Current Events

This morning, I woke up later than I had planned. This happens often, mostly because my boundless optimism regarding my abilities as a morning person has never quite matched up with the realities of 6:30 in the morning.

Like many publishing companies, Baker has a summer schedule. So instead of the daily plod of the proverbial 9-5 (or 8-4:30 in this case), we work 7:30-5 four days a week, giving us the precious resource of half day Fridays. At least, that’s the idea. But lately, (read: the last three months), the concept of a “normal” schedule has become rather laughable.

Previous posts have detailed one of the big “highs” of the summer (my trip to Singapore), as well as the darkest “low” (the loss of a friend and mentor), but those are just the extremes.

So what have I been up to?

1.       Moving:

Due to unforeseen circumstances, I found myself packing up my room in a hurried rush, leaving my first postgrad house almost a full month before I had planned. After playing several games of adult Tetris in the trunk of my station wagon, I got all of my belongings across town, where a gracious coworker had offered up her spare bedroom.

Usually, my moves are quick and efficient. A lifetime of training and a propensity for frequently donating accumulated un-necessities has made transition a fairly simple task. I need help carrying the heavy stuff (see posts regarding my book collection for further reference), but I’m fairly well equipped to handle the actual packing on my own.

This time, however, it was a mess. Caught in a time crunch and wrought with the physical symptoms of anxiety (adrenaline rushes, nausea, hyperventilation, and the inability to focus or sleep), I was at the end of a very frayed rope. And just as I recovered, rejuvenated by my vacation, it was time to do it all over again.

One of my new roommates, Alice the Chinchilla

 

 

And I was ashamed. Every so often, I would hang my head behind my boxes as friends helped me move into my new, more permanent residence. And as my things began to stack up in the basement, a jumble of books and clothes and papers and whatnots, so did my shame. How had I, the girl with more moves under her belt than a backup dancer, messed this up? My car was basically a mobile storage unit. I couldn’t find my migraine medication. I was stymied by items that seemed to multiply while my back was turned.

I still tried to be a good plant mama.

 Even as my biceps trembled, my back ached, and my calves bruised, I fought the battle against my perceived failure. My rope began to slack. Slowly, carefully, I allowed myself to let it go.

My belongings, the physical representations of my life, were quite literally coming apart at the seams. But despite that, and even though I was sharing a room and the new neighborhood was filled with strange sounds and the new-to-me-but-really-old house creaked in unfamiliar ways, I slept well for the first time in over a month. 

Making myself at home

2.       Driving:

My best friend moved this summer, foraging a new path in Lafayette, Indiana (for science!). And since pictures can’t alleviate how much I miss her face, I drove down to visit. The weather was terrible, but we only let it dampen our hair, not our spirits.

She introduced me to her new haunts. We bought cupcakes and hummus at the farmer’s market and snuck donuts from a local bakery into the movie theater. We wandered through the surprisingly interesting (and free) zoo, and I forced her to show me where she worked on Purdue’s campus.

My spirit animal, perhaps?

My beautiful bestie

A wallaby walk-through

 

 

And, in the midst of it all, we curled up on her new couch and ate Chinese food and cupcakes in our pajamas while having a movie marathon, and it was like we hadn’t ever been separated by new jobs and new homes and way too many miles.

I love this girl!

3.       Geeking Out:

I was snooping through a list of West Michigan events, idly trying to guess what concert a friend’s boyfriend had bought surprise tickets for. I never figured it out, but I did discover something far more interesting: Neil Gaiman was going to be in Ann Arbor.

A year or two ago, I would never have gone alone. I’ve been to Ann Arbor a handful of times, but always accompanied by others. Driving to a mostly-unfamiliar town at night with no idea where to park so I could sit by myself in an auditorium full of strangers would have been terrifying then. It was still slightly scary, but it was Neil Gaiman.

Let me repeat that: Neil F-ing Gaiman.

And it came with a free copy of his new book, The Ocean at the End of the Lane.

Sassy, adventurous me took hold. She paid for a ticket even before advertising the awesome opportunity on Facebook. She didn’t care that no one might want to come with. 

Sassy, adventurous me was going to go see her favorite author, come hell or high water.

Sassy, adventurous me is a smart cookie. Because even as I left the theater at 1 AM, with a two hour drive and a full work day ahead of me, I was incredibly happy. I had seen Neil Gaiman. I had heard him, one of my idols, speak about life and writing and even cats. He was funny and smart. His new book was just as mystifyingly cool as the ones I had read before. He had signed my books (with a fountain pen, no less). I had not made a fool of myself in front of him while he did so. And I did it. I had indulged my passion and geekiness, logistics and all, on my own.

