well while I cried into my cell phone and it kept getting warmer and warmer in my hand from being connected so long. I'm pretty sure that some nights, you let me cry until I fell asleep. You sat in the static of a cell phone connection with your train wreck of a fiancé on the other end. It was heartbreaking–how much it hurt my chest, my hands, my stomach to love you.
The closer and more stable we got, the more my heart seemed to break–not so much to tear itself apart, but to pull you in and give you a place to sit. Once you were there–cemented–the whole mess plastered itself back together.
I never expected heartbreak to be the beginning, but without it I couldn't have accepted what I felt for you. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't gone through the physical ache of it. Now we're here, with new heartbreaks creeping in, and again I'm relieved–that you're here now, to hold onto me through all of it, and that I learned to see heartbreak as the beginning.
Thanks for being really good at loving me.
Love,
Meg
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Joe,
I love you. We've been married nearly six months. We're together. Every. Day. It's incredibly. I'm really happy.
But before that, there was all this other stuff. Like me going back to Wapak for that first summer. Or you wanting to join the Peace Corps and me in some way almost kind of talking you out of it, which makes me the worst person ever. Like me going to France and coming back and you going to graduate school and us feeling differently about what that would mean for our relationship.
Like all of those long-distance conversations and crises that were really painful and that you handled really well while I cried into my cell phone and it kept getting warmer and warmer in my hand from being connected so long. I'm pretty sure that some nights, you let me cry until I fell asleep. You sat in the static of a cell phone connection with your train wreck of a fiancé on the other end. It was heartbreaking–how much it hurt my chest, my hands, my stomach to love you.
The closer and more stable we got, the more my heart seemed to break–not so much to tear itself apart, but to pull you in and give you a place to sit. Once you were there–cemented–the whole mess plastered itself back together.
I never expected heartbreak to be the beginning, but without it I couldn't have accepted what I felt for you. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't gone through the physical ache of it. Now we're here, with new heartbreaks creeping in, and again I'm relieved–that you're here now, to hold onto me through all of it, and that I learned to see heartbreak as the beginning.
Thanks for being really good at loving me.
Love,
Meg
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day 18, to who you wish you could be
Day 18. The person that you wish you could be
Amy,
When I first wanted to be a journalist, sometime in middle school or at the start of high school, I read a story about a girl who was covering a conflict in the Middle East. She was brutally murdered. I had her picture cut out and held onto it for a long time, to remind me what dedication comes with serious journalism. It wasn't that I wanted to die for it, but I wanted to remember that I couldn't take it lightly. I remember my mom being afraid–asking if I really wanted to go do that sort of journalism.
I would still say yes. Because we have to.
I've never seen, heard or read work by anyone more committed to freedom of the press (and of the people in many respects) than you. In an era of media corporations, partisanship of news, 24-hour access to news, ever increasing budgets for shows & campaigns (that are becoming increasingly connected), it's a relief to turn on Democracy Now and hear the stories no one else is telling or stories with an angle no one else is using.
Right when I feel most hopeless, when I feel like I can't go back to a country so blind to its own corruption and so determined to do what it wants with no regard for the next generation (buying banks that continue to screw up, taking health care away from the middle class, letting the rich finance elections, being too good of friends with car companies to move toward sustainable transportation)–when I feel like it's all lost, I hear all of your reports. I hear the stories from journalists that are hanging in there with the country.
You're the voice that says, "We can fix it." You're what reminds me that if all of those pushing for real social justice and a sustainable future (or ANY future if we're honest), it can't get any better. Hopefully, if I make it through graduate school, I'll be able to inspire a fraction of the people that you do as I work to preserve individual liberties.
Many thanks,
Megan
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Amy,
When I first wanted to be a journalist, sometime in middle school or at the start of high school, I read a story about a girl who was covering a conflict in the Middle East. She was brutally murdered. I had her picture cut out and held onto it for a long time, to remind me what dedication comes with serious journalism. It wasn't that I wanted to die for it, but I wanted to remember that I couldn't take it lightly. I remember my mom being afraid–asking if I really wanted to go do that sort of journalism.
I would still say yes. Because we have to.
I've never seen, heard or read work by anyone more committed to freedom of the press (and of the people in many respects) than you. In an era of media corporations, partisanship of news, 24-hour access to news, ever increasing budgets for shows & campaigns (that are becoming increasingly connected), it's a relief to turn on Democracy Now and hear the stories no one else is telling or stories with an angle no one else is using.
Right when I feel most hopeless, when I feel like I can't go back to a country so blind to its own corruption and so determined to do what it wants with no regard for the next generation (buying banks that continue to screw up, taking health care away from the middle class, letting the rich finance elections, being too good of friends with car companies to move toward sustainable transportation)–when I feel like it's all lost, I hear all of your reports. I hear the stories from journalists that are hanging in there with the country.
You're the voice that says, "We can fix it." You're what reminds me that if all of those pushing for real social justice and a sustainable future (or ANY future if we're honest), it can't get any better. Hopefully, if I make it through graduate school, I'll be able to inspire a fraction of the people that you do as I work to preserve individual liberties.
