the way of the typewriter

Booboo the Prius & Lulu the Bug

I've finally given in. I've pulled my last stubborn and trailing limb into the 21st century with the rest of me. I bought a new car. And not just any new car, but a hybrid.

I hadn't intended for this to happen—not yet anyway. Michael and I left home one Saturday morning for our usual ritual of coffee, breakfast, and driving around town scoping real estate, except this time we decided to change course and head to the car dealerships instead. Just for fun. Just to test drive a few cars and see what was out there. We came home hours later, exhausted, in two separate blue cars.

I had mixed feelings about buying a brand new car. On the one hand, Lulu (my '73 VW Bug) is a great car. She's fully paid for, runs great, is cheap to insure and maintain, and gives me little grief. She has air conditioning and a brand new CD/MP3 stereo system. And she's really cute. I feel that she accurately reflects my own identity: playful, adventurous, and outside-the-box.

The new Prius is great, too. It requires very little maintenance, gets great gas mileage, has lots of room and a usable cargo space, is eerily quiet, and everything works. She's basically the opposite of a classic VW. I've traded in personality for reliability and fuel-efficiency (as well as a big car payment!)

At the end of the first week with the Prius, I came home from work, threw myself on the couch and burst into tears. I had been wondering all week if I was doing the right thing. I had seen numerous blue Priuses all over town. One of them was even parked next to mine at the movie theater and it took me a second to figure out which was which. I realized I was now driving a rather unremarkable "normal" car. Then there was the hefty car payment and the fact that now I was actually in debt for something. (I've been 100% debt-free ever since I paid off my student loan last year.) Every day I would come home from work and see Lulu parked in the "guest parking" area, looking abandoned and forlorn. My fabulous little vintage car was going the way of the typewriter in a computer-filled world. I never thought a car could break my heart.

Michael was all patience and understanding. He let me cry and assured me that we could sell the Prius whenever we wanted. We could keep Lulu, too. He joked that we should name the Prius Booboo as in "Oops! What were we thinking?!"

In spite of my sentimentality, I'm very practical; it doesn't make sense to keep Lulu if I'm rarely going to drive her and I don't need her. It would be better for her to be with someone who would drive her and love her as I have.

I know it's time for a "real" car. A car that I can drive over mountains without wondering if she'll overheat. A car that lets me hear myself think. A car that doesn't smell like gas fumes and scorched dust. A car that is safe. A car with room. A car that will maybe carry kids someday.

I'm keeping the Prius and my identity and selling Lulu. I hope I can find her a good home.

epitaph

Or, she did nothing.

Yesterday, I read this post by Keri Smith, and thought YES! This is what I've meant all along.

I believe in doing nothing. Not doing nothing, as in vegetating on the couch with a bag of chips in front of the TV all day, but doing nothing, as in slowing down, savoring, experiencing, and not pushing to control, compete, manipulate and succeed in the American sense of the word.

As a child I was always very competitive and had everything mapped out for my future. I was an excellent student, usually getting straight A's on my report cards and liked by my teachers. When I grew up, I planned to become a marine biologist (so I could scuba dive all day), a pyschologist (so I could help people with their problems), an Olympic swimmer, and a writer.

I began swimming competitively at the age of 10, which required 6-8 hours of practice a week. Practices were fun at first, but then they became repetitive and gruelling. When I didn't place in the top three at several swim meets, I gave up. What did I want to be a champion swimmer for? What I loved was the feel of gliding through the water, the freedom of movement and weightlessness of it. I felt like a mermaid. I always loved being in the water, but once swimming became work, something I needed to do in order to win, I lost interest in swimming competitively. It wasn't fun.

When I went to college and told my advisor I planned to major in biology, she came up with an outline of courses I would need to take my first semester: chemistry, biology, calculus, and the required freshman humanities course. I balked, but gave it a try. After the first week of sitting through excruciatingly dull classes about numbers and chemical compositions and data, I dropped chemistry and calculus and signed up for a third-year Spanish literature class. I kept biology because I needed to study a science for one year, but I quickly discovered that I hated sitting in a lab for four hours and looking at squirmy blobs under a microscope.

My junior year, I declared myself a Literature major. I loved reading stories and I loved talking about them and interpreting them. I loved writing but didn't really love writing term papers. The idea of pressing forward with my studies to become an academic horrified me. I had no desire to narrow my focus to a specific genre or writer or theory. I didn't want to have to compete for a job in academia or deal with university politics and committees. Ugh. Too much hassle. Too much work.

I was drawn to jobs that allowed me to earn a living while creating a life. I had time to do the things I loved: explore my environment, discover beauty, write in my journal, take classes, laugh with friends, go hiking, read novels, ride my bike, paint, meet people, take photographs, dance, travel. I had no desire for jobs that would allow me to climb some kind of ladder to "success." Those jobs usually meant I would have to work long hours, wear a suit, write reports and sit in meetings for hours. For what? More money? More things? A sense of security?

