...A retraction

I have been feeling remorseful after writing and posting something quite untrue on this blog. I didn't mean to be dishonest but as I examine my feelings on a certain subject I discover I was writing from a very wonky point of view. As I thought on the matter more and more my feelings were changed. In a recent post titled "..A rant" I said that many of my super cool genius guy friends seem to end up with the blandest girls they can find. But as I thought about each one of these couples, I became more and more ashamed of ever making that statement. While some people are less vocal than others, that certainly doesn't make them less interesting. Perhaps it takes a bit more time, energy and effort to get to know certain personality types and perhaps, in many cases, those we get to know slowly are more worth knowing. Perhaps these women who I hastily deemed "inferior" are in fact superior in the ways that count the most. While their husbands and boyfriends are verbose perhaps they are pensive and reflective. Where their "better halves" are well versed, perhaps they are well mannered. Where I am brash and overconfident perhaps they are aware of their worth and keep it quiet rather than making a spectacle. I am so sorry if my words caused hurt feelings. I want you all to know that this blog operates as an ongoing experiment in self discovery as well as a mechanism for communion and connection. Nothing herein should be seen as conclusive or taken as inflexible fact. I often write when my feelings are at their pinnacle, whether for good or for bad. I write at my happiest and most excited and I also write when I am feeling hurt or confused. Occasionally writers have to make public retractions and I am happy to do so now. As I think more and more about the matter, I feel inferiority itself may be a fallacy altogether.

...A rant

Do you know how many times a day someone tries to engage me in a conversation about being single and how I should fix it? By that I mean people try and match me up or offer suggestions about online dating or say things like, "Who are you dating?" or "You're single! Why?" or "Those guys must be deaf, dumb, and blind!" My response, "No. They have other problems." And many guys I've dated have had complex problems. Some of them just weren't a good fit. Some of them were great and just not "mine". So, daily, I am bombarded with questions from my students or their parents or my friends or the cafeteria ladies or the cashier or well meaning people at church. It seems like people are really uncomfortable with me just being a single person. It must seem unnatural or strange. It often feels that way. I'm not really sure how it looks on the outside or why so many people are endlessly preoccupied with it. Many people have wanted to set me up with their brothers or sons. Occasionally I will get random suggestions, even confident declarations like emails titled "A Man for Kristin". I'd like to be excited. I'm just so dubious at this point I don't know how to muster any enthusiasm. For the sake of entertainment and perhaps to illustrate a point I would like to share one of my responses to such an email. The friend trying to make the match is a dear man who served in my previous ward's bishopric before he moved himself and his family to Arizona. I love that he thinks of me and wants to help. As you'll soon see my response to his enthusiastic set up was a bit singed around the edges. I'll admit, I'm a little embarrassed about how strongly I reacted, but at the same time I am really glad that I am passionate about my own health and well being and I am happy I have the strength to protect myself.
Here's my response to his invitation to fly the blind date out to meet me:

"Dear Bro. H,

So, here's my rant: (not that you asked for one....) As it relates to blind dates, and dating in general, really: Over the past four years I have been unsuccessfully matched and/or interested in the following "types":

• the prodigals son
• the wayward genius
• the recovering addict
• the born again straight guy
• the perfect man who happens to be an atheist
• the guy who touts his 18 year relationship with marijuana as being "spiritual"
• the wonderful EQP who is 8 years my junior

None of these has panned out. So, I'm a little wary, if not wiser for the wear. Do I need a perfect guy? No. Am I a perfect girl? No. But I would like someone in reasonable health, especially mentally. Addictions are a NO. If there is a history of addiction I am going to say firmly: NO. I have already suffered enough with the vices of men. I really literally cannot stomach another round of anyone else's addiction(s). On another note, if he is an overly aggressive type he won't like me and I won't like him. I'm alpha and there's no pretending not to be. Powerhouse guys love powerhouse girls. They just don't marry them. They can't stand sharing lime light. Understandable. I, however, love sharing lime light and would prefer to be with someone just as dynamic as myself. I've just noticed that many of my genius, dynamic, super cool guy friends end up with the blandest girls they can find; HUGE discrepancies in intelligence, talent, and general sharpness. It is VERY interesting. The only theory I have on this so far is that it is somehow comforting to be coupled with someone you know to be inferior. While I don't personally think I could manage it myself, I can honestly say I "get it". I could go on and on about that but I'll spare you the dearly won, tedious data. So, if he is intelligent, driven, humble enough to date a sharp girl, righteous---as in TEMPLE WORTHY, and cool enough to make me laugh then let's say YES. If this is scary for him then he fails the test and that's a NO. Bro. H, I don't mean to sound crazy or difficult or (insert euphemism for bitter here) but I have been through so much. I have had high hopes in hopeless situations. I have given years of my life to people who didn't know how to treat a human, much less conceive of her as being a daughter of God. I am very protective and wary of guys who treat women like objects, belittle women, or perceive women as things to be "won". I'm not a walk in the park, Bro. H. I'm too smart to pretend to be simple and rumor has it guys don't like complexity. That's too bad because that's all I know. I couldn't dumb it down if I wanted to. So, that said, do you still think your man is up to the challenge of meeting me? Think about it. You let me know. I won't try and "scare him off" but I won't be able to pretend to be cute and simple with any success. Bro. H, I want you to know I love you. You are beyond great and I've always enjoyed you. We miss you here. Please visit. I hope I didn't scare you or dishearten you in any way. The fact is, I may be better off alone. It's not ideal but it's better than many, many other outcomes. Your fan, Kristin Ferrell"

I know what some of you are thinking. You're thinking I'm trying to be scary. I'm seriously not. I'm honestly trying to prevent disasters. I'm the guardian of my own precious little life. This is a ridiculously precarious existence. I am too sensitive to put myself in the hands of a reprobate, liar, pervert, cad, or any variety of idiot. Is it wrong to articulate such things? Sue me.

Hooray for Turkey Day!!

I LOVE AUTUMN! And I love Thanksgiving. Yesterday was unforgettable! I woke up early, put on my running clothes, pinned on my little bib with the number 1673 to the front of my shirt, and headed to Ivy's. Ivy was running around her kitchen trying to see if her new shoes would be ideal for our five mile run. OH YEAH!! We ran the Austin Turkey Trot!! Our friend Candace did it, too. Ivy's lovely friend Tara joined in on the fun as well. It was extraordinary! Almost 3,ooo people ran! Awesome! So, my time was within my goal, even though I had to walk a few times to catch my breath. I ran 11 minute miles and made it within 51 minutes! For me, that's great! Ivy and Candace came in before me and those girls ran the whole time! They amaze. Candace and I are going to train for a 10k next. This stuff is addicting. I don't think I ever sweat so much on a Thanksgiving before in my life. And that includes the time I did the cooking!

After that adventure Ivy took us to see a beautiful view on Mt. Bonnell. Then we went to see the peacocks at Laguna Gloria. We took pictures. Laughed. Talked. Then it was time for me to get in gear for food time!