4.       Meeting Family:

Due to our travels, family reunions are a rare occurrence for me. We make sure to spend time with aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents, but beyond that is a sea of faces I’ve never met. So when my mom couldn’t attend my third cousin’s wedding in Wisconsin (my grandmother has had previous success using such distant relatives to engineer family togetherness), I was called in as my dad’s wedding date.

By working 10-11 hour days Monday through Thursday, I was able to take last Friday off and fly to Chicago (via Detroit), where my dad would be waiting to drive us up to Elkhorn, Wisconsin. Strangely enough, my flights were completely stress free. No delays. No hurried treks across the terminal. I even got an entire row to myself! Due to approximately 6 years of bad travel juju, I was suspicious, but I accepted my blessed circumstances with wary gratitude. My dad managed to find me in the maze of O’Hare’s terminals, and we hopped into his Mini Cooper (a very me-sized car), and darted up to Lake Geneva for a bit of sightseeing before heading to our hotel.

Lake Geneva has all the requisite cafes, cute stores, and posh houses of a holiday town. Because of the weather (unseasonably chilly and rainy), we indulged only in the former two. I was very excited to be spoiled by a new book: The Cuckoo’s Calling, the murder mystery written by the now infamously pseudonymous Robert Galbraith. 

It was a great read, by the way.

Precious treasure in hand, we abandoned the rainy town for the warm embraces of family. 

As my head whirled with the names of great aunts and uncles and second and third cousins, I heartily enjoyed my first fish fry. The next day, after returning to Lake Geneva to check out the posh vacation homes on the lakeshore, my dad and I got ready and joined the caravan to the groom’s family farm.

This isn't unreasonable for a birthday present, right?

 The wedding was very nice, but for me, the main draw was spending time with my family. Even those I know and love very well are often too far away to see on a regular basis. And seeing my dad show off his dance moves reminds me just how much I’m a product of my amazing, loving, and odd parents.

My adorable cousins, Jordan and Riley, attacking Uncle Brian while I laughed from the safety of the other side of the booth.

Like father, like daughter.

5.       Reading books:

A friend and English department alum brought up the idea of starting a book club with some people we studied in York with. Finding that we all miss discussing literature with fellow book buffs (but not the papers or essay exams), her idea came to fruition. We meet in places with delicious food and beverages close at hand and discuss the book of the month (or so). So far, we’ve read Silence, Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald, and The House of the Seven Gables by Nathaniel Hawthorne. This month’s selection is Babbitt. Speaking of which, I should probably go find a copy…

Not only that, I’ve continued to work through my library. Even with the distractions of Ocean at the End of the Lane and The Cuckoo’s Calling (both of which I highly recommend), I finally finished From Home to Harry Potter (an academic-type book on mythology and fantasy and its relationship with Christianity), and I’m now 1/3 of the way through Brothers Karamazov. I will finish it…I will. After reading Les Mis, I stopped doubting my ability to finish dense books on my own. Of course, I’m also more careful about which ones I start.

So what’s next?

1.       Writing.

Due to the stress and accompanying exhaustion, most of my writing has remained in my head. I have quite a few sketches of new material to add further richness and detail to Paladin, but I actually have to sit down and add it all in. I’ve just started to do that again, but it’s going to be a slow return.

2.       Belly dancing.

Yep. That’s right. You saw that. I found a Groupon and, spurred by a longtime secret desire to learn, I started going to classes near my house. And I love it so far. No matter how bad my day has been, five minutes into class I have a huge smile on my face. It’s already had such a distinct effect on my mental and physical health, so I plan on continuing to take classes after my Groupon expires.

3.       Going out (of town).

I’m quite excited to drive down to NC within the next month. I haven’t spent a non-holiday centered weekend with my mom, dad, AND brother in a long time. I miss them so much, and as my brother transitions from postgrad life to pre-grad school life, I really want to catch him when I can. I can’t wait to give him a huge hug…and then irritate the crap out of him.

And, with a belated birthday celebration as a partial excuse, my work bestie are going on a girl’s weekend to go shop and see a Cirque show. I’ve always wanted to see a Cirque performance, and shopping with her is always a blast, so to say that I’m looking forward to it is an understatement.

So more highs await—and I’m sure more lows will join them. But whatever happens, insane or inane, my life continues to be an adventure.

So allons-y!

A Dark and Stormy Post

Last Wednesday, I was sick and exhausted. Last Wednesday, I was ready to enjoy a relaxing evening. Last Wednesday, I only had the respite of a long weekend on my mind. And then I checked my Facebook.