Many thanks,
Megan
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day 17, to my first best friend
Day 17. Someone from your childhood
Amy,
Do you remember the time you fell off of the bars on the playground that we used to balance ourselves on and swing from? You broke your arm, and I thought your cast was amazing. I lied about how it all happened–said your mom came & had to drive you in a school bus to the hospital. For a moment, I thought the story had gone over. My parents were shocked. I think they were just shocked at how big I'd lie to tell a story.
Now that I'm older, I see the lie as ridiculous, but I think even more ridiculous was the existence of those bars in the first place. What did they expect to happen when children were swinging from metal bars above a gravel-floored playground? Then again, the shredded tire they tried to use as terrain wasn't better. I remember standing up after jumping from the swing. My knees were died black. I smelled like the street. I dug pieces out of chips and abrasions in my hands.
The best memories I have with any childhood friend happen in your basement, or when your bedroom got moved upstairs and your ceiling had all those cools angles from the roof. I would have died for a bedroom like that, but we were too young to know what dying meant. It was something that we acted out, then stood up to smooth out or skirts and continue with the next scene.
I'm not sure how or why we stopped hanging out or really talking. I hope I didn't upset you. I hope you didn't feel like I was mean to you. I never meant to be. Or if I did, it was middle school & it didn't really mean anything. That doesn't make it better, but I don't remember anything I did that was mean. I hope that's accurate, but we like to trick ourselves & make the memories into better people. I promised I never wrote mean things about you or said bad things about you. I'm sure at some points I talked about being mad at you, but what else did we all have to talk about when that group of girls moved as a solid unit–a cloud of he-said-she-said-they-kissed that grew gradually more segregated & vicious.
You were a great friend. I hope I was, too. I was really pissed when they separated us for second grade. We started finding new friends, and that's when it all fell apart. You were always there, but we couldn't go back to the time when you broke your arm & we listened to No Doubt in your living room. Thanks for being my first best friend & helping me figure out what friends could mean to each other.
Love,
Meg
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Amy,
Do you remember the time you fell off of the bars on the playground that we used to balance ourselves on and swing from? You broke your arm, and I thought your cast was amazing. I lied about how it all happened–said your mom came & had to drive you in a school bus to the hospital. For a moment, I thought the story had gone over. My parents were shocked. I think they were just shocked at how big I'd lie to tell a story.
Now that I'm older, I see the lie as ridiculous, but I think even more ridiculous was the existence of those bars in the first place. What did they expect to happen when children were swinging from metal bars above a gravel-floored playground? Then again, the shredded tire they tried to use as terrain wasn't better. I remember standing up after jumping from the swing. My knees were died black. I smelled like the street. I dug pieces out of chips and abrasions in my hands.
The best memories I have with any childhood friend happen in your basement, or when your bedroom got moved upstairs and your ceiling had all those cools angles from the roof. I would have died for a bedroom like that, but we were too young to know what dying meant. It was something that we acted out, then stood up to smooth out or skirts and continue with the next scene.
I'm not sure how or why we stopped hanging out or really talking. I hope I didn't upset you. I hope you didn't feel like I was mean to you. I never meant to be. Or if I did, it was middle school & it didn't really mean anything. That doesn't make it better, but I don't remember anything I did that was mean. I hope that's accurate, but we like to trick ourselves & make the memories into better people. I promised I never wrote mean things about you or said bad things about you. I'm sure at some points I talked about being mad at you, but what else did we all have to talk about when that group of girls moved as a solid unit–a cloud of he-said-she-said-they-kissed that grew gradually more segregated & vicious.
You were a great friend. I hope I was, too. I was really pissed when they separated us for second grade. We started finding new friends, and that's when it all fell apart. You were always there, but we couldn't go back to the time when you broke your arm & we listened to No Doubt in your living room. Thanks for being my first best friend & helping me figure out what friends could mean to each other.
Love,
Meg
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day 16, to the people at home
Day 16. Someone that's not in your country
Beloved friends & family,
I feel like when I get home to you, we'll pick up where we left off–like it's two days after the wedding & 12 days before our flight to France. Like we're just getting home from our honeymoon again, because in so many ways that's exactly what it feels like.
I'll be sad when I get home, so please be a bit understanding. I will be giving up my access to:
My time here has taught me how much I love & need you. It's taught me that, no matter how hard I try not to, I fall in love easily & I can't stand still. The movement, the required distances, always break my heart–moving from missing you to missing a country where I feel like my soul belongs. I've learned that no matter what you happen to be far away from, you find yourself more connected to it than ever. You can't drown it out.
I tried hard to write a Harry Potter analogy into this feeling, because that's what it feels like–some kind of other-world connection to you, via a scar on my heart, not my forehead. The analogy didn't work, because one of us was always Harry & the other was Voldemort. And I don't want any of us to kill the other ones. Let's just leave it at, "I feel strongly connected to you and look forward to seeing you again."
In ways, I feel closer to many of you here than I did when I could drive to your home or walk to your apartment or walk your dog or burst into your rooms we shared. This means that our relationship can only keep getting stronger. That sounds nice. I like that.
