Boom Clap

"Boom Clap - the sound of my heart, the beat goes on and on..."

Can't get enough of those two.  Maybe it's because I just got back from Nashville, maybe it's because I love their music echoing through the rooms in our apartment.  We need it in our little igloo.

I took the bus for the first time today, from UNH to Portsmouth.  My car is currently lodged safely in the driveway, away from those nasty roads.  One of my friends from Montana, told me that she probably has the opposite problem that I do.  She wants life to go on despite the snow whereas I'm terrified to drive my car through it.  And yes, I think, "No one should be out on these roads!  Why are things open??"

There's just so much snow.  I'd be okay with it melting - if this was the end of the storms.  Even though it's comical - I crack up probably because I'm actually cracking up... as in, going crazy.  I walked into our living room the other day to laugh outloud at that the snow that had crept up just a little bit more, covering 75% of our windows.  Last night, the plow guy shoved his plow right into our house, after another "Plow Guy Session" where we get the warning, stumble out of our apartment, and all work like little snow bunnies to unburrow our cars out of the driveway.  Last night, it was at 10 pm, during hanging-out-in-the-kitchen wine time.  C'mon now.

We become more like our indoor cat each day, cooky little soul that she is.  Soon, we'll all just be staring at the basement door - just like her - and burrowing on random spots on the floor, playing with candy wrappers and darting up and down the stairs.  I kind of want to toss her in the snow.  I kind of want to toss myself in the snow.

Not only has our household gotten hit with snow, but also with tragedy - the loss of my friend's (fellow apartment dweller/cat owner) brother to the hands of a heroin addiction.  The terribly strong hands of that addiction.  Not only has the igloo that we now live in brought us together, but also this incredible loss - putting our snow troubles into perspective.  The white powder out there really isn't that bad, on the grand scale of things.  We're all together and we're here - making mulled wine, filing out for the plow guy, freezing in the road as we pray we'll get out cars back in the driveway.  I asked another apartment-mate to bring home some sunshine and she brought home cinnamon roll dough.  Perfect.

Since Sam Smith had just swept the Grammy's, I felt I had to listen to his record.  I think it'll always remind me of these days, since it's been playing on repeat, along with that Boom Clap.

And it's with all of these things that we'll keep moving, spinning our tires, but with a little push from one another - we'll help each other through.

"C'mon to me c'mon to me now...."

From Above

Flying through the clouds, I stare and stare at the sea of white puffy puffs and wisps of air catching my eyes for minutes and minutes. 

Suggestion:  Don’t read the end of Farewell to Arms while you’re flying.  Not only is it tragic, but in my copy, it has an appendix of other endings Hemingway thought about trying, one of which is:

“That is all there is to the story.  Catherine died and you will die and I will die and that is all I can promise you."

Our plane bumped over a touch of turbulence as I read those words.  Death isn't something any of us have overcome ourselves, yet it touches our lives, molding them so forcefully.  As I sit up on my seat in the sky - 30,000 feet above the land - I think how precarious it all is, how the plane is perhaps one of the strongest vehicles yet entirely fragile.  As I was driving to Trader Joe's yesterday, I watched a tall light that hovers over the road fall over - so gracefully and quietly.  Thankfully, there seemed to be no people or cars in it's path.  The snow piles are gigantic enough to block my eyes from where it actually fell.  In reality, we courageously traverse the precarious sky every single day. 

And yet we continue, we traverse on.  From a conquest over the sea, across lands - horses to planes, 

plus cars and trains, to the moon in a rocket ship, through the air in pixels - moments held in my own hands - in pictures.  There is a miracle of flight, of light and of course, life itself.  

The Book Thief gives Death a different voice, where Death introduces themselves and talks a bit about their trade - how they see the world in color which "merges through a multitude of shades and intonations, with each passing moment" and how "I can be amiable.  Agreeable.  Affable.  And that's only the A's.  Just don't ask me to be nice.  Nice has nothing to do with me."  They go on to talk about their love of distraction and vacation:

"Still, it's possible that you might be asking, why does he even need a vacation?  What does he need distraction from?  Which brings me to my next point.  It's the leftover humans.  The survivors.  They're the ones I can't stand to look at, although on many occasions I still fail.  I deliberately seek out the colors to keep my mind off them, but now and then, I witness the ones who are left behind, crumbling among the jigsaw puzzle of realization, despair, and surprise.  They have punctured hearts.  They have beaten lungs."

Here's to all the survivors, courageously fly through this precarious world everyday.

The Space Between

Our neighbor takes a rest before he finishes shoveling his driveway. 

This snow is becoming slightly overwhelming.  

