Unknown knowns

I took an impromptu trip home this weekend to see Henley's vet, and while the rental car fee and extra 12+ hours in a car with an incontinent and therefore restless puppy were not ideal, I chose to look at the bright side: Extra time with my family and extra time outside. An unexpected but welcome pit stop, if you will. 

We watched old home movies that I haven't seen in more than a decade, and I still haven't shaken the experience of seeing my memories come to life on the screen. It was exactly how I remembered my family and my childhood, and it was also, at once, so very, very different.

On screen, my mom was nurturing and selfless, my dad was doting and funny, my baby brother was curious and sweet--I expected all of that. I was joyful and moody and sassy and shy, depending on the moment--no surprise there. All of that I know, all of that I carry with me as part of my roots. That was the home and family I know and cherish.

I can't really put a finger on how it was different than I expected. Maybe the word I'm looking for is surreal. Maybe it was just the mind-warp that my mom was three years younger than I am now in some of the tapes. Maybe it was recognizing some of the ways, even then, she was shaping me to be a confident, caring, curious person--the way she was bringing out the Bobbi in me even then--and the ways my life has turned out different from and similar to hers so far. Maybe it was seeing my dad back when lifting my brother above his head was no big thing. Maybe it was seeing loved ones we've lost come back to life with a bear-hug you can almost feel or a familiar laugh that moves you to tears. Maybe it was recognizing a neediness in myself on screen that I still carry with me, even though I've worked so hard to outgrow and shake it.

Maybe what's most surprising is that what was on the screen--the truth--brings into focus my memories, which are subjective, fuzzy, molded by other realities, tainted by ego and hope and growth and...life. Seeing the then right next to the now makes it all so clear that it's almost jarring. And it's disorienting because that's not how life is, all linear and sense-making and clear.

It's funny, but on the drive home all I could think about was the Iraq briefing that Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld gave the year I graduated high school:

Reports that say that something hasn't happened are always interesting to me, because as we know, there are known knowns; there are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns--the ones we don't know we don't know. And if one looks throughout the history of our country and other free countries, it is the latter category that tend to be the difficult ones.

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While I was home, I had two conversations, one with family, one with friends, in which the people I was talking to gently pointed out that what I was feeling wasn't necessarily the truth. Or the whole truth, really. That perhaps I had decided that something was true without considering the other true things that affected or even contradicted it. Both conversations eventually led to this: We do the best with what we know right now, and we learn, and eventually we'll know what the right choice is.

I realize this is very vague and abstract and probably hard to follow, but what I am trying to say is that known knowns--when what we feel matches up perfectly with what is actually happening--are very rare. It happens usually in retrospect and after a lot of reflection. More often we live in a state of known unknowns (the state of acceptance I've been cultivating and sharing on this blog for years--knowing that there are some things we don't yet know), and unknown unknowns--things we can't see about ourselves or our lives when they are happening, things we can only see when we watch them, on video or in our mind, twenty years later. Things we might never know.

But what I think Secretary Rumsfeld forgot, because maybe it can only be true of people and not of an entire country, is that we very often have unknown knowns, things that we feel and don't need to verify with facts, things that don't need validation or context because they make intuitive sense, things that are a reality simply because we feel them so intensely. I think those are the most difficult, because they are hard to articulate, hard to communicate, hard to convince others of.

But even if they don't last, even if they are only part of the picture, even if they are eventually debunked by other truths, unknown knowns have their place, their worth, their weight in our lives. Sometimes unknown knowns are enough. 

I'm sure of it. At least for right now.

Woots and Rings: All mixed up

It's been another whirlwind month. Back-to-back weekends with visitors from home, a weekend visiting a close friend in Denver, followed by a flurry of activities with Chicago friends. 

I took a train through every stop along the roots and wings spectrum, soaked up some love in each station, and Choo Choo! Last stop: My couch.

Another love hangover? I don't know, I just know my roots and my wings are so mixed up right now that I can't tell one from the other. I don't know where I'm going, and I don't know where I've been, exactly. I just know I am right here, feeling all the feelings, contemplating all of the contemplations, surrounded by a lot of people who love me the very best way they know how.

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A recent conversation with my mom can be summed up in two of her responses:

"You know, Bobbi, you're able to articulate things that are hard for others to even know they're feeling."

"You're strangely good at compartmentalizing."

Um. Yeah. Yep. Leave it to Mom. There it is. I am complicated. And really uncomfortable when things aren't in their assigned boxes.

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But I am also very grateful. For the roots in my life who recently gave me unexpected pep talks for growth. For the wings in my life who recently grounded me when I was flailing.

For the silver, for the gold, and for the people and situations who escape the boxes but unfailingly deliver the most important lessons.

Over-joyed, Over-loved

The last week has been a whirlwind. A concert road-trip, afternoon patio-ing with my Chicago girls, bar-hopping with a stranger, celebrating a dear friend's 30th birthday, exploring Chicago with another dear friend and her awesome boyfriend, and to wrap it all up a hilariously wonderful night of celebrating a 28th birthday that brought together friends old, new, and brand new and ended with an intense game of Rummy 500.

Life is good. Exactly how it should be. Exactly what I asked the universe for.

Every time this happens I'm reminded of an old Jason Mraz song and my heart just bursts from all the love in my life:

And I'm, I'm over-joyed
And I'm, I'm over-loved
And I'm feeling lucky like a little boy, who's just...
Who's hiding under cover
And looking to discover
Every way to play the part inside this darkened cave
The meaning of life, well it starts at the nightlight
Close your eyes and I hope you see mine -Jason Mraz, 1000 Things

In particular, being around my friend Alicia, who passed through Chicago this weekend, inspires me to look for the good in life. Her presence made me feel confident about my life trajectory and my capabilities as a friend, lover, writer, human. That feeling of confidence makes me thirsty for what's to come--and more ambitious about creating a life that I love.

