Autumn Transitioning

It’s been twelve days since I moved from little Bellefonte to little Enola (across the river from Harrisburg), and somehow it’s already the last day of September. Is it just me, or does September always feel like one of those barely-there months, like you take a second to breathe and then it’s gone?

Move-in day :) (Photo cred to Char-Char)

This past week-and-a-half was so filled to bursting that I already feel like I’ve lived here for quite a while. Two days after moving in, I started my new job as a server at Sophia’s, a café in Camp Hill. Switching to a new place of employment has been the hardest part of the move so far – to be completely honest, I swallowed down a few massive throat-lumps and blinked away tears in the privacy of the dish room last week. I guess if you come to know and love a place (and people) so much, transitions are always rough… Restaurants each have their own behind-the-scenes culture, and becoming a part of it obviously entails far more than learning the menu and where the ketchup is stored. It takes a long time to truly become ingrained in a place. For a girl that likes to be surrounded with friends, the whole “do your job well and you’ll be let in when everyone else decides to let you in” thing can be tough. But this week was better – funny what a high five, some good-natured teasing, and “Hey Jo-Jo!” can do to make you feel like you’re being absorbed when you walk in the door. Friday of this week I’ll begin training as a barista for my second job at Elementary Coffee Co. in Broad Street Market, which I’m super pumped about! For the most part, I’ve been commuting to work via bicycle and that’s an adventure all its own. (Nothing quite like the rush of exhilaration that comes from relying on my own leg muscles to get me to work on time, or the wonderful exhaustion that sets in as soon as I see the sign for Nathan’s and realize I’m five minutes away from crashing on the kitchen floor.) Also, I still can’t get used to seeing the capital across the river every time I bike home. I blink every time.

THE PLANTS! (Some of them, that is)

Because I’ve never lived away from home for longer than a few months, absolutely everything about independent living is exciting for me. Grocery shopping? Three hurrahs! Cooking for myself? Nothing short of thrilling. (I made some pretty killer banana bread last week, if I do say so myself.) Writing my first check for rent? Don’t laugh at my enthusiasm… I know part of the magic will wear off after a while, but I just want to savor it all right now. After being lived in for nearly two weeks, my room finally does feel like mine and not just an aesthetically-pleasing arrangement of all my things. The futon-bed is perpetually unmade and books and papers are beginning to feather out across the floor (just behind my chair is a roller derby schedule, my environmental science textbook, and a strange publication boasting “rock & roll, weirdo art, and bad ideas – NOT for squares!” that I snatched from the Midtown Scholar because it was colorful – called, of all things, “Pork”… hmmm). Right now my windows are open (they’re open 98% of the time) and blustery night wind is gusting in. My radiator cover is chock-full of plants, most of them science projects that involve peas being watered with strange concoctions, although I did just start growing some herbs and whooped with joy the other morning when they FINALLY sprouted (hooray again!).

I can’t imagine what a move like this would be like if I’d rented an apartment alone. Thank goodness for Bek, my beautiful housemate who eats dinner whilst sitting on the kitchen floor with me, loves to laugh as much as I do, and bangs on my bedroom door with excited shouts of, “Try my vegetable mash!” (She just did that an hour ago – I opened the door and found a spoonful of cauliflower and turnip in front of my nose.) Eating dinner on the floor has become one of my favorite parts of the day, mostly because of Bek’s cats. It never fails: I sit down and they approach tentatively, sniff at my cup (or drink out of it, if they’re feeling daring), and rub their little furry heads against my leg until I give them a taste of whatever I’m eating. Tonight was leftover tomato soup from Sophia’s. Little Dude tried a tiny bit from my fingertip and happily licked his whiskers for five minutes.

Although settling in has proved easier than I expected (at least in some ways), the very newness and excitement of everything means that it will take more than just a couple of weeks before I can call this place home and mean it. I tried it out the other day and the word just felt strange. Enola, you’re lovely, but for now home is still a little white house at the top of South Allegheny Street. I think it will be that way for quite a while. Lastly, to those of you who have reached out, whether through Skype, letters, or just showing up at my doorstep -- thank you. Having a life full of genuine and loving people is one of the things I am THE MOST thankful for, no matter where I find myself.

