One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Elizabeth Bishop

stresssssss

I'm wondering if the stomach upsets I've been dealing with all weekend are actually the beginnings of an ulcer.

I'm pretty sure I had one in high school -- I was under constant, slow, elongated pressure from a variety of sources. My stomach hurt all the time, I felt constantly nauseous, and as if butterflies were leaping about with abandon every hour of the day.

It's starting to happen again. I'm hardly ever hungry. My stomach just HURTS.

Not surprising, I guess. I haven't undergone this level of stress in all the combined facets of my life in quite some time, and I've always been one to internalize.

I don't know how to lower the stress levels, though. Exercise more, I think -- which, surprisingly, I began to do voluntarily last week. Pray more. Eat sparingly (oh good, maybe I can start shedding those ten extra pounds). Sleep a lot. Try my hardest to relax whenever I'm not at work, since my hours at work are invariably crammed with stress.

Sometimes I feel a little trapped. MP asked me, a year and a half ago, what my ideal job was. "Quick, like a Rorschak -- don't think about it, just answer -- what's your ideal job?" Instant response: "Not to have one."

Right, that's doable. But all the things I love to do involve not having a job: writing, reading, nesting, cooking. That's real life to me. These just-to-pass-the-time jobs are wearing me out.

And since I have to provide for myself, my only hope is grad school, which is at least a year away.

As the author of Proverbs declares, "Hope deferred rots the bones."

Weekend pleasures...and pains...and ponderings

Apparently something at a departmental party for MP's program on Friday night yielded up a case of something-didn't-agree-with-me. I spent the majority of yesterday, especially into the evening and through the night, in a fog of ill-being and gastrointestinal anguish.

But yesterday was a lovely Saturday nonetheless. Rainy -- as it has been for most of September in the Bend -- but perfectly enjoyable. MP and I planned a short, simple trip to the Farmer's Market, and it wound up being something like this:

1. Go to the new branch of our credit union in downtown South Bend to take cash from the ATM for use at the Market.

2. Notice the little used bookstore that is never open with its doors...open. Go inside and poke around and find several interesting new acquisitions to bulk up our already crammed shelves (a delight for any book collector. I purchased an anthology of Kierkegaard; a translation of the Tao, including commentary, by Ursula K. LeGuin; a work by Pierre de Chardin, a Catholic priest exiled to the Far East by the Church for his espousal of human evolution, who is quoted extensively in Annie Dillard's For the Time Being; an anthology of American folklore, printed in wartime United States; and an updated version of Love Medicine -- the proprietor commented on my eclectic selections).

3. Drive to the Farmer's Market, getting outrageously lost in what ought to be, after two years, a familiar area of town. Buy lots of delightfully local, slightly unnecessary items such as Indiana- or Michigan-grown Cortland apples, Concord grapes, Provolone, and garlic.

4. Swing by Bamber's, a family-owned grocery store a stone's throw from the Market, which has on its shelves amazing and hard-to-find staples such as bulgur wheat, red lentils, and sherry vinegar (a requirement for the finer points of Spanish cooking), as well as amazing and hard-to-find luxuries such as spicy pickled beans, mini cloth bags for bouquets garni, and cooking twine. I then and there fell head-over-heels in love with small, privately owned businesses.

5. Drop MP off at her apartment so she can begin concocting her almost sinfully delicious spaghetti sauce, and zip up to Wal-Mart for everything I've been running out of lately, which almost put me in the poorhouse.

6. Lounge around for the remainder of the day, nursing my digestive tract.

I've also been pondering, a little, the predicament of Christian singles everywhere. It seems there are a plethora of young Christian women and a dearth of young Christian men, none of whom in much of any kind of ratio are dating each other.

It appears to be a double-edged sword (forgive the cliche). Plenty of the Christian women I know I wouldn't date if I were a man. MP realized yesterday, and I agree, that it's hard enough for us to find female Christian friends, let alone for Christian men to find dating partners -- in the two years we've lived in South Bend, we've only grown really close to one Christian woman. We're becoming better acquainted with a few more, but ironically we've met none of them through church. So for the first time I begin to sympathize with the male predicament. Most Christian men whom I have met through church are simply not friends with any women, and when I survey the available material, I don't much blame them. The girls seem to have impenetrable social walls around themselves, and even if they didn't, those girls and I have very little in common except our shared faith. What then, are the guys to do? Church, despite what our elders tell us, is not a good place to meet future mates.

