A Secret about a Secret

  Being in an abusive relationship is like being in a secret cell, invisible constraints around you all the time; as you smile at the cashier, as you drive to work, sing in church, talk on the phone.  No one can see it, but once in a while, a sensitive individual can sense it in other ways.  They don't believe the ever present smile.  They can see the circles around the cheery eyes.  The hunched shoulders seem more than just weary.  The wounds are revealing themselves, even without showing bruises. 
  From the time I was 21 until I was almost 28 I was in an abusive relationship.  My ex husband never beat me severely.  His methods were far more subtle.  It began while we were dating.  He made suggestions that I needed to dress differently, wear a different purse, accessorize with more "class."  These suggestions were met with gifts.  Then there were other suggestions. Different haircut, hair color, tan.  Then a big red flag:  "You're practically my ideal girl!  If only you were as into working out as I am.  I know you must feel self-conscious next to me, with my obvious commitment to my health."  I told myself the saddest lies.  He cares about your health.  He wants you to be your best self.  He's only thinking about your overall happiness.  He deserves someone better, but you can BE better.  So I went from being a free spirit, in love with music and books and dancing and singing, to a very starchy, contained, ashamed individual with less fat, more muscle, darker skin, shorter/darker hair, more sensible handbag and shoes, smallish diamond earrings, large diamond ring; his wife. 
  Interestingly, no matter how much I changed it was never enough.  My forehead, the sheer enormity of it, offended him.  No one, not even my hypercritical teenage self, had ever noticed any abnormality about my face or any other part of my physical body.  Suddenly my legs were "chicken legs" and my nose was "a beak" and my ankles were "thick."  He wanted me to keep a certain look upon my face at all times.  He didn't like my thinking face.  It looked "ugly."  He wanted me to hold my neck a certain way, my head, my jaw.  My laugh wasn't feminine.  My smile was too toothy.  I started to rebel. 
  After I'd gained at least forty pounds, not consciously on purpose but I think using food as a drug, it was obvious my ex-husband was pretty unhappy.  He had frequent spells of rage, throwing things, calling names, making threats.  When I reacted in kind, destroying the Christmas tree I had put up by myself in response to his claim that he didn't have the money to buy me any presents that year after he had just spent over $1,000 on new sweaters and jeans for himself, he was really scared.  What was this?  She isn't rolling over and crying?  She's  actually getting mad.  Really angry.  Ripping off the ornaments like that and throwing them on the floor?  This is different.
  I wasn't sure how to feel when I discovered he was sleeping with a baseball bat at an arm's reach.  On one hand it was amusing.  He perceived ME as a threat?  A little empowering.  But on the other hand, I felt disgusted.  Either he was prepared to beat me unconscious out of fear or out of rage.  I'm literally stunned I wasn't more eager to get out of there.  But that's that invisible cell.  You're captive.  And the bars aren't made of iron.  They're made of more sinister things like ideas, thoughts about the dark and dreary future ALONE and unloved and unlovable; the narrative the abuser has gone over and over with you in subtle and then not so subtle ways.  It's a systematic disassembly of a person.  It starts pretty superficial; clothing, hair.  Then it moves  on to other things; skin, thighs, ankles; onto more meaningful things; the face, your thinking.  Still deeper; your ideas, intentions, desires, abilities, talents, friendships, family, all your connections must be properly dealt with and distanced if not severed.  He criticizes each of your friends, trying to get you to see how they are either hopelessly flawed or don't actually care for you.  Can't you see how jealous she is?  He is SO annoying!  They don't really seem smart enough for you.  There were all those lies and more.  It's hard to lord over someone with allies.  Best to brush them away as soon as possible.  And if words didn't work, maybe actions would.  So he starts being downright insufferable when friends are around.  Complaining, being negative and rude, dismissive and unseemly in numerous ways.  So the friends go.  Why wouldn't they?  And those who stay are confused.  Why is she so tired all the time?  She' become rather boring as a married lady.  She's no fun anymore.  And you wish you could explain but the words don't come out.
  The dismantle continues.  You had the gall to graduate with honors.  He says  It's because you chose such an easy major.  Any dummy could make straight A's in education!  Everyone knows that.  You were offered an ideal job in an ideal school.  We'll see how long it lasts.  Besides, when I get into law  school we'll have to move anyway.  And so that's what you did.  You had to move to Chicago because that's where he got into law school.  So you've got to go, too.  You go to career fairs, about 25 random schools in neighborhoods that scare you silly, and network with people you don't even know until you find a job.  Someone's gatta pay the bills, you see.  And that's been you since day one.  Whenever money runs out, which is all the time, hubby calls his mama.  All's right in a world where everything comes easy. 
  Uprooting is very very telling.  When all you know is no where you can see, when everything familiar is removed, other things are easier to see.  So, as you throw yourself into a new job at a new school in a new city where EVERYTHING is NOTHING like ANYTHING you've ever known, things get interesting.  Just as the weather is harsh and nasty, so is the realization that you're whole life is a fallacy. 
  That Christmas he tells you about the girl he's accidentally fallen in love with at law school.  Relief sweeps over you because you have a clear OUT and it isn't even your fault!  In the eyes of God and your parents and  the church and the neighbors and the friends, it is finally okay to leave!  Finally! 
  It would take years to overcome and try and undo all the damage.  There were bouts of incredible sorrow and deep regret; remorse even.  You felt so deeply sorry for allowing such abuse to take place to begin with and felt confused at how and why it all happened without you're adamant protests.  But that's the way it goes.  Abuse is not always obvious and before you know what to do you're in the thick of it and it's swallowing you. 
 So, it took years to sort it all out.  And I did eventually express all of this to my abuser.  He had tried to patch things up a few times after the divorce.  I finally told him all I really thought, and it felt good.  If I could save one person from living with abuse I'd do all I could.  Maybe that's why I'm writing this.  I'd say, "Don't buy into his/her version of you!  Don't forget who you are!  Hold on to your friends!  Listen to your family!  Get out!  Don't tell yourself you can't!  Run!!  Now!!!"
 Today I'm as happy as I've ever been.  I'm married to my best friend, someone who thinks I'm the bee's knees.  We have a daughter who's as pretty as the morning and twice as bright.  For the first time in my life I feel like life is just right.  I wish I'd known a little sooner that life doesn't have to hurt all the time.    

Thank you for your voices...

I recently wrote a little play for my seventh grade drama class to perform for the school at the end of the year.  It's a great little play, I think, made greater by those budding actors bringing their souls into it.  It was an interesting day, the day I revealed their long awaited script to them, the students.  It took me a little longer than expected to present them the final product and, in all honesty, I wasn't sure they'd like it.  I read it to them at first, scene by scene.  Some approved, some disapproved.  We changed a word here and there, making it more appropriate for their generation.  Then I gave them their parts.  As I passed out their individual scripts and they began reading with their partners I experienced something unexpected and almost magical.  Can you imagine being surrounded all at once with your own words?  Things you thought up one rainy night, another collection of ideas that blazing afternoon last week, sentences labored over and then smoothed into something sweet, suddenly surrounding you in a room full of actors then making the words their own.  It was one of those climactic moments for me.  My voice in their minds and mouths, changing into something more beautiful because of the nuances each person brings to their individual performance.  It was something.  I can't wait to see what it turns into.  It's really inspiring to give something up to someone else so that they can make it theirs. 

 

Art Spoiled Culture

In our country we are rich in many things.  We like our luxuries from our big shiny cars to our couples massages to the Italian leather boots we scored for Christmas.  And it's wonderful!  The access so many of us have to so many bright and shiny things.  We love our sexy devices, our imported cheeses, and our bath salts, sugar scrubs, and mud masks.  And as I write to you, dear reader of mine, on my lovely new black, shiny laptop complete with 17 inch touchscreen and all, I feel spoiled.  Very, very spoiled.  But this piece isn't about guilt but rather awareness.  I don't want to talk about money or technology so much as ART.  Art. That short word that beckons more than a million images to mind.  That inexplicable EVERYTHING word!  Tonight I don't want to talk about Picasso or Michael Angelo or Di Vinci.  No.  Tonight I want to talk about whomever it was that designed the embroidered flowers on my IKEA pillow.  Yes.  The one that nearly all of us have, you know?  The one that is sold by the millions?  I want to celebrate THAT artist!  And the ones who paint the greeting cards, too!  The ones with or without glitter.  I am just so ART SPOILED that I sometimes fail to notice that my yoga mat and my sheets and my cups and waste baskets and screen savers and all my adorable printed shirts are someone else's brainchildren!  What a world, huh?!  Everywhere we go!  Everything is dripping with gorgeous ART and here we are acting like that's less than glorious!!  I'm blissing out over here!  No drugs needed and I'm on a total trip!

