The voice of admonishment and comfort

I imagined a voice that sounded much like my mother's saying, "This is what happens when you overdo it and don't get enough sleep."

She's right of course, but I felt frustrated with that all-knowing voice rather than my lack of ability to scale back plans and let some things pass. There are times when self-loathing comes easily; this was not one.

In order to earn my sore throat, achy muscles and alternating sweats and chills, I woke up at 4 a.m. on Saturday morning to make the hour-and-a-half drive around Lake Champlain so that I would arrive in Essex, N.Y., in time for my friends' sunrise vernal equinox party. The bagel shop was open when I left and I bought a dozen fresh from the oven. Just as I drove into Essex there was a hot pink sunrise and my Uncle Louis was walking down Main Street toward the gathering. I picked him up and we went together to enjoy food, poetry and friendship — all well worth my while.

The rest of the day was spent with my uncle and aunt. We visited the local bakery where you can always find familiar faces with which to sip coffee and snack on cinnamon buns. We lounged back at their home in front of the wood fire. We watched "Kinky Boots," inspired by a drag show that my uncle attended on a recent trip to Florida. There is no time better spent than with this couple that has known me forever and with whom I've shared laughter, tears and many many hours of conversation.

In the late afternoon, I caught the ferry (which hadn't yet started running during my early morning commute) back over to Vermont and made plans with a friend to see a live band play at an area music venue. We danced until the lights went up and the band stopped playing. By the time I climbed back in bed, I had been up for nearly 20 hours.

Sunday passed quickly with my usual routine of yoga class, meeting friends for a late afternoon drink and catching up on household chores. It wasn't until mid-afternoon Monday when I was back at work that I started to feel hoarse and shivery. That's when I heard that voice telling me that I should have done less and gotten more sleep.

But when I got home from work at midnight with a bone-aching weariness, I wanted only one thing — to call my mother and hear her tell me that I would feel better in the morning.

A quartet

I spend a quite bit of time for work and pleasure thinking about how stories are made. I learned most of what I know from reading and writing, and some from just listening.

Saturday night, my friend Rick invited me to attend an Extempo storytelling event, a Vermont-version of "The Moth." Rick who is a poet and teacher also likes good stories and has studied their construction for more years than I.

The event was held in a coffee shop in Barre, Vt., and featured nine storytellers of various ages and abilities. The culmination involved a panel of judges choosing their favorites. Between Rick and I, we correctly guessed the second-place tie as well as the overall winner. 

Although not a winner, we both agreed that another storyteller had been successful. The heavyset, suspendered man had attempted the unconventional form (at least for this event) of offering a quartet of vignettes from his childhood. The scenes represented important moments of intimacy and personal truth.

Though none of the four stories attempted to illustrate large life lessons, Rick and I agreed their seeming simplicity disguised the storyteller's skill in selection and delivery. Though not a winner, he did a damn good job.

Here's a quartet of my own inspired by events from the weekend.

She carried lipstick and gum in her purse, and I loved her for painting my lips pink in a bathroom in Budapest. She showed the four-year-old me how to rub my lips together and then gave me a stick of gum to chew. I felt sophisticated for the first time as we rejoined my mother and baby sister at the tourist lookout. The lipstick eventually wore off and I'm still chasing the feeling. 

This particular path of devotion was a two-hour trip down a one-lane road to the town of Rutland, Vt. She suggested we meet for lunch at this halfway point between her home and mine. Delayed by a slow-moving truck, she was there when I arrived. Still taller than me, still wearing lipstick.

I went with the waitress' suggestion of cookie a la mode. She brought it in a cast iron skillet with two spoons. She took a scoop, then me. She, then me. I wasn't particularly hungry after the BLT, but still savored the sweetness.

Coffee done, bill paid, we walked up the street to her car. She pulled from it a western-style feather coat that had been her mother's. I tried it on. It felt warm and the silver buttons were engraved with patterns. I pulled up the fur hood and felt small and cozy in the puff of the coat, in the presence of this woman who will always be taller, always carry lipstick. 

Me and Marla

New plates, still a flatlander

I am now the owner of a car, with all new tires, registered in Vermont.