For women either. I've only had one pseudo-dating experience with a man that I met in church, and he turned out to be much less than what I was looking for -- to be specific, he seemed to be strongly physically attracted to me, which I enjoyed, but ended up calling me only once every three or four weeks, and seemed to expect those few and far between appearances to light up my life.

The flip-side of the predicament for women in situations like mine is that I know a lot of guys, some non-Christian, mostly Christian (which is perhaps unusual, but we are talking about South Bend, Indiana). I count a lot of them as friends. The ratio of men whose company I enjoy actually outstrips the ratio of women whose company I enjoy, if we're talking about group environments. Why, then, is it so difficult to attract a date?

So the situation appears to run something like this: Christian men don't see the trees for the forest, and Christian women don't see the the forest for the trees. Men aren't finding any individuals to inspire their attention because the over-all scene is humdrum and they stop looking, while women get so fed up with the lackadaisical individuals they know that they write off the whole species.

What's the answer? My solution has been a resolution to spend less time losing my mind over the issue, and to spend more time out socially in groups, meeting people, getting to know acquaintances better, and deepening already good friendships, while continuing to cultivate excellence in my lifestyle, skills, and habits. The true frustration lies in the knowledge that in the end there's not much more I can do. I find myself growing virulent towards Christian men in a similar vein to my attitude toward men in general while at Grove City, and I would like to avoid that cutting persona a little -- I don't want to run everyone off.

Plus when it comes down to it (where did that most generic of phrases originate?), I truly have faith that I will find the person I've been seeking, and that no art or cunning or rage on my part will bring him along any faster. At the finale, it's all about the right person at the right time in the right place. There's mystery to it. And it won't be all that complicated when all the coordinates are in place; but I can't orchestrate those coordinates any more than I can pattern the stars. So my part, for now, is to wait, to be patient, to cultivate my talents and to grow in love and virtue, to enjoy all of my friendships, and to be content and really happy with my life as I pray for the future.

Besides, constant frustration gets to be exhausting. If there's nothing more I can be doing than what I listed above, it's futile to "throw effort after foolishness," as Spur says in The Man from Snowy River.

And yet there is a time to express frustration, to shout questions, to shake fists -- there's as much a season for trumpeting warnings from the roofs as there is for waiting for the dawn. So I'm certainly not going to give up thinking or writing about, or discussing, the problems among the Christian single population. For now I'm just tired, and coming off a period of deep despair, and I'd like to rest a bit from all the worrying. And I'm not that unhappy with being single, believe it or not.

Joy

I have begun reading Kierkegaard's Fear and Trembling, and I think it's going to change my life.

RCIA is going beautifully. This past Tuesday I met with Father Nate, the young and dynamic, intelligent and energetic priest who leads the group, to tell him my story and my background, which was excellent. (There's something so trustworthy about a priest. Maybe it's that Confessional privacy understanding, similar to doctor-patient privilege.) Last night we discussed Scripture, the origins and the importance of the Bible. The Bible-bred Protestants in the room rocked the conversation, and I learned a few nifty new things -- such as the books that were affirmed or ratified to the canon were books that had been found to be in use by Christian communities in extremely variant geographical locations across the known world. Neat. I was impressed by a young man in the class who was appalled at the misogyny inherent in the Gnostic gospel of Thomas (since were were talking a little bit about books that didn't make it into the canon). We talked about the beauty and truth and divine inspiration of Scripture, and its usefulness in drawing us to God.

Afterward Joan and I went to Fiddler's for tea with a couple she knows from the grad school, and whom I met through RCIA. They're wonderful, intellectual, knowledgeable about Scripture, and passionate about the faith. He is Catholic, she is not, but is drawn to it the way I am. Immediately following RCIA they turned and invited me to a grad student Bible study that meets on Wednesday nights. "Some people don't like it because it's a bunch of grad students, and it's 'brainy,'" Heather said, and then laughed. "But you strike me as the kind of person who would like that."

