freedom-party-celebration (July 08)

The last real summer I had lasted for almost exactly two months. By "real," I mean: carefree days, stress-free job, late nights, maximum outdoor time, and a sense of freedom unchallenged by constraints of class and lab schedules. In early July, as soon as I received the phone call that offered me my (current) job, I knew my days in the sun (sure, pun intended) were over. And that was okay. It was time to move on. But for this reason, that summer remains two of my most idealized months in recent memory.

It isn't a pretty picture. By the standards of most living situations, mine teetered on squalor. The morning following graduation, I hauled everything accumulated during college to a basement room of a house occupied by a girl, Lindsay, and her lively group of semi-transient friends (by "transient," I mean I never knew who would be crashing on the upstairs couch in the morning). Lindsay and I only knew each other through a first-year French class and subsequent mingling at Froggy's for karaoke Thursdays. Good fortune had my side when I mentioned to her in passing, close to graduation, that I had nowhere to live but was working at the local coffeehouse for the summer. Quickly she offered me a room, to sublease until August. A friendship was born. Boom.

The morning I moved my things into the room, I sat on the two stacked mattresses and stared at the boxes around me, dumbfounded. This was going to be my first bedroom after college. It was messy already, and a little dirty as the previous occupant had to move out quickly, but it was the first space I'd occupied alone since my childhood home. I was dumbfounded not so much from the state of my new bedroom, but by the fact that I was now truly on my own.

When I started the 6am-noon daily full-time shift, it left afternoons for getting better acquainted with my new housemate (and co-barista), Lindsay. In stark contrast to my fungus-infested, flooded bedroom (seriously, I don't lie), Lindsay had the penthouse: a large room on the top of the house that stayed dry and fungus-free. The temperature difference alone was astounding for two bedrooms in the same house. Our kitchen, the meeting spot, served as our restaurant, our bar, our meeting place.

A few exhausting first days into the job, as I crashed on my bed after 6 hours on my feet, Lindsay barreled down and asked me if I "would be boring like this ALL SUMMER." Someone of her energy is hard to match, but I am proud of the way I kept up. In our little house, with the dirty carpet rug, black leather couch (that smelled of old booze from its former residence), Lindsay and I forged a family bond. In the little sunken backyard, we pitched a badminton net and lounged in our bathing suits on semi-broken chairs, listening to music and chatting over a beer or two. It is a scene, in my mind, that warms me with bliss.

Often after our days at home in the yard, we would shower, put on "real" clothes, and venture on down to town. Lindsay lived only a short walk from our favorite hangout, the Tavern, which made it all the easier to make the quick commute. Because it's impossible to simply enjoy a quiet drink with this girl, she taught me a few games to make it even MORE fun (as pictured above). What makes me happy about this picture is that here, we were celebrating her freedom: finishing a 10 day shift filling in as owner to the coffeehouse with mornings starting at 4am. For her "Freedom Party," Lindsay and I dressed up and played her favorite game on our stunning carpet. I lost dismally, and we headed to town.

She brought life to the mundane things, a true talent. Lindsay has limitless passion and intelligence for the world around her. After we moved out of our house, Lindsay took a stint in Peace Corps Madagascar, before her emergency evacuation last March. She lived in town (and with me for a month) until last August, when she landed herself quite a job and quickly moved to Madison. Simply put, I miss her all the time, as she made things joyful in her own unique way (like wine and an Audrey Hepburn movie on Sundays). Our reunions are just as sweet as our brief but sweet time as sister/housemates. Luckily, I see her tomorrow.

old friends, all together now (July 06)

Pete, Brian, Leah. I almost didn't get to take this picture. My friend Brian, center, argued enough over the $3 entry fee to the Rib Mountain State Park just enough to get on the guard's bad (or at least irritated) side. Some sweet, older gentleman who just wanted to promote the beautiful view to enthusiastic onlookers spent a few minutes of his Sunday morning answering questions like, "so, if I park my car at the bottom of the mountain and WALK up, do we still have to pay?" When we finally realized it cost $3, we sheepishly paid up and drove past the guard to see the sights.

