Boston

I feel like death warmed over. It will pass, but I just got back from the gym and am certain of two things: one, I am dehydrated; two, I am out of shape. Since August my work-out schedule has been sporadic at best. Tonight I planned to slip into the back of an aerobics class, but accidentally entered the wrong room and found myself in a one-on-one cardio and weight training session. Eeesh. Afterward I sat in the locker room with a towel over my head concentrating on not being sick.

I walked home tonight and paused in the middle of a cross-walk, caught off guard by an overwhelming urge to call my mother. That hasn't happened in a long time. I miss my mother's advice and compassion these days. She was a wise one. I have a box full of letters she sent me when I was in college that are are organized by date. I think I will find one marked November 23rd and read it tonight with an appropriate nightcap. Tea.

I had a lovely weekend in beautiful Boston where lobster reigns and young, good-looking brainiacs hang out in Harvard bars (pronounced 'Hahvahd'). My friend Stephanie and I spent two gorgeous fall days traipsing around the city with our friend and host Adam who recently moved to Boston from Philly. We took a night bus, so we were delirious and ridiculous by the time we arrived. I like Stephanie. She has the capacity to be sparkly and zesty and hilarious and she is also deeply reflective and wise. Adam is a cool cat. He wears designer sunglasses, has excellent taste, a wicked sense of humor, and a tremendously generous spirit. These are good people. I am lucky to know them.







In two short days we will be celebrating my favorite holiday. I will be heading to Princeton to be with good friends for a couple of days and look forward to some long walks, some lawn games if the weather plays along, and ridiculously good food. Happy Thanksgiving to you, dear friends.

Adios a mi Camera

I watched a Brecht play a few nights ago. Upon arriving home I had two options: stew in despair or browse facebook and ponder a newsie blogpost. I choose option two. One should make room for nihilism, but only in small doses.

I have bad news. On Sunday night I was carving this cute jack-o-lantern and while cleaning up I accidentally bashed the viewfinder of my camera into a radiator. SMASH. In one swift move its days of documenting the world were over.

On the bright side, it is one less thing to own. I have always found ridding myself of earthly possessions invigorating. Within reason, of course. It's like nihilism: everything in moderation.

And so, my friends, I must pay homage to my camera.

How should one give honor to any good and faithful companion? A montage, of course.

A tribute to you, my Camera. Thanks for the good times.



RIP 2007-2010

Almost Everything Serious is Difficult

"Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is,to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer."

-Rainier Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

Love is in the air

I finally got back to the gym tonight after a long hiatus. I have developed a slightly pudgy layer around the belly, so the return was critical. Betsy, my aerobics instructor, was especially cheerful tonight. You can attend to these things in between circuit training, particularly because you are surrounded by unforgiving wall-to-wall mirrors. In between jumping jacks, squats, and push-ups I noticed her furtive looks out the door and by the end of the class I had no doubt that dear Betsy and the new front desk guy have a little romance brewing. Love is in the air. Three cheers for romance.

I went to the "Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear" this weekend. It was a bucket of fun-- nothing life-transforming or anything, but it was the perfect fall day to hang out with 300,000 of my closest friends on the Mall. DC is such a lovely little city. Horrendous traffic, but full of politicos and fresh-faced idealists, those weary of injustice and those eager for something new. I think I would like living in DC.

A few pics from a controversial event. A penny for your thoughts?

Sour Puss

Be Ye Prepared: poor excuses lie in wait.

The world did not accost me in any particularly harmful way today, but rottenness took hold. My excuses: 1) I have been creeped out by a new relationship I see evolving. Do you ever get creeped out by the relationships your friends find themselves in? Creeped out. 2) I was driving today (a novelty in the city) in weird Philadelphia and flipped through the radio stations until finally landing on a Christian praise station. I recognized some of the songs from my youth and chose to listen for awhile. I soon felt a similar creepy feeling washing over me. Some of these Christian rock stars are dead-ringers for swoony pop-singers begging for love and fulfillment (sexual overtones abound) and I couldn't help but imagine these "praise" songs in darkened youth group rooms, lyrics subtly wafting their way over pre-pubescent boys and girls swaying to the music. I don't like the idea of God as Lover. Giant Cassanova in the sky.

Then again, there is warrant for this notion, people. All kinds of mystics have written about erotic experiences in their communion with the Divine.

