So let your hair down now

So just have fun, it's far enough
Everybody needs to sleep at night, everybody needs a crutch
But couldn't good, be good enough?
Cause nothin' ever doesn't change but nothin' changes much

the heart wants.

I went shopping today for a birthday present for my mother.

I perused through racks of beautiful flowing dresses, soft knitted hats, water colored scarves, and quirky cereal bowls. Hanging over a shelf filled with kitchen dish towels and retro aprons was a delightful fixture made of tree branches and multi colored feathers. One wall adorned with funky mirrors and a black dial up telephone set itself over piles of toasty sweaters and thick leather belts.

I ran my palm over stacks of eccentric prints of classic lit: copies of Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre were bound in bright blues and greens with yellow and pink stitching. I coveted those books. I stood in front of them for a good 5 minutes merely smiling. How silly I thought, I'm standing in a clothing store coveting books. And then a fellow shopper approached me and said:

The heart wants what the heart wants.

Apparently her heart wanted jeans; she must have been struggling with at least 10 pairs of them. I smiled and quietly laughed.

Story of my life, I thought. The heart wants what the heart wants.

Only sometimes, you can't have it.

So instead, you buy a dress. And you buy your mom a scarf. You buy a knitted hat in the hopes that Autumn will soon come. You remember the stack of books on your bookshelf, and that what you're actually looking for, well, you won't find in a store like this.

These are the things we buy to distract ourselves from the realities of what the heart actually wants.

Because sometimes, the heart wants what it just can't have.
And a few more dresses and scarves and retro aprons later, maybe you'll be able to let it go. Or, you'll just end up with a closet full of stuff.

one fish, two fish

"The little fish never live where the big fish live."

That's what he said to me as we made our way out into the bay. We made our way out on a crisp, clear, and deliciously blue day with only a few rough waves in our midst. The skiff was a bright golden yellow. I sat on the left corner while he steered us to the little fish. He steered the engine with a long extension he'd fashioned out of a white PVC tube. He smoked a cigarette and shot that Popeye like smile out behind black sunglasses and a frayed Yankees hat. He was the kind of guy one immediately deemed as tough. Though deep down there was nothing but a great softy... a giant teddy bear. And this man, who rarely went fishing with anyone, was fishing with me.

I closed my eyes feeling the cool wind toss my hair, the sun sinking into my skin with its delightful warmth. He pointed toward the lighthouse at Thomas Point and I smiled. I've kind of got a thing for lighthouses, though I didn't tell him that. And all I could think in that beautiful moment was how lucky I was to be there in the midst of the blue immensity with a sweet, dear friend, attempting to fish (something I haven't done since childhood) all on a Monday afternoon. How lucky was I to be in the thick of it. And then I thought, how funny. Once upon a time I feared the immensity... being in the midst of the vast expanse... the unknown. Yet there I was, completely and utterly happy. And ready to fish.

The blood worms are perhaps the worst part. He pulled one out of a plastic bag on top of a big red cooler. With a small knife he sliced him in half coloring the white lid a blood red.
"Ah this one's a bleeder," he said.
He then baited my hook and said, "Are you watching? Cause this is the only hook I'm gonna bait for you."

I smiled. Nodded. And secretly wished I wouldn't catch anything merely so that I wouldn't have to cut those poor little worms into pieces. But I did catch those little fish and sure enough, cut those blood worms up, threading my hooks and casting away.

I kept flashing on memories of fishing with my grandfather. Truth be told the memories are vague and sparse. All I know is that I loved the ritual of heading to the pond by my grandparent's house to fish. I loved the quiet, the waiting, and not having to talk. So today I had to keep reminding myself to stop talking, to stop asking questions as I was unsure of how he preferred to pass the time in between catches. Suffice it to say, one can learn a lot about a person while standing in a boat with a baited line in the water.

We finally filled our bucket with enough little fish and ventured back across the water to where the big fish live. Several hours later, maneuvering around this little lighthouse, we'd caught nothing. Well, no fish. He'd managed to catch a Seagull. I looked on in part laughter, part horror, simply hoping he wouldn't have to leave that bird with a hook in his beak. Luckily no, but seriously? A Seagull? Apparently luck was not on our side. Or, the fish just weren't hungry.

We headed back to shore moving into the current. I made my way out of the skiff completely drenched, my fingers clammy and stiff, sunburned face, and feeling the slightest sense of defeat. I palmed over the slice in my left hand from a hook that had missed my little fish and caught my flesh instead. I then sat in the car, he turned on the heat, and watched through the rear view mirror as he latched the golden boat back onto the van. And I thought, so this is fishing, huh? Oddly enough, I loved it.

