The Black Swan

Slats of wooden floorboards creak beneath the delicate movement and placement of feet pirouetting across its surface. Feet which house both worn and unworn pink slippers. Tiny strings of thread poke out where stitches have been restitched from the numerous stories they have told through their journey across the stage. On others, stiffness envelopes the feet which shifts to their bodies; these are the novices of the room who are still uncertain if their arm position is appropriate to whatever their lower half is currently engaging in. Mirrors consume all four walls-floor to roof-so not a moment passes unaccounted or observed for.

Sweet serenity.

Today I decided I wanted to be a ballerina. And this idea was further reinforced by my refrigerator magnet that I strategically placed at my favorite haven to serve as a reminder that it is okay to face any and all vulnerabilities.

The thought of dancing again is a bit terrifying. When I was young, like most kids, I was fearless (despite having a father who taught the opposite daily, I mean hourly, of all the possible things I should be afraid of). It’s a wonder I don’t still reside in one of my parent’s residences.

The previous statement should be edited. Today, I decided I wanted to be a ballerina again. I once was a ballerina; the days before adolescence, thighs, and when wearing make-up was confined to the stage. Which in retrospect is a hideous way to introduce young formidable girls to make up.

“Cake it on!"

"They can’t see you without it!"

" You won’t be noticed! You don’t want to be a wallflower, do you?”

Well, I guess not, but you do have me dressed up like a mushroom (true story), not exactly the preparation for someone that’s about to be the chandelier of which parties and events revolve around.

Stite’s Studio was thrilling. I loved going to ballet class. I felt important carrying my lavender dance bag with the pink slippers screen printed on the side, and taking out my own slippers that matched once I got into the studio. It was forbidden to walk on the streets with your ballet slippers. I loved the feeling of my black skirt grazing my standard pink tights as I spun around in circles and anticipating my turn to do grande jete’s diagonally across the floor. And then back. I was always eager to go one more time and never understood the hesitation of some of my classmates and their willingness to let me cut in line as they continued to allow others to “go ahead” while they hoped to get lost. In a room full of mirrors.

My hiatus from the jewelry-box dancer was due to taking on more “competitive” sports. Maybe I should say “contact” as I’m sure I’ve offended, and rightfully so, someone who has starred as Clara in Juliard’s production of “The Nutcracker.” Or some other big deal where you literally ruin the shape, feeling, and overall attractiveness of your feet. Or where you work so hard in becoming a character that you manifest this war between self and evil ultimately dying for the role [Spoiler alert].

So after much thought, hesitation, longing feelings during a cinematic blockbuster that shouldn’t warrant such emotion, more hesitation, and conversations with a friend who had recently taken the leap [pun], I decided to take Mrs. Roosevelt’s advice.

[my favorite new pair of shoes I've bought this week. Besides the strappy sandals I bought yesterday...]

Before I had an opportunity to change my mind, I googled the nearest dance store and bought a new dance wardrobe. I was reassured when the lady told me, “You totally need a leotard with a strappy back,” which I interpreted as my lifting has been paying off and Operation 2011: Tone back, is giving noticeable results. Even though I was wearing a cardigan at the time this comment was made.

Here’s to dancing like no one (besides 15 women and possibly 2 men) is watching.

Wait, so what is it that you DO do?

Disclaimer: This is a rant.

Since I've relocated there are many a things to take care of. Changing of addresses, opening accounts, closing accounts, HR paperwork, car stuff, etc. etc. I have been postponing a few of these phone calls for the dread of listening to prompts as I can no longer get an operator when I obsessively press "0." They're on to me.

One of these calls was to my doctor's office. I needed to refill a prescription a whopping four days before I am "allowed" to refill it AKA before my insurance is finito from this physician. I left a message with person #1, who has person #2 call me back a couple hours later, flabbergasted by my request.

Person #2: Well there are still 5 refills on this prescription

Me: Yes, I understand that. But I won't be refilling anymore except this one time as my insurance by your provider will be ending at the end of this month.

Person #2: So...what is it that you want Dr. Anonymous to do?

Me: To give the pharmacy permission to fill it 4 days earlier. And if she has to take out 4 of the pills, I understand {breath of sarcasm}.

Person #2: {Deep Exhalation} Oh, wow. So you would need a new prescription

Me: I'm not quite sure how this all works, but I guess if that's what it takes, yes. Or she could just make a phone call

Person #2: But she's already written the prescription.

Me: Yes.

Person #2: Well, I don't know how she'd do it. She'd have to write a whole new prescription.