The trouble is, with me, for every yin, there must be a yang, and I've spent the rest of the week in an overtired, emotional funk. A love hangover? I'm not sure, but I've been curled up in bed a lot, relying on my comfort regimen of tea and clean sheets, perusing Pinterest for inspiration.

Here are a few gems I found, in case you're craving inspiration, too.

 Source

 

 

 A gorgeous reminder--this was my favorite poem in 7th grade.

 

This made me smile so much that I printed it out for my fridge.

 

Embrace it.

 

 

 

 

Tree Pose

The other night, my yoga instructor asked everyone to get into tree pose--balanced on one foot, with the sole of the other foot propped up on your grounded leg, in a sort of triangle, like so:

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We were practicing balance, spending several minutes on each leg. "Notice when you shift," she said. "And you will shift. Being grounded takes practice."

She told us to pick a spot in the room to help us focus. A white room with mirrors doesn't give you a lot of options, so I chose a word on the shirt of a girl in front of me. The girl was a rock star, firmly planted on her right leg. I cringed with unwelcome jealousy, as the weakness in my right quad from my back injury had me swaying back and forth.

"Switch slowly to your left," the instructor said. "It will feel different on each leg, and that's normal. The goal here is not perfection, but to learn to trust yourselves for longer periods of time."

I shifted my weight onto my left leg, and focused on the same spot on the girl's shirt. This time, the girl faltered every so often, her right foot falling to the ground over and over. Every time she moved, I moved. Finally, I moved my gaze from the girl's shirt to my face in the mirror. I gave myself my best "I'm being serious because I'm in yoga class face" and, miraculously, remained steady for the rest of the pose.

The tree pose is a balance pose incorporating three lines of energy, emitting from the centre outwards. One line proceeds down the straight leg, one line extends up the spine and out the fingertips, and the third moves outward through the bent knee. --Yoga.org.nz

Sometimes I forget that roots are not external. They are not a place. They are not other people. They are not even necessarily memories or beliefs or traditions.

They are the anchors deep inside of you that help you stand tall and afford you balance, that help you weather the external storms. The voice that endures any and all criticism or opinion, the parts that remain when your leaves are blown away. You may need water and sunlight to grow branches, but with practice you can also strengthen the part of you that sustains, no matter what. 

Blowing in the Wind

It's pretty fitting that it was a comment from my dad that led me to write my 30-before-30 list and it was also a comment from my dad that led me to abandon it.

My mom is irreplaceable because she'll spend hours wading in the minutiae with me, discussing and analyzing and looking at the Subject of the Day from every angle. My dad is irreplaceable because he'll come in, without ever hearing 95% of the minutiae, and spit some truth so potent I often wonder if he was eavesdropping the entire time. (He wasn't--he was watching NASCAR in the other room.)

On the way out to camp to learn to shoot over Christmas, my dad mentioned a conversation he'd had with a family friend, who had asked about my life in Chicago: Was I dating? Would I stay there? What was to become of my future?

That last question obviously wasn't verbatim, but tells you a little bit about the tone of this inquiry. Just enough 'concern' to make you wonder what questions weren't being asked: Wasn't I going to settle down? Who would take care of me?

I'm almost 30. I'm single. I'm a writer by trade. In the non-profit sector. And I'm selling my house. I'm basically blowing in the wind. In some parts, that's cause for concern, a life trajectory unknown. Some folks are not so comfortable with that.

 

Emily McDowell is a greeting card genius.



My dad's answer astounded me.

"We don't worry about Bobbi," he said. "She is going to do what makes her happy. She's not going to get married just to be married. She's going to pursue happiness, and whether that's living alone in an apartment in the city with her dog, or moving to a different country, we're happy for her and will help in any way we can. She's not ever going to settle. And if she's happy, we're happy."

We don't worry about Bobbi.

You know this kills me, right to my core. Not because I want them to worry. Not because I think they don't care, or aren't interested in every twist and turn. And definitely not because I think they've given up on me.

It kills me because it is a simple, prideful statement, one that both of my parents have felt for longer than I could imagine. They believe in me. They don't doubt I'll get the life I want...whatever that looks like. They don't worry when I don't know what it looks like. They trust me when I do.

I've already made them proud. They're just happy I'm pursuing. I am who I am because they encouraged me, and I've already delivered on their dreams for me: the relentless, stubborn, ardent pursuit of what makes me happy.

And they're very good with the reminders. Each year, my mom picks out the perfect Valentine's Day card, painstakingly crossing out each single pronoun and replacing it: We love you, You make us so proud, Happy Valentine's day to you from us. This year, before signing "Love, Mom and Dad", my mom wrote:

"We've said it a thousand times and we'll say it again. We're so proud of you. Keep finding your path in life, and you'll always have family at home to support you."

Keep finding your path.

 

Looking at what remains on my list, I'm no longer in any rush.

I'd like to have my own kayak, someday.

I'll visit my 6th (and 7th, and 8th, and so on) country, someday.

I'm going to rock the shit out of some Jewel on the guitar, someday.

I'll be completely out of debt, someday.

I don't have any doubts about it. I'm not worried about Bobbi. I'm finding my path.

Settling, The Good Kind

After almost seven months without 85% of my belongings, I will be moving into a permanent apartment this weekend (!!!!!!!). Since I'm moving on a holiday weekend, I got the keys a little bit early and did a walk through yesterday after work. I met the maintenance guy, who showed me in and gave me the run-down. 

When he left, I thanked him, shut the door, sat in the middle of my new living room floor, and promptly bawled my eyes out.

