Kiss me thru the phone

The pragmatic description of pop music today is that it doesn’t necessarily have to be good to be popular. Songs with a catchy romanticized chorus, fast beat and nice-looking front man are sure-fire hits, regardless of the tune’s meaning. If the image is good, who cares that the biggest song in the world last year told the story of one woman’s pursuit to kiss another woman and her tantalizing cherry chapstick?

On my soapbox, I can stare down at those teenyboppers who joyfully sing along to the nonsense from their sparkling iPods and judge them for their poor taste in music. In reality, some of the same music is stored on my “cool kid” device. Yeah, it’s shameful to admit, but Bob Dylan doesn’t really encourage me to show off my exceptionally awful dance skills. Stupid songs allow us to be stupid.

Some time ago, a big family came into the shelter. The mother and her children didn’t exactly fit the stereotypical shelter residents. Wearing a tailored white shirt, silver necklace and deep blue jeans, the mother spoke sweetly to me and the other volunteers. She smiled, not revealing any of the expected turmoil she was feeling underneath her soft white skin. I could feel her sincerity. She was happy to meet me. I can’t say I that would’ve been that kind just a few days after my entire world was flipped on its head, uncertainty and pain oozing out its skull.

I was assigned to the playroom that night and spent group time with the mother’s two youngest and three regulars, all girls. Usually, I just sway back and forth in a rocking chair, refereeing fights over plastic food and stuffed animals. But the new girls asked if I would read a story. Judging by cover art alone, they chose an epic tale of the Power Puff girls and a caterpillar. The story attracted the attention of all in the room and I had five girls, all under the age of five, sitting on my lap. They oo-ed and ah-ed at the adventure and called for an encore. For my own sanity, I suggest another book and Barbie’s trip to New Mexico was the chosen tale.

The baby of the group had enough and put up a crying fight. The other two regulars are used to the baby’s continuous screams so they blocked out the painful noise and invested their interest in plastic cars and rocking horses. The new girls, although, were concerned by the baby’s unhappiness.

“Why is she so sad?” one asked.

“Can we sing her a lullaby?” the other asked.

So, this is what a heart full of joy feels like, I thought and agreed. We sang “Hush, little baby,” even though I didn’t know the words and improvised until the baby calmed down.

The crying didn’t lull for long and the baby was at it again. The new little girls gave up and joined the playing. I watched these little girls in amazement and wonder what it would feel like to be in their place. They’ve been ripped away from normal life and now live in an unfamiliar place. At their age, surely they don’t understand what’s happened, right? But maybe they do. They talked about home and life just three days prior. Ever so slightly, I could tell that they knew life is now different. And it may never be the same.

A few minutes before group was to end, we joined the older kids, who were cleaning up messes from their craft projects, in the kitchen and dining room. A familiar melody blasted through a tiny clock radio and I winced as I recognized the tune to be “Kiss me thru the phone.” What an awful song I thought as I noticed one of the little girls swaying. Not caring about inappropriate lyrics and changing my mind about the song, I grabbed her hand and her sister’s.

We danced. We boogied. We let arms and legs flail as they pleased. We released any fear or worry pent up inside. The ridiculous song encouraged us to be ridiculous.

Driving home that night, I cried as I thought about those two little girls. If they could still find a reason to dance after what they went through – and I have no idea what that is – then I don’t have an excuse. Nothing in my life, nothing, should ever stop me from dancing.

Anytime I hear “Kiss me thru the phone” I crank it up, dance and remember that night at the shelter. If bad pop music exists for no reason only to make us dance when nothing else will, then I’ll consider it a blessing.

So, baby, kiss me thru the phone. I’ll see you later on.

Happy Earth Day

This video makes me giddy. And this song may or may not be my ringtone.

Celebrate the Earth; she is quite amazing.

I'm on a boat

At the shelter today, we painted pictures using noodles, plastic bags, brushes, cotton balls, wax paper, sponges and other materials that seemed appropriate. In honor of my current makes-me-really-happy song, I drew a sail boat. My little friend, R, drew a mermaid because that is what her future entails, so she tells me. Our art was museum worthy. I’ll probably hang it in my living room as a reminder of serenity and R will probably show off her lovely lady to her cat. As much fun as it was to unleash a little youth creativity, the best part came when R gave me a hug at the end of the night, thanking me for helping her. That’s better than being on a boat.