Like a complete nerd I brought up The Old Man and the Sea, thinking he might appreciate the beloved Hemingway novella. I even made reference to Thoreau. He hadn't read either. But this afternoon was meant to be more simple than that. In a way, a meditation of sorts. And despite the lack of fish, it was a truly beautiful day. And I felt content just being near him. Just standing next to each other, not saying a word, not catching a thing. I couldn't help but feel like now we better understood each other, in some small way... even though he can't tell me why he loves fishing. And after catching a Seagull, I'm sure he's still trying to figure that one out.

the comfort of worn pages

In college it was the 6th floor of McKeldin Library. It was a large blue chair and table combination nestled back by a window behind stacks of musty periodicals. There’s something about the smell of antiquated pages. There’s something about the smell of old books.

These days it seems to be whatever book store I can make my way into on a sunny Saturday afternoon or just before closing time on a Sunday night. It's Barnes & Noble and Borders and The Annapolis Bookstore on Maryland Ave which has a delightful old school charm; you walk into the place and feel like you're walking through someones home. And that's the thing about books. That's what I hold so dear. On any given day, or in any mood- be it happiness, melancholy, frustration or stress, I can surround myself with books and feel at peace. I surround myself with those stacks of fiction and poetry and prose and I feel at home.

I suppose then it should be no surprise that my bedroom is a mini library of its own, each writer and his or her work carefully placed. Robert Frost and E.E. Cummings live next to my bed. We get along well late at night just before falling to sleep, and early in the morning just as sunlight begins peering through and I'm still slightly hazy from last night's dream. With them I dive into realms of romanticism and love, and an understanding of our humanity.

Elizabeth Gilbert settles on my desk along with the likes of Jonathan Safran Foer, Yann Martel, Malcolm Gladwell, and Agar Nafisi. Among other contemporaries is an edition of Taschen's Art Now and my favorite dictionary: an old red Webster's with gold lettering on the cover. Eat, Pray, Love stands at the center of the line of books only to be capped by staples of my childhood: Harold and the Purple Crayon at one end, and The Many Mice of Mr. Bryce on the other. I sit here, writing, making notes in my planner, or merely gazing out the window. I breathe easy knowing that before me are notions of hope, adventure, motivation, and love.

A large wooden trunk sits in the corner of my room housing an array of classic literature. A line of Austen, Hemingway, Shakespeare, Kerouac, Dickens and others stand proudly in the background of a collection of photographs of family and friends. I like to think subconsciously I wanted all of the people I love to live next to the words of all the great literary talent that's essentially shaped my life. I wanted the images of their eyes and smiles and intimacy to be supported by the delicious syntax and rhetoric of the greats ( at least the ones I deem 'great').

Tonight I found myself in Barnes & Noble, perhaps because I was feeling slightly blue and pensive and quiet. Not for any good reason really; maybe it was the let down after an eventful evening filled with cold drinks and home made treats and small talk with interesting folks. For whatever reason, there it was: the need to find some peace, the need to be surrounded. So there I was, weaving my way in and out of the Fiction and Literature section, perusing Art, taking quick detours through Cooking and Sports, all before ending in Poetry.

I woke up this morning and read E.E. Cummings. I think it best when he's read aloud and preferably to someone. Luckily a friend had spent the night at our house and indulged me in this beloved practice. And so we read. And so it seemed that he found Cummings to be far less romantic and sweet than I. But rather, saw him as depressing, tragic, and death obsessed. I still maintain that he is not quite as sad as one might think, yet while looking through the stacks of poetry I thought I'd give someone else a shot at resting near my bed for a while. Dickinson, Ginsberg, Whitman, and Frost have all had their time there as well. So tonight, I knelt down, closed my eyes, and picked William Butler Yeats off the shelf. Now I've always been a fan of his work, especially after taking a delightful poetry course my junior year of college in which my Professor made his love for Yeats quite clear.

I opened the collection of poems to "The Wild Swans at Coole," a favorite of mine. Particularly this part:

Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.

Tomorrow I will wake up and thumb through the pages of Yeats. I will attempt to finish the book I'm currently reading( Racing in the Rain, as recommended by my father), and rifle through the pages of Hemingway's A Moveable Feast, which gets a good read every Autumn. I'll toss a book in my purse, a Rorie Gilmore like ritual of mine, and perhaps finally get around to reading one of the newer selections I've lent to my roommate. It will be a day filled with books, as they all seem to be.

