2014 Highlights

2014 turned out to be a pretty fabulous year, and I'm actually a bit sad to see it end, which is rarely, if ever, the case. My goal for this year, as it is for each year, was to grow - emotionally, spiritually, intellectually -  and see the evidence of that growth in my life. I came closer this year to becoming the person I've always wanted to be, the best possible version of myself. To recap:

I wrote

I continued blogging for a second year and daily journaling for a third. As a bigger step, I joined a local writing group, met other aspiring writers, and forced myself to read my work at each monthly meeting.

I read

I pored through my usual hodgepodge of contemporary fiction (Stephen King, Barbara Kingsolver, Donna Tartt), self-help, biographies, and assorted memoirs, and also tossed in a few American classics (J.D. Salinger, Arthur Miller, and Tennessee Williams) to expand my literary education.

I learned

Reading Susan Cain's Quiet was one of the best and most important personal events of 2014. I finished the book with a new understanding of myself as a shy introvert who often struggles in a world of extroverts but who is not alone in that struggle. In fact, it's frequently the people you and I would least expect who also consider themselves introverts. There's nothing wrong with me, I learned this year, despite others telling me there was while growing up. 

I survived

Extreme winter weather was the top local news story in my neck of the woods, starting in January, continuing (on and off but mostly on) through the end of March, and picking up where it left off with approximately 88 inches of snowfall in three days during "Snowvember." I realize, of course, that snow and freezing temperatures come with my territory every winter, but this was the worst I can remember. (Just to put it in perspective, the college where I work, which never closes, closed five days this year (two consecutive days in January and three in Snowvember)!)

I traveled

How did I survive winter's onslaught with sanity (more or less) intact? I booked a series of summer getaways (to the Finger Lakes, Orlando, and the 1000 Islands) as the psychological boost I needed to slog through seemingly endless days of frigid temperatures and drive through snowy whiteouts day after day.

So, how can I possibly top all of this? Well, I have some plans, big plans, actually, for the new year, which I'll reveal in due time. But for now I'm content to bask in 2014's remaining afterglow.

Christmas Made to Order

Approximately two weeks remain until Christmas and, at the moment, I'm right on track. I've bought gifts, all of which are currently piled in a corner of my living room, ready to be wrapped and distributed, for family, friends, coworkers, and local charities, so far without a single panic attack or ulcer, which feels like a major accomplishment befitting "a major award" (see A Christmas Story for the reference). Is holiday neurosis an actual diagnosable condition? If so, I have it in spades, and I know I'm not the only one.

"The most wonderful time of the year" (aka "the happiest season of all") has a way of making people feel very anxious and unhappy. I can't help feeling nostalgic for Christmases of yore (namely those of my childhood) when this holiday was all joy (presents! two-week school vacation!) and no stress. At that time, my biggest Christmas concern was whether I'd get everything on my wishlist (so carefully marked in the Sears Wish Book). Giving to others was the least of my worries. Just about any trinket from the school Christmas fair would do. I reserved my time and energy for ensuring I'd get exactly what I wanted. 

Today it's the opposite. When someone asks me what I want, I offer practical, inexpensive, easy-to-find items that I know I'll use and enjoy: candles, kitchen tools, hair products, and, this year, a toaster. All of my energy (and stress) now goes into getting others the perfect gift(s), something they'll really love, enjoy, and, most importantly, use. And typically I'll drive myself crazy overthinking and rethinking whether I should buy this for that person, or is it too much, not enough, etc. Eventually I have to decide, preferably before December 1, when I really start panicking. (That's another thing: I swear the holiday season zips by before I'm ready for it, whereas in my youth, the month, weeks, and days before Christmas dragged interminably.)

I know I'm not the only one feeling holiday neurosis, however. I've noticed a funny thing this year: It's no longer enough to tell someone, if asked, a general-but-clearly-stated gift idea. They want me to pick out a gift for myself. Blame it on gift registries (where everyone today orders their own gifts and demands that others pay for them), or fear of buying the wrong gift for the wrong person, but I've had the following conversations during the past few weeks, which follow a similar pattern:

Coworker/Friend: "What would you like for Christmas?"

Me: "Tea."

Coworker/Friend: "What kind of tea?"

Me: "Green tea."

Coworker/Friend: "What kind of green tea?"

____________________________________________

Sister: "What would you like for Christmas? "

Me: "Hair products." (My sister is a licensed hair stylist and gets a discount.)