Life for our ancestors was not so ART SPOILED.  That said, art was one of the first things that distinguished man from other animals.  Cave walls depicting battles, famine, feast, ceremony, hunts...this was the first visual art we know about.  Then came animal hides and the papyrus scroll, hieroglyphs, pyramids, temples, mosaics, immense statues, tiny tea cups.  As a species we've created some truly gorgeous stuff! 

Clothing.  It's a big deal.  It's something we use daily, not just for warmth and comfort, but also for self expression.  The patterns on our scarves and ties and shirts were someone's baby, someone's precious, sacred idea, an idea that "made it."  Old Navy bought it or Dior or whomever.  Point is, it made it OUTSIDE the studio and INTO the great, wide world.  And I, for one, think that's worth more reverence, more appreciation, more NOTICE.  SO!  The next time you're perusing the wine aisle, pretend you're at the museum because, in a sense, you really are.  I don't drink wine but even I love looking at wine bottles.  Not because I have any particular obsession with glass bottles but only because I love the art on wine labels.  Let's notice our wonderful world and celebrate the ARTISTS.  They make our world such an interesting and awe inspiring place. 

 

   

A Day in the Life of a Free Spirit

 

I've often day dreamed about what I would do if I didn't have many obligations.  It's fun to imagine, so fun in fact that I'd like to venture to write about it now.  If I could structure my days myself and do only the things that I deem the most beneficial, the most interesting, the most important, or just the most fun, my day would look something like this:

8:00- Rise and Shine!  Tai Chi then Yoga in the garden
8:30- Breakfast, Tea, Tidy the kitchen
9:00- Get Ready
10:00- Study Scripture
10:30-  Write!
12:00- Lunch with Ely and Aria
1:00- Play with Aria

• soft blocks
• musical instruments
• dance
• sing
• tickle
• splash!
• nature walk
• draw
• color
• read

3:00-  Meditate/Nap
4:00-  Sing
5:00-  Lift heavy objects
5:45-  Swim
6:15-  Brain Exercises
7:00- Dinner with Family and Friends
8:00-  See a show
10:00-  Massage
10:30-  Lights out

What a wonderful day, eh?  Maybe I'll try to live it out one of these days.  Of course, if I could create a make believe week it might include other pleasures like a picnic, painting al fresco, a poetry reading, canoeing, spa day, walking, speaking Spanish, or day tripping to visit museums.  Life just doesn't give me much time for all of these wonderful wanderings and musings.  I work 9-6 if not more.  Life calls for cleaning and shopping and phone calls and paying bills.  Maybe the trick is to incorporate as many of one's delights into a week that one possibly can.  If not the whole day, maybe I might try to get the rising and shining part in, along with the yoga and maybe write for 15 minutes each morning, if not the full hour and a half the dream schedule articulates.

   

Thinking in Circles

 
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  I'm staying at the Fairmont Hotel in downtown San Antonio tonight.  I'm meeting up with a friend tomorrow.  We're meeting at a museum in the morning and we may also go to the zoo.  Her baby is a little older than mine.  My baby is asleep in the oversized chaise chair by the plush, draped window.    

  The American flag flutters feverishly outside my window.  A classic movie featuring Betty Davis, Humphrey Bogart, and Ronald Reagan graces the sleek flat screen which looks a little ironic on top of the Spanish antique armoire with little brass feet, artistic embellishments in wood inlay, creamy marble surface on the top, a lively little green plant slanting toward a window on the bottom shelf.  The theme of the room is decidedly nautical.  I do like it.  The wall wears a monumental painting of a stormy sea, two ships slanting in the violent wind, framed in gold.  I look at the flag outside again.  Very windy out but no rain.

   Across the street people are watching a movie in the park.  I'm still listening to this movie in my room.  The other classic movie just ended.  Another one with Betty Davis just started:  The Man Who Came to Dinner.  The actress who played Glenda the Good is in it.  Makes me think of the summer I was in the play The Wizard of Oz.  I was in the chorus.  That summer marked the first time I fell for a gay guy.  It wouldn't be the last.  One of the hazards of growing up in theater.  

  That makes me think about myself as a child, and all the things I wanted to be one day.  I was always trying to get at something, something I knew not what.  Something instinctual wanted me to get at it by drawing, painting, telling, and writing stories.  I loved my stories, stories about cacti coming to life, girls turning into trees, princes and princesses playing with witches and warlocks, and a little boy who knew how to grow and shrink at will.  I often pretended to be him when I was at church and I imagined myself being able to shrink so small I could fit inside the pocket where the hymnals went so I could take a little nap.  Telling stories was something I did all the time.  I wasn't "practicing".  I was being.  I was living.  And I resented interruptions like dinner, bath time, and worst of all, homework.  

  I never liked school as much as a smart kid should've.  I found it unnecessarily laborious, boring, and too full of danger.  I was afraid of mean kids and often pretended to be one so as not to be mistaken for an easy target.  Growing up with blond hair in El Paso, Texas was a treacherous business.  Which makes me think about being a minority.  I was definitely a minority in El Paso, a city with a Latin American population of at least 95%.  It was interesting and wonderful in many ways, too many to mention for this little entry.  

  Which makes me crave my favorite Mexican food.  I should try and find something good tomorrow.  I'm in San Antonio after all.  I seem to remember a place called Mi Tierra; an impressive, orotund Mexican restaurant, quite authentic fare, multiple vast rooms, each one decorated as a different holiday, dripping with lights of all colors year round.  As you walk toward the exit you find an enormous case of Mexican baked goods.  Oh, my.  Now I'm really craving Mexican food.  Thinking in circles.  

  But what I meant to write about was this room.  Impressive!  Full of antiques.  A miniature boat atop a white cement sconce of some sort "sails" above the crackled, blue desk.  A helm wheel, polished wood, adorns the plush bed drapery, all stripped cream, gold and navy blue.  Makes me think about my father.  He was in the navy way before I was born.  I used to wear his sailor pants and jacket in high school.  They barely fit.  My dad was a real stick back then.  I was pretty slender when I was a teenager, too.  

  One time my Dad read us the love letters he wrote to mom, the ones he wrote while on the Enterprise in the Far East during the Vietnam War.  They were just kids and they were married.  And they are married still.  What a phenomenon.  Makes me think about my failed marriage and my second, my happy marriage.  How can I even use the same word?  The first was fraught with confusion, darkness, and the deepest loneliness.  The second is so sweet, and full, and innocent somehow.  

  Sometimes Ely likes to talk about what ifs.  "What if we had kept in touch all those years ago?  What if we had gotten married younger?  To each other, instead of suffering through our failed relationships and respective divorces."  I don't know.  But something tells me I had to suffer some, to somehow deserve the goodness I now call life.  I think about the arduous nature of my first marriage.  I think about how awful and slow it was to recover after such a long, terror of a marriage to a very unhealthy person.  Maybe it wasn't necessary for me to suffer so.  But it happened all the same.  No sense in regret.  But in all honesty, sensible or not, I do have regrets; more than a few.  I regret not doing my homework.  I regret smoking.  I regret being awful toward my parents.  I regret being mean to my siblings.  I regret punching that sassy girl in the face in high school.  I regret all my meanness, and it was considerable.  I regret never playing sports.  I regret not riding a bicycle more.  I regret never learning to dive.  I regret not taking piano lesson seriously.  I regret not paying enough attention to my inclinations, the artistic ones especially.  I regret indulging my doubts.  I regret doing it still.    