The summit of Rib Mountain, outside of Wausau, WI, was surprisingly beautiful to me. As a soon-to-be-junior in college, I had resigned myself to the assumption that the midwest held nothing of comparison in altitude to Casper, Wyoming. As a comparison to home, I attended college about 20 miles from the bump known as Buck Hill, which provoked my incredulous laughter the first few times I saw it (and now boasts itself as the original training ground of Olympic champion Lindsey Vonn, so, who got the last laugh here?) But, I digress.

What I remember about this day in particular was feeling completely serene, with the nagging sense it was all about to shift once again. Inertia, my friends: Brian, soon to be on his way to Germany for a year; Pete and Leah, to Ireland and Florence, respectively. I would stay at St. Olaf, live on campus, and continue about daily life without a sizable portion of my friends who scattered for study abroad. We took our day in Wausau as a pause to everything else: a time to enjoy each other, talk about soccer, cook dinner, drink beer... and really, without knowing, consider the transition that comes with the shift from the first half of college to the second. I had a sort of weight on my chest all weekend, knowing my trek out to the Midwest would end with prolonged goodbyes to these people. The next time I saw them, we would all be a little different, naturally. Though I can't speak for them, this completely un-posed photo exposes certain unspoken vulnerabilities in their facial expressions. Only they know what those were, and that seems to be the beauty of it.

Sometimes I hesitate to write entries with "aww, friendship!" as the overarching theme, but what started as a tribute to this July day brought up more than I predicted. That's the thing with lingering friendships, I guess. They are impossible to simply gloss over. Some are deeper than others, but the mutual understanding of "keep in touch" works. It works just fine.

to my travel companions (January 10)

"One belongs to New York instantly. One belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years." - Thomas Wolfe, American writer

Seeing New York for the first time is an incredible experience, similar to the deep kind of personal emotion you only express to those closest to you (if anyone at all). Stepping off the subway, weaving through the crowd on the platform, climbing the stairs and emerging onto a Manhattan street, you emerge into a frenetically paced yet graceful city. Honking horns, bright colors, yelling people, lights stretched to the sky... it is hard to take in at once.

To have this experience for yourself is one thing; to witness it for two of your best friends is something else. New York is one of my favorite places on Earth, in and of itself, but it was that much better in the company of our little group. Crammed cozily into a 2-bed room in a hotel above the David Letterman studio, we became our own little travel guide to the city. Ellen, your constant proclamations of surprised love for New York and its hidden quirks -- hilarious. Molly, your thoughtful processing of the world in front of you (and surviving it like a champ with that vicious cold) -- impressive. And Amy, our navigator, another month-long former New York resident like me -- so subtly enthusiastic. Sometimes along with other Minnesotan buddies and NYC transplants, we toured with the best of the tourists (the Today Show, Rockefeller Center's tree, Top of the Rock) and fit in with the most authentic of New Yorkers (the heated rooftop bar in little Korea, next to the Empire State Building; Grimaldi's Pizza in Brooklyn; a night bar-hopping, starting at Brendan's place of employment, Choice). What I loved about this trip was the gusto with which we all took it on. We didn't take much time for rest, but we took time to soak it in. When someone wanted to see something, we unquestioningly made it happen for them. When someone needed a break to sit down and have a pretzel, it was okay. And, when someone so unashamedly declared her love for Matt Lauer by taking 20+ pictures of him with her 10x zoom lens, she was wholeheartedly supported.

This is the way to see the city: mix a few days with good friends, an understanding for a full schedule, and a curiosity to see every facet of what it has to offer. And then, know that you will undoubtedly be back. It is the only way to see it all.

happy vday (February 06)

Valentine's Day. Dateless. In college. More specifically, a small, 96% residential, female-heavy college. Not necessarily the stuff of great romance.

For four years, the build-up to February 14 was a melee of red paper hearts, conversations about relationships, love song (and breakup song) playlists, and the student body bleeding red and pink skirts, shirts, dresses. It was enough to get you in the spirit, if V-day was your kind of thing. If it wasn't, it had the potential to send even the most confident of girls into a spiral of self-pity.

Sophomore year, a group of friends and I decided to have some fun with this depression and wear all black, buy copious amounts of sugary foods (i.e. entire cartons of mint chocolate chip), and line our eyes with black while sob-laugh-crying to Mandy Moore's worst, "How to Deal." It was purposely pathetic, awesome, and in that way, completely memorable. I laughed more in that little Larson Hall room than I probably would have on some awkward date. It was the exact opposite of depressive and sad and bitter.