My parents generously transferred the deeds to the car I drove east when I moved, which gave me a month to get it registered. The process involved a morning at the Department of Motor Vehicles and then a trip to my local mechanic for an inspection.

Duncan's is owned by a woman named Kelly, who is rugged and kind. The combination of strength and softness that I admire. She wears Carhartts has short cropped hair and calls me "Em" or "Bud," and once "my little chickadee."

I left my car with Kelly, and when I came to pick it up the next morning found out that it would not pass inspection unless I had all my tires replaced. I went with the cheaper of the two tire models that Kelly had priced, and came back the following day to pick up my car to the tune of $400 — reasonable, I think, but a good chunk of my monthly earnings.

Affixed to the front and back of my car were green Vermont plates. Kelly gave me the old, dust covered blue Iowa plates in an envelope, which I mailed to my mother.

Still, I plan to keep a piece of the flatlands from where I came — all that is humble and close to the earth.

I find my ski slope, with a little help

Vermonters tell me that winter goes more easily if you pick up a hobby — mainly downhill, Nordic or snowboarding.

I guess that shifts the paradigm. A snowstorm represents the potential for fresh powder skiing rather than the dread of having to shovel out your car. The cold ensures that snow stays on the ground instead of being a nuisance.

With just one skiing experience under my belt some 17 years ago, I had the impression that it was not for me. I had spent most of that day on the bunny hill with kids half my age and when I ventured on an official ski lift, I fell off at the top and caused the entire lift to stop while I clumsily attempted to get up.

So when I listened to co-workers talk about the joys of skiing, all I felt was trepidation about coughing up something around $100 to be the bumbling overgrown bunny of the kiddy hill.

One of my co-worker, however, offered to take me Nordic skiing, which seemed like more my incline and price. Plus, she was a ski instructor. Instead of signing up for a class with 10 year olds, I could learn from a friend.

So we made Saturday plans. She reserved a chariot for her infant son, and I put off a trip to visit my aunt and uncle. We arranged to meet at noon. In a matter of 10 minutes, the baby was bundled and safely fastened in the chariot and we had clicked into our skis and were off on the trail.

There was a minute or two of clumsy wobbliness, which I liken to a baby calf adjusting to the use of its legs. My friend told me to take the worn tracks. I fell into a rhythm. We climbed a little hill and I skidded down without much control but also not too fast.

I asked for tips about gaining more control. She told me to press me the outer parts of my feet flat and to make a wedge with my skis.

We climbed a bigger hill, and I confidently started on my way down. I picked up speed. Panicked that I was going a little too fast. Made a wedge to help slow down, plowed into a drift and came to a stop on my butt. My friend said that was the most controlled fall she had ever seen. I felt good about that, hadn't hurt myself, and we kept on.

After more than two hours, I was thoroughly sweaty and the baby had woken up from his nap and was chattering in the chariot. We pulled toward the start. My friend asked if I wanted to head straight for the lodge, or should we do one small final loop.

I chose the loop.

On far-flung family, friends

What about a Google Coffee-up, a Candlelight Supper FaceTime or a plain old mobile phone conversation?

I much prefer spending time face-to-face with my family and friends. I like inviting them over, planning the menu, cooking, playing hostess, hugging goodbye. I like walking together and seeing the same things. For example, the long walks I used to take with my sister Catarina through suburban Iowa neighborhoods. We'd comment on decor, remodel choices, the potential of house to be more than what it was. Yes, walking through the world with others is definitely best.

The nomadic lifestyle I have lived for most of my 28 years has brought me into contact with new friends many times over, and also forced us apart. I'm slow to forget memories, which spurs me into the realm of technology- and U.S.-Postal-Service-assisted communication. For many years I have been an avid letter writer and regular keyboard-pals with a Chilean friend. I also speak to my Mama and siblings on a daily basis.

But the past few weeks have brought a welcome uptick in my contact with far-flung friends. Although I don't put much stock in psychic connection — again I prefer the face-to-face, hand-in-hand, hug-eachother kind — the timing is good. The darkness and cold of winter continues to keep me indoors and near my computer.

Technology has allowed me to have coffee with Harum and Charles, in Missouri and Florida, respectively; candlelight dinner with Caroline in Connecticut; mobile conversations with Amy in New York and Kevin in D.C.; and at least a dozen email exchanges with others.

