Another Beginning to be Had

Finally, a curve in the road. I could finally see what lie ahead of me instead of staring into the back end of a maroon Toyota Scion. Brake lights on, brake lights off, brake lights on - sustained for about 7 seconds - brake lights off, brake lights flicker and blink momentarily - inch by inch we crawl forward.

The bend in the road allowed me to see the snaking traffic as it coiled and slithered its way around the lanes of the freeway as they divided off into various directions - casting cars off to where? Home? Evening jobs? The gym? Out with friends? To nowhere? Perhaps ust to more road to travel for many purposes, or no purpose at all.

In a sea of taillights reaching - stretching - further than I could see, I let myself zone out into the music that coursed through the interior of my car. It allowed for a dissociative kind of retreat from the back of the Scion and the countless red lights sometimes swelling in luminosity - brake lights off, brake lights on, etc. The ambient tones of the music and the rumbling pacing beat of the bass offered a much welcomed auditory massage. I hate rush hour traffic.

As I was rounding the bend where 35W winds its way down to 94W, I remember glancing over at the Minneapolis skyline. The steam that rose from various buildings created a low lying cloud of sorts that blocked out the bottoms of the skyscrapers. It was a floating city, hovering silently next to the noise, the buzz, the sloppiness, and the impatience of rush hour traffic. My music seemed a fitting soundtrack to this floating city. The juxtaposition both visually and emotionally was alarming and jolting, yet, in that moment, it fit. It made sense. The effect seemed natural and familiar. The mismatch was one that only a smack back into reality could demolish. Otherwise, I am fairly certain I would have lived the rest of my life thinking Minneapolis was a floating city and the traffic was the sea of red that churned and coursed below its surface.

I was on my way to meet a friend I hadnt seen in some time. I was late. Only finding relief in that brief moment I glanced over at the skyline, I was annoyed by the traffic, my dirty windshield from the road spray, and the slower-than-snail's-pace that we were crawling. As my eyes shifted from the buildings back to the road, my phone rang. I answered. What happened next would mark one of the hugest significant changes in my life.

For the past several months I had been working extremely hard applying to PhD programs. This included taking the much dreaded GRE. In not a whole lot of time I dedicated my life it seems to writing personal statements, revising writing samples, filling out applications and dealing with frustrating technicalities, and gathering letters of recommendation. I shed more tears than I wanted to studying for the GRE. I wore out my brain and I wore out my body. I have been waiting for the last month to hear whether or not I would get into a program. I met with faculty in the departments I applied to. I still have more meetings yet to come. I researched and gathered as much information as possible. Most of all, I sent out as much positivity and hope to the Universe where I truly felt a door was open for me. If I was good enough, and this was really my time, I would be allowed to walk through.

Tonight around 6 o'clock, stuck in rush hour, and existing in a moment of surrealism, staring at the floating city wandering off into my music, and reality, watching in agonizing frustration the back of that Scion, I got a call. My primary application reviewer was on the other line. In all of the words he shared with me of my acceptance into the Family Social Science PhD program, all I remember are the following: "We all think you're terrific" and "We hope you will choose Family Social Science." There was something about February 19th, which I think is the welcome retreat and more about a letter I should be receiving in the near future.

My body was so overcome by excitement and joy. This acceptance means far more to me than just furthering my academic and professional pursuits. It signifies the beginnings of a new beginning. It's a prominent mark in my life journey and I honestly believe it is the Universe giving me an opportunity to begin - begin so many things. In those few minutes after the call, I traveled to the furthest quadrants of the world! I traveled back through almost 33 years of life and back again. The only thing keeping me in one piece was my seatbelt! If I didnt think I would cause the death of innocent drivers or even myself, I would have thrown on the emergency break, jumped out of my car, and sprinted through the lanes of traffic pounding on hoods, screaming, laughing, and crying. With my heart pounding, my body literally vibrating, my face numb, an ear to ear smile, and tears in my eyes, the phone calls rolled out.

2010 ended with a bang. 2011 has begun with an explosion! I still wait to hear from the School of Social Work about whether or not they will accept me into their PhD program. I should hear sometime in March. For the time being, I for sure know I have the option and opportunity to begin my studies in Family Social Science focusing on adoption research and the intersections of racial, ethnic, and cultural identities and GLBTQ identities. I am beyond excited to embark on this new adventure. Thank you to everyone who supported me and helped me in various ways. Thank you especially to those who had to put up with me during the process when I wasnt the most pleasant to be around. Your belief in me and encouragement has meant so much - much more than a thank you could ever convey. For now a thank you is what I have. Perhaps if I studied my GRE vocabulary more I would have a better selection of appreciative sentiments!

Hockey Ponds, Woods, and Monkey Bars

The house I grew up in is situated in a precarious place if you think about it. It's almost is if the very land it sits on exists only to provide the ground on which to support a house, a yard, and many many memories. The address is at the dead end of a residential street on a neighborhood that has been around since, I believe, sometime in the 40s. The long dirt driveway that descends into the cozy hollow where the house sits, surrounded by a small patch of forest that has lost its denseness and extensive land cover over the years, is actually owned by the city. As part of the easement with the property, we have permission to use it as a driveway - our only escape to the rest of the world, at least by vehicle.