Until next time, friends! I'm sure you'll hear from me again soon.

Back again!

It's been a few months.

As I’ve said over and over, I’m not good about keeping a regular blog but every time I come back I feel the need to make some sort of apology to whatever readership remains. So, dear reader: thank you for returning to read my sporadic thoughts, and I am truly sorry I haven’t written a word on here since January. Lots of things have happened since then! One of the biggest of things is that I just got back from camp three weeks ago… I would say “got home”, except I’m kind of at a halfway landing point right now because in exactly twenty days I’ll be moving again, but permanently this time. More on that later. Maybe I shouldn’t start posts with bombshells and leave people hanging… but I guess you have to keep reading now. (:

Hebron... This was my fourth summer, this time as a summer program director instead of a counselor, and a wholly different experience from anything else before it. (Of course, every summer is different, but this one definitely so.) And, like every summer, I don’t really have good words to describe it by the time I reach the end, especially at this point. I think my mind has had all the processing it can take for now. Thankfully, I did journal a bit and here are a few snippets to give you some idea: 

June 7^th: “What an odd first weekend it’s been… I’m not used to being here before the rest of the summer staff, and it feels off somehow. Peaceful, yes, but almost too still and sleepy. We’re living in Sylvan probably until the end of the week, which only adds to the strangeness. I think just being able to really move into my room for the summer will help me feel like this is home. Because it doesn’t yet. I’m used to feeling that wonderful rush of ‘I’m finally back’ as soon as I set foot on camp for the summer, and it hasn’t hit yet…”

July 5^th: Excerpt from “The Small Work in the Great Work” from The Impossible Will Take A Little While (the book I read with my coffee every morning before standing on the porch singing with fifty kids before breakfast): “Our mission is to plant ourselves at the gates of Hope – not the prudent gates of Optimism, which are somewhat narrower… nor the flimsy, cheerful garden gate of “Everything is gonna be all right.” But a different, sometimes lonely place, the place of truth-telling, about your own soul first of all and its condition, the place of resistance and defiance, the piece of ground from which you see the world both as it is and as it could be, as it will be; the place from which you glimpse not only struggle, but joy in the struggle. And we stand there, beckoning and calling, telling people what we are seeing, asking people what they see.”

“Camp has a way of distilling life – all of it, things within and without – with such terrifying and beautiful clarity. Last night Ellie and I wondered if perhaps it’s because time is so closely measured and the days so full that when we do find ourselves with breathing space and time for introspection, we value it more and use it better.”

July 12^th: Another excerpt from an essay in The Impossible Will Take A Little While, entitled “The Green Dream” by Mark Hertsgaard: “Optimism is the belief that things will turn out well… Hope, on the other hand, is an active, determined conviction that is rooted in the spirit, chosen by the heart, and guided by the mind.”

“Sunday morning again, and how are these long weeks flying so quickly? Hiked the mountain just before seven o’ clock and reached the top in time to see sun-flecked trees and remnants of mist lingering above the river. We ate breakfast sitting on the sideboard in the craft hut – hummus with crackers and avocado and peanut butter toast and berries, and my heart and stomach could have sang for joy because it wasn’t camp food (though the thought of a singing stomach is kind of terrifying)… Yesterday I visited Bek, toured Enola, and took the loveliest three-hour nap on my future bed in my future room… because yes, that’s right, I am for real moving in with her at the end of September! Part of me still can’t believe it’s really happening. Living on my own! Cooking for myself! Having adventures! …The next two months, especially the time beginning right after camp ends, are going to speed by in a blur of final (forever final) weeks at Chick-fil-A, starting my last semester, and packing up my life in boxes. Also goodbyes. But I’m not – or, trying not – to think about those yet.”