In my time as a patient, for the last 26 years or so, I've had allergies of every kind, sleeping problems, aches, pains, etc. that have brought me to the doctor's office. Usually, to cure any of the aforementioned ailments, the doctor reaches into the magical abyss of their white lab coat, obtaining a white notepad with their inked credentials already printed on this pad, scribbles a few illegible notes, and I am on my happy way to the pharmacy. The whole process takes about 1.5 seconds.

Person #3 has returned my call. And guess what? Dr. Anonymous made a call and it's done.

Why is it that people feel compelled to make their jobs more difficult than they actually are?

Chillax Rx.

I can tell that we are gonna be friends.

There are cardboard boxes still folded over and stacked up in my living room, but I am unpacked. What a feeling.

It did not come without struggle, thanks to my nostalgic tendencies, but everything has its place (almost) and my new home is looking glorious. I absolutely love it. I feel serene, relaxed and comfy cozy in my new walls.

I love it so much that I find it hard wanting to leave my living room and the sound of my record player to go exploring. Well, that and I’m getting over the plague. But I peeled myself off the couch and have started to wander around the greater part of my new home.

It seemed like I waited days to receive my first piece of mail that wasn't junk as I was impatiently waiting to get my new library card. Since I don't have a Washington license, this is required in order for them to hand over the goods. Now I feel intellectually connected that I am the proud owner of a Seattle Public Library Card.

I've also found the nearest Target and have paid them two visits. Balance.

On my first night out with one of my girlfriends that lives up here, Sarah, we found ourselves in the funky streets of Fremont. I've visited this area before on previous trips, but it very much reminds me of the weirdness of Portland and I'm pretty sure I'll find my corner there as I had such a good time walking on its sidewalks last night and today. We went to The Dubliner, an Irish bar as the date of March 17th calls for us all to become Irish or a descendant of some famous leprechaun, then found ourselves food that wasn't Shepherd's pie and additional libations at Dad Watsons. The best part of this night for me was unknowingly finding a parking spot right by the troll underneath the Aurora Bridge. I know most wouldn't find such excitement in the presence of an unsightly troll (especially if your surname is Sheen), but it happens to star in one of my favorite movies and seeing that concrete face of disgust on St Patty's night, brought me great joy. On our ride home, the downtown city skyline was to our right, all lit up, and I couldn't believe it was my time to be apart of this city.

In another internal dispute this morning, I thought it would be a good idea to maybe get some work done on my upcoming term being that I have no material whatsoever prepared. To further convince myself to remove thy booty from thy cushion, I gave myself permission to do some not-so-window shopping before I found a cute cafe and got to work. Back in Fremont, I rummaged through 99 cent bins of Vinyl to find a few select gems I had been looking for and of course, walked away with ones I now could not live without. Some Simon with his boy Garfunkel, some Elton, Billy, and Tommy James & The Shondells ("Crimson & Clover" is one of my faves of all time). My record collection is really starting to fill out.

Afterward, I was innocently walking to my car to find this cafe, when the words "Wine Warehouse" invaded my line of vision. I stopped in. Just to look around, of course.

I met Michael, the owner of this mecca of wine. He told me about the special events, the free tastings they have on Fridays (did I mention it was Friday?) and I left the store happily with some vino and now as a member of this great establishment. I have already received an email of upcoming events that I can't wait to attend. Now I feel Oenologically connected.

Eventually, I found my cafe. What I didn't find in my bag that I packed so well, was my laptop. Oh well. I guess work will have to wait.

A Tale of a City.

Chapter 1:

I’m 18. I’ve just stepped out of the mundane, judgmental halls of a homogenous high school. Everyone dresses the same, wants to act the same and wants to not be seen as different. I never had daydreams of being a wallflower. Freedom came to me in the form of an 8x8 dorm room cell infested with Ladybugs on the 7^th floor of Bloss Hall at Oregon State University, shared with my best friend. I guess that whole thing of Ladybugs being good luck had some sort of truth to it, and we had a ton.

In those four years of Undergraduate, Oregon State gave me friends. Lifelong friendships birthed in walks at halftime to and from the stadium, neighbors made in dorm room hallways coming back from midnight snacks or the country store and from proximity of sitting next to someone repeatedly in class and being forced out of awkwardness to say, "So is this class in your major?"

Barbecues were a weekday staple when afternoon classes let out Spring afternoons and friendships were strengthened around marinating chicken and steaks in the classiness of front porches and yards. And on some special Fridays when the sun was really out for the day, we may have taken a personal day to go to the beach 45 minutes away.