I wiped snot from my nose and felt ridiculous and childish--but also relieved. Because of the quick turnaround time of my move and because it's damn near impossible to find apartments that allow dogs the size of small horses, I took a four-month furnished sublet that turned into a seven-month furnished sublet, arriving with one Jeep-load of belongings. In the recent months, I have been ashamed by how much living in a sublet with other people's things was wearing on me. Every time I mentioned it to anyone, they'd shrug and say something like, "Yeah, but you have everything you need, right? What's missing?"

Which sounded rational, sure. After all, I've had a *furnished* apartment--a really nice one, actually. I've had a place to stretch after my runs, and a hot shower to use after yoga class. I've had a place for Henley to look out the window, and even an alley contained enough to throw a ball in. I've had a place to read, a place to sleep, a place to write, a place to binge watch TV on my laptop. I've had internet, AC, kind neighbors to let me in when I locked myself out during my first week in town. What's missing?, indeed.

I learned over these last seven months just what I can do without. I can do without an oven--the sublet had a gas stove and I never did muster the courage to try to light it. I can do without a dishwasher--this one just didn't get my smoothie glasses clean. I can do without my mixer, my serving platters and my kombucha supplies--though I did nab my juicer the last time I was home. I can even do without any semblance of my own sense of organization in terms of closet set up--though the shoe rack in the front closet nearly got tossed into the street a few times.

But I need a frame wall filled with pictures of my people. I need the hodge podge of art and trinkets I've collected on my travels to remind me how big the world is. I need the odd rummage sale dishes that make me smile with their quirks and wonder about their history. I need to be surrounded by a vibrant storm of colors--my colors--that reflect back to me what I want to look out for in this world.

What was missing were the things that make me feel like I'm home. What was missing were the things that make me feel like Bobbi. And, perhaps most pressing, what was missing was the courage to acknowledge that I have been yearning to carry those things with me into this new world, even if I couldn't yet articulate why.

I need the framed letter my mom wrote me when I was 17, the one that proves on paper that no one knows or loves me more than my family. I need a damn shoe rack that actually fits all of my flipping shoes, and I need the most beautiful Bobbi-colored blanket that my dear friend Krista got me for Christmas one year in college--it is itchy in the most beautiful and familiar way. I need my fancy throw pillows because they make me feel like a princess, and I need the journals of mistakes past because they remind me that I am human.

My girl's got her choice of windows, to be sure.

Sometimes I think the only way I learn about myself in any progressive way is when I look back on a particularly cringe-worthy meltdown and ask myself, "What the $@*! was that about?"

Sure, that was the relief after weeks of dealing with the dozens of annoyances and tasks that come with moving addresses, starting and stopping utilities, and coordinating a move in the city.

But if I really ask myself what was at the core of those tears, that was about needing my roots even when I'm flying high on my wings. That was the result of pushing down my feelings and not acknowledging them as valid.  That was about finally admitting that I have not, for one second of the last seven months, felt truly settled... until I was again, covered in snot on a empty living room floor. My empty living room floor.

Quoteworthy: Centeredness

When I lived in Marquette, when I was living by my roots, the wings were all I could think about--the things I wanted to do and go and be and see. And now that I am living by my wings, and putting myself in all sorts of new situations and environments, I've been closely examining my roots.

I know that I'm closer to finding a better balance, but the irony of this is not at all lost on me. In fact, it is so quintessentially Bobbi that it is rather obnoxious. File this one under #noshitSherlock. (Remember when hashtagging wasn't a thing? Neither do I.)

But then again that's what this space has always been...an attempt to even things out and be as balanced as possible. A place to document the gravitational pull between my two poles. Maybe in the end, I'll just have one thousand posts struggling to articulate the same thing: the strange, intense dichotomy that is my inner emotional life. Maybe.

On my trip home for the 4th of July, I felt for the first time in a long time that I was standing in the middle of the roots and the wings--that I had both, and what I had was everything I needed. I hugged my honorary nieces and nephews, caught up on heart-to-hearts with some of the best people I know, spent time shooting the shit in Bob's Garage-mahal, walked the shores of the lake with my mama, and watched Henley run wild on open trails. I didn't wish to be anywhere else. It was that New York feeling I had craved for over 7 years: Supported, and happy. Free, but grounded.

And then I piled back in my car with two awesome humans and three awesome puppies, and I headed back to my other home with no hesitation. I unpacked my bags, took a long walk around my neighborhood, prepped my morning smoothie, and settled in to write this post.

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According to Wikipedia, "an object at the Equator experiences a weaker gravitational pull than an object at the poles". So, the goal, it seems, really is to stay as close to the center as possible. #Noted.

"Let yourself be silently drawn by the strange pull of what you truly love. It will not lead you astray." --Rumi

"Oh twice as much, ain't twice as good / And can't sustain like one half could / It's wanting more / That's going to send me to my knees" --John Mayer, Gravity

"Not one that I have found in all of my searching equaled the one that found me when I finally stopped." --Tyler Knott Gregson

"And I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much of it was mine to keep." --Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse Five

"You belong among the wildflowers / You belong in a boat out at sea / You belong with your love on your arm / You belong somewhere you feel free"  --Tom Petty, Wildflowers

Gravity: (n) a natural force of attraction; of grave consequence and importance

Balance: (n) a harmonious or satisfying arrangement; an influence producing equilibrium



Quoteworthy: To Love and Be Loved

A few weeks ago, during a visit to Michigan, my cousin's wife, Amy, and I made good on a plan my aunt had cooked up before she passed away. Our Auntie Vicki bravely fought breast cancer and endured both radiation and chemo, all the while never losing the sparkle in her eye and never ceasing to care for those around her with relentless and bounding love. She'd declared, with a classic mischievous glow on her face, that we'd get tattoos when she finished treatment. She wanted the word "hope" on her foot--a nod to breast cancer research.