July 14^th: “I bought an ENO hammock this weekend and it just came in the mail today! I decided to carry it in my backpack with me like a little potential nap waited to be unfurled. I tested it out for half an hour this afternoon between the trees behind the office – worked like a dream. I wrapped myself up in it and gazed at the world through a film of brilliant orange…

July 22^nd: “Wednesday already, and only two and a half weeks of programs left. I don’t think the finality of this summer has hit me at all yet… At the same time, I’ve been missing people more than ever this summer… Charlotte especially. Last week Ellie and I were talking in the big tree by the pasture and she said out of the blue, ‘I miss Anna and Charlotte.’ ‘Oh! Charlotte!’ I said, and as soon as the name was out my eyes filled with tears. Didn’t help that last week I just missed the whole world. Even for all its loveliness, sometimes camp feels like such a small pocket in a forgotten corner of the universe.”

August 15^th (after it was all over): “Saturday, exactly a week since I left camp for the Nissley’s house. And what a week… Somehow, I think that blurry weekend full of long walks and leisurely snacking and henna dyeing and heart-to-hearts with Anna and Ben and Jason offered some kind of protective shock absorbent to keep the camp-to-real-life transition from hurting so much.”

There, a few introspective snippets from a full summer, and they really only describe such a small part of everything that those nine-and-a-half weeks were. Nothing about how hard it was to transition from counselor to summer program director (confusing, lonely, challenging, exciting, and sometimes purely exhilarating when things finally began to click) or all the late nights and laughter and tears and struggles and inside jokes… some things can’t be explained in a blog post.

As some of those journal entries alluded to, I had a lot more on my mind than just camp this summer, which maybe accounted for why it felt so different this time around (more of a temporary landing than a “this is home”). Yes, I am moving to Enola next month! (For those who don’t know where that is, it’s about ten minutes from Harrisburg.) This was something that has been in the works for months now and was finally decided in early July. I’ll be moving out on September 19^th (also my half birthday, hooray!). My first week home was spent packing up at least half my things and looking for jobs within biking distance of my future dwelling place, considering I won’t have a car until I can afford one. One week after camp ended, I found myself with a definite part-time job at a bakery and café about five miles away. Then, just this past week, I accepted another job at a coffee shop in Broad Street Market in Harrisburg. If I’m doing the math right, I’ll probably be biking an average of fifty miles a week... oh my.

Trying to plan for a permanent move, begin my final semester of college, finish the last few weeks at my current job, and say goodbyes well… it’s a lot to juggle (and looks even more awful when written out like that – gahhh!). My room is currently an absolute train wreck of clothes strewn everywhere (because what are hangers?), empty and partly empty cardboard boxes, a few remaining books that have started to pile up (where do they all come from??) and a new road bike that I keep tripping over in the dark. I’ve never done this before. I’m excited, and also scared. Mostly just really really really freaking excited though. I am hoping to blog somewhat regularly again, especially as a way of staying in touch with hometown friends after the transition.

So, that’s life as of now and some of what life is about to become in twenty days. Cheers! Hopefully more soon.

PS. Finished reading The Art of Asking by Amanda Palmer a week or two ago. It was some of the most honest and heartfelt writing I’ve ever encountered about joy and connection and sharing and vulnerability and you should probably just go read the book. It is excellent. I might actually write a post about it sometime. So… more substantial thoughts pending, potentially? Thought I’d throw the recommendation out there though if you’re looking for great things to read this fall. I also started Daring Greatly by Brenè Brown. She’s wonderful. Here’s a link to a couple of TED talks by both of them:

http://www.ted.com/talks/brene_brown_on_vulnerability?language=en#t-1200445

http://www.ted.com/talks/amanda_palmer_the_art_of_asking

Life on the other side of the counter

A small fact about me: I’ve been working at State College’s Chick-fil-A for the past two and a half years. That’s starting to feel like a long time. Somehow, I still really like chicken. I also still really like my job. But staying in one place with the same people for that amount of time definitely changes a person. My acquired superpower is being able to fill a cup of sweet tea, make a milkshake, take a customer’s order on headset, listen to a coworker tell me about the really funny thing that happened to them last night, and respond coherently to both customer and coworker, all in under one minute and all at the same time. (That’s real, guys. This is my biggest career accomplishment thus far.)  Besides multi-tasking skills, I've also observed a lot about people and relationships and life craziness, all at this establishment that now feels like another home. And it’s really funny how the same job makes me think over and over (usually on the same day, sometimes within the same fifteen minutes), “Wow, human beings are such incredibly wonderful things” and “Wow, human beings are horrible chicken-eating maniacs and I never want to speak to another one again.” 