So once Bones switches to Friday nights (DOOOM! DOOOM! Is Fox TRYING to kill my favorite show?), I'll be able to attend this excellent study. They're currently going through 1 Peter, which is a book I'd like to study, as I have a dicey relationship with it. (And lest you think me either shallow or too incompetent to manage the VCR, I will add the caveat that I watch Bones while on the phone with Leigh Ann -- it's our once-a-week show night. Geeky, absolutely, but familial and fun, because we're 600 miles away from each other and have always loved watching movies and shows together -- even though this season the network here is out of sync with the exact timing over there. Grrrr.)

And on Sundays I've been regularly attending Mass with friends.

Kids, this is what I've always wanted from religious community life. Assurance of God's love, beauty, challenge, truth, and most of all peace from the services; people to attend with; new friends; people to socialize with outside of church; encouragement in the mystery of faith; and intellectual stimulation. I am experiencing a joy that I had given up finding. I actually look forward to Sunday. I spend all week in anticipation of RCIA on Thursday. I feel incredibly free, to say what I'm really thinking, to ask my questions, and to respond to discussion questions. That's the whole point -- to explore, to learn, to ask tough questions, and to freely choose whether or not to be Catholic.

Plus I love this one thing: the option of going to Mass at 5:00 on Saturday, or 5:00 on Sunday evening.

Mmm, and September brings with it the delight of apples, and of grapes. I think I'm going to have to drag Meg and Phillip somewhere up in Michigan to smell the grapes. Sometimes something in my brain fires the remembered scent into my nose and makes my throat glands tingle.

the gilded month

I KNEW September was going to be glorious. I felt it in my weary bones. When I turn twenty-five, I thought, things will start looking up.

And oh, they are.

A slightly constricted social schedule is blossoming outward. Already good friendships are deepening into a refreshing, relaxed, familial closeness. My need to retreat from all of humanity has abated, as has my distaste for sitting in silence. My house is astonishingly clean. I'm happy to wake up in the mornings. I'm slightly more motivated to cook.

I'm getting my life back.

Having MP for a neighbor is completely marvelous -- we spent most of last year yelling, "Why do you live so far away?!" and now it's a hop, skip and a jump down the alley for some riotous fun and listening to her landlord doing shotput in his apartment above her.

The job is up and down -- with the stress, chaos and insanity that revolves around the practice of law, there are many days when I think I'm about to yield up my last shred of mental stamina to the four winds; those days are even worse in combination with the depression and recuperation from the stress of the summer. Yet there are others, like today, where I feel productive and more or less on top of things. My bosses are consistently supportive, corrective, and concerned with my wellbeing, while expecting monumental things of me. It's a challenge I haven't had in awhile.

Grad school plans are progessing apace, insofar as I'm further resolved to go. I miss my long vacations and the ability to skip class. I miss the learning environment and the (slightly) gentler pace. I miss having the time and space to focus on writing.

Then last night MP and I went for Chinese and met the new Victor Lee. He asked us all about our academic/professional lives, was duly impressed by our responses, and heaped a take-out box with free crab rangoon while we waited for our order...and, ladies and gentlemen, crab rangoon is my favorite. I had been on the verge of ordering that instead of the egg rolls and egg drop soup, but some little conviction clamped down on my soul and told me to order the egg rolls and soup instead. So I got to have it all. (And isn't that what everybody wants?)

Now with a few new promising possibilities on the near horizon, and with anticipations of a ROAD TRIP to Grove City in three weeks, I find myself, for the first time in months, simply and purely happy to be alive.

