confessions

I feel compelled by the glass of wine I just sipped to be honest.

I'm lonely. Heart-rendingly, agonizingly lonely.

For many reasons. Obviously because I'm still single. But that's a complicated reason. It's not just, oh wahh, no one wants to date me. I've reached this point where a lot of what I do seems utterly pointless because I don't have anywhere to pour out love. For three years now I've shut off my capacity to love, crammed it back in on itself, because loving meant losing myself, and it wasn't healthy, and I've been afraid ever since of loving badly and of not being loved in return and of being horribly hurt because I throw too much of myself into a person or people.

But after three years, not loving anyone is empty. I can be the best person my position has ever seen at work; I can be witty and funny, sparkling, the life of every party (and my friends, that's not an exaggeration...MP and I are a study in being the life of the party); I can smile at everyone I see and genuinely wish them a good day...But without loving anyone or anything, it doesn't mean anything.

It's 1 Corinthians 13. I haven't been living it. And I'm tired, I'm tired of not living it.

So here I am, all ready to go, ready to love...and I have my family and closest friends, and it's great. But I don't have a significant male other, and I don't have a church.

Church on Sunday sucked. Again. I left feeling more desperately alone and in despair than when I walked in. Again. I can't do this anymore. It's coming to where I want to say that the contemporary church has nothing to say to me or my generation. Has nothing relevant to bring to our lives. And it's pathetic. It's wrong. I WANT to belong to a church; I've been wanting it badly for over a year. But of the three churches I've attended with any degree of regularity, none of them have contained people who exhibited genuine interest in getting to know me. At one, I was hit on by a certain Wretched Tim, and he was the only one who wanted to spend time with me (and you can bet it wasn't for my sparkling wit or big heart); at the second, I was held at a distance with false smiles; at the third and current, I'm basically ignored.

Why? Why? Two weeks ago as I was walking out, I shook the pastor's hand, as I have every week since I started attending regularly in November (well, I sort of skipped December, but November, January, and February were regular months), and he asked me if I was a visitor. And something in me mewled and died.

I can't do this anymore. I don't have to convince the grad students that I've met through MP that I'm worth hanging around. People who have met me in public three times say of me that I have a dynamic presence, that with MP I draw the energy in a room. I don't have to beg them to see that I'm likeable. What the hell is wrong with the church that I have to work harder than I worked even in high school to show people that I have value? People that I've met four, five, six times, and to whom I've been extremely nice and friendly, won't have anything to do with me.

I have to sit down and compose a thoughtful, careful, deliberate essay on why the church's ministry to Christians of my generation sucks. But for now, believe that I hate rolling out of bed on Sunday morning. I hate selecting the nicest, most flattering clothes in my wardrobe. I hate pasting on the nicest, most winning smile in my repertoire so that CHRISTIANS WHO ARE SUPPOSED TO MODEL THE UNCONDITIONAL LOVE OF CHRIST will be nice to me. And I hate doing all this knowing that it won't make a damn bit of difference. Maybe they'll smile and shake my hand, but they won't invite me to lunch. They won't ask for my e-mail or my number. (I had to do all that. Hey, here's my e-mail. Here's my number. Let me know if you're doing anything.)

And most of all, I hate that I can't be myself in church. I hate that I can't talk about my favorite beer or my favorite whisky, I hate that I can't say that my favorite poet is a lesbian, I hate that I can't say, You know that chastity thing? It really sucks sometimes, or that I miss belonging so much I cry myself to sleep sometimes. I hate that I can't say, The concept of "witnessing" is a fallacy. Witness is a state of being. You don't have to cut and paste the name "Jesus" into every other sentence; just be who you are--that's almost always enough.

I hate that I can't jump up and down and point to a verse (because in church one seldom studies the Bible) and say, You know what I love about this?! Look at God's concern for women! Look here!

I hate that I have to slough off everything that matters to me to say, monotonously, God...Jesus...the Bible. Have to spit out all the prefabricated answers they've had us say since Vacation Bible School when we were seven years old. Have to swallow all the doubts, all the questions, all the real, life-changing insights, to talk about utter crap like "courage."