Because like I said, when there are books, I'm home. And there is nothing like the familiarity of home: its sounds and smells and memory. There's something about the smell of antiquated pages, even new ones. There's just something about books.

a little human contact

Richard has an application on his I-Phone telling him what kind of fish is safe to purchase, which ones to avoid due to high levels of mercury, that it's best to get them 'young' and where they should all be coming from. Apparently Thailand is not the best option.

Richard is 71. A bachelor. He wears carefully selected plaid button ups and khaki pants with his boating shoes...sock less. He lives on a boat and is the epitome of an Annapolitan, except for the fact that he looks you right in the eye when talking to you. Not to mention he speaks to you as if you're his oldest and most dear friend. He smiles displaying a sweet set of pearly whites which peer out between a salt and pepper beard.

And around 9pm on a Tuesday night, Richard and I stand next to a row of frozen fish packages discussing our love of Sockeye Salmon, how the checkers at Giant feel robotic, the beauty of Fall, and how sometimes you just want to talk to someone and share a little human contact.

He makes me smile while commenting on the classic nature of a name like Elizabeth. His first wife was 'Liz the Whiz.'

And as we shake hands and part he thanks me for simply taking the time to talk:

"It seems so rare these days that we should take a moment to stop and share with one another, even if about nothing at all. But sometimes, you just need to."

Sometimes you just need to.

another apple to slice into pieces

Andrew Wyeth once said he preferred the seasons of Autumn and Winter- "when you feel the bone structure of the landscape- the loneliness of it..." And I got to thinking about what waits beneath a season like Autumn as we attempt, so desperately, to listen to silence. I love Autumn. I suppose it is my favorite season. Autumn on the East Coast is spelled out in apple orchards, the first pumpkin bread loaf, leaves of burnt orange and crimson, and a crispness and vitality of the air. Yet, underneath there rests this sweet and solemn sadness... as if all that is is change- a perpetual transitioning.

And I thought, how odd, that this should be my most beloved season when I so dislike focusing on change and forward momentum. I prefer living in the moment and a focus that resides so purely and intently in the here and now. But in Fall, it seems as though our here and now and then and there are one and the same. What to make of that?

And then there's this question of mortality. You breathe in the fervor of such crisp, deliciously chilled air- that campfire caramel apple scent. Yet, leaves descend and summer bitterly dies beneath them. We are that much more aware of our mortality. This very real, simple fact that nothing lasts... as Frost says, nothing gold can stay... echoes.

A dear friend recently wrote me a letter discussing this idea of mortality. She herself has become a witness to loved ones in the face of their own impermanence. She is now in a place of recognizing this sense that we all live and grow old and become incapable of living how we once did... and then it simply all comes to an end. And so cyclically we each bear witness to one an other's humanness- the very certainty that we shall fade like changing leaves falling off of trees to soon rest beneath snow and disappear.

Though for whatever reason, I find myself drawn to Autumn. There is something sobering and beautiful and quietly sad about this change in time made so visible in colors and smells and sensations. I feel like George Eliot who said:

"Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns."

The Drugstore

A dear friend sent me a link today from The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor, a favorite show on NPR. Today's link featured the poem Drugstore by Carl Dennis. As my friend said, it just struck a chord. And so, as she shared it with me, so shall I, with you.

Drugstore

Don't be ashamed that your parents
Didn't happen to meet at an art exhibit
Or at a protest against a foreign policy
Based on fear of negotiation,
But in an aisle of a discount drugstore,
Near the antihistamine section,
Seeking relief from the common cold.
You ought to be proud that even there,
Amid coughs and sneezes,
They were able to peer beneath
The veil of pointless happenstance.
Here is someone, each thought,
Able to laugh at the indignities
That flesh is heir to. Here
Is a person one might care about.
Not love at first sight, but the will
To be ready to endorse the feeling
Should it arise. Had they waited
For settings more promising,
You wouldn't be here,
Wishing things were different.
Why not delight at how young they were
When they made the most of their chances,
How young still, a little later,
When they bought a double plot
At the cemetery. Look at you,
Twice as old now as they were
When they made arrangements,
And still you're thinking of moving on,
Of finding a town with a climate
Friendlier to your many talents.
Don't be ashamed of the homely thought
That whatever you might do elsewhere,
In the time remaining, you might do here
If you can resolve, at last, to pay attention.