[This was one of those days]

Oregon State gave me the world. My international experience was confined to the landmasses that we share on the North and South ends of our country. Before I went to college the “world” always seemed to be something I could only touch with my hand by lying my palm on a globe while it spun in its circles. That was the extent of my orbit. It wasn’t a tangible place; somewhere my feet would ever be able to touch upon the soil of a different nation. I’m not one for being fond of being wrong, but I’m so glad I was on this one.

[Those are my Pumas. On Left. In Greece]

[It gave me this sunset]

Oregon State gave me employment. From Student Orientation, to a Liberal Arts Ambassador, to working in the International Office to speak to students about going abroad (seriously, I’m being paid for this??) and my coveted position of a tour guide. Yes, I wore an adult men's medium Orange polo that perpetually faded with every wash and sunbeam that touched it, and I wore that thing proud. I love that I know the intricacies of the behind-the-scenes of OSU. I feel like it’s the inside look you get when you click on the extra features on a DVD.

[Fun Fact: Betty Crocker went to OSU and it was also where the Maraschino Cherry was invented.]

Oregon State gave me love. And oh, did I fall. Down that Rabbit Hole, I did fall and I couldn't seem to find Alice's hand to grasp onto.

Chapter 2:

I’m 22. I’m at CH2M Hill Alumni center searching for a future in the rows of employers represented by booths and cardboard signs. People are shoving their business cards my way and I’m reciprocating with smiles and an elevator speech of why my 4 years of education makes me better than the other nervous college student behind me who has an almost identical speech prepared.

I interviewed. I convinced myself that sales would be right for me, why wouldn’t it be? The only thing I’ve ever dreamed of doing was to write and there’d surely be writing involved there.

Then came my Department Chair with an opportunity to not only get my Master’s Degree, but on a full scholarship while teaching courses as a Graduate Teaching Assistant. Up until this point, I had never thought about a Master’s Degree. No one in my family had one, why should I? But thinking back to the row of party-pumps turned interview-attire at the career fair and showing me the very real nature of my competition while trying to discern why I was special, made me think that maybe this isn’t a half bad deal.

My aforementioned Best Friend and I roomed for all four years of college (and we remain Best Friends which is some sort of wonderful with the ways that roommate situations can go). Now I was on my way to living alone for the first time in my life that wasn’t a weekend that she’d be away for. I was very much the independent gal who didn’t need a friend in tow for every outing, but being alone had its whole other reality.

So here I was, still at OSU while most of my friends had departed (except for a selection in their 5^th year :) ); it was time to make new friends with a new cohort.

Chapter 3:

Thesis defended. Master’s degree on the bookshelf as that is the only place anyone will ever see it. No one asks to see those things. Leave OSU for the corporate world only to be back a couple years later. This time as an educator.

I’m 26.75 and I am driving to Corvallis for my last time in the foreseeable future. A thought like this is kind of inconceivable being that I have been making this journey three times a week for about a year and a half. It’s a part of my routine, and I’m a sucker for those. As I’m taking Exit 228, the violin sounds from one of my favorite songs by The Verve “Bittersweet Symphony" comes on. No truer words have been spoken.

I made a special route today to drive by Bloss Hall. And by Reser Stadium. I drive by the shop where I got my nose pierced for the first time while bored during a snowstorm that shockingly shut down OSU for two days. And a few front yards where I convinced myself I could smell barbeque even as the rain splashed onto the street making it close to impossible for any flame to burn. I drove by the dirtiest shanty of a house I had ever lived in and could not fathom sleeping in today. In fact, when we viewed the house the first time, there was a dead bird in the living room. We took it anyway. Completely different meaning to Put a bird on it.

I walk out of my last class I'll teach there and find myself in front of the Valley Library. I pull out my camera despite the rain and take a picture, even though I can’t imagine the day where I forget what this gorgeous building looks like and the way I feel so small walking down its infinite aisles of books which now includes my own work (actually, I’m not sure if they printed it or if it just exists online).

[I know it looks dreary, but you can smell the Cherry Blossoms, I promise.]

Chapter 4:

The U-Haul will pull away with my brother at the wheel and my dad following behind. My mom and I wave from my new home, surrounded by daunting cardboard boxes in the living room behind me. She’ll help me unpack, clean as she has always done and make some food to sustain what will be a busy week, but this time I’ll put her on a train back home (and she’ll all-too-soon end up in Barbados) and I’ll be alone. Left to figure out on my own devices what this freedom means in a new city, 9 years later. If a place like Corvallis could show me the non-textbook version of the world, love, teaching and friendships, I wonder where I'll find myself on these new city sidewalks. But that's another tale I suppose I'll have to tell.