How to Make Hummus

Ingredients:

1 15-oz. can garbanzo beans (chick peas)
2 cloves garlic, crushed
4 Tb tahini (Greek paste of ground sesame seeds, available in the ethnic section of most grocery stores)
6 Tb lemon juice
4+ Tb extra virgin olive oil
1 tsp ground cumin
salt and ground black pepper, to taste

Directions:

1. Drain the liquid from the beans into a bowl and set aside.
2. In a blender or food processor, preferably one from 1978 (those things never die and are always at top performance), process the drained beans into a smooth, stiff paste, using the liquid sparingly as necessary. Discard remaining liquid.
3. In a bowl, combine the garlic, tahini and lemon juice. Pour over the beans in the processor.
4. Mix.
5. Listen to sudden, strange thumps coming from the other side of your apartment. Step into the hall to listen -- it sounds like something sliding, dragging, and thudding, but it's not your neighbor in the entryway outside your door. Listen to your cat growl from your bedroom window. With your heart in your throat, tiptoe to the bedroom expecting to see a head in your window.
6. AAAAAH! There's a head in your window! Swallow your heart. Notice that the head is furry and not human. Walk toward your bristling cat in the windowsill and wonder aloud how a cat got on the roof. Notice that the head is the wrong shape for a cat. Conclude, correctly, that it is a raccoon. A dirty, round raccoon slapping at the screen and upsetting your cat.
7. Pull your cat away from the windowsill with terrors of rabies in your soul. Let curiosity get the better of you and stick your head against the screen to see the raccoon retreated further up the roof. Cluck and chirrup at it until it crawls down to see what you are. Watch it scramble away when it catches your human scent.
8. Shut the window and wonder if this accounts for your cat's odd behavior lately. Feel a little less secure in the supremacy of your human dominion. Realize that the wild is everywhere...just a millimeter past your screen. A house is in itself insufficient protection. Feel a little creeped out by the ambiguous voyeur-robber tendencies of raccoons.
9. Keep an eye on your cat and watch the raccoon come back to the window and put its face right against the screen. Watch your cat leap nervously away from the window. Reach out and bang the glass with the flat of your hand and crack the brittle windowpane. Resolve to call your landlord about replacing the window, which in all fairness has been cracked since you moved in.
10. Return to the kitchen. Vow to take your cat to the vet as soon as possible for renewed shots.
11. Add olive oil to contents of blender, a little at a time, until the paste loses its stiffness and achieves a smooth, semi-solid consistency.
12. Add seasoning. Mix. Season further to taste.
13. Scrape hummus into a bowl, cover, and refrigerate until needed. Serve with pita.

I'm insured!

Massive celebration ensues.

Early autumn

I have a positive love affair with September. I love the cooling off, the slight change in leaves, the dying freshness to the air, the slight tang of vinegar that precedes falling apples. One of my favorite Saturday autumn activities is loitering in my apartment looking out the windows with a candle burning in the background while I attend to the basic chores of housecleaning.

I cleaned out my refrigerator today, which wasn't as terrifying as I thought it would be, and am now gearing up to swab the deck from stem to stern.

MP and I have begun, with our friends Joan, David, and Peter, to have Sunday night dinner. It inadvertently began last week with a casual invitation from MP to enjoy a simple (simple?) meal of spaghetti with mussels around her table.

Sundays are usually bittersweet, the dregs of the weekend and the brewing of unpleasant anticipations of weekday duties. Last Sunday I found, to my utmost delight, that a sit-down meal in the relaxed company of good friends, just before the close of the evening, almost obliterated the doldrums. There was good food, good conversation, and a smattering of football. Lovely.

So this week I'm hosting, and in celebration of the cooler weather I think I'll make this excellent garlic and chickpea soup I found in a couple of my cookbooks. It will also be a lovely opportunity to use my new red dishes (which are just enough of a deep pink shade to complement the dishes I already have, which is excellent for dinner parties, since the new dishes only seat four).

Recovery from my black Monday has been slow, but a fun party last night at Joan's helped top off the week, and a lot of sleep did some good as well.

It's no fun sometimes to realize that a chemical imbalance that I was born with will cause bad episodes, regardless of medication, three or four times a year for the rest of my life. I mean, how marketable is that? "Hi, attractive man. I'm slightly insane and for perhaps four days out of the year I will turn into a sobbing, hysterical lunatic for no discernable reason, which will draw out into a full week of dazed exhaustion before I recover what you and I know as my personality. So how about dinner next Saturday?"

