Taking Stock

Okay, I admit, it's been a while since I've been the bombastic blogger.  In fact, it's been a month since I last posted anything.

In that month I have very nearly been deported (hello snail mail, scrambling, miscommunication, drafted appeals, snail mail again and... deadlines!); gotten married; gotten a military ID (spouse not soldier); and had a birthday.

I have logged thousands of miles by air or road; made ten thousand phone calls; sent about a million emails; and made somewhere in the neighborhood of a billion mistakes.

I have cried more than I care to admit- happy and sad tears.

I have experienced what amounts to close to every human emotion.  Some of the negative ones have yet to rear their heads… But give it time.

I have been chastised, harassed, scolded, dismissed and denied- almost exclusively by people with whom I've interacted in Norway.  As an aside- I may be captivated by your country's stark and breathtaking beauty but honestly, I'm over the joke that you seem to think is appropriate human interaction.  Seriously, for people who are frequently ranked amongst the happiest in the world, some of you have got some impressively unpleasant attitudes.  So now it's game on.  If you want to fight, call me Mayweather.

Wow. That was an aside. And it's not everyone, obviously. Just a handful of winners.

In that month I gained another family, extra sets of parents, and a husband who may have more patience than than anyone I've ever met, and an extraordinarily good heart.  I have been reminded of how lucky I absolutely am.

I have been kissed, congratulated, hugged, and handed more glasses of wine and champagne than my liver actually deserved.

I got a(nother) tattoo, applied to go back to school, and learned to Stand Up Paddleboard.  Oh and I also discovered that I have a waterdog- beware rowboats, kayaks, canoes, and fishermen, Henry's coming at ya.

But the month is over.  Everyone is up to date and I'm once again online.  I'm back in Norway… harumph…. and already planning more jumps around the globe.

Next up is Dublin.

And until next time, Dearhearts.

Limbo! Not Just a Gravitationally Challenging Game

Recently I have found myself in a sort of multifaceted limbo.  So many components of my life are neither here nor there; not one way or another; they are limboing.  Yes.  As a matter of fact, I can make that noun into a verb if I feel so inclined, I'm that good.

And limbo, while far less distressing than the rabbit hole, is just an odd state.  It is a hanging state- like those little marshmallows in that horrifying jello-salad… thing.  You know the one I'm talking about.  That marshmallow is stuck, doomed.  It has been completely stripped of itself and it's self-control.  It can't sink; it can't swim; it can't move.  It can only wait, forever suspended in pinkish-orange goo, to be devoured.

That's limbo.

And, not that this will come as an extraordinary surprise, I'm no good at limbo.  I just don't do it well; I am not a marshmallow.  I suppose it's the same principle as being sick- I don't care if get better or worse, I just cannot sit there.  Meanwhile, I don't care if I move forward or backward, just let me move- sink, swim, or be devoured… just. let. me. move.  Let me shift in some meaningful direction- or at least let me pick a direction and start wading toward it.

Mixed metaphors anyone?

I'm pretty sure I'll get to a point somewhere in all this nonsense.

Oh yes, here it is…

It's not an easy thing, having to watch your world happen around you. And before everyone goes all up in arms and tells me it's my own fault, and I can absolutely be active in my own world, happening in my own world… that that's the point of it being my world, just do something about it (yes, I can also anticipate counter arguments)- go back to the notion of limbo.

Limbo is absolutely what I'm describing: some jello-like force that literally contains you within your own space.  Because of this force, this thing that is outside of your control, you become immobile and unable to participate in your surroundings.

And that's where I'm at.

Until next time, dearests.

If Your Own Being Sickens You

Then how do you live with yourself?

The past few weeks have been a flurry of non activity and activity- of working, waiting, wondering, and worrying.  I have been all over this adopted town of mine- to Food Festivals, to new bars, to old haunts.  I have sequestered myself inside in a heap of irrational loneliness.  I've had grand times and growing distress and all of the normal day-to-day nonsense of human life.

Normal.

Day-to-day.

And there's the pinch, the twist, the slash.

In all of this lovely normal there's been a growing darkness, the metaphysical hiccup- the demon that sits on both shoulders and waits. Until you have your guard down; until you feel happy and feel like maybe you can let your guard down; until you have something for it to really play with.  That little thing waits until it can do the maximum amount of harm.

Which is when it strolls up your shoulder and begins to whisper in your ear.

Not good enough. 

Never good enough.  

You should be ashamed of yourself. 

You are worth nothing. 

And the scariest bit of this little demon is how convincing it is, how clear it's voice rings.  The truth he speaks is not his but an echo of your own.  The little demon, the beast, is a part of you whether you want him or not (or her or not).  It is you, the worst of you, the very most fracture of you- but put back together in the very most terrible of ways.