I love you. So, so many of you.
Soon,
Meg
P.S. I've started making pop tarts, & I can't seem to shut up about them. Forgive me the repeated promotion of this recipe, but it's SO easy & fun... and the possibilities are endless.
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Beloved friends & family,
I feel like when I get home to you, we'll pick up where we left off–like it's two days after the wedding & 12 days before our flight to France. Like we're just getting home from our honeymoon again, because in so many ways that's exactly what it feels like.
I'll be sad when I get home, so please be a bit understanding. I will be giving up my access to:
- real health care
- trains & the travel it allows
- having most of our debt feel far away (though I'll be a student ago, so boo on you gov't loans!)
- my students, who I've come to love
- cheese
- baguettes
- my favorite style of architecture (Nancy's mix of the classic French small town & amazing Art Nouveau)
- the French language in many ways
My time here has taught me how much I love & need you. It's taught me that, no matter how hard I try not to, I fall in love easily & I can't stand still. The movement, the required distances, always break my heart–moving from missing you to missing a country where I feel like my soul belongs. I've learned that no matter what you happen to be far away from, you find yourself more connected to it than ever. You can't drown it out.
I tried hard to write a Harry Potter analogy into this feeling, because that's what it feels like–some kind of other-world connection to you, via a scar on my heart, not my forehead. The analogy didn't work, because one of us was always Harry & the other was Voldemort. And I don't want any of us to kill the other ones. Let's just leave it at, "I feel strongly connected to you and look forward to seeing you again."
In ways, I feel closer to many of you here than I did when I could drive to your home or walk to your apartment or walk your dog or burst into your rooms we shared. This means that our relationship can only keep getting stronger. That sounds nice. I like that.
I love you. So, so many of you.
Soon,
Meg
P.S. I've started making pop tarts, & I can't seem to shut up about them. Forgive me the repeated promotion of this recipe, but it's SO easy & fun... and the possibilities are endless.
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day 15, to the one you miss most
Day 15. What you miss the most
to a small café in a small college town,
You are my first memory of college–a chai tea latte, before I was even sure I would attend the university. You were some of my last good memories from college–the semester I had to let go was the hardest.
When I was hired a few days before my first semester was to start–hired largely, it seemed, because the owner felt the need to protect me from something that would eat or destroy the tiny person I was–I felt like Jack. The other employees were giants–the college crowd I could never hope to be friends with, the ones that were painfully cool and perfectly casual about it. The ones that knew what they wanted, pushed hard toward their goals. The ones that actually became the coffee shop.
When I was hired, the owner told me I would grow into the place. I would fit right in. I would figure myself out. I couldn't imagine then how right he could be. At that time, he had collected a staff of people so diverse, each with their own passion and with an equal passion for serving customers the best coffee we could–knowing what each bean tasted like, how each regular liked their cappuccinos, how to get the espresso machine to hum instead of growl. I fell in love with everyone that came through the doors in the beginning, and I wanted to keep all of them. We would stay inside the doors, sipping from over-sized mugs, and we would be safe.
It is an understatement to say that my time behind that counter was my favorite job so far. The three and a half years gave me many of my best friends, many of my best memories, a reason to get up and enjoy the sunrise on Saturday and Sunday mornings–a place that felt more like home than I'd ever experienced outside of Wapakoneta, Ohio. But home isn't always happy, and family conflicts cut the deepest.
When things started to unravel–but if we're honest, the seams were stretching from the start–I wanted to run before things broke down. I didn't want to see the cancer in it's final stages, but I couldn't pull myself away. Each day was a new heartbreak, and the coffee was more bitter than sweet. The employees had the espresso machine screaming. The weekend crowds were thinning–moving on, finding Starbucks, seeing what was happening before most of us could accept it.
I became afraid of what I would find in the store before opening, before filling the bakery baskets with bagels and muffins, before the place woke up and smelled familiar–rising dough mixed with coffee and cucumber slices and the odd dog that would sit near its owner to snag bites of egg. I was afraid that one day, you wouldn't be there.
One of my pictures is still hanging in your dining room, folding at the edges and yellowing. I took the others with me when I left. I didn't want to be there when the doors closed. I cried that day, and I cried each time I walked back through those doors after.
Now, after a summer in the news with an uncertain future, you're still holding on. You're still bringing a crowd of vulnerable college students into some sense of a community. Somehow, this is almost more painful–to think that we can never get back to what we were, and that those there now can never know how golden it was for a time. I'm trying to let that go, realize that my time there is a memory and it is perfect for someone else–in the way that anything human can be perfect when we're a part of it.
So I suppose, in closing, all I can say is thank you. For my friends, for the tips that grew as I grew into my job, for the regulars, for my husband (who I met while standing behind the Plexiglass food prep counter), for the best times I've known and the best cappuccinos I've tasted.
Thanks to everyone that was there with me, at one point or another. Thanks for remembering it as much as I do.
