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.