Sister: "What kind of hair products?"

Me: "Whatever's on sale!"

_____________________________________________

Brother: "What would you like for Christmas?"

Me: "Candles and toiletries are always welcome."

Brother: "What kind of toiletries?"

Me: "Body wash, shampoo, conditioner..."

Brother: "What brands? I don't want to get you something you don't like."

Me: "I'm not fussy!"

I'm alternately amused and exasperated by these conversations, but believe me when I write that I understand them. A big part of my holiday neurosis, as I believe it is for many, is earnestly wishing not only to give loved ones gifts but the right gifts, the perfect gifts for them. And God forbid (in our minds, at least) we get them the same item(s) we got them last year, or buy something they won't like or use. It's as if Christmas, which really isn't about gifts at all, is ruined if we don't get exactly what we want or give exactly what someone else wants. (Third world problems these aren't.) Meanwhile, there's always someone out there who would be happy to receive or give a gift, any gift at all. 

If only we could focus on the real meaning of Christmas, there would be so much less neurosis (and credit card debt) and so much more joy abounding.

And so, determined to decrease my own holiday neurosis, which has steadily decreased with each gift bought, I sincerely wish you a very happy, neurosis-free holiday.

Changed Plans

A little Buffalo winter humor

I awoke last Monday morning with plans for a busy week. 

Monday has become a marathon day of errands for me - work followed by a boot camp workout with a personal trainer, grocery shopping, and laundry when I (finally) get home. On Tuesday evening, I had a writing-group meeting, and on Thursday evening, I had tentative weather-dependent plans to attend a concert. Alas, those are my two key words for this time of year, as I live in a small town near Buffalo, N.Y. (which, if you haven't heard, is basically the snow capital of the world): weather dependent.

As it turned out, plans started changing quickly after I got to work last Monday. All of us were on high alert, monitoring the forecast, which called for up to several feet (not inches) of snow during the next few days. My only wish at that point, as a light rain/snow mix (undoubtedly the precursor to much worse) commenced, was that I'd be able to stop for groceries on my way home, as I was running low on nearly everything food related. Thankfully, I did, though not before cancelling my workout (I made up for it later at home, on my own) so I could get home before daylight faded. (I also told my writing-group leader, when she called with the meeting reminder, that I most likely wouldn't make it due to the forecasted weather.)

The snowy view from my snowy bedroom window.

I awoke the next morning to snow...lots and lots of snow...so I turned on the TV, checking to see what, if anything, was closed. By 6 a.m., nearly all schools in my area were closed, except, unfortunately, the college where I worked. I left my apartment earlier than usual to start cleaning and defrosting my car. As I futilely attempted to brush the snow off my car (as soon as I finished brushing off one side and went to the other, the side I'd just cleaned would be once again totally snow-covered within seconds) and squinted at the street, which I could barely see, my boss's words from the previous day ("Don't come in if the weather is bad") rang through my head. Well, although I never call in sick, regardless of appendicitis, flu, colds, or snowy mornings, I ditched my snow brush and promptly headed back inside to text my boss and email my coworkers. 

The storm waged on throughout the day and night, thankfully closing my college (and everything else) on Wednesday and again on Thursday. More than anything, I was thankful to be home, safe and warm, with a well-stocked refrigerator and cupboards, especially when I heard on the TV news about motorists stranded on the New York State Thruway (which had closed) for hours at a time without food, water, or any knowledge of when they might be rescued. If I had to be snowed in anywhere (which I was; by Thursday evening, my car was literally buried under feet of snow), I'm glad it was in the safety of  my home.

Making productive use of three consecutive snow days.

By Thursday afternoon, after enjoying three days of relaxing downtime to read, watch movies, clean my apartment, and get a jump start on my holiday decorating, my anxiety kicked in to overdrive. Despite shoveling my porch and around my car that morning, and having my parking lot plowed by a neighbor the previous two days, there was at least a solid foot of snow on my car, with only the black side rear-view mirror visible out of the white snowy lump. And it was still snowing. (And the concert was cancelled, of course.)

My car...in there somewhere.

So I grabbed a shovel and got to work, while trying to stave off a pending panic attack. Minutes later: a true answer to prayer. Two men, who just happened to be walking by with shovels, asked if I needed help. "That's an understatement," I responded. Without another word, both men started shoveling an opening to the parking lot, eventually, after over an hour of backbreaking work, meeting me in the middle, making a seemingly insurmountable task for one person a doable job for three. 