When I have a bad day I can't disguise it. I spent all of Monday going about my normal work duties crying -- just like the mother in About a Boy. I couldn't stop. What am I going to do when I have a family, so that I don't scare the bejeebers out of my kids and wear out my husband? My boss's wife has had similar difficulties, and she takes care of it by going away by herself for a weekend, which may be necessary but I'm afraid it will freak the kids out, Ya-Ya Sisterhood style. Or I could try to make sure I live close enough to one set of grandparents to pack up the kids for the weekend, so they'd have some fun while I get some rest.

I know I'm putting the cart a bit before the horse. I don't even have a boyfriend. But I like to have strategies, plans, so that the bad head days don't catch me unprepared. I guess another problem too is that when times like these roll around, I can't be strong. I can barely keep myself together. I'm always strong; I've always been. But these things completely break me down.

I suppose they're a blessing, in a way. That thorn in the side which I've begged to have taken away, but which shatter me to the point where I don't have to be strong, because I can't; and in those moments I'm able, in ways I'm usually not, to rely more heavily on the love of Christ. The last episode I had, Scripture verses yanked out of my memory at random were all that saved me; this time it was prayer.

I would rather not suffer. But if I must, at least I can know it's going to produce something good. And I confess that I look forward to the day when I can lay my head on someone's shoulder and have a pair of human arms around me. No one can fix me, but human touch does so much to heal. In the meantime there are my friends, there are candles and tea and fuzzy slippers and hot baths and George Winston, and there is Simon in all his sweetness. And there is God, who suffers alongside me and who "daily bears my burdens" (Psalm 68). And for the time being, it's enough.

birthday-presents

Early this morning I put in a call to my very good friend MP, and before going about our usual business of the day we went, in spite of the torrents of rain, for a saunter along the egg-smelling banks of the St. Joe River which borders our neighborhood. It was the perfect weather for a slicker with a hood, and galoshes. (I never get to wear my galoshes, so I was excited. I feel like I'm four when I put them on. And it makes puddle-stomping so much drier.)

As we laughed and I poked around the usual debris looking for odd trinkets to decorate my apartment (I already have a few twisted spoons, small medicine bottles, bits of colored glass and broken Delftware, and a big old eaten-away brick that says "BRAZIL" on it -- which fell on Adam's foot when he helped me put in my air conditioners early in the summer), MP's eyes were caught by a yellow glitter under a rock in the water.

She edged out on a pile of flotsam, bent down, and pulled out a ring. A simple, plain band that looked almost a little too bright in the gray cast of the day. I picked my way over the rocks, cans, and tree branches to crouch over her shoulder and get a better look.

I really wanted it. I asked her if I could have it; she said no.

"But it's my birthday! I want it!" I said in tones of great injury.

"I already got you something from Italy! I found it and I get to keep it!"

But I couldn't let her have it. I needed that ring. So I knocked her down and took it. (Yes, I know. I'm a terrible friend. But I'll be making dinner on Sunday, so that should make up for it.)

Suddenly my career plans are changing drastically. I find that, instead of the legal field, or even grad school for writing or English lit, I want to spend the next five hundred years in a black cave so deep no one's discovered it yet, eating raw fish.

Strange thing, though. I've been wearing the ring since this morning, and no one seems to know I'm here.

Also, I got my period this morning. Hello, cramps. Thank you for your many happy returns.

the crash

I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later, with everything that's been going on the past six months. Depression hit me hard in April, I got myself back on meds, and managed to get by.

But that's not working anymore. Granted, I rather stupidly ran out of my antidepressants in the middle of last week without refilling them till yesterday, and that caused some nasty side effects -- mild shakiness, poor sleep, nausea, headaches, nervousness -- but today I'm in bad shape. I can barely concentrate on anything, and I feel a breakdown on the rise.

Thank God my new insurance kicks in on Friday. It's time to check myself back into therapy. I feel inadequate to deal with life at the moment, and it makes me tired and blank and helpless. It's like I'm living in this engulfing void of general ill-being.

