Goodbye, little home

Tonight is my last night of sleep here, little apartment. Six years and seven months I've lived here, one of the largest stretches I've lived in any home. And being the homebody I am, I've made you mine.

After a sketchy few months in a horrible apartment, you were a safe, quiet place to land. You were small, but the view out my windows was of trees and sky. I put a porch swing on your balcony, strung curtains and lights, and created a dreamy space for reading and writing.

While I've lived here, I've changed jobs, become an auntie, written a book, made new friends, and become a little bit better acquainted with myself. I've spent a lot of time, just with you, little home. My penchant for solitude means it's often just you and me. Sometimes the walls felt very close, but most of the time, you have been a warm, cozy space that filled me with joy and a sense of place.

Tonight I feel sad. I've stripped you of most everything that made you mine. Nothing hangs from your walls anymore, my personality has gone from you. Those quiet moments of shared solitude are almost behind us. In just a few weeks, a stranger will live here, will sit by this window, will watch the trees move in the wind. Soon, you will be someone else's home.

But tonight, I will remember, as I finish the last bits of packing. Tonight I will think of how you've sheltered me, kept me safe, and made me feel home. Goodbye, little home. And thank you.

The End . . .

In October of 2009, I emailed my friend Melissa MacPhee the first few chapters of a project I was working on. An idea for a story came to my mind and I wrote it down, thinking it might be interesting to develop. She responded with exuberant enthusiasm, telling me she thought it was amazing and demanding more pages.

For over five years, I slowly sent pieces of this story to her. Sometimes months would go between updates. At one point, over a year. There were times I was convinced I would never finish it, and good riddance, because it was probably dreadful. And there were other times when I had hope that maybe it was worthwhile. In the midst of all that, I knew I wanted to just tell the story, because it was a story I wanted to read. That kept me going.

But what mostly kept me going were the insistent, nagging texts, comments, and in person pestering of my one faithful reader, who wanted me to finish the story.

Tonight, 40 chapters and 90k words later, I wrote "The End". Ahead of me is the dreaded 2nd draft, revisions, re-writes, edits, and possibly 3rd and 4th drafts. But I completed the story, and so the first step is done.

Thank you, friend, for convincing me to keep going. The story, rough and messy as it currently is, wouldn't exist without you.

Auntie Dacia

It was just over four years ago that I became an aunt for the first time. My nieces, Kate and Ava, were born in October of 2010. Up until that time, I spent very little time around kids. I'd never changed a diaper, never even held a newborn. I very distinctly remember holding my nieces for the first time, feeling my heart expand to make room for all the extra love.

Since that time, I have now become an auntie/honorary auntie 9 times over, and my heart continues to expand to fit each new kiddo. It is such a humbling experience, to know that you are important enough in the lives of your friends that they see you as an auntie to their children. So now there are a bevy of kiddos in my life that I am auntie to. Sometimes I'm really flaky at it, other times I kind of rock at it.

When I stop to think about what it means to be an aunt, my mind always goes back to my own two aunts, and what they've meant to me in my life*. My mom has an older and younger sister. I've written a character sketch on my Aunt Deb and drafted one for my Aunt Donna (but it still needs more work). I have always had a close relationship with both my aunts. To me, my aunts have filled many roles in my life. They are cheerleaders. They spoil me occasionally. They give me straight talk when I need it. They take me on adventures. They listen to me whine and give encouragement. They understand me. And I know, completely and entirely, that they love me dearly.

They are anchors in my life.

And that is what I want to be for all these sweet kiddos who came into my world. I may never have the opportunity to be a mom and that's okay. But I am already an aunt, and I can be fantastic at that.

For me, I hope that being an aunt will mean knowing their favorite colors (this week). I hope that they will tell me their very important secrets. I hope that being an aunt will mean taking them on special outings and having adventures. I hope they will know I always have their back, even when they think their parents are being "so unfair". I hope that it will mean reading to them cuddled up on the couch, then someday listen to them reading to me. I hope that they will get annoyed with me sometimes because I make them mind. I hope someday they will ask me for advice and think I'm wise (or maybe just goofy). I hope I will be there for their "big moments" and for many of the small ones. I hope that they call me when they're mad, and text me just to say hi.

I hope that I will be an anchor in their lives, a safe place to land, a person they can always turn to.


*To be clear, I have an uncle as well, my Uncle Stan, and he is also wonderful/fantastic/loving/awesome. His character sketch is also drafted . . . I'm terribly slow and careful with them.