I am grateful. As my physical world comprises primarily two rooms, my heart enjoys expansion across states and continents.

Strike a match

I'm in battle. The dark, deep-freeze winter has stolen so many things I love — outdoor walks, energy to write when I get home from work, sunbeams. 

I know it's not really a fight. I just have to wait her out. My task is to find alternative sources of warmth. 

There's the physical sources. Strike a match, for instance. I do so at least once a day. There's comfort in a spontaneous blue flame. Upon getting home from work, I habitually light the candles in my kitchen, and later incense sticks on my bedstand. 

Then there's my Rennai heater. With pushes of a button, the heat can easily be cranked to 70 degrees. I warm my feet with it while I wait for dinner to cook, sometimes soup or pasta or a baked potato.

But, I'm finding that these sources of comfort are as quickly extinguished as they are lit or turned up. That I need something more long-lasting. I hesitate to say that this search becomes one of spirituality at the risk of my mother telling me to go to church. 

I woke up Friday to face another frigid day, my bedroom window crusted with hoar frost. My first thought was to nuzzle my head under the blankets and pretend it was still night. I fought that urge with second thought: You're not tired. Get your ass out of bed.

And then another phrase came to mind. Not my own this time, but one from an article I read the week before: Build your own damn house. It came from the founder of the Trouble coffee shops in San Francisco. The article tracked the origins of the artisan toast to Giulietta Carrelli, who struggled for years to stay employed due to mental illness. The phrase became her motto when she finally decided to start her own business, Trouble, and build something that would not only keep her employed but also allow her build a support network to better manage her illness. (The article is quite well written. Read it here.)

While my own emotional slump is certainly less drastic, Guilietta's do-it-yourself attitude seemed like a sound approach. Rather than waiting for more pleasing circumstances to return (presumably with the warm weather), I resolved to create for myself a reason to get out of bed.

With that, I did. I fired up my computer and crafted an email to a nearby youth center asking if they might be able use a volunteer — with experience teaching English and working with inner-city youth — who had mornings free.

I later described my burst of animation to my friend Harum. She suggested that my email header might have appropriately read "Please, give my life meaning." We both laughed because it was true.

Come bearing bagels

Vermont's cold and ice has kept me in self-imposed isolation that's proved hard to shake. Outside of yoga and work, little can lure me outdoors. I'm content to spend the day in bed, which I did on Saturday.

Today, however, I had no excuses. The temperature was predicted to register in the upper 40s, and I'd promised my Aunt Jani and Uncle Louis that I would cross the lake for a visit. Louis made it clear he would prefer I arrive with an offering from my neighborhood's Montreal-style bagel maker.

When I finally dragged myself out of bed, I'd reserved less than a half hour to get dressed, make the bagel pickup and drive to the ferry. The Essex-Charlotte ferry, which is the fastest way to get to Essex from Burlington, has cut back its runs to once an hour for the winter season. Missing the ferry by a few minutes means the hourlong trip suddenly turns to two.

I threw on a dress over the legging and tank top that I wore to bed and managed to brush my teeth before rushing out the door and across the street where I bought a baker's dozen of still-warm bagels. With the bag in arm, I skidded across the icy parking lot to my car and drove (faster than the law allows) to the ferry launch.

At five past ten, I rounded the last corner relieved to see the ferry was still at the dock, but not for long. The dock was chained off, a sign that they would lift the plank at any moment.

I jolted into the parking lot and jumped out of the car to wave at the crew before plucking the bag of bagels from the seat. The two men took pity on me and pulled back the chain as I scissor stepped my way across the ice (careful to keep both feet on the ground lest I lose balance). They waved me on board and replaced the chain.

No sooner had the motor kicked on than three more cars pulled up to the dock. The men looked back as the ferry chugged forward.

"Guess they'll be drinking puddle water," one said.

Grateful they hadn't left me to drink puddle water, I broke my baker's dozen and offered the two a bagel. They accepted.

Once I upstairs in the heated passenger cabin,  I called my Aunt Jani. "Put on the coffee," I told her. "I've got the bagels."

Incoming view of  Essex

Baker's dozen of Myer's Montreal-style bagels