a blog is for blogging

i am the Queen of Unfinished Projects. 
crown me, put me on the face of a coin, but whatever you do-- do not dethrone me.


today, however, i did finish one project: belated spring cleaning. i went through bags and boxes of belongings in my apartment and pared them down to three boxes (plus clothes). impressed? i know, don't make me blush any more than i already am. i rewarded my new Minimalist self with a pat on the back, some peach caffeine-free diet coke (who knew that existed, right?), a black bean burger (yum) and a viewing of His Girl Friday, a 1940s flick with Cary Grant in it. he's so classy.


most peoples' to-do lists probably consist of time-sensitive items: check-offable, contained, and quickly completed. my to-do lists are more abstract than concrete, more long-standing projects than quick checks. overarching, really. books i need to read. art projects i want to construct. letters i want to write. conversations to have. places to frolic. to some, this way of prioritizing may seem irresponsible, naive, fruitless. and maybe it is.


so, you see, all this makes me Queen.


a slight concession:
at this point in a post, my counterintuitive gushing usually propels me to make sense of the mess in my head, or else i risk staying still and never getting over the hump. sometimes that's why i blog: it helps me process things. historically, i'd feel it incumbent upon me at this "tipping point" moment to break out a killer quote by a super intelligent thinker, one that lends logic to my ridiculous verbiage and lays out a solid plan for rectification and action. after all, that's what the tipping point, any tipping point, requires--- does it not? you know, the conclusion: that ribbon on the package, the neat and tidy argument, the words that wrap it all up nice and pretty and make a series of inconsequential events important. 


but i can't do that, not this time. 
i can't quote another thinker, and i can't go any further.


but the thing is, i'm not stuck.
or down.
or out.


i'm ready.


i'm ready for adventure. you know, that adventure on the horizon. the one that's getting closer and closer though still all i can see is a shadow of a figure.


i'm ready for the hands of Time to tick right and tick left; counter clockwise, or not. either way they go they have no hold. life moves along, as it always has and always will. to-do's will fall into place. they'll find their way onto my calendar, and i'll find my way in a world i've come to love so dearly. all the while, i'll walk on-- knowing that now, i'm living just a prelude, an introductory movement, an overture. i'll walk on, smiling throughout the glorious prelude and into a life yet to come.


for now, i'll rejoice in the Unfinished Projects, because i'm learning i am just that: 

i am an unfinished project.

beautifully unrefined, originally crafted, and in due course, completed after years and years of pressure and shaping and molding. 

when i forget that i'm unfinished, i get caught up in the to-do's. i find myself believing satan's lies that i'm not productive enough, not solid enough, not focused enough. the worst days i have are the ones when i forget that the purpose of life is not in the living, but the dying. it's ironic, right? Christ died for me, and i live in Him only because i die to self. remembering that integral component of His holiness brings me more liberation than i ever could have imagined. 


i've hidden behind needless productivity, behind emotional stress or final papers or powerplays and pursuits. i've hidden behind those trivial to-do's.
ah, so pasé. 


modified to-do list, in no particular order and subject to change, for the new Minimalist in me:  


hike Old Rag, Half Dome
make redred
sleep under the stars
go to the moon
get a job
Bob Ross day
get pilot's license 
graduate
climb a tree
call mom




yours sincerely,
meredith

part I

In the last sixteen days, I have seen two oceans. Flown in four planes. Lived in two countries and three separate time zones. I have ridden, a blissful passenger, through five different states in a menagerie of cars: a Pontiac, a Honda Civic. A Chevy Suburban. A Volkswagen Jetta, Volkswagen Jetta convertible, and yellow Volkswagen bug. A Toyota Camry, an Acura, and a really old Saturn. I've stayed the night in D.C. twice, gone home to West Virginia, slept at my sister's Beverly Hills apartment, and crashed at Brooke's La Cañada abode. I've walked among the eclectic shops at Venice Beach, smuggled 8 whole Tilapia fish through U.S. customs, long-boarded, enjoyed wine and cooked good food, gone hiking in the beautiful California coastal mountains, read my first Dan Brown book, dog-shopped, road-tripped to San Diego and Santa Ana, gotten in a tiny fender-bender (don't fret; we're all alive), been introduced to Monty Python and the Holy Grail, consumed more coffee than is physician recommended, talked about Ghana to anyone who'll listen, rocked out to more Needtobreathe than I can bear (almost), watched all three Lord of the Rings, gotten sunburned, eaten even more delicious food, listened to Johnny Cash while drinking Diet Raspberry Snapple, and become a Pinterest addict. More has transpired, but I surely can't continue boring you with it. I will say that while I should be exhausted, I'm more rested, refueled, and inspired than ever.

So rest easy, because this post is about to get more interesting. Let's get to the meat of it. Or, seeing as I'm a pescatarian again, I might say: I've got bigger fish to fry.