I rushed home, took a shower, started making stuffing. Ooh. This stuffing was like heaven: cornbread, herbs, butter, three types of raisins, mushrooms, and candied slivered almonds. Great stuff! Then packed up my apple pie, glorious apple pie: grated granny smiths, darling crust that I cut into leaf shapes all over the top...packed up the stuffing, dropped off the stuffing at Ivy's, took the pie over to Jass's mom's where I had my first meal. It was so beautiful! I had never met Jassy's mom before so this was really fun for me since I've heard so much about her. She was so welcoming and lovely and her home was simply gorgeous. Such a beautiful person! And her doggies were so cute and funny and I got to pet them and talk to them. And Jass and Emily were busy busy in the kitchen making all kinds of wonderfulness. We talked while the finishing touches were being applied. They made the most amazing spread! And very healthy, too. We ate a lot, but no one ate as much as Jass. His plate was a mountain. I'll post the picture as soon as he sends it. Then we had THE PIE. Oooh. It was good. Jass said it was the best pie in the history of pies but he's always saying stuff like that. Cutie.

Then it was off to Ivy's! I love Ivy's house. It is warm and welcoming and fun and always open. Dear Melissa, Heather, Jason, Amy, and Brennen were there. Tara, Ivy, Bethany, Britney, and Desiree were there, too. It was so great, a lot like family. I had more pie. Pumpkin this time. We had a toast delivered by Ivy. It was sweet.

As I sat looking around the room I was overcome with a certain appreciation for all these people. Each one is so incredibly unique. Everybody is pursuing things, forging their dreams, making it happen in their various ways. I just thought it was beautiful in that moment. I just really felt a sense of everyone's worth, and it was really something.

I am grateful for many things. I know I do a lot of ranting on this blog but I hope I express my awe and appreciation enough, at least as much as I do my disappointment and pain. I am very aware of how charmed and blessed my life has been and continues to be. This may be an awkward time, fraught with indecision, uncertainty, and frusteration, but all in all, I think it's pretty sweet. I love being American. I love being Mormon. I love being a writer, teacher, singer, painter, and conversationalist. I love being a sister, a daughter, a friend. As we close this year, 2010, I am grateful and reflective. Thanks for reading.

The Torture Chamber

...otherwise known as the teachers' lounge. I don't know if I can go back there. Every once in a while I take a break from it and eat lunch on my own, sometimes in my car listening to NPR or a book on CD. Yesterday it was more treacherous than ever. I walk in with my Longhorn lunch box, set it down in my spot, greet everybody, smile, buy a Coke, crack it open. Normal. Happy. Then my buddy Joe says, "Hey, have you ever heard that Fleetwood Mack song about being lost and clueless about love? It reminds me of you. I bet you could sing that convincingly. Let's try it!" "Why's that Joe? Do I strike you as one who is overly lost?" "Well, yes. When it comes to men." Ouch. Deflect. Breathe. Ok. Then another friend pipes up about how her husband thinks I am a lesbian. "He thinks you're scared of men because you like women." Right. Cool. That's great. I reacted really well to that one. "I would be the coolest lesbian ever! I would have access to the best girlfriends in the world! Gosh, my life would be so different. Too bad I'm cursed with heterosexuality. Awe. Poor me. And plus, I hate the clothes most lesbians wear. And haircuts. And I like men." It all came out of my mouth so fast I just couldn't seem to stop it. Defense mechanisms are so fight or flight. We all know lesbians dress in all kinds of different ways and wear their hair in all kinds of different ways, just like all of us. Why was I making jokes? Did I think I was funny? I'm sure most lesbians look better than me on any given day. Ellen does. But that's not the point. It's not about how anyone looks. It's about how things feel. PAUSE. Then I say, "Guys, I'm just taking a break from dating for a while. It's no big deal. I'm just not ready and I'm dealing with a lot of fears right now that I need to deal with. I'll be alright." A teacher I don't know very well yet decides to say, "It's like that bumper sticker says, "All your failed relationships have one thing in common, YOU."" Double ouch. To this I simply lifted my Coke and said, "Cheers". Then I decided to avoid the teacher's lounge for a while. I know everyone is just talking and they don't mean to be weird but I sure feel weird. I wish everyone would just let me be single without being deemed gay or lost or just hopelessly flawed. Look, I have had a hard time. Yes. I married young. It didn't work out. I tried my hardest. I tried for six years. It didn't work out. I've tried dating, a little. It hasn't worked out. Maybe that's been my fault. Maybe it hasn't. Maybe I haven't met the right person. Maybe I'm not the right person myself. I don't know. But I'm trying to become the right person. I'm trying. I'm doing everything I can think of to fix all the things I am aware of that need fixing. I am reading books about things. I'm in therapy. I'm talking with those I trust who've "made it" in the world of marriage and family. The fact is, I may never get there. The fact is that may not be my fault so much as my lot. I'm scared. Everyone knows that. What if I fail again? Will that be further proof, of the bumper sticker philosophy? That all my failed relationships are because of me? What if I did take another chance? And he cheated on me. Would that be my fault, too? What if he turned out to be abusive, criminally minded, selfish, or dishonest. My fault? Again? There's some psychological reason I selected him, right? Flawed. I don't know, instead of asking me whether I'm afraid of losing my child bearing years could you ask me what I'm working on in music or art or writing? I'm bearing those things with success. Instead of asking me whether or not I think I'll ever be friends again with my ex-husband let's talk about the friends I've got already. Please don't make my failures fodder for entertainment. Please stop using my personal life as a backdrop for clever commentary or lively jokes. I know this may seem surprising, as I am always quick with a laugh, a smile, nothing seems to bother me, but it does. It all does. I'm not lost. I'm not just a divorcee. I'm not a lesbian. I'm not any of these things. Who I am is much more complex and perhaps much less interesting in the ways that 30 second analyses can process. I think it's time for respect to make her debut in that lounge.

