This is a Test

"And we know that in ALL things, God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose." Romans 8:28

This past Monday I took the GRE. Unlike my usual self, though, I didn't let this scary three-lettered acronym intimidate me. I went through a couple practice exams over the last month, but that was the extent of my "preparation". But I felt ready enough, until Friday when, thanks to my little nephew, I started to feel that something was not right. I felt sick... it was the flu. 

Unlike most types of flu, the most annoying, dominant symptom to this assortment was a pounding, persistent headache. And night sweats. As the weekend went by, there was not much improvement to my condition, and when Sunday night rolled around, I began to look into canceling my GRE appointment. As the pit in my stomach revealed itself and the throbbing in my head chimed in, I told myself that four hours staring at a computer, when it was tough enough to sit up, was an unrealistic option. But as 12:30 on Monday afternoon approached, I chose to follow through with the original plan and take the GRE. And my headache was gone the whole time (though it later returned in full force)! What a relief to have such a "burden" taken off my shoulders, and to be able to focus on friends, school and work more fully now that this is behind me.

All of this test taking got me to thinking about the last standardized exam I took. I knew it wasn't the SAT, since AP exams ruled my life the last month of my senior year of high school. I finally recalled that the last of the series was AP English. At this remembrance, an eye-twitching shutter shimmied down my spine. As I walked my mind and my dad back through the story, I told of how ninety dollars went down the drain on that dreadful day. As test-taking tippers will advocate, it is always wise to write your answers down on the questions sheet, then to go back before time is up to fill in all the bubbles on the scantron sheet. Well, I followed this advice about halfway through its instructions, but I failed to bring to completion the "before time is up" part. I had left over thirty questions blank on my scantron sheet, the only sheet exam-grading machines care about. Odds of anyone passing after that mess-up? Slim to none. But I held out hope when scores came in the mail mid-July, and all hope was crushed when I received a measly score of 2 out of a possible 5. 

That was it. I would be forced to take English in college. At the time, I was both embarrassed for my mistake and a little disheartened by the reality of the situation. I didn't really want to be reading Shakespeare or writing researching papers, after I had just spent an entire year in the pursuit of avoiding these very tasks. 

Looking back, I am so very thankful for this mistake, and the blessing it has incurred upon me these last few years. Had it not been for my carelessness, I would not have taken English in college. I would never have considered a career or future in English. This gives me some hope in future mishaps, to be able to see where even something we fail at can be used to bring us happiness and fulfillment later on. God places everything in our lives- the encouraging, the overwhelming, the trivial and the insurmountable- all for a purpose. Every test is placed both for our growing in faith, and for the revealing of His glory. To maintain a perspective on matters and realize that He is in control of every tiny circumstance, is to understand the larger picture rather than to dwell on the tiny pixels that may overwhelm us from time to time.

Her Last Tip

"Caroline, you have to stay," Delores said. I remember it so clearly, power walking around the Onassis Reservoir of Central Park, cell phone in hand and ear buds in tact. I hadn't even been in New York a full month yet, and I was already thinking about returning home. I had promised myself that Delores would be my go to, that I would not call my mom and worry her when I was homesick. I knew Delores would be able to pick me up, but this time was different, and I had already been in touch with my mom about advancing my return date.

"I know, Delores. I wish I could stay," I replied, wiping tears from my face. "But it's just hard when I miss my family, when I feel like I don't really have a purpose for being here, and when I worry all the time about money. I don't know if I can do it. My mom's been looking at flights and I think I'm going to book one soon."

"I know, I already talked to her about it. She called me about an hour ago, but I didn't give her the answer she was looking for. I told her what I'm telling you now, and that is you need to stay, Caroline. Think about all the people you've met and still will meet. Think about all of the things you've gotten to see already. I know it can get lonely sometimes, but you'll learn so much from being on your own. When will you ever have a chance to live in New York again?" 

I promised to think about all she had said but ultimately ended our hour long phone call with the mindset that I would, indeed, be returning home from my New York summer before most people's summers had even begun. I started thinking about what I would tell people and what steps I would take when I got back home to South Carolina. As I let the reality settle, I began to think about Delores. Delores, who had raised me and my sisters from little Buckeyes to sweet, Southern girls. Delores, who I had told to "get a life" at the ripe age of eighteen months. Delores, from whom I had inherited the vey love of adventure and travel that got me to New York in the first place. Delores, who had anxiously planned out her visit to see me in New York, around the middle of June. Delores, who became too weak to visit me in New York as planned. Delores, who was too sick to even travel from the hospital to her home in Bellbrook. 

