Tap. Pat. Tap. Pat. Tap. Pat.

It's quite outside, except for the rain. On the inside, all you can hear is the tapping of my keyboard. My mind is running — to-do lists, things to say, things not to say, what ifs, big dreams. I wish I could shut it off and just concentrate on the beautiful gentle noise the earth is making. I imagine that I could get lost to that soundtrack, but not the lost I feel right now. The good kind of lost, the type of lost where nothing matters but the current moment.

I want to feel that.

ppppppppppppprrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmmmmm

My noisy refrigerator drowns our the rain. Now, all I'm let is a distracting, loud gurgling of my fridge just trying to keep a bottle of soy sauce, a partial drank picture of lemonade, some radishes, three slices of cheese and one giant tub of ketchup cool. All that noise for nothing spectacular.

But I know that sweet sound is still there. Eventually, the fridge will quiet to a normal sound and the rain will still dance on gravel outside. I may not hear it, but the sound still exists - like all beautiful noises.

Emotional wreck

"I am just a laid back person," he said to me as if I hadn't already discovered this defining characsteric of him.

"Do you like that about yourself?" I asked.

"Heather, I love that about myself."

"Well, I love that I am a passionate person, and if you can't love that part of me you can't love me."

He couldn't love me or my passion so we broke up.

I am emotional person, but it's passion oozing out in anger, tears, giggles and happiness. I've decided to no longer to feel guilty for this side of me. It's who I am, and if I try to change it, then I'm denying my true identity.

If you don't like it, then don't be near me. Simple as that.

Manners

When we were little, we were taught a simple set of manners, rules that encourages delightful interaction with other humans.

We were told to share, always say please and thank you, respect others and their things, do not boast, tell the truth and treat others as you would like to be treated. Funny how these small lessons seem to fade from our memory as we grow older and transform more of our socializing to online platforms.

We've lost many of those manners, but specifically and especially the golden rule. We don't think about others when we react unfairly, judge incorrectly or post something negative, just ourselves and our entitlement. We human beings can be so awful to one another, constantly forgetting to appreciate and enjoy humanity. We get caught up making our voice heard and getting our way that it really isn't all that important who we hurt.

I do not want to be like that. I want to say please and thank you. I want to share. I want to tell the truth and be less boastful. I want to be a good person.

A "good person" is such a relative term, I've realized lately. Someone may think John Doe is so great and wonderful to be around, but I've seen his disrespectful, greedy side. In fact, I've been so bothered by the people others see as "good and genuine" because those people are far from it, at least from what I've observed, and I've started to lose faith in the whole idea of a "good person" to the extent I'm not sure they exist.

The good Lord knows that I am not perfect, and not really a good person either. I strive very hard not to criticize someone on public formats unless they truly deserve it. I try to be complimentary and supportive, but sometimes it feels like ego stroking for people who do not need it.

I believe in the golden rule, the no. 1 manner: treat others as you would like to be treated. I tell myself that if I stick to it, no matter how poorly and disrespectful someone is to me, I'll be rewarded. Some days, it helps, but most days, I'm lying to myself.

In the park

In the afternoon, especially on hectic days, I often take a brisk walk to clear my head. I need this time to take my eyes off my computer screen, remind myself that my legs do work and what the sun looks like.

When I walked out of the front door this afternoon, I saw some kids playing in an open grassy field across the streets. The curiosity for these children forced me to abandoned my usually around-the-block route and I halted traffic as I crossed the busy road.

My thoughts seemed to be as sporadic as the children, moving from one part to the other, toy to toy, friend to friend. Mushed from the day's events, my mind couldn't focus on any one particular child at first; they were all swirls of blues, pinks and purples that represented spring jackets and sweatshirts.

Eventually, my eyes settled on a little girl and boy playing with a blue ball. At first, it was innocent and sweet, but the more I stared — well, darting my eyes away every so often so the chaperons of this playtime didn't get suspicious of my reason for standing there — I noticed struggle. They were fighting over the ball and who got to be the one to lay flat belly on top of it and experience gravity as his or her body would fall to one side. The boy grabbed the ball and rolled it away from the girl. Not happy, she took after him, claiming her right to it. She earned it back and he suddenly was uninterested and joined a group of children while she went back to the absolute funness the ball had to offer.

This short interaction made me stop to wonder about adults and how we, just like children, often don't want to share. We don't want to share our toys, our loved ones, our glory, our responsibilities, our sadness. We struggle with others for what we are entitled to and never stop to think about the other side. Unlike children, though, we don't walk away. We would've followed that little girl and fought until the ball was ours again. We don't let things be. We don't forget about what we can't have and find something new to love, we just fight.

As I walked about to my building, I realized that children face the same problems and frustrations with other human beings as we do (to a different degree) but they often handle it with much more maturity than adults do.

The rest of the day flowed smoothly, a stark contrast from the morning. On the way home, I was singing at the top of my lungs — a direct symbol of happiness — and admiring the beautiful land to the east and west of me. The day's nightmares where no longer a worry; just thoughts of the giggling to come with the evening.

I let go. I found something new, which lead me to what I really deserved: happiness.