The bigger fish, you ask?

I am going to try my hand at fiction.

This is a big step for me, and I can't believe I'm taking it. I guess you could say this is my maiden voyage. I will in no way guarantee its splendor; I could certainly sink it, as I have no idea what I'll write about. I haven't written fiction since… well I honestly don't know the last time I wrote something fictitious. I'll eat my hat if this turns out remotely enjoyable to you, the reader. As it were, just today I decided I was past-due for a new post; but a blog post about what, I did not know. So I asked my other half, Emma, for ideas. She suggested fiction, a post on Returns, or a post on the glorious West.

For some reason, fiction beckons.

Enjoy.

__________________________________________________

"You don't smoke, do you? Like, cigarettes?"

Spence wheeled around on the heel of her worn flats, searching her mother's sun-kissed face and wrinkled brow for any sign of jest, clearly caught off guard by the direction the conversation just took. Five minutes together, and already her mom was peppering her with questions.

"Mom, I don't smoke. I have asthma, remember?" Ha, smoking. Of all things. I've been gone a couple of years, but there's no way she could forget that fun time in my life…

Spence temporarily checked out, her mind wandering back to all those years her mom sat on the edge of her bed night after night administering repetitive Nebulizer treatments; fetched her Canada Dry ginger-ale from the kitchen downstairs to soothe her burning throat; scratched her back until Spence, subjugated by exhaustion, dozed off. She felt a rush of gratitude, mixed with that proverbial twinge of guilt, at the memory and quickly pushed the thoughts into the recesses of her mind.

The only thing that mattered now was that mother and daughter were together, in New York, united, again.

"Mom, let me take your bag. That's it, okie, to the right, this way," Spence said as she extended her arm, gently sliding it over her mom's petite and bony frame. She guided her through the revolving doors of her apartment complex The Jetty, an unassumingly tall structure, complete with gaudy foyer and unusually friendly front-desk assistants. Spence appreciated how The Jetty employed friendly people, because that way her mom couldn't argue that all of New York was too rude, fast-paced, and impersonal a place to live.

"Is that your sister?" asked the assistant on duty as the two women walked up to the desk. "Oh how nice, she's come to visit!" she exclaimed at the sight of the the small yet eye-catching fuschia suitcase.

"Actually, Ms. Pammy, she's my mom," Spence replied matter-of-factly, trying real hard to keep her thin lips from breaking into a smile. She always did like shocking other people with this little diddy. She glanced over at her mother: short, slender, sure of herself. Just like Spence, only with sandy-blonde hair-- and a few greys, if you looked hard enough. Her mom wore a black dress cut just low enough in the front to reveal the slightest bit of cleavage. Scandalous. She called it her "city dress." Said she couldn't wear it back at home because the small town folk judged her for it.

Spence laughed to herself while her mom chatted up Ms. Pammy. Her mom did look rather young, especially in the face. She had laughing eyes, and good skin. Spence hoped to goodness she'd inherited the same skin and, hence, the same good fortune. 'Cause she sure as hell wanted also to be mistaken for a 23-year-old's sister once she began nearing the 50-year 'Over the Hill' mark.

The pair left the foyer, turned the corner, and made their way up the back stairwell. Along the way, her mother-- being the type of lady who appreciates the luxury of an elevator more than the simplicity of a stair-- berated her daughter with the usual remarks, which Spence endured with practiced patience:

"Tell me again why don't you get a place with an elevator? God knows you can afford it, with that hoity-toity magazine job of yours."

and

"Are you still on that no-meat kick? What do you even eat? And how much do you spend on groceries? You look too skinny."

or, her favorite:

"Move back home, honey. You can get twice or three times the square footage for the same price! Plus a washer and dryer. A place down the street from me just opened up. And besides, Adam Cooley-- you remember him, he played quarterback when you were in high school? Well he just moved back to the area. Saw him in the pew in front of me at church the other day, looking good as ever. And, he's single again!"

Smile and nod, Spence repeated to herself. Smile and nod. She was very good at the smile and nod.

Her mom could talk on and on and on until she was blue in the face-- Plausible, Spence mused, since mother often strikes up lengthy conversations with the dullest of characters-- about how a change of scenery or occupation might be good for her daughter, but Spence had already made up her mind. Though she didn't like to admit it, certain circumstances presented an exception to the 'Mother Knows Best' rule of thumb she'd always followed. Because, the thing was, Mother didn't know at all; she was in the dark, completely and totally. As much as Spence loved her mom, and as guilty as she felt for keeping her secret, Spence couldn't tell her the truth. It was for her own good; the less she knew about what Spence really did for a living, the better.

Because lately, even Spence had to admit things had gotten a little too risky.

...To Be Continued...