If you know anything about Chick-fil-A, you probably know that being super friendly and accommodating is part of the job description. (I've said the words “My pleasure” more times than I could ever count.) Holding open doors, answering questions, mopping up spills, apologizing for things that aren't your fault (except when they sometimes are your fault), cleaning up little-kid barf in the playroom, smiling, making small talk, remembering the names of the regulars, refilling drinks… this is our life at the front of the house. On good days, it’s the absolute best. Those are the days when you see all your favorite customers and you laugh every other sentence and the whole world seems beautiful. On bad days, it’s the absolute worst. (Those times, you grit your teeth, try to make a lot of jokes, and then pretend that you have to stock things so that you can go cry in the cooler.)

Sometimes, after a long and (occasionally) bad work day, I curl up with my backpack and headphones on the bus and think about all the things I feel like I’m missing thanks to my ordinary job and my ordinary life as a college student, and I soak in this combination of misery and self-pity and angsty folk music all the way home. It’s a good thing this doesn't happen on a daily basis, because it’s quite a terrible state to exist in. But it did happen on Monday. Monday was full of lots of sighing and staring out the drive-thru window and wishing that I didn't have to think about classes when I got home and wondering how I ended up in food service when I could have been… I don’t know, working in a orphanage in Kenya or something? Because sometimes, after the hundredth rude customer of the day has come and gone (along with most of my patience and more of my self esteem than I care to admit), it’s easy to ask myself, “Is there some greater meaning to this beyond handing hordes of grumpy people bags of chicken sandwiches?”

Thankfully, I realized both yesterday and today that the answer is still yes. Somehow, despite wishing for far-off adventure and keeping a running bucket-list in my head, I keep getting surprised by how much life defies the word ordinary and by how the word adventure is so much bigger than my poor attempts to define it. Like walking to the bus stop in the early morning while most of the town is still asleep and realizing that snow and chimney smoke and slow-blinking red lights are kind of magical, like everyone waiting for the bus and yawning and breathing into their hands to keep warm is part of a secret club and only we know what this place is really like before everything wakes up. Getting coffee at the Panera downtown every morning in between buses, and then sitting at the booth behind the coffee dispensers and pretending to journal… but I’m actually listening in to all the hilarious things the employees say to each other when they think customers aren't listening. At work, washing dishes and throwing handfuls of bubbles at each other and belting off-key to whatever’s on the radio, or doubling over with laughter in the drive-thru at the most outrageous thing a customer just said, or dancing through the dining room on slow days when the place is empty. (We did that yesterday. Dancing, that is. Yesterday was the slowest day imaginable, but it was snowing and somehow being able to commiserate about our imprisonment made it much better.)

Today at work a three-year-old and I became instant friends when I smiled at him through the window, he slowly smiled back, and then proudly held up all of his Spiderman action figures so that I could see them. Communication consisted of earnest babyspeak (him) and lots of smiling and waving and goofy faces (me), all while his mom was obliviously digging in her purse for change. And this is exactly the kind of thing that makes me think I wouldn't mind enduring every cranky customer in State College as long as I get to meet tiny humans like him.

Today I felt so lucky that I work with friends, real friends, not just people that I say hi to at work three days a week. I’m glad that we all like to laugh so much, because otherwise we’d be even more of a dysfunctional family than we already are. Thankful too for the customers who remember our names and stop to ask us how we’re doing (and wait for answers). I’m not sure that all the kind people who come to Chick-fil-A realize how much their words matter to us, even if it’s a twenty-second interaction. I want to tell all of them, “You’re the reason why I just decided all over again that I love my job!” Sometimes I do. I think I should say it more often. Being in a place that requires constant interaction is exhilarating and challenging and dizzying and frustrating and exhausting and sometimes absolutely hilarious and sometimes just plain old discouraging… but getting to share life with so many people, even if it’s only for a minute, is still worth it.