Before they left, I dropped my shovel, ran inside, and grabbed two $20 bills, one for each, and thanked them both profusely. As a strong, single, self-sufficient woman, I hate asking for help. I rarely do, and, truthfully, I really don't expect anyone to help me even if I do. But what I realized, in the midst of this storm, is that good people are out there, especially in the small town where I'm fortunate to live, and they tend to come out exactly when they're needed.

Thanks to the assistance of those two men, and another neighbor who helped push my car out after a plow banked a heap of snow at the front of my parking lot overnight, I was able to make it back to work on Friday morning. By now the storm was over and massive cleanup efforts began, along with a new concern, due to a rapid warmup and heavy rainfall: flooding.

After this crazy, unpredictable week, only one thing is certain: there's never a dull moment during winter in Buffalo.

Her Right to Die

On Nov. 1 a 29-year-old woman died in Oregon, just as she had carefully planned. 

But her death was not a suicide. There's no question that the terminally-ill woman - Brittany Maynard - who had become synonymous during the preceding weeks with the Death with Dignity law that allowed her a medically-assisted hastened death would have chosen life and all that came with it - travel, adventures, motherhood, family - if that had been an option. Tragically, because of her untreatable brain cancer, it was not.

After being given a six-month life (or death, depending on how you view it) term in April, knowing that the cancer would slowly, painfully, inevitably end her life, she took action, becoming a Death with Dignity recipient and advocate, moving with her husband from California to Oregon, a state that allowed medical-assisted death, as her health and quality of life diminished, while she still had the ability to choose. Simply put (in a story where nothing was simple), she chose quality over quantity. Who could blame her?

Unfortunately many, many people did. Although it was a very personal choice, one that she made after thoroughly researching her condition and concluding that there were no possible treatment options, everyone had an opinion regarding the life and death of this woman they had never met. Suddenly her previously unknown existence was everyone's business. Why? Because she bravely made it our business. 

Prior to her death, Brittany wrote a moving essay (My right to death with dignity at 29) published on CNN.com in which she explained that she did not want to die but had accepted, after months of tumultuous soul-searching, that she would. Scheduling her death for Nov. 1 (a few days after her husband's birthday) and filling the prescription for her life-ending medication brought her peace and comfort, she wrote, that she would not otherwise have had. She was afraid of dying, not of death. As she wrote in her essay,

"Having this choice at the end of my life has become incredibly important. It has given me a sense of peace during a tumultuous time that otherwise would be dominated by fear, uncertainty and pain.

Now, I'm able to move forward in my remaining days or weeks I have on this beautiful Earth, to seek joy and love and to spend time traveling to outdoor wonders of nature with those I love. And I know that I have a safety net."

She just wanted peace, enough to enjoy her final weeks, but she courageously made her story public because she wanted others who might someday be faced with the same unyielding circumstances and the same inevitable decisions to have the same choice.

It is my sincere hope that she turned off her computer and tuned out the naysayers (all those who posted in online forums that she was choosing "suicide" instead of natural death, playing God, robbing herself of a possible cure, acting hastily, was selfish, ignorant, uninformed, and ungodly, and consequently bound for hell) during her final days and instead tuned in to the loving support of her family and friends.

Believe me when I say that, having lost a friend to suicide and nearly losing a family member to attempted suicide, I am not an advocate for suicide under any circumstances. It's never the answer. But there's a difference for me between choosing death when life is an option and accepting death when there's no other choice.

This is Halloween

Halloween, for me, is like alcohol, football, high heels, Friends, and the Beatles - one of those wildly popular phenomenons whose appeal entirely escapes me. I guess I can understand why kids enjoy dressing up and walking door-to-door for obscene amounts of candy, although, as I recall, possibly because of my severe shyness, I didn't.

But many adults seem to love Halloween as much as, if not more than, kids, which really baffles me. What, if anything, am I missing? Should I just go wild (for me), buy a costume, wear it to work, and sit outside freezing on my front porch with a bowl of candy, waiting to be mobbed by costumed children? It would be an interesting experiment, I suppose, but one that I have no interest in launching. 

For one thing, although I'm not as shy as I was as a child, I remain socially anxious, and kids in large numbers frighten me. (Seriously!) For another thing, my neighbor, who apparently enjoys Halloween and with whom I don't really get along, takes over the front porch of our apartment house every year, so spending the evening with him just isn't going to happen. And did I mention that it's usually at least moderately cold and often raining in my neck of the woods (and that I have an increasingly low tolerance for cold weather)?