For me, college Valentine's Days were actually lovely. Junior year, my hilariously quirky friend Ellen made me a Valentine with "Happy VD" inscribed on it. Nothing like a little STD humor to spice up a holiday. I had never felt so appreciated than first-year V-day, when every freshman girls' corridor woke to pink and red paper hearts hanging in front of our doors. A poem and two Hershey's kisses were attached, simple gestures from "The Men of St. Olaf" to warm our hearts. Later I found out, unsurprisingly, it happened to be the work of three of my favorite male classmates. I think I still have that little paper heart somewhere in my boxes of college memorabilia.

Everyone takes this day in a different stride, and I'm no different. I've always been a little apathetic about Valentine's Day as a romantic holiday, mainly because it's been more of the "single's awareness"-style post-high school (and because, regardless, Mom will always remember to send a little something special). And that's okay. Honestly, bitterness dissolves. If anything, February 14 is simply a nice excuse for me to pause, consider the people who I value the most, enjoy some extra chocolate, and, yes: enjoy the glow of warm-hued holiday attire all over town.

travel season (late August 09)

We met this guy while on a week-long work roadtrip to all corners of Wisconsin and back. On a pleasant late summer day in August, why wouldn't you bust out the black jeans, slap on some shades, mount the unicycle and let the wind whip through your (chest)hair?

Sights like this epitomize my work travel season in the fall: I just never know what local flavor I'll meet on the road. For this trip, I traveled with my coworker/friend/caretaker Miriam who had the wheel at this point. Right off the highway, outside of Wisconsin Rapids, exiting the local gas station... where was he going? From where did he come? Did he see me with the lens pressed to the window like a creep as Miriam eased down on the brake? What is his story?

People are so strange and funny and fascinating. I can't get enough.

what a life (December 09)

You know that moment when FINALLY the puppy has CHILLED OUT for the evening, in sync with your desire for a quick nap? To me, there are few sweeter moments than when the family dog willingly jumps onto the couch next to me and wiggles her way under my arm. I love my parents' 2-year old Lab, Lucy, because of this very reason: like me, she is an extrovert, but needs her time to recharge. I relate to her desire to nap when others are away and exert herself beyond sanity when people are home.

I talked to my dad on the phone today, and even his quick mention of taking "the little sh*tter" on a walk provoked a little pang of jealousy. When Lucy's in the state opposite of what's pictured above, she is something. She hasn't quite mastered leash obedience, and in that way, she's not too unlike the kids you see harnessed up on leashes in big cities: curious, unaware, and blissfully in love with discovery.

On nights like this, everything else becomes neutral. Lucy positions herself next to those who don't mind a little extra dog hair on the clothes and, in return, need a little bit of puppy love.

vistas (wyoming, vol. 1, November 09)

This view of the National Elk Refuge from across the highway (at the National Wildlife Art Museum, naturally) makes me crave Wyoming. I always revert back to writing about my home state, especially during times when the winter's forced solitude forces me to turn life over and over to examine. I'm sure I've made the right decision with my permanent move to Minnesota. But sometimes, what I wouldn't give for a vista like this.

Over Thanksgiving, my mom and I met up in Jackson Hole to do work and some play. As I drove from the Art Museum into town, I realized: I miss this place. Sure, my own hometown isn't exactly the Tetons, but the view from my bedroom and our miles of perfect skiing aren't too shabby at all. To experience the raw wilderness of Wyoming (when, for example, driving across the state), one must get to a point where you feel completely vulnerable.

It's imperative to get to a place where you feel so incredibly tiny, it forces you to believe in a larger presence than humanity. To be in nature helps me find spirituality, and staring across the elk refuge in the first few hours after my flight provoked this. Majesty is commonplace in Wyoming. I realized this profoundly when I left these wide-open-spaces (cue Dixie Chicks) for the hilly, treed landscape of Minnesota. I was aware as a kid, but it wasn't so apparent during the high school sports bus trips across the state, or from lookout point on Casper Mountain, or swimming in a mountain-top creek pool after a 7-hour hike. When I moved to Northfield in 2004, it dawned one me: Wyoming, my home, is truly spectacular.

Everytime I go back, I become a little quieter, dress down a little more, and revel in the solitude of my home and the view of Casper Mountain from my bed. We all probably have our own little vistas to keep us cozy.