Love and continued devotion,
Megan
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to a small café in a small college town,
You are my first memory of college–a chai tea latte, before I was even sure I would attend the university. You were some of my last good memories from college–the semester I had to let go was the hardest.
When I was hired a few days before my first semester was to start–hired largely, it seemed, because the owner felt the need to protect me from something that would eat or destroy the tiny person I was–I felt like Jack. The other employees were giants–the college crowd I could never hope to be friends with, the ones that were painfully cool and perfectly casual about it. The ones that knew what they wanted, pushed hard toward their goals. The ones that actually became the coffee shop.
When I was hired, the owner told me I would grow into the place. I would fit right in. I would figure myself out. I couldn't imagine then how right he could be. At that time, he had collected a staff of people so diverse, each with their own passion and with an equal passion for serving customers the best coffee we could–knowing what each bean tasted like, how each regular liked their cappuccinos, how to get the espresso machine to hum instead of growl. I fell in love with everyone that came through the doors in the beginning, and I wanted to keep all of them. We would stay inside the doors, sipping from over-sized mugs, and we would be safe.
It is an understatement to say that my time behind that counter was my favorite job so far. The three and a half years gave me many of my best friends, many of my best memories, a reason to get up and enjoy the sunrise on Saturday and Sunday mornings–a place that felt more like home than I'd ever experienced outside of Wapakoneta, Ohio. But home isn't always happy, and family conflicts cut the deepest.
When things started to unravel–but if we're honest, the seams were stretching from the start–I wanted to run before things broke down. I didn't want to see the cancer in it's final stages, but I couldn't pull myself away. Each day was a new heartbreak, and the coffee was more bitter than sweet. The employees had the espresso machine screaming. The weekend crowds were thinning–moving on, finding Starbucks, seeing what was happening before most of us could accept it.
I became afraid of what I would find in the store before opening, before filling the bakery baskets with bagels and muffins, before the place woke up and smelled familiar–rising dough mixed with coffee and cucumber slices and the odd dog that would sit near its owner to snag bites of egg. I was afraid that one day, you wouldn't be there.
One of my pictures is still hanging in your dining room, folding at the edges and yellowing. I took the others with me when I left. I didn't want to be there when the doors closed. I cried that day, and I cried each time I walked back through those doors after.
Now, after a summer in the news with an uncertain future, you're still holding on. You're still bringing a crowd of vulnerable college students into some sense of a community. Somehow, this is almost more painful–to think that we can never get back to what we were, and that those there now can never know how golden it was for a time. I'm trying to let that go, realize that my time there is a memory and it is perfect for someone else–in the way that anything human can be perfect when we're a part of it.
So I suppose, in closing, all I can say is thank you. For my friends, for the tips that grew as I grew into my job, for the regulars, for my husband (who I met while standing behind the Plexiglass food prep counter), for the best times I've known and the best cappuccinos I've tasted.
Thanks to everyone that was there with me, at one point or another. Thanks for remembering it as much as I do.
Love and continued devotion,
Megan
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day 14, drifting
Day 14. Someone you’ve drifted away from
I've been doing a lot of thinking & not a lot of writing lately. This usually plops me in the middle of a ball pit of emotions. I'm terrified of ball pits–was thoroughly convinced that I would die in them. (Plus, they're stupid. How is it fun? You end up with this crap all over your house. No thanks.) This is to say, being in a ball pit of emotion, with loads of different emotions smacking me in the face like hard plastic, is not at all where I like to be. For the first time in my life, I can't write it out. I can't even bring myself to put pen to paper or, more commonly, letters to keys.
Instead of a letter to someone else today, since it's my blog & my rules, I'm writing some notes to myself. I'm addressing a few fears and concerns that have neared the point of being paralyzing over the past two weeks.
I got into graduate school, a dual Masters in Public Affairs & Environmental Science. I'll be heading to Indiana University in the fall, to the one hippie chunk of Indiana (and thank God for it). I'll be heading there early, so that I can register myself for Math Camp, which I've already begun preparing myself for.
I am not a math person. This may be an understatement. I have not done math in four years. I took Calculus my senior year of high school, which I don't even think should be registered as part of my education. The one thing that I remember from that class is how each Friday, we would take turns bringing in snacks. I didn't do much of my homework.
I'm afraid of having an epic fail. I'm trying to be open minded. I'm trying to balance my fear of math with the idea of the jobs I could get post-graduate studies, the jobs that could push our country toward the kind of change we've needed to be making for decades (#environment #GlobalWarming #SocialJustice #AidToAfrica). I'm trying to balance it with the idea of snagging a coffee house job for a few hours a week or volunteering at an owl recovery center half an hour away.
I'm trying to balance it with the idea that no, it's not a creative writing program, but I can still be writing. I can still be using that side of myself. But I don't know if I can. Since I found out I got in, I've been distracted, throwing myself into books about vampires or French affairs (not business affairs) to forget everything else that's become very tiresome in our thoughts of the States.
I'm drifting away from the parts of myself I like most–writing & baking. I tried to make cupcakes, but was so distracted that I didn't check the oven setting. I nearly cried, just to have a way to get it out. Instead, I sat on the floor and ate the rest of the chocolate filling.
