(5) Reasons to Be Happy

After six long weeks of boot imprisonment, I get to go back to yoga tonight.
I'm sure my entire body will wimper and whine tomorrow, just as I'm sure my mind will find some much-needed rest.
It's been a tough week, complete with migraine and sick grandma and the unceremonious end of a college football legend.
Anybody else need a little namaste?

(4) Reasons to Be Happy

When she's happy, I'm happy.
Really, are there really people in the world who don't get how important/special/wonderful/snuggly it is to have a little unconditional love every once in awhile?
And also, I'm pretty frickin happy at how I'm rockin' out those pajama pants.

(3) Reasons to Be Happy

I'm not so much for cooking, but I make a seriously kick-ass grilled cheese sandwich. This was number somewhere-around-nine-in-a-row. And it was good. And I was happy.

(2) Reasons to Be Happy

Okay, so, the struggling streak continues. This morning I was leaving my parents' house when I realized I'd left something inside. Jumped out, slammed the car door, and forgot to move my hand first. Two stitches (wimpy, I know), and blood and mascara all over my shirt. The woman wanted to put my finger in a splint; I just gave a long, meaningful look at my booted-up foot and said, "Lady...  no."
I admit, I broke down and cried like a baby. It hurt like hell, but mostly it just made me feel a little like the universe is still acting like a big ol' bully to me.
But there are still some really, really, really great reasons to be happy. Why I was home in the first place, for example.
So today's reason to be happy:

Lifelong friendships, made even friendlier by pumpkin-pie flavored booze.

Reasons to Be Happy

Ever have a spell where life feels just a little bit like it's picking on you?
I have to admit, I'm in one of those spells. Things have been a little rough lately in my world.
I got my heart a tiny bit broken.
I got my foot all jacked up, which came with its own sort of heartbreak: never, never would I have considered that there was a shoe in the world I could consider an enemy. Then I met the boot.

And while my sweet father thinks I'm overly sensitive to things like this, there's just been a lot of death in my face lately. In all our faces. First, forty animals -- forty beautiful, innocent, scared animals -- were killed by, and this is not a typo, their emotionally unstable owner. While I wish those policemen had had an alternative, they did not. I almost surprised myself by empathizing with them, but I do. These guys weren't on a hunting trip with their buddies. They were out in the middle of the night, in the rain, probably scared shitless, trying to protect and serve their communities in a way I'm sure they did not cover in the Police Academy. Some of them maybe weren't too terribly bothered by it. But some of them, I'm also sure, had to go home to their families, their children, and live with such trauma, such destruction, such senselessness, because a crazy asshole decided it wasn't enough to take his own life, he had to make sure that he unleashed danger and fear on both the animals he purported to love and the neighbors who, as far as I can tell, had never done him any harm. Shame on you, crazy asshole. I kind of hope you're in a cage somewhere.
And then there's the images of a cruel, horrible, merciless dictator in the moments before his death. Now, let me be clear that I don't empathize with him, I don't give him sympathy he spent a lifetime not earning, and I do believe the world and hopefully Libya are better today than yesterday. But I don't want to see ANY man, any human being, bloody and tortured and mocked and beaten as he's being led to his death. I don't want to see any man with a bullet hole in his head. It happens. I know. I also know there's reasons I am not ever called upon by secret agents to carry out covert operations. So far as you know.
So, there's crankiness in the world.
But. More importantly. In the midst of all that, and in case after reading this far you think I've mistakenly titled this post, there are reasons to be happy.
There. Are. A. Million. Billion. Trillion. Reasons. To. Be. Happy.
My beloved writing teacher and friend taught me that.
So I'm going to spend a little time focused there, and see if that doesn't change some of the dreariness around me.
I've got the perfect place to start on this perfect Friday for starting.
Friday's Reason to Be Happy #1:
As you may have picked up from the above rant, I'm not cut out for military life. But I'm grateful for those who are. And I'm in awe of the families that have to function in their absence.
Today, a little before 9pm, one of those servicemen comes home after seven long, long months away. His wife has raised their five-year-old son during that time with the help of her friends and her community, but mostly on her own. I'm not a mom, but I know moms, and even the best moms have got to want to hand their kid off to their spouse every once in awhile, no? She couldn't. She didn't. Instead, she did what moms do. She celebrated him and bragged about him and tolerated him and wrote funny stories instead of strangling him.
So today, I'm happy for my friend, and her child, and for knowing that there will be a hug to end all hugs somewhere in the world tonight.

2,753.

I’ve been writing and writing. And deleting.

It’s hard for me to know what to say.

I have my memories of the day.

But they’re mine. And what I’ve realized is that I don’t need to add my voice to the chaos. You don’t need me to do that. They don’t.

Instead, I’ll add my prayers, and just ask you to do the same.

10 years.

Standing around the radio and confusion and curiosity.

