30 years of snow

It is funny how everything is quieter when snow falls. It is so peaceful. Realistically though, I suppose that it is only quiet when you are inside. In your office. The buzz of business buried under the silence. In your home: no music signing, no television set speaking, the ticking clock and the hum of appliances drowned out by the silent snow. The drivers in their cars glide easily and noiselessly through the mountains and valleys of roads yet to be plowed. Their shoulders hunched and knuckles gripping their steering wheels as if in some sort of prayer that the car will go where they want it to. Radios off and listening only for the screeching tires of a car behind them, or to the side, slipping through intersections with the same clutch on the wheel and a foot pressing pointlessly onto the brake pad.

Snow makes everything brighter. Everything clearer. The night becomes lighter. There is a magic that falls with snow only in December. When the snow is at its whitest, its freshest and its softest. It is said that no two snowflakes are every the same. No two snow falls are every the same either. It is like an art.

Walking past the Walker Art Center, the sidewalks sprinkled with bright spotlights from the ground up. It appears as though the lights are actually shooting snow up into the sky. Maybe it is an offering to share the snow’s beauty - returning to its origin.

.

Ten years ago, for my birthday, my parents drove five hours to Grand Forks, North Dakota. To spend a snippet of time with me. Not only did they drive five hours, but they drove with no heat in their car. Five hours through Minnesota to North Dakota in December with no heat. Only now do I realize how crazy that is. And appreciate how much they love me. I was a horrible, horrible daughter too. I still am haunted by my behavior to this day. I think they night they got in we had dinner and then they went to the hotel and I went to a Christmas concert with my boyfriend at the time. He insisted I had to be there to see his brother sing. Why didn’t I invite my parents? Why didn’t I stay with them instead of go with him? I am so ashamed of myself. What an idiot I was. I am pretty sure the next week him and I broke up.

For that birthday they gave me my birthstone jewelry - blue zircon or blue topaz earrings and a necklace. My ears that I had pierced when I went away to college at age 18 on rare trip to the Columbia Mall had since closed up. I had friends, Katie and Ghost, re-pierce my ears in my dorm room later that day. I imagine the scenario was not unlike my mom’s ear piercing experience when at age 15 or 16 she let her friends pierce her ears in the warm detached garage of her parents’ home on a summer day. One held a potato behind her ear and punctured her ear with the needle while the other stood close by with the ice. I think her experience was more successful - eventually my ear swelled up and looked like a deflated balloon – just a little red bubble waited to expound. I don’t often attempt to wear earrings and when I do I am usually sorry.

Eleven years ago my birthday was my first year away from home. My first year at UND. That year my dad called the manager at the Grand Forks Perkins and pleaded with him to deliver a cheesecake to my dorm room. Typically they don’t do that, but somehow my dad managed to soften the man’s heart and a cheesecake was delivered to Selke hall. I don’t care for real cake. I can’t stand frosting. I always had a unique birthday cake and my family is not always a fan. Once a stack of Mickey’s chocolate donuts. Once a pile of strawberry newtons. Another couple birthdays were cherry pies. And many, many cheesecakes.  My 19^th year, my friends and I feasted on the delicious cheesecake. You don’t realize how delicious outside food is until you are deprived from it for months, forced to eat dining center meals day after day after day. Of course, being college students, we didn’t have much in the way of flatware and ate it straight out of the box with plastic forks. What a fun birthday.

My freshman year is when my nickname “Coley” caught on mainstream. Prior to that, it was just my family, my dad mainly who would call me Coley. I had a lot of nicknames. Coley, Cole, nickelodeon, coca-cola, Nicki (I only let one person call me that. My great uncle Billo.) My friends were witnessing me open a care package from my family. My dad slipped a note in there and also enclosed a dog treat (from my dog, Oscar) and addressed me as Coley. When my friends saw that they thought it was so cool and from then on called me Coley.

This year my birthday dessert is actually going to be a cake. It will be what is known as a “Better than Sex Cake” which I have only consumed at bachelorette parties or bridal showers. But why waste the delectable combination of chocolate and caramel for only those once in a lifetime occasions? I will call my cake, my “better than my twenties cake”. As I embark upon my thirties I want to start it out with bang. Ok, not a bang, but I at least want to be proud and be happy to be thirty. (I think I got a little woozy there.)