Happy at the fork

One of life's greatest gifts is reverse attitude days.

This morning, I woke up groggy and in a terrible mood about life. But as the day progressed, my outlook turned the other way. My Monday was the usual, a 15-hour work day and, but I can't help but smile as I prepare for the arrival of a new day.

My life has been at a point since February. I've been staring at a fork in the road and I'm chained down to the sign with an arrow going left and an arrow going right, just waiting for someone to let me free and show me the most suitable path. I know they are both good roads, but I haven't actually felt secure in either one.

As if I read it in a book and made the connection for the first time, I realized today how I can't lose with either option. Both paths lead me on adventure, and that's really all I want from life.

Another uncertain day passes, but I know I'm gonna be fine no matter what happens. I really, truly know that. I guess that's why I'm happy tonight.

A perfect pair

Within a week and a day, another person close to me has entered into an engagement.

My dear friend Lindsie is getting married to a man that is, honestly, perfect for her. I told another friend about her new life status and she asked me how I felt about it. Since she is my friend and I wish her the best, I'm naturally happy for her and in no way envious because that's just not the direction my life is headed.

I told this friend that Lindsie and her husband-to-be are so utterly alike that he's almost everything she's ever wanted from a guy. My friend then asked, "Do you ever wonder what your perfect match would be like?"

I do, I told her, but it changes so often because I am constantly evolving as a person. My idea of the perfect match looked much differently five years ago or even a year ago. If he were to show up today, I'm not sure I'd recognize him.

Later in the day, I was listening to a podcast and a woman was telling a story about losing and finding faith. As a devout Mormon, her religion had often been the breaking point of past relationships and, at age 27, she had never had a meaningful relationship. While questioning her beliefs, she met a 113 woman in Zanzibar that was considered a sex expert. Virgin brides met with this woman shortly before their wedding and she would perform a ritual to help prepare them for this journey. The storyteller desperately wanted to meet the woman and ask her all sorts of questions, but the Zanzibar woman said she had time to answer only one. The young woman, on the edge of desperation, asked her how do you know if you found the right one.

The elderly woman responded: "He may not be able to give you clothes. He may not give you a roof over your head. And, sometimes, when you go to bed at night you will go to bed starving. But if you can do this together, with a smile on each of your faces, then you know he is a good man."

Maybe that smile, that small gesture to say “I’ve got your back,” is all that is needed in finding a perfect match. Interests, characteristics, beliefs are all great and add to a relationship, but a true divine union comes with insurmountable love and trust — the combination for perfection in romantic relationships and life.

Congrats, Linds. I wish you all the best. I love you.

Mailbox

I hate the silver color of my mailbox.

For the past month and a half, I come home wondering if today is the day. As I walk along the sidewalk to my building's front door, I envision the small box with my apartment number etched on it containing a large white folder. In that folder is a series of documents, but I just want to read the first page, for now.

I make assumptions as to what my first action will be now that I know this information. Maybe I'll call my parents or a friend. Or maybe I just sit in silence and soak up this right turn in my life.

The ideas continue to pour as I search for the small gold key on my ring key. Amongst my apartment, car, office 1 and office 2 keys, this key has, or could have, special powers. I insert it, turn and look away at first, in attempt to prepare for a big moment.

Nothing.

Disappointment swallows excitement and anticipation. Sure, sometimes there is a check or an invitation to a bridal shower or the newest issue of The New Yorker but I often see emptiness. The silver color on in the inside of the box seems to mock me.

The devastation lingers only for a few minutes, because I don't have time, or the energy, to obsess on something that isn't. I go back to my routine life and try not to pay attention to the future.

At night, the scenarios flow again.

When I crawl into my spacious queen-sized bed, I think about where I could be sleeping. I think about the transformation of my studio apartment into something completely unknown. Some nights, those thoughts thrill me. Other times, scare me.

Patience is not a virtue I possess, either is trusting. But those are the only things that I have to hold on to — having patience to trust that what will happen is meant to be.

Still, I check my mailbox each day with far too much hope and anticipation.

Ignite Pride

Pride.

It’s not a feeling I have all that often anymore. Confidence comes with a stable mind and mine is anything but. Even when I’m weak and exhausted, I still find the energy to scold myself.

Biting my nails from stress leads to the guilt of never being able to quit which leads to the guilt that I don’t complete many of the goals I set for myself. Guilt turns into condemnation and I’ve decided to seek a career in full-time failure. Yes, my thought cycles can be THAT dramatic.

Tuesday night I didn’t sleep well because of similar toxic thoughts. Shaking, I felt used, like someone set me up for failure on purpose. I was alone and each hair on body could felt singular.

My attitude was much more upbeat than I anticipated the next day and I endured the long hours with ease to a partial reason for my stress: IgniteSD.

Ignite is a series of global networking sites that give people five minutes and 20 slides to talk about something that ignites their passion. I planned to give a speech about interviewing someone but decided Sunday to talk about trusting journalists and being a good source. No one particular incident set off this desire to stand up for reporters, other than the need to do so.