My Friends, Chapter 11: Cynthia

Cynthia once told me a very moving story about her dear mother. Cynthia took care of her mom before she passed and in one of their final conversations her mom said she wished they'd been sisters rather than mother and daughter. That brings me to tears for many reasons. First, because I think it is a sweet sentiment to say such a thing, probably meaning she wanted to have lived her life beside such a soul as Cynthia rather than ahead of her or above her in one way or another. Also, because their is a certain humility I associate with that story. Perhaps Cynthia's mom was saying she felt a little unqualified to be such a person's mother. I don't know for sure. These are assumptions but the reason I share them is to illustrate my own feelings for my dear Cynthia. I, too, have felt we should have been sisters. I met Cynthia as a 22 year old newly married girl. Our first exchange went something like this: "WOW!!", Cynthia exclaimed, pointing at Kristin's significantly sized diamond ring. "I never got a diamond myself," she said in a good humored, accepting way, little shrug, big smile. And that's how it started. We were at a church enrichment meeting for the Relief Society, all women. I felt so embarrassed of that ring so often. It really is gorgeous. It was just so eye catching and it brought out all kinds of weird female behavior. But Cynthia was just being observant. She really is so observant of others and cares very much about how people are doing. She has always been that way with me.
As a newly married person I had very little interest in people my own age. My best friend was on her mission and all the BYU couples were in their own little universe. I was going to UT and struggling with the notion that I had married someone who did not love me. I felt awkward in life and wasn't sure how to relate with others. I missed my best friend so much I thought I was going to die of loneliness. I avoided friends because I didn't know how to explain why I wasn't happy. I was harboring hopes about some miracle, always looming in the future, that would fix my marriage. I was pretty isolated. My one joy was working at the Montessori school in the afternoons where I enjoyed the company of curious and beautiful children. It was very fulfilling and fun.
So, in my dismal situation, I tried to avoid situations and people that would make me feel trapped or cornered or places I would be forced to talk. If I started talking who knows what I might say? Or I might start to cry unexpectedly. How awful. Somehow Cynthia made her way through these layers of fear and pain and became my friend. She came over one Saturday morning to train me how to create the ward bulletin. She was very helpful. I found her very fun and chatty and vibrant. I thought she was so beautiful and bright. I just couldn't help but love her. She invited us to dinner. I told her what my husband would and would not eat so as not to find ourselves in an embarrassing situation. "Meat and potatoes. Okay. I can handle that!" She was so darling.
When I graduated from UT she threw me a wonderful party. Many friends from the ward came. It was in her home on the Sunday following my graduation. There was a gorgeous fruit platter with interestingly cut produce, it looked like art. There were all kinds of hors d'oeuvres and a magnificent chocolate cake with a scrolled diploma illustrated on it in white icing. It was so amazing! The whole thing. Everyone else's husband was there. Not my own. He was tired that day. It was always so sad and embarrassing explaining why my husband wasn't around or why he would behave in interesting ways. I hated having to explain things I didn't understand myself. The year before, when he graduated, I attended all his festivities in smiles and high heels. But Cynthia wasn't offended by his absence. I was grateful because I was mortified by his lack of interest in my successes in general and hated to think he was offending the few people I trusted; those who loved and celebrated my joys with unselfish generosity. It meant the world to me.
Years went by and Cynthia was always a fixture at birthday parties, holiday celebrations, baby showers I would throw for friends, and the occasional casual gathering. She kept inviting us to dinner and humbly serving some version of meat and potatoes each time. When I became the choir director at church she and her son Chase joined right up. It was so fun to have them on board. One Easter we did an entire cantata that ran the whole sacrament meeting. It was beautiful.
When things started to really go south in my marriage Cynthia was able to pick up on the signs of grief readily. We talked longs hours. I stayed at her house a few times to sort out my thoughts. It was a ghastly time. She helped me tremendously. When I decided to give my marriage another heartfelt try, she was supportive, although concerned. I moved to Chicago with a wisp of a hope left in my heart that all would be well. My husband would be attending law school up there. So we went and I got a job teaching fourth grade in the Village of Wilmette where we also lived. I kept in touch with Cynthia via telephone and email. When I was hit with the confession about another woman I called her almost immediately. "Come on home, girl!" And that's just what I did, after a few months wrapping things up in Chicago. I went directly to Cynthia's house upon my arrival. I cried a lot. We laughed a lot. We ate a lot. I felt such a tangible relief, it was really quite amazing. I felt safe for the first time in a long time. I knew everything would be alright, somehow. Cynthia helped me see that. I had high hopes. I was offered a job at the school I had taught at after my graduation. I was thrilled to accept it. Cynthia helped me move into my classroom and set things up. She came with me that spring to El Paso. We took her van and we talked the entire time. It was so fun. Nine hours never passed so quickly. She got to meet my parents and we stayed with them and ate all kinds of ridiculously wonderful Mexican food. I showed her some of my old haunts like the art museum and some fun hang outs. She met my uncle Bob and my aunt Sharon. We had a blast. And we've really been having fun ever since. She has helped me move like 7 times! She has given me great advice. When it got icy she insisted I spend the night. "In case your pipes freeze, it's best you stay with us for a couple days." It's always been like that. We joined ART DIVAS together, unexpectedly one Saturday. Now we rub elbows with artsy fartsy ladies who have more money than they know what to throw at. It's really cute. I sang solos at her father's memorial service and her son's wedding reception. She checks on me every week and I feel so blessed to have such a person in my life. She is family. No other way to describe it. Her dear husband, Rick, has been so wonderful, too. He is the sweetest man in the world and has given me wise counsel and has blessed me in times of trial. When I had a dog they watched Bella any time I had to go out of town. Bella was no picnic either. Prima donna doesn't even begin to describe it. Suffice it to say, Cynthia is a true friend, beloved, and enduring. It's nice to know that in this complicated world, some things only evolve over time and do not fade and diminish. Cynthia, you have been my adviser, my friend, my sister, in many ways like a mother and I am ever grateful. I love you so!

We Wear Who We Are

We do. It's true. I've seen it and I'm seeing it more and more these days. Our thoughts turn us to act. We act. We become what those collective actions make of us. And then we think about that some more. Those thoughts evolve and prompt more action. Over time we realize we are spinning a life; we are creating ourselves; what is our legacy?
I've seen people's backs bend under the mistakes they've made. There is literally a corrupt bend in the spine where they forgot to be decent. I've seen other people shine because of their goodness. They emit a radiance that comes out of the eyes and spins around the mouth and can be felt from hand to hand. They are gorgeous in ways mere prettiness could never hope to understand. Their stature takes your breath away. You're somehow left feeling safer, like perhaps the world is not so awful and frightening and wrong. Maybe there are more than just cads and seekers of sensation. Maybe they are rare but you've met a few and that means they exist.
I've been tracing patterns in my life. I've noticed I tend to like a certain kind if man I ought to give up on. I always like the cleverest man. I like him because he is interesting. I like the most entertaining one. I like the most dynamic. But this same sort of man is the kind of man who has honed his measured methods well, usually in order to capture things. This same sort of man may find that in all his successes he accidentally gets captured himself. I would like to start realizing that perhaps the reason none of these clever, interesting, entertaining, dynamic relationships has lasted is because these guys don't want to end up with someone just as clever, interesting, entertaining, or dynamic. No, no. They like an audience and they don't want competition for it. But it seems easy for a man to love someone who is not his equal. I don't think I could manage it myself. I want someone who amazes me. I want someone who understands what it's like to stay up all night because an inspiring idea refuses to let you sleep. Not that you didn't want to sleep but you didn't seem to have a choice that night. But you still go to work and you sleep it off the next afternoon and evening. I guess often, men are okay with having things compartmentalized in certain ways. What I mean is, they seem to be able to turn to their friends and colleagues for things like discussing ideas and sharing dreams and ambitions and they turn to their significant others for mere comfort and quiet companionship; meals and love and quiet little smiles and gazes. That's great, I guess, but I don't think I could manage it. I want to talk about theories and possibilities and have the guy actually get it all, at least conceptually. I would never be content with a pretty person who smiles a lot and helps me with chores. What a bore! I like a dynamic man but those guys like background girls. They want to shine alone. The girl is just ornamental. Of course, there are a number of exceptions to this norm. I am thankful for that. I've met plenty of amazing couples, both intelligent counterparts to a magnificent whole.
Sometimes I wish I were more vanilla. I tell myself life would be so much easier. But then I realize, I'm already wearing the truth on my face! I'm not a simple girl. Anyone can see that. My thoughts come buzzing out of my eyes even before they cross my lips. And even if they don't see it, all they'd have to do is listen for a minute or two and then the conviction is sure. She's no stroll in the park. That's a venture for skilled climbers only. Alas, all I can do is try my best to be the best version of myself I can render in a lifetime.