Growing up, the women in my family were always 25. It was the idolized age. The perfect age. Age was such a secret and 25 was where the women stalled. My mom? 25. My grandma? Miraculously 25. My mom’s cousin, Jeannie – 25. And Pasty, Jeannie’s mom (also Billo’s wife). There was one little glitch though. I was present at my mom’s 30^th birthday party. But then she reverted to 25. But now, having actually been there, there is no way would I want to go back to 25. 28 was ok, 29 was good, but 25? No, it’s not for me.

Dear god I was at my mom’s 30^th birthday party! How insane is that? My sister was there too. I have vague memories here and there, but I know I was at the party. There are pictures to prove it. And I was four.

.

Recently I read somewhere, “love exactly where you are”. I am working on loving exactly where I am. Too many years I have spent looking forward to the future. For a future I had preplanned. For the future I had expected would be mine. What a silly thing to think you can control life when all you can control is how you react to it.

Love exactly where you are. Standing on the edge of turning thirty, toes inching over the line and I am going to love it. Whether I like it or not.

Writing about the weddings

2010 was the year of weddings. In 2004 I was in my best friend from St. Cloud State’s wedding, in 2006 I was in my sister’s wedding, and in 2008 I was in my best friend from the University of North Dakota’s wedding. In 2010 I was in three weddings. Three weddings in two months.

August 27, October 2 and October 9 (actually I had two friends getting married on 10/9, but I was only in one of them so that made it easier to figure out which one to go to.) Bam. Bam. Boom. This weekend was the first weekend since June or July that I didn’t have to do something wedding related. Or think about a wedding. Initially I was looking forward to this weekend, but when it came around it was quite strange. My life as a bridesmaid had come to a sudden halt. Ironically enough Monday starts off with a funeral of a very close relative. Three weddings and funeral. Wasn’t that a movie?

My friend Jessica’s wedding was October 2. I met Jessica when I lived in St. Cloud (round two). I worked at a law firm there from July 2007 to July 2008. I met Jessica in my yoga class around November 2007. She was in the back row. Very good at yoga, but I could also tell she had been trained in classical ballet from the way she carried herself. I chatted with her after class and discovered that she was fairly new in St. Cloud, like me, was there for her job but didn’t really know anyone. So she asked me to hang out some time. And we did. And it was fun. Thank goodness for yoga and ballet or I would never have the pleasure of knowing Jessica. I am so glad to have met her. We both got each other through some tough times.

Anyway. Jessica and Jon’s wedding was at Deep Portage Learning Center in Hackensack, MN. Not typically a wedding venue, there was no staff to clean up after the wedding. So the bride and groom informed everyone that they would be coming back to clean the morning after and invited anyone who could to stay and help out.

I had attended a wedding at Deep Portage in August 2009 (maybe they should consider being a wedding venue) and spent the morning cleaning with the bride and groom. It felt wrong to watch the newlyweds up bright and early, vacuuming, moving chairs, and tearing down decorations. Since I knew what it was like, I emailed all Jess and Jon’s friends and asked if we could clean up without their assistance. (I don’t think the morning after my wedding I will be saying to my husband – hey… let’s go clean up from that big bash we had last night.) They had done so much work and planning and suffered many stressful moments that I just wanted them to relax.

So under the direction of Jon’s sister and her husband, who would know what to do with décor, flowers, etc. We decided to do the clean up. At the rehearsal dinner I was to present Jon and Jessica with that gift.

After the father of the groom spoke, Jessica and Jon gave a speech and started handing out gifts. I approached Jessica and asked her if I could say something. She looked kind of confused… probably thinking, “Ok, bridesmaid #6, why in the world would you have something to say at our rehearsal dinner? It was not in the plan.” But she said sure anyway.

I think I have a hard time giving a serious, sincere speech. Maybe not. I don’t know. I have never had to give one before. But suddenly during dinner, I decided that I should write my “speech” in the form of a poem. I tried to make it rhyme. Something I hadn’t done since I was 12.

