NFA

One of my favorite parts of the SDSU campus is NFA - old, ugly, smelly NFA.

It's a perimeter of out-dated classrooms and stuffed offices. In order to get anywhere, you have to walk in a square, which is a hassle at times and endearing at others.

I usually try to take my time and peer into the opened offices of professors and instructors. They are usually decorated with books, stacks of papers and interesting pictures that reflect an unsuspecting part the instructor's office. The small rooms usually look the same, although the subject matter of their profession changes by floor: language, nursing, nutrition, apparel.

The window into their career is enough to convince me I should become a professor. I could gather all the books I own and put together pieces of art from the places I've been and the muses that inspire me. I would close my door to the yellow-lit hallway and hide in a rumbling mess of what defines me as a person.

But what would I teach, I ask myself as I continue to let the fantasy live out in my head.

Ah, who am I kidding. I would hate being a professor.

A South Dakotan

If the true characters of “being a South Dakotan” were jammed into one person, Matt would be his twin.

His background is South Dakotan, or at least South Dakota 50 years ago: he was one of 11 children, stopped his education at 8^th grade to farm (the only one of his siblings not to go to college), bought the farm from his father, married the best woman he ever met and had eight of his own children. He is a proud dairy farmer and Christian and he loves his family more than anything.

He looks South Dakotan: his body aged from years in the field. His salt and pepper hair is probably often hidden with a baseball cap and his thin steel glasses add an element of elegance to his persona.

He talks South Dakota: slowly and intermixing swear words and bible verses. He admits he likes whisky and talks too much, but at his age — 60s-ish — he’s come to accept those traits. He can tell you a story about each of the trees in his backyard.

As he sits at his kitchen table, I think about the family meals and conversations that have likely happened at that location. There was probably happiness, anger, sadness — the last being the emotion I see pouring out of him this day.

Behind Matt’s seat at the table is the kitchen sink. Like most farm homes, the sink comes with a window that is a portrait to their property. You can watch the days pass from that window.

Off in the distance, there is a pond. The pond is something Matt sees every day and is reminded, ever day, that his son died in that pond nearly two years ago.

His son loved that pond, Matt told us. He used to tell stories about the fish he caught, but his dad didn’t believe the measurements and amounts so he bought a camera and forced his son to add proof to those stories. As it turns out, he son was pretty good at fishing.

He also loved football and was a linebacker. His signature move was to knock a person down and then help them right back up. He was good at that, his dad said.

When he needed peace, Matt’s son would retreat to that pond and he only invited “special people” to go fishing with him there. That pond meant something deep to him and all that loved him knew it.

A health issue caused Matt’s son to lose control of a tractor and drive it straight into that pond. He died at 24.

As Matt is telling the story of his son, a quiet reunion is happening a floor below. It’s been more than six months since Matt and his wife saw their son’s bride and her family. They appreciated the chance to visit and reconnect, all a bit stronger than the time before.

After all the questions had been asked, Matt said goodbye to his son’s wife. She no longer wears her wedding ring. Instead, she wears a band that her husband gave her on the day of their wedding, as if he knew he would leave soon and wearing the ring drenched in their vows would be too much for her.

She hugs her father-in-law.

“Love you,” he said as if she was born his daughter.

“Love you too,” she replied.

When we were the only ones left, he invited us to the pond. He brought along Mack, the pup to his son’s dog who gave birth the week her owner passed. Mack ran into the water as soon as we got there. Matt pointed out the rough location the tractor was when he found it. He stared into the cold water without much expression.

He said that his son found peace in that pond and you often find peace in death. Eventually, he too found peace in the pond.

One of the people I was with pointed out that his son was doing what he always did. He knocked his father down, now — his hand extended from the clouds — he was helping him up.

Raising a child like that is probably the most South Dakotan thing about Matt.

"Heather, you've accomplished so much so far."

It was an odd statement after the conclusion that I should go back to counseling.

I don't feel accomplished. Rather, I feel like a failure in about 10 different excruciating ways. And that makes me angry.

Actually, everything makes me angry.

Maybe it's because I'm tired. Or hungry. Or on the eve my weekly temper tantrum. Or want someone to feel sorry for me. Or in a perpetual bad mood as of late.

Most of my blog posts usually end with some optimistic insight. Not this one. That angers me the most.

3six5

I don't care if it's cliche, but things really do happen for a reason.

Today, I had a pretty nice freak out over my financial situation. I talked to my mom, cried, sulked and calmed down. Then I got a message from Daniel Honigman of 3six5.