  Looking out my window I seem to notice the wind has died down to scarcely a breeze.  I better say my prayers and read my scriptures and fall asleep so I won't be a bore tomorrow, but before I sign off I just want to say I love this nautical room and I love America and her flag and my sweet, sleeping baby, Betty Davis, Spanish antiques, room service, and Macintosh.  But most especially, I love Ely and Aria.  Good night,

Moon.                               

Becoming a Mommy

   I'm due to give birth on April 25.  You might say I'm a little nervous.  But I've got to admit, I'm SO excited.  It's a girl.  Her name is Aria Marie Allington.  I loved the name as soon as I thought of it.  Aria, Italian musical term for solo, such a lovely name for my sweet baby.  I am so eager to see her little face and hold her and play with her. 
  Ely is the most excited Daddy ever.  He is always buying things for her, getting her room ready, doing research on babies and on fatherhood.  He is also really busy taking care of the Momma, cooking, cleaning, talking to the belly, shopping, and all the while working 70 hour weeks.  Ely is amazing.  I am so proud he is the father of my little baby.  I feel so blessed.
  So, pregnancy.  Yeah.  Wow.  What a world!  Initially it was really really awful.  I was nauseous all the time, throwing up every afternoon and evening, dizzy, cranky, and uber-emotional.  That lasted for four months.  The cruelty of it was how hungry I was.  Imagine!  Crazy hungry and a complete lack of appetite!  Awful!!  I had to force feed soup and watermelon.  I was more tired than I had ever thought possible and virtually incapacitated after 4pm.  I had heartburn that could fuel a rocket, feet so sore they felt like they were full of jagged little rocks, and acne to rival any teenager.  My face started to change colors as huge splotches of tan and brown showed up along my jawline and cheeks, even my nose got a swirl of new color on its bridge.  Hormones.  I've read these splotches will fade after I give birth.  We shall see. 
  So by the middle of the second trimester the nausea eventually subsided.  The feet got a little better with stretching and icing and soaking and wearing orthopedics.  I got the AOK from my doctor to take heartburn medication.  My abhorrence for food subsided.  I started to have fun with my maternity wardrobe.  My growing belly started to thump and tumble inside.  It started getting fun.  We began gathering baby stuff and setting up a nursery.  I still felt tired, emotional, and occasionally queasy but I felt a little more normal and a little more excited and optimistic.
Third trimester is just a few weeks in.  My tummy is growing, my baby is dancing in there, and I'm eating healthy doses of each food group.  My skin has cleared up, no more pimples but the tan blotches remain.  My feet still hurt but I'm still pretty mobile.  I still cry during cute and/or funny commercials.  I laugh a lot and cry a lot.  I'm feeling better than I have in a long time.  My ankles and feet are super swollen.  So are my hands.  Sometimes my face is bulbous.  There is a list of other ailments I'm too shy to list here but let's just say making a little human makes you more human than you ever were before.  That is to say, the wonders and woes of being human are never so apparent as they are when one is making a whole new human.  It is a thrill and a challenge I accept with great reverence.  I often feel inferior but I am eager to develop in all the ways I need to in order to do this thing well. 
  Becoming a mommy is my dearest dream come true.  Aria, I am so excited to meet you, little baby.  Thank you for coming to us and helping us become better people.  We can't wait!                   

Some days....

 

 On days like today, when I come home after a hard week's work, I just want to revert to a childlike state and spend gobs of time playing in the mud, digging for interesting little rocks, examining leaves or something like that.  My soul wants to take me to some stream somewhere, to put my feet in the water a while, to hum little songs that have never existed before. 
  In college I sometimes had days like these.  I wondered what it would be like to study one thing, one very specific thing, and make it your life's work.  Like leaves.  What if you were a leaf expert?  A leaf scientist!  I guess that is a botanist or something.  But I used to day dream about that, like, what if my job was to study leaf sample after leaf sample and catalog leaves and document their similarities and differences?  Wow!  That would be a pretty awesome job.  A peaceful job. 
  Instead I chose a career where peace really isn't the landscape.  There are sweet moments, to be sure, but peace is rare at a public school teaching kindergarten.  There's lots to prepare, lots to execute, lots to assess, lots of fires to put out, band aids to apply, tears to wipe, opinions to ignore, people to tolerate, district initiatives to refuse to adhere to.  There are so many things that happen in a day, every single day.  So much stimuli, it's sometimes maddening. 
  Teachers develop keen filters.  You learn to hone in only on the things that matter most.  So much has to go by the wayside, because it's impossible to do everything everyone expects you to do.  The Federal Government has expectations.  So does the state.  The district has expectations.  The administrators on campus do, too, of course.  So do the parents.  So do the other teachers.  So do the kids.  So do you.  Me.  Guess what?  Sometimes, quite often in fact, these expectations clash.  So what do you do?  Who do you seek to please first?  My default is always the kids.  The kids and me.  We seem to have goals that don't clash that often.  I want them to learn a lot, have a lot of fun doing it, be kind to each other, read, write, talk, play, discover. 
  A lot of what the government says is good for kids just isn't.  Almost everything congress pressures us to do in schools flies in the face of scientific research.  It's so common for elected officials to ignore science.  It's just funny at this point.  But at whose expense are we laughing?
  District "experts" are just as ill-informed as elected officials, if not just out right defiant.  Making decisions based on research is just something these people DO NOT DO.  I really can't say why, though I ask myself why all the time.  Most people in leadership seem to have a real aversion to reality.  It's really so annoying.  Are they just lazy?  Stupid?  Both?
  What would the world be like if we let science make the rules?  What if we honored the hard facts?  What kind of programs could we develop if we designed our academic activities based on what science has shown to be effective?  The truth is, everything you learn in college goes right down a dark drain when you enter a public school setting.  All the things your professors told you were "best practice" are just shunned by schools and even entire districts.  It's too time consuming, they say, or too expensive, or too hard so let's just say arbitrary things like let's "increase rigor" and "differentiate" and see what happens!  Or let's get rid of things like painting, recess, rest time, pleasure reading, singing time, problem solving, and journal writing.  Let's replace those with worksheets, small group chaotic rotations, and arduous phonics activities.  Let's increase rigor.  Let's increase rigor so much that we teach kids how hard learning can be.  Yeah!  Let's teach kids that learning is really, really difficult.  Let's teach them that hard work is the only thing that counts, that if you're enjoying yourself you may not be doing something right, that suffering is "good for you".  Let's make kindergarteners take standardized tests that take 45 minutes at a stretch.  Let's fill the school day with so much developmentally innappropriate stuff that we convince kids, sooner rather than later, that school is a terrible, heartless, uncomfortable place and that the ONLY demographic that can thrive here are the most type A, non-creative, rule following sorts of people; the people who naturally and habitually think as close to the middle of the inside of the box as possible.  I just can't be a part of that kind of goal.  So I don't do it.  Sometimes I get in trouble.  I don't follow the rules so well.  I'm one of those people who left the box a long, long time ago.  That's a whole different planet to me now, a memory, a relic of a reality.  It's risky but, hey, who doesn't crave a little risk now and again.  Besides, it's the right thing to do.  That makes being a rebel easier.
  But some days, instead of breaking rules, ignoring ill advised initiatives, rolling my eyes at the next new idea to rejuvenate our classrooms, I wish I could just examine leaves, for hour after blessed hour.  Let the masses do what they will!  My job is to study leaves.  Ahhh, what a life!              

What's in a Name?

