Year of life 33: Random Musings, Unwanted Advice, & Self-Discovery.

When you share that you were born on December 25th, people have three responses. 1.) Aw, that’s special or 2.) Would you rather it not be on Christmas? or 3.) That must suck.

I do not know if I would prefer a different date because I do not know what it is like not to have a birthday on Christmas Day.

Person three, this is a rude response.

I freaking love it; The rest of y’all are getting screwed on the presents.

Why was I sleeping on Steely Dan for so long?

At least 9 people I know are either realtors or photographers.

Difficult stuff is going to happen. Cars stop working, dogs need expensive flea and heartworm medications, body parts start acting funny, jobs change. The best way to deal is to set emotions aside, prioritize and manage my time in order to handle it. There is no such thing as, “if I don’t acknowledge it, it doesn’t exist.” If you believe this, you are fucked.

I accept that my body will change for the rest of my life- up and down, thin or cushioned, strong or soft. Read that again and then realize that as soon as you find security wearing it, you will have to fight for it again. Be kind and water it like a fern.

I know have memories of experiencing a full decade. I look back and clearly see the people who gave to me, who invested in me, the people that were kind to me, the mistakes I have made, the hurts I have caused, and the fullness of it all. Now I get to decide which of those experiences are worth doing again and which of those were one and done lessons. Some of these you will do over and over and over before you learn; The control of that is yours.

Make-up is the culprit for blemished, crap skin. (Girls reading, toss.that.shit.out.)

It actually does make more sense to spend a little extra on better quality than to spend on mediocre quantity.

I practice letting empathy move like water in the soles of my shoes.

The more I follow my path in real time as it is revealed before me, the more I realize I am living my own dream life. This is evident as I reread old journal entries where I detailed the many, many things I wanted to do in life: bartend in college, learn to process camera film, experiment with performance art, dance on stage, have 2-3 great friends, learn to cook well, host/cater parties, meet people completely different from myself, understand what people mean by “the one”, teach my body strength and confidence, figure out what the hell the Holy Spirit is, fall in love more than once but only marry once, run a half marathon, never work in a cubical, get messy with clay, raise a puppy on my own, rescue an animal, live alone in a city, see New York, Ireland, Italy, write to a pen pal, get a tattoo…or several. I am blessed to have already experienced so much of what I wanted to do.

Here’s one: Accepting compliments rather than assuming I am being made fun of.

Think before you speak. God, this has taken so long.

Owning responsibility (Parents, watch us make mistakes without judgement or assistance. It is the only way a human will learn. Was it not the same for you in order to grow?).

Each week’s end I remind myself: Go everywhere you have the opportunity to go.

My biggest fears are boredom and insignificance.

Therapy is for all people.

Some of the best people I have known made less than $25k year, barely had a car, are addicts, came from darkly broken homes, struggle with their mental health. God love ’em. For they know peace of mind, contentment, and what you take with you. They are as real as Jesus said the tax collectors and prostitutes were.

You can learn a lot from how men in the workplace treat you. This is how they see you. That is informative when understanding their motivations.

Still young enough to use slang without looking like you’re trying too hard to trend (at least I tell myself this).

Dry shampoo.

Seek mentors. Most people are willing to share a little of their light with yours.

No one really needs to go to college to be educated if they can read books.

I most relate to myself at age 12.

It may actually be possible to do all the things you want to do in life. It is true so far.

The heroes: John Hughes, Anne Lamott, Richard Rohr, our grandparents, Brittany Howard, the Duplass brothers, George Harrison, David Byrne, Keith Haring, Jesus.

I can come across as cold or insensitive. I know this about myself. It is not true. The reality is that I am too sensitive and this is why I withdraw from peopling sometimes. I cannot watch people be unkind to each other, it makes me not want to live in this world. That said, when I make you doubt, know that if I have ever loved you, I’m always gonna.

Small, achievable goals.

I value privacy and I welcome silence.

Hardly any of the nasty things people say are actually personal: don’t make it anything other than misplaced projection if they are not someone you respect or admire.

Grandparents are the greatest living treasures we have.

The people that went to technical college $won$.

Stop doing things to impress people if they aren’t things you actually care about.

When you turn 33, most of your friends have at least one baby. My thoughts: I am only 33. I do not owe anyone an explanation for my choices, same as everyone else. I do not speak about this often but let me just say for the sake of any other woman out there who never hears this side of fertility choice and may feel similarly: my life does not feel less meaningful because I am not a mother to a human baby. As much as I love being told I would be a great mother, I have never cried myself to sleep at night because I am not one. I hope the people who told me that did so because they felt mothered or nurtured by me. That is enough for me, to know I gave them that. The way I see it, there are many forms of love to experience. Choice is the gift of our existence.

I am willing to risk humiliation to execute the things I feel put on earth to do.

Quitting often leads to other opportunities.

Getting into antiquing (finally understanding why my mother loves it).

Bloody Mary bars.

Coffee, black.

