Archive: Reflection

Last night, I was on edge from the severe thunderstorms in our area. Rain held back as the sky lit up with lightning, followed ominously by rolls of thunder. I do not deal gracefully with thunder. The worst of my high-strung tendencies come out when bands of storms show up on the radar, and I can only curl into a ball and wait for them to pass. I’ve asked JG, only half jokingly, when he’ll build me that soundproof room — “It can double as a recording studio!” — where I imagine that I can happily weather the storm without the knowledge of its violence. Until then, every muscle fiber in my body tenses up at that first flash of lightning, a sharp harbinger of the impending thunder that could be anything from a gentle roll eight miles away to an ear-splitting clap right over our heads. Thank goodness that Ted is not fazed by the noise; dealing with the two of us would be too much to ask of JG. Instead, Ted sits quietly in my arms, even as they tighten around him with every bolt of lightning.

We headed to bed as the storms started to recede, and we turned on reruns of The Office. JG fell asleep fairly quickly, and I shifted uncomfortably. The humidity sat on my skin, despite the whir of the oscillating fan in the corner. I was not anywhere near falling asleep. Between the rumbles of thunder in the distance, the heavy moisture in the air, and the tension in my body from the knowledge that the severe thunderstorm watch was in effect until 1am, I was not in a restful place. Resigned, I kept watching television instead of reading, because holding a book would get in the way of clapping my hands over my ears in case of a sudden upswing in the storm front.

The jazzy introduction of Sex and the City rang in my ears, and I perked up slightly. I never understood the appeal of the show, not really. I never had HBO, so the only snippets of the show I put together from reading magazines in waiting rooms painted a picture of sheer, glossy escapism with a side of tulle skirts, nameplate necklaces, and cosmopolitans. I could appreciate it, but it wasn’t available to me, and that was fine. I gathered that viewers enjoyed the female camaraderie and bawdy conversation, and that most women identified with one specific character out of the four. From my gleanings, I surmised that I was probably Charlotte. I have no plans to see the movie. The fashion doesn’t interest me, and I couldn’t imagine that if I had not “gotten it” up until this point, spending twelve dollars to sit in a theater full of women probably wasn’t going to do the trick. Shrug. No great loss, I figured.

But I found myself watching the two episodes that were scrubbed clean for general consumption. I didn’t know any differently, so all I could see was Sarah Jessica Parker’s affair with Chris Noth, who I will always associate with Law and Order. And then, oh, SJP had on a champagne bridesmaid dress for Kristen Davis’s wedding, and she was telling John Corbett about the affair, and he was pressed against her hair, and SJP was crying, and — what was this? I was teary-eyed? Over SJP and John Corbett? I had always seen this Carrie character as poised and flip, with her laptop and her cigarette, so seeing her reduced to sobs with the backdrop of a wedding was almost too much for me. And I never cry! Well, I didn’t actually cry. Let’s get that straight. But I felt that tug of the heart, the welling of tears, the pull of empathy. So maybe, for just a few minutes in that hot, humid, tense night, I came a little bit closer to understanding why so many women love this show and its characters.

I know I can’t judge off of two episodes viewed under less-than-relaxing circumstances. Maybe I’m the only one who gulped down tears at that scene. Ah, well. Today, I am no longer broken up about SJP and John Corbett, and the humidity has dissipated. Maybe I’ll rent the SATC movie someday, when thunder is in the forecast, and JG has finally built me that soundproof room.

I would never call myself a photographer. My camera fits comfortably in my hand, and I always have it during vacations or special events. I think about whether I would want the picture I see framed in the viewfinder before I press the button. Sometimes, I change my viewpoint or refocus if I think I’ll like it better. I do my best to count to three so people aren’t caught off guard. I make prints for others and send out links online albums when it makes sense. But I just like to take pictures. I’m not a photographer.

I feel much more comfortable with words. Plain, black characters on a white background suit me much more than the world of color, focus, aperture, and light. I can tweak my writing so that it comes close to what I’m thinking, but with pictures, the moment is fleeting, and then gone. I suppose that’s what’s so mysterious and elusive about it. You have to be quick, anticipate the shot, and take it while you can. There’s less calculation, planning, and editing. I’m sure that others thrive in this spontaneity, but I am plagued by the knowledge that that perfect shot is just beyond my grasp. To make up for it, I take many pictures with the hope that a few good ones are buried somewhere within. I enjoy the challenge of pursuing those good shots, but I ultimately retreat to the comfort of a notebook or keyboard.