So if I can't write now, when I'm feeling too much & should be storing it all outside of myself–if I'm drifting now, how do I pull myself back together and not get drown in the rapids of graduate school? How do you pull the two sides of your head together?
So I'm feeling tangled, and I'm trying to get myself back. I was a morning person, loved waking up at or before 6 a.m. just to be drinking coffee and plugging along on homework as the sun rose. I crawl out of bed angry at 8 a.m. now (still up an hour before sunrise, which I think is the problem). So today, it's time to snap back. I've found my next 30-day challenge for the blog, gotten ahead on a tumblr 30-day challenge, rolled out of bed before 7 a.m. and have yet to get upset with myself for the day.
Today, we stop drifting. We tie the pieces of the raft back together and start adjusting. Math can be a part of me. It just takes some time to find the room, like a sofa you purchased that turned out to be too large. This master's program is going to be like fitting a leather sectional into a studio apartment, but there will still be room to stretch out.
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I've been doing a lot of thinking & not a lot of writing lately. This usually plops me in the middle of a ball pit of emotions. I'm terrified of ball pits–was thoroughly convinced that I would die in them. (Plus, they're stupid. How is it fun? You end up with this crap all over your house. No thanks.) This is to say, being in a ball pit of emotion, with loads of different emotions smacking me in the face like hard plastic, is not at all where I like to be. For the first time in my life, I can't write it out. I can't even bring myself to put pen to paper or, more commonly, letters to keys.
Instead of a letter to someone else today, since it's my blog & my rules, I'm writing some notes to myself. I'm addressing a few fears and concerns that have neared the point of being paralyzing over the past two weeks.
I got into graduate school, a dual Masters in Public Affairs & Environmental Science. I'll be heading to Indiana University in the fall, to the one hippie chunk of Indiana (and thank God for it). I'll be heading there early, so that I can register myself for Math Camp, which I've already begun preparing myself for.
I am not a math person. This may be an understatement. I have not done math in four years. I took Calculus my senior year of high school, which I don't even think should be registered as part of my education. The one thing that I remember from that class is how each Friday, we would take turns bringing in snacks. I didn't do much of my homework.
I'm afraid of having an epic fail. I'm trying to be open minded. I'm trying to balance my fear of math with the idea of the jobs I could get post-graduate studies, the jobs that could push our country toward the kind of change we've needed to be making for decades (#environment #GlobalWarming #SocialJustice #AidToAfrica). I'm trying to balance it with the idea of snagging a coffee house job for a few hours a week or volunteering at an owl recovery center half an hour away.
I'm trying to balance it with the idea that no, it's not a creative writing program, but I can still be writing. I can still be using that side of myself. But I don't know if I can. Since I found out I got in, I've been distracted, throwing myself into books about vampires or French affairs (not business affairs) to forget everything else that's become very tiresome in our thoughts of the States.
I'm drifting away from the parts of myself I like most–writing & baking. I tried to make cupcakes, but was so distracted that I didn't check the oven setting. I nearly cried, just to have a way to get it out. Instead, I sat on the floor and ate the rest of the chocolate filling.
So if I can't write now, when I'm feeling too much & should be storing it all outside of myself–if I'm drifting now, how do I pull myself back together and not get drown in the rapids of graduate school? How do you pull the two sides of your head together?
So I'm feeling tangled, and I'm trying to get myself back. I was a morning person, loved waking up at or before 6 a.m. just to be drinking coffee and plugging along on homework as the sun rose. I crawl out of bed angry at 8 a.m. now (still up an hour before sunrise, which I think is the problem). So today, it's time to snap back. I've found my next 30-day challenge for the blog, gotten ahead on a tumblr 30-day challenge, rolled out of bed before 7 a.m. and have yet to get upset with myself for the day.
Today, we stop drifting. We tie the pieces of the raft back together and start adjusting. Math can be a part of me. It just takes some time to find the room, like a sofa you purchased that turned out to be too large. This master's program is going to be like fitting a leather sectional into a studio apartment, but there will still be room to stretch out.
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day 13, to ask for forgiveness
Day 13. Someone you wish could forgive you
Hey,
We haven't talked in a while. In fact, I don't think we've talked since three months before we stopped living together. We've both gotten married. Without inviting each other. Those last two years on campus, we seemed to move without seeing each other, without even feeling the other person's eyes looking through us.
I loved getting to know you–creating our new life, finding our new circle of friends, watching "Chicago" and leaving each other notes. You went all out on my birthdays, and it meant a lot to me. I'm not sure what happened in the summer months between those two years. We both came back nervous, awkward around each other, living somewhere else in our minds.
I'm afraid that you've written off our friendship as a phase you went through. We weren't always responsible. We weren't always behaving appropriately. Is it bad that I still love that–the times when we really let ourselves go? I don't mean the times we were falling or holding each others' hair. Admittedly not our high points. I mean the times when we danced like it didn't matter and we were fine with whatever they said about us when we walked into the residence hall at 4 a.m.