Pause, Listen, Absorb

Here we are, ladies and gentlemen: the very last day EVER of 2014. Never ever in the history of our world will there be another December 31, 2014. Pause to let that sink in, and to appreciate this historic moment.

Photo cred: all beautiful photos here taken by Leah Nissley

I didn't think I'd blog for a while, at least not til after New Year's. But something about the wood-smoke infused, sleepy air of this cabin surrounded by forest (where I'm currently enjoying the first real breaths of fresh air and the freedom to do nothing since Christmas break started) makes me want to sit down and write, half to sort out all the thoughts crowding into my head and half just for the pure enjoyment of putting words on a page. So bear with me in my ramblings. I'm in a rambling mood.

The past two days have slipped past in a whirlwind of late nights and wool socks and snuggles and raucous, honest laughter. There have been several walks in the woods and numerous naps (all the naps I've wanted to take during the semester but couldn't due to lack of time are catching up to me now). I'm soaking up peace like a thirsty sponge. I am so tired. But it's a good tired. A safe tired, like for the first time in a long time my entire body is relaxing. Every time I sit down somewhere warm, I want to purr like a kitten and curl up fast asleep. This morning when I woke up I remembered my dreams, which is funny because I really haven't dreamed (or at least remembered it) in such a long time. Probably because I haven't slept so well since the end of the summer.

Right now it's snowing outside, and it's lovely. Whenever the sun comes out, the air looks like it's thick with glitter. Leah and I are down in the furnace room, contentedly lost in our own inner worlds. She's working on a painting. I'm burrowed in a mountain of blankets and pillows on the sofa by the window. There's something so happy about being able to quietly work in the same space as someone else, without feeling compelled to start a conversation. You know you've found a good friend when you're comfortable with the sound of each other's silence. If I had my old journals with me, I'd probably want to flip through the hundreds of pages and the hundreds of things that happened since January 1st. That's become an end-of-year tradition of mine. But perhaps it's better that I don't. Why get lost in the pages of other days when today is so wonderful in and of itself?

I feel like I've figured out how to step out of time, like I've stumbled upon some mysterious land with no clocks, a land in which we get up when we're not tired anymore, eat when we feel like it, play outside until we run out of daylight, and go to bed when we've thoroughly exhausted ourselves with laughter and ridiculous dancing. I think I might have looked at a clock twice yesterday. I wish life could be like this more often. Present-focused, I guess, without so much worry about rushing to the next thing or getting to places on time. But the fact that it's not is also one of the things that makes me so thankful for days like today and moments like this moment. I'm thankful for bananas with peanut butter, and bed-jumping, and wild tickling matches that turn into wrestling matches, and the freedom not to take a shower if I don't feel like it (which I don't), and Leah's Spotify playlists, and the sound of Anna's laughter, and Lezlee's reading voice, and the way the snow looks when the wind blows it in ripple patterns across the back deck. I'm thankful for the pale-gold of winter sunlight.

And I hope you also find enjoyment in your last day of 2014, as much enjoyment as I'm discovering in mine. Although part of me wants to stay in this blanket cocoon forever, I think it is now time to finish blogging, bid farewell to the couch, and perhaps go for a walk.

Jesus, the Myers-Briggs, and other odds and ends

Oh my, it’s been too long. Not quite sure where autumn went, or how I went from sleeping with my windows wide open on Monday night to slip-sloshing my way home through a snow-muffled world this evening. This fall has been lovely, full of new experiences and friendships and road trips and an overall array of good things. It’s just gone very, very fast.

I can always tell it’s nearing the end of the fall semester when…

1. Somehow everything seems to blur together. I’m still not sure how this always happens. Within the past three or four weeks, my psych, philosophy, and 20^th century women’s lit courses (three VERY different classes with very different professors) have touched on so many of the same themes and concepts that in my mind they've almost become the same class. (This is both a pro and con – being a big-picture kind of person, I love discovering commonalities between my classes, but sometimes I end up forgetting details like, ahem, which professor goes with which class and emailing the wrong ones… awkward. Lack of sleep may or may not have played a part in this confusion.) Speaking of sleep…

2. Hibernation starts to sound really nice. (Seriously, why can’t people do this?) There’s a reason why I eat more food in the winter. It’s also why I take more naps. Maybe my body’s trying to tell me that I’m secretly a bear?