Between work and meeting friends for dinner a few hours before Ignite, I practiced my speech a few times and could feel my hands and legs start to shake. The cure? A large beer with my meatless burger. But before arriving at the event venue, I drove my car around for 20 minutes practicing the presentation and cursing at myself if I tripped or uttered an “um.”

Usually, I’m not afraid of public speaking, my goodness I talk all the time. It was the combination of speaking in front of a crowded room — filled with faces from current life as well as college and post-graduation Brookings lives — and sharing a true passion, which is as easy to take a shot at as bad weather and corrupt politicians. People LOVE to hate the media.

I tempted with the idea of fleeing town. Instead, I went to the event.

As more and more people floated through the doors, my stomach tensed and my hands started to softly tremble.

I waited through three great presentations, fighting every taunting thought, such as “You are so going to look like a fool.”

John introduced me, telling the story of our meeting over Twitter and the eventual creation of The Post. Thinking back, the build up was almost as sufficient as if he said “You can do this, Heather.”

He handed me the mic and I launched into the five-minute speech I practiced for days but we’ll probably never repeat again.

I don’t remember much about the speech, except for an audience member leaning over to make a comment to a friend and my uncontrollable shaking legs. They shook so hard I was sure everyone noticed. My friends reassured me they didn’t, but I think they are good liars.

Toward the end, my points got a bit out of order and I made up for it the best I could. I was 20 to 30 seconds ahead of my slide so I made a few things up that were actually good points and placed in an OK spot of the presentation.

When I finished my zinger, I saw a smile from a Sioux Falls acquaintance. She could’ve just been smiling or thinking “Gosh, what an idiot” but I took the smile as reassurance.

I gave the mic back to John and he said “Look at that passion.”

They took a 15-minute break after my speech and I tried my best not to criticize each detail. I scolded myself for being too nervous and rushing through my points, but, unlike other times, I just couldn’t rest on the idea that I was a failure.

When they reconvened and people settled back in their seats, I noticed much of the crowd was wearing those beautiful orange buttons. Those buttons mean the world to me.

Looking at those buttons, I decided that maybe I hadn’t failed. Failure means end and I’m far from it. Maybe I am only just beginning.

Each one-inch pumpkin orange is piece of my pride. And I wasso very proud.


To learn more about IgniteSD, watch the videos of the presentations and find out about upcoming events, visit www.ignitesd.com.

I used to think I didn’t have it in me to be authentic. When I first started, I always said I'm not good at this. Even today, I wondered why I do it because I am just not cut out for this path.

But now, as I shake from anger and tears, maybe this is proof. Maybe that I care this much and am this upset about being true to an industry that haunts me makes me part of this clan I was always too afraid to associate myself with. Maybe I really am one of them.

Mumford & Sons

I heart http://www.mumfordandsons.com/.

The Job That Takes Over Your Life

In 1996, PRI's "This American Life" produced a show entitled "The Job That Takes Over Your Life." The program's host, Ira Glass, begins the show like he does any other show, with a short anecdote about someone he's interview, society or himself. In September of 1996, TAL had been on the air for 10 months and you can hear the exhaustion in Glass' voice, which I'm sure was an intentional effect.

In the opening, Glass says he often works nights and weekends - in addition to the regular working hours - because it's less stressing than be somewhere and thinking about the constantly growing to-do list at the office. Inherited from his father, Glass is a workaholic. The job, essentially, has become his life.

Eventually, Glass realizes something about the way he views his job - his job that is now, 14 years later, one of the most popular radio programs on NPR and most subscribed to podcasts in the country. Each week, as he prepares for a new show, he goes through the stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.

I listened to this particular show today, a Monday. Mondays are the days I commute one hour to work 12 hours at one job then commute one hour back to work two-three hours at another job. His confession brought tears.

Also, inherited from my father, I'm a workaholic. And my job has, essentially, become my life. Now, I really have no idea why Glass does he what he does, but I like to fantasize that he does it for the same reason I do: it's who I am.

We can't control what we are called to, we just have to do it and endure the long hours, heaps of stress and constant setbacks because we can't do anything else.

I'd be interested to know if Glass feels the same way about his show today as he did in 1996. If he doesn't, that gives me great hope that I'll be able to fit this role more naturally.

Either way, I can take comfort in knowing that I'm not alone in my attitude toward my work. Heck, not only am I not alone, I am in company with Ira Glass and that's enough to get up in the morning.

*Note: In no way do I compare my talents and skills to that of Ira Glass. Ugh, he is wonderful.

A sister, finally

When my youngest brother was born, I remember walking across the St. Mary's skyline hallway and being extremely angry. I didn't want to have a boy, I already had one of those. I wanted a sister.

My parents stopped at three children and I never got that sister. I was always, and still am, envious of my friends who had an older sister to seek advice or a younger one to lead along or both.

However, I have some perks with two brothers, such as male support when a guy broke my heart and neighborhood-wide games of rug. Still, I wondered about that sister.

I'm finally getting one.

My brother Chris, who is a year younger than me, proposed to his girlfriend Tara last night. They plan to get married in October 2011, shortly before my 27th birthday.

I am really happy to have a female sibling and even more excited that my brother found a woman who makes him a better person and treats him the way he deserves to be treated.