Courage isn't talking to a "non-Christian"; courage is walking into church on Sunday morning. And there's something horribly wrong with that.

There's also something horribly wrong about me sitting here wanting to learn how to love, futilely.

I feel like William H. Macy's character in Magnolia: "I have so much love to give."

What do I do?

End whiny angry passionate blog. More about boring professional rational organized work in the future.

I just want to bang on the drums all day

Actually, if I had my 'druthers, I would read and sleep all day.

So, my job. Is fabulous. Is amazing. Is getting really busy.

My position as Director of Events & Marketing belongs to the Development Team, whose mission, in the simplest terms, is to foster community relationships and so bring in resources (funding, volunteers) to the Center to make it financially and manpoweredly possible for us to help break the cycle of homelessness. I, obviously, manage fundraising events and tell the world about the Center and what we do here. Other members of the Development Team manage the volunteer system, write grants, manage the donations that we receive, and forge/maintain important connections around the community (and that's just a basic start).

At the last Thursday weekly Development Meeting, my coworker Adam (who, I've decided, is truly awesome) announced that he had started coming to work at 7 a.m. This is an hour and a half before most everyone else comes in, and it allows him to get done what he needs to get done before other people come to him with additional requests, so that when they do, he has his schedule freed up enough to do it and not feel overwhelmed by the day.

I thought this was a brilliant idea. Long, long ago I was a morning person. In high school I got up at 4:45 every morning (this was mostly due to the need of four people to use one bathroom). I used to love getting up before the sun rose, so that when it came up, I was ready to greet the new day. Then I went to college and developed this thing called a social life, which required rigorous post-midnight hours, and I stopped getting up in the morning whenever possible. Ever since, I have been trying to free my inner morning person, but with no impetus, it didn't happen.

But this coming in to work at seven was the spark I needed. First, I get to pretty much call my own hours. Which means that I am absolutely free to work 7-4. And four is a great time to leave. There are still a few hours of daylight left, you can do things like grocery shop, work out, and cook dinner and still be able to eat by six o'clock, not eight.

And you can get a handle on the day without the day having a handle on you. Most days I actually have to discipline myself to leave on time; it could easily become a twelve-hour day and I still wouldn't accomplish everything. So when you come in at nine with a list in mind of must-dos, and you already have three messages on your voicemail and ten e-mails asking you to do things, you feel a little violated by the day. You lose a sense of power. By coming in when normal people are waking up, you can neatly avoid all of that, so that when your phone rings and your inbox blinks, you're ready to up and at 'em.

So I started coming in at seven too. I supplied my office with coffee, an electric kettle, and a French press, the product of which I share liberally with Adam and his roommate and fellow co-worker Andrew, who also comes in early on occasion. (We are trying to market ourselves as the young, the driven, and the dedicated, and not the young who have no life outside work.) There's something about coming in while it's dark, turning on my computer, making coffee, diving into work, and having a few minutes to chat with people who appreciate my coffee that makes me bounce out of bed a little faster, and makes me a little more chipper, when the alarm goes off.

Sad, isn't it? One of the highlights of my day is making coffee for two twenty-something men (who both have girlfriends). On the other hand, it's casual, it's relaxed, it's friendly, and it's something to look forward to. My cat, darling as he is, can't appreciate my coffee. And I have, lately, been very much missing a people connection.

This is a fantastic place to work, and being dedicated to a common humanitarian mission, I think, draws us all together in ways other office jobs wouldn't. So in some respects, the people here are like family.

Plus we're here all the time. Driven and dedicated as we might be, we still don't really have lives. But don't tell anyone that.

Adjustments

Yesterday I bought three chick flicks. Aaaah! Why? Why?

Then I came to my senses and went to spend Valentine's Day at Club 23 with the fabulous MP and other (mostly) single grad students. Laughed our heads off. Toasted the day. Went home, slept late, came to work tired.