So I stood up. Held my deposit ticket in my hands. (The deposit ticket from my check book was where I wrote the poem. I had nowhere else to write it.)

Dear Jessica & Jon

We love you a ton.

Tomorrow we will have

So much fun.

The day after that

When up comes the sun –

Please stay in bed, pull the

Sheets over your head.

We’ll clean up DP

Cuz you’ll be so sleepy.

Don’t lift a finger

Just let yourself linger

In the morning after bliss,

Just enjoy your sweet’s kiss.

The end. You don’t really want to read about the cleaning process. Nor do I want to write about it, but it was actually quite fun and we got most of it done before morning.

Not fictional like a unicorn

My hair stylist is in Andover. I have moved many, many times in the past 5 years. 6 official moves and 3 transient moves. Dear God. In 5 years. That is a lot. In all fairness, the moves were prompted by life quakes that were out of my control. One was initiated by a creepy neighbor in my complex; others by career moves. In or around the late winter or spring of 2006 I found my hair stylist. At Karrin's Salon. Now known as Kalla Lily, but my stylist has moved on. When I found her I must have lived in Mounds View, but worked in the Anoka area, where her salon was. Her father was a partner in the company I worked for; wanting to support a newer woman in the work force and a daughter of a partner in my company, I visited her.

Some people don't appreciate the perfect hair stylist for their hair. To some people hair is hair and a scissors can be maneuvered by anyone who can swivel a chair and frames a license from the department of commerce near the mirror and above the hot hair appliances (i.e., the curling iron, flat iron, and the smoking hair dryer...)

But I have found The One. Not "The One" as in married, children, white picket fence, two cats in the yard, (which may just be about as fictional as a unicorn), but The One. The One who can manage my hair. It is an amazing feat. She can cut it and style it and make it look nice. The trick is that the cut has to stay nice. The cut has to work with my hair. Many stylists can't figure it out. I have thick, wavy, heavy hair that needs just the right touch to stay tolerable for me to carry it for the next 6 - 9 weeks.

I sit in the swivel chair, cloaked in the black cape, and she stands behind me, a comb in her left hand and the shears in her right. Kind of similar to a noon-time show down. The street clears. The double doors swing, one hinge creaking in the silence of the dust blown cowboy town. Spurs sparkling in the sunshine, armed with tools for shaping, thinning, straightening and shining in the loops of her apron. She always wins the draw. My hair becomes limp and lets her do her magic. (It is magic. No one else can do it.)

In high school, I remember a teacher being interrogated because she got her hair cut in Coon Rapids. Being a high school student in Lakeville, Coon Rapids sounded a billion miles away (it kind of is) and like a completely different world (it really is). The kids were baffled by her dedication to a stylist. She drove. All the way. To Coon Rapids. She worked in Lakeville and lived in Woodbury. Coon Rapids did not seem convenient.

When it comes to hair, it is simply not about convenience. You find The One and you don’t let her or him go. Change is scary. Especially when it means giving the power of controlling a definition of you (yes, let’s face it, people do judge you by your hair and therefore makes your hair cut defining.)

I tried the convenience route. I did. With 6 moves in 5 years, you kind of start to think you should do things convenient as possible. I tried stylists in St. Cloud. Twice. And went back to The One. Tried two different stylists in the southern suburbs when I lived there and still, thinking I should be paying for convenience rather than perfection, tried two different stylists downtown. They each got three strikes and were out. I hung my head, tuck my hair under my hat, and returned to The One.

And I am so much happier now. She understands my hair and she knows what I want. She gets it. She has since relocated from her Anoka salon to an Andover salon. My past two appointments have been at 8:00 PM after a yoga class. I drive heavy-lidded, but faithfully, 38 miles to see her. 8:30 – 9:00 is usually my bedtime, but needing to see her and avoiding traffic was necessary. So I got in when I could get in. Of course, convenience has tempted me now and then. I will admit, as I am driving up Highway 242 I think about how nice it would be to just walk to a salon in Uptown or skip through the skyway to a spa after work sometime…

But. I will not waiver. The easy way out is not always the best way. I will not cheat. Not when I have found The One. My perfect hair stylist. (Let me know if you want her number. I am not greedy. I will share the hair happiness.)