Failure is an option

I have discovered something troubling about myself. I’ve been semi-aware of it in the murky recesses of my mind, but I haven’t ever wrestled it by the horns and looked it in the eye before.

I was trying to understand why I turn into a complete basket case when it comes to sharing my creative writing. My panic is illogical. I am under no illusions that I’m writing the next great American novel. My writing is neither perfect nor completely atrocious. And I’m not sharing a very serious project, just something I write for fun. 

This led to further introspections and in the midst of this, I discovered an unappealing (and surprising, at least to me) truth. 

I hate being bad at things. Apparently quite a lot.  

There is a long list of things I avoid, without giving much thought to it. I know I’m not good at them and so I just never do them. Any form of organized sports, because I’m uncoordinated and non-competitive. Basically, I avoid any form of movement (dancing, etc.) that involves coordination. Singing. Large group socializing. Public speaking. Math or most things that involve numbers (can’t avoid doing my own bills though, sigh). Painting/Drawing.

Then there are things I want to be good at, but I’m not sure if I am or I know that I’m not. And until I have convinced myself that I can do those things well, I don’t want anyone to observe my feeble attempts to improve. It makes me panic to think of people seeing me struggle at something that I really want to do well. I’ll use writing as an example of this, since I’m not quite up for sharing some of the other multitude of things I want to be good at and struggle with. 

So what is the difference, for me, between creative writing and just blogging? Well, for the most part I know that you can’t really be bad at having an opinion or a thought to share. I may phrase an opinion inelegantly or say something you disagree with. But at the end of the day, I’m not rated on it. Blogging is something I’m enjoy, but not something I worry about being average at.  

But I have a really, really hard time at the idea of people observing me struggle at writing creatively, because I want to do it well. From the time I was very young, I’ve spent a ridiculously large chunk of my life reading books. In my little world, a good book is priceless and worthy of my adoration. There are some great books that have entirely shaped my way of thinking. And I get cranky when I read something that was poorly written/edited.  For me, the idea of writing a good book someday that other people might enjoy is a dream that I often feel nervous to even acknowledge. So many people are unsuccessful at it. Plenty of people think they have an idea worth writing about and they end up being very wrong.  The idea of writing a book that someone else might consider a great book is something I can’t even let myself think about. I want it too much. 

And that is what I find troubling. Am I so afraid to fail that I won’t even try? Am I so daunted by the idea of receiving negative, or sometimes worse, no feedback, that I can’t share my projects? Most writers rely on other people to read their work and offer opinions/changes/edits. You cannot write in a bubble. The only person I’d ever consistently allowed to read my writings in the past is my best friend, and while she is an excellent cheerleader, she is not entirely impartial. 

I will never achieve the dream of writing something good if I don’t allow room for feedback – positive, negative, neutral, or indifferent. In fact, I will never achieve anything in life if I don’t try . . . and fail. Sometimes we learn more in life from our failures than our successes, and I am often unwilling to do things that I will fail at. 

So now I'm wondering, what could I accomplish in life if I allow myself to fail a little more?

I was in love with a place . . . in my mind

Lately I've been listening a lot to "Chicago" by Sufjan Stevens. There are a few of his songs that seem to stick with me. I heard this one for the first time, ridiculously enough, while watching the Veronica Mars movie. Veronica was riding home with her ex-boyfriend/best friend/enemy/frenemy, Logan, driving through the city she'd grown up in, with the boy she'd once loved, 10 years from her graduation from high school. This song started playing in the background as Veronica looked out the car window and you can almost see her living in the memory.

There is a line in the song that really resonates with me. "I was in love with a place, in my mind, in my mind. I made a lot of mistakes, in my mind, in my mind." I tend to look at different experiences in my life with a rosy, nostalgic, somewhat regretful glow. So much so that for a long time, I had an odd habit.

I used to drive by the house that I consider "the house I grew up in" in Enumclaw, out in the country. Mostly I'd just drive by, but once I snuck under the fence in the field and just walked around in the woods. Such clear memories of running, playing, imagination, and freedom.

I used to go back to my academy when I was at college, the first few years after I graduated. I wouldn't go during the school day or anything, that would have been awkward. No, I went during the summers when school was out. I'd drive by and suddenly pull in. I'd walk in my old haunts and remember the good times and the not so good.