Loves,
H
P.S.
Sorry the blog has been slackin’ a bit. My schedule has been jammed pack, but hopefully some good things will pop up here in the next few days.

Easter Joy

A main Easter tradition in Pierre is a massive egg hunt on the lawn of the governor’s residence. Volunteers shower the newly green grass in an assortment of brightly covered eggs and sugary treats. Children – some years dressed in Sunday best, some years in winter coats – line up on the lawn, waiting for that whistle to blow and signify the right to greedily sprint and seize as much as candy a plastic pink basket or Walmart bag can hold.

My parents took my brothers and I to the egg hunt every year. It was my favorite part of the day. Running through the grass in a spring dress, attempting to gather more goodies than I deserved. My loot didn’t always seem as plentiful as other kids, and sometimes I was disappointed in myself, but any sense of failure was eased by a piece of chocolate.

After one particular hunt, I was apprised my few pieces of taffy, chocolate and sugar coated bunnies as failure. I really wanted that big egg or gift certificate to McDonalds, but those other faster, better kids got them. Sulking, I made my way through the crowds to find my parents. I passed a boy crying. His basket was empty and his father was trying to console him. “Did he not get any candy?” I asked his father. He nodded his head, appeasing a nine-year-old girl. I reached into my basket, grabbed a piece of candy and placed it in to the boy’s basket and ran off before either he or his father could say something.

I’m not sure how the boy acted to my gesture, but that moment has stuck with me. Something filled my heart that day. I wanted to do that more. Not necessarily give my unwanted candy to a stranger, but sharing. It felt good.
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Today represents sharing. It represents hope, giving and life. Easter reminds us all that we have the ability to be better people and this is a perfect starting point.

I stepped into some severe insight recently. However, it didn’t calm the hurricane inside me, like I had hoped it would. The Hurricane didn’t spin faster; it just kept its normal pace. I just wanted resolution, but I wasn’t sure where to find it.

On Saturday, I went to the beach for no specific reason other than it felt right. The tan sand hadn’t changed in the four years I’d been absent. The water didn’t seem to mind my presence or notice it. Then something rushed over me and I hastily grabbed my journal and wrote the following passage:

I love you more, Heather. I love you more than the doubts and condemnation you put on yourself. I love you more than anyone else will. I love you more today than yesterday. I love you more for the person that you are than the person you want to be. I love you more.

I’m not sure where those words came from, maybe it was me or maybe it was a higher being speaking through my pen. It doesn’t really matter where the voice came from. I just needed to hear it.

On this rainy Easter day, I believe those words. For the first time in a long while, I believe in myself. My hope dwells within my abilities and skills and I know I can accomplish good.

Today, I’m full of life because of what this day represents. Easter joy has inhabited my spirit. I’m ready to change, live and share this life.

Happy Easter, all. Be happy. Be hopefull.

Love you dearly,
H

Friends in transition

While I was deciding to move back to South Dakota, I made several pros and con lists. These lists usually included names: names of people I wanted be in my life again and people I didn’t. His name was on the pro list, in fact, it was a big advantage. I had a feeling that if I moved back, he could help me transition back into a former life as a new person.

Before my final year of college, a few friends – some in the Journalism program, others not – told stories about this character named Lee. He was an advertising major and a big fan of fun. They were surprised in my lack of knowledge about him, but I imagined that one day or another I would eventually meet him. We knew so many of the same people and Yeager Hall is not that big; it had to happen.

Our senior year, we had a class together and were both working at The Collegian, so our friendship naturally bloomed. We bonded over the Twins, random-themed parties and Megan Vogel. We finished our collegiate careers sitting next to each other at graduation and making jokes about Scooter Banna Pants.

With our degrees in hand, we were both headed to different time zones, me of course to Idaho and him to Nashville. I didn’t really expect our friendship to continue much outside of Brookings city limits, so I was a bit surprised when the first phone call came from Tennessee. It soon became a weekly engagement and a comfort zone.

Our conversations lasted usually an hour and our friendship deepened. We saw life in the same sense as we were enduring that awkward transition between college and the “real world.” Defining a life path was far beyond our maturity; we couldn’t even find the starting line. We didn’t understand our surroundings, but we understood each other.