Everybody Loves Raymond is one of the top five most relatable shows.

Your best friends are not the people you see everyday and they often live far away.

Incredibly grateful for experiencing the true sisterhood of female friendships.

Enough rambling. I love birthdays, y’all. My mom was the birthday master and because of her I have never experienced a bad one. As I wade into my thirties, I do not anticipate a birthday because of the presents anymore. I wake with excitement about the reflection of a life. At 33, I am looking forward to getting better with each year. I am being taught life’s sovereignty.

Earlier this year, my therapist told me to create a concept of the person I would most admire. How does she dress? What is she into? What makes her admirable to you?

She is the person you already are, the neon center of your being. She is who you are learning to be. So just copy her.

That is becoming. The guidance still clings to my chest like the sweater my mother gave me for Christmas this year.

I have so enjoyed writing you, dear blog, but I feel it is time for a lengthy break. Same goes for you, my beloved Instagram. I’m gliding into 2021 with care for my well-being and an opportunity to follow a dream of mine since I could write. This will require isolation- the biggest blessing of 2020- and very little distraction or interference. If you need me, send me a real letter…in addition to saving the earth, we really gotta figure this postal thing out.

xo.

Weekend Update with Mom

Vaking

Willie Nelson and Margo Price do not know that they helped me make a lemon poppy seed pound cake today. They did not see the mess on the counters; dusty puddles of flour stuck to sugary whipped butter.

Boy, when I die will someone put that in my obituary?

“God bless Ali Holly, now a dusty puddle of flour stuck to sugary whipped butter-investigators say possible cause of death. From the Earth, back to the Earth”  It suits.

During Christmas, Roy lovingly stepped aside from our faux culinary show (we pretend we are a YouTube channel when we are cooking together) to let my mother guest star. Like any good YouTube instructional video, we made sure to say “simple” and “time saver meal” as much as possible. We giggled through macaroni salad, potato salad, meatballs, and little smokeys and I felt ten years old again, nowhere near the thirty one I’d just turned.

My favorite places have always been inside of kitchens. Nowhere else is as open and vulnerable. Nowhere else will you simultaneously hear the most vile jokes and endear tender moments near the walk-in cooler. It is the place where hearing a “good job” can make you feel on top of the world and being in the way or making a mistake can seem like the end of the world.

A kitchen is the place I first learned to dance (to The Temptations and The Eagles, courtesy of Meme and Mama respectively). It is the spot where I’d lie on the floor as a teenager and talk in to the night, falling madly in love over a fifteen foot cord. It is at the kitchen table that I remember still eating with my Papa, long after everyone else had left the table. They always said we were slow eaters. I savored the food but mostly I savored the time spent there.

I realize this makes me sound like I am some kind of great cook but, let me tell you, that could not be farther from the truth. Beloved will testify. I am no cook. I am no baker. I’d like to think I am a cheerleader for cooking. I celebrate when it is happening, I encourage the ones doing the work, but mostly, I am a voracious eater and enjoyer of someone’s love baked at three fifty for an hour. I am also a pretty damn good dish washer.

My Belly Overfloweth

On these rainy days as late, Roy and I tripped over puddles right in to the plates of some friggin’ delicious food. You know when you have a food week where you’re just… I hesitate to use this word…winning? When every meal out you’ve chosen has been great on top of delicious on top of cussing at the waiter good? Like you’ve earned a gold in gluttony?

Monkey Wrench Smokehouse lived up to it’s photos on Instagram.  Where I found them.  The homemade mustard on the beef frank and the macaroni and cheese with stretchy cheese chunks like spots on the moon were so good I had to stop chewing just for a moment of aw and appreciation.

Throwing back my glass of water to refresh the palette so that all flavors could be full the next bite, I saw straight through the bottom to a small smiling face made from the condensation. I thought Roy did it but when I showed him he said had not touched the glass.  We took it as God showing off how pleased he was that we were enjoying the 48 hours of bounty and the milky swaying feeling you get after a damn fine dinner.

It is small and silly and expected that it would be a smiley face (why do I always think of Forest Gump’s mud smiley faced shirt when I see that word?) but it’s joy is equivalent to a balloon or a present with a beautiful bow or a little vile of glitter.  Man, how I love shiny things!

Something about tonight and that glass of water made me feel inspired to share words with you- whoever you may be. Another example of why we can’t miss the moments God hides for us little pieces to the story- like the face in the glass or a dream of someone you have yet to meet or the certainty that you will see someone one day again in the future.  Those little pieces celebrate something inside.  The infinite vast of eternity and existence. The thrill of how one day we will know how each of these little nuggets of experience and living connects with the others. The desire to get your words written and out to the world.

I used to only see God’s metaphorical hand in the things that were obvious- season changing, animals, love, anything to do with church culture.  As if those were the only things that applied to God’s range of creation and power.  How humanly narrow! He deserves credit for more.  More appreciation for the way he so cleverly sneaks his warmheartedness in to our lives.