Technically, they've only been dating since Thanksgiving, but they dated in high school for quite a while.

I realized today that they've known each other for 10 years. I coincidentally also recognized that I've been a reporter in some shape or form for the same amount of time. I guess true love really does last.

Welcome to the family, Tara.

Green

It's the prettiest green I've ever seen.

In second grade, a graduating senior, Ryan, came to speak with my class. He told us about the adventure through elementary to middle school and, eventually, high school. He talk about getting involved and standing up against peer pressure (All the high school kids told us that friends will tempt us to try drugs and they gave us hints on how to turn them down but still look cool in the process. We could use statements like, "Nah, I've got plans for college." Ironically, no one ever offered me drugs and the smartest kids in my class wore long hair, listened to folk music and had blood-shot colored eyes.) The only real value I got out of his speech was an assumption he declared.

"By the time you're my age, you'll be sick of green." Green was the school district's rally color.

"I already am," piped my classmate friend Amanda. (We had a rocky friendship from second through fifth grade. She told me my parents were probably going to get a divorce because she saw some sign in a toy we found on the playground. They are still together. We finally ended our on-again-off-again friend-union when she moved away. I think I saw her at middle school track meet a few years later wearing a blue and gold Aberdeen running tank. I should Facebook her.)

I went home that day, terrified that I too would lose lust for the color green. If Amanda already doesn't like it, does that mean she won't play tetherball with me if I wear a green shirt? I'm only 8, how could I avoid the school's color for another 10 years?

It perplexed me, but all things perplex 8-year-olds, so I lost sight of this foreseen tragedy when something else became the biggest fear of my little life. I thought back to the green statement when I was in high school and lived my life in oversized kelly green sweatpants, olive green swimsuits and a fashion gem we called "teenie greenies," which I stole a pair of during my senior year. I wasn't wholeheartedly in love with green by my final year in school, but I didn't hate it. It was a part of my life like my golden brown hair.

As I transitioned from a green world into a yellow and blue one, green became a color of my past. For a few years into college, the only clothing I owned with green bared the name of my hometown or high school. I didn't buy green clothing for no specific reason. The clothes I bought just happened to not be green.

After college, my tastes started to shift to Earthly things and the color green now represented the land, peace and tranquility. I had gone green. Just hearing the color's name makes me feel more at ease.

All my life, I've always been afraid to commit to one color as my favorite. I like them all and refuse to single out one for my affection. The "What's your favorite color?" comes across my ears as "What's your favorite race?" But if someone were to put a gun to my head and insist that I chose one color and only one to be my favorite, I'd go with green.

Green left my life for about three months this winter. For three awful, exhausting months, all I had was white. I've been a fan of white for much of my life. I like white t-shirts, vanilla ice cream, white coffee cups and white electronics (I'd tell you that my computer is white, but then you'd probably think there is a piece of fruit on the cover my machine, and although you'd be right, I don't want to drop brand names.) Yet, I hate white when it exists anytime between October through April.

This winter, I loathed white. Sidewalks and yards didn't exist, only piles of white. The sky spit out record amounts of white and it screwed with my life. As a commuter, I fought through near-white skies to get to work and was forced to bum couches and spare beds from friends because the white left dangerous pieces of ice on the streets and highways.

But white only added to my life. This winter was a dark time for me, working 60+ hours a week and watching my savings drain. My friendship circles shifted as some friends decided they didn't like others for whatever reasons. Some of them moved away, some experienced one of those life-changing events and some just found better ways to spend their time. I kept connected with them all, trying to balance each pod of friends and keep them all happy. I was strained, empty and exhausted and the crappy weather only pushed me further down.

Even all of my green clothes were mainly suitable for warmer weather. I desperately wanted green back.

In March, winter decided it had enough fun for one season and retreated. I didn't believe that spring would come. I thought spring had forgotten about us and was off somewhere exotic with a more beautiful crowd. She showed up, not in full form, but bringing sunshine, the occasional 70-degree day and green. She revealed green grass and green leaves as if they had been there all along and I just couldn't find them.

This morning, my window is a painting of the most beautiful green leaves, extending from the sturdiest tree trunks and branches and highlighted by a graceful sunlight.

It's the prettiest green I've ever seen.

I used to think that I would get sick of the color green. I haven't. I used to think green wouldn't come back to me. It did.

Green is a constant, and no matter what high school boys named Ryan or harsh winters say, it'll never leave me. When I can't depend on much in life, I can depend on green. It may be temporarily absent, but green will always be there.

Bridges

"If they are going to burn bridges, we are going to build them."

Wrapped up in aggressive optimism and "we can make a difference" preaching, she blurted out this statement. It fired us both.

Moments like this is why we don't stop, although we think about it daily. We keep going because we know what's possible. And it's the potential that has always driven our motivation.

Oh, Ira

I once had a dream that I went to a reporter boot camp put on by this man.

DLTBGYD

DLTBGYD.

It's a phrase we'd say to each in the early mornings of cold pizza and paper tornadoes. We'd use it to get past difficult sources, failed expectations and demands of our lives beyond USU 069. Our adviser shared it with us and it was printed on a bright color piece of paper in black lettering. If you were upset, someone else would point to it. It was a symbol of strength and proof that you never alone.