I was born Kristin Marie Ferrell.  I like my name for a few reasons.  I like the way it sounds, what it means, and why my parents named me Kristin Marie.  Besides that, I like what the names mean to me, what they have come to mean over time, and what I've discovered they mean in origin as well.
  Kristin is the Greek for Christian, follower of Christ.  I like that my first name is the first thing I want most to be in life.  It seems appropriate; first things first.  My Dad briefly dated a girl named Kristin in high school during one of the breaks my parents took from their togetherness in those days.  Dad found Kristin particularly interesting because she claimed to have read the encyclopedias, A-Z, in one summer.  My mom confirms, the girl was pretty and smart.  I love this story because I think it's  really cool that I'm named after a smart girl.  It's also kind of a thrill to me that my mom is so incredibly cool, so secure in herself, that she would be okay with one of her own children being named after one of her husband's former flames.  I just think that's such a meaningful  token of female esteem and appreciation, not to mention a sign of complete non-jealousy, HUZZAH!!  What an awesome radical my mother is!  I am so proud.  If more women were that amazingly self-actualized I bet we'd get paid as well as our male counterparts!  Imagine that!  Dollar for dollar!  Female jealousy is one of the societal poisons that rips girls off, big time.  As long as we're working against each other the guys will ALWAYS have a leg up.  It's a chauvinist's favorite weapon and girl's worst enemy.  Think about it.
 My middle name is Marie which is derived from French and means bitter.  I didn't always appreciate this but I've come to think of the word bitter in a number of different ways.  Life isn't always sweet.  In fact, it's the rarity that makes  the sweetness so sublime.  Life is mostly hard, mostly arduous, and mostly perplexing.  Those who can embrace life's bitterness, maybe add a little sugar themselves, stomach the bitterness, maybe even develop a taste for it; these are those who prevail.  And so I endeavour to embrace bitterness.  I do love zucchini, grapefruit, and dark chocolate.
  My last name, Ferrell, comes from the Irish and means "valor".  I love this because I am a fan of all things brash and brazen.  I love courageous people, people who are brave and charismatic.  I am also a fan of a subtler brand of courage, the gentle knowing, the living and the letting live kind of bravery that let's people be themselves and allows life to unfold its little mysteries in its own time and fashion.  It takes courage to be patient and long suffering.  Champions don't always wear suits of armor.  Sometimes they don sweater vests and thick glasses, tweed, Hush Puppies.  Ferrell can also mean "wild".  I was reminded of this a fair few times over the years by hopeful boys with lofty plans for bagging me.  Cute.  (Not so much)  I think of this 'wildness' a little differently.  As human animals we are born rather wild.  It takes years and years to hone our intelligences, make us more soulful and less slothful.  It all depends on what you nurture I guess, the natural man or the eternal self.  So being feral, is just the beginning, a reminder, a place to spring forward.  When I fail to resist some natural tendency toward selfishness I am reminded that I am still partly wild.  Unless I want only to ever be natural I must use valor to react differently to life, to be more than just a stimulus/response kind of creature, one who can exercise tremendous effort toward better things like faith, love, self sacrifice.  It's okay to be human.  I think of it as a condition.  It doesn't define me though.  It's only an experience.  It isn't who I'll always be.  I won't always have a fallen nature.

  A few months ago I acquired a new name, Allington, "The dweller at the place of the Aella people."  I hope to find out more about this English name and attach meaning to it for myself and my life.  For now I like the sound of it and I like how it sounds with my first name:  Kristin Allington.  Sounds downright literary!  Hmmmm.....there we go, then!  That is the name of a writer.  Don't I love providence.  How very English of me.    

   
           

Is etiquette passé?

  I developed and launched an incredible camp this summer called Charm School BOOT CAMP with my dear friend, Megan.  1/2 classical Emily Post style etiquette meets 1/2 self-actualization/self-reliance/ self-esteem building/ assertiveness training.  It was a beautiful success with emotions ranging from serious pensiveness to all out hysterical laughter and almost everything between.  The 21 girls we were fortunate to have in the camp were so delightful as to be described as angelic.  It was so wonderfully fun to discuss manners, charm, confidence, posture, and poise and it was equally fun to delve into the more powerful aspects of the program as well.  For example: goal setting, study skills, women of historical note, friendship skills, and , of course, assertiveness.  We discussed the media and how vicious a liar it can so often be.  We talked about what it means to be cyber-savvy and safe.  We talked about body image, clothes, modesty, exercise and nutrition.  I want to discuss the camp at a later date with more detail.  For today I want to zero in on one important question:  Is etiquette passé?  A relic?  A thing of the past?  Antiquated?  A has been?  A thing for grannies and grampies?  "O-V-E-R"  ???
  Alas, lest the last four generations of Posts turn in their graves, I am pleased to answer the question in the negative.  Of course it's not passé!  I am happy to say etiquette is still vitally important today, perhaps more than ever.  And, what's more, it is our only hope if we are to enjoy a society that honors its citizens, reveres what is graceful and gallant, respects the best in each person, and seeks to offer others comfort, compassion, and care.
  What is etiquette?  The word comes from the French referring to the little signs telling you what to do and and what not to do, where to go and not go.  Back in the days of Louise the XIV the word actually referred to those little signs that said, "Stay on the path" and "Do Not Walk on the Flowers" but we use the word today to refer to the do's and don'ts of how to interact well with others.  You see, etiquette keeps us "on the path", as it were.  It keeps us from trouncing on innocent little "flowers".  In real life these little flowers may take the form of other people's feelings.  I think the feelings of other people are worth protecting and that is why I think etiquette is not only not dead but is a really powerful tool, vital to anyone who hopes to honor or inspire another human individual.

  Etiquette also demands you be clean when it is necessary and appropriate to be so.  Wash your hands before eating and/or preparing food.  Keep animals away from the dining area.  Don't touch people if you're not sure they want to be touched.  Don't touch your face too much, pick at your skin, or teeth, or scratch any part of your body at the table.  Never, without exception, touch your feet at the table.  It's probably safe to keep the touching of your feet to the showers or pedicure time. You might think these are pretty obvious rules but I've been in situations where I've seen these things happening and it has made me feel queasy and uncomfortable.    
  What etiquette IS NOT:  Etiquette has nothing to do with being stuffy.  It's not about being a snob or a know-it-all.  Etiquette is about making others feel valuable, appreciated, comfortable, and cared for.  When we set a gorgeous table, hopefully it isn't merely to impress people.  Hopefully it is to let our guests know that we are celebrating something special with them, that we honor them and are grateful for their friendship, that we think giving them a special meal is delightful and so we put in some special effort to please the eye and the pallet as well.  Likewise, when we use words like "please, thank you, delighted, of course, right away, I'd be honored, and you are very welcome" we are expressing that we feel the person we are talking to is important and worthy of our respect.  Even if it is someone we hardly know it shows our general respect for humankind as well as respect for ourselves.  Even when we are dealing with someone we've previously perceived as offensive, perhaps showing that person respect will provide a disarming effect, if not merely offer him or her a better example.  When people feel respected they are much more likely to feel comfortable and when people feel comfortable it is only then they feel safe.  Only then will a person open up and allow a friendship to bloom.
  Etiquette is about helping people feel safe and secure while in your presence.  Being trustworthy goes hand in hand with proper etiquette.  Keeping harmless secrets to yourself, avoiding idle gossip for the sake of it, being a truth teller; these are all essential to good etiquette.  Using a calming tone of voice rather than speaking clamorously helps people feel secure around you.  Speaking loudly can be very offensive, whether or not the intentions are malignant.  It hurts people's ears and feelings whether or not you realize it.  Etiquette asks us to speak clearly, calmly, and often with conviction.  It is good to ask valued friends plenty of questions and not center on the topic of YOU all the time.  It's great to relate stories back and forth.  We just need to to make sure the topic is never exclusively The Adventures of the Fascinating Me.  Everyone is fascinating.  The person with good etiquette knows this better than anyone.
  To offer a humble conclusion, if I may, etiquette is not old news nor is it exclusively for those who can afford to drive automobiles of western European design.  I am suggesting that etiquette is for all of us.  It helps us relate to each other more meaningfully.  It communicates sincerity and care.  It seeks to celebrate and soften.  When we are displaying bad manners we can damage relationships whether or not our intentions were bad.  Etiquette helps us know what works when it comes to human behavior.  It is reliable because it has been tried by millions of humans over hundreds if not thousands of years.  It is time tested and sound.  It's not about being perfect all the time.  Rather, it's about trying our best to help others feel valued in our company.  I would say that is worth a little effort.  I know first hand that etiquette helps our relationships and fosters respect and admiration.  It lays the groundwork for richness in our interactions and makes real friendship and love possible and that is what makes life worth living.         