She finished treatment alright, beat the cancer and rocked her post-Chemo hairdo...but died suddenly of other causes. It was a blow to our family that we are all still processing, still healing from. Losing two family members so suddenly is terrible enough; losing the two family members that most actively loved our family fiercely and generously was another.

Selfishly, not long after I got to Chicago, I realized that I felt like I lost two of my biggest cheerleaders right before I took what might be considered the biggest leap of my life. I felt a little lost and a little weaker for the wear.

It took me a few weeks to realize that nearly 29 years of love like that is a really lucky thing. When I looked at it like that, I felt buoyed and brave.

Then I got a Facebook message from Amy: "Tattoos when you're home?" It was time to make good.

Amy sweetly got the tattoo my aunt wanted, on her foot, with a beautiful pink ribbon worked into the script of the word 'hope'.

I chose a small heart on my wrist, to remind myself that love never really goes away. It's a reminder that I am always armed (punny!) with love, no matter where I am or what I am doing. It might also be a little reminder to myself that there is love of the romantic variety out there, and I should find it, and I should risk it, and invite it in, and let it in, and nuture it, and honor the sheer miracle that it even exists.

Is anyone surprised that even my tattoo has roots and wings?

Thanks, Amy, for your friendship and for making this happen. Especially for calling the tattoo shop, allowing me to go first, and not thinking (or at least saying) I was crazy for being incredibly anxious about something that didn't really hurt and took two minutes. You impressed the hell out of me because yours was a lot bigger! :)

"To love and be loved--this on earth is the highest bliss." --Unknown

"My wish, for you, is that this life becomes all that you want it to. Your dreams stay big, your worries stay small. You never need to carry more than you can hold. And while you're out there getting where you're getting to, I hope you know somebody loves you. And wants the same things, too." --Rascal Flatts

"What can you do to promote world peace? Go home and love your family." --Mother Teresa

“You can kiss your family and friends good-bye and put miles between you, but at the same time you carry them with you in your heart, your mind, your stomach, because you do not just live in a world but a world lives in you.”  --Frederick Buechner

"Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength; Loving someone deeply gives you courage." --Lao Tzo

"Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself that you tasted as many as you could." --Louise Erdrich

Love (n): unselfish loyal and benevolent concern for the good of another; deep, tender, ineffable feeling of affection and solicitude toward a person

Surround (n): to be all around; to encircle; to be a member of an entourage

Bittersweet

Over the past three weeks, as I've been preparing to move, I lost not one but two dearly beloved family members. First we lost my grandpa, my dad's dad, my family's patriarch, my Papa.

We had just barely begun to grapple with the hole his death left, when, three weeks to the day later, on Papa's birthday, we lost my Auntie Vicki, my dad's sister, lover-fighter-planner-giver-truthteller-bullshitcaller so full of life, so feisty and so at the core of our family.

Here she is dancing at my cousin's wedding with the bride, Amy, and her son, DJ. This picture is her true essence...always celebrating, always loving.

I cannot believe they're gone, and as I prepare to leave tomorrow, I realize what the term bittersweet really means. The events of the last few weeks are the very reason I haven't yet moved away from home. This is what I was always fearful of: missing time with loved ones, because life moves so very fast.

But there's a part of me that's wiser now, that understands that life is always moving and passing us by, no matter your choices. We make the best decisions we can, and in the end, if we're anything like Papa and Auntie Vicki, we won't fear death, knowing that we've lived a good life. To me, led by their examples, that means taking life by the horns, working hard, fighting the good fight, loving out loud, calling out the bullshit and leaving a legacy of love and spirit. I only hope I can make them proud in this next chapter of my life.

9 Things English Teachers Taught Me About Writing [& Life], Part 3

I'm recalling 9 lessons from past English teachers. You can find Part 1 here and Part 2 here. 

7. Show, don't tell. Dr. Ronald Johnson was a professor I had during my Junior year of college for a non-fiction class. I had heard the adage "show, don't tell" in many of my classes, but he drove the idea home with the use of peer-edits (where everyone reads your work and gives you verbal critiques in front of everyone else--the good, the bad and the ugly). The good pieces (and good writers) stood out in these sessions because they showed you how things happening (and how those things affected them), rather than told you. For instance: My hands shook when I walked into the kitchen, but I walked in tall and spoke evenly: "Can we talk?," I said to Brad. "It's about what you said earlier." --rather than I don't think my boyfriend noticed I was nervous when I walked in to confront him.

This immediately helped me revise my pieces so that I was showing my audience the story, and therefore letting them experience it themselves, rather than just telling them what happened.  But it wasn't until I was looking into moving to North Carolina after grad school that the lesson came full circle. Their state motto is "Esse Quam Videri", which means "To be, rather than to seem". It essentially means: Come as you are and don't bullshit us. Be you, don't waste our time trying to prove otherwise. In a book I read about living there (oh you know I researched the dickens out of it), they explained that the people there would rather you be harried and rude than fake and pleasant. It actually offends them if you try to be anything but what you are at the moment. 

I realized that this is exactly how I want to live my life. I never want to just seem happy, I want to be happy. I never want to just seem grateful, I want to be grateful. I want to show the people in my life my story, I never just want to tell them. (Cue up another blog goal!)

--Dr. Johnson also taught me that writers write (you are not a writer unless you are working on something) and that there is merit in everyday things (good writers can make those everyday things seem interesting, because they weave the story with things that connect and compel every day people).