Now, in different lives and locations, we still use it to encourage each other.

One of us has it written on a sticky note that he keeps at his work desk. It's printed on my bathroom mirror in orange dry-erase marker. I've toyed with the idea of tattooing it to my body because I love its story and meaning.

Some days, I'll tweet it because I can't say what I really feel. The people who understand the true power of those seven letters usually retweet it.

It stands for perseverance, optimism, courage and hope. I say it to keep fighting, but it goes out as signal to those who know it. They respond to restore my faith and remind me I always have supporters. Always.

DLTBGYD.

Men in dress clothes

His hands rested on his hips and he gazed off to the eastern sky. A train was passing and the blue sky was preparing itself for stars.

A part of me wanted to stop and ask this stranger what he was thinking, what was the reason for such a somber body position on a gorgeous spring evening. I wish I had a camera to capture this being at this moment. The old train chugged along as the man stared. He was wearing black dress pants and a button up shirt, as if he needed this quiet time and couldn't spare the minutes to change into something else. I saw chaos, fear and uncertainty in his face when he turned to look at me as I passed on my bike. I should've stopped.

Later on my bike ride, I saw another man out of place in dress clothes. This one had brown pants and a yellow sweater vest and he was standing at the north end of the Falls on some rock. He too seem worried and as if he came to this location to escape something.

Me, I was embracing life at the moment. Because I tend to work my life away, I'm usually wearing work clothes till it's time for pajamas. Tonight, I changed, which is a rarity I celebrate. I went on a bike ride to continue the joy I felt from the day. For a change, I wasn't escaping. I was enjoying.

---
I am off to meet a few friends for drinks and am wearing yoga pants. The great thing about my friends is that they wear puffpaint Halloween shirts all year long, so yoga pants is a more than acceptable choice for any evening out. I love my friends.

Not done

His voice slows down and his eyes soften when he speaks about that moment in a small Iowa town. He's talked about it hundreds of times, but the memory's pain still cuts.

For three months, he practiced every day for two hours. His delivery had to be perfect. Diction, perfect. Posture, perfect. Hand gestures and eye glances, perfect. Each element of his performance had to be utterly perfect.

People stopped him all over town and said things like "We want to see what one of those trophies look like" and "When you bring back that trophy ..." He felt their pressure, but nothing spoke louder than his own voice, pushing himself to be the best.

Out of nine contestants, all he wanted was third. He needed to beat only six people.

The day came and he snailed it. He did everything he was supposed to and put forth his absolute best.

He felt confident in that third place. But when the judges announced the top three, his name wasn't called. He failed, or so he told himself.

That night, his family stayed at a hotel in Iowa on their way home. The next morning, he took a walk around the small town and cried for nearly two hours. He decided then that he was going to quit. He wasn't good at it, so why continue?

He was afraid to admit failure to his loved ones back at home, but they never saw that in him. They saw a man who was good at what he did and loved it. He realized that he didn't do it for trophies, he never had. No, he did it for those people, and that's why was able to dust himself off and continue.

That story is how I got through my day. Tonight, I dust myself off and continue on tomorrow.

Thank you

If you read The Post, thank you.

If you contribute to The Post, thank you.

If you read this blog, thank you.

If you comment on my blog posts, thank you.

If you work with me, thank you.

If you have ever read anything I've ever wrote, thank you.

If you have ever complimented my writing, thank you.

If you listen to me complain, thank you.

If you offer encouraging words and support, thank you.

If you are a friend or family member, thank you.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

A girl

Riding down a slope on my bike, I noticed a jogger up ahead so I moved to the street to give her more room. Across the street was an interesting couple pausing and conversating at weirds and dead plants. I kept most of my attention on them, but stole a quick glance at the runner.

She looked at me. I looked at her. Our eyes locked for a second, knowing we've met before but it wasn't enough to mutter a hello.

A second passes and our backs now face each other. Our lives have returned to our separate paths in different directions until we meet again. And we will.

The first time I saw her, she exchanged soft smiles as she walked one direction and I the other. I knew immediately something about her would impact me. I get that feeling quite a bit. I was walking to my car and when I returned from it she was still there. She seemed lost and, when I asked her if she needed help, she told me she was looking for the exact place that I was going. I took her to the spot and smiled goodbye.

Her force on to my life made more sense to me when I found out why she was there that day. I had expected to see her in that circumstance again. I didn't. Yet, I still saw her.

Outside of shop near my office. At a sushi restaurant. On a sidewalk on a Sunday evening. We never exchanged anything more than glances, but we noticed each other. Sioux Falls isn't that big of a city, but it feels like our run ins are intentional, maybe not by our own plans but somebody else's.

To be honest, I am not sure if it is the same girl every time or ones that look like her. But when these chance meetings occur, I have this feeling that she wants to say something to me. She wants to ask me about why she was there that day, and I can tell her why because I've been that girl. And she wouldn't be the first that I've had to extend out my arm of "I understand" if that's the case. I'm not sure how I got that role, of why I even play it, but I do.