My Friends: Chapter 13: Megan

  This one's been a long time comin'!  Megan is the dearest girl.  We are both Kindergarten teachers at Davis.  We were recently roomies, right before I got married.  We started two modestly successful businesses this year.  We just got back from a road trip to west Texas.  And with all this togetherness, I've gatta say, we've weathered well together.
  I met Megan when I was fresh off the divorce train.  I was returning to Austin after living in the Chicago area for a year and she had just moved here from north Texas where she'd been teaching pre-k, special education.  We both attended the "new and/or returning teachers meeting" at Davis Elementary where we, and perhaps two or three others, sat around a table talking about our personality profiles, goals for the year, and leadership styles with our principal.  I remember thinking she seemed a kindred soul but I wasn't positive until a couple years later when we took a school-wide excursion to Port Aransas for a teacher training on the marine sciences.  Amid funnel clouds, rained out field studies, and some very cranky, drenched teachers we managed to launch a sea/storm worthy friendship.
  Our first conversations centered on music.  We found we knew and liked many of the same indie bands of note.  She, being the hipper of the two, knew a lot more than I about the names, dates, and histories of the bands of interest.  Still, it was enough to ignite a budding interest in hanging out more.
  Interestingly, it took a couple more years to act on our rapport.  Teachers don't always get the chance to see other teachers during the work week.  And at the time I was in second grade, halls away from kindergarten.  But at staff parties and gatherings we would always find each other and we'd talk about art and music, guys and gals, food and film.  We always had a connection but never managed to turn it into grounds for regular outings until a couple years after that.
  Because of a fluke in the regular schedule, kindergarten had lunch after first grade, which meant we  second grade teachers had our lunch overlap slightly with kindergarten teachers.  I was so thrilled because that meant Megan and I could chat everyday at lunch time!  It didn't take long before we were planning regular outings.  We finally had the momentum to launch our camaraderie.
  Playing games, going dancing, singing karaoke, eating ill-advised foods, talking shop, talking sh@%, and seeing an opera were all part of the routine suddenly.  We bonded over our mutually failing relationships, both with fascinating characters who just couldn't seem to part with their level three Peter Pan syndrome long enough to pull on their big boy shorts.  It was really tough times but I think having each other was helpful.
  Before we knew it Megan needed new living arrangements.  I was living alone and welcomed the idea of not living alone.  BINGO!  Being roomies was seriously fun if not, at times, feeling like I was on some sort of reality show about kindergarten teachers burning at both ends.  All in all, it was an amazing time and I think we learned a lot from one another.
  Megan is an exceptional teacher and she's taught me some powerful lessons, perhaps without realizing it.  She taught me that it's okay not to have meat with every single meal.  She taught me a lot about being a cool Catholic.  She taught me about hard work and dedication to ideals.  She taught me how to be organized and tidy.  She taught me a lot about art and beauty.  Mostly, Megan taught me about the art of introspection.  She expresses herself in such a way as to model how one might begin a dialogue from within.  I really value her commitment to reflection.
  During the pre-wedding craziness Megan was the greatest right hand gal.  She co-hosted two gorgeous bridal showers, helped me pick out flowers, dresses, make up, and shoes, and listened when I was feeling crazed.  I felt supported during what might otherwise have been a chaotic time.
 I feel like Megan and I are in this for the long haul.  She's one of my all time besties, and that's a fact.  LOVE YOU, MACINTOSH!!!               

Ely Part II

Picture it, December 2011, Austin, Texas, nearly time for school to let out for the holidays. What were my plans? Well, I could go to El Paso and risk causing my family more grief about my single "situation". I could go to my brother's house in Colorado and do the same up there. Hmmmmm, no thanks! I did something completely different and went up to Saratoga Springs, New York to visit my beloved Judy and her family. Judy moved to New York the previous summer, to my heart's demise. Still, all considered, it was a good move considering her husband's cool new job and the beautiful community they moved to.
Once the arrangements were made I began to feel giddy. Judy has a way of inspiring such feelings no matter what is going on but this time we had a HUGE reason to feel excited. NYNY!!! AHHHHH!!!!! I'd never been and I was walking on air just thinking about it. The architecture, the food, the lights, the Christmas decorations, the shopping, the cathedrals, the park, EVERYTHING!!! I can't explain my anticipation.
One night while I was catching up on all things Facebook I noticed a familiar name. Friend request from, AH!! Ely Allington? Oh, my! I responded in the affirmative to his friend request, of course. I must admit, I was very curious about how he was doing. Was he married? In a relationship? Was it "complicated"? Was he still a practicing Mormon? Children? Was he still hot? Was he "interested in women" or men? I'd been surprised before on Facebook with how different people had changed in unexpected ways. The goth chick turned attorney, the super jock turned club kid, the preppy turned tattoo artist, the drug addict turned religious fanatic, the drop out turned business tycoon. Ely's sexuality was never in question but stranger things have happened.
Anyway, all things looked good as I glanced over his info. Not that many pictures but still very hot. Hotter than ever, actually. I dropped him a quick line, something like "Hey, you! How's life?" He responded, "Pretty good. How is life for Kristin?" We started a dialogue, thusly. At first it was all via Facebook. Then it spilled into an online game called Words With Friends, kind of a Scrabble game played between opponents over their smart phones. It often lasts for days, if not weeks. Suffice it to say Ely was kicking my trash which led me to my next move. I wanted to talk on the phone. I now knew he was smart enough to want to talk to. Shallow as it seems, I really did think exactly that way.
By this time I was already in New York. On the train, oh so early in the morning, heading from upstate to the city, Judy and I were talking all about school and our friends and chatting about our goals for the new year when I received a little message from Words With Friends.
"Ely beat me AGAIN!! Blast that guy!"
"Who's Ely?"
"Oh, he's, um, just an old friend. We play Words With Friends and he's always beating me. It's infuriating."
Maybe it's a false memory, I'm not really sure, but as I reflect on it I see Judy's face aglow with a knowing smile.
The city was more interesting, beautiful, and exciting than I could have dreamed. I feel like I need to spend a month or so there to really appreciate it on a meaningful level. But our day there was SO much fun. I will have to write a separate piece on that trip. For the purposes of this entry I will focus on Ely.
So he texted me on New Year's eve, two days before our trip into the city, to say happy New Year. I returned the wishes. We talked about maybe talking on the phone. I was excited to do just that but I thought it would be better to wait until I got home so as not to disturb the little sleepers in the bedrooms around me.
I got home in what one could call one piece even though I felt a little like I'd left a piece of my heart in New York with Judy and company. It was fun to be back with Megan. We exchanged holiday stories and talked about goals as well. I told her about Ely, just a little bit, seeing as how I wasn't sure what talking would yield.
We scheduled a night to talk. I sent him my phone number. He called. I was scared.
"Hello?" said his familiar and sweet voice.
"Hi!" said my excited voice, trying to mask nervousness.
I can't really remember everything we talked about, all I know is once we hung up I had a very large smile on my face and a giggle in my throat and butterflies in my tummy. As I tried to shake it it just wouldn't be shook. So I stopped shaking.
At school among the teachers we referred to him as "the suitor". It was half a joke half dead serious. It sounded funny but that's really what he was, a suitor. That's what he had already made plain in week two of our phone conversations when he admitted having feelings.
"So, we should take a trip for Spring Break. Seattle maybe?" I asked.
"Hmmm, how about I come out to Austin?" he suggested
"Oh! Okay. When?" I asked.
"What about next week? MLK weekend?" he asked.
"Sure! I'll take Friday off and we have Monday off already," I said.
"Great!"

And there it was. I'd be seeing him, face to face, again, after all those years. I was beside myself with nervous energy.

I went to pick him up that Friday morning from the airport. Did my hair look okay? Was I wearing the right thing? Too much make up? Not enough? Did I look too fat? Ugh. Scared. Just scared. Then there he was, walking toward me from the luggage carousel, nervous half smile. So, so cute. We embraced, finally. We collected his bags and went to the car.
The long weekend yielded many things; kisses, new brakes (a la Ely), wonderful meals, even better conversations, and that thing that happens so often in stories but never in real life where you just KNOW. He said so first. And it was funny because I thought it before he'd ever said it.
"Let's go to the jewelry store." he said.
"Seriously?" I asked.
"Seriously. It'll be fun." he said.

So we went. I tried on some pretty dreamy things. Ely bought be a gorgeous band with diamonds and emeralds on a white gold band. It was a "promise ring". When I went back to pick it up after it had been sized they gave me two rings. He had purchased the matching engagement ring also. And that, as they say, was that. We started planning a wedding.