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8. You have to put yourself out there. Dr. Ray Ventre was my graduate advisor. Having had Ray as a professor previously, I felt just comfortable enough to propose some out-of-the-ordinary directed studies for my grad student study plan that would help me later on when writing for non-profits. But I had to drum up the courage to ask, and I had to put myself out there. I was proposing supplementing the classes they offered with other trainings and self-guided study that I had found via, you guessed it, research. I was terrified I was going to offend him, the department head, he who most likely decides the cirriculum. But Ray signed every directed study form I put in front of him, and I know he did it because he believed I was invested in my education, and my future. 

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It's not a coincidence that around the time Ray expressed that trust in me, I started taking more risks with my writing. I learned from him that you must put yourself out there. You'll be pleasantly surprised by who will welcome it, like all of you sweet people who have reached out to say you're enjoying my blog. Thanks, sweet people.


--Ray also taught me that you need to study the writers who have come before you, from the greats to the obscure people in your university's journal. Learning about them as writers equals learning about yourself as a writer. And there is always more to learn.

9. Everything comes together in the end. Dr. Teresa Hunt was my professor, my advisor and my employer, but she was, first and foremost, always a mentor. She passed away unexpectedly during my last year of graduate school, but before she died she taught me plenty. I still think about her when I do a close edit or use hierarchical headings (riveting link right there, folks).

She told her students, who were headed down different career paths, from software technical writing to training and development (or non-profit writing for me), that their job in grad school was to learn how to write. Their employers could teach them everything else--the lingo, the trends, the expectations they had. All we needed to do was walk in with that one skill and we would be successful. This helped to calm the nerves we had, faced with making a career out of something that doesn't always lead to lucrative ends. (Every English major has heard the joke about asking if you'd like fries with that.) But, she was right; from the handful of classmates I've kept in touch with, we are all thriving at jobs that require a lot of us. Having a firm grasp on different styles of writing has made all of our paths a lot easier to navigate.

When I was on the fence between moving to New York and staying in Marquette for grad school, Teresa was the only one intuitive (or gutsy?) enough to tell me what I needed to hear: "You've been there, done that, Bobbi. New York will be waiting if decide to go back." I thank her every day for encouraging me to stick around and learn more.

I feel like this is true of the writing process as well. Give something your all, but trust in your skill. If you're unsure about something, put it away in a drawer for a while, and when you pull it out later, when you're a little bit wiser, the answers will appear. 

On the other hand, you need know when to edit, edit, edit. The final product rarely resembles the first draft, but you won't know what the final draft should look like until you have a really, really ugly first draft in front of you. (Do we need to even go into how that applies to life?)

--And one more: Teresa taught me that once you know the rules, you can break them, but you absolutely must learn them first. When you study communication, it soon becomes clear that there are rules for a reason: 99% of the time, rules about punctuation and grammar (though sometimes annoying and seemingly arbitrary) help keep your writing understandable and allow your real message to come through. After all, you want your audience to focus their energy on the message itself, not interpreting the message, right? And I can start sentences with ‘But’ and ‘And’ like I just did because I know you’re not supposed to. But it works sometimes. Even incomplete sentences like this one. Breaking the rules sometimes can lend itself to the tone and pace of a piece. In short – you have to know what works all the time, the classic rules, before you can begin to successfully experiment with things that aren’t supposed to work but might. In life.... well, I think you get the picture.

9 Things English Teachers Taught Me About Writing [& Life], Part 2

I'm thanking my English teachers as a stand-in goal for my 30-Before-30 list. You can check out part 1 here.

4. Tell your truth. My mom was always very big on truth while I was growing up. The very worst sin you could commit was to lie, whether about something simple like your homework being done, or something more serious. So I have always been kind of fascinated with the truth, but while we were learning about memoirs in Dr. Kia Richmond's Non-Fiction Writing class, I learned that a) the truth makes for very interesting writing, and b) the truth is complicated.

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When writing non-fiction, like a memoir or, you know, a blog, you have to remember that things happen as we remembered them, not necessarily how they really happened. For instance, I swear up and down that I remember the day of my brother’s bike accident. I remember running out in the street where my mom held a limp, bleeding Jake in her arms, stunned, waiting helplessly for the ambulance. I remember running back into the garage, then again out into the yard, where twelve-year-old me (or was I eleven?) sank down into the lawn and tried to make myself cry, not so that I would seem sad, but because I wanted my physical reaction to match the devastation that I felt on the inside, and the discrepancy was very confusing. I know now that I was in shock, but I remember feeling betrayed by my body. I think I remember pinching myself, but is that more of a cliche that I just happen to identify with? Or did I really pinch myself in hopes to feel something?

This will always be a difficult topic for me to write about, and in Kia's class I finally understood why. It's hard to trust yourself. There is the way I remember it, and then there is the version my mom has told me over the years--her version, in which I just stood in the driveway and waited for the ambulance, then rode to the hospital with my calm yet frightened dad (always good in a crisis, yet what a temper day-to-day) while she rode along with my unconscious seven-year-old brother.

Yet I swear I remember running back into the garage and sitting on the one little step, trying to realize that this was happening. And I swear I remember kneeling in the grass, looking at all the people who had gathered, the neighbors who brought blankets, the kind woman who calmly told my mom that it would be safer for my brother if no one moved him. In the end, I have to trust – and share – my version because it’s all I have. If my mom’s version helps me remember parts of mine, great. But I can’t rely on someone who was hysterically trying to wake her son up after seeing him hurdle the handle bars of his bike, face first into the concrete – and trying to tell her story does no justice to my story.

I think this is true of everyday life, and I see it in some of my current struggles. There are two--or more--sides to every story, and relinquishing your perspective does little to set things right. You have to trust your experience.

5. Know your audience. This came from Kia's Intro to Professional Writing class my junior year of college. We had guest speakers, people who used writing in their careers (authors, PR people, editors, journalists, teachers, administrators, etc.) and they were asked to share their thoughts on professional writing. They all said the same thing: you have to know who you're addressing. An author needs to know who reads his genre. Editors need to be familiar with the style of the publication. Teachers need to know what their students already know or what they are expected to learn in a specific class. You need to know who you are writing to so that you know how to begin, what not to say, and how to say everything in between.

