As you know, I took a long hiatus from this blog over the summer. Though I have done a good deal of creating in these past few months (which flew by with the speed of an unladen African swallow), many things distracted me from writing in this blog, specifically. However, to say that this has simply been a "busy" summer feels so watered down and trivialized that it hurts. This summer, or this whole year, I should say, has been volcanic with change, triumphs and tragedies erupting with almost equal ferocity. It started when I moved from my Carrboro apartment to a room in a lovely historic house in Durham, but that's only the beginning.
I started writing this post at a bed and breakfast in Tryon, North Carolina, a small town in the foothills where F. Scott Fitzgerald once wrote. This makes sense because, despite its size, Tryon overflows with stories, strange and grand as the peaks surrounding it. Now, I'll attempt to tell at least part of the story of my summer--and the thoughts that sprang from it--in the following series of random journal entries:
1. The weekend before I moved to Durham at the beginning of June, Raisin, my dog of nine years, unexpectedly passed away. He didn't suffer much, but I can't say the same for myself. I spent the rest of that evening wandering between bars in Carrboro and Chapel Hill, texting my friends and struggling to convince myself that not everyone I loved would be wrenched from my life without warning. I know that sounds like a pretty dramatic reaction, but I've found that in a society where human love can be so painfully conditional, there's a special sadness that comes with losing a dog, who expects so little from you. The loss also struck an acute sense of my own mortality. I've been fortunate to not have a lot of loved ones die in my lifetime so far, but the few times it has happened, it's typically been swift and sudden. It's sharpened my awareness of life's brevity like an arrowhead. For this reason, I can't stand talking about things like how I'm going to save for retirement, or doing draining tasks like filling out tax forms and watching half-hour Youtube videos arguing why this movie is better than that movie, or Facebook (even though I still use it entirely too much). Probably half the things I do are fueled by the fear that I might never get to do those things again in my short lifetime.
Also, Raisin, even though you chewed up half my clothes and put a hole in my living room wall with your head, you were the most affectionate dog I ever knew. You were, and still are, greatly missed.
2. Last month, I bought a Johnny Cash album called "My Mother's Hymn Book." It's a collection of old hymns and gospel songs that literally came from his mother's hymn book, recorded late in Cash's life with only his voice and a single guitar. According to the liner notes, out of all his recorded albums, this one was his personal favorite. His deep, aged voice sounds like a tree with many rings, having weathered storm after storm, but yet, as one song goes, "shall not be moved." My favorite song on the album is "Softly and Tenderly," one of my grandfather's favorite hymns. I could almost imagine him singing it as I nearly fell asleep to it on my porch. I listened to the whole album again as I drove to Pittsboro the next day, and it made me tear up. I wondered if this would be happening had 2015 not been a year so fraught with difficulty. Would these songs sound half as beautiful to me if I hadn't tasted some of the hardship they've carried people through for so long? It made me realize that sometimes, we have to be ripped open for things to touch our hearts.
3. I can't express how much my heart goes out to the loved ones of the two journalists killed in the WDBJ shooting. Both had significant others in their lives, and knowing how difficult it is to find true love, I can't imagine how it feels to lose it like that. Whatever is broken in this world that pushes or enables people to cause tragedies like this, we've got to fix it. Now.
4. I think the secret to writing a story that doesn't insult or belittle a particular group of people, a story that isn't racist, sexist, homophobic, classist, etc., is to simply write well. A story that falls into these categories usually involves either lazy, ignorant writing, or had a malicious agenda to begin with. Good writing, on the other hand, naturally acknowledges the dignity and complexity of its subjects, no matter who they are. The greatest insult to a human being is to deny their complexity. People who are offended by good storytelling are just looking for something to get angry about.
5. This summer, I finally read Steppenwolf, and I really, really wish I could have a beer with Herman Hesse. I'd love to see what it's like to talk to someone whose brain is capable of producing something like the Magic Theater (I guess he'd have to be a madman only--haha). I'll discuss this reading experience in more detail in my next post.
6. Sometimes it feels like happiness, like writing or woodworking, is a craft. It must be practiced and developed, and it can't rely solely on things that can be taken away or disappear without warning. It also requires such intense faith, which has always been a challenge for me. Despite what some people might think, I'm a very physical person. I like things that I can see, hear, and touch, so it's hard to find "the substance of things hoped for," and the "evidence of things not seen" (Hebrews 11:1).
7. I've seen a lot of sentimental meme-type things on the Internet lately listing the qualities of an ideal boyfriend, things like "he hugs you from behind" or "gets you ice cream when you're on your period." That's cute and all, but these lists only scratch the surface. These are things anybody could do. However, they did get me thinking about how I would write such a list myself. I think my ideal boyfriend could be summed up in just two qualities: a. He makes me feel like life isn't a constant performance, like I can take off my mask, get off the stage, and just love him while being completely myself, without fear that being myself will drive him away, and b. He sees the "golden track" that runs through life, the thread of beauty and divinity Herman Hesse wrote about that weaves through the surface of every day living. Not only does he see this thread, he grabs it and doesn't let go, unraveling everything that hides it. He sees the light that gets through cracked things, to paraphrase Leonard Cohen's "Anthem." An additional desirable quality would be that he knows all the words to the Powdermilk Biscuit commercial from A Prairie Home Companion, including the part about Norwegian bachelor farmers. Maybe I should just find a nice Norwegian bachelor farmer.
8. Seeing a happy couple that's stayed together for a long time feels like looking at a postcard of the Italian Riviera. That warmth and security seems like such a foreign, yet inviting place, where you can throw off your coat and shoes, take a deep breath, and be human again. It also seems so far away and unattainable at times. Being in that place certainly wouldn't eliminate the troubles of life completely, but I'm sure living would be much easier having all that beauty right in front of you all the time.
9. The city of Durham has incredible character. So many of the buildings, from the Gothic stone castles of Duke's west campus to the churches and old tobacco factories, command the landscapes they inhabit instead of blending in. You can tell that history happened here.
10. This summer, I finally got up the courage to go and play guitar at a jam session/singalong by myself. The first time I'd gone, back in January, I'd been with someone, which helped me find the nerve to at least join in the singing. I continued going alone for a while after that when I lived in Carrboro, but I'd only sit and listen. Then, several months later, I came back and brought my guitar. I'd never played with other people before, so of course it was scary at first, but now I live for Saturday afternoons when I can go play and sing with such friendly people. It never ceases to make me feel better, partly because it's so self-affirming. I may go there alone now, but I go as a musician.