Who Am I?

That's so hard to answer. I had my kiddos pretend to be Halloween characters like ghosts or bats or vampires and then construct poems, formulaically, giving clues about who they were using all the right adjectives, verbs, and nouns and then we had to infer the character. It was really fun. They made beautiful haunted houses to illustrate their poems. I taught them how to cut out doors and windows so that they hinge and a creature can pop out. These works adorn the wall outside our classroom right now.

But more importantly, who am I? Hard to say. Have you ever asked it? Of yourself? I'm asking and answering now, here. I am female. I am 32. I have spent the last 12 years being a teacher, in one capacity or another. I grew up in El Paso, a border town, where I learned how to sing like a banshee and dance like a gypsy. I learned how to be strong and sensitive at the same time. I learned all about matters of the heart in the only ways I have ever understood them; in Latin. I am also 25% Lebanese but it feels more like at least 75-80%. I grew up on kibbe, taboulee, dolmeh, tzatziki, and lubia. I had a Sitie who wore cunning little heals, gold bangles that sang at her wrists, flowing, flowered silken dresses, and a lovely smile. I am Mormon, a Latter Day Saint. That means everything to me. It means I know the worth of souls, yours and mine. It means I know my divine destiny. It means the sacrifices are worth it, again and again, always. It means I can endure anything. It means this life is only the beginning. I am also rather tall, blond, and curvy. This means I'm trouble. Well, at least it means I often attract it. Oh well. I wish it meant something else. I am bookish and often reclusive except when I am gregarious and loud-mouthed. I am artistic, creative, and day dreamy, except when I am logical, pensive, deliberate, and hard-lined. I am the daughter of a lawyer and an artist. I am the sister of a psychologist, a lawyer, an artist, and a physics student. I am the best friend of a prima ballerina. I am the teacher of twenty two miraculous beings who are the most gorgeous children in the world. I am the smitten poet. I am the meloncholy caroler. I am the science loving nerd. I have an affinity for hackers...I mean programmers. And I am miserable at chess. Oh, and tennis. Miserable. At both. And at many other things. And I want to be a writer more than anything else...except for being a mommy and a wife who is adored by her very smitten husband. But if I never get the chance to be a family person, I hope I at least get to be a writer. I mean, the kind of writer who gets to eat on what she writes. Right now I am eating on blue china my Sitie left me and that's great but I want to eat on my author's dime someday. Someday will be a fine day. That's it! That's the answer. That's me. Like Art always says, "I love being me." (Art is an actual person in this case. No, seriously. He went to law school with Betsy. I'm not just employing personification here. Hi, Art!!!)

Sometimes...

Sometimes it's hard for me to tell what needs to be done. I live a life so fraught with complexity, so many people and things need my attention, I often feel like I don't know what I must neglect, because something will fall through the cracks, it's inevitable.

My typical day:

• Wake up at 6am
• Pray
• Shower, get ready for school
• Listen to the Book of Mormon, a conference talk, or NPR while you get ready and eat breakfast
• Pack lunch
• Out the door, listen to NPR on car radio
• Greet the kiddos
• Get them started on creating math problems that equal the number of the day.
• Read homework journals, check homework
• Teach reading/writing
• Recess
• Teach math
• Lunch
• Read aloud
• Make copies/prep lessons
• Teach science and/or social studies
• Teach spelling/grammar/phonics
• Get kids packed up
• After school duties/meetings
• Exercise
• Eat
• Talk on the phone
• Write, if I'm lucky
• Go to church meetings, visits, or plan lessons for church related events/activities
• Make calls for church stuff
• Listen to music, catch up on emails
• Read
• Pray
• Bed

Looks simple, right? Wrong. What I didn't make clear in the list is that while I do all of these wonderful and important things, I get interrupted about six times a minute by little voices, or phones ringing, or people at the door, or people on the intercom, or kids from another class, or a specialist, or an administrator, or another teacher, a volunteer, or my own thoughts. All day I feel like someone who wants to swim but there I am standing on the edge of the diving board and someone keeps whistling, telling me something, keeping me from diving in. I never even get wet. Some days I wear the bathing suit for nothing. I walk home, with the towel around my shoulders, just thinking what it might have been like to dive in deep, swim long, burn out in that satisfying way. I feel burned out all right. Just not the way I wanted to burn out, feeling accomplished.

I feel a little emotionally constipated lately. I feel like nothing, I mean nothing is really working. Everything I want seems to elude me. I can't seem to find what I wanted to find in the form of a life. What did I expect? I expected to have time to be myself I guess. But there isn't much time for that these days. Let me stress, I didn't say time to be BY myself. No, no. I said time to BE myself. Who is that? I'm talking about the funny girl. I'm talking about the girl who draws and paints. I'm talking about the one who discusses things with people who care and think. What happened to her? I think she's standing on the diving board again. That blasted whistle is relentless.

I Just Found This on Ivy's Blog

Ivy put this entry on her blog like a year ago...I made this list in an email to her:

"Here's how Kristin Marie Ferrell suggests to conquer loneliness if you ever encounter it:

HOW TO CONQUER LONELINESS:

1.) Avoid being alone
2.) Practice being alone
3.) Fail at it
4.) Try again
5.) Cry a little
6.) Cry a lot
7.) Blame it on your period
8.) Throw something really hard at a can that you put on top of your alter {insert - my house... yes... has an altar left by the previous owners...}
9.) Yoga
10.) Toga?
11.) Read your scriptures
12.) Watch a movie with your friend, Kristin
13.) Make out in your dreams with whomever you wish!!
14.) Invite your ex-boyfriend and his wife to spend the night and keep you company (maybe in years to come) {insert - Kristin recently did this}
15.) Quilt on Saturday morning
16.) Talk to Dad
17.) Talk to Mom
18.) Visit teach
19.) Go see old ladies
20.) Camp
21.) Get over yourself (lose yourself)
22.) Fall in love with yourself (find yourself)
23.) Read a classic (Tale of Two Cities?)
24.) Listen to edifying books on CD
25.) Look in the skinny mirror
26.) Paint a wall, a canvas, a card, a face
27.) Cook
30.) Pray
31.) Tell yourself something true, "You're the only one who gets to be Ivy. You lucky, lucky girl, you!"
32.) Call Christy {insert - our best and most comforting friend}"

Thank You for the Music

From a tender age I was exposed to great music. Having two older siblings, Dave, eleven years my senior, and Wendy, four and a half, I was schooled in all things New Wave and Post Modern. (Here is a picture of them last Thanksgiving. Wendy is tuning her electric violin.) I was an eight year old who loved The Cure, Morrissey, De Pech Mode, and David Bowie. Somehow certain pop stars made their way into my life as well. Michael Jackson was my first serious crush. I had more than one Madonna costume. Cindy Lauper was revered. The Bangles were really important as well. Music was always so important in our house. Most of us played an instrument or two. My sister played at least five, genius girl. And I loved to sing and dance all the time. My mom always joked that her kids put on full blown circus acts for any visitors. We really did feel, for whatever reason, that it was our obligation to thoroughly entertain anyone who graced our couch. Sometimes it was music. Sometimes it was a stand up act, off the cuff as only Ferrell children can. Sometimes I'm sure it was embarrassing for my parents. They'd often have to pull us off the stage (fireplace) with the proverbial cane. It was hard for us to stop our acts once we were on a roll.