Tonight, I treasure the science of condensation, the strength of symbolism, the butterflies of flirting, and the taste, God bless that taste, of hot spicy peppers over a brisket sausage link.

Cows layin’ down, rain’ll hit the ground

I grew up with this expression as a definite indicator, not a suggestion, of when we could expect rain. If cows are lying down or if there is a ring around the moon the night before. It is this kind of Southern folklore that has left me confused about what to wear for the weather ever since I moved away from the pines.

Because there are no cows on my street (there are two pigs and a rooster and a tree with a face carved in it but I do not know any other metaphors for how they relate to impending torrents or drought). And because most of the time you cannot see the moon from our fenced in lot. We don’t go outside too much at night here.

One thing I have learned to count on is that when I cut the grass, it will rain that night. The rain will sprinkle the confetti of chopped grass I throw on the bare spots so that it lies flush onto the ground in hopes that something green will grow from the bits and pieces. I appreciate this.

The bare spots on my soul need sprinkling sometimes as well. The spots that are selfish and judgmental. The ones I refuse to garden because I would rather preserve them as safekeeping for imperfect memories. The good and the bad, as obvious as a black and white film. Memories I love even though they are the very origin of the bareness. Because if planting new soil on them means forgetting, I’d rather a plot be bald.

Those spots that need pruning or fertilizing stay settled on my soul until I am ready to drizzle that Holy water over them. This baptism leads to forgiveness (of self and others) and acceptance (of self and others). It also leads to kindness (to self and others). When something new takes root, slowly but intentionally burying itself in the necessity of my heart, then I will know it is tetelestai: It is finished.

I read somewhere that you can think you are in love with something or someone from your past but it might really just be the memory that you are in love with. Memories are always remembered better, with more tenderness and perfection, than reality. So whatever you remember is probably far stretched from the truth. It is probably a cross between what really happened and the made for tv version of what should have happened. God rolls His eyes at this.

Imagine His joy when he allows us to fully live in the blessing of His gift of experience (it is a gift- we are not vegetables!) If we are living like God, full of love and patience for one another, then every day is cast within the light of truth. Memories are unscathed from regret. Remorse over the past does not keep us up at night. Holiness is a fine pillow. God cartwheels over this.

 

 

 

July 1

 

 

Nests.

I think I may go home in a week or two. That is, my mother’s home. It is about that time. Home is the necessary reset button. It is the nest, the womb, and the blanket you carried as a child.

 

We have a bird’s nest in the fake lilies outside of the front door that hang desperately hoping one will notice the attempt at beauty rather than the dust. Or the nest.

When I first noticed the nest, I shifted the bottom of the decor just to make sure nothing was in there. As I was stood on a chair and carefully moved it, Mama Bird came flying toward my head. I shrieked, jumped off the chair, and stumbled as my dogs laughed. Before I said a power word at her, I noticed her three little egg babes deep in the nest.

Every day, more wisely than the first attempt, I stand on the chair about three feet from the nest and look Mama Bird square in the eyes (with distance…in space and gaze). I want to hold her in my hand, as she is a quaint and plump little mama. Like Merryweather, the blue fairy from Sleeping Beauty. Any day now I expect her to change my outfit from pink to blue. Or at least my eyes.

Does everyone long for and protect the nest? I certainly protect the memory of my first nest while believing in my new nest. That it can even become one. But it is difficult.

Maybe it is because we are all ethereal, made of dust and experience and the good dark chocolate. Similar to chalk or jellyfish. I can’t help but think the restless longing for home will always exist. Even when we are here, it is not enough. Like John Mellencamp sang, Hey Jesus, can you give me a ride back home? I’ve been out here in this world too long on my own. I won’t bother you no more if you can just get me in the door. Hey Jesus, can you give me a ride back home?

Unlike John Cougar, I plan on continuing to bother Jesus about my fascination and desperation for it. I want Him to know I am committed to home. To mine, to my mama’s, and to His. You need someone to fluff the pillows and redecorate the guest bathroom in Heaven? I’m your girl.

I also blame Him, in some part, for the constant whirling in my head of: When can I go see Mama and Meme’? Let me look for a house on Zillow for two hours. Am I lying on the couch? I better get some laundry going. It is never quiet in this attic.

You see, being still is not in my skill set. Ability to memorize someone’s drink order from two months ago and who Ryan Reynold’s first wife was? Yep, I got that. But quiet? Meditative? Nope.

And I hate when God calls me out on it. (I think it was part of a secret intention when He matched me with my husband, who is a little too good at being still and doing nothing.)

This morning, after coffee and reading and bird snooping, I accidentally confessed something to God about my control issue. Although it came as no surprise to Him-in fact, I am sure he fist bumped an angel or one of my grandparents after I said it. During a prayer for Mondays, for coworkers, for patience toward unsweet tea drinkers, I caught myself admit aloud: God, I need You more than I need a plan.

I plan on going home one day. I plan on living in a different place one day. I cannot control how the plan will go; I may build my nest from wood or I may build my nest from gold.