I guess I could blame evangelical Christianity (it's a handy scapegoat for whatever ails you), which indoctrinated me, via a Pentecostal church. for approximately six years as a young adult that Halloween represents Satanism, for my aversion to this day. I no longer believe that Halloween is evil, but I suppose, like most other things in life, it is what you make it.

For whatever reason, I'm basically a Halloween grinch. I don't get it, but I don't begrudge anyone else (of any age) the right to enjoy it. Costumes, whether scary, silly, or slutty, aren't my thing. My idea of celebrating Halloween includes wearing orange or black clothing, possibly enjoying a round of Warren Zevon's "Werewolves of London," and buying a bag of candy for my workplace's daycare kids on the big day. 

 

That's about it, although I started a new tradition a year ago of watching scary movies (the Nightmare on Elm Street series) all weekend, which I usually don't do at any other time of the year. (For obvious reasons...like I live alone, I'm hyper-phobic and over-imaginative, and I tend to wake up freaked out in the middle of the night hearing strange noises after watching a horror film. But how quickly we forget the fear once it passes.) Despite my fear (or perhaps because of it), it was more fun than I expected. I think this is one Halloween celebration that I can get down with.

So, if anyone needs me, I'll be bundled up at home this weekend, frightfully watching the Halloween film series, and instantly regretting it once the daylight fades and things start going bump in the night.

Judging a Play by its Title

Last week the college at which I'm employed premiered its fall student-performed production...Charles Busch's Vampire Lesbians of Sodom. How's that for an attention-grabbing, eyebrow-raising title? (I confess I nearly fell off my chair the first time I heard it.) As you can imagine, it not only did both, it also generated multiple complaint calls and a few pieces of hate mail, a first for this college's performing-arts department, from members of the community.

The negative feedback fell along the lines of questioning the judgment of the production's director, asking why a family-friendly play wasn't selected, and generally featured the shrewish scolding of "you should be ashamed of yourselves!" One woman who called the dean of students' office to voice her complaint managed to get her point across despite her stalwart refusal to say the word "lesbians."

In response, the director spoke to local media to explain her reasons for choosing the show. She believed the farcical show served as a valuable learning tool for students who are preparing for conservatories and post-college professional acting work. Although the college performs a wildly popular touring children's theater show (acted by college students for local schoolchildren and families) every spring, not every performance can be PG in nature. Otherwise the student actors lack versatility, hampering their growth and potential future acting careers. With that objective in mind, students are given opportunities to perform something from every genre during their college tenures: dramas, comedies, tragedies, musicals, and, of course, children's theatre. 

The college and its performing-arts director have never shied away from performing gritty productions in the past. Previous shows include CHICAGO (violence and sexuality), In the Blood (sexual content), Dog Sees God (strong language and mature subject matter), and Triumph of Love (sexual innuendos). But nothing has ever matched the outraged response created by advertising Vampire Lesbians of Sodom in local newspapers and radio spots. People have walked out of shows from time to time, but because of offense or some unrelated matter? Who knows. But for the community to protest without even seeing the show points to one simple factor: the show's title. Any one of the three nouns on their own might evoke prejudices and discomfort, but the three words together in one title was enough to create an unprecedented brouhaha. 

The response both surprised and puzzled me, though, in hindsight, I guess it shouldn't have. Despite growing up in a small, very conservative town, I guess I didn't fully understand how small (and small-minded) my community is until a show like Vampire Lesbians of Sodom was advertised, and I had to remind myself that it is, in fact, 2014, not 1914. 

As a frequent patron of the arts, I appreciate the opportunity to cherry pick from a variety of different performances. Not every show captures my interest (I generally dislike strong language, violence, and crude sexual content), but if I'm not interested, I don't purchase a ticket. For me, it's as simple as that. I don't feel a need to contact the theater's box office and complain because an advertised show isn't one that I want to see. Why do some people do that? Why try to prevent someone else from performing or viewing a show just because it isn't what you like?

Art is subjective. I get that, and I like that. It means different things to different people, and it appears in different forms for different people, who have different tastes and different comfort levels. 