In rare, brief occasions, I get a flash of what it must be like to have that shock of knowing that a certain picture-making moment is at hand. I was preparing to roll Russian tea cakes recently, and I carelessly tossed my wedding rings onto the counter, like I do when I work with raw meat or wash dishes. It was a commonplace gesture for me, and the rings glanced harmlessly and settled on the fake butcher block counter. I had my camera nearby for the purpose of documenting the baking process, but I cocked my head to the side. The rings that I wear every day seemed at home on the counter, with that foreground of crinkled plastic wrap. I picked up the camera and tentatively snapped a couple of shots, and then I rolled my eyes at my feeble attempts to be artistic.

Yet, when I uploaded the batch of shots from the Russian tea cakes, I found that I loved the picture. Maybe it was the strange juxtaposition of the rings, weighty with significance, and the humble kitchen surroundings, and how it all seemed to be just right to me. Perhaps no one else sees that strange relationship of the life-changing and the mundane caught between silver rings and a sheet of plastic wrap, but I do. Perhaps no one else understands that, in the midst of rolling cookies, I was reminded of the quiet strength of my marriage within the context of the everyday routine, but I do. Perhaps no one else loves the picture, but I do.

But, no, I’m not a photographer. I just like to take pictures.

Sunday Scribblings #105: The Photograph

On Saturday, JG and I headed to the Lancaster area to see one of our favorite bands, Caedmon’s Call, in concert. When we saw them for the first time, not all of the band members were able to be there, but the music was great, and hey, the show was free. This time, it was so much fun to see the entire group, and they put on a really great show.

We were prepared for the general admission seating, so JG took my hand and made a beeline for the front, where we scored third-row seats. Plus, I had the added short-person bonus of an empty seat in front of me. Yes! The concert had the expected characteristics — all-time favorite tunes, chest-thumping bass, and encore numbers — but I was struck by how Caedmon’s Call music immediately called up specific events from my life. Throughout the concert, my mind flipped quickly through a Rolodex of memories to arrive at whatever moment was most closely associated with the song.

“This World” brought me back to a retreat in college, when two guitarists and song leaders, Kimby and Dan, played this song for the group. I was a freshman at the time, and I was completely impressed with those seniors, their friendship, and their musicality. When the band struck up the opening chords, I felt a little ache in my chest.

When I was a youth leader, I led a discussion based on the lyrics to “Shifting Sand.” Between looking up the definition of “precarious” and referencing old stories they had known for years, I saw that rare glimmer of comprehension poke out of a group of a dozen high school girls.

JG and I call “Two Weeks in Africa” “Kristina’s song,” after one of our closest friends. She took a trip to Kenya during college, and I am convinced that it is a matter of time until she tells us that she’s going back for good. As soon as I heard those opening chords, I remembered that we told her about this song as soon as we heard it, and she said sheepishly, “Apparently, I have a reputation for Africa or something.” At the concert, I flipped open my phone and called her, on the off chance that she would be able to hear the song through my speaker phone. I left a hoarse, follow-up voicemail after the fact to explain myself, and she called me back today: “I could barely make anything out from that first voicemail, but I could kind of hear that it was Caedmon’s, and then I heard you shrieking every so often.” Good enough, I think!

Of course, the concert couldn’t include all of our favorites. “Ballad of San Francisco” would have taken me straight back to my dorm room, as I strained to plunk out power chords on a borrowed guitar. “Love is Different” was the unofficial anthem of JG’s and my first dating days. “Daring Daylight Escape” ran through my mind as I waited to hear from JG after what I knew was a conversation with my dad to ask for permission to propose. I listened to “Walk with Me” on repeat during a sad train ride.

It’s curious how that works — how songs can bring back such strong images and emotions from whatever event goes along with them. Now, I can add another one to the file: sitting at that concert next to JG, squeezing his hand, and singing along with the band.