3.  Homework and other class-related bits of knowledge begin creeping over into strictly non-college areas of life. Last week in psych class, we studied personality theories, which I LOVE because I love thinking about people and wondering what makes them tick and analyzing everything. Sometimes probably too much. Case in point: in the middle of church this past Sunday, I spent a lot of time trying to figure out Jesus’s Myers-Briggs type. And then wondered how Jesus would feel about being typed…

Besides trying to keep my classes straight, wrangling various family members into taking too many personality tests in the name of psychology, and lamenting the fact that I can’t hibernate through this winter, I've somehow found time to read a few wonderful books, the very best of them titled My Bright Abyss by Christian Wiman. This book is absolutely the best thing I've read all semester (possibly all year, with the exception of an equally lovely and profound book of poems by Madeleine L’Engle). Anyway, I have been meaning to write some of my thoughts about it here for quite a while.

All jokes about end-of-semester-struggles aside, I've been wrestling with a lot and processing a lot this semester. Especially things concerning faith. I came home at the end of the summer with a mind full of questions and a heart longing not necessarily for answers but to be at peace with doubt and not knowing. The question became, “How can I learn to know God and love Jesus while still harboring doubts about my own beliefs?” And this hasn't been easy to figure out. I confess, a lot of the time I feel like I’m doing a bad job of it and just want to give up.

Sometimes the timing of things is really funny. Who would have thought I’d be taking a philosophy class this semester of all semesters? Philosophy studies over the past three months have unearthed such a mine of ideas and questions in me that some evenings all I can do is rest my head on my desk and feel completely overwhelmed. But oddly enough, I think it’s a needed thing. Feeling small is unpleasant and sometimes frightening, but not unhealthy. Maybe it’s a good thing to recognize how little I actually know. Victor Frankl, a philosopher and psychologist I read about just last week, wrote, “We need to learn to endure our inability to fully comprehend ultimate meaningfulness.” I almost cried when I read that, more out of relief than anything else.

So I started reading My Bright Abyss late last month and couldn't stop. Christian Wiman writes about Christ and that tension between faith and doubt in a way that’s raw and beautiful and honest. It was both comforting and unsettling, and there’s so much that could be said about this book but I’d rather just quote you my favorite parts and then beg you to go read it yourself. Please do. But here, some bits and pieces taken from my now very much underlined and doodled-in copy, starting with the paragraph that struck me the most (and still does every time I read it):

“Be careful. Be certain that your expressions of regret about your inability to rest in God do not have a tinge of self-satisfaction, even self-exaltation to them, that your complaints about your anxieties are not merely a manifestation of your dependence on them. There is nothing more difficult to outgrow than anxieties that have become useful to us, whether as explanations for a life that never quite finds its true force or direction, or as fuel for ambition, or as a kind of reflexive secular religion that, paradoxically, unites us with others in a shared sense of complete isolation: you feel at home in the world only by never feeling at home in the world.”

“It is a strange thing how sometimes merely to talk honestly of God, even if it is only to articulate our feelings of separation and confusion, can bring peace to our spirits. You thought you were unhappy because this or that was off in your relationship, this or that was wrong in your job, but the reality is that your sadness stemmed from your aversion to, your stalwart avoidance of, God. The other problems may very well be true, and you will have to address them, but what you feel when releasing yourself to speak of the deepest needs of your spirit is the fact that no other needs could be spoken of outside of that context. You cannot work on the structure of your life if the ground of your being is unsure.”

“Even when Christianity is the default mode of a society, Christ is not. There is always some leap into what looks like absurdity, and there is always, for the one who makes that leap, some cost.”