A protest of Jerry Springer: The Opera

As a former member of an extremely conservative Christian church that protested both abortion and Harry Potter with equal fervor, I understand the protests and the protestors. They see sin and they want to annihilate it. But that's precisely what I dislike most about organized religion: the self-righteous attitude of "I'm right, you're wrong, and I will let you know in every imaginable way how wrong you are." I have my opinions too, but I don't need to force them on anyone. If you don't like my blog, don't read it. If you don't want to see a performance, don't see it. Why be obnoxious and unloving (and unChristian) about it?

Interestingly, I just had a similar conversation with my mom last week. She dislikes a local radio program so much, it's so painful to listen to, that she considered calling in to express how much she hates it. I have to admit I was bewildered. Just turn the radio off! Why waste your time listening to it and complaining? Some people might like it even if you don't, was basically my response. 

Both situations made me wonder, Why does it bother us so much when something isn't to our liking? Well, because we're self-absorbed for one thing, and uncomfortable with things that we perceive as different, for another. We want the world (and everything in it) to line up with our likes and dislikes, and we want other people to follow the same religion and have the same culture, values, interests, and sexual orientation as us. If they don't, we judge, we criticize, and, inevitably, we protest.

So anyway, back to the original story, Vampire Lesbians of Sodom, which controversially opened last week, turned out to be much ado about nothing, for me, anyway. (If I really wanted to be punny, I could say that, despite its title, it was all bark and no bite, but I doubt my readers, if any, would stand for that nonsense.) For those who could look beyond the title, the show's actual content was fairly harmless and inoffensive (maybe two F-bombs and some sexual innuendo) to most people. In fact, it was entertaining and enjoyable, with great acting, choreography, lighting, and sets. 

Was it for everyone? No, but what in this world is?

Falling for Autumn

Among the pumpkins - fall 2011

I've never really liked fall. 

For me, it has always signified the end of summer (my favorite season) and the start of school (boo), and served as the harbinger of winter (hiss). The weather gets colder, my workdays become more hectic, days become darker earlier, and my local park's hours shorten, making it more difficult to go there, all of which prohibit adventure and encourage a six-month hibernation. And the anniversary of a friend's death looms once again. So, all around, not good things associated with this time of year.

But I'm trying to take the Pollyanna approach. There are some enjoyable aspects to fall (I keep telling myself), if only I can find them. At the top of the list, of course, is the beautiful scenery, covered in red and orange leaves. Fall also marks the start of local colleges' performing arts series and, of course, televised figure skating (my love of which is documented in Figure Skating: An Appreciation and Olympic Fever). 

Canned pumpkin puree returns to my local grocery store, which, for some reason, I craved like never before last fall, resulting in pumpkin pies, pumpkin brownies, pumpkin bread, pumpkin muffins, and pumpkin cheesecakes. This fall I've discovered the seasonal joy of pumpkin-spice bagels, which smell as scrumptious as they taste. Can pumpkin-spice lattes be far behind?

Also contributing to my newfound appreciation for fall has been surprisingly warm (for my neck of the woods) late-September and early-October weather, including a week or two in the 70s. My winter coat and boots remain in the closet, as do the scarves and mittens, my snow brush and ice scraper haven't left my car's trunk, and my thermostat has only been adjusted two or three times (so far), so it's a good start to the season, in my book.

Now if only I can start enjoying upstate New York winters...

No Place Like Home

Back in the midst of a busy, adventure-filled summer, the college at which I'm employed announced an opportunity for students, faculty, and staff to take a one-day whirlwind trip to Manhattan (New York City, of course) to visit the 9/11 Memorial Museum, followed by a brief tour of the city. 

Although I'm not the spontaneous type, it took me approximately 60 seconds (enough time to clear the day off with my boss) before I pounced on the opportunity like a cat on a mouse. Unfortunately, that hastily-organized (and hastily-advertised) venture didn't attract a sufficient amount of participants, so it was postponed and eventually rescheduled for last weekend.

So, on Saturday morning I hurried out of bed at the painful, rarely-seen (by me) hour of 2 am as a blessed wave of adrenaline propelled me onto the bus leaving for NYC at 4:30 am.  Approximately eight hours and a few stops later, the scenery changed from landmark-less highway to massive buildings as we drove through Jersey City into the Holland Tunnel and, at long last, Manhattan. 

My cellphone camera couldn't really capture the sheer height of Manhattan's buildings, nor the hustle bustle below.