And the winner is...

I was 5 for 8 on my Oscar scorecard last night.

I saw 9 out of the 10 Oscar nominees for Best Picture. I’ll shamelessly admit I did not see ‘True Grit’ for no other reason than the fact that I loathe Westerns and guarantee I would've been snoozin in the cinema. And unlike a certain friend of mine, theater time is not my usual nap time.

Let’s start with the big award of the night going to “The King’s Speech.” I like Colin Firth; he’s a great actor. But the movie was not at the top of my list of films this year. Sure, I had moments of sympathy watching the struggles of the King’s stutter especially as an instructor of speech, but the empathy with his character was never built and I wasn’t made to feel any type of connection with him. This transition from sympathy to empathy is what divides the average from the best. “The King’s Speech” had its moments where Bonham-Carter offered a witty line or Rush before his time, made us laugh with jokes of nicotine being harmful to the body, but nothing to withstand my respect for an Oscar for Best Actor and certainly not Best Picture.

Like the premise and claim of the Winklevoss twins, “The Social Network” got robbed.

A friend of mine who wasn’t as big of a fan of ‘The Social Network” as me, made the comment, “it’s not hard to play an asshole.” However, Eisenberg’s character transcends this simple label and he is much more multi-faceted than this. He’s a genius. He’s a co-ed. He’s seeking acceptance. He’s an innovator. And even though he committed what some of us would deem inexcusable acts for forgiveness, I got it.

How often is it where we have a main character that represents the protagonist and antagonist? Heroic in the sorts of having this billion dollar idea that has reshaped the entire way people communicate, build, create, maintain and sever friendships, relationships, and kinships? And in the same body, Eisenberg manifests this carelessness toward those who assisted him in getting to this place. His performance is equal to Zuckerberg’s IQ: Genius (or whatever numerical score would be the equivalent).

It was outstandingly done.

This, plus the UH-MAY-ZING score of “The Social Network” = Best picture. Apparently not for those occupying seats of the “prestigious” academy. I’m curious to know the youngest member that sits on that board.

[I bet if there was a biopic on Alexander Graham Bell, it would’ve won.]

Other noteworthy moments:

-The opening sequence. Where they used the score of 'The Social Network' (just saying) and Alec Baldwin.

-Anne was radiant and could’ve held down the show solo. Too bad James Franco was sneaking herbal refreshments not of the Lipton family, backstage and made us all feel awkward and question why he was there.

-Kirk Douglass probably shouldn’t be presenting awards anymore. Betty White is an exception for Hollywood senior citizens and just because she can, doesn’t mean Kirk can.

-Sandra Bullock always makes me smile and looked fantastic.

-Also fantastic? Halle Berry. What is it that she is drinking, eating and moisturizing in because I need a life’s supply. Maybe the box of girl scout cookies I ate while watching her speak are not the first steps in the direction of the golden goddess. At least the milk the cookies were dipped in was fat free.

-Gwyneth, stop singing. I can’t believe your husband who is a phenomenal musician hasn’t advised you of the same advice if for nothing else, to save himself from embarrassment. I really hope your dream collaboration with Jay Z doesn’t happen. I think Hova would have more sense than that. He already has 99 problems.

-Celine?

-Melissa Leo, I wanted you to win. Your speech sucked though. I know I have no idea what it might be like to win an Oscar, but repeatedly saying “ummmmm” and “uhhhhhh” is not only annoying, but it prolongs the already 180 minute presentation. You’re an actor, improv. Better yet, being nominated allows you to write something down. The animation guys had better speeches.

-It was Natalie’s year. She was magnificent but I was a bit sad she didn’t mention her cast in her acceptance speech.

I long for the days where Cuba Gooding Jr’s feet left the stage in between whoops and hollers of yelling people’s names he wanted to thank. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cnCMqr1QRQw.

Where two strapping young boys took home their first Oscar for “Good Will Hunting.” Where Tom Hanks spoke of angels who were victims to AIDs when he won for “Philadelphia.” Where there was this palpable joy felt between actor and audience. Where there was sincere gratitude for what this honor meant.