“Christ speaks in stories as a way of preparing his followers to stake their lives on a story, because existence is not a puzzle to be solved, but a narrative to be inherited and undergone and transformed person by person. He uses metaphors  because something essential about the nature of reality – its mercurial solidity, its mathematical mystery and sacred plainness – is disclosed within them. He speaks the language of reality – speaks in terms of the physical world – because he is reality’s culmination and key (one of them, at any rate), and because ‘this people’s mind has become dull; they have stopped their ears and shut their eyes. Otherwise, their eyes might see, their ears hear, and their mind understand, and then they might turn to me, and I would heal them.’”

Needless to say, I am still absorbing a lot of this. It’s probably fair to say that I’m still absorbing ALL of it. The best books usually take a long time to sift through. I would venture to say more, but it’s getting late and I still have quite a mound of homework to plow through (Thanksgiving break, you say? What’s that?). Anyway… hopefully I have given you something to absorb as well (and a possible addition to your reading list). Here’s to those last three weeks of classes before the real break. Deep breath. Here we go!

On Wednesdays and rain

Today has been a most rainy Wednesday. I like rain. I don’t like Wednesdays.

To be fair, this one couldn't have gotten off to a lovelier start.  What’s better than waking up at five a.m. to the steady pounding of rain outside your open window and the realization that you have one more hour of sleep?  Just after seven I bolted out the front door, somehow forgetting to grab a jacket in the thrill of walking to the bus in an October monsoon, half tempted to ditch the umbrella and go war-whooping and puddle-jumping down the hill.  Downtown, the streets were awash with tiny rivers and streaks of reflected red and green.

But then it was cold. And wet. And I was wearing short sleeves. I clung to my umbrella, along with a vehement optimism (“I WILL love this day!”) that began to fade by the second bus.  By the time I got to work, the world had shifted from “Wheeee!  Puddles!” to “My bones ache.  I feel ninety years old.”

The rain slowed to a drizzle sometime in the late afternoon. The rooftop of the empty building across from the Chick-fil-A drive-thru turned into a gray lake dotted with scarlet and orange leaves. I fell asleep on the bus home, hugging a library book and jerking uncomfortably awake every few minutes because I’m always afraid I’ll miss my stop.  (One of these days it really will happen -- I’ll probably just circle around State College for hours, curled up happily in a back seat.)

Perhaps the whole I-don’t-like-Wednesdays thing stems in part from my love of beginnings. Mondays are  my favorite day of the week. New stories, new ideas, new possibilities, new projects, new sights, new sounds, new colors – this is a Monday. If Monday is the gunshot at the start of the race, Wednesday is a-- I don't know, a charley horse or something. Starting things, often leaving lots of messy trails and discarded ideas in my wake, is what I’m good at. Endings are great too. Those are usually the cause for much leaping and rejoicing, as well as anticipation for the next beginning waiting to be discovered. The middle though… the never-ending middle, like that part of a car trip where your butt falls asleep and you can’t stop asking, “Are we there yet?”… that’s the hard part. At least for me.

To be fair, the middle is the best part of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and the most delicious thing about an Oreo, but they're not the first things that leap to mind. The middle makes me think of being stuck in between siblings in the back seat of a packed car. That part of the movie in which I always fall asleep. The hardest part of writing a story. Midterms, which have descended with a vengeance. Oh, and Wednesdays of course. The idealist in me wants every day to be an adventure, often resulting in a passionate avoidance of blah days… or at least, refusing to acknowledge that a blah day is, in fact, blah. But life is filled with ordinary days and quiet moments. Like today. Today was a sleepy, drizzly, monotonous day (plus a terrible hair day – thanks for that, weather). So maybe the true challenge is learning to acknowledge those gray, achy-bones kind of day, and to recognize that stillness is good for your soul. That the slow, steady middle is as valuable as a beginning and an end.

It has been a most rainy Wednesday, a never-ending day, an “Are we there yet?” day. But I like rain. I like October. And I like that it’s still warm enough to keep both windows open on wet, peaceful nights like this.

Sooner or later all vehicles develop minds of their own (and that's where the trouble starts).