Looking back, there was a lot that happened that first year that shaped who we both are–you found your truly best friends and began preparing for that second when everything would change; I found Joe and starting seeing the kind of life I wanted to live.
What I'm afraid of is that, in all of the crazy things that happened, you were asking me for help in a way I didn't notice or recognize. I thought we were fine, & I'm afraid I missed reaching out to you. I'm afraid I've hurt you & didn't realize it.
I know that you're doing well; you're happy. You seem to be all put together again, neatly. I'm happy for you. I hope that, if you feel I worked against that in some way, you can forgive me.
Sincerely,
Megan
Uh-oh! Check out my other 30-day challenge on my tumblr.
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Hey,
We haven't talked in a while. In fact, I don't think we've talked since three months before we stopped living together. We've both gotten married. Without inviting each other. Those last two years on campus, we seemed to move without seeing each other, without even feeling the other person's eyes looking through us.
I loved getting to know you–creating our new life, finding our new circle of friends, watching "Chicago" and leaving each other notes. You went all out on my birthdays, and it meant a lot to me. I'm not sure what happened in the summer months between those two years. We both came back nervous, awkward around each other, living somewhere else in our minds.
I'm afraid that you've written off our friendship as a phase you went through. We weren't always responsible. We weren't always behaving appropriately. Is it bad that I still love that–the times when we really let ourselves go? I don't mean the times we were falling or holding each others' hair. Admittedly not our high points. I mean the times when we danced like it didn't matter and we were fine with whatever they said about us when we walked into the residence hall at 4 a.m.
Looking back, there was a lot that happened that first year that shaped who we both are–you found your truly best friends and began preparing for that second when everything would change; I found Joe and starting seeing the kind of life I wanted to live.
What I'm afraid of is that, in all of the crazy things that happened, you were asking me for help in a way I didn't notice or recognize. I thought we were fine, & I'm afraid I missed reaching out to you. I'm afraid I've hurt you & didn't realize it.
I know that you're doing well; you're happy. You seem to be all put together again, neatly. I'm happy for you. I hope that, if you feel I worked against that in some way, you can forgive me.
Sincerely,
Megan
Uh-oh! Check out my other 30-day challenge on my tumblr.
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day 11, to the one that died
Day 11. A Deceased person you wish you could talk to
Great-grandpa,
I was in fifth grade when you died. It was my first experience with death, and I felt like it wasn't mine–like I didn't have the right to be upset about it, like you didn't belong to me. Instead of talking about my feelings, on the bus with my friends, when they saw I was upset, I talked about the pants I would wear to your funeral. They were covered in flowers, very flowy, and I thought that you would really like that. The air cut through them, and you felt free–like you weren't even wearing pants.
I am glad that you were a part of my life; I am especially glad that I met you before I started having a really horrible fear of old people, which I'm happy to say is dying away. I'm sorry that I was too young to really think about your life–a man that had seen so many changes, a man that had seen our country go through the largest fluctuations in its short history.
My favorite word in French is histoire, the noun for both "history" and "story." I think the idea that history and the story of us are inseparable–so connected as to share a word, to be one in the same–is powerful. We each become a living histoire. Sometimes, I think of the questions I would have asked you, the stories I could have heard.
I dated a boy in high school, and he had moved into your old house. The swinging doors to the kitchen were gone, but the sun room was the same–still full of minty greens, cobwebs in corners and a scent that we knew was older than us, older than our parents. It was a smell that surrounded us, held onto us, and it frustrated me that they had pushed this from the rest of the house. They had systematically removed the house's history in exchange for neutral warm tones and a leather couch.
I told the boy what I remembered of you–the M&Ms; the night I sat at your kitchen table with my grandma, waiting for my sister to be born; the organ in the far room that I knew I shouldn't touch; the radio playing police reports.
I wish that I had been smart enough to know you better, and I imagine the stories that could be told. I'm glad that I had you, even if it was only for a little bit, even if I didn't really feel like you were mine.
Love,
Megan
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Great-grandpa,
I was in fifth grade when you died. It was my first experience with death, and I felt like it wasn't mine–like I didn't have the right to be upset about it, like you didn't belong to me. Instead of talking about my feelings, on the bus with my friends, when they saw I was upset, I talked about the pants I would wear to your funeral. They were covered in flowers, very flowy, and I thought that you would really like that. The air cut through them, and you felt free–like you weren't even wearing pants.
I am glad that you were a part of my life; I am especially glad that I met you before I started having a really horrible fear of old people, which I'm happy to say is dying away. I'm sorry that I was too young to really think about your life–a man that had seen so many changes, a man that had seen our country go through the largest fluctuations in its short history.
My favorite word in French is histoire, the noun for both "history" and "story." I think the idea that history and the story of us are inseparable–so connected as to share a word, to be one in the same–is powerful. We each become a living histoire. Sometimes, I think of the questions I would have asked you, the stories I could have heard.