I digress. I was feeling all sour pants on my way back home when I got stuck in some delicious traffic. Delicious, you say? Yes. I say delicious. Because lovely, darling, smoochy, smoochy Bradley Cooper was shooting a movie in Rittenhouse Square and my car got stuck directly next to him. I could have opened my car door and smacked him in the thigh. I did no such thing, but my raisin-face soon gave way to smirk-face as I reflected on the depth of my superficiality. My entire day was lightened because I saw heart-throb movie star Bradley Cooper. Guffaw, guffaw.

Please do not worry, sweet boy who I am dating, I do not plan to ditch you for Sir Cooper. He's like Taylor Swift, but a guy.

West Virginia, Mountain Mama

Meet Anneke. Anneke is one of the better Philadelphians under the age of two. Mild, strong-willed, curious, careful, and methodical, she is my favorite companion in the nursery at church if I am in the mood for cheerios, grape-halves, or a little TLC. Anneke wears pencil-leg jeans courtesy of her stylish urbanite parents and rolls through the world with big blue eyes and a surprisingly serious brow for a sprite who has been in the world for just eighteen months.

Last weekend I headed to West Virginia with Anneke and her parents to spend a couple of days in the Appalachian mountains. It was nice to get out of the city. I spent my time pretending to read, traipsing through the woods, and pressing myself as close to the fireplace as humanly possible, trying not singeing my hair or the heels of my tennis shoes. The forest was a magnificent array of reds, greens and yellows and I am inclined to believe they should give out blankets and copies of Thoreau at the West Virginia border this time of year.

I was feeling very John Denver and folksy imagining what it would be like to live in this state, growing and preserving things, charmed by the lethargic hornets dragging themselves across the woodpile and the lemon-yellow leaves dropping into the river at the bottom of the hill. The dream came to a glaring halt when I was reminded of just what a city girl I have become. One cannot sit on a sagging porch boasting two confederate flags, a U.S. flag, and a hand-painted sign advertising live bait and beer with any authenticity while wearing designer jeans and a black sweater from Anthropologie.

I'm no mountain mama, but I like this state.


P.S. Mock the orange. Do it. We deserve it. It was hunting season. We wore it because we did not want to get shot. And because we are ridiculous.

To Princeton and Back Again

I read a lot of blogs of women my age who are married with children. On occasion I feel weird that I cannot relate to mortgages, dirty diapers, and kiddie soccer games. When I see pictures of spectacularly beautiful children and anniversary celebrations I get that 7th grade feeling -- standing on the side of a gym, lights dimmed, pop music throbbing in the background, wondering if Kevin Ramonis is going to ask me to slow-dance. I'm the awkward outsider that buys shoes and gears up for lame dates and drags in my own groceries-- scads of dinners for one. This does not make me feel sad. My journey has other riches, as my friend Scotty reminded me this weekend. My life is rich, indeed. Not much money, but when I've gone down I've gone down big. And when I've won I've won big. I'm no magician, but I know magic. I have tasted and felt it.

We've had different journeys, but I find that blogs are the great equalizer. Best described as "online scrap-booking," I have a slew of favorite writers who share tidbits about their lives and somehow I feel close to them despite the miles.

This weekend I went apple-picking. Autumn is my favorite time of year and October is especially delicious. I love pulling on a sweater and a scarf. I love drinking hot apple cider and the unique golden light that brightens crisp cornstalks and flaming red leaves. I drove up to Princeton to meet my old friend Scott. I met Scott when I was 19 and full of idealism and dorky ideas about the world. Old friends provide good orientation and it was nice to ease into a seamless conversation that has been going on well over a decade. Scott came to Philadelphia on Sunday. He had not been to church in awhile and had never seen me in a leadership position. He said there were multiple times during the service he wanted to stand up and say, "Carms, come down from there."

Me too, my brother! Me too.

Church can be so very strange and even a little disappointing at times. It is not always the community it should be. After I waved goodbye to Scott on Sunday I hurried to change my clothes for a funeral. As I stood at the graveside of a young man who left this world far too early, I was reminded again of the sweetness of friendship-- those people who help us tell our stories. There was a group of Boy Scouts who grew up together and cried tears of grief at the grave of their dear friend. The weather was kind and someone whispered to me after the service, "I am glad you do this job." I pondered this for awhile. I'm not sure that I always agree, but If nothing else, I hope I will always be a good witness. A good witness, a good storyteller, and someone who treasures the stories of others.

Thank you for sharing yours.