A momentous event in the life of the Martin children: today they drove home from church backward and nobody was killed.

But seriously, it’s a good story.

It started this weekend when Mom and Dad left for a high school reunion in Lancaster and we had complete charge of the house for forty-eight hours.  There were squabbles about who would fold the laundry, who would cook the meals… heaven forbid someone doesn't do their share of the dishes… etc.  If you have siblings of your own, YOU know what I mean.  Anyhow, chore-duty got all sorted out and we survived, the only mishap being the van breaking down.  Which was quite an event.  (Readers, please take note: this was NOT the new one just purchased earlier this week, it was the big red-and-white dinosaur bus that’s served us well for quite a while.) 

After we left church and piled into the van, Jake shifted into reverse, pulled out of the parking space, and prepared to exit the parking lot… only to be met with the vaguely crunchy sound of grinding automobile parts and a vehicle that absolutely, positively would not budge.  We sat there for the next five minutes, creating an obvious roadblock while Jake fiddled with the gear stick and the rest of us yelled helpful hints from the backseat.  At last it was clear that the van would drive in reverse, and only reverse.  So we set off slowly, trying to ignore the puzzled stares from people in other cars as we inched out of the parking lot backward and pulled onto the street.  For the rest of the drive (only about a mile), Jake steered while the rest of us peered out of the windows and shouted advice like:

“Watch it!  You’re veering!”

 “Try not to drive on top of the yellow line!”

“Don’t run over that man!”

…and other such helpful tidbits.  We did make it home in one piece (props to Jake for some impressive driving) and left all pedestrians unscathed, as promised.  The van is now parked in an empty lot on top of South Allegheny hill, its fate to be determined.

    

The rest of the morning and afternoon included a crazy three-person game of basketball at the YMCA with Jake and Charlotte, culminating in Char literally ripping a sleeve off Jake’s T-shirt (much to everyone’s astonishment) and both of us falling to the floor in hysterical laughter while he examined the ragged remains.  To be fair, it wasn't really a basketball game – more like a lot of flailing, flinging, jumping on backs, and war whoops that happened to also involve a basketball somewhere in there.

These are the kinds of days that seem more rare and noteworthy lately, especially because it’s becoming quite obvious that I’m not the only one at home learning to grow up and live an adult life.  Or, you know, something at least resembling that.  Jake’s graduated, Charlotte is embarking on her second-to-last high school voyage as a junior, and Abby’s testing the waters as a freshman.  The older two have jobs during the week, and the youngest can usually be found behind mountains of homework.  (I don’t remember the mountain being quite so big when I was fifteen… hmm).  So it’s a bit strange, getting used to my younger siblings being all over the place, living their own lives, driving their own cars, working real jobs.  Coming home to find the house empty and wondering, “Where did they all go?”  I know that’s the nature of families, that independence is something that happens slowly and I guess you get used to being around each other less and less.  But sometimes I miss when we were little kids.

This will be my third year living at home since I've graduated high school.  Every year I've been telling myself it might be the last.  Not in a can’t-wait-to-get-out-of-here kind of way (though let’s be honest, who doesn't feel like that sometimes?).  More of a I-honestly-have-no-idea-what’s-coming-next kind of way.  It’s exciting to imagine what might be waiting up ahead.  But something I've been trying to learn and relearn over the past year or so is not to hold onto any of my plans too tightly.  Things are always changing.  Especially when you’re eighteen… nineteen… twenty…  Take this past January for example, when I was struck with possibly the worst bout of wanderlust I've ever experienced and started seriously thinking about buying one-way plane tickets to far-off places.  (Ahem… I say “seriously” but this particular strain of wanderlust ripped through my system in about two weeks before I was back to a normal spring semester of college).  Then about a month later, I applied to Millersville University, got accepted, and had high hopes of starting there as an English education major this fall.  So if you would have asked me where I’d be come September, oh, seven or eight months ago, I wouldn't have said here.

Yet here I am.  Once again thinking it might be the last year at home.  But who knows?  Here’s to crazy basketball and temperamental vehicles from the dark ages.  This is the stuff of life as of this semester, this month, right now.