Or maybe I read the situation wrong and she doesn't remember who I am just that I look familiar.

Friday night

After a long week, I decided upon some journaling and soul searching before entering the weekend. A coffee shop near my apartment also sells beer and is usually quiet on Friday evenings, but I called to make sure how late it was open: 11 p.m. Odd since the last time I was in there they closed at 7 p.m., but great anyway. I finished as much work as I could and grabbed the necessities: iPod, journal and pen.

Before I could open the wood door and screen door that leads inside (one of my favorite elements about this particular shop), I noticed that the brown leather couches I was hoping to hog were occupied.

Oh, well. There will be somewhere else to sit, I thought. It can’t be that busy, it’s 6:30 on a Friday night.

It was busy. My second option for seating, a round table on the right side, was taken by college-looking kids. The two two-person tables near the leather couches were also spoken for — one by a nicely dressed couple in their 50s and the other by another college-ish young man wearing a white button down shirt who was talking to the couple about furniture and new houses.

The back was full with a group of young people standing around. As a nervous reaction, I went to the counter first, knowing I would see a familiar face of one of the baristas. He fulfilled my order, and, again acting out of haste, I took the first open seat I saw.

Burying my head in my journal and filling my ears with music, I hoped to go unnoticed and I tried to pretend as if I were the only person in small shop.

The laughter and conversation was louder than Florence and the Machines’ performance in my ears and I felt rude shutting them off like that. I stopped the music and let the sounds of their world accompany my writing.

But I couldn’t get into it because every few minutes one or two people would stand in front of my table, looking beyond me to the wall. Right above my head was a dark blue painting with gold and purple spots that was a gorgeous interpretation of a peacock. Before moving on, the people would sneak one look at me – the strange girl by herself.

These actions seemed peculiar until I realized I was the peculiar one. It turns out that I placed myself in the middle of an art show.

I debated for a while if I should just continuing being awkward or participate in the opening. I wasn’t really in the mood for socializing and I didn’t know anyone, but I decided to at least offer my eyeballs to the art.

The small groups intimidated me, so I tried to avoid them as I absorbed the art. I looked at the pieces sporadically and only giving attention to the ones that had none from anyone else. I would return to my seat and journal until the crowds migrated to a different area leaving the art open. I did this a few times until I had successfully looked at the pieces.

When I first walked in, I thought this was a multiple artist show, but the same name accompanied each piece. I’m not an artist and I don’t pretend to know anything about art, but that seemed strange because the mediums were different. There were some figure sketches, environmental paintings and mixed medium, but it was all beautiful.

The one I couldn’t stop staring at was the body of a woman holding a blue bowl painted on a tan world map. It exemplified courage and boldness. Not knowing who she was or being able to see her face, I knew she was beautiful and iconic.

Feeling satisfied that I did my part, I returned to my journal for good. I looked up every once and awhile, but I had successfully established myself as the strange one and it seem to late to deviate from that stance.

Pausing between thoughts, my eyes met those of a beautiful brunette with perfect curls. Wearing a creamed tank top and black skirt, her slender body and presence portrayed trendiness over artistic. She smiled and then approached.

I didn’t know her, but I know who she was.

“You must be the artist?” I said trying to dispel my awkwardness.

“Yes!”

Her name was Christy and she created all the pieces in the shop. I apologized for intruding her show and she apologized for invading my writing time. Being me, I conducted a small interview.

She graduated from USF in December and is looking toward graduate school in January 2011. She is a new artist and hasn’t found her calling in terms of mediums, which explains the variety on the walls. Figures are her favorite, but she understands she needs to hone a few skills in order to become a professor, which is her main goal. She grew up in Pipestone and knows my college friend Nancy (this is not a shock because anyone in 100-mile radius knows Nancy or knows someone who knows Nancy.)

I learn all of this in about four minutes. She asks about me and I tell her about The Post, but I hate talking about myself, so I tell her about Graphic Content and Drawntown. She likes the idea. We part ways because all these people are here to see her and I’m just a stranger. Someone new walks through the door and she flings her arms around him to thank him for coming. She bubbly enters into a new conversation as I quietly return to my chair.

She continues mingling as I switch from my journal to an old issue of “The New Yorker”. When I return from the bathroom, she tells me that her friend “likes all of your stuff” meaning my purse, journal and wallet that all happen to match.

Lucy calls and is on her way to pick me up for a concert. As I leave, I gently touch the artist on the elbow and compliment her again on the work. She thanks me for coming and we part exchanging smiles. I rush out the door and Lucy is holding up traffic as I get in her car.

It occurs to me as we drive away that I may have entered the coffee shop alone, but I was never really alone. There is always a friend to be made, even if we’ll never cross paths again.


This post was inspired by this entry. You should read Kate Miss' blog because A) she has gorgeous style, B) she was born in Sioux Falls, C) we share the same birthday, D) I will own one of her necklaces someday.

I

I like red wine and dark coffee.

I hate slapstick movies, Republicans and Democrats.

I love newspapers, but I don’t read them everyday.

I don’t own a TV, but I miss watching MTV’s True Life.

I like to be the first to tell someone a piece of information.