Our backyard looks out upon a newer housing development that tore up the woods and poisoned the ground water with toxic chemicals that leaked out of metal barrels buried beneath the ground by a major corporation that built up on the land just a couple of blocks away. The street that winds its way through this newer neighborhood, created sometime in the early 90s, is lined with modern houses that went up in less than two weeks. Every third house repeats a similar design and color-scheme. It's drab and commercial - unexciting and a symbol of our desire for fast, new, material and cosmetic things. Our backyard still contains the monkey bars built by my father in the early 80s that now provide a secure structure and foundation for various vines to scale - twisting, turning, and hugging the wooden beams and metal bars as they continue to reach for what lies just beyond. Rising above the monkey bars and our crab apple tree, the old, white, stucco house rises higher than the other homes upon its throne as it sits on top of a small hill that used to provide hours of sledding fun in the winter for two little kids who were barely taller than the snowdrifts that accumulated back there.

Through our front yard, yet another newer housing development built during the late 80s/early 90s, depleted the large grassy hill that was the site of kite flying in the summer and sledding excursions in the winter. A holding pond stands between the limits of our front yard and this neighborhood. I grew up learning how to play hockey on this pond. During the winter, I remember waking up and peering out my window which had a nice bird's eye view of the pond. If I saw anyone up there, I was immediately out the door, my jacket barely on, dropping a trail of skate blade covers, hockey pucks, and mittens as I sprinted up to the pond to join in the fun. I would be on the pond from sun up to sun down. I can still hear the sounds of our skate blades scraping the smooth surface of the ice, carving out our existence and our memories. I still see the pucks racing across the ice slapping from stick to stick. The footbridge that one of the neighbors built across the pond is filled with boots, skate guards, extra sticks and pucks, and slowly accumulates more jackets and hats as we strip layers as our games pick up and we sweat more. The neighbors would plow the pond after a snowfall and would occasionally flood it so we had a smooth surface on which to play some massive neighborhood pick up games. The neighbors installed strong flood lights that would illuminate the pond through the night. Some of the best memories of my life have taken place on that pond. It was the central hub that not only brought together two neighborhoods, but also the friends and families of the residents of these two neighborhoods. Holidays oftentimes brought extended families and distant friends. It seems everyone found a place on that pond whether it was playing hockey, sledding down the hill between the houses, or warming themselves by the fires that we sometimes built on the frozen shores. As I've grown older and moved away, so have all of the kids that I played hockey with. Sometimes when I am visiting my mom, I will find myself gazing out of my old bedroom window at the old pond. Today it is desolate, dark, uncared for and as much as I am filled with the memories of yesterday, I am also filled with some sadness of my distant childhood memories.

I think about the places, spaces, and times that used to be home for me - the significance of their meaning and existence in my life then, and the memories I have of them today. Many times I long for the days when life seemed easy - get up and play hockey with the neighborhood all day, build forts in the woods in our backyard, fly kites on top of the grassy hill, and the variety of competitions we would have on the monkey bars. Life was carefree and easy. I didnt have to think, I just had to play. The only worrying I did about tomorrow was hoping that there'd be enough people on the pond to play hockey or that my neighbor friends would be home and able to come and play in the woods. Today life is far from a day-long hockey game or an awesome tree fort in the woods. What home and family has meant to me has never changed in definition besides all of the oftentimes challenging events that have taken place in my life. When I'm visiting my childhood home, where my mom still lives, I can see us in the cul-du-sac playing baseball or street hockey. I see all of us racing our bikes down the street. I still remember the one neighbor yelling at us all the time for tearing up his yard playing football. It was just the perfect yard for it. How could we not? I am still up on the pond playing hours of hockey. I am exploring the woods with my friends building tree forts and having Goonies (80s movie reference) adventures. I am still climbing all over our monkey bars with my friends - making our way to the top and shimmying out to the middle to sit talking about those important life topics that 13 year-olds find important.

For me, becoming an adult was not an easy transition. Rather, it has been full of many challenges, difficulties, and pain. Of course there have been many positives as well. I certainly dont mean to paint such a dreary picture, but, something happened along the way that jolted me away from those fun, carefree childhood memories. People left my life. For many years through adolescence into early adulthood, I felt like my life was comprised only of people leaving, relationships ending, and people I thought I knew becoming strangers to me. Worst of all, I think I became estranged from my own self. The past 6 years or so have marked a journey of self re-discovery for me. I've worked hard to connect my childhood with my adulthood by filling in the gaps of those missing lonely years. The path is unfamiliar and sometimes feels too challenging to continue on, but, every moment of every day, I continue to put one foot in front of the other. Each step I take I am discovering something new about myself - or perhaps I am reacquainting myself with parts of me I forgot or left behind long ago.

I was reading my friend's blog the other day and she had posted a poem by Veronica A. Shoffstall. One of the lines in there really stuck out to me and I wanted to share it here:

So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul

instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

As I continue down my life path, I have come to realize that no matter how much I want someone to bring me flowers, no one ever will. I will say I dont pride myself on my green thumb or interior design abilities, but I also know I have barely tried. As I begin this new calender year and this new year in my life with 33 fast approaching, I commit to myself to hone in on my gardening and design skills. Even if it's sloppy and the flowers don't grow right away or choke each other out, I will continue to try. I promise to not clutter my soul with old habits and thought patterns because life and people in my life are good. I am good. I deserve to tend my own garden and to choose my own wall-hanginings. I will try to live my life on that old hockey pond and in our woods - places that not only remind me of home, but ARE home. And it is in my home where my garden exists and continues to grow. Now, it's time to water.