Sunday Scribblings #100: Time Machine

A few housekeeping notes:

• My Secret Blogger Santa is awesome! Yesterday, I received a puffy mailing envelope containing cute blank cards with various antique-y prints and chic stickers. I neglected to mention that, for my second gift, I received a very sweet e-mail with the five things my SBS loves best about reading this here site, plus a link to FreeRice, where I flexed my vocabularly muscles and wasted a good part of a workday. Thanks, Nicole! You rock!
• Last night, during our New Year’s Eve bonanza, we made it through 11 out of 22 episodes of the second season of The Office and barely propped our eyelids open to see the ball drop. Our marathon viewing of The Office continues today, somewhat scattered around football viewing, because I am determined to see the blooper reel.
• I generally shy away from retrospective posts for the year. Trying to digest a full year’s worth of activity is a little too much for me, I guess. Shrug. Off the top of my head, highlights of 2007 include taking a colonial spring break, celebrating a second anniversary, getting a dog, invading DC, quitting a job, starting a new one, and being an SBS elf. I gesture to the Archives for all other points of interest.

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I’m torn on the subject of resolutions.

On one hand, I like an excuse to make goals. January 1 is an arbitrary sort of new year for me; I still operate on an academic calendar with JG, so September is more intuitive. In the middle of winter, it’s nice to feel as though I’m turning over a new leaf and self-improving. On the other hand, I hardly ever succeed at my resolutions because the thrill of making goals and possibly checking them off makes me go overboard: I’ll do yoga on every workday! I’ll re-learn how to play the guitar! I’ll stop biting my nails again! AND I’ll write physical letters once a week! By January 20, I’m a dismal failure, so I swear off ever having resolutions until December 31 swings back around.

Last year, I resolved to read four books every month (in an effort to make a point to make time for leisure reading) and try two new recipes every month (to try and cook more). Because I didn’t bother to track my cooking expeditions, I have no idea if I even came close to that one, but I’m pretty sure that I didn’t have a fighting chance of meeting that goal. Out of 48 possible books, I read 35 books in 2007, so I wasn’t successful at that resolution, either, despite my best efforts. I feel okay about my progress because I managed to read four books in five of the months, and in general, I made it a point to read a lot more than I would have normally. I developed a habit of constantly scouting out books for the next month and asking people what they were reading so that I could garner new recommendations. Although I didn’t meet the actual goal of 48 books in 12 months, I feel successful in the overall intention.

What’s next — five books every month for 2008? No, no. Since I’m fully immersed in searching for new reads and asking strangers what they’re reading, I am letting go of a reading goal this year, but that doesn’t mean that I won’t keep track of my literary ambitions. Thanks to Goodreads, I can keep tabs on my virtual bookshelves, plus whatever my cohorts are reading. (Click over from your feed readers to check out the fancy Flash widget that shows my recent reads!) Thank you, Internet, for fulfilling my urge to obsessively track yet another aspect of my life.

That said, the resolutions for this year are:

1. To cook 2 new recipes every month
Yes, I’m trying it again. As with last year, I want to try and improve my cooking skills by making one new dinner/entrée and one dessert/baking recipe per month. This time, I am laying out the to-try recipes way in advance, instead of hoping that I run into the right recipe in time. To keep me on track, I will post each recipe here, and hopefully, the accompanying story won’t be horrific. I will do my best to glean from the cookbooks and clippings I already have, but I may supplement with any must-make numbers I encounter.

2. To give up drinking soda
Ah, here’s where it hurts. I come off as a saint when I demurely refuse coffee and chocolate (with the shocking truth that I simply don’t like them), but I am a fiend when it comes to candy and sugary drinks, and my weak enamel cries out in pain. Trying to give up sugar would be completely unrealistic, so I’m trying to eliminate a mere subsection by substituting water (not lemonade or iced tea) when I would normally reach for a soda. The hardest part of this goal will be resisting my deep love of the root beer float, my favorite dessert. Before we rang in the new year last night, I drank two bottles of Hank’s root beer to commemorate this new stage of self-restraint. The year won’t be completely abstinent; to celebrate each month of soda-free existence, I’ll reward myself with a root beer float on the last day. And I will look forward to it all month long.

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