But when I left for work this morning everything smelled like the faintest beginning of spring, and the pale gray light of the overcast sky was somehow profoundly thrilling. I felt a stab of joy in the pit of my stomach and was so happy to be alive, here, in South Bend, in February, getting into my car alone.

Last week I realized I'm falling in love with South Bend. I couldn't tell you why. There are little things about it -- watching the snow drift like magic along charming Michigan Street in downtown South Bend, sitting in the funky Thyme of Grace cafe in downtown Mishawaka looking out the window on the old brick walls of the outdoor courtyard, driving home after work under a fiery, radiant, red-amber-gold Midwestern sunset where there is SO MUCH SKY and all the building tops of downtown glow like they've been set on fire -- that fill me with joy.

And that's what I've found here -- joy. A joy so fierce it stings my eyes. I love to love where I live, and it's been harder with South Bend than with Grove City -- Grove City was a basic extension of where I'd always lived, minus a Great Lake, while the lay of the Indiana landscape is nothing like where I'd lived before (although a Great Lake is half an hour's drive away -- not bad at all). So it's taken about a year and a half to adjust to the rolling flatness, the quick spurt of spring and autumn, the early sunsets, the extremes of temperature, and the endless slow winters.

I still feel something of an alien in regard to the people -- they're very different from my hardened, curt, abrupt Western Pennyslvania people whose tenderness and compassion are buried deep but all the stronger for the length of time it takes to reach them. Here, where a smile is a penny a hundred and inquiries of "How ARE you?" are more social niceties than actual questions (I'm figuring out that "How are you?" is roughly equivalent to "Hey"), I still feel like a stranger among the inhabitants, although I'm completely awed by their consciousness of and dedication to social need in the area. I'm privy to witness true philanthropy where I work, whereas most people in my birthplace tend to take care of their own, and only their own, and if you have no support system, you're pretty much screwed (but nearly everyone has a support system. The people I know are loyal to their blood family to the death or the last dime). So the people are still taking some getting used to, and I'm still figuring out where I fit in, who likes to smile at everyone but tends to eschew meaningless small talk wherever possible (I think I'm a blend of the places I've lived).

But the land I'm coming to love.

And thank God Valentine's Day is over. I didn't wear black, and I'm glad for my friends who have found someone to love who loves them in return, but it was rougher than I'd anticipated. And I don't like feeling weepy and lost; I like to feel positive and confident in God's provision and grace. And MP was there to laugh, and commiserate, and remind me of what I know to be true -- and of what I don't have to settle for. She's da bomb.

And it's clean, it's fresh, it's over -- the holidays that make me want to kill myself with loneliness are behind me, and spring is getting nearer. And I'm twenty-four. I knew twenty-four was going to be a good year. And it's been great.

and suddenly I was four years old

Yesterday, for whatever reason, was blah. Empty, miserable, bitter, sad. Call it Valentine's Day Eve Doldrums.

Here I am, twenty-four, with a great haircut and a big smile, with excellent cooking skills and a shiningly clean apartment, with energy and enthusiasm, intelligence and education, a sense of humor, a ready laugh, and a heart full of love for almost everything that exists, and I have only my much-beloved kitty to come home to, and only myself to cook for.

Most of the time I am fine with this, because I have been blessed with an enjoyment of my own company, and I have a support system of strong, close friends. And lately I've been devouring books at a pre-college rate, and feeling literarily fulfilled. I look on my life and I love it, I marvel at the miracle that has been carved out for me, I am fiercely glad and thankful for all that is mine.

But yesterday I was sad. I plodded through the day at work, crawled into my car, drove home, and dragged myself up the steps, thinking over and over, No one loves me. And my tiny mailbox was bulging open with one very large Valentine's Day card from my grandma, with "xoxoxo" printed across the top, and a funny letter and a ten dollar bill inside.

And I started crying. Some things grandmas can still fix. And everything felt cleaner, and better.

Chickeny Goodness

So in the past year I've turned into a fantabulous cook. This is quite an "ugly ducking" transformation, since I come from a long line of fantabulous cooks but never cooked anything besides scrambled eggs, boxed mac'n'cheese, Rice-a-Roni, and Ramen until my move to South Bend. Now suddenly I have about seven cookbooks and a passion for homemade, tasty food.