It became an even more unstoppable habit when I graduated from college. High school had been a nice memory, but college was, for me, a more profound experience. I had many important moments there, some that are incredibly clear and sharp in my memory. So for many, many years after I graduated college, I'd go and visit Walla Walla. I'd come into town to see friends, and in the midst of the visit, I'd go take a walk. My "walk through memory lane" as I called it. I would walk all throughout campus. Through the music department and the practice rooms, the stairways I'd walk as I closed up for the night. The lobby where I'd curl up reading. I'd sit on the steps outside the band room. I'd walk past Village hall, remembering seeing my name on the cast list on the door. I'd go for walks around campus, remembering one spot where a boy said he loved me, another where a boy broke my heart. I'd walk by places where I made stupid decisions and smart choices. I walked by the house that I laughed and cried in. I walked and walked and marveled at my choices. So many different things I could have done and said . . . what directions could I have gone in if I'd done one thing a little differently.

As I'd walk, I almost felt the echoes of myself. I could see her walking ahead of me, blithely stepping into situations, some good, some bad. But mostly, I allowed myself to think back on that time as "the best time", when life was full of possibilities and options. I was indeed "in love with a place in my mind" and I continued to rehash "a lot of mistakes, in my mind".

Embarrassingly enough, it was only a few years ago that I went to visit Melissa in Walla Walla and realized that I had no need to go for my "walk through memory lane". I'm not sure of the exact moment it happened, but I became very aware that it wasn't that place anymore. You can never go back to that place in your mind, the rosy place of your memories. You can never be that person again, the one who runs in dress up clothes through your old backyard, the one who walks through the hallways of your high school and greets your friends by the lockers, the one who hurries to classes and acts in her first college play. At a certain point, I've realized that those places only live in my memory, and I can never  go back simply by the act of going to the physical location. The house of my childhood may still be standing, but it isn't the same home. The academy where I went is still there, but it isn't my school. The stage of Village Hall is still creaking beneath the feet of students, but those feet will not ever be mine again.

Nostalgia is a beautiful thing. It is good to remember. But as Dumbledore once said, "It does not do to dwell on dreams, and forget to live." Wise words from a fictional character:) Why am I sharing this odd tidbit about me? I suppose because it comforts me to imagine that some of you may also occasionally fall into the rosy glow of memory and nostalgia. And my thought to share with you is this; memories are lovely, but living is beautiful.

In pursuit of blindness

I have often thought that the most heart-wrenching sense to lose would be my sight. Granted, any sense would be painful to lose (loss of hearing was right up there), but for me, I imagine it would be sight. I've always had a secret dread of it happening, although I also believe that the human mind is resilient and I would endure it. I shudder at the idea of not being able to see words on the page, the faces of those I love, the immensity of the ocean, and the beauty of the forests. 

So why this talk of blindness? Lately I have been feeling that the loss of our sight might be what this world needs.  

Does this sound like irrational babble? Probably so. Here’s my reasoning. A man called Tommy Edison has been blind since birth, and he gave an interview on “The perks of being blind”. One thing that really struck me was his last statement. 

“You know what’s cool about being blind? There’s no race. I don’t know from beauty. I know people from what comes out of their mouth and what’s in their heart. That’s how I know people.” 

I don’t consider myself a particularly weepy individual, but this made tears slide down my face. And for a moment, I longed for blindness. Not just for myself, but for everyone.  

There are good people in the world. There are bad people in the world. There are people at every level in between those two extremes. And I do not believe, and never will, that the pigment in our skin has any bearing on the beauty or ugliness of our soul.  

If only our sight could be taken away for a space in time. Not as little as a day or as long as a year. But for however long it takes to realize that we are focusing on that which is immaterial. Then I become discouraged as I wonder if we would then try and come up with something just as irrational to base our prejudices on. Perhaps we would discriminate against accents. Or whether someone’s voice was low or high. It makes me sad to think that, even without our sight, humanity would find some reason to hate or mistrust that which is “other”. 

One reason I enjoy reading science fiction and fantasy is because the authors are able to write about worlds and places that are like our own, with subtle differences. I have read books where discrimination occurred because one race of people had blue skin and the other gold. The darker the blue, the more socially acceptable. The lighter the gold, the lower the caste. I read another story about how the society was matriarchal and baby boys were unwanted and discarded for their “violent tendencies”. And yet another society where your social status was determined by whether your eyes were light or dark. Ridiculous, right? 

I am not trying to make a focused statement about recent events in the news. I'm not well enough informed to do that. I suppose what I can say is this: we are not living in a post-racial society, because we still talk about people according to their color.