My mom calls it 'using your psychology', but basically it's just doing your research and knowing the people you're dealing with the best that you can, so that you can predict how they will react and know how to address them in the most compelling, satisfying way. Knowing how to approach people is key to any communication.

--Kia also taught me that good writing is about connection, and you'll never connect if you don't open yourself up a little bit more than you're comfortable with. (What's that saying--"Life begins at the end of your comfort zone"? Well, so does good writing.)


6. There is always something you can teach. And always something you can learn. When I was nominated (by Kia--are you seeing a trend here?) to be a Writing Center tutor at the beginning of my sophomore year, I was a pile of nerves. This honor is usually reserved for juniors and seniors, I thought. What could I possibly have to share?

But what I learned from my boss, Dr. Z.Z. Lehmberg, is that you always have something to share. In short 20-minute sessions, I helped students improve their writing little by little--add a comma here, save that thought for the conclusion, what about adding a paragraph of history in the beginning? I found my confidence in the Center, session by session. I realized I had a lot to share, and that I loved to see people improve. And over the course of my first year, I had gained knowledge about dozens of different topics, uncovered new ways to organize thoughts in the most effective way, and learned how to speak to people so that you can bring out the best in each session.

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--Z.Z. also taught me a valuable lesson: Sometimes how others see you can shape how you see yourself--for the better. She wrote me a letter of recommendation that included this description: "People often feel at ease when meeting with Bobbi. She has a quiet inner strength that is inspiring." Huh. Good to know.

Stay tuned for Part 3...three last tidbits from English teachers.

9 Things English Teachers Taught Me About Writing [& Life], Part 1

Despite some awesome progress in PT, it's become pretty clear that I won't be able to accomplish all of my 30-Before-30 goals on time, whether financially or physically. So, bring on the stand-ins.

One of my stand-in goals is to thank my English teachers. I think that I had extraordinary luck with the teachers I ended up with throughout middle school, high school, college and graduate school. For a girl who used to hole up in her room writing short stories and the humble beginnings of "books" from the age of 6, I was lucky to have ended up with so many nurturing, creative, and talented educators to teach me, encourage me and help me on my way.

Here are three of nine things I've learned about writing, by way of those educators. These are things I know to be true about writing, but, as I've been realizing lately, they are also true of life.

1. Be authentic: You have your place. I hated middle school. My body had developed earlier than other girls and my mouth moved faster than my brain--not a great combination. The girls in the class above me (and some in my class) did not like my naive and immature confidence. This, paired with a body that I did not yet understand, gained me attention I wasn't sure I wanted (but wasn't sure I didn't want, either), leading to a lot of angst and many tears.

Mrs. Zueger was my 7th grade English teacher. Quirky and charming all at once, Mrs. Zueger had full command of her class. But she was more than a teacher. Her room was a safe haven I could run to when being "bullied", and she always knew when to shelter me, when to stand up for me, and when to challenge me. She knew how praise me in the exact way my 13-year-old self needed to be praised, while helping me mature and grow.

I say this half-sarcastically and half-earnestly: I think the trauma of middle school led me to block a lot of memories. While I have a few memories of particularly terrifying confrontations with these girls, most of this I recall in a general sense. Conversations with my mom (who was equally scarred by this period of my life) fill in the blanks. Because of this I know that in more ways than one, I wouldn't be the person that I am without having Mrs. Zueger as a teacher. I truly believe that some of my spirit would have been lost by this devastating period if not for her guidance. 

My mom reached out to Mrs. Zueger, exasperated from parenting a teen who was wise beyond her years in some sense yet stubborn, sassy and emotional (who, me?). Mrs. Zueger acted as an intermediary between my mom and I, assuring that I was staying on the right track, and giving me extra writing "assignments", which I think acted as a type of therapy for me--as it still does. She was the second person, the first being my mom, to realize what power writing gave me. It corralled my thoughts, expressing what I couldn't say out loud. I don't remember much of this very clearly, but I do know the lessons I learned from it: stand up straight, know when to question yourself, learn when to shut up, know when to follow your gut, and be as kind and calm as possible in the face of adversity. And I'm a better writer for it.

--Mrs. Zueger also taught me how to work with other personalities, when she paired me up for a group project with the quietest girl in class (no doubt because I was the loudest girl in class). We had to make up a story based on two characters (mine, a cheerleader, and hers, a robot). We surprised ourselves when we were able to write a funny story about a cheerleader and her robot!

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2. Be compelling: But find your own way. In Mr. Hammerstrom's sophomore speech class, we were taught five or six 'acceptable' ways to start a speech. You know - like, posing a question, citing a shocking statistic, or quoting a famous person. But I always remember Dave Perlove's approach. He got up to make a speech about something normal, probably a persuasive piece on laundry or an instructional speech on something obscure like grilled cheese. (Hammerstrom was always good for the really, really weird assignments. That's why we learned so much.)

Dave staggered up the front of the room and, with his classic shit-eating grin, yelled, "SSSSEEEEEEEEXXXXXXXXXX!!!!!!" The class burst into laughter, Mr. Hammerstrom blushed, and Dave nearly peed his pants, but he got us with that opener. We were at his full command; he no doubt had the full attention of a class full of hormone-charged high school students. I learned two things that day: You indeed need a good opener, and you aren't always going to be able to find it on a list of acceptable ways to start a speech.

In my career so far, I have been most successful when I follow my instincts and inject a little bit of personality into a project rather than choosing from a list of suggested templates. Hammerstrom taught me that people like something they can relate to--and you're probably not going to find that in a template.

