Influenza : [in-floo-en-zuh]

This has been going on way too long - tired of being sick, and sick of being tired. That 'bout sums it up.


But it's more than just physical. I like to think I'm not the only twenty-something stuck in some sort of ridiculously large rut which seems to morph into a black hole, sucking all sorts of life parts into itself. Because other twenty-somethings turn the obstacle into the advantage - so maybe I'm just handling it differently. Or not handling it at all.


My body aches from not doing.
My mind suffers a severe lack of stimulation.
My heart experiences all sorts of growing pains.
...And everything makes my spirit hollow.


As you can see, this is not just any flu I'm dealing with here. The virus is most likely masking an underlying illness. So not only do I have to fight the multi-symptom sickness, but also discover a cure for this concealed disease. I know the cause, signs and symptoms. I'm actively seeking treatment. But when do I start feeling better? What is considered "being well?"

October: [ ok-toh-ber ]

Sipping warm coffee while writing, sometimes about nothing in particular, and listening to Ani DiFranco. These are the kinds of mornings I love. If the deck wasn't wet from last night's rain, I would be on the chaise lounge with a thick blanket watching today's sun gleam through the flaming leaves. Instead I settle for the view from my room upstairs, the ambers and greens of trees swaying with the hour shift into afternoon.

In the Fall I shed. I molt. I slip off what has been and wait for an untouched me.

Summer: [suhm-er]

It's my least favorite time of year. Mostly because it's difficult to sleep in the sticky heat. I've just never seen the pleasure of Summer. I don't enjoy its noises much either.

Champagne: [sham-peyn]

A toast - to endings, to beginnings....

I feel like the new year is all about letting go.

For a couple of years now, I've adopted my own tradition for New Year's Eve (12/31). I think it stems from old Irish folklore, but I'm not sure where that part starts and my own additions have been woven in. It goes like this: take a moment before midnight to sit down and write out all regrets, mistakes, disappointments, grievances, etc. that you've had for the past year. Be thorough; if you doubt something should be included, include it anyway. Once the list is made, however long or short, re-read it. Now set the list on fire. Burn your past, brush away the ashes and uncover a brand new, clean slate. Understand that your regrets are for the current year, and will not be baggage carried into the new one. Forgive yourself - that's important. Let go of all the bad, make room for the potential good. I usually add a small smile once the paper (or napkin, whatever scrap I've used to write on) is completely burned. I end up feeling better, almost healed in a way. By the time midnight rolls around and the Ball drops and I count down from 10 to 1, I'm ready for the New Year.

Feel free to embrace this concept, even mold it to your own liking.

I don't really think my ritual is all that special, but it certainly makes even the most unmotivated turn determined (if only for a night). It also brings a sort of comfort that's hard to describe. I like that. Now we're a week into 2011, and I feel compelled to accomplish something extraordinary.

Christmastime: [kris-muhs-tahym]

I find it harder with each passing year to make Christmas magical. At what age did Christmas become a reluctant holiday instead of a happy one?

As a child who believed in Santa Claus until she was 11, Christmas was a day of surprises and excitement. My sister and I waited at the top of the stairs until my dad finished filming our untouched living room, filled with presents and anticipation. Then we galloped down the steps and turned the corner as my dad's camcorder captured our amazement. We rushed to the kitchen and Santa's empty plate of cookies was checked for crumbs of evidence of his presence (as if the gifts weren't proof enough). Wrapping paper was shredded to reveal a new Barbie doll or Lego set. Squeals of delight echoed downstairs as we ooh'd and ahh'd over our toys. Nothing seemed so perfect as the smiles on my parents' faces as they saw their girls rejoice over Santa's short visit.

It's difficult to remember the years in-between when I was old enough to know better but still young enough not to care. I think it was still all about the presents, at least until I went away to college. And then something changed. I saw Christmas as a time to reconnect with family and old friends. It wasn't about the material things, but rather the people who I took for granted all year long. It was time to celebrate our bonds and cherish the times we spent together. I think the four years I was away made me realize the meaning of Christmas everyone kept preaching about. It wasn't really an epiphany, per se, but it felt like I had discovered some privileged information. Something I often forget nowadays.

Now I struggle to keep the Christmas spirit alive. My grown-up eyes see everything a modern day Scrooge would point out. How do I push out negativity to make room for holiday cheer? I don't have the answer, but I'm certainly looking. Even if it seems the path is covered by a light dusting of snow. Maybe I'll be visited by three ghosts on Christmas Eve. I hope one of them is the college self I strive to get back in touch with. I hope another shows me what I'm missing this year. And the last predicts two outcomes: how it will be and how it should be.

Let's hope I don't turn green and grow Seuss-feet.

Introduction: [in-truh-duhk-shuhn]

I ask you to take a piece of me
and hold it up to the light
like a prism

or press your nose against the glass.

I say hold a moth to my eyelashes
and watch it flutter with my breath,

or barge inside this dark room
and grope for my hand.

I want you to swim
across the channel of my cheekbones
creating a rosy blush stroke by stroke.

But all you want to do
is place me in a petrie dish
and examine the patterns of my voice.

You begin stabbing me with pliers
to find out if I really bleed.