I hope someday to live to a very grand age, maybe 105. And I hope to sit next to a young person of my acquaintance and tell them stories of when I was young and the foolish things people did “back in the day”. I hope to casually mention that I was talking to “a Black/Asian/Hispanic/White person” and for that child to squirm and say “Ms. Haning, that’s so old school (or the appropriate colloquialism of the day).  Nobody talks like that anymore”. I hope one day to see confusion on the face of that child when I say that, back in the day, people noticed what color your skin was. And I hope to see that look of confusion on their face as they are genuinely perplexed and ask me, “Well, what does their skin color have to do with anything? People are just people.” And I will say with no small amount of satisfaction, “Exactly.” 

Perhaps that wish can only come true in heaven. But it shouldn't. It really shouldn't. I want that wish to come true in my lifetime. I want to be "blind" to the surface things, to the shade of another person's skin, to outward differences from me. I want to look at another person and see just that; a person.

I sometimes feel that I can't talk about these types of things . . . hot button issues. I don't want to offend or talk about something that I can never truly understand/experience. But I suppose, in this instance, I would rather say the wrong thing than be silent.

“No one is born hating another person because of the colour of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than it’s opposite." – Nelson Mandela

Personal Growth . . . in Solitude

I know I've written about this several times, so I beg your pardon if this is sounds like an echo of previous thoughts. It's on my mind a lot though, and I've come to a bit of personal conclusion on it, for now at least, so thought I'd share.

I realized, recently, that this marks my 8th year of living alone. I last lived with a roommate in college in 2006. This is by choice, of course. I really do prefer living alone (nothing disparaging towards my past roommates). At the end of a busy day, the peace of coming home to quiet is almost a physical relief. Not having to consult with someone or make meaningless chatter is a big deal for me. But still . . . 8 years of living alone is a long time.

I spent time with several of my friends at different points this week and, as it usually does, it draws my mind towards comparisons. Most of my friends are married and/or parents. They've all been married for a good chunk of time and for better or worse, don't have much alone time to speak of. When I spend time with them, it's easy to slide down the slippery slope of feeling like they are all further along the life path than I am. It's easy to feel like they are all growing and changing, maybe inexorably past me. Sometimes I feel like one day, I may find myself so behind in life, I'll never catch up. I know it isn't logical. Not everyone takes the same journey in life and it's an exercise in futility to compare your life to someone else's. But I make that mistake more than I care to admit. I wouldn't call it envy, at least not on my better days. More than anything, it seems to be a vague feeling of helplessness that I can't seem to keep up emotionally and relationally.

When I observe the lives of those around me, I see their struggles. They are growing, changing, and experiencing life in a way that I'm not, through their relationships (married, parental). They are hurting, loving, frustrated, happy, content, terrified, neurotic, and above all, growing and changing.

I suppose lately I've been wondering if it's possible for me to keep up and achieve that level of emotional growth in solitude. It is very peaceful, but real growth is born through the struggle, or at least it has always seemed so to me. When I come home to my quiet, peaceful place, I occasionally feel a pang of terror; is this it? Am I always going to be this person, always alone, never changing, never growing, just this? Don't get me wrong, I'm not wallowing in poor self-esteem. I'm a decent friend (I can do better, always). I try my best to contribute in my family, although I could of course do better there as well. I work hard and support myself so no one else has to. I pursue the creative outlets that challenge me. I spend a considerable time in introspection, which hopefully results in a clearer sense of self.

It just seems as though lately, I struggle with the idea of being a whole person . . . alone. It must be achievable, I see others doing it. And I know that it is fallacy to believe that you can only be made whole through the love of another person. It is a beautifully romantic notion, but I shrink away from it. I don't want to listen to Ingrid Michaelson when she sings that, "They say you're really not somebody, until somebody else loves you."

I want to believe that I can achieve fulfillment, joy, happiness, and peace in life, even if I remain always in solitude. I don't want to be always waiting, hoping, that someone will come along in life to "complete me". I want to be complete in and of myself.

The only conclusion I come to when I get to that dark and solitary place is a quiet presence that tells me I'm not alone. A quiet communion with God that reminds me not to worry so much, because I'm never alone. Perhaps a gentle chastisement that I cannot be complete, truly, by myself, but only through Him. And ultimately, I believe that if I trust in it and believe in it, God will help me grow, in the midst of my solitude.