It is so easy in our culture to get caught up in the drive for money and success. This is the way of capitalism, the way we have been taught and the way we teach our children. We believe that more is better, so we sacrifice being in the name of having. Our national past-times are shopping and watching television. In spite of advanced technologies that allow us to instantly connect with people anywhere in the world, we are so utterly disconnected from the people right next to us and the patch of earth we inhabit in any given moment.

This is something I struggle with: how do I live in this culture and not be a part of the rat race? How can I live simply, maintain my integrity, give back to my community, and be more attuned to nature and its cycles?

time for beauty

birthday bouquet from my sister

Today is my 33rd birthday and all is well in my world if not in the world at large.

I found this article by chance and it resonated with me and how I try to live my life. The simple but profound question--Do you have time for beauty?--is one that I try to answer YES! to on a daily basis, but too often, I think I fail.

I think about how much I take for granted, how all too often I miss what is right before my eyes. This is why the Annie Dillard quote is one of the most inspiring for me; it's a reminder to keep my eyes open, to see the beauty in each moment, and the gifts the universe is offering for free.

Today I am 33. I am blessed with a husband, family, and friends who love me deeply. I am blessed with sunshine and flowers and cats yowling outside my window at 5:00 a.m. I am blessed with work that is meaningful. I am blessed with another day of living and seeing.

happiness is...

...saying I do.

March 3, 2007

[click here for more wedding pictures]

sisters

Today I found this photo of me and my sister in my dad's digital family album. It captures the essence of the word sisters for me.

It is 1981 and we are living in Boulder, Colorado, in the biggest and coldest house we've ever lived in. It has three floors and a cavernous basement. Our parents don't have enough furniture to fill it and can barely afford to heat it.

My sister is wading deeper into the choppy waters of adolescence. She lines her eyes with thick, black eyeliner and shuts herself in her room to daydream and listen to records. I am in the second grade. In spite of our age difference, we still play Barbies and Office. Though we argue and torment each other as siblings do, we are close. We get up early Saturday mornings to watch cartoons, tucked beneath my grandmother's afghan. We are rumpled from sleep. My sister twists her body sideways to make room for me on the couch.

It amazes me how close we are, in spite of the fact that we we are five years apart and have spent most of our lives living in different states. Still, we grew up together from scratch. We've witnessed each other's journeys. In spite of time and distance, this is how it always is between us.

unraveling

The sweater piece I spent
three weeks knitting with care
was three sizes too big

I had no choice but to unravel it
that single thread of yarn
for yards and yards

untangling
unwinding
undoing

All of that work for this:
a lump of frizzled yarn
what's left of my heart

I think of those years spent
weaving my life with another's
stitching days into the fabric of years
only to discover
it doesn't fit

snow in the desert

Photo by Brandye Ferguson

Last night during troupe practice, the studio manager came in to tell us that it was snowing outside and she thought we might want to see it. We all scrambled for our coats and headed to the studio up front with giant windows looking out over Sixth Avenue. The snow was coming down in enormous flurries. Brandye brought her camera and took this photo of my Bug, Lulu, which happened to be parked just below. I got to drive home in slush with an inch of snow on my hood and foggy windows.

The last time it snowed this hard in Tucson, it was 1986 and I was in the 7th grade. It is so rare to get snow in the Sonoran desert. How surreal to see saguaros and palo verde trees dusted with white. We complain of the brutal heat of summer so much that it is jarring to experience the bitter cold of winter. I had to laugh when I saw today's Tucson Citizen headline: "Snow Paralyzes City." The headline photo showed two children laughing and playing in the snow. One of them was wearing shorts. Although it only snowed an inch or so, apparently a lot of people were "snowed in" this morning and the local school districts gave the kids a snow day.

I love how a little snow in the desert can turn things upside down. Unfortunately, I did not get a snow day.

a day with snizzle

Today I spent the day with my friend Lise and her nearly-three-year-old son, who she affectionately calls her snizzle. Lise and I have been friends since she was 12 and I was 11. We used to laugh hysterically at the things her 5-year-old brother would do. Now we laugh at Joshua. In a good way.

Joshua is the main subject of my photographic endeavors. I could follow him all day with the camera, capturing his expressions and moments of discovery. I have been photographing him since he was a day old. It's amazing to see how he's grown into himself. He loves the camera and starts showing off whenever it comes out.

Today I photographed him jumping on the bed, getting tickled, fingerpainting, eating an orange, running around butt naked (except for his socks), and

falling asleep in the midst of eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. This little snizzle is too much for me sometimes.

my sister makes a mess

I called. She fussed. She said, "Hmmm. No bother really...it would be interesting to figure out." Thus, we wait and see in the morning.

11 things i can't live without

(not necessarily in order:)

1. dance
   
2. meaningful relationships
3. sunshine
4. water
5. laughter
   
6. solitude
7. home
8. love
9. beauty
   
10. health
11. integrity
    

If I had to eliminate eight of them, one by one, which would be the first to go? Which three would I hold tight to?

There have been times in my life when I have lived without some of these by choice. And times when I had no choice but to live without them. (At least it felt that way.)

I suppose there is always a choice.

What surprises me is my own resilience. Knowing that if (or when) I must live without something I value, I will adapt.