The only problem with fantabulous cookery is that I only cook for myself. I have no problem with settling on the couch with my latest gourmet meal and congratulating myself on the excellent taste while watching Sports Night, but let's be honest, it's far more rewarding to give than to receive, and half the fun of cooking is watching other people enjoy what you've made.

Plus I miss having sit-down meals with other human beings. Growing up, I had dinner with my family every night. Now I have dinner with my television while shooing away the cat with my foot. Do I feel socially fulfilled through my dinnertime experience? Hardly.

So after conferring with MP I decided to solve the problem by hosting a small dinner gathering this past Saturday at my home with our friends Joan, David (the Grover, as we call him, or, if he's under a lot of stress, Morose David), and Peter. I made my all-time favorite recipe handed down from my mother: creamed chicken over biscuits. MP supplied an excellent apple pie.

And everything was perfect. The food was great -- the five of us put away almost three batches of biscuits (which MP declared to have achieved Southern status!) and nearly all of the chicken; and the apple pie clinched this classically American meal. The company and conversation were deeply enjoyable as always, and Simon kept us entertained playing wildly with the plastic milk ring I had pulled off the jug just before making the biscuits.

I believe the consensus was to hold such events more often, on a rotating basis. It's certainly good for one's overall health to have a complete, homemade meal (well, almost complete...I forgot to make a vegetable, but nobody minded. In fact, when I said, "Oh! I forgot the veggie! Do you care?" everyone immediately said, "No!" Sorry, moms; some things we never outgrow) and interaction with other people while one eats. I for one felt entirely satisfied.

Here's to friends, food, and whole cut-up chicken, which is absurdly cheap. And here's to Simon, just for being abominably cute.

BYO Machete

This has nothing really to do with the hilarious (hiwawious) Emerald Nuts Superbowl commercial, although I would like to point out with MP that I want "Eagle-eyed Machete Enthusiasts Recognize A Little Druid Networking Under The Stairs" on a T-shirt. I laughed so hard I was producing dry, bronchial coughs afterward.

No, this post with "machete" in the title has to do with my apartment. In my little, limited square footage in the frozen wastelands of northern Indiana, there exists a jungle.

You might not notice it when you first set foot in the door. You might see a glimmer, a wave of green from the living room as you look down the hallway, but all in all the appearance is quite ordinary: A charming, old-fashioned apartment with a houseplant. Or two houseplants, if you look over your right shoulder into the dimly lit bathroom sporting a pothos on top of the cabinet. Nothing out of the ordinary.

But once you step into the kitchen, you might get an idea. A three-foot rubber plant guards the litterbox next to the refrigerator. A Christmas cactus droops quietly in front of the cookbooks. A nephthytis overshadows the napkins. An enormous dracaena brushes the bottom of the picture frame on the stand by your elbow. A pothos and another, weaker nephthytis loom from the top of the kitchen cupboards. A zebra plant rallies its spikes toward the bright, bare window opposite the sink.

Hm, you think. Well, kitchens are a good place for houseplants. It's bright. It's cheery.

Then you might turn around and peek into the bedroom. A young schefflera stretches toward the sun on the nightstand. A variety of sanseviera flourishes in stiff succulence on the dresser. A enormous cat palm and a stunted majesty palm bristle behind the door. A Janet Craig dracaena darkens the top of one bookcase.

Hm, you think. This woman may be a little odd. I think I'll retreat to the living room.

And that, my friend, is when you realize that you've left Kansas and landed somewhere in Malaysia.

Two huge palms and a thriving ficus dominate one corner. A lemon-lime dracaena and a jade top the entertainment center. A schefflera cutting lingers next to the coffee table. A three-foot "capella gold" schefflera glows under one window. A philodendron and a vast pothos trail from the tops of the bookcases. A cordyline adds a dash of purple to the top of the coffee table. And tucked away in the corner by the computer, a small rubber plant bravely sends up shiny new leaves.