This morning, my roommate grabbed her jacket and strapped on her boots to come out and help me get my car out of it's frozen puddle.  An hour later, we miraculously peeled it away from the layer of ice it had been lodged in, with one special ingredient: kitty litter.  I feel sorry for my car and can't imagine this heeing and hawing is good for its health; I'm scared it will hurt itself at some point - that the accelerator will shoot right out of the car during one of these rock-back-and-forth sessions.  Clouds of smoke from the burning rubber pour out each time.  The smell tells me that this just isn't right.  It's too much.  

As I sat in my kitchen, unwinding from a nerve wracking failed attempt to skid to school, I began imagining what the world used to be like, before cars and plow trucks.  Were the horses able to handle the roads better, or the walkers?  Updike captures some of those older sounds here in the short story Clarence from In the Beauty of the Lilies (p. 43):

"The clatter of horseshoes and iron-tired wheels on cobblestones was mixed with the receding friction of a Broadway trolley car and the occasional snuffling crescendo, punctuated by sharp coughs of frustrated combustion, of the horseless carriages, or motorrigs - Ford Model Ts and Oldsmobiles in the main - which the more advanced citizens of Paterson were inflicting in ever greater numbers upon the old uneven, dung-strewn streets.  The young century was thronged with a parade of inventions that amused Clarence when little else did, and the presumptuous, ragged, hopeful sound of a doughty little motorrig brought a ray of innocent energy, such as messenger angels would ride to earth, into his invalid mood.  The hoarse receding note drew his consciousness to a fine point, and while that point hung in his skull starlike he feel asleep upon the adamant bosom of the depleted universe." 

I like the part about "dung-strewn" streets - it reminds me of the advancements we've made, but the crap that can come with them.  Our inventions have helped us move around everywhere, but that distance can become hard to handle, too.  

The further I venture, the bigger the spaces between me and my world become; trips to family become plane rides or long drives and I find myself dependent on these machines to connect me with those I love or the work that I do.  Today no way to get to school and this past November, no way to get to my grandmother's funeral in Scotland.  It's tough to be torn between places, yet it's become a normal part of our lives: everyone and everything is everywhere.  I leave pieces of my heart all over the place - and it really hurts sometimes. 

As I write this, I can hear the plow guy and his compadres outside working on the snow and ice in our driveway.  So glad to know we are not alone in this, at all.  

Our driveway looks so much more hopeful now. 

Winter Storm Review

In honor of Winter Storm Linus

Here's what I remember, for January:

1/12 Wintry Mix moving up the East Coast causing me to delay driving up from NJ
1/18 Snow/Ice Storm leaving me stranded in Burlington, VT (not complaining)
1/24 Snow all day causing plans with MA friends (to visit!) to be de-railed
1/27 Blizzard Juno arrives, canceling classes on 1/27 & 1/28 (not complaining)
1/30 Snow flurries for most of the day, adding a few inches

In summary: Every 3-6 days, a wintry mix of some variety arrives in New England.

Things I have heard or said over the past week or so:

"I think my feet sweat in my boots and then the sweat got cold, so now they're cold again."

"Look at my hands!"
"Oh my gosh!  They're so red!"
"And dry... so dry."

"There's water pouring through a hole in our foundation."
"It sounds like we have a man-made pond down in the basement."
"It sounds like a waterfall."

"This chocolate is frozen." (Lindt truffles left in the car)

"I can't believe the water froze that quickly... well, actually I can." (Nalgene bottle just place in the car)

"You're car is on a sheet of ice."

"Who dumped this huge bucket of snow on our house?"

"I hope the power doesn't go out."

"The water in my shower just turned freezing cold!"

"What was that?!"
"I think it was a huge chunk of snow that just blew off that car."

"I'm not confident that they plow or salt the roads in NH."

"It doesn't matter what you're driving, when you hit black ice... you hit black ice."

"Open the door, open the door!" (to the car, while freezing)

"I don't understand why water is rushing down our driveway - isn't it too cold for it to be melting?"

"I feel bad for my car."

"When I start thinking about Winter, I realize how much I don't like it.  So, I can't think about it."

"So glad it's snowing again!"

Winter storm Linus should be joining us tomorrow, followed by another one on Wednesday.

Let's hope Linus leaves his warm blanket behind for us.

To Be Mzungu

Us Mzungus at the market, putting on that sunscreen

When I was studying abroad in Uganda, one of the first things we all learned is that Ugandans refer to Westerners - perhaps mostly white Westerners, as they tend to stand out more - as "Mzungu".  Well, that just means "white person", right?  Or wealthy American?  Or colonialist?  Or whatever... no big deal.  Sure, it was maybe annoying to be called this along the streets, or by our homestay families, but it seemed a small burden to bear compared to the way western countries have interfered with African countries - or the fact that westerners often refer to Africa as a country.