It, he, she, is what makes you you- but what makes you you in the ways that you fight against and struggle against; swear at; damn; curse.

And he's come a-whisperin', Dearhearts. He's come indeed.

The Odd-Numbered Wheel.

Except for the dog, I am alone in a hotel room.  It is something o'clock in the morning and through the thin building walls I can hear someone singing Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen.

Every now and then, I am confronted with the weirdness of lonely.

It is the weirdness of standing in a roomful of people and being certain that you have developed the power of invisibility; the weirdness of being able to move in and out of crowds, around them seamlessly because you are more shadow than substance.  'Going through the motions' was never more apropos.

Lonely is the weirdness of watching yourself change; feeling helpless to stop it; and then plotting your own demise in a vain, pitiable, pathetic attempt to counteract it.  Lonely is knowing yourself too well for your own good- both lonely and knowledge are simultaneously insidious and challenging and terrifying. Your Self, after all, is not a good one.

Lonely is the weirdness of a dream scream- opening your mouth wide to cry out, call out, beg for help… only to find that you have no voice. You are rendered helpless by silence.

It is the weirdness of a self fulfilling prophecy.  I am lonely, I am disheartened, so I separate myself in an attempt to keep those around me from getting stained by the strength and pull of my emotion.  Which makes me lonelier and isolated.  It makes me a masterpiece.

Lonely is a reality check.  And a rather potent one, at that.  It's that poke in the back; pinch on the arm; flick on the shoulder.  'Watch yourself,' it says, 'cause nobody else is.'

And with that.  A walk for the pup.

Until next time, dear ones.

Happy Birthday, Mommy.

Today, my mother celebrates her 29th (cough) birthday.  Which is weird (cough cough) when you consider that I am already 30 (cough cough cough).  Mathematically, it doesn't quite work.

But who ever said birthdays and mathematical sense go together? Surely not I.

Alas, I digress.

As the universe would have it, I am once again far away for a beloved parent's big day.  And while I somehow managed to spirit away a gift to her through the mail, it's not quite the same as being able to kick back and spend the day with Mom.  Or being able to call from inside the county, at an obnoxiously early hour, and sing "Happy Birthday" and the top of my lungs.  Not that I wouldn't do that from Norway, it's just… not the same.

The thing is… birthdays aren't about gifts, they are about presence. Birthdays are about being there for a person who, in this case, has always been there back.  They are about looking at a person you love and thinking 'DAMN, I'm happy you're here. (And you got here, 29 years ago {again}, on this day!).'

And the loveliest fact on earth is that I've got so many reasons to be happy for my Mom- happy that she's here, happy that she's there.  If you've ever had the luck to meet Maureen, you know that she's something else.  I frequently describe her as my touchstone, my protector, my best friend.  And this is going to be a short version of her list because it could go on for pages and I can only gush for so long before you'll stop reading.  So here we go…

She has the biggest heart of any person I've met in my life- and she loves with every last bit of it.  Her intuition is huge and stunning which lends a compassion to her that is rarely found in others.  She is funny as all hell and laughs with every iota of her being.

When you are visiting her, she's the 'In-Town Mama.' When she is visiting you, she's the 'Outta-Town Mama.'  It doesn't actually matter what relation you are to her, she'll mother you.  She is exceptionally patient when it comes to the people, or creatures, that she love most.  She's technologically backward, old-school, hates her smart phone, and yesterday described herself as 'squealing like a toddler every time I see you pop onto Gchat (gmail's version of messenger).'  She then proceeded to give me an example of her squealing like a toddler and I very nearly peed myself laughing.  She's the best.


She is one of the strongest people I know.  Period.

And someday, I'd like to be a little bit like her.

But until that day… HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAMA! (Apparently in Norway it's 'Gratulerer med Dagen'… boring), AND WELCOME TO THE FIRST OF MANY BIRTHDAY BLOGS, BABY!!  My advice for the day?  Have a re-live of September 2008, find a river, a paddleboat, and a Pina Colada.  And scene.  Wish I was there. <3

So Far, So Florence

It seems like everyone in Florence has some sort of story to tell. The homeless, the hapless, the helpless.    And they are all begging for their photos to be taken- a visual aide to their tales. 

The people here are tourists and locals, sightseers and philanderers and men and women looking for some sort of break. 

The meat, meanwhile, is looking for a cut. 

These men were sort of deliciously lazing across from a wine bar- the tenders at which were serving them merrily and without a second thought to charge.  They all have stories to tell.  And they tell them to each other.