Lee was reassurance that my doubts and fears were valid, but he gently reminded me that they didn’t define me. He was a calm voice when I wanted to scream. He was a joke when I needed a laugh.

Eventually, Lee decided to move back to South Dakota. The job market in Nashville wasn’t very generous and he believed he would have a better shot of snatching a worthy job back home. So, he left that life behind and put new hope in a familiar place.

Four months later, I found myself in a similar position. Now a different person, I struggled with finding my identity in a town I was supposed to never see again. The faces and buildings were the same, but the emotions were strangers. It was a new life dancing with an old, and it was a terribly lonely ballroom.

But Lee was there. He knew what that felt like. He knew. Neither of us planned to be back to Brookings, but it was our reality.

Our friendship morphed again. I found myself feeding off his creativity, Micah’s too. Their insane conversations and quirky comments encouraged me to think differently. I saw situations in a new light and absorbed a witty attitude. We developed a “gang” that demanded peculiar activities. And, eventually, being in Brookings felt right at this time in my life.

Last week, Lee started a new job in Sioux Falls. I was a coach and confidant through the application process and was absurdly delighted when he was offered the job. It’s a much better fit for him and he is still fairly close to his girlfriend (who happens to be one of my best friends - I introduced them), family and friends. It didn’t hit me until later that Lee would be gone.

And now he is. Lee came to Brookings to find clarity and direction, and maybe he hasn’t completely obtained them, but he is off to a good start. Brookings gave him what he needed, then it was time to say goodbye. Sioux Falls isn’t Nashville, but it’s on the right path.

I jokingly told Lee that now I have to go. If he left, I should too.

Brookings was never a final landing place for Lee or I, at least not now. It was the line between A and B. I’m still on that line, finding my B. One day, it will come. I’ve got to be patient. When it does, Lee will once again play the role of a supporting friend.

Opening Day

Today should be a national holiday.

To my family and friends, it is.

The world shifts a bit when the doors to beautiful sculpted stadiums open and dirt and hot dogs aromas seep out. When the steal cleats meet fresh grass and the sound of a cracking bat mimics bell tones, life attracts a new luster. As my father says, on baseball’s opening day “all is right in the world again.”

Baseball season begins today (OK, for some teams it began yesterday, but it’s a proven fact that the season doesn’t actually start until your team takes the field. For me, the season begins today as the Twins take on the Mariners.) Opening day is truly reflective of spring – it’s been a long winter, but now the birds sing, the flowers bloom and John Gordon’s voice floats joyfully over the air waves. It’s a giddy feeling, one that brings innocence and youth.

For some people, baseball is about the sport. The historic rivalries, the big hits, lofty catches, the athletic talent, the names, the stats, the wins, the losses.

To me, baseball is about the game and what it symbolizes. I can’t stammer off stats, but I can smell the Metrodome hundreds of miles away. When I close my eyes, I can feel the fluorescent lights of Hyde Stadium bathe my skin. And, even though I’m a vegetarian now, I can still taste hot dogs from the Complex.

My father has always referred to me as World Series baby as I was born on Game 2 of the 1984 World Series when the San Diego Padres beat the Detroit Tigers 5-3. (Tigers went on to win the series 4-1.) The ideal story would read that the nickname paved my life as a baseball devotee, but not so.

Despite the fact that my life was immersed in baseball, I resisted fan hood. From the ages six to 18, at least three nights of the week – usually four and sometimes seven – were spent at a ballpark. Both my brothers played at all levels, I played softball for six years, my dad was president of the Pierre Baseball Association and my mother was in charge of staffing and stocking the concession stands at the little league complex. Summer was baseball and not much else. Even our vacations were always centered around a ball game.

Growing up, I didn’t care much for baseball. It was more of annoyance than something I enjoyed. I hated being at the ball park every night. I hated that we couldn’t go anywhere unless a ball park was within a 60-mile radius. My resent shadowed the true splendor of baseball.

Then one day, it all made sense. The realization didn’t come with some triumph motion from Heaven, but subtly. It became clear that baseball was much more than nine players, a bat and a ball. I began to see the game the way my brothers and father do.

Basketball is quicker and football sells more crowds, but nothing can compete with baseball. Loyalty and unity run deeper in baseball, although quite present in other sports. When you attend a game – at any level – you feel strangely connected to all those around you, even opponents.