We met in El Paso and went to my parents' for Presidents Day weekend. Ely asked my parents for their blessing and they lovingly agreed, after a long lecture about deference, commitment, God, religion, family, and compromise. YEAH!! We celebrated at Cattleman's famous Steak House with my parents, little brother and his family, too. It was so wonderful to have the approval of my parents. I'd never felt that from them before, as it relates to someone I was dating seriously. It felt amazing. Everyone was so happy for us!

We spent the rest of the weekend finding Ely's ring, suit, shoes, tie, etc. After scouring the city we found everything in the last place we checked. Thank you, Burlington Coat Factory! Who knew they sold titanium rings? Size 8, no less!! We were pretty excited.

The next day we went to Las Cruces, New Mexico to celebrate our engagement yet again at my dear friend Angie's home. Ely's old high school friends were gathering there. It was so fun. We ate Lebanese food to our hearts' content. It was awesome catching up and seeing Ely's friends so happy for us.

So....we went to our separate homes. OPERATION: WEDDING.

Stay tuned.

NOLA

I know some of you will want to have my head for this but Ely Part II will have to wait. Judging by some of your eager emails I know you will be puzzled about why I've chosen to skip entry 2 in order to celebrate my honeymoon in New Orleans. I assure you, I am as eager to write Part Two as you are to read it. Still, as a writer, I must disappoint you, I hope not too much, dear reader, for I do so in order to properly document my amazing journey into the heart of the French Quarter of New Orleans, Louisiana. I feel blessed to have made this journey with my very favorite person in this world, my sweet Ely.
Our journey had been a stormy one. We married at 11:00am on March 10th in Austin, Texas. The rain was coming down in the proverbial sheets. Miraculously, the Botanical Gardens situated us into the Green Room; a beautiful windowed room resembling a chapel of sorts. There were pretty garden chairs fashioned with jade green cushions on either side of an aisle. The rain showered down on the large windows. We took charming pictures outside with our bride and groom umbrellas, me in my black and white striped rain boots. Made for some cute pictures.
We stayed in Houston that night. Our drive was punctuated with thunder and lightning. It slowed enough for us to walk from our hotel to a sushi restaurant.
The next day we drove to Lake Charles. The water was relentless that night. Cars stalling, roads closing. By the time we made it to New Orleans the streets of the French Quarter were still wet but the skies were finally clearing. We noticed the streets, how crowded and narrow they were. It was just about dusk and there was already a buzz of nighttime magic in the air. I thought, And this is just Monday! We made it to our Chateau and brought up all our luggage. The lady at the front desk was kind but also a little lacking in the usual patronizing glee you get at most American hotels. She bore an air of pride as if to say You are so lucky to be staying here without really being eager to prove it. I liked her. She told us that a film was being shot this week and that we needed to park our cars in the public lot around the corner. "What film?" we asked excitedly. "I really have no idea. Ahem, you will be charged $19.95 for the internet this week, alright?" "Of course."
We found the parking lot. It seemed well watched and safe. A driver took our car to an upper level. Ely paid the $80 for the four days we'd be leaving our car there. We knew we wouldn't be needing a car. Nearly everything we wanted to do and see was to be found on foot or by street car. We were in the center of what many explorers call the most interesting city in America.
Once our car was safely stowed we ventured to find food.
We noticed two long lines developing outside two adjacent oyster bars. Ely suggested we join the longer line, taking it as a sign of food quality and popularity. I keenly agreed. We waited in line for nearly a hour. People in line were assuring us we were about to experience a culinary wonder. We were certainly hoping that would be the case and indeed it was. We immediately ordered a half dozen char grilled oysters. They were sublime. Still hungry, we ordered a soft shell crab po-boy and fries and shared them. Cokes in hand we toasted sea food, New Orleans, and young love. It was delicious.
With insatiable desire to explore the French Quarter we set off. We saw incredible sights; Jazz on every corner, tipsy college kids by the hundreds on their spring break, mimes, palm readers, elderly couples in tight groups walking with simultaneous caution and awe, dancers, singers, voodoo enthusiasts, shop owners shouting the praises of their various wares, people in masks, costumes, and on stilts. Almost everyone carried a drink in hand. We looked up and finally saw the street sign: BOURBON STREET. No wonder.
Somehow we made it into a gorgeous hotel and followed the music to a little dinner club. It looked rather exclusive and we didn't know if we'd be invited in but we were, and gladly. We sat in the back of the dark, velvety room and listened to the trumpet, trombone, upright base, piano, drums, and voices make fools of us, turn us into mush, make us fall in love a little more deeply, not just with each other but with the music itself, the other people in the room, the people outside to room, all of New Orleans. The magic was thick and rich and dark. Charming is too trite a word for it. It was luscious. That's what it was; luscious.
After that we ventured to a few other luxury hotels, just to look around. The art, flowers, statues, antiques, silken heavy drapes, and thick carpets were impressive.
On the walk home we saw a few galleries that I became excited to visit the next day. We made it back to the Chateau in a state of awe that made it hard to feel tired.
The next day was Adventure Deu. We found Jackson Square and all it's wonders including great shops, interesting galleries, and Cafe Du Monde, best beignets in NOLA. We found charming cafe after cafe. We enjoyed rich desserts and delicious seafood. We went into a casino to use the facilities and explored the floors a bit. Colorful, alight with brilliance in both sight and sound, we played a slot machine, lost good spiritedly, and walked over to the pier. We explored the riverside mall for a little while, bought a few gifts for the folks back home, and made our way over to the Creole Queen Dinner Boat.
A photographer took our picture in front of the boat. I insisted we pose like I had for a play I was in in 1996, Showboat, where me and my partner were supposed to be "looking out to sea". I just looked directly into the camera while Eddie looked off into some unknown distance. Once the shot came out in the papers Eddie was mad because I made him look stupid. "Why didn't you look out to sea, Kristin?!!" I'm sorry, where was the sea, exactly? I don't remember the photographer being very specific about that locale. Anyhoo, the cruise was lovely, romantic, and very very chilly. We were downright COLD before we knew it. We tried to take shelter inside the middle level of the three story boat but we didn't warm up much. The AC was blaring and no one on the boat seemed willing to change that. The band was playing jazz hits from the last century in all the verve a trio of white 50 somethings possibly can. It was really quite sweet. The sweet bartender, a slight blond woman in her early sixties, made us hot chocolate. We found a place to hide, the King's Room. It was dark, abounding in dinner tables, an empty bar, and a pretty good view of the red wooden boat propellers. We wrapped ourselves in black linen table cloths, looked out the window, sighed, and then made out like teenagers.
The next day we went to Huck Finn's for brunch. It was really good food! We tried their beignets but were disappointed. We made it over to the New Orleans Aquarium and saw all she had to offer. We saw so many incredible creatures! Sharks, fish of all shapes and sizes, alligators, snakes, exotic birds, jellyfish, frogs, and rays. We watched an IMAX movie about elephant and orangutan preservation. (More making out during that.) We did some more shopping, this time for ourselves. We went to the Croc store where I got my first pair of Crocs. Ely swears by them and so I was curious. I used to refer to them as the birth control shoes, they being so unsightly, but I must admit they have come a long way as far as attractiveness goes and I bought a pair of lovely slender blue ones. Wow, are they comfortable! I got a couple glimmering little charms to clip in the holes. Ely got a pair of Croc tennis shoes. Our feet were happy little venturers once more.
We were off to dinner at the Crazy Lobster. I convinced Ely we should order the lobster bucket for two. It says lobster bucket but it comes with King Crab legs, lobster tails, mussels, scallops, clams and corn and potatoes all in a shiny little pail! How extraordinary! Well, we waited and waited and waited and the waitress was not altogether kind to us. As my stomach grumbled I made a decision. It was time to high tail it and go go go. So we did. I'm not sure what ever happened to our lobster bucket. The world may never know. But we found ourselves a fabulous Lebanese place and I had my first Middle Eastern seafood. It was great!
Down the street a bit we saw an old gypsy with her tarot card table set up in front of her. We had discussed wanting to have our cards read earlier that night. Here she was! She worked for donations so we were happy about that. Elizabeth sat us down, had us shuffle and break, concentrate on our birthdays, then she told us all about our favorite topic: us. To make a long reading short she told us we were going to have a long, happy life together; children, grandchildren, the works. She gave us some insight into our work lives that we found exciting and warned us about some of our tendencies, etc. She advised us in a number of ways to be calm and let life happen. Some of the things she said were so right on that it made us feel spooky. It was pretty cool, I must admit.
The next morning we were determined to get to the famous Garden District but first we just had to stop in at The Court of the Two Sisters for their famous brunch. It was nothing short of miraculous. All the food! And all you want. Fresh fruit in all its varieties, sweets that could make straight hair go curly, and eggs made to make your mouth's wishes some true! We indulged. Turtle soup, omelets, crab cakes, coconut cake, we had it all. And the place was just gorgeous. Canopies of purple flowers hung over our heads as we enjoyed one of the best meals of our lives. The shade of the table's umbrella made it just cool enough to feel perfect outside. Of course, a jazz band played while we ate in a lull of delight.
We took a street car to get to the Garden District. The street cars look a lot like trolleys with open windows, charming polished wooden seats, red or green and gold on the outside, all brassy accents and as cute as a mode of transportation could possibly be. We enjoyed it thoroughly.
Once we set foot in the Garden District we noticed all the beautiful homes. All of them looked Victorian. Some had amazing glass and wood work. All the yards were groomed in delightful ways. Porches were laden with blossomed pots and graced with a rocking chair or two. I noticed the cars along the streets wore Mercedes or BMW branding. We were in the ritzy part of the city now. Many of the homes bore plaques of historical significance. Generals, Diplomats, and Famous entertainers had once lived in some of these stately domiciles. We talked about what we liked about each of the homes we passed. It was fun to just see it all.
We saw a cemetery and sought to enter. Alas, we were met with disappointment. It was closed for the day. Who knew cemeteries closed at night? Just when the potential fun begins, too. Oh, well.
We ventured further and found a little cafe to rest our feet and get a drink. We walked on and found a bookstore. We asked the cashier if she knew where the gardens were in the illustrious Garden District. She explained that the architecture and yards in front of the homes was all there was to see in the Garden District. We laughed, as we felt like such ignorant tourists.
We rode back on the street car, I think it was named Desire, and got back to our beloved French Quarter. Ely suggested we try the oyster bar across the street from the one we had enjoyed that first night. We ordered a half dozen Rockefellers and fries. We had to admit that the first night's oysters put these to shame.
We were so pooped that night we opted to order pizza instead of venturing out. We were pretty much vacationed out. Making it to the zoo had proven more than we could handle this trip. The insectarium had to be missed also. But, all in all, we felt like we had covered a lot of ground, both figuratively and literally.
The next morning we left New Orleans, a little forlorn but a lot satisfied. I really love New Orleans. Everybody calls you sweetie or baby and everyone seems giddy and alive. People love dancing and singing and jazz is its own religion down there. It's really something. I'll never forget it. They say New Orleans is the Jazz Capital of the World. I know that it's the place I shared my honeymoon with the most lovable man on earth! And when the saints go marching in, he and I will be marching in with them, hand in hand.