The show is getting stiff in the voters and the speeches. Throwing a [Winter’s] Bone in there for Sundance and Indie’s sake but not really considering them as victors of the night, is cheap and annoying. Selecting young hosts for the evening doesn’t make the Oscars “young” “hip” and progressive” if the votes don’t echo the product placement.

The needle has been found.

The most amazing thing happened to me today.

I rummaged through the haystack and it wasn't as easy to find as the obvious 1960's needle that pokes through Seattle's skyline. Apparently you can't type "fabulous apartment in my price range and in an ideal location" into your GPS system to lead you to "home." And funny enough, there is no yellow brick road to take you to Oz in the Emerald City.

But I found it anyway without Liza (my GPS voice) or Dorothy.

I found a place to live.

About 5 weeks and 1 day ago, I made a decision to leave my beautiful hometown Portlandia for another city. It’s not that I haven’t enjoyed Portlandia’s company; the times we’ve had together are innumerable and priceless. It’s just that I want to see what else is out there. It’s not you, it’s me. I promise.

[Note: This sign now reads "Portland Oregon" but I have sentimental value with the old way. After all, this reads true for me. Minus the "Old Town."]

This move wasn’t “planned” per se, but the bed bug of moving has been biting me for the last five years ever since I graduated undergrad. And boy is s/he a bitch. Maybe that’s the culprit of my insomnia.

I started looking for jobs elsewhere and a Master’s program fell into my lap. Not to be one to say no to free schooling, I took it.

Two years later, thesis written and defended, I searched nationally as well as locally and was offered a job in a private business in Oregon. Not to be one to say no to good money and benefits in a failing economy, I took it.

When that economy took its toll on my company, I again was on the hunt for a job. That’s when OSU rang like the orange & black fairy it is and asked me to teach. Not to be one to say no to my awesome alma mater (+health care/benefits), I took it despite its required 150 mile commute, 3 days a week.

You see where this story is going.

In these 4 years where I kept Oregon as my home, I’ve scratched at said bug with an inordinate amount of travel. New York x4, Palm Springs, Vegas x3, Disneyland, Boston, Philly, DC for Inauguration, Park City for Sundance x2, Hawaii, Whistler, Cabo, and a couple cruises. But I still come home tossing and turning. [For the record, my bed is incredibly comfortable and free of bed bugs. Maybe not the best of metaphors given that these creatures have become somewhat of an epidemic].

Fast-Forward January 2011. Over a delicious brunch of French toast in Bridgetown, one of my fabulous girlfriends and I were discussing changes and moving as she is moving herself come March. I gave her the same response I’d been giving myself for years, “What about a job? What about money?” She told me to just do it.

I come home from brunch and my roommate informs me that our landlord is in the midst of selling our condo and they want us out sooner than our agreed upon lease and are offering a very nice “incentive.” Well, one of my excuses is nil. There’s the money. Timing, you’re funny.

There was still the whole issue of having employment, the chances of finding employment in an unfriendly job market, and quitting my 2 jobs when most have none. What sense did this make? Apparently enough. Being the planner that I am, I like for things to be predictable or at least have a relative sketch of my foreseeable future. I made the very unsettling decision to move without a job. Enter extreme anxiety.

So Seattle, you’re it. Some refer to Seattle as Portland’s brother city…I wouldn’t dare, as it seems inappropriate to leave one family member for another.

Five weeks and two days later, I’m with JOB and a home. I’ve seen the worst of Seattle and then I walked into my home…apartment number 10 that I saw to be exact. It was the first place I felt it wasn’t necessary to pinch my nose to save my body from communicable diseases it could possibly get from invasive aromas and that I could lay in the middle of my living room and fall asleep there watching Friends. This is imperative.

After gleefully signing a lease and sharing hugs with my mom and granny (my apartment hunters of the day), I called my dad who has been supportive but I also believe to be secretly hoping it doesn’t work out so I’ll stay home.

Dad: Wow, you’ve got a lot done in a month.

Me: Didn’t think I could do it?

Actually, I really didn’t think I could do it but I thought if I kept envisioning it happening, then maybe it would become reality. I never give myself much credit for getting anything accomplished as there are always items running into tomorrow’s planner checklist that I wanted to get done today, but today, I am giddy with delight.

I feel like calling for Penny Lane and yelling, "IT'S ALL HAPPENING!"

Exhale.

Turn, Turn, Turn

"A time to be born, a time to die

A time to plant, a time to reap

I time to kill, a time to heal,

A time to laugh, a time to weep."