I dated a boy in high school, and he had moved into your old house. The swinging doors to the kitchen were gone, but the sun room was the same–still full of minty greens, cobwebs in corners and a scent that we knew was older than us, older than our parents. It was a smell that surrounded us, held onto us, and it frustrated me that they had pushed this from the rest of the house. They had systematically removed the house's history in exchange for neutral warm tones and a leather couch.
I told the boy what I remembered of you–the M&Ms; the night I sat at your kitchen table with my grandma, waiting for my sister to be born; the organ in the far room that I knew I shouldn't touch; the radio playing police reports.
I wish that I had been smart enough to know you better, and I imagine the stories that could be told. I'm glad that I had you, even if it was only for a little bit, even if I didn't really feel like you were mine.
Love,
Megan
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day 12, to the one who caused you pain
Day 12. The person who caused you a lot of pain
WHY WON'T MY BLOG LET ME USE ITALICS? There is NO code getting in the way. HELP.
A quick note, often jotted down on a Post-It note and tucked into my planner or journal, or even taped to the wall.
Each day, I tell myself I'll be more positive. Each day, Ifail at am not very good at doing it. I keep trying, saying things like "I'll do yoga today. I'll do yoga today." This year, it's getting better. So instead of focusing on those that have caused me pain, I'm trying to let all pain–especially self-inflicted–float away like the dry pine needles that are still littering the sidewalks, the bits of Christmas that got kicked to the curb.
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WHY WON'T MY BLOG LET ME USE ITALICS? There is NO code getting in the way. HELP.
A quick note, often jotted down on a Post-It note and tucked into my planner or journal, or even taped to the wall.
Megan,
Focus on one task at a time. You can't get everything done. Most of your to-do list isn't even mandatory. You will get a story published someday. You will be a "writer" even if you can't write everyday... but you SHOULD keep trying to write most days.You're failing on that one.You can't fail for the day. Take a deep breath. Look at what you got done. Forgive yourself.
Love.
Each day, I tell myself I'll be more positive. Each day, I
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day 9, someone you wish you could meet
Day 9. Someone you wish you could meet
Mr. Pollan,
I read my first book by you when I was a sophomore in college, only three years ago. I haven't stopped reading them, stopped passing them on to my friends and family, or stopped feeling like you beat me to writing the books I'd always wanted to write.
I haven't stopped being inspired by you either. Since I started reading–while researching a paper that ended up changing my life & e-mailing you everyday, naively thinking I could get an interview with you–your web site has gotten a lot better. You've had more appearances. You've given great TED speeches (like the one I showed in this blog post). You've sold millions of books.
I wanted to apply to Berkeley because you're there. I wanted everyone to read your book, to understand the thoughts that had been running through my head that you had made so easy for people to understand.
Like the wine that surrounds me in this country, my excitement for your work has mellowed and matured, come into itself. I would love to meet you, to thank you for what you've done–for me, for the millions of people that have read your books, for farmers in communities where people are starting to seek local produce again. I want to ask you what the next step is.
Where do we go from here? What do we do after we read, before we can afford to buy a house and have a garden? What do we do when we know better, but we can't yet afford to do better? How do we break the idea that this is a yuppy trend–to eat local food and care about the ground that held it? How do we stop making rules and start making sense?
Thanks for writing,
Megan
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Mr. Pollan,
I read my first book by you when I was a sophomore in college, only three years ago. I haven't stopped reading them, stopped passing them on to my friends and family, or stopped feeling like you beat me to writing the books I'd always wanted to write.
I haven't stopped being inspired by you either. Since I started reading–while researching a paper that ended up changing my life & e-mailing you everyday, naively thinking I could get an interview with you–your web site has gotten a lot better. You've had more appearances. You've given great TED speeches (like the one I showed in this blog post). You've sold millions of books.
I wanted to apply to Berkeley because you're there. I wanted everyone to read your book, to understand the thoughts that had been running through my head that you had made so easy for people to understand.
Like the wine that surrounds me in this country, my excitement for your work has mellowed and matured, come into itself. I would love to meet you, to thank you for what you've done–for me, for the millions of people that have read your books, for farmers in communities where people are starting to seek local produce again. I want to ask you what the next step is.
Where do we go from here? What do we do after we read, before we can afford to buy a house and have a garden? What do we do when we know better, but we can't yet afford to do better? How do we break the idea that this is a yuppy trend–to eat local food and care about the ground that held it? How do we stop making rules and start making sense?
Thanks for writing,
Megan
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day 10, somone you want to talk to more
Day 10. Someone you don’t talk to as much as you’d like to
Ella,
Every time I leave you, I'm afraid you won't remember me. I know I'm not the best godmother I could be, but I pray for you daily–a sort of endless prayer, like breathing. I write you letters and imagine you listening to the words as your mom reads them, and I hope they make you happy.
I've always been away from you, and I've always struggled to figure out how I could make my role as godmother a larger part of both of our lives. I love hearing stories about you, and I love coming home for your birthdays and holidays and cookouts and play dates. I love hearing your voice change–the biggest sign that you're growing up is the leaps your voice and vocabulary take when I get to steal minutes on the phone with you.