Anyhow, I am just so in love with music. It puts me in touch with so many things I can't seem to access in any other way. In high school I fell in deeper love with Morrissey and The Smiths. I felt like he knew my soul. Tori Amos was a huge influence. I went to a lot of shows showcasing locals and famous bands. At the Drive In was a really great band at the time, El Paso locals who made the BIG TIME and then broke up to form two bands, Mars Volta and Sparta. I saw Mars on a Lalapalooza DVD. They really went far. My boyfriend, in high school, was the drummer in the band Anabella 55, which was a melodic blend of gentle ballads and gushy tragedies. I loved it.

In college my tastes morphed toward the more popular ska scene of the day. My college boyfriend was in a band called BOOT. He wrote most of the songs and lyrics. Very gifted young man. He played guitar, trumpet, bangos, and sang. It was a huge band with like nine musicians and he would switch what he was doing in just about every other song. It was very interesting. They were such heart throbs. Those were fun times.

Living in Chicago I got to see a few great shows. I saw an up and coming band, MGMT, open for Of Montreal. That was phenomenal. Now MGMT is huge. I also saw the Chicago Symphony twice and I learned how to play hand bells in church.

Once I got back to Austin I stayed away from the music scene for a little while. I was quite sequestered altogether really. Didn't do much of anything for a fair few months. Just incubate and recover from my divorce.

Ivy rescued me and I started to live again. She took me to VIP ACL and my soul was stirred. She took me to see the Decemberists and Ghostland Observatory. Changed my life. We started doing our own music. It was really fun. My senses were roused again. I could breathe. I knew who I was again.

Then I met a boy who would change me forever. I can't remember ever feeling so loved. He sang me John Denver songs. We sang in the car, by the campfire, on Sunday afternoons. It was glorious. I loved it. All of it. Every note. He played guitar. I sang. He sang sometimes, too. We danced. He really knew how. It was beautiful, even though I was shy about it because he was such a better dancer than me. He played piano. We performed for a wedding and got paid handsomely. We ate seafood to celebrate. We performed at church. We sang for family and friends. It was like a dream, the most beautiful, wonderful, perfect dream. Being with him always felt a little like cheating reality, like I was eating dessert first and giving the brussel sprouts to the dog. But like all good dreams, it didn't last. Silence fell on everything. I was left with a lot of silence after that. Overdose, actually. I sequestered myself. I wrote scores of poems, stories, and songs about that loss. I couldn't believe the pain. It wasn't just the intensity. It was the way it lasted and didn't seem to fade but rather, intensified over time. Somehow I got normal....ish.

In the midst of my heartache, Bobby came to the rescue for the third time in my life after a major break up. Bobby was there when me and my college boyfriend split and I moved to Austin. Strangely, the girl he was dating then and that ex-boyfriend of mine ended up getting married and having a family. Then, Bobby was there after my divorce. Bobby was with me again. I thank God for my Bobby. He is someone to count on, always. He invited me to his shows. Bobby plays bass and sings. Lovely. Suddenly I was at every Politics show. They're great. Then guitar player, Mikey, made an overture to collaborate with me. It went beautifully. We wrote two great songs together and recorded them. I love, love, love them.

Bobby introduced me to the Drums. I LOVE the DRUMS!!! They are an indie surfer band. They make the cutest sounds since kitten yawns. Seriously, cheerful stuff. Listening to them makes me feel young and spry and silly and crazy and fun. They played in Austin a few weeks ago. I was so sad to miss it. I went dancing instead.

Right now I am really into The Decemberists, The Shins, The French Kicks, Sinatra, THE DRUMS, Kristin Ferrell, Ivy Portwood, Mikey Rodriguez, Politics, Motel Aviv, and Wagner.

Music is the way my soul rests, grows, dances, and communicates. Sometimes I feel like it's the only thing I really understand....or the only thing that understands me. Sometimes it's the only thing I long for in a day. Sometimes it's the only thing I long for that I actually get to enjoy.

I'll end in the best way any musician knows how to end, with an ABBA quote:


Thank You For The Music Lyrics

Send "Thank You For The Music" RinI'm nothing special, in fact I'm a bit of a bore

If I tell a joke, you've probably heard it before
But I have a talent, a wonderful thing
'Cause everyone listens when I start to sing
I'm so grateful and proud
All I want is to sing it out loud

So I say
Thank you for the music, the songs I'm singing
Thanks for all the joy they're bringing
Who can live without it, I ask in all honesty
What would life be?
Without a song or a dance what are we?
So I say thank you for the music
For giving it to me

Mother says I was a dancer before I could walk
She says I began to sing long before I could talk
And I've often wondered, how did it all start
Who found out that nothing can capture a heart
Like a melody can
Well, whoever it was, I'm a fan

So I say
Thank you for the music, the songs I'm singing
Thanks for all the joy they're bringing
Who can live without it, I ask in all honesty
What would life be?
Without a song or a dance what are we?
So I say thank you for the music
For giving it to me

I've been so lucky, I am the girl with golden hair
I wanna sing it out to everybody
What a joy, what a life, what a chance!

Thank you for the music, for giving it to me.