I am aware that the Earth is in constant motion. That’s what keeps us on our punctual schedule of making it around the great sun in 365 days; 366 days respectively in a leap year. But even though we are forever moving, there are some times when you can really feel it more than others. It’s kind of the equivalent to a smooth airplane ride where you are traveling around 500 mph, yet you don’t feel the movement until you hit turbulence.

Yes, this is the ideal way to describe life as is right now. Metaphorical turbulence.

Yesterday’s date was February 14^th. But yesterDAY was Valentine’s day. In the socially constructed way of how we view Valentine’s day, I didn’t have an “official” Valentine. In fact, the only rose I received was from atop of my Grandpa’s casket after the military paid a beautiful tribute to his service.

To some, I’ve probably depressed you with the thought of not having a Valentine. To others, I might have depressed you with bringing up death which as the living, we have such a hard time placing. But let me explain the beauty in both.

I am not anti-Valentine or pro-Valentine. Do I think it’s a bit ludicrous to pick one day of the year where you shall spend hard earned income on a loved one over all other days to show them how much you love them? Sure. Do I think it’s nicer to sprinkle these acts of kindness throughout the other 364 days (365 LY)? Of course. But is there anything wrong with having an official day of love? Not really.

If Valentine’s day is considered to be the day we show the ones we love how we adore them through the mediums of chocolate and other disgusting assorted candies (Note: I hate most holiday candy, not Valentine’s specific), why is it romanticized? Shouldn’t we take the teachings of the third grade and take this “opportunity” to show love to those who get us through days on the regular? That is what I deem love to be; helping each other during the normal and abnormal, mundane and extraordinary, 24 hours of passing through the week.

Through the month.

Through the year.

Thank you to those who get me through the Earth’s rotation. On the regular.

And due to unfortunate circumstances of my grandpa’s death, I had the joy of spending the week/weekend preceding the day of love with my family. Granny, my dad’s mom, lost her husband of 34 years (to us, he was "Papa"). That is longer than my lifetime, which to me, sometimes seems longer than it actually is. I cannot possibly imagine all the memories created with a person over that time when I feel overwhelmed just looking at the pictures that represent my short time here.

Let me tell you a little about my granny. She is where I get my sass, stubbornness and strong will. Although, she is one hundred times stronger than I. She had to be. She grew up in the cruel South where the world hadn’t made a place for her and she had to make a life with her brothers and sisters. Literally, create life so they could survive. She is 1 of 14 and spent her young days on the farm, soiling seeds that would allow her family to eat. She claims she is the worst cook of her sisters since she was out in the field; I beg to differ. She is the best cook.

Granny got out of the South. She went to college. She became an RN. She raised 3 biological sons and blended two families when she met Papa, who had 5 children of his own. I tease her for her love of Y & R, which I happily watched with her as a child, her love of denim skirts, and how even after lecturing someone she’ll kindly say, “bless ya” as if to say, "no harm, no foul, and even if you have transgressed, there's still a chance you're going to heaven." She teases me because of my will in making words up in Boggle that I persistently persuade her really exist, but mostly she supports me, talks to anyone that will listen about her eldest granddaughter, encourages me (she’s the main reason I went for my Master’s) and loves me.

She’s good at that.

She has loved and taken care of Papa for as long as I can remember and is the example of the word wife. The fact that I had to watch her on February 14^th bury her Valentine tears my heart apart.

I’m awaiting that love that will tear me apart to lose and bring me incredible fulfillment in its presence, that I’ll never want to have to leave it. I didn’t know it was possible to feel all those things from one person. I have now been a witness.

I come from pretty remarkable roots. Distinct personalities, the biggest hearts I have ever seen and so much love that it's a wonder that the Earth can contain it all. Maybe that’s why Papa had to leave. We really feel when one of us is needed.

On Thursday, our family gathered at Granny’s to be together. My Uncle, my dad’s twin brother, fresh from the plane, walked through the crowd that had accumulated in Granny’s hallways and walked straight through it all to find her sitting next to me on the couch. They embraced and for the first time, I heard Granny cry over her loss. I stood up, maintaining my disposition I was certain, and walked to the spare bedroom where Granny and I watched Y & R and Papa and I watched Westerns and WWF. I sat down, covered my face and let myself feel everything. A moment later, my dad and my brother who was carrying baby Olivia, came into the room.

How did they know?

My brother said, "We love you Auntie Teela" and held up sweet little Olivia’s mouth that was busy in its new favorite pasttime of blowing bubbles, to my cheek for the sloppiest kiss I’d ever received, which coincidentally, was the best kiss I'd ever received.