I have a button up shirt from 8th grade that has always been too big for me. I wear it under sweaters, but I hold on to it because I think a pregnant body would fill it nicely.

I have a hard time calling myself a writer; that term should be reserved for people with talent.

I’m constantly racing the clock.

I love living alone, but I hate being alone.

I’m nosey.

I have big ideas, but problems with execution.

I really am my own worst enemy (it’s cliché but it’s the most true statement about myself.)

I want to grow up to be a vagabond.

I rarely initiate conversations and usually end them first because I’m terribly afraid of being a burden.

I don’t think I’ll ever eat red meat again.

I trust strangers more than many of my friends and family.

I don’t think I have what it takes to accomplish my goals.

I used to hate when people asked me my favorite color; I like them all. Actually, I still hate that question.

I love it when my cell phone dies and there isn’t a charger around.

I enjoy that my opinions and morals are much different now than seven years ago.

I love that I have a mother who doesn’t wear a lot of makeup.

I like to cry.

I secretly enjoy a stressful, busy life. Well, sometimes.

I’m good.

Jump

My toes are curled over the edge.

Below, all I see is sparkling blue. There are probably other parts of this scene but I don’t see them. And if there is noise, it’s not reaching my ears.

I need to jump. I prepare my body to do the action, but my mind reassures me “Oh, you really aren’t going to do this are you? You don’t jump, Heather. You just slide in.”

Time lapses as I vision myself jumping. Then I see myself climbing back down the ladder and finding a more comfortable way to enter the way. It’s safer that way, not to jump.

No, I need to do this.

But, the short ladder on the edge would work just as well. Besides, you are hogging up the board.

Jump.

Don’t jump.

Jump.

Maybe I can do this. Maybe I can’t. I wish you wouldn’t think about it so much.

Eventually, I jump. I fall into the gorgeous cool water and as I climb out, I shake my head — if only I did it sooner.

Too bad jumping into a pool is much harder than jumping into life.

My heart is heavy from exhaustion, stress and the enormous effort that goes into being patient. I feel defeated and lonely and over dramatic about every little emotion. Ugh.

But when I get into a funky state I take a shower. When I lived in Idaho and had fights with my boyfriend, I would escape to the shower to cry so my roommate wouldn't hear me sobbing (although she probably could anyway.) The day we broke up, I took two showers. This habit stayed, even though I don't always cry during my pity showers.

Maybe it's the hope that hot water will kill the worry and anxiety and I can emerge fresh and clean. (oh, so fresh and so clean.) Most times, it works.

A long hot shower and my spirits were up a bit, but I still was ready to call the day a quits. When I checked my phone, there was a message from Melissa. Without knowing my current state, she told me what I needed to hear. She is really good at that, so good that I sometimes believe God brought her in my life to just remind of the simple things.

Clean and faith restored, my heart feels a bit lighter.

A dead man and a baby girl

The day started out with the news of death.

It ended with a baby.

I am not sure what this means, probably nothing, but I feel like it should mean something. I want it to symbolize something, anything will do.

The Laugher

He might be my favorite laugher.

He chuckles and snickers just fine, but when he laughs, his whole body is thrusted into the occasion. His face reddens, his eyes squint till tears and he shakes with his amusement.

I love when he laughs, or when we laugh together.

When I think about our friendship, I think of giggling.

Tonight we giggled and told secrets. Complained about life and answered the other's questions about the future. We talked about dating lives (or lack thereof) and living situations. We gossiped. We giggled.

When we are in our fits of laughter, I feel stuck in time as if all of our funny moments are one long phase and nothing changes beyond that moment. A joke tomorrow might feel like one two years ago. It's the lack of lapsed time (although we may not have seen each other in months) that I enjoy most about our friendship.

As we chatted tonight, I pretended that this would never change, him and I laughing. Our lives will, but I'll always carry the replay of him giggling with me.

The Interviewer

My friends just smile and roll their eyes when it starts to happen. They see me do it with many strangers and have come to accept this as part of make up.

I don’t realize that anything outside of a normal conversation is taking place.

When I meet someone new or run into someone I am shy around, I fall back into interview mode and start throwing out question after question. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism in awkward situations or my natural curiosity that causes to me gather as much information about a person and his/her hobbies as possible. It’s actually both.

When those strange conversation lulls appear, I begin to ask questions about the other’s life. I’m more comfortable on the asking side.

I also like to hear a person’s story, but more than the who, where and how parts. I want to know what makes them cry at night, gives them goose bumps and feeds their passion. So I ask questions until they tell me or I realize they never will tell me.

I’ve also learned quite a bit of random factos because of my interviewees interests and pastimes.

As much as asking questions thrills me, it forces me to go beyond my comfort zone more than anything else I do. Sometimes, I have to ask tough questions and I don’t feel myself in those moments. I feel like a mean, harsh impostor.

But, I’m the interviewer, it’s just who I am. I hate when the role is forced upon, like in awkward conversation. I’d rather fall into it and not notice it’s happening.

Today, my usual commuting buddy and I made the trip to Brookings with our newest coworker, Hank. He seems like a nice guy and I asked the basic questions (hometown, children, wife, previous jobs) but couldn’t get into the usually groove of picking apart a certain aspect of his life.