Today, I will watch the Twins start the season with my friend, a Red Sox fan (don't worry, also a Twins fan). My brother would find that sacrilegious, but it’s not about colors and team affinity to me. We’ll enjoy the game, embrace the break from reality it ensures and remember that we have six months of this glory.

We’re gonna win Twins, we’re gonna score …

Simple Beauty

Every photographer has a niche – people, wildlife, food, plants, fashion, etc. For me it just happens to be the glimpse of light that shines through a roof of trees.

Before I go on, I must declare that I do not dare call myself a photographer. That title is reserved for those who take photos on a consistent basis and have actual talent. But I wish I could be good at photography. Good photos mesmerize me. They speak to us through in every emotion and language. The only thing that can captivate me more than a stunning photo is goose-bump attracting writing. Although I’m not a photographer, I like to dabble in the art.

When Melissa used one of my tree photos in a sympathy card she designed, it occurred to me that I take a lot of those types of photos. When the sun’s sparkling rays lace through the mess of leaves and branches, I’m inspired. Inspired to take a photo, to enjoy the moment, to smile a little bit more.

The other day I was out running and struggling through the emotions. I stopped to walk a bit and happened to look up while underneath a tree. The sun smiled through barren branches and reminded me spring was on the way so it was OK to be happy. And like that, all the gunky feelings were gone.

Some people seek peace from mountain tops and ocean beaches, and although those calm me, they aren’t very accessible in South Dakota. When I need a rush of hope or a sliver of strength, I find a tree and look up. Heaven looks down and grants my wish. I take photos of that moment to capture the sun’s good side and have a permanent reminder of how simply beautiful life can be.

Above are a few of my favorite tree/sun shots. I hope you see what I see in them.

I just don't know what to do with myself

The thing I loved most about being a reporter was the ability to experience someone else’s life. One day I rode along with a highway patrol man, the next joined a young Native American woman in a sacrificial buffalo hunt. I listened to a 17-year-old girl describe her triumph over cancer (twice) and three mothers who coped with their Marine sons’ deployment to Iraq by becoming friends. A hippie from Colorado taught me to ski and a mayor heightened my awareness of Idaho’s serious water issues. I got a preview of most lifestyles without paying the ticket’s full price.

Each new experience intrigued me enough to want to follow that path. Of course, the next day, I would want to jump paths for something else I tried. Being a reporter actually fed my indecisiveness. I was able to try something for enough time before my attention wander onto something because that was my job. If every day as reporter was that glamorous, I doubt that I would’ve left. Actually, I probably would probably end up right where I am now.

My restlessness is getting the best of me. I keep dreaming up new ways to live my life and great goals I could accomplish. In the last month, I’ve wanted to be a/an: graphic designer, full-time volunteer, florist, freelance writer, camp counselor, business owner, au pair, nomad, bartender, English teacher in a foreign country, martyr, activist, public relations manager for a non-profit, master’s student, organic farmer, novelist, world-traveler, social marketer, children’s book author, grant writer, waitress, counselor, and – oddly enough – a reporter. Some ideas are dreams I’ve had for a while, and others popped in and out of the running as I go through the emotions. Welcome to my daily thought process. It’s quite maddening.

Normally these thoughts wouldn’t get the best of me, but my itching to leave this town strengthens daily. So, I pursue these ideas and am either disheartened by my ability to fulfill the chosen destiny or another destiny suddenly becomes more appealing. Mostly I am scared to death that I will fall flat on my face. Maybe that is what I need the most.

What I forget is that none of these are permanent decisions and that having a “life plan” is a rather illogical goal. I’m not a patient person, especially when it comes to life, but I can’t expect to do all that I want to do in life by the time I’m 25. But what I can expect is to not have expectations and to live my life by what is best for me right now.

My main objective is to not have regrets, so maybe I should reexamine that list and pick out the ones that I want crossed off by the time I’m on my death bed. Do those and don’t let my enemies – doubt and fear – get in the way. Simple enough, right? Umm ….

Even though these thoughts cause pain my stomach and headache, I believe they are a blessing. All I really want is to make the most of time on Earth, and not all people feel that way. It’s possible for me to do that, I just have to believe it.

P.S. Attention Faithful Blog Readers,
I’m accepting suggestions about what I should do with my life. If you know of something great that I should be doing, I would like to hear it 
Loves for you all,
H