Depression is hard to explain sometimes. "But what do you have to be depressed about?" I've been asked. "You're beautiful, engaging, intelligent, and you have a good job. You're making it!" Well, I've responded, your circumstances, however positive, don't matter, because this chemical in your brain makes it impossible for you to feel happy, and the bad circumstances seem worse because of it. You don't want to die, but you don't want to live either, because every waking moment is filled, not exactly with pain, but with a black sense of dull horror. Your mind feels dark ("If, then, the light within you is darkness, how great is that darkness!"). The past and present are restlessly upsetting, and the future unendurable. You feel that even the basic aspects of daily living require an atlasian effort beyond your capacity. You doubt your fortitude. You drag through each day just wanting to go home, but are afraid of those moments when you will finally be alone. You want to curl up into a fetal ball and sleep, but sleep comes fitfully and the dreams are awful -- fatalistic fulfillments of all your nagging terrors, or wild fulfillments of your dearest and most impossible wishes.

I'm also wondering if this antidepressant is the best one to be on. My boss's wife has recommended a physician who is excellent with psychiatric drugs, and a psychologist.

It is said that all artists are to some extent tortured, that it comes with the territory, that is it inevitable. I'd like to say I'd rather not be an artist, or be only a mediocre one, and just be okay. But really I want to be an artist AND be okay. Being okay, however, is top priority.

Something's gotta give. God has always been faithful, and always will be. I need to hold to the good with everything I have and have left, and get some qualified help, STAT (as in next week).

I Sing of the Saigon Market

One true gem has arisen from the panned rocks and soot of the summer: the local Asian supermarket.

The Saigon Market sits quietly adjacent to the Oyster Bar, just down from the Fiddler's and well set back from the street, and so I've often regarded it in my time here -- mostly while trying to situate my car outside the crowded Fiddler's and cursing the Saigon's intensely threatening parking signs which promise towing, misery, and death to anyone other than a Saigon Market customer who dares breach the gate.

But toward the end of the summer, dying of boredom and stress and hankering for something recklessly new, I decided to crack open the Japanese cookbook I had purchased sometime in the spring (and if you think I'm being facetious, you don't know my quivering eagerness to master world cuisines, or Japanese cookbooks). After hunting through the glossary and the 100-page introduction deciphering the ingredients, I elected to make miso soup and, armed with a shopping list, exultantly parked in the forbidden lot and walked into the store.

It had a distinctive, and not unpleasant, smell. Odors of fish and fish powders, seaweeds, and other scents unidentifiable to the ignorant Western nose clamored for my attention. I wandered through the three small aisles staring at the produce and trying to figure out which of the twenty-five varieties of dried seaweed appeared on my list, especially since most of the packaging was labeled in characters which, sadly, I have yet to learn.

Finally I shyly approached a manager and asked for help. The Market appears to be run by a family, and all of them are friendly and expert, and grant Western shoppers the kind courtesy of not speaking in front of them in their language (someday I will learn an Asian language. Someday. And I am grateful for the courtesy because once at a gas station, the cashier, a man not a native English speaker, said something to me in his language which sounded extremely unkind. From his tone and the contemptuous way he looked me over I conjectured it was about my gender, and it wasn't even so much lewd as simply nasty. What I would have given to have been able to answer him back). The manager was quick to find me substitutes for the ingredients he didn't have, showed me the locations of the refrigerated tofu and miso, helped me select the correct varieties, and wished me a pleasant day.

The girl at the register seemed to find me mildly, though cutely, insane for making miso soup from scratch when there are plenty of instant varieties in a bin; that's when I began to get the impression that I really am a psycho cook, even by the standards of other cultures.

But truly best about this lovely Market (and I didn't even mention the fresh and frozen produce yet! Enormous varieties of seafood -- fish, squid, eels, shrimp -- and knobs of root ginger the size of your head) is the spice aisle. Half a pound of ground cumin for a dollar-fifty. Half a pound of fennel seeds for a dollar-fifty-nine. Five ounces whole coriander seeds for eighty-nine cents. My friends, two OUNCES of fennel seeds at the local grocery store cost nearly five dollars. Whole coriander is nearly impossible to find. And the quality is wonderful. I used the fennel and coriander in an olive marinade for MP's birthday party last Saturday, and it was scrumdiddlyumptious.

So I usually walk out of the market with the euphoric conviction that I've legally stolen something. And what a lovely hoard of spices I have nesting on top of the fridge!

So if you're worried about spice stocking (which can be dismally expensive), check out your local Asian market...chances are you'll get away with some glorious deals, and you can peruse the awesome candy.