Then you think, this woman is mad.

And you're right. As soon as I moved into my new apartment and fell in love with all the windows (I have two-directional light in every room but the bathroom -- my small, four-room apartment boasts eight windows), I began to cultivate my own rainforest. Call it the longing for a pet (B.C. -- before cat); call it the starvation to be surrounded by living things; call it the never-tamed love of the forest; call it what you will. But I have, to date, twenty-four houseplants, and nearly all of them have names.

I have high hopes for some of them. With proper care, Gregory the ficus could reach six feet (yes, my friends, it's a tree. They're going wild in Florida...fifty feet or more. You can't plant them outside anymore there; it's illegal). So could Cecil the "Capella Gold" schefflera and Maud the green schefflera. I'm defying odds with Sylvia the schefflera cutting (if you wonder why I love scheffleras, look them up, they're lovely -- they're also called Hawaiian umbrella trees), since they're supposed to be very difficult to propogate from stem cuttings. She's not thriving, but she's surviving. We'll see what happens. I've seen lemon-lime dracaenas and sansevieras reach enormous heights, so Cedric and Daniel have great potential.

And the best thing is, so far Simon has only eaten of Robbie the dracaena (whom I moved to a high place in the kitchen to discourage the gnawing. Robbie is my second-oldest plant and one of my favorites. I don't want that rotten feline to kill him); the rest he's left alone.

So yes, I'm crazy. But I probably have a high oxygen content in my living quarters (maybe this contributes to the crazy), and I definitely have the peace and tranquility one feels when one can look at lots of still, green, silently growing plants.

Watch out, though...I may turn into the plant lady from Minority Report and start growing plants that can attack at will, thus necessitating "Beware of Plant" signs on my property.

How awesome would that be?

How can I not share this with you?

Song

You're wondering if I'm lonely:
OK then, yes, I'm lonely
as a plan rides lonely and level
on its radio beam, aiming
across the Rockies
for the blue-strung aisles
of an airfield on the ocean

You want to ask, am I lonely?
Well, of course, lonely
as a woman driving across country
day after day, leaving behind
mile after mile
little towns she might have stopped
and lived and died in, lonely

If I'm lonely
it must be the loneliness
of waking first, of breathing
dawn's first cold breath on the city
of being the one awake
in a house wrapped in sleep

If I'm lonely
it's with the rowboat ice-fast on the shore
in the last red light of the year
that knows what it is, that knows it's neither
ice nor mud nor winter light
but wood, with a gift for burning

Adrienne Rich, 1971

The Tale of the Tall Interesting Gentleman

It was a dark and stormy night. Two bright, vivacious young women pulled up along the sidewalk in a sketchy neighborhood in front of their destination -- an old house undergoing renovation, designated by its portico festooned with twinkling lights. Uncertain what to expect, they entered the house...and fell through the rabbit-hole into the craziest party they had attended in South Bend. One of the bright, vivacious young women -- me -- came out with a folded paper in her pocket, on which was drawn, in green marker, a map to a Ukrainian Catholic Church, and, more importantly, a tall interesting gentleman's phone number.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am about to take you through the latest tale in my bizarre saga of frustrated possibilities.

I decided it would behoove me to wait till midweek to give this Tall Interesting Gentleman a call. As he had invited me to attend his church, and as I wanted a break from feeling like shit in Sunday School, I decided to take him up on his offer, both for the cultural experience of the Ukrainian Catholic Church (which, if I remember rightly, was Orthodox for awhile but in the 16somethings went back to Catholicism, preserving a lot of the original liturgical and artistic styles of the Orthodox church within itself) and for a chance to get to know him better. But I didn't want to call him about church on Monday and sound lame, so I thought I would call him on Thursday. Thursday's a good day. Close to the weekend, but with enough notice for him to include me in any weekend plans he might have, once I'd talked to him.