Old meets new.  I am partial to both, believe it or not.  As much as my heart sings for the ancient world and works- there's something to be said for juxtaposition. 

Ponte Santa Trinita at sunset. 

This dude at morningtime… sheesh.

My first glimpse of the Duomo resulted in a rather emphatic, overly loud "Holy Shit."  It is the third largest church space following Saint Peter's in Rome and Saint Paul's in London. And it's phenomenally stunning- all green, white, and pink granite.  All Holier Than Thou. 

And then you see the sky and remember that it's not really the building that counts at all...

Ah Firenze.  Every time  I see that word, I think about Harry Potter- wasn't the centaur called Firenze? Wasn't he?

Gridwork. 

Gridwork, part sunshine, part two. 

And until next time… Suggestions for gelato flavors?

On Minarets, Microphones, and Magic

It's been nearly a week since my return from Istanbul and I still can't quite shake the feeling that I've done her some sort of injustice by not actually writing about the city.  I can't quite get her out of my head or off my mind.  Go with me on this one, let it flow, because it might be a bit of a ramble.

Despite my decidedly out of control globetrotting, I have never visited a predominately Muslim country.  Most of my travels have taken me to largely Christian, undecided, or otherwise inclined places. There's no rhyme, reason or prejudice here.  In the hierarchies of my travels, where I can go is where I do go- and that is much more a result of funding versus religious affiliation.  I believe I've fairly clearly established my own thoughts on religious systems and spirituality.  The one I don't buy into at all, the other I have the utmost respect for.  No surprise there.

But what may surprise is that the thing about Istanbul that struck me the most- aside from the colors, flavors, scents and scenes, visions of living history- was the religiosity there.  It is woven artfully into the day with extreme precision and delicacy.  It is careful and sometimes subtle and frequently not-so-subtle.

Hagia Sophia near the center, Blue Mosque off to the
far right.  Ten hundred thousand life-stories between.

The religion in Istanbul struck me as both blunt and gentle- there was a constancy to it that was amazingly profound but also a nonchalance about it.  Every man had prayer beads that he was constantly fingering.  Women had traditional scarves.  Scanning the horizon is a riot of lopsided buildings, skyscrapers and unsightly cranes- all punctuated by the jabbing grace of minarets.  Minarets everywhere- minarets beside minarets beside minarets.  All outfitted with microphones.

This place, this history, so steeped in religion and so aware of that, does not let you forget it.  If Istanbul can remember- so can you.

(This is where I'm going to do something very difficult- and skip the part about the Hagia Sophia. If you know me and know what some things mean to me, you'll know that the nearly three hours I spent in awe and reverence in that space were about as close to Holy as I can get.  In those three hours I remembered why History was my first love, and how History is so Holy… Hmm.. I guess I'm doing a poor job at skipping the part about Hagia Sophia.  I digress.)

And now for elementary background (and I apologize for my woeful oversimplification here)… Muslims observe Salat (Namaz in Turkey), one of the five pillars of their faith, with prayers that take the physical, mental, and spiritual aspects of (wo)man, roll them together, and demand respect, attention.  It's a time-out from life, a reminder of the bigger picture.  Salat happens five times a day.  And witnessing  that will change a person- at least for a little while.  Because Muslims pray… beautifully.  The daily calls to prayer (Adhan) which erupt from those microphone-bearing minarets around the city at prescribed times are booming, echoing, tinny, abrasive and utterly captivating.

Yes. That is me: shoulders covered, head covered,
kneeling at the Blue Mosque.  Even heathens have
respect. 

Everyday there- several times a day- I'd pause for a heartbeat, wondering about the strangeness of being included in someone's religion, someone's faith, simply by having chosen to visit their city.  It was an oddly provocative gift.  And how very potent that realization is to someone like me.

Everyday there- all those several times a day- I stood quietly realizing that my adventure now had a new soundtrack.  Instead of jack-hammers and honking horns, I had the call of some appointed Muezzin guiding me through the crowded streets of this ancient place.  And in this ancient place, in those few moments, I felt an ancient magic.  It's the magic made from layers upon layers of civilization, each weighing down on the last, each bolstering the one that followed, building up to something… I don't know what yet.

It's the magic made from Spices, Sultans and Salats.

It's the magic of Istanbul.

There. That feels better- And until next time.

Home*

I'm staring out the window of another plane.  I can't see the landscape through the clouds but I know it's there, passing beneath me.  Or rather, existing beneath me while I pass over it.

I watch the clouds, imagine the land, and wonder where is home?  What is home?