What am I doing?

I think maybe I'm tired and dragging, partly through lack of sleep (because when I'm mentally or emotionally worked up about something, or somethings, I keep myself up to all hours to exhaust myself beyond dreaming or the ability to think about it, which is not exactly helpful to maintaining perspective), partly from the long slow convalescence from the summer, and partly through reeling about a number of decisions I will be making in the next few months.

Here are two:

1. I'm enrolling in an RCIA program on Thursday to consider becoming Catholic. It's a decision I've been kicking around for about three years now, and I've taken the research and the questions as far as I can on my own; it's time to take the official class and learn about it more in detail. Obviously it's a big decision, but I will have time to consider all aspects carefully, and choose. I can back out even up to just before Confirmation, which is the week before Easter. Sometimes I feel certain and peaceful about becoming Catholic, and sometimes I'm terrified and doubtful. But I'll never know if I balk further, so it's time to push forward. I've never really found satisfaction from the evangelical churches I've attended, I prefer the Catholic approach to ministry, and I love the Eucharist. I enjoy Mass. So I need to see. I need to know.

2. I'm going to be applying to grad school again. No matter how nice a job is, it's not ultimately what I want. As MP says, I've been "getting by." And getting by is fine for a time, but not forever; I have, to be cliche, big dreams, and eking out an existence working various office jobs is not fulfilling either the dreams or my sense of purpose.

So the current plan is to take the GRE generals again in November, thus giving me two months to study so that (this time) the results won't be embarrassing, and begin to compile writing samples and recommendations. I'll be going primarily for an MFA in Creative Writing this time, since when I boil down my aspirations, writing is at the heart, and I don't have the space or time to dedicate to my writing while I'm also holding down a full-time job. Naturally I'm applying to Notre Dame (although they only accept 10 writers per year), but I'll be canvassing other universities and I'll also keep my eyes peeled for a good English literature program here and there.

This gives my intention to visit GCC for Homecoming an added purpose: To drop off writing samples to favorite profs and so get better recommendation letters and to run around collecting transcripts. Oo, I'll also be buying, at long last, a Grove City hoodie. I can't believe I've never bought one. I need one.

So, if other things aren't working out the way I want them to -- and there have been a lot of disappointments this year -- I can at least keep my mind fixed on the greater purpose: changing the world through writing. And right now the next step up the marble staircase is academia. I've had my chance to roll up my sleeves and work it out in "the real world"; and now I need to push the cuffs back up over my elbows and start in on my destiny. I'm tired of just getting by.

Hmmm

Also! Yesterday I received a voicemail from The Absent Landlord informing me of a walk-through in my apartment for an appraisal.

I inquired of my boss's wife as to what that might mean. She said either he's selling or applying for a home equity loan to make improvements on the house.

Either one would be welcome. The yard is in a general state of gone-to-seed, the shingles are rippling all over the roof, the gutters are sprouting trees, and the windows are cracked.

Plus, there's the question of heating for the winter (since colder weather is imminent): Last year, freaking out about gas costs, The Absent Landlord declared that he was converting us to electric heat. Okay, we said, thinking he meant to change the central heating from gas to electric.

But no. He essentially shut off the gas and brought us space heaters. As many as we wanted, he said.

Well, Mr. Landlord, how many house fires would you like this winter? I'll have heaters in direct proportion. Thank you.

Besides the fire hazard (because an older heater that I had from college, and which I was using to heat the bathroom, caught on fire one winter morning this year as I stepped out of the shower, making fire more than a statistical probability), it's simply illegal to cut off a tenant's heat.

Now, I and my fellow tenants are more than prepared to fight for central heating this winter. We don't care if it's electric, as long as it's central. But it would, perhaps, be really nice if we had a landlord or landlady for whom such a circumstance is not an issue.

Either way, we win.

the winds of change?

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages...

Today just outside the office I found, not one, not two, not three, no, not even four, but FIVE four-leaf clovers.

I never find four-leaf clovers.

Perhaps my luck is about to change. And God, will it be welcome. I turn twenty-five in just under two weeks, and I just want this year, this twenty-four, to roll under and be done. I need a fresh start.