You're Never as Covert as You Think You Are

There is a phenomenon I have dealt with my whole life that has troubled and puzzled me to this very day. I first noticed it when I was in preschool when a little girl eyed what I was drawing, a lady standing next to a tree, and crumbled it up the moment I wasn't looking. First she laughed. Then I became rather scrappy. Then she cried. I noticed it again in myself when I was hanging about my mother's knee in a department store. I became thirsty after all the running around and hiding in the clothes racks. I got my mom to buy me a slushy drink. I saw another little girl with her mother. The little girl pulled on her mother's pant leg and pointed at me and my delicious drink with longing and wanting. I sipped my drink with expressions of euphoria. I mean, the drink was good, but not that good. I enjoyed having something someone else didn't have and I wanted to rub it in. C'mon. But that's the nature of the beast, isn't it!? That's the monster I want to talk about, the green one with wanting eyes. And this particular monster I speak of is undoubtedly and singularly female. Men compete but their measures are usually fairly overt, more obvious, and sporting. It's all in good fun, fair, part of life's game. It may be occasionally aggressive but at least it's not passive aggressive. Females can be clandestine to a frightening degree but I think it wise to remember that when these games roll out they are always directed at other females. And as my friend Bobby always says, "Women perceive things that men just don't see. They are crazy! The intuition is downright scary. They know it all and you don't even say a word." I think Bobby is right. How many times, girls, have you had a hunch about something only to find you were right on the money? How many times was a friend or acquaintance lying through her teeth with the sweetest smile you'd ever seen, not a flinch, and you knew, just knew, it was bunk? How many times has a guy professed his love and something just told you it was made of sweet nothingness? How about the times you felt like betrayal was waiting in the wings. There weren't any signs of it. Not really. Just a feeling, unprompted by words, sights, or experiences. And then there it is; the truth spills violently onto the page of your life. But oddly, you knew it was coming already. So, girls, the topic is jealousy. We don't like to talk about it. Many would rather continue pretending it doesn't exist. But the thing is, it does. And here's what I'm really getting at: IT SUCKS. I, for one, am tired of dealing with it, on either end. It has its uses though. I must confess. It can act as a proof, a test of true friendship. Here's how I know you're really my friend: when you say you want me to be happy, it becomes evident when something great happens and you are actually happy for me. My happiness enhances your own. You support me. You love my music or maybe you don't and you may have suggestions. But you're not upset by my successes. When you say, "The right guy will come along, " you stand by that when a candidate does come along, instead of suddenly becoming critical "on my behalf". If you're only there for me when things really suck then you really aren't my friend. If you find you like me more when my chips are down then that means you'd like me to lose. Losers are loveable? Yeah, that's not okay. I can tell who my real friends are because they want to talk about successes and they want to encourage, inspire, prolong, celebrate, and revel in them with me in those moments. They are there in times of loss as well but they do not enjoy it for the sake of it. They want to help. They want to mend. They may understand. They may not. But they care. Here's the thing; I've had it with false friends. It's obvious when someone wants you to fail just so they don't feel like a loser. It doesn't matter how sweetly they smile, how nice their words sound, or how much compassion meant to make its way all the way up to their eyebrows. No. Jealousy hangs in the wanting eyes, is curls around the hungry mouth, it rattles in the measured voice, it just does. And then you are left with a choice; pretend this person loves you or face the fact that they believe that your successes spell their failures, that when you have something great, anything--it could be a job, a talent, a story, anything!---they are wishing it would disappear, that they believe in scarcity and that there are only so many pieces to the pie and you having one means there may not be enough for them. And that's where the problem lies! These are LIES! There is enough love, money, opportunity, for all of us! I promise! We need to be patient, perhaps. Or maybe we need to work harder sometimes. Maybe we need new perspective, get creative. Whatever. All I'm saying is no one's blessings should upset you. It's bad enough when we feel jealous of people we hardly know or those we don't really know at all. When it bleeds into friendships that's where I think it gets ugly. There's no place for that sort of thing in real friendships. If I don’t WANT you to be successful, guess what? I am not your friend, am I? And I certainly don't love you. Here's what I want: friends who want me to end up with the best guy in the world, no matter what their romantic status is at the time when my guy shows up. I want friends who tell me the truth, have no agenda, and just want to be heard, loved, and respected. I want friends who aren't competing with me because they are already aware of how great they are and they are already the stars of their own life story. They want you to be the star of your life and they play an amazing supporting role to make sure your happy ending happens without a hitch. That's what a friend is to me. I have been blessed with some of these. I am profoundly grateful. There are so, so ever so many more of the other kind, the lesser kind. But that's what makes things precious I suppose, the rarity. People are never as covert as they think they are. Jealousy has a way of being an elephant dressed as a ballerina. It wants to be dainty. It just isn't.

Today is my Birthday

I woke up at 9:30. I laid there a while, looking around at the ceiling and walls, noticing the shadows of the things that hang around in my life; an ornament in the shape of a swirling letter "K" my friend Ivy graced a gift she gave me a couple of years ago. It hangs from the switch of a lamp. Two little, gilded angels affixed to each end of the two dangling chains of my ceiling fan. One bears a star reading "HOPE", the other "JOY". My mother sent me those a few years back. The reflections and little rainbows cast from the ornate, gold antique mirror. Well, it wants to be an antique. I got myself up and turned on NPR. We are daily companions, rain or shine. I went to the kitchen to get a drink. I just stood there a while, admiring the sun through a leaf, so intricate, complex and sophisticated. So gorgeous with the sun all through it, all those veiny secrets exposed with light.
I am 32 today. There's no denying it. All my veiny secrets are just what they are. The sun will find me, whether I prefer it or not. But I felt something distinctly different this morning. I have been feeling rather old lately. But for some reason, 32 sounds awfully young. Why does it sound younger than 30? 31? I wish I understood myself. Anyway, I began getting ready. I realized my delicates were all in the hamper. I had to do laundry! I would be dreadfully late to church now. I decided I'd have to attend a different session. My usual 10:30 would have to be forgone. 2:30? I can make that; no problem. So phone calls started coming in from friends and family. I love the feeling of being loved. I put a load in the wash. I ate left over Reese's Cheesecake from last night's surprise. What a day! Bliss in many ways. Brunch with the dearest man alive, watching chickens and roosters, baby sitting a tiny 12 week old angel, my apartment with so many of my favorite people in it; Heather, Jason, Molly, Megan, and then a HUGE surprise! My favorite girl in all the world; my own Christy, Toolie Woolie! Came in from Corpus and she didn't even tell me! And there she was with her baby! Claire! And Ivy, too! We were all laughing and talking. Heather and Jason just had their engagement photos taken. Gorgeous them! That's why I was watching the tiny baby, so her mommy could take the pictures. We eventually got to dinner, around 9:15. I had Steak Diane. I made a joke about wanting to be like Princess Diane so I'd eat a steak bearing her name. It didn't work. I'm no more royal and no less charming. (ha!) So, now my unmentionables are clean and dry. I will go to church soon, sing, pray, listen, learn, think. Then I will go to Ivy's. There will be Moroccan pot pie, savory salads, and herbal iced tea. Then there will be cake and ice cream.
It hit me today, we are all famous to someone. We are being watched. There are eyes upon us all. Others need us to fulfill certain expectations. No, we can't be perfect. But we ought to be good. We ought to be so good that we can feel it radiating in our lives and into the lives of those who happen to love us. Maybe even into the lives of people who don't. The notion of being famous; allow me to explain. The public at large may never know that I love dark chocolate, that I detest pop music, or that my favorite movie is Kiki's Delivery Service and I watch at least part of it every single day, but my friends do. Most people will never know that my idea of a perfect evening is eating half price sushi with one or two people I love, watching amateur opera, and laughing for hours about our ill-spent youth. Some people know that the only magazines I read are National Geographic and The Ensign. Not everyone knows that these are THE most important things to me: the worth of souls, the sanctity of women, the power of the written word, the beauty and promise of each child, the miracle of music, the influence of art, the presence of God, the eternal nature of the family, and the reality of love. Some people will never know and never care that my worst fears include issues relating to every kind of poverty, certain types of bewitched dolls, and all kinds of infidelity. Some people know that I have certain dreams and ambitions; I want to feed my hungry brain and get a PhD in Children's Literacy or Literature---have yet to decide, I want to be a professor, and I want to find myself on a mountain in Mexico during the butterfly migration someday. Some people know these things. I want to say thank you for knowing. Thank you for caring. Thank you for talking. Thank you for sharing your likes, dislikes, fears, dreams, and ambitions with me. Thank you for advising. Thank you for forgiving. Thank you for not judging because you were too busy loving. Thank you for your voices. Thank you for the times you were silent and the times you were loud. Thank you for your gestures. It is all precious and noted, remembered and cherished. To my friends and family, I love you almost more than I can stand. I love you with so much joy it seems to split me open! I love you in ways that make me feel elation and guilt; elation because you are so impossibly miraculous and guilt because I don't know what I did to deserve you. It's bliss. It's radiant. And most of all, it is real. Thank you for being so illustrious, so gorgeous, so famous, famous, famous to me. Your autograph is all over my life, all over my heart. Happy Birthday to Me. I love all of you so much. Thank you for making my life such a life. It's yours. It's mine. It's ours. Thank you.