3six5 is a year long project to bring different slices of life ever day. 365 days, 365 points of view. Each day is a page from the diary of a new contributor. The authors get 365 words to sum up their day and are asked to be open.

I love this project. It's such an intriguing way to preserve a year. The stories that have already come out simply identify life - deaths, births, happiness, sadness and general living.

A few days ago, 3six5 asked if anyone would be willing to fill in a spot that was suddenly vacant. I replied that I would, not thinking they would actually need me. They didn't, not that night at least, but said they would put my name on the back up list.

Today, Daniel emailed and asked if I would be up for it. My life isn't normally exciting and most days I would've struggled to identify something worthy of this blog. Today, though, I didn't have to think. I knew exactly what I was going to write about.

I had planned to blog about the experience, but this opportunity just forced me to write it differently than if I was posting it here.

It's a bit intimidating to put those feelings and facts out there, but I ask my sources to do that all the time so I should too. The piece is a very raw picture of myself as a person and that's the only way to tell a piece like this. I needed to be honest and open.

My post has already received great response and new support for The Post, but that's not what it is was about. That's what I would've wrote had I gone home and opened my journal. I needed to process those feelings and this seemed like a good way to do that.

Here is my 3six5 entry. Hope you like it. Make sure to read other entries and watch for new ones, especially July 12 when fellow Pierre native and Sioux Falls resident BryAnn Becker writes about her day. I am so honored to be part of such a remarkable project.

Fight through the wall

In high school, I ran cross country, not because I was good but because I loved it. I ran so many miles in the summer and worked hard at practices, but was never one of the team's top runners and usually had to fight my way on to the varsity squad. During most races, I fell toward the back of the pack, but the pain and defeat was never enough to discourage me from participating in the gruesome sport.

I ran because it was a piece of me.

During one particular race, I remember the mother of one of my teammate's screaming "fight through the wall" as I ran by her. That idea, busting through a brick of metaphorical obstacle, has stuck with me through other difficult runs and I often cheer those words in my head during long runs riddled with stiffness and side stitches.

It's been helpful in other realms of my life. Some days, life is unfair, uncooperative and a down right jerk. When my head is buried in my hands and tears are flowing, I think about that wall and busting through it. On the other side, their is calmness and success.

No, I never won a state title or even a race. But, I was respected by teammates and voted captain two years in a row. I still won, just in a different way than I thought.

I will win again, but it might not be the exact trophy I envision and I trample that wall, but I'll do it and I'll succeed.

Mystery man

Every so often, our paths cross – a coffee shop, a concert – and I want to attack him with questions. I want to grab his hand, sit him down and listen as he pours out his story, one I think I know but really don’t, over tea and "I completely understand"s.

Instead, I casually glance his way then look down as if we are strangers.

We are strangers. I only know his name and existence because of an obsession that I still can’t seem to drop and I am sure my name wouldn’t ring a bell if he heard it. Yes, we have friends in common, but our links are broken on both sides, which drives my interest in him.

When I happen to see him, I pretend that I know his story, an innocent bystander and pain absorbent to someone else's love story. I imagine that I understand his actions and the grief he is processing. Sometimes, I even believe I could help him.

Truth is, I don't know his story at all and may have it completely backwards. He could very well be the villain in this story and I would never know it, or believe it.

What attracts me most to him is the mystery of not knowing much or anything about him all. This fascination may seem insane, but, to me, it highlights my compassion and addiction to a good story.

I can almost guarantee that we'll never meet (this isn't the first time I adopted some heartbroken sap to be a well for my pity) and that's OK. Maybe he receives my sympathic thoughts from afar, and it's probably best that way.

My Mother

When I find an awesome deal at the store or I've spent more than I should, I go to her.

When something wonderful happens or life throws too many obstacles at once, I go to her.

When I need advice or someone to yell and scream at, I go to her.

When I can't make a decision or I need reassurance on the decisions I did make, I go to her.

When my car acts up or I want to brag about something I fixed on my own, I go to her.

I am not perfect and neither is she, but I wouldn't lover her so much if we were. My anxiety and worry behaviors come from her, but so does my unending compassion and resilience. She is my rock, even when I am too stubborn to admit that I need a rock. She let's me scream at her because I can't scream at the people I'm really angry with. She still loves and wants to spend time with me when I'm irritable and my mind is elsewhere. She forces me to let her buy me things. She might not like my wanderlust dreams, but she still wants me to pursue them. She hates anyone who brings tears to my eyes and loves the people who make me happy just as much as I do. She is the most beautiful person I know and I pray that she knows that. Every day, I miss her and I'm awful at showing it. Along with my father, she is the one person on this planet who always, always has my back.