I was too inebriated to think to give this Tall Interesting Gentleman (TIG) my own phone number, and I was rather excited about the ball being in my court. Normally I discipline myself not to make the first move (the only times I have initiated anything turned out poorly, and the other times I almost initiated something I learned the guy in question was interested in/dating someone else, and for dignity's sake was glad I didn't actually get to initiate something), but in this case he was the one who'd given me his number, which counted, and I found myself terribly satisfied at the idea of calling him at my leisure, when I was ready to talk.

So Thursday rolled around, and I geared up my nerves, and dialed his number. (Actually I pressed the "Send" button on my cell phone, having saved his number into it.) I got all ready to say hello and go through the "I'm the Sarah you met last Friday at the party," when...he didn't answer.

I let it ring eight or nine times, thinking perhaps it was a home number, and then had to hang up so I didn't sound crazy, in case he was home and screening his calls. I was confused. I hadn't counted on this turn of events. In every scenario I had envisioned, he might have invited me out over the weekend, he might have agreed to come pick me up for church, he might have agreed to meet me at church, he might have invited me to brunch after church, but he always answered the phone. It didn't even occur to me to think that if I was ready to talk, he might not be.

MP suggested that as a grad student he might have been at an evening class when I called. So I decided to try him in the midafternoon on Friday. He didn't pick up his phone that time either, but it did go to the automated "The Nextel subscriber you are trying to reach is currently unavailable. Please try your call again later" message. So I learned that he had a cell phone, and that he didn't have voice mail.

Hm. Well, I thought, I'm not calling him again today. My number will show up on his phone, so hopefully he'll see that it's the same number as yesterday and call out of curiosity. But I also don't want to look like a psycho repeat-dialer. So I'll call him one more time on Saturday.

No answer then either. At that point I wondered if perhaps he had dropped his phone in the toilet, or run it over with a truck. It was a Saturday, for heaven's sake. So after a conference with MP, she said she wanted a break from her church too, so we decided to trek out together to the Ukrainian Catholic Church and see if we'd run into him.

Of course this all sounded much more noble when we were planning it. In our minds, there was no hint of the desperate "I'm so single and you're tall and interesting and good-looking and well-dressed and you listened to me rave about poetry and you were interested in what I had to say about 'Spring and All' and the slower, better seasons in Pennsylvania and you know how to take care of plants and since I can't get hold of you over the phone I'll collar you in church just in case there was a good reason for not answering my calls and because my curiosity is piqued" symptoms of the woman who has lived too long alone with nothing to do but watch TV; we wanted the cultural experience of the Ukrainian Catholic Church, and if the TIG happened to be there, so much the better.

So we went to the Ukrainian Catholic Church. And it was small and beautiful. The art is very Orthodox and richly colored and gilded. The liturgy is, except for the homily, the announcements, and one collective prayer, entirely sung. And the TIG wasn't there.

It's not like we missed him in the crowd; the crowd consisted of about twenty people. So we squeezed in next to this tiny old lady who was our Ukrainian Good Fairy for the entire Mass and walked us through the liturgy book and showed us when to stand and sit, and which refrains to sing, and asked us if we were baptized into the Catholic church, and when we said no, told us anyway how the Communion was served differently in this church than in the Roman Catholic tradition. She was sweet, and sharp, and adorable, and wonderful. And even though my vocal cords felt a little stretched after the service, I was glad for the cultural experience that I went.

But no TIG.

As we walked out of the church, I said to MP, "I think this is a SIGN FROM GOD." She laughed, and agreed, and I filed it away for my non-dating annals, and am now reporting it to you.

Although I did learn that the TIG is a part-time truck driver on some weekends. So maybe he was out of town; but that still doesn't explain why he doesn't have voice mail (you'd think that would be all the more incentive TO have voice mail). So regardless, I think perhaps he's a bit odd, and I'm not too worried about pursuing his cell phone any further.

At least I got a really cool Mass out of the deal.

And the bright, vivacious young woman resolved to laugh, and keep her chin up, and wait for the next adventure.