Ely Allington

Picture it: Summer 1993, Las Cruces, New Mexico, the moist, green grass of the north mall of New Mexico State University smelled as good as it looked. I was 14, lanky, long haired, too cute for my own good and way too "smart" for anyone's good, especially my own. And what thought would enter my "oh so cute, oh so smart" little head that fateful day? I wanted to spend time with a boy I had met only the previous day at church. He was fun to talk to and nice to look at and charming to boot. My cousin told me a fair few things about the boy: he was 18, just graduated from Mayfield high school, played soccer and football, and had been dating a girl named Connie who was away for the summer. My grandma had always told me, "Absence makes the heart grow fonder, for somebody else!" So, abiding that notion, I set to work on my plan: Operation ELY ALLINGTON. I was visiting my cousin, Angie, and her family and spent most of the summer in Las Cruces that year. Ely was the primary reason for my extended stay. He was sweet and handsome and fun and attentive. When he found out I was only fourteen I thought he would lose interest. He was visibly disappointed that he'd be entering college just as I'd be entering high school. It was a scandalous age gap at the time.
That day at NMSU went something like this: Angie called Ely, asking him if he'd like to join us at THE PIT, a place where college bands played for small audiences on the grounds of the university. Next thing I knew he was there, in the flesh. His black hair glimmered in the sunlight. His tan skin seemed to glow beneath his faded blue shirt. He took his hat off and swept his hair out of his eyes. I was done for. That very day we walked about hand in hand as if we'd been doing that forever. Being with Ely felt natural and right. But how could it be? I wasn't even allowed to date until I turned sixteen. Besides, wasn't he dating this elusive Connie that he never seemed too anxious to talk about? Beyond these complications was the fact that he still had a two year mission to serve, probably abroad, and I had four years of high school ahead of me. Odds seemed dismal.
Ely worked at Baskin Robbins. Suffice it to say I've tried at least 31 flavors in my lifetime and at least 24 of those flavors were sampled that very summer with Ely. Ahem, this is not a metaphor, for those of you whom I know are reading into my words here. No, no, he really let me sample just about every flavor. Well, at least the ones I was interested in.
The summer went by way too fast. There was lots of ice cream, holding hands, long phone calls and even slow dancing involved. I found myself really liking this boy. I felt torn and upset about the fact that I'd have to return to my parents' home in El Paso and start high school.
After weeks of mournful stewing I was somehow able to convince my parents to let me live with my cousin and her family in Las Cruces! I registered for my classes at Mayfield, moved virtually all my possessions into my cousin's bedroom that we'd be sharing, and commenced planning my future with Ely. What I hadn't bet on was Connie's return and what that would mean.
Needless to say things didn't work out with Ely. Connie came home, they broke up after she heard about me, Ely became withdrawn as he prepared for his mission to Japan, I started dating someone my own age (that made Ely seriously upset), and I eventually moved back to El Paso after less than one semester at Mayfield.
I never forgot my darling boy in the pink Baskin Robbins collared shirt. I would sometimes picture him as he was on the night he got his Eagle Scout: stalwart, serious, bold, handsome, and masculine. I remember crying about it one night on the bottom bunk under a sleeping Angie, just pleading with God to somehow bring us together when the time was right. Who knew it would take nearly 20 years?

TO BE CONTINUED...

Truly Truant

In high school I went through a phase where I thought attending school was optional. I didn't categorize it as "skipping" or "ditching" class. I just didn't always think it necessary to be in class in person. I'd rather walk across the street and smoke cigarettes at the café, write in my journal, or read morose poetry. Sometimes I'd manage to convince someone to while away an hour in my company. We might walk to the golf course, interview old people at the donut shop, or shop for bunny slippers. Sometimes I would just walk straight home. My mom might be there and I'd ring the doorbell. "What are you doing here, Kristin?" She would ask puzzled, and perhaps a little worried. "Don't feel well. Plus, my bra broke." My poor teenage body insisted on growing at an outrageous pace in those days. Days when my socks and my shoes were an ill-fitted match I'd just come home. Like when I tried to wear loose socks with my clogs and the socks kept bunching up around my arches and slipping off my ankles and heels. On days like that I would just walk home, socks in hand. I didn't see the point in suffering through a class or a day with bunchy socks, asymmetrical breasts, or a hankering for a cigarette. Other days I just felt like talking and not listening. On those days I would try and get a companion. Sometimes it was Ryan Markel, long time friend and fellow writer, artist, and smoker. We'd discuss the state of public education and all the ways in which it made us ill, or maybe we'd talk about sexuality and whether anyone could safely define themselves conclusively as either "homosexual" or "heterosexual". Such is the audacity of youth. Sometimes we'd plan our lives. I'd end up making millions writing commercials or singing jingles or being a one hit wonder. Ryan said he'd be happiest working in a restaurant and reading as much as he possibly could without distractions or demanding time constraints. I wanted to live in a hacienda palace. He wanted nothing more than a simple apartment. Ryan's palaces have always been fully furnished in his mind. Girls like me lack the imagination to feel secure in the mind's eye alone. I seem to require comforts the senses can enjoy "hands on". But it was fun to sit around or lie around chattering about nothing and everything all at once. Sooner or later my blasé attitude about school attendance came to a head. I had just taken a long hot shower after an exhausting half day of school. I was home. My mom knew I was there. All was right with the world. I donned my eggplant tarry robe and swirled a hair towel around my royal teenage head and stepped out into the hallway. "DING DONG!" Doorbell? Who might this be? I peeked through the peephole. No one I knew. I opened the door a crack. A short Latino gentleman in his latter fifties stood on the welcome mat, eyes greatly magnified behind thick lenses. "Are the parents of Kristin Marie Ferrell at home?" "Maybe. Who are you?" "I am a truant officer for the Ysleta Independent School District. Kristin has been truant more than ten times this semester and this is an official document explaining the legal consequences to both her and her parents…",

"Sir, excuse me, but are we in Russia? Did I miss something here? I am Kristin Marie Ferrell and I have some very good reasons for not always making it to class." "Well Miss, you may have to explain that to a judge." "Right. I'll take that document. Thank you and good day. SLAM!"