I feared whiplash as my overloaded senses swung my head from side to side in an effort to take in all of the foreign sights and sounds. Prior to our scheduled tour of the museum, we had just enough time for a food-cart lunch and entertainment by street performers, neither of which I've ever experienced at home. I clearly wasn't in Kansas (or rural WNY, in my case) anymore.

The museum visit began with an airport-like security checkpoint (complete with plastic bins for personal items and full-body scanning booths) at its entrance. Our tour guide, who met us just prior to lunch, announced that the museum was designed as a self-guided tour, so the whole concept of staying together as a group went out the window as group members splintered off into groups of twos and threes and scattered. One moment I was with the group, the next I was surrounded by people, but unfamiliar people. After at least 30 minutes of steadily-increasing panic, I pulled out my phone, thankfully found our tour director's number, and asked where she was. Shortly afterward, she and a few group members came to find me. 

The "Last Column" at the 9/11 Memorial Museum

The "Survivors' Stairs," implanted next to the escalator

For the rest of the solemn, emotionally-charged museum tour, I was unfortunately distracted by a concerted effort to keep at least two group members in my line of sight at all times. In hindsight, maybe that was beneficial since it blunted the impact of the shocking photos, videos, and Ground Zero remnants, all of which had hit me full force when watching 9/11 documentaries during the two weeks prior to our visit.

After the museum visit, we slowly rounded up all of the scattered group members and walked outside to take in the stunning memorial waterfall, which contains the carved names of nearly 3,000 individuals lost to the 9/11 attacks and the 1993 World Trade Center bombing. 

 
Then we were herded back onto the bus for the remainder of the tour, stopping first in Battery Park for a quick photo op of the Statue of Liberty, which was just visible across the Hudson River, and then on to Chinatown, where the tour ground to a halt, literally and figuratively. 

The Statue of Liberty...between my hair strands.

Although it seemed like a terrible idea to me, some of the group members wanted to spend an hour shopping and exploring. Despite my misgivings, I got off the bus (I desperately needed to stretch my legs) and stuck like glue to one of my coworkers, who once lived in Manhattan and knew his way around the city. The tour guide assured us it was safe, but I had my doubts. The street vendors, selling everything from touristy tchotchkes, T-shirts, bongs, jewelry, scarves, food, and knock-off designer handbags and "Rolexes," are aggressive, getting right in your face (literally) to promote their wares. After wandering into Little Italy's packed-beyond-belief San Gennaro festival and getting out alive, with my valuables intact, I was ready to get back on the bus and stay there. 

Unfortunately, one of the students apparently wasn't. The appointed departure time came and went, but the missing student didn't return. After an hour and a half of panic, as the tour director frantically searched for his phone number, the student, realizing his plight, borrowed a cellphone from a stranger and sent the director an email (he didn't have her number either) telling her where he was. So the missing student was rounded up and shepherded back to the bus. 

By then it was dark and past our scheduled departure for home, so we scrapped the rest of the tour and embarked on a makeshift skyline tour through Brooklyn and back into Manhattan, passing through the incredible Times Square (lit up like Las Vegas) on our way to the Lincoln Tunnel and back home.

The Brooklyn skyline

So I came home, exhausted at 4:30 am, with unforgettable memories, broadened horizons, and a deeper appreciation for my own normal, quiet, simple, every day small-town life. In fact, I felt very much like post-Oz Dorothy as each mile separated me from the overstimulating sounds, sights, smells, and endless traffic jams with accompanying honking and hand gestures. 

My lesson was the same as Dorothy's: that bigger (and louder and more colorful) isn't always better. Sometimes exactly what you need is waiting for you at home.

Have Passport, Will Travel

My first-ever passport arrived in the mail last month. (Nearly a month later, my excitement and disbelief have yet to dampen.) 

I could hardly believe it when I opened the envelope and held it in my hand. But sure enough, when I opened the book, there was my mugshot-like photo, name, and date of birth. For the next 10 years I'm permitted by my government to travel internationally. I can go to Canada; Paris, France; or embark on a tropical cruise. There's nothing, aside from work, fear, and frugality, holding me back now.

This passport is more than a stapled book of blank pages to me. 

It represents victory over anxiety, depression, fear, financial struggles, and multiple-job constraints. 

It signifies putting my longtime dream of travel writing (a part-time hobby, of course) into action. 

It's a step of faith that the right international travel opportunities will present themselves and that I'll respond affirmatively when (not if) they do. (I'm currently browsing Carribbean cruises for next summer!) 

It's a license to change my life by changing my scenery and exploring life beyond my native country. 