To my beautiful, kind, loving, wonderful mother, happy 50th birthday. You mean the world to me and I appreciate all that you have given me. Thank you for being my go to. You deserve all the best in this world and I pray that you receive it. Love, love, love you.

Friday night

Please, stop, I pleaded with myself as I took a sip of the newly purchased water. I hoped the cool liquid would refresh my insides and attitude. Still, seven minutes till my estimated arrival and I wanted the whole night to forget about me. But, I don’t quit easily. I looked myself in the eyes using the review mirror. Hair was fine. No black smudges under my eyes. It’s time to go and be me, or at least pretend.

--

The city doesn’t seem to care that I slice through it at 11 p.m., going faster than I should at times. Minnesota Avenue, then 41st, then Louise Avenue. At stop lights, I peer into the nearby cars and wonder about their destination and state of peace at the moment. I use the stop time to realign my thinking and topics of conversation as if the drive across town is an elaborate costume change for my personality.

--

Normally, I’m shy around people who’ve I met casually. Always afraid of being bothersome, I let them come to me and pretend to not notice them until they do. Tonight, that wall of protection and insecurity wasn’t built and I approached most of them with a smile and a compliment. They saw me in a way I’ve never saw myself — charming. It’s been a while since I’ve felt charming.

--

So much has changed in both of our lives since the last time we shared a drink. Our changes had led our lives in complete opposite directions, but our friendship has never been questioned. There is no 3 a.m. drinking spells, just one drink (water for me) and a booth in the corner. Poor innocent intoxicated men walk by and she playfully harasses them. That part about her hasn’t changed. She is still my friend.

--

Couples dot all the places I go tonight. Some casually look at art while the female gently holds on to the male’s arm. One talks intensely and, at times, a bit loudly over raw fish. Short-lived ones form under the guidance of too much booze. And a few fill the driver and passenger seat of cars headed home. Me, I begin and finish the evening alone, an idea I’m sometimes OK with and sometimes not.

--

I’m blessed with a chunk of time to quietly absorb the art. The sketches and scribbled writing move me into a trance. I was present when most of the creations were conceived but I feel as if they came from far away. Tears and a flood emotion flow through my body. I’ve never seen a mass of paper hold such beauty. I never want to know any other feeling about the people who created this art.

--

We are not hip-hop connoisseurs or even hip-hop fans, but this music has captured us all. It’s only a short drive from the gallery to our restaurant, but it was enough for us to fall for the swaying lyrics and beats. We do not the words, but I remember the moment as if we were all singing from the top of our lungs. Downtown is gorgeous at this moment, so is the three other women in the car. I’m attacked with joy.

--

My phone beeped throughout the night with messages of “Where are you?” and “What are you going to do tonight?” One came from a friend hiding out in a city on the other side of the country. “Wish you were here.” I am happy with my role in life at the moment, but want to be with him too. I smiled. He ran away from life, but wanted my company. It’s the most genuine compliment I’ve ever received.

--

Friday is on its last moments of life as I make another trip across town. From an art gallery, to a college bar to my friends’ apartment, the different parts of my life made an appearance. I try to pinpoint which is the real me, but it’s the combination that defines who I am. Sometimes, I want to be just one of those personalities, but that isn’t being true to who I am. I need them all to be me.

--

We are loud, and probably obnoxious to the creatives around us. We don’t care. New and old friends meet in this hodgepodge circle and instant inside jokes are created. It’s the silliness of life and bringing down barriers that unites the group. I should be more attentive to the art or the other people in the room, but making fun of ourselves seems so much more creative. This is art; we are art.

--

Huddle on an old leather couch, we direct our attention to a small computer screen instead of the large TV in the background. The three of us chuckle and I “awe” (or, I make that distinctive female noise since I’m the only female in the room) as our favorite TV couple gives birth. I only watch two TV shows and this one is much more enjoyable with friends, especially these friends. It’s a perfect ending to my night.

--

Sushi has become our tradition, so we split up the art galleries with a trip to one of our favorite downtown locales. Two of us are vegetarians and one is Catholic, so our orders would seem lame to sushi snobs. The food is only a side dish to the giggling main course. The sparkling downtown lights and cozy restaurant transport me and my shitty attitude is swapped out for a very alive one.

--

The long day caps off a long week, and I am ready to swim in my covers. Before retiring, I open a package with a Montana address. It’s a beautifully hand-made necklace with a note that said, “This makes me think of you.” Such sweet words. I drift to sleep with a content heart and a deep appreciation for all the people who filled my day. I wanted to be me. I was and the universe rewarded me.