--Mr. Hammerstrom also taught me that what doesn't kill you, in fact makes you stronger. I had my first anxiety attack during the ten minutes before my sophomore speech. But I survived and I am proud to tell you that I did not commit the forbidden travesty of starting my speech with "Okay..." To this day, I've presented at countless meetings and two conferences, sans attack.

3. Stand by your work. This lesson came during senior year in College Prep Writing in Mr. Cook's class.  The assignment was to write about something that was a hard lesson to learn, and to use song lyrics to help illustrate that lesson. These were to be peer-critiqued, and I chose “Just to See You Smile” by Tim McGraw and wrote about how my grandpa and my high school boyfriend were the most selfless and loving people I know. Part of the piece was about how I didn’t feel I always deserved it. The student who critiqued it wrote, “No, you don’t deserve it. You’re a spoiled bitch.” I was beyond hurt.

Here I was, offering up my truth, a confession that was hard to put to paper and someone had read it, and then crushed me. I found out later that it was someone who had tried to hurt me in other ways, and realized with time that it was rooted in jealousy and immaturity, and--most importantly--it was a cheap stab cowardly masked by anonymity.

But at the time I took it very hard. Mr. Cook wrote alongside the culprit’s boyish print, “Bobbi, you seem to have had unfortunate luck with the reader of your piece. I, on the other hand, enjoyed it immensely. A.” This taught me that no matter what your reader thinks of what you write, you have the final say because it’s a piece of your heart. And someone out there, someone smarter and more refined, is going to appreciate it. (This is also, coincidentally, a portion of my thoughts on love, but that’s a whole other blog post.)

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I learned from Mr. Cook that you have a limited amount of time to make your reader feel something--anything. Your only job is to tell them a story, and make them feel like they touched someone else’s life long enough to identify with it or judge it or learn from it or reject it. And you have to be prepared for your reader to do all these things.

--Mr. Cook also taught me that writers need to read, read, read and soak up everything they can.

Stay tuned for parts 2 and 3... six more nuggets of knowledge from my past English teachers.

Giving Thanks

Today and every day, there is so, so much to be thankful for.

• My mom--my biggest cheerleader, who is supportive of each and every crazy idea I conjure up. 
• My dad--who has always made me feel like the funniest, most beautiful, smartest girl in the land.
• My brother--who is funny, loyal and thoughtful, who lets me have my idiosyncrasies but calls me on my shit.
• My pup--who teaches me patience, shows me unconditional love, and brightens my everyday.
• My friends--whose blossoming lives inspire me, make me think, and show me how beautiful life is. The way that they show me what life can become, what strength looks like, and love. The wonderful men and women they have married, and the beautiful, inquisitive, curious children they have brought into the world. 

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• My family, each and every one of the crazy bunch--who show me where my place is in this world, and who, despite wanting me to be close, encourage me to explore the rest of it.
• My health--my goodness, my health, my health, my health! I'm so thankful for the upswing, the people who show me ways to live healthier, and the people who have helped me in the meantime. 
• My job--meaningful work, the fruition of hard work, the opportunity to make a difference.
• My house--the independence it symbolizes, and the lessens it teaches me. And the hot tub, because, yeah. 

Happy Thanksgiving everyone! :)

Girl Crush: Maggie Mason: Personal Dos and Don'ts

I've been recovering from weekends upon weekends on the go, allowing my body adequate time to rest and rebuild. Which means, I've been reading a lot of blogs. Blogs about food. Blogs about life. Blogs about doing things.

Which leads me to an introduction. Friends, Maggie Mason. Maggie is an amazing blogger who has a life list worthy of some serious jealously. (Some serious inspiration right there, folks.)

She recently wrote a post about her personal Dos and Don'ts. In Maggie's words, a reminder to herself: "When I feel cruddy, I add whatever got me there to the Stop It List, and when I feel happy, I add to the Do Its." You all know how I am about reminders.

So here is my first drafts of my personal reminders:

Dos
Cook for yourself.
Read on the porch with your pooch by your side.
Have catch-up lunches with friends and family members. (Don't forget to tally them.)
Call your mom.
Sit in the garage with your dad.
Relish in clean sheets once a week.
Try making new Kombucha flavors.
Play some Tetris every once and a while.
Visit the Lake.
Take a class. The weirder the better.
Snuggle Henley's face at least twice per day.
Wear your hair down if you have an important meeting. It bolsters your confidence.
For even more confidence, use the lip stain, wear the heels and remember to clean your fingernails.
Wear the brown boots. You like those.
If you need to cry, try Sheryl Crow.
If you need to smile, try the Beatles.
Roll your towels like a fancy hotel.
Learn.
Write. (Seriously.)
Reach.
Question.

Don'ts
Don't push yourself when you know you need to rest.
Don't read the news for more than 10 minutes per day.
Avoid cable at all costs.
Don't listen to too much Damien Rice. You'll know when you're getting to too much.
Never, ever listen to Yellowcard.
Don't text that boy. Or that one.
Don't over-layer. Heat makes you cuh-rabby!
Stop texting all of the boys.
Never stray from the vodka. The shots will bite you in the butt.
Don't stop communicating until you feel heard. You must feel heard.
Don't eat the cheese. That won't end well.


You guys, I'm really proud that my Do list is longer than my Don't list!

Remnants

My mom is pretty jazzed that I have my own storage area in my basement. Her excitement is palpable--she's reclaiming her own basement and sending me home with bins and boxes when I visit. Each bin is a reminder that I am as sentimental as they come. Case in point: I only recently decided it was an acceptable time to throw away my box of notes from seventh grade. Toni Wachter, I'm sorry. Our history is now undocumented. Your folding skills are still unprecedented.