I've never been terribly discriminatory about my use of that word.  'Home.'  I guess because I don't really consider home a place, or maybe that I don't consider it a singular place.  I'm too traveled, too 'miled' for that- far too old for the luxury of staidness.  The plane I'm on at the moment reminds me of this- it's flying me from Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris to Stavanger, Norway.  For the moment, it's flying me home.

Or is it?

Because home is Charlotte, North Carolina.  Home is Windsor, Vermont.  Home is the driver's side of a Jeep that will soon be sold to the highest bidder.  Yesterday home was an eighth floor apartment in Istanbul with a rooftop terrace and an evil washing machine.

There it is- home isn't a place.  It's a space.  It's a space that you carve out for whatever small or grand period of time for yourself.  Home is the space that you make yours.  If it's only for a day, cool- that bench is homier than any other around, or that bus seat or that plane seat on a long haul trip.  If it's for a week, even better.  Because at that point, at some point, you're walking along the streets of someplace theoretically foreign and you stop when you realize that you've bought coffee from the same hidden, hardworking vendor for the past four mornings in a row.  You're not home- but you have your own 'coffee shop on the corner.' And there it is again- you are home.

If it's even longer, then you're just lucky. New Jersey, North Carolina, Paris, Maryland, New Hampshire, Vermont, China - all of these place have been my home.  And there are so many more.  There will be so many more.

It's not a place. My parents will move to Florida soon. And where they go, where they wind up, will not be the house I grew up in, but it will be home because of them. Vermont and New Hampshire will always be home because of the people I know there and the love I have known there.  Norway might not work out, I really don't know. But in a little while, I will be landing and making my way to an apartment with a warm, happy dog wanting to say hello…

And 'welcome home.'

And until next time… I'm home.

*I journaled this on a plane- typed it later on.

Istanblog

I literally made myself giggle with that title.  I know that I'm not really funny… but I like to tell myself that I am.

And without further adieu, the Photo Blog from Istanbul…

So far...

The Not-Obessions Confessions

Yes, this is really happening.  I haven't done an obsessions post in a while- not that I don't have a whole litany of music, books, stuff, that I could prattle on about.  But instead I'd like to take a wander through the things that I am currently not loving.  For serious, not loving.

Let's start with old Norwegian men on bikes.

Calm down and lemme 'splain.  My wee little dog has a problem with bikes.  Not that he hates them, he just wants to eat them.  And not that he wants to eat the persons pedaling, no- he wants to eat the bike itself.

So. When Henry and I go for walks around town- around a town where there are many many people on bikes- it's more of an exercise in mind-reading, anticipation, situational awareness, agility, and strength than an exercise in actual walking.  If I see a bike approaching, I can corral the dog to the side of the path and hush him, tell him no, generally try to control him. Which is not easy with a 50 pound blond fur bomb.

And that's when the magic happens, because the charming old Norwegian men, on their charming Norwegian bikes, will slow down.  Yep, they see me with this dog who could qualify as his own circus act, each of us struggling against the other… and they slow down.  To watch.  Yes. Yes, old Norwegian men, that is exactly what I want you to do- slow down to watch the madness that is my dog unfold and prolong his outrageous desperation to eat your vehicle.  Do that.  I really really dig it when you do.

Next up- old Norwegian men in bars.  Especially the super drunk ones. Especially the super drunk ones who think that it's okay to refer to my partner as my "daddy" while manhandling me, grabbing my arm and jerking me around to face him while he's breathing liquid death into my face.  Actually, guy, it's not okay.  And you know what else- that's MY ass that you're grabbing thankyouverymuch, and if you do it again you're going to find a tactically placed knee in your general groin area. Private forking property, buddy.

Or should I say Grandpa?

This book.  Sort of instills in me the simultaneous desire to vomit and weep.  How did this happen? How did the first three happen?!?

I definitely don't love the people who open doors while talking to, and looking at, the people behind them.  Look where you are going, folks, there might just be a girl with a dog… directly in your path.  If I had a dollar for the number of times I've been slammed into by a glass door- only to be given an affronted look by the person who slammed it into me- in the past several weeks, I wouldn't be considering a life of crime to solve my financial woes.

This song.  It was getting nonstop airtime when I left the States a little over a month ago.  It is now getting nonstop airtime in Norway.  I literally cannot escape it. (Also- note here that it's definitely part of the 50 Shades soundtrack).

I'd bring up the apparently never-ending winter, but I think that's pushing it.  I suppose I should have anticipated that when I decided to move to just shy of the Arctic Circle.  And I probably should have packed more warm clothing.  And fewer dresses.

And for now, until next time, that's all dear ones.  Be good on this Summer (laughable) Solstice and this Father's Day.