After a long day, I rode quietly in the back of the car as Ryan and Hank chatted. Ryan was asking Hank questions about playing football and his former teammates. Ryan found a topic of interest and squeezed out all the information he could. Hank obliged and gave out details about practices, weight gains and teammates with NFL prospects.

It occurred me that I wasn’t the interviewer this time, although I would’ve asked Hank about football too. Instead, I was just the viewer/reader. I listened, but didn’t feel obligated to join in or guilty for pestering the poor man (although he didn’t seem bothered by any of it.)

I like being the listener every now and then. It’s nice to just absorb. However, it’s not my permanent role. No, I will always live in the interview seat.

Sleeping around

In the span of four days, I've slept in four cities and on an air mattress, a couch, a futon mattress and a bed.

For the weekend, I made a nice loop through this state and the one directly south of us to see a concert, spend the holiday with my family and be at work (in a city in which I do not live) at 8 a.m.

To me, the idea of never staying longer than I should is exotic and, although I only crossed one state border in this sleeping pilgrimage, I feel as if I'm living the life of a bed vagabond. While my friends are settling down with stable queen-sized beds, maybe a couple of down comforters planned for near future, I'm having one night stands with homemade fleece blankets and dusty quilts. Sure, one bed for all eternity sounds fun, but I can't make that commitment.

As my life hangs on decisions and limitations, I need to embrace these small things that makeup the life I truly want, one that is constantly experiencing new things, people and places. Instead of Midwestern towns, I want to jump from country to country, continent to continent.

Still, it's nice to jump on home. Speaking of, I have a date with my bed.

From Friday

The room was dark and the audience invisible, but the four men on the stage saw something.

They saw screaming fans mouthing the words to their songs. The imagined the bright lights in colors of blue, red and white beating on their faces. The imagined performing their greatest show of all time.

They held on to this dream when crowd turnout was discouraging and nights spent in crowded, disgusting hotels away from their families. Someday, the day of the greatest performance, it would all be worth it.

Tonight, though, that show was a pipe dream. The four men - three in one group and the other solo - had become good friends in the last few weeks as they toured the country opening for someone else. During this quiet moment, the headliner was on a stage, the one for the lesser-known acts, and his beats are barely noticeable on the grand stage.

"Promise?" one of them says to the other.

"Promise."

They vowed that in three years they would be performing on the big stage to a sellout crowd.

Their tour isn't over, and although their next shows are closer to home and they can expect more recognizable crowds, they'll still have rough nights as openers. But they'll never lose this dream. That will go with them from city to city and bad hotel to bad hotel.

Good Friday

It's Holy week and I feel as if I wasted 40 days.

I wanted to really find myself spiritually in this Lent season, through meditation, prayer and church services. But I let my chaotic lifestyle and continuos sleep deprivation speak louder than my empty soul. Work or the race to work filled those times when I should've been filling my spirit. I need to reconnect myself with my faith, but I can't find the time, or rather the true motivation to do it.

As I slowly woke up this morning, between sets of my alarm and the snooze button, I heard the gentle wind rush through the trees outside my windows. The birds chirped and there could've even been raindrops. The to-do list and daily worries stopped racing in my mind for just a moment, and I relished in the peace. I said a quiet thank you to the creator of this joy and apologized for being absent.

I wanted that moment to last the entire day.

Eventually, my unusually loud refrigerator kicked in and drowneded the sweetness. The chatter in my head began again and I lost that moment.

But the refrigerator stops and the peace is still there. Peace and the experience of finding it exists beyond these 40 days. I can still look and I can still find it.

Smell

Each aroma brings a new feeling.

This one brings back memory of hope that faded into lust and eventually pain. The pain lingers, and it might always, but I can now control it's effect on my mood, and even disregard it.

That one puts me in a vehicle on a quiet highway road during a summer evening. The first campfires of spring always do that to me. I can still see the twinkling lights sprinkled along the hillside and feel the anxiety that comes with a life change.

The one of over there is friendship. A flood of memories, laughter and tears surround this scent and it's comforting, like her friendship.

It's a good one to hang on to as I retire and dream about the aroma of possibility that comes with a new day.

Digital Silence

I am not good at taking lunches.

During most noon-hours, I'm stuff my face over a keyboard (actually, most of meals — when not social engagements — are consumed in front of a computer screen or in a vehicle.) At previous jobs, I've tried to take the opportunity to go home, fix a meal, watch some TV or catch up on reading. When I do that, I often decided on a nap, which makes me groggy an unproductive. Instead, I skip the whole process and work through the hour as if it was 10 a.m. or 2 p.m.

Today, though, I forced myself to lunch, knowing I wouldn't be productive with an empty stomach. Without a phone or computer, I made a meal and enjoyed the digital silence. I admired the sunshine and picked up a book. There was no beeping or flashing red lights, just the standard technology of my stove.

Back at my office, I was reconnected with the world in my Mac and Blackberry. But, for a half hour, no one could reach me and it was a small piece of bliss, one that I can recreate at any moment.