The Notebook (aka Facebook was my idea)

I am so smitten with a boy named Myles with soft blue eyes in the eighth grade that my hor-motional body may burst. There is no Facebook profile to stalk in 1993, so I begin what I believe is the first Facebook wall in analog, a page of an erstwhile Social Studies notebook that I devote entirely to writing thoughts and feelings about Myles. Things I observe after he gets a haircut, witticisms he utters during a pop quiz in language arts. The page looks like the diary of a crazy woman, every thought punctuated with hearts and swirls. It is my private graffiti and I write on this page at least once a day. The release feels good. Even as I am scrawling all over the page, though, I am aware that this paper is a complete liability to myself.

On a family vacation, I am suddenly conscious that I am sitting in the middle seat of our mini-van and my younger sister Taryn is in the far back seat where my notebook is. Just before I turn around, I feel the knowledge tightening in my chest that there is nothing else on earth that Taryn could be reading right at this moment than my Ode to Myles.

My instincts do not disappoint me.

My face, hot, my eyes cast down as I grab the notebook from her.

I leave Taryn to digest this collateral damage she has just read.

(Un)happy Gilmore #allthefeels

I wish I were a normal who could finish reading young adult novels without having to drop out of life for a couple of days, wandering around with a head of cloudy thoughts, wringing my hands about why I couldn't have dated an Augustus Waters in high school (and don't even think I would have wished away the terminal cancer, because tragically romantic). If only I could  finish watching Gilmore Girls without throwing myself across the bed in anguish, trying to reorchestrate history, reversing the poor, selfish decisions made by Logan and Rory (if only they had *my* brand of hindsight!),  holding their temperaments to the light of Myers-Briggs, shaking a rueful fist at the late season decisions of the writers. HOW COULD YOU THROW THAT ALL AWAY!?! (p.s. Rory, think of the guacamole!)

I wish I were not so invested, so easily yoked to storylines that capture head and heart and take us on that rocky ride for which we are passengers with a ticket to exit at any time, but rarely do we choose to get off. The soap opera ride always empties us out in a place where we can't find our luggage, don't know how to make it to connecting transportation, and are late for our next appointment. But occasionally, we encounter a story that rings so true to life that we are different because of the journey. There was some nuance in the narration or dialogue that made us feel understood and not so alone. Something there sounded familiar, and our soul followed the rhythm as if by heart.

I've been tagged recently in some form of meme asking me about the top 10 books that changed my life. I find this list a difficult task, because I realize there is a difference between my favorite books and books that changed me: the latter being works that anatomically rearranged me so that I could no longer see the world the same, or my place in it.

[tweet bird="yes"]Here is my list of Books that Changed Me, without qualification:[/tweet]

1. The Return of the Prodigal Son (Nouwen) 2. Blubber (Blume) 3. Crooked River Burning (Winegardner) 4. Prep (Sittenfeld) 5. Surviving in an Angry World (Stanley) 6. Making Toast (Rosenblatt) 7. Mountains Beyond Mountains (Kidder) 8. Detroit (Leduff) 9. Desire of Ages (White) 10. A Life's Work (Cusk)

The quilt I made on Beyonce's birthday

I overheard that Beyonce turned 33 today, one of the little quilt squares the radio handed me this morning as I was rushing out the door. Every day I make a quilt from these handouts: worn bits of fabric, the crusts of bread cut from sandwiches, sneezes and spilled popcorn and half-comprehended news bulletins from the radio. I thread them clumsily together throughout the day, grabbing a moment to stitch and form a seam, fumbling through the hallways of academic buildings as the threads come unspooled.

I will try to wind them around the spool later as I sit by the beds of my children; I am held a willing hostage to the Frozen soundtrack, which we cannot let go of--the irony.

I try to add the moment this morning where I stood outside of my son's classroom, a spectator to him calling his sister, already at the other end of the hall. I grab the square where she turned on her heels and came back and hugged her little brother. Where we could have had loose ends, a gaping hole in the quilt where the hallway meltdown ripped apart our efforts to all have a good morning, our girl busted out one important stitch.

I will patch the part later where our boy told me my stomach was the size of a chicken. I will try not allow that patch to call too much attention to itself, as did our boy when he told me over frozen yogurt, "Well, your tummy IS really BIG." I will remember how I accepted his apology, just as the other quilt squares will absorb this unwieldy one into the whole.

This is the quilt I will wrap myself in at the end of the day, pondering what Beyonce will do as she begins this new year of life. What kind of silks and imported fibers will she have to work with for her own quilt; how will the couture fitting go and will she wear it better than anyone else?

I am the only one who will see my quilt, who will know the places where I pricked myself trying to bridge all the scattered pieces. I will run my hand over its ripples and edges and shoddy patchwork and I will call it significant, real, mine, beautiful.

P.S. Happy Birthday, Bey.