a free writing exercise

Writers write. Unless, of course, you are me. I have known from day one that I wanted to be a writer. Ok, since I can’t positively identify the exact moment it was that I knew I wanted to write let’s put it around kindergarten. I have loved books since I was a baby. Ask my mom, she’ll vouch for me. Some children’s’ books, although I can’t recall the story, have etched their images in my mind. Pictures that helped develop my world and feed my imagination. One of my all time favourites - “The Little Engine That Could”. Who wouldn’t love a happy, blue, smiley train that wants to deliver toys to children?


I have a memory of my 8th birthday. We lived in Lakeville. Our house was beautiful. We had a blue two-story, with white trim. The porch was a haven; for watching the evening sky descend, families out for after-dinner walks or bike rides, and the best seat in the house for thunderstorms. (During thunderstorms we were promptly ushered to the basement and set up with a radio tuned in to WCCO and a red-orange flashlight with a cushy white button that you would press hard to summon the beam – the flashlight we would inevitably fight over, and our parents would go survey the house ensure all the windows had been closed and they would be gone for so long that we would sneak upstairs. Panicked that they had been swept up by a sudden tornado we would search for them until we found them sitting on the porch watching the rain and the lighting; the thunder sending vibrations through their white painted, metal chairs that accented the houses’ trim.)

My birthday is in December. It never bothered me to have a December birthday. I loved the holiday season, the Christmas music, the silent snowfalls, and the icy blizzards. We would go sledding at the creek by Lake Nokomis. Our plastic sleds shooting down the hill, sometimes coming to a stop right before the edge of the creek and other times, creeping over the edge and then plunging three feet to the frozen water below.

On this particular birthday we had our Christmas concert at school. I went to a Catholic Elementary school so we had the pleasures of celebrating Christmas – the true meaning of Christmas; manger scenes, the three kings, Saint Nicholas and all. It was a wonderful time. That birthday my grandparents came over to our house first, maybe for dinner and cake, and then we went to the concert. For my present they gave me a pencil lamp. On the tip of the lead is where the bulb sits. When I first received the lamp it was bright red. Since then it has been painted to match my room. For a while it was light pink, now it is burgundy, but I intend to paint it a Tiffany blue to match my studio apartment. My studio isn’t painted yet either though.

As we drove off in the snow I remember looking back to my bedroom and seeing a warm light glowing from my desk. I felt proud. I loved my lamp. Such a practical thing for such a little kid. But I took it as a representation of my future as a writer. The other windows were lit by little electric cream coloured plastic candles with bright, orange light bulbs, my window had one two, but my shining lamp was luminous. And mine.

Writers write. Starting in 5th grade I knew I did not care for my English class. I still remember a “poem” I doodled when we were in class. “English is so boring, I feel like I’m snoring and if I want a treat I will stare at Catherine’s feet.” Since I attended Catholic school we wore uniforms and the only outlet for fashion or proclamation of difference was our footwear. And feet rhymed with treat and at that point I still believed that poems had to be a few short words mushed together in a sing-songy, rhyming manner. When we began our poetry unit I became serious. From that day forward until I graduated high school, I wrote at least a poem a day. Some of the poetry is so stupid and embarrassing that I have conflicting feelings about it. I am thankful that it is buried deep behind boxes, cat fur, and whatever other items might get shoved under my bed away from public eyes, but I am also glad that it is only under my bed and not in the trash, lost forever. I meticulously dated every poem. For some reason I have always been obsessed with recording things. Knowing exactly when something in my life occurred.

Progressing through the years I have released some of that need for “recording”, but I for some things I do still hold on tight. Like working out. I need to write down when I worked out and how long, etc. etc. I think it is so I can look back and figure out how to stay in shape or get back in shape if I lose it. Which I have, several times. That is miserable and oh-so-depressing when you stop working out and gain weight, become soft, and lazy. It is so incredibly hard to get back into shape. Especially when the results don’t show immediately; it is my goal to never be out of shape again. Writing it on the calendar enables me to visualize my work out routine and the little empty calendar spaces instill immense guilt and motivate me to return to my early morning regime at the YMCA. The recoding is obsessive compulsive, I know. But at least outward, it doesn’t appear too strange. There are worse things to need to do on obsessive compulsive basis.