Trinity Church and the wings turning and a minute of utter silence and screaming.

Arguing over whether or not we should take our laptops.

My serviceless cell phone and inappropriate, survivalistic laughter.

Carrie’s voice and Jeff’s and my father’s.

Battery Park and Amy’s tree and running towards the end of land and losing Erin and losing sight.

Dust.

Praying and the 1/9 station and walking across the bridge and Sharla’s swollen fingers.

A startlingly half-blue-half-black sky and seeing the Statue of Liberty in between the two. 

The guy, but not his name, who was by himself and ended up with our group for the rest of the day.

The Hasidic Jews with the water and the man who put too many of us in his car in Brooklyn.

Pete’s apartment and his clean tee shirt to replace my filthy black sweater and listening to the president.

Wanting to be home.

The Hoboken station triage center, around 1am, empty of people to treat. 

My voice mails and my cats and my bed.

September 12 and beginning the task of moving on.

Hoi Toide

You’ll hear two loud clunks as each car passes off the ferry, when your tires press the metal of ramp down to meet the metal of boat. It’s a final goodbye to the water and mainland and a boisterous hello to the sandy island. It’s best to be the first car off, just like it’s best to be in the first car of a roller coaster. Nothing to impede your view. A soft right turn sends you nine or so miles down a narrow path of highway, “highway,” where the dunes rise up on one side and the grasses, holding the lanky egrets and holding back the water of the Pamlico Sound, sway on the other.

Intuitively, maybe a little magically, two or three miles in, all heads in a long line of cars will turn to the left, in unison, in anticipation of the first glimpse of ocean between the dunes. It’s always beautiful. Even in the rain or the clouds, but especially of course in the bright sun. It’ll tease you for awhile, ducking and hiding behind the piles of sand and the tattered wooden fence posts failing miserably in their duties, and simply imploring the sand to stay clear of the blacktop.

Over Molasses Creek.

Past the campsite.

Past the Pony Pen. They used to run free here. They seem to hold the slightest of grudges about that.

Careful not to miss the entrance to the public beach, where there are finally, mercifully, boardwalks to take you across the hot dunes. It used to be quite a workout.

Right next to that is the tiny strip of land where those lucky enough to have both access to a private plane and knowledge of this place can come and go as they please.

Slow to 25.

Welcome to the village.

There are a few shops here; a few more than there used to be. Same with people and restaurants and hotels.

And there is a harbor here. It is, I have to believe, the most perfectly safe place in the world. A haven. My refuge. God protects the people of Silver Lake, even if it’s just for the week. He lets you dream here. He helps you hope. He points you to a beautiful little flawless and white lighthouse to give you focus.

But, how rude of me, you must be hungry. You’ve come such a long way.Howard’s will always welcome you. Every day. Even Christmas. Probably especially Christmas.

You’ll get a pizza this week from Jason’s, crabcakes at Café Atlantic. Treat yourself to some ice cream at the slushie stand. It’s not been a slushie stand for a very long time now, decades, but that’s what I started calling it as a child when it was, in fact, a small wooden slushie stand. And I suppose that’s what I’ll always call it. Come to think of it, I don’t know what other people call it now.

You’ll end the week at the Back Porch, the island’s version of fine dining and, if I’m not mistaken, the only spot where it’s actually required that you wear shoes. Fancy, indeed. It’s also where I’ll have my wedding, if that ever happens for me. But that’s a secret dream. I’m not even sure why I’m sharing it with you. I guess because I’m sharing the rest of my island with you, so I must trust you.

But back to dinner. You’ve got to eat tonight. Night one on the island. It’s lovely.

I recommend the Jolly Roger; it’s where we always start. Cold beer and sandwiches are fine, but the sound of the boats rocking on the water, and the view of the sun setting over the calm water will make conversation almost impossible, almost disrespectful. Then the music will start and you’ll have permission to not pay attention to anything. Do that for the rest of your time here.

This is just a tiny piece of this tiny place. The main drag, if you will. The rest you’ll have to find for yourself. The roads wind and circle. I recommend a bike. Find the coffee shop behind the school. Find the Historical Society. Find the path that leads you to Sam Jones’s grave, and his horse’s, and then out to a part of the water not very many people ever find. 

Find the Village Craftsmen at the end of Howard Street. Spend as much time on that street as you can; it is history come alive. It is breathtaking in it’s naked, natural beauty.

Visit the Ragpicker and Over the Moon and Ride the Wind. The fudge shop. The Variety Store. Find the bookstore and the cemetery and Kathy O’Neil’s jewelry and Albert Styron’s store and Oscar’s; make sure to find some of Ann’s pictures while you’re there. Find a hammock or a screened-in porch or a beach chair and a good book. A few of them. And find yourself.  Even if it’s just for the week.

It’s the perfect place for just that kind of thing.

Welcome to Ocracoke.