Last Wednesday, I discovered that I had lost a professor, mentor, and friend.

I should have met Professor William Vande Kopple my freshman year at Calvin, nearly four years ago. I had decided to study abroad in York and began the application process to make that happen. That process required the signature of the English department chair.

I hadn't declared my major at that point; in fact, I hadn't even completed a full English class at Calvin. So I had no idea who the chair of the English department was. Or that there were, in fact, two of them. To figure out who they were and what they looked like, I turned to Calvin's friendly neighborhood StalkerVision for their photos and office numbers.

Vande Kopple looked rather stern in his photo, I remember. I went to Professor Vander Lei instead.

Two years, later, I was excited to take the Grammar interim. Taught by the always academic and constantly comedic duo Vande Kopple and VandenBosch, Grammar exhausted my brain with patterns and my diaphragm with laughing. Vande Kopple was no longer a stern face in a poorly lit picture--he was a friend. A Facebook friend to boot.

Later that semester, I went on my first writer's retreat. I'm not sure if I've ever admitted it, but I was intimidated by other students with far more confidence and writing classes than I. But, despite being secretly terrified to share any of my work, I fell sway to Vande Kopple's enthusiasm and submitted a sentence to the Bulwer-Lytton competition. And I won.

For those of who who don't wish to sort through my posts to find it, it goes a little like this:  

The relationship ended, she realized, the day he had shaved his beard--oh that magnificent beard, which preceded him with proud protuberance, putting the bushy tails of sleek squirrels to such a shame that they brought offerings of winter-aged nuts while weeping over their inadequacy--and every time she looked upon the balded chin bereft of the masculine, yet tender, homage to Sampson's strength, she was overcome with a poignant pain that overshadowed her once all-consuming love.

Vande Kopple was so proud of that sentence, bringing it up weeks, months, even years later. And he made me feel proud of it too--as delightfully stupid as it was. He made me feel intelligent, funny, and worthwhile in front of my peers. I felt like I belonged. I felt like an English major of Calvin College. It was a gift without price.

Another year passed. I experienced my first relationship, tumbling head over heels down a path I didn't know. And just as suddenly as it began, it was over. It was over with a shock and a cliche and a back walking away from me.

It was two days before Christmas break began, and three weeks before I was set to go on a trip to Massachusetts with the New England Saints. And with the man who had just broken my heart.

When I got on the bus to New England, I was glad to have a row to myself. I didn't want anyone to see me. I wanted everyone to blame my red eyes on exhaustion, my sniffles on a cold, my silence on shyness. My heartbreak, exacerbating an as-yet undiagnosed anxiety disorder, had left me in a pit. I firmly believed that I was worthless. Unloved. And worse--unlovable. And now I was stuck on a bus with people I didn't know; people I couldn't trust to love me, not yet. I was stuck on a bus with a person who'd seen all of me and decided that it wasn't worthwhile.

What had I done?

I cried off and on the entire bus ride, adding hopelessness to my list of "-less" and "un-" descriptors.

After the enforced closeness of Plimoth, my mask was beginning to crumble. So when the group gathered for Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, I lagged behind. I stared at the moon--it was beautiful, yes, but it also gave me an excuse to set myself apart. In the dark, no one could see that I wasn't smiling.

But William Vande Kopple did. As my Facebook friend, he'd seen the status change, but hadn't heard the full story. He coaxed it all out of me, from the walk after class to the excruciating variation of "It's not you, it's me."

"He didn't give you closure?" I remember he was shocked and angry on my behalf, startling against his usual good humor.

It was a simple observation, but it had a profound impact on the broken girl walking next to him. He cared enough to listen to my little story. And, not only that, he stood up for the validity of my wounded emotions. He believed that I, even I of the "un-" and "-less," deserved something. He believed that I deserved respect, even when I could not.

At that moment, underneath the eerie moon in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, I got the first inkling that I was going to be okay. Because he was there for me.

To some, it may sound silly. Heartbreak, after all, is a part of life. But for the anxious girl stuck at the bottom of a pit, William Vande Kopple's listening ear was a rope. And it displayed, I think, the singular gift that made him such a beloved and effective teacher.

You see, Professor Vande Kopple watched when we thought no one was. He saw the smiles on our faces fall when others had their backs turned. He saw our grimaces of pain when we fell behind. He heard the sighs leave our lips when everyone's ears were tuned elsewhere.

I will miss the man who made me proud of myself, who made me laugh until my sides hurt, and who calmed insecurities and anxieties I hadn't yet named. Most of all, I will both wistfully and fiercely miss the man who watched me, who watched my friends and fellow students, and who now watches over us all.