In junior high and through high school I became seriously dedicated to classical ballet. That consumed my time, even more so than homework (although I never let the reading or schoolwork slide) and my mantra became “After I am done dancing, I will focus on writing.” Don’t get me wrong, I tried to write. I would start “young adult” stories that I thought would turn into bestselling novels. But the time I did not have to devote to these writings left me scatterbrained and unable to finish one complete story. As I got older my stories and poems leaned toward the romantic side. Then I started to worry. How in the world was I supposed to write about a kiss when I had never experienced a kiss? Or write about characters with boyfriends when I had never had a boyfriend. And so came college. My desire to experience things so that I could write about them took a front seat to writing. I still took creative writing classes and did my assignments, but I took to heart the old adage “write what you know” and I spent more time living than writing.

Upon college graduation, I returned to ballet. It was a safety net. It was an escape from the “real world” and my problems. As a graduate, having studied creative writing and journalism, I wanted a career in writing. Due to unforeseen circumstances that shall go unmentioned, I was unable to partake in on-campus writing opportunities and internships. At the University of North Dakota I took the two creative writing courses I could.

I wrote for “The Dakota Student”. Missing performing I became involved in the theatre department and performed in a handful of plays. At the end of my sophomore year, I planned to transfer to St. Cloud State University. For a few reasons. One, a boy, though that is a long and complicated story and shall, again, go untold; two, to attend a school that would allow me to earn a bachelor of arts in Creative Writing; and three, to get back into ballet again, the only form of fitness I thought I could do. I was asked to apply for the Editor of Arts & Entertainment position for “The Dakota Student” but my transfer papers were in place and I had used up all the creative writing class at UND. I could not stay.

At SCSU I wrote an opinion piece for the “University Chronicle”. It got a couple emails of positive feedback. That felt nice, but it was all I ever did on campus, aside from my class work.

2005, two years after my return to ballet, I quit. I wanted to write. The ever-present reason for why I do the things I do and I also wanted to spend time with my current boyfriend. Ballet was time consuming and when paired with a full time job there was little time left for relaxing. That, and the full time dancers were in much better shape and it was hard to be satisfied with my ballet technique when everyone else was training on a daily basis.

All these years I have been writing. But I want to write more. I want to write more frequently. I take classes at The Loft, but I want to make writing a part of my daily routine, like it used to be. I found at The Loft, like in college, I was thriving amongst the other writers. The feeling of being around creative people and people who have a passion for writing is like a runner’s high. I feel so amazing; creativity is seeping out of me and imagery is spilling on to my pages, filling them quickly. I told a friend once that I liked being surrounded by creative minds and the enjoy sound of their brains pouring out through ink onto paper or playing their laptop keyboards like a sonata. I have never been musically talented, but when I am typing away on my keyboard imagine I know what a pianist feels like. It is like speaking tongues, a divine intervention; suddenly, what I can’t do in my studio apartment, is flowing from me and I can’t stop it. I am out of control and very much in control at the same time. And usually, I feel so happy. Content. A big sigh and I can’t wait to do it again.

Life gets in the way. Work, teaching yoga, working out, spending time with friends, family, and dating has all taken precedence. But now I am ready to focus and to fit writing into my schedule. With the right motivation and accountability, I will get it done. Just like working out. I have been going to the YMCA most every morning before work for the last year and a half. The “regulars” notice when I am missing, check on me the next day, and poke fun at me when I go through a sleeping in phase. Aside from being healthy and fitting into my clothes, I go to the gym because the ladies will expect me to be there and they will worry if I am not.

Fortunately I found out I am not the only writer with this problem. (You know? The one where the whole life thing gets in the way?) This fall, my writing friends and I are going to gather at a predetermined destination and write. Perhaps do some writing exercises. Maybe do a little work shopping. Thank you, in advance, to my fellow writing pals. Those who would like to enhance their writing practice and those that need the right motivation, the right environment, the right table, and the right cup of coffee to write.