It's a display of hope that my future will be broader and more exciting than my past. 

Holding this passport, I know that I haven't given up on life despite my struggles. I've allowed anxiety to cripple me in the past, for too many years, but I won't allow that anymore.

I'm hopeful for the future, for the first time in years. I, who have always wanted to know right now where I'll go and what I'll do tomorrow, am becoming increasingly comfortable with the discomfort of not knowing what's ahead of me. 

I can trust that it will be good.

Summer 2014 in Review

OK, so I guess summer hasn't officially run its course, as Labor Day still lies before me and the weather is thankfully still sultry, but as a college employee it all kinda ends, along with my quiet workdays and vacation time, when the faculty and students return to the building. (Though if I look at it from that standpoint, it also starts earlier, in mid- to late-May.)

Anyway, to recap, summer 2014 was pretty much the best summer of my life. I remained healthy (and more or less happy), my family members stayed healthy, my workplace was peaceful, and I had travel adventures galore. I'm fairly certain that I've never before traveled by car, airplane, motorcoach, boat, monster truck, and helium balloon all in the course of a single summer.

Posing outside Boldt Castle

It all started in mid-May, with my magical mystery Mother's Day motorcoach tour, which took me and my mom to the Finger Lakes (Magical Mystery Mother's Day Tour). Less than a month later, I was off to visit family in Florida, and just two weeks later, it was back to a different part of the Finger Lakes (no wine this time) for an unforgettable "Mary Poppins" performance (Vacation (All I Ever Wanted).

July offered an opportunity to catch up at work and take care of some practical personal matters (car repairs, passport application, etc.) after June's whirlwind schedule. And then August brought with it my journey back in time to see Melissa Anderson from "Little House on the Prairie" and ride a Civil War replica tethered helium balloon (Prairie Tales). 

Just a week later, I rose at 4:20 a.m. for my third (and final) motorcoach trip of the summer, this time traveling to magnificent Alexandria Bay for a lunch cruise of the St. Lawrence River and a glimpse of both the U.S. and Canadian sides of the 1000 Islands before disembarking at Boldt Castle for a self-guided tour of its maze-like interior and lush grounds. After spending hours on a bus (a comfortable motorcoach, but a bus no less), followed by 2 1/2 hours on a boat (while inevitably overindulging on a gut-busting buffet), there's nothing better than a vigorous hike, especially when the weather is sunny and 75ish. It was the perfect summer daytrip escape.

A view of the St. Lawrence River from the boat

 It was difficult to imagine such beautiful summer days when I booked these trips in the midst of a hellish upstate New York winter, but I'm glad I had the faith, or determination, or delusions, or whatever it took to make the phone calls.

So, what's on tap for next summer? I'm still exploring my options (I figure I still have some time to sort things out, and even I know that not everything can (or should) be planned months in advance), but I know summer 2014 will be tough to top!

Mo(u)rning Thoughts

Mourning the death of a celebrity is a strange phenomenon. 

Nine times out of ten, you never knew the deceased, except remotely through their work, but you feel the loss as if you did. Regardless, that person showed up in your life in some way, courtesy of television, films, radio, books, newspapers, magazines, or paparazzi photos. They were as real to you as family, friends, coworkers, and classmates. So I guess it's only natural to grieve their absence from this world when they go.

For me, some of the most significant celebrity deaths that I've grieved, and will likely always remember where I was and what I was doing when I heard, were Princess Diana's, Michael Jackson's, and Whitney Houston's (I still sniffle when I hear her incredible voice), and now Robin Williams'. I never met them, of course, but those losses have stayed in my memory, as much as the deaths of my grandparents and a close friend from high school.

If someone is part of your life, does it really matter if you sat next to this person at school or watched them on TV or grew up listening to their music? Loss is loss. Death is powerful, final, and often shocking (even when it's expected). It's the great equalizer, cutting down the famous, non-famous, and infamous in the same way(s). It's part of life - for everyone - but rarely happens when expected or in an expected way. At least it seems that way to me. All of us, even those who are strong, powerful, untouchable, and larger than life are shockingly not beyond the power of death. It turns out, they're ultimately just like us. I think that's why celebrity deaths, especially the untimely ones, shake us to our cores.

It's also interesting how death changes perspectives about our lives and their lives. We can become exalted, saintlike, in death, regardless of how unsaintlike we were in life. 

Death unquestionably changes life.