Little Things

Some of the greatest joys are the small ones. Like a coke fresh out of the freezer after 2 hours of assembling cheap furniture.

I got a writing desk and a small chair so that I would have a place to sit when I typed up posts or wanted to write something or just sit if I wanted to. It isn't great, but it'll work. It does work. I'm sitting at it right now! I might be unfairly judging the chair's comfort level since I didn't sit in it until after hunching over the desk assmbly for quite awhile. My air mattress also deflated through the night so my back had a bad start anyway.

Mattresses! I found one on craigslist for $250 and I'm going to go look at it tomorrow. If that goes well, then I'll rent a truck--hopefully--and go pick it up. I really want a bed. Did you know that?

Such slow times! I'm going to go apply for a job tomorrow at an emergency vet clinic. The hours are nights and weekends so it should work with my internship. The ad said to call for an interview between 6pm and 8pm and I rushed home from Wal-Mart to do it and I made the call and they said "Oh, now we're having people fill out applications instead so you can come pick one up after 6pm. We're on the Westbank." Right near Wal-Mart. Now this isn't far or anything, but there's a $1 toll to cross the bridge so I'd like to not do it multiple times a day. The toll is only crossing the bridge into Orleans parish (where I am) and not going into Jefferson parish, so the first time I went I didn't know about the toll coming back and panicked a little bit and ended paying most of the toll in pennies because it's all I had.

Since it's been slow, I'll share a story from today I don't know that I would otherwise.

On the way back from Wal-Mart I had the radio on and "Boys of Summer" came on and I love that song. I love The Eagles and Don Henley and The Eagles almost always remind me of my mom. She's where I learned the music from and we both really liked them. The song was over and she was on my mind and the next song to come on was "I Hope You Dance" by Leanne Womack. You might not remember--or you might not know--but this was one of the songs played at my mom's funeral. It was picked out by my friend Terra, meant to be a message from my mom to me. I don't hear it that often and when it came on the radio today it seemed to come at a strange moment. It came after a song that already had me thinking about my mom, my mind was already there, and the song is something I need to hear every once in awhile. When it comes at moments like that one today it really does seem like a message.

I'm going to transcribe you some of the lyrics.

I hope you never lose your sense of wonder

You get your fill to eat

But always keep that hunger

May you never take one single breath for granted

God forbid love ever leave you empty handed

I hope you still feel small

When you stand by the ocean

Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens

Promise me you'll give faith a fighting chance 

And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance

I hope you dance

I hope you dance

I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance

Never settle for the path of least resistance

Living might mean taking chances

But they're worth taking

Lovin' might be a mistake

But it's worth making

Don't let some hell bent heart

Leave you bitter

When you come close to selling out

Reconsider

Give the heavens above

More than just a passing glance 

Like I said in the "Quotable" post, sometimes it's nice to just see something that seems to tell you what you're doing is right and worth it, especially when things seem questionable. This was one of those moments. Except this felt like it was coming from my mom. I guess people might think it's silly, taking signs like that. But I can't help it. And I don't want to. It makes me feel close to her. Having a message from her, saying she's watching me and is proud of me and what I'm doing makes me feel good. Reminding me to keep going because it's right. Having that message from the person I love the most. It feels good.

This leads me to something I was thinking the other day. I've had a lot of people tell me I write well and that I should write, that I should write a memoir. I love that feedback, so thank you to everyone who has complimented me in that way! But I was thinking, about how a memoir would have to include my life. This road trip and settling in New Orleans has been exciting, but it's not my life, it's not a memoir. It's six weeks. almost eight, I guess. It's a chapter, but it's not my life. A memoir would have to include so much. So much more.

And that's the thing about a memoir. You can write it anyway you want to. But I would want to write it with complete honesty. Otherwise it's useless. And honestly, I don't know what that honesty would do to some people. 

There is a lot that a lot of people don't know. They don't ask, it doesn't come up in conversation, I don't have a reason to tell anyone. Not because they're secrets, not because I'm ashamed, but because people don't know how to react. And because, I don't know if I'm unique in this, there are some things I like to keep to myself because the fewer people who know the more mine those moments and those stories are. 

And there is another list of the things people don't know that I know. Which, I have to say, insults me. I know you aren't supposed to harbor hard feelings towards people, but sometimes they're hard to let go of. Things people thought they were hiding from me, because I couldn't know, shouldn't know, whatever misguided reason. But I knew a lot. I know a lot. I know what I grew up in and around. Knew then, know now. 

Right now I want to relate a story. But I don't know how it would be handled. And that's what I mean. If I wrote a memoir it would be full of stories that people might not handle well, might not like hearing and might not like me telling them the way I feel like telling them. I wouldn't be telling any stories in order to upset anyone. Memoirs aren't meant for your family, I suppose. 

So if I write one, ya'll can't read it, okay?

Anyway, maybe a more personal hard-to-handle story will come later.

But the rest of the song from my mom story goes like this:

I sang it at the top of my lungs and started to tear up driving down the freeway.

Then I got to the toll booth and gave the woman a dollar bill.

Because now I'm prepared for it.

(It's funny that I called it a "freeway." That's what we call them at home, because we don't have tolls! Here it's just a highway.)