When I went to take a sauna last night at my parents' house, the sauna changing room was filled with what I think are the final three bins: My porcelain doll collection, my Beanie Babies and my baseball cards.

I received a porcelain doll each Christmas morning for years. It started around age 7, when I tired of getting a Cabbage Patch doll each Christmas morning. (By the time I was 7, I had triplets. Kind of explains why I always thought I'd have 5 kids...) I loved those porcelain dolls: I loved their glossy curls, I loved their painted freckles, I love the delicate ruffles on their dresses. I loved seeing them standing all fancy on my dresser. They made me feel special and girly, and I realized last night that while I favored the blonde ones, wishing I had their yellow curls, my mom always made sure there were a few brunettes in the mix for good measure. I favor the brunettes now.

The Beanie Babies were a fad, yes, but totally exciting and all-consuming too. I remember serious discussions with my brother, about which ones were mine, and which ones were his, and which ones we wanted to put on our wish list. We were running a Beanie Baby business, him and I, and damn it if I wasn't going to run a tight ship. I'm fairly certain that had I had access to Excel, I would have had some serious spreadsheets going on.  I think the box contains both his and mine, our inventory thrown together after a year or two in business.

When I opened the bin containing the baseball cards, memories flooded back to me. In my painstakingly bubbly second-grade penmanship, the cards were labeled in albums by team. "Angels/Dodgers" was crossed out, probably when I made a big trade with the neighbor boys and gained more Angels cards. One book, I noticed, was alphabetized by first name. I'm telling you, I am who I am. Even when I was 10.

I'll be doing some market research on the cards and animals on eBay. Here's hoping Eric McQuaid and the boy across the street didn't end up trading me out of all the good cards. Jakey, don't worry, you'll receive dividends on the Beanie Bag dynasty. The porcelain dolls will get a corner of my own basement, next to the yearbooks and bin of goodies (orange dress and all).

It's funny, what remains from your childhood. It's a delicate balance, learning what to hold on to and what to let go.

we would heal, be humbled, and be unstoppable
we'd hold close and let go and know when to do which
we'd release and disarm and stand up and feel safe
this is my utopia
this is my ideal, my end in sight
this is my utopia
--Alanis Morissette

Three.

Happy Birthday Henley!

I don't care if this makes me a crazy dog lady--It is your birthday and I am writing you a letter. (Also, I'm pretty sure there are a lot of other things I do that make me a crazy dog lady. This letter is really just confirmation.)

It is pretty crazy how much I love you, though; crazy in the way that it is hard to contain, hard to quantify, hard to hide. But what I really love about you is the way that you are always teaching me something. (Such as: don't let 80% of the pictures you take of your puppy on the day you bring her home be pictures that also include a boyfriend who was soon to be an ex-boyfriend. Take some of just the puppy because on her third birthday you will want to write her a letter and it is tough to crop him out. Sometimes the lessons you teach me are very specific.)

I imagine that what you learn by having a dogbaby is about 1/100th of what you learn by having a humanbaby. But even through all of the struggles and "teachable moments", you taught me the one lesson I needed the most--you came along at the very precise moment that I needed to learn that love can reach a depth not yet known to me. That it's out there, and sometimes you just need to travel to a farm in Podunk, Wisconsin to find it.

But, really, I never knew that I could love you so much in spite of how you drive me crazy. Over the past three years, it's almost as if the things that you do that drive me crazy have become the things I love most about you.

Case in point: I love when you fart so loud that you startle yourself. I love it even more that you get up and drag yourself across the room as if the sound/smell that just came out of nowhere is the most offensive thing you can imagine. You look so put out that you needed to move to get away from the vile offense. I love that about you. You're really dramatic sometimes. And smelly.

I love that you are so excited when someone you know comes to the door that you cannot find it in yourself to behave. This I have come to understand about you: It's true when they say that dogs want to behave, they want to please their people. I see that in you in the average moment. But when Auntie Anna comes into the driveway with or without Apollo, or when you smell something that you. must. in. hale.,  or when you see a flipping bunny, you are overtaken. You always come around, though, and you know you deserve the little swat on the butt so you take it in stride.

I love the way you think sitting against any surface, means that you need to go out, even if its a wall on the second floor. I love that you eat the pulp after I make juice with gusto and enthusiasm--and I love the way your tail tap-tap-taps on the floor when I call you "healthy puppy!" (See also: wanting to please.)

My dad (your Grampy) used to say that he wanted to invent 'shrink pills' that would make me 2-years-old again whenever he wanted. He said it when I got my license, when I went to prom, at all three graduations, and on the day I closed on the house. He said I was growing up too fast--still does. I know what he means now. I wish someone would patent those pills, or a sister pill, that would let you live forever.

But when I really think about it, I am thankful too to your finiteness. You will only live another 10 or 11 years, max, and I think about that more often than is probably good for my mental health. But it means that I am keenly aware that I need to hug you, care for you, enjoy you each and every day, each and every minute, even if it's the minute you slobber on my black dress pants two minutes before I need to walk out the door to a meeting. I love that about you because it helps me learn to love my humans too--even when their proverbial slobber rears its ugly head. I'm thankful for that.

I promise that I will love you even in those moments, because even in those moments you are teaching me how to take life in stride and find the beauty in it.

I love you, beauty. You're my little plum.

(But seriously, enough with the fucking bunnies.)

Love, Mama

 I love that you have paws that are twice as big as they should be.

I love that you always want to be included.

(Last minute wedding planning. Doggone those details!)

I love that you've come to love bathes even though the first one didn't go so hot.

I love that you make me laugh just by being alive. You're pretty hilarious.

I love that you love your boyfriends with enthusiasm. (They love you back. I can tell.)

I love that you think you weigh 20lbs like you did when you were a pup.

I love you, Henley Boo Boo!