I love the Christmas card you made me and the notes you've written me. I love thinking that in half a year, I'll be a few hours from your small hands, making crafts and typing on capes, instead of a world away. We'll have visits and decorate cookies and hold conversations and chase birds around the yard and make fun of Joe.
I love you, and if I turn out to be any kind of respectable adult in the World, know that you played a part in it. You're such a cool kid, and I can't wait to be with you as you turn into a really cool person. It's inevitable; it runs in the family.
Loads of love colored like a rainbow and being galloped on by a unicorn,
Meg
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Every time I leave you, I'm afraid you won't remember me. I know I'm not the best godmother I could be, but I pray for you daily–a sort of endless prayer, like breathing. I write you letters and imagine you listening to the words as your mom reads them, and I hope they make you happy.
I've always been away from you, and I've always struggled to figure out how I could make my role as godmother a larger part of both of our lives. I love hearing stories about you, and I love coming home for your birthdays and holidays and cookouts and play dates. I love hearing your voice change–the biggest sign that you're growing up is the leaps your voice and vocabulary take when I get to steal minutes on the phone with you.
I love the Christmas card you made me and the notes you've written me. I love thinking that in half a year, I'll be a few hours from your small hands, making crafts and typing on capes, instead of a world away. We'll have visits and decorate cookies and hold conversations and chase birds around the yard and make fun of Joe.
I love you, and if I turn out to be any kind of respectable adult in the World, know that you played a part in it. You're such a cool kid, and I can't wait to be with you as you turn into a really cool person. It's inevitable; it runs in the family.
Loads of love colored like a rainbow and being galloped on by a unicorn,
Meg
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day 8, to your Internet friend
Day 8. Your favorite Internet friend
Hey,
I've always said that I was largely unaffected by break-ups. That was true. With the exception of your Fourth of July disaster. After months of our parents driving each other to the others' house, months of summer gym and friends running between us to pass messages, you'd decided that it was best to hide in your mom's van while I walked around the fairgrounds looking for you. You decided it was best to dump me over the pay phone.
You were 14. It's not like, looking back, I should have expected something better, but the feeling of running down the fair grounds' midway, tears rolling down my cheeks, still sticks to a part of my stomach. I feel bad for that girl, who had invested too much.
That's one story–a tiny bit of how I knew you. The other part of you was wonderful. You were at the Catholic school, and I lived for the two hours a day we would spend typing to each other–half words, half emoticons–on instant messenger services after school. I don't know how I found you, how we became friends, why we started talking, how I agreed to be your girlfriend when I'd never seen you for more than two minutes as we passed each other in the hallway (since your school shipped you to my public school for math). I don't know how we got to date, since both of us were to young by all of our parents' standards, or how you paid for the movies we went to.
I do know that even after our break-up, when you kept typing messages to me or leaving messages, asking if you could call, I felt the moment of running down the midway, of losing you to a girl that you would then complain to me about when I allowed you to call. I do know that each time you unexpectedly came back into my life, for visits or e-mails or calls, it still broke or burnt or moved a part of me.
We haven't talked in nearly two years now, and I remember your last call. I was worried about you, as I had always worried about you. And then it stopped. I hope you're okay. I don't use messenger services any more. I don't check Myspace. I don't know where you are, but I hope you're well.
Thanks,
Megan
Enjoy what you're reading? I'd love to know that we're on track. Click Follow on the right side of the screen to stick with us.
Hey,
I've always said that I was largely unaffected by break-ups. That was true. With the exception of your Fourth of July disaster. After months of our parents driving each other to the others' house, months of summer gym and friends running between us to pass messages, you'd decided that it was best to hide in your mom's van while I walked around the fairgrounds looking for you. You decided it was best to dump me over the pay phone.
You were 14. It's not like, looking back, I should have expected something better, but the feeling of running down the fair grounds' midway, tears rolling down my cheeks, still sticks to a part of my stomach. I feel bad for that girl, who had invested too much.
That's one story–a tiny bit of how I knew you. The other part of you was wonderful. You were at the Catholic school, and I lived for the two hours a day we would spend typing to each other–half words, half emoticons–on instant messenger services after school. I don't know how I found you, how we became friends, why we started talking, how I agreed to be your girlfriend when I'd never seen you for more than two minutes as we passed each other in the hallway (since your school shipped you to my public school for math). I don't know how we got to date, since both of us were to young by all of our parents' standards, or how you paid for the movies we went to.
I do know that even after our break-up, when you kept typing messages to me or leaving messages, asking if you could call, I felt the moment of running down the midway, of losing you to a girl that you would then complain to me about when I allowed you to call. I do know that each time you unexpectedly came back into my life, for visits or e-mails or calls, it still broke or burnt or moved a part of me.
We haven't talked in nearly two years now, and I remember your last call. I was worried about you, as I had always worried about you. And then it stopped. I hope you're okay. I don't use messenger services any more. I don't check Myspace. I don't know where you are, but I hope you're well.
Thanks,
Megan
Enjoy what you're reading? I'd love to know that we're on track. Click Follow on the right side of the screen to stick with us.
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