Anadromous....

.....it's a word I've been dying to use ever since I learned it a couple weeks ago. It refers to the process some fish naturally take when they migrate upstream to spawn. Salmon do this. They fight the river's coursing current, fight the natural flow, watch their other fishy friends go with the flow and swim with the greatest of ease as they fight nature on the outside and risk all to embrace it on the inside. It's hard and many salmon never make it back. Some have heart attacks and die, such is the strain on these little anadromous wonders. But those who make it spawn in glory. What a natural wonder!
Do you feel it? Yes, here comes the metaphor. I'd like to consider myself anadromous in a certain way. There is the natural flow of things; cultural, societal, biological. It's all very tough to swim against but I simply cannot ignore what's going on inside me, no matter how the currents rage around me on the outside. This inner truth always trumps the outside influences, whether they come from a book, a magazine, a billboard, a song, a voice, a joke, an institution, or a whole relationship. Even when the influence comes from my own mind or my own body there is a deeper truth still, far more quiet but somehow more poignant and piercing. I see some of my peers, going with the flow. Some of them think I'm just crazy. I get all sorts of warnings. "You're going the wrong way! What are you thinking?! You're gonna kill yourself!" What they don't know is I am not headed toward death but toward the only life worth living.

Rex is a Good Man

Rex is my nephew. He is a 105lb Chocolate Doberman. His mother is Betsy Peticolas, chronicled earlier in this blog as one of my best friends of all time and quite literally my sister, if not by blood then by love, time, intention, and involvement. I used to be so scared of Rex. He was like an enormous gargoyle that came to life and suddenly wanted to eat my face off. He always barked ferociously when he saw me. He looked like the devil, I swear. His swarthy coat looked somehow reddish in certain lights. His pointy ears looked like little horns. His fangs were dying to take a bite out of me. I just knew it. He wanted to hurt me and he would, given the chance, he would. I just knew he wanted to, too.
Betsy and I live in the same apartment complex. It's great having her so close. We share everything: groceries, music, internet, TV, books, soap....but Rex was making everything difficult. I couldn't go over without him having to be locked up in his room. I never would knock because Rex hates knocking so I would just call whenever I was on my way over and Betsy would put him in his room. Many times Betsy would answer the door and find me around the corner with my back against the panels, shaking. "Kristin! What's wrong with you? He's not going to hurt you! And he's in his room. Silly!" On and on it went. Day after day. Shaking, barking, hiding.
Occasionally other friends would want to interact with Rex. If I was there Betsy would warn the room, "Rex and Kristin don't really get along. He will probably bark at her. Don't be alarmed. He never does that with anyone else. Just her. It's because she's so tense and fearful. He's simply reacting to her fear." And sure enough, as soon as he saw me, he would bark. I was literally afraid for my life. I envisioned myself being mauled by this ferocious beast, losing an eye brow, knee cap, a considerable amount of hair, perhaps an eye. I'd end up wearing a patch and children would scream at the sight of me. This is what I saw in my mind's eye.
Somehow or another we started taking walks. At first I walked at quite a distance. Slowly I got closer. Then I began to think about petting him. Then I did pet him. As weeks passed I took to using a cutesy voice with him. I don't know how it happened! It just did! Before I knew it we were pals! We cuddle now! He's dying to kiss me but I never ever let him! Ha! We are family! Finally! In every sense. Our close friends are awed, inspired, and touched by the evolution of it all. It's quite a thing.
Betsy said something really brilliant tonight. "Kristin, I think your relationship with Rex can be likened to your relationships with men." She had my attention in an instant. "What I mean is, remember how terrified you were? You were positive he would hurt you. You had no doubt. But did he ever hurt you?" "No. Never even once." "Is he a bad dog?" "No." In fact, whenever I see Rex I always tell him he is such a good man, and I really mean it. "Kristin, Rex didn't change. You did. Rex didn't take any behavior classes or have some sort of doggy epiphany. You started to trust him. You started to love him. And now he loves you, too." We went on to discuss how I've been with men; scared to death, shaking, hiding around the corner. I don't trust them. I just know they want to hurt me and will, given the chance. Hmmmmm....maybe not? Maybe they will if I expect it. It's one of those annoying self fulfilling prophesy things. We often create in reality what we are afraid of. Perhaps we are trying to prove ourselves right. At what expense? Our hearts' demise? No thank you. I don't want to be right anymore. I want to be loved. I used to think trouble loved me. Turns out Rex does, perhaps even more than trouble.

$0.68

I went to Target today. I spent two gift cards. I owed exactly 68 cents after both cards were scanned. I had exactly 68 cents in the coin section of my wallet. No more, no less. Maybe I'm going to have exactly what I need when I need it. Maybe everything does make sense....cents? God loves me. He wants me safe and sound. There is order in the universe. Everything is going to be okay. Breathe.

Childhood, Plan A

It was an interesting time. I have distinct memories of ground beef and onions sizzling in the kitchen while me and my brothers watched Mr. Rogers Neighborhood as the sky got darker outside. My sister was always busily working on one project or another. Sometimes she was mixing chemicals in a lab coat and goggles. Other times she was making movies using one bunny slipper and a duckie slipper as characters; on her feet mind you. My mom would be making tacos or chile rellenos or a casserole or steak or stew. She'd let us eat little pieces of this or that while we waited. My little brothers played with Heman action figures, Hotwheels, or chess or checkers. My brother Danny and I used to play checkers all the time. In fact, we used to be in the habit of making secret appointments to play a game in the middle of the night. We'd set our alarm clocks for a ghastly hour like 3am and meet up in the living room to play. Crazy little kids we were. I was in another habit; I sang involuntarily all the time unless I was eating or watching something engaging on TV. Even then I was often humming. If I wasn't doing any of those things I was "drawing stories". I would take a stack, about a half a centimeter thick, of regular notebook paper and draw out the most amazing, soap opera-ish stories while doing all the voices, including narration, aloud. There were lots of ladies in gorgeous, huge, and impressive dresses. Sometimes everyone was English in the story so I had to tell the whole thing in an accent. Everyone just had to deal with it. I couldn't do it silently. It had to be out loud. I didn't know this until much later but my mother had been filing those drawings away for years and years in binders. I've been telling stories all my life I guess. That's always been plan A. I like plan A.