But no - Mzungu does not just mean "white person".  Sure, if you look it up in English this is probably what you'll find, and think, "Oh yeah, that's just like Gringo/Gringa, or whatever".

No - "Mzungu" in Swahili means "one who moves around" "to go round and round" "to turn in circles".... "without purpose".

What?!

How did it take me almost 10 years after my study abroad to hear about this?

I learned this from browsing through The Art of Failure: The Anti-Self Help Guide by Neel Burton through an article on humility I was perusing (let's say grad school can make you think a lot about yourself... "Am I a failure?").  I found it within the first couple pages, where the author was talking about the usual: Westerners (huge generalization, I know) are always trying to do too much and doing this "running around in circles" thing and getting themselves all stressed out, feeling unhappy:

"One of the central tenets of the Western worldview is that one should always be engaged in some kind of outward task."

"In contrast most people living in a country such as Kenya in Africa do not share in the Western worldview that it is noble or worthwhile to spend all of one's time rushing around from one task to the next."

Going back to Thomas Merton and his No Man is an Island reflections, he describes this challenge of the doing and the being - where if you do too much, you stir up a great cloud of your activity and can't see where you are.  It's the flurry of activity that should be avoided - that space where you lose track of your human being-ness.  I read in another article by Omad Safi, The Disease of Being Busy, that we're human beings, not human doings.

Safi says in his article,

“Tell me you remember you are still a human being, not just a human doing. Tell me you’re more than just a machine, checking off items from your to-do list.  Have that conversation, that glance, that touch.  Be a healing conversation, one filled with grace and presence.”

From what I could tell of Ugandans, they had definitely tapped into the "being" part of life in a way that any Westerner could learn from, even those not necessarily consumed by a flurry of activity.  It's just in the most basic questions that we tend to ask each other, "How are you doing?"  I mean, there's that classic Hollywood story plot: busy person transformed by relaxed person leads to heart transformed.  It's in Chef, Hook, Up, Elf and other movies that have more than just one-word titles.

I'm certainly no expert at this, especially now, especially in grad school.  I'm a mzungu for goodness sake.  I am not sure I will ever achieve the perfect balance of being and doing, hence, perusing a book like The Art of Failure.  But that's the thing, right?  It's not about perfection, acheivement, blah dee blah - but more about accepting yourself, always.

Maybe when we stop moving in those circles and we can move with purpose.

Sounds like a good plan, mzungu.

A Walkabout

Fresh air!  Out of the house!  To Portsmouth!

We undertook a small adventure through the rather unfathomable 30 inches of snow which fell in Portsmouth yesterday.  After being sentenced by the storm to our home for a number of hours - seemingly countless and perhaps suffocating - the fresh air couldn't have been more welcomed.  In fact, the sun was so wildly bright that we wore sunglasses due to the intensity of its reflection.  

I dare say, it was quite beautiful.

(I've been watching a lot of Downton Abbey lately and it's started to infect my speech)

This is our own little turn about the town:

I think this is what they call "snowed in".

The entry way is blue now. 

So is the sky

Bigger than a car, bigger by far. 

Not sure what this guy is doing. 

No, please no more. 

Icicles Icicles

And Bicycles!

Coffee, coffee, coffee

Graffiti people

Such a joy to find shoveled sidewalks!

Where are you, Summer?

Bouldering

Capped with a room on top

Down the alley

"Frosted like a wedding cake"

A lovely shade of blue

Lamp post with color

Up the bricks

Red, white and blue

What a mess

Yet another a shade of blue

Snowflakes inside, too. 

I don't think anyone will be parking here.

All the houses, all the colors

Thank you, Sun, for coming out today.  It was such a pleasure. 

Waffles

Snowstorms are endearing when you have nowhere you need to go.  I awoke to some shouting in the driveway and thought, "Is that my landlord?"  Next, I heard a knock on my door - it was my roommate saying we had to head outside to move our cars for the plow truck.    

Ah, it was my landlord.

I can't say we were thrilled to be woken up - more like, not thrilled - but we did make fresh waffles afterwards, with coffee, fresh whipped cream, maple syrup and blueberries.  We listened to the Acoustic Covers playlist on Spotify and my roommate finished painting the entryway while us other roommates tried to do grad school work ("tried" being the key word).  We heated up the root vegetables we had cooked last night (with this recipe) and nibbled on the brownies we had also made, throughout the day.  We were thankful to be inside, and not driving around all day and night plowing out driveways, and not out in the storm in any other way, shape, or form.  Thank you, plow people.

Homemade waffles make it better.  Coffee makes it better.  Bourbon hot toddies make it better.

Pride and Prejudice makes it better.  Downton Abbey makes it better.

Being together makes it better. 

That's the good stuff: people making it better. 

Blizzards whip that up in us.