The End

TV love

So, difficult as the season has been with Fox airing it so sporadically, my love of House has grown. But tares of concern grew along with the love. With Sela Ward's character's placement at House's hospital, I feared the show would grow too soap-ish and focus too much on a "forbidden passion" instead of the amazing potential for nonsexual relationships between House and the members of his team. I want to see the father-son relationship between House and Chase, the mentor-learner relationship between House and Cameron (because she's the one who tries to make herself needed, but this time she needs him; oh and she's just turning into a really cool character this season), and the teacher-pupil-rival relationship between House and Foreman.

But what I had feared began to take place: too much House and Stacy. Oh no oh no, I thought. Why? Why, show?

BUT Leigh Ann told me that not only is the next new episode airing on the seventh, after nearly a month of absence, but that it is also Sela Ward's last episode.

I should have trusted my show.

Damn you, Billy Collins

Yesterday I went to Wal-Mart for the express purpose of purchasing Corpse Bride, which I had never seen but my faith in Tim Burton is so absolute that I knew it wouldn't matter (and my faith was well-placed). As I surveyed the display in the middle of the floor that sported several versions of Corpse Bride as well as every Pink Panther movie every made, a very cute little boy about the age of three wearing a red coat wandered up from somewhere and began to look at the movies too. I assumed his parents were somewhere nearby. He went in the same direction around the display that I intended to go, so I sort of followed him, being careful not to tromp on his little sneakered feet, and I appreciated the fact that this unusual kid wasn't screaming or clamoring or yelling or making a racket; he was just looking. As we rounded a corner of the display, I glanced up to see a man in his late thirties or early forties watching me with this soft expression, and with the kind of visceral shock you expect when you jump into a lake in April, I realized he thought the little boy was mine.

I guess it looked like a perfect mother-son scenario: This lovely well-dressed young woman sharing a quiet movie moment with her cute and well-behaved little boy.

Suddenly my very good day darkened considerably. I felt a little winded, not because the man was mistaken, but because he was understandably mistaken, and because a part of me that keeps very still and small most of the time leaped up and shouted, That child should be mine! I want a family! What are you waiting for?

I think this is really the first moment I can remember feeling like that. Sure, I've wanted a boyfriend, a fiance, a husband...but to be honest, I've never wanted a kid, except in the most abstract way. Especially after holding inconsolable, irritable, restless babies for nine months in PEDS and just wishing they'd shut up and go to sleep so I could quit holding them because they were driving me crazy, and thinking these thoughts might qualify me as "bad mother" for the time being, I firmly and with a great deal of relief kept the idea of children extraordinarily abstract, and very far in the future. But yesterday, seeing myself through a stranger's eyes with huge amounts of approval as a mother, I realized that the fit would be good, and that I do want children, not abstractly at all. (Not tomorrow, of course, but sooner rather than later.)

I waited till the boy's parents called for him, then bought my movie and walked out to my car in a sort of daze. I very nearly called MP to yell about it in a crazed-single way, because that's funny and tends to relieve angst and restore perspective, but instead I turned on the country radio station (bad idea) and drove home.

Later that evening, feeling rather Wm Had a Headachey and maudlin, I decided to cheer myself up with a few poems by Billy Collins, who in addition to being brilliant is nearly always funny. Instead I read a poem that made me cry with its sweetness. Here it is. (But afterward I watched Corpse Bride and was marvelously, macabrely comforted. What an exquisite creation.)

Love

The boy at the far end of the train car
kept looking behind him
as if he were afraid or expecting someone

and then she appeared in the glass door
of the forward car and he rose
and opened the door and let her in

and she entered the car carrying
a large black case
in the unmistakable shape of a cello.

She looked like an angel with a high forehead
and somber eyes and her hair
was tied up behind her neck with a black bow.

And because of all that,
he seemed a little awkward
in his happiness to see her,

whereas she was simply there,
perfectly existing as a creature
with a soft face who played the cello.

And the reason I am writing this
on the back of a manila envelope
now that they have left the train together

is to tell you that when she turned
to lift the large, delicate cello
onto the overhead rack,

I saw him looking up at her
and what she was doing
the way the eyes of saints are painted

when they are looking up at God
when he is doing something remarkable,
something that identifies him as God.