My friends, chapter 10: Nicole

Nicole Roberts Winmill. Metaphors: If she were a metal? Gold. If she were a stone? A rare and brilliant diamond. These aren't necessarily indicative of her color scheme. Rather, they say more about quality. Nicole is, in a word, a quality person. She is indelibly scrupulous, which is getting rarer all the time. In fact, when we met, I thought her level of sweetness impossible, as in, too good to be true. But I found out, in fairly short order, that it was authentic and undeniable.
We met in the fall of 2006. I had been divorced a couple months. In the LDS church every woman is assigned two Visiting Teachers that come over once a month to check in on you, give a short message of encouragement, and bring a little treat or so. Nicole went way above and beyond as my VT. She wrote me inspiring letters. She laughed with me, cried with me, talked me out of a number of ill-advised pursuits involving the opposite sex, and gave me great fashion advice. She made me go to parties and I actually had fun, in spite of myself. In fact, I was there when she met her husband at one of these parties. She and I went to San Antonio for the day. We went shopping, went out to dinner, and then went to this party. I was pretty beat and not too eager to converse with anyone there but Nicole and this tall, rock-a-billy guy really hit it off and I knew I was going to have to put on my game face for a fair few hours. I'm certainly glad my pains were well worth it; nuptials considered.
The reception was held at their home. I was honored to sing two lovely songs: When You Say Nothing at All and The Way I Am with my dear friends Ivy and Doug accompanying. It was so wonderful.
A memory/metaphor I often reflect upon is the time we went to the Comal River to float on tubes. Going down the way-too-fast shoot I lost my sun glasses, my balance, and a fair amount of my dignity...not to mention my tube. She recovered all but the sun glasses as she hoisted me, my tube, and my dignity out of the forceful waters. She held my tube as I remounted, made sure I was secure, both mind and body, before alighting her own tube and continuing the journey. And that's how things have always been with us. I flail and toss and cry and she makes everything all better! That is the Nicole metaphor. Nicolina, thank you for doing that for me, in countless ways, over and over. All my heart, I love you.

Secrets, a poem by Kristin M. Ferrell

This work was inspired by the book, The History of Love.


Have you ever spent time with someone who made you feel as if the world held secrets you would finally be privy to? Perhaps he made you feel like the wind was whispering things. He seemed to be able to decipher everything. Suddenly everything held sacred meaning. Suddenly a metallic hope dripped from rainy branches and swirled in the silvery clouds. Everything waxed itself into art. Every wish wore pink silk.

Have you ever fallen in love in the autumn when leaves begged your blood to match their stain? That someone traced your hand with his finger and told you who you've always been and he was right. He got it right. And that was a first. Maybe a last.

Did you ever forget to care about anyone else's expectations but his? Did all your cares begin to dissolve under the something you can't describe when it comes to who you are when he is looking at you? Did fashion lose its luster while your eyes found theirs? Did money suddenly become more a means and less an end? Did it last?

Was there ever a time when someone gave you the feeling that everything that ever puzzled you was about to be explained in great detail? All your questions would soon be answered. Many heavy drapes would soon be drawn. All would be lit. You'll see it all clearly, very, very soon.

Did anyone ever look at you as though you were more than human? Maybe they felt rather silly about talking about it but just the look in the eyes was enough. Was he counting your freckles? Was he seeing flecks of jade in your iris? It spoke volumes. Something hung in the air between you, something that existed without your permission.

Have you ever caught yourself not listening? And why not? Because you were day dreaming again. You used to see cactuses, lilies, the sea, volcanoes, and ivy covered walls in there, in the day dreamy place, but now it was all him and where you would go and who you would be alongside him. Where would you go? What would the photographs look like once both of you were long since dead and gone? Who would look at them then? Would they cry?

Have you ever felt like the person you would tell your grandchildren about was right in front of you? Did the person seem a little famous, almost like you'd known him or read about him forever and ever and now here he is, finally, in the flesh and real? Something familiar and déjà vuish seemed to surround you wherever the two of you went.

Did you ever ask yourself whether you were making it all up? Was this really happening or were you so unruly and romantic that the whole experience was just your overactive brain again? Something says no. Something says wait. Is it you? Are you real?

Have you ever spent time with someone who made you feel as if the world held secrets you would finally be privy to?

Artifacts

An artifact is something made by a human. Some artifacts carry special significance because of what they indicate historically. Books, carvings, weapons, instruments, tools: all artifacts. I wonder if I'll leave any artifacts behind that will yield any special feeling of significance for anyone. I've made things: songs, paintings, stories, poems, lots of journals, mosaics. I wonder if any of them will ever be cherished.

The Higher Drama

This is a poem I wrote a little over a year ago. Enjoy! To living it, THE HIGHER DRAMA!!!

The Higher Drama
Copyright 2009, Kristin M. Ferrell

At times it feels like we’ve given something up. All the idle chatter, it was fun….once. Then there was all the flame and fire that unrequited love provided. That was interesting, too. Even on the short side. There were hurt feelings by the barrel and misgivings, misinterpretations, misrepresentations, mistakes, mistakes, mistakes…. by the silo. And then there was contrition, suffering, refinement, and finally, finally, finally,,,,conversion, transcendence, the Higher Drama…the curtains opened. Where once conversation would do, we now need communion. Where once glimpses excited, we now need discovery. Where once red was the color of power, now it is the color of courage.
The Higher Drama is in the curl of my mother’s hair when my head rests on her shoulder. The Higher Drama is in the coin containing the wish that I threw in the well nine years ago….the wish that is coming true only now, here, with you. The Higher Drama is in your voice when you tell me what it is you see when you look at me, because you see me, like no else, you see me. The Higher Drama is in the eyes of the hopeful child who has never heard of anything dubious. It’s in the song written on a winter day and sung in the spring. It’s in the hands of my sister’s baby when he touches my cheek and smiles. It’s in my father’s tears as he tells me he is sorry. It’s in the whisper, not in the shout. It’s in the poem, not in the tabloid. It’s in the garden, not in the office. It’s in the womb, not in the hands, in the earth, not the powder room, in the soul, not the skin.

And there it is. And there it’s true. It has nothing to inflict, nothing to convince, nothing to persuade or control.

We have arrived, at last, at last, and casting all aside to play on such a stage we pay the price: endurance.

The Higher Drama makes anything else, anything less seem….dull.

Kristin Ferrell
April 30, 2009