"Who was that, Kristin?"

"TRUANT OFFICER!? What kind of trick is Dad trying to pull this time?!"

Explanation: My father has a flare for the dramatic. He's been known to make a point using some very unconventional methods, sometimes involving police officers, lawyers, teachers, counselors, and judges in his dramatics. How was I to know this was legit? Well, it was. He was a real truant officer with a real legal document. My Dad must have had a tet a tet with the judge because we never went to court. He did, however, agree to attend afternoon classes with me for a few days. I never seemed to miss my morning classes so those were safely attended. I'll never forget it. There was my Dad in Algebra, Geology, and Photojournalism; my Daddy, in his tailored Texan gray suit and shiny alligator boots, briefcase, mustache, stern expression. I loved him in ways I couldn't articulate for years hence. He came to Hanks High School to make an impression on his wayward daughter: school is important. Learning is worth some drudgery, some discipline. Sometimes in life we just need to be in the right place at the right time. Do what 's right, even when it's hard. I learned those things and many more from my father. He valued education and the opportunities it afforded. I graduated from high school, went on to college, graduated with high academic honors from The University of Texas at Austin, and have been gainfully employed ever since. I owe my successes in great part to my father and mother who supported me financially, emotionally, and spiritually through my younger years. I'm glad they stressed the importance of school. I'm glad I turned out to be a pretty decent member of society, one who still loves interviewing people at the donut shop, reading morose poetry, buying bunny slippers, but one who detests cigarette smoke.

A Meditation on Miracles

Sometimes, when I'm listening to a song, it has to be a certain kind of song, I lose every ounce of my ego and I get completely lost. It's an ecstasy like nothing else, like a communion. I feel that way when I listen to The Trapeze Swinger by Iron and Wine. It breaks my heart in all the right ways. It's seriously, deliciously soul crushing. It's the words. It's the cyclical verses and how they go and go and go, same, same, same like a meditation, a chant almost. It's the layering of instruments: chimes, guitars, voices layering, little percussion, big percussion, piano, words, words, words, true little daggers hitting it right on the head, right in the heart, bull's eye. It's ethereal and yet logical, artistic and yet intellectual. How? I don't know! I don't know! But it is. It's the best worst thing for someone like me, all that truth and beauty in one ironic verse after another. Like my life, almost. One dance with irony after another. Do I seek it? Is it my fault? Do I have something inside me that draws me toward impossible things on purpose? Am I trying to fool myself? Convince myself and everybody else that I really AM trying? But time after time only going for things that I know are doomed? It's possible. But how does one stop? Apparently I am a sucker for lost souls. This manifests in a myriad of ways. I date people who are addicted to harmful things. I date people who are emotionally unavailable. I date people who don't believe in God. I date people who don't work. I date people who don't like themselves very much. I date people who are in love with other people. What am I doing? And more important still, why am I doing it? Am I one of these sad persons who loves hopelessly arduous challenges? Oh, poor little girl. I hope not. I am generally a happy girl, full of effervescent bubbles over just about anything. My default is laughing. I am most myself in a laugh. But I do such unfunny things so often. I find myself admiring the most unsuitable partners. No joke. Can't laugh.
I had a talk with one of my favorite men in this world last night. He is my friend and confidant. We were talking about my latest love interest. I was sharing my hopes a little bit. He said some of nicest things I've ever heard. I can't share it all due to the sacred nature of the material but I will share this: he said he wanted me to be happy, truly and purely. He told me I was such a good girl and that he sees me as such a fearless sort of person, navigating in a world where it would seem I don't really belong and doing so with absolute grace. I just kind of wanted to fall down dead asleep right then and there and just call it a day so that nothing else could intervene and ruin a perfect day. This friend of mine is so sensitive a guy, the gentlest, strongest, purest kind of person, full of actual love for others and so clear and expressive about it. He was concerned about my crush. He said I was the most emotionally expressive and honest person he knows and that he hoped I'd end up with someone of that caliber. This person I am crushing on seems a most unwilling character, emotionally anyway. That conversation got me thinking, what would it be like to be with someone absolutely harmless, I mean truly guiless? What in the world does that feel like? Someone without any secret agendas, no lies, no names to call, no girls on the side, no secret debts that I'll have to help pay off, no colossal ego issues? What on earth would it be like to have something honest and sweet and just kind and pure and then have it actually last? I know these guys exist. I know them. Some of them are married. Some of them are related to me. They really are that way, just unabashedly lovely, loving, generous, attentive to their wives and children and friends, me included. My band is composed of such individuals, I am happy to say. Because of this unique union we are able to enjoy playing very honest and moving music, without wit, without wanting credit, without vanity. The world can be so vapid, so substanceless, so irrelevant, mechanical, crude, and meaningless. When these moments of meaning unfurl, often unexpectedly, it can be so renewing, energizing, and inspiring. I'm just grateful for how often I get to experience these moments and how the friends I've been blessed with, the people I've chosen to be mine, offer such treasures with such regularity. May I never become so spoiled I forget to notice my miracles.

Please listen to The Trapeze Swinger

Trapeze Swinger lyrics

Please, remember me, happily,
by the rosebush laughing
with bruises on my chin, the time when
we counted every black car passing
your house beneath the hill, and up until
someone caught us in the kitchen
with maps, a mountain range, a piggy bank
a vision too removed to mention

But please remember me, fondly,
I heard from someone you're still pretty
and then they went on to say that the Pearly Gates
have some eloquent graffiti
like: “we'll meet again” and “f*** the Man”
and “tell my mother not to worry”
and angels with their great handshakes
but always done in such a hurry

and please remember me, at Halloween
making fools of all the neighbors
our faces painted white, by midnight
we'd forgotten one another
and when the morning came I was ashamed
only now it seems so silly
that season left the world and then returned
and now you're lit up by the city

so please remember me, mistakenly
in the window of the tallest tower
call, then pass us by, but much too high
to see the empty road at happy hour
gleam and resonate just like the gates
around the Holy Kingdom
with words like: “lost and found” and “don't look down”
and “someone save temptation”

and please remember me, as in the dream
we had as rug-burned babies
among the fallen trees and fast asleep
beside the lions and the ladies
that called you what you like and even might
give a gift for your behavior:
a fleeting chance to see a trapeze-
swinger high as any savior

but please remember me, my misery
and how it lost me all I wanted
those dogs that love the rain, and chasin' trains
the colored birds above there runnin'
in circles round the well, and where it spells
on the wall behind St. Peter
so bright on cinder gray in spray paint:
“who the hell can see forever?”

and please remember me, seldomly
in the car behind the carnival
my hand between your knees, you turn from me
and said the trapeze act was wonderful
but never meant to last, the clowns that passed
saw me just come up with anger
when it filled with circus dogs, the parking lot
had an element of danger

so please remember me, finally
and all my uphill clawing
my dear, but if I make the Pearly Gates
I’ll do my best to make a drawing
of God and Lucifer, a boy and girl
an angel kissin’ on a sinner
a monkey and a man, a marching band
all around the frightened trapeze-swinger

nah nah nah, nah nah nah nah …

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a8aPyBr-_S0