When I had finished berating myself for the selfishness and self-pity I had succumbed to, for complaining about being lonely in New York City, for having thought for a second that I deserved any sympathy, I turned my thought process quickly around and called my mom before she could book a return flight. I was determined to finish out my summer, to make the most of every day in New York, for Delores. I set out to live with intention, and I began each morning with a pen and a French Press in my second story walk up in Queens, reminding myself of this truth. No, things did not necessarily get easier. I did not magically miss my family, friends, the beach and Chick-fil-a any less because I had decided to stay in New York. But when sadness, doubt and anxiety would overcome me, I instead thanked God for the opportunity He had given me, for the health He had blessed me with, and for the strong support of family and friends that would always be a phone call away. 

From Delores, I learned to live with intention. To make the most of every day, rain or shine, whether I had made $4 in tips, or $140. Whether I passed by a thousand others and talked to none of them, or whether I had met a new best friend. I learned to wake up and embrace that New York contagiousness that is intention, self-improvement, and ambition. I learned to do what I love while I still have the time. 

And on my very last night in New York, Delores called and left a voicemail. It is still on my phone and will be for awhile. Though she had little more than a month of life left in her, with the strongest voice she could muster, Delores said to me, "Carolina! Tomorrow you're on your way. I'm so proud of you for making it through this. And what a good time you had, what a good decision, Caroline. I know you're busy with all your friends so I'll talk to you in a few days when you are home." What a good decision it was, indeed. And what a bad decision it would have been had it not been for my Delores. She's through speaking her mind to me now, but she will always be speaking her heart.

It's unbelievably hard when you lose your biggest fan in life, but I have decided that living with intention, and living to the fullest while you still can is the only way to go forth in a way that makes any sense at all. 

"Trust in the Lord and do good. Commit your way to the Lord; trust Him and He will do this: He will make your righteous reward shine like the dawn, your vindication shine like the noonday sun." Psalm 37: 3, 5-6

"Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, in everything give thanks; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you." 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18

 

Woven and Threaded

As I drape this quilt about my shoulders, cozying up for a vacant night’s read, I think about how she needled and threaded me, and weaved each string into my heart. How she patched up each skidded elbow and every pair of banged up knees, and transformed them into bright patterns of daisies, sunflowers and madras print. She threaded me together, bit by bit, without rushing one spool of my life, but instead offering the greatest joy at each toil of the needle. Each memory lies not alone, but comfortably pieced alongside countless others, in the span of a tattered eight by twelve spread that now warms me in her place.

She spun with caution and wise counsel, forever leaving pieces of her heart and mind intricately embedded into their counterparts in me. She cross-stitched a love of books, a passion for travel, and an aching for adventure, framing them each upon the wall of my soul. I think of how she held me, just hours old, in the hospital’s delivery room, at the first stitch of our never-ending journey. She warmed me with her handiwork, the unending selfless acts I long ago took for granted. The trips to the theater, to the neighborhood pool, to Chuck E Cheese, to King’s Island, to Martha’s Vineyard, to Seabrook Island, to Tennessee...

When I gaze over its many pieces perfectly puzzled together, I think of how she mended up each broken heart, and never let a holiday pass without sending me a thoughtfully wrapped goody-bag in the mail. I think of the countless recipes she’s fixed into the book in my drawer: the chicken stew, the Texas sheet cake, the ‘little chickens.’ I think of how she twined me along, braving me up before each first day of school. I think of her Snowbabies, and their strategic ability to live on much longer than us both. 

I think of her artisan attention to detail, her piqued interest at every trivial story I could muster, and her perfection in the tear-inducing braiding of my freshly-washed hair. I see her handiwork all around me: in the eyes of my sisters, in the laughter of her grandchildren, and in the kindness of her daughters. Not one day passes without benefitting from her craft. She has sewn up loose ends, tied ribbons and bows on countless smock-dressed little toddlers, and woven her legacy into every life she has touched. Her patchwork has finished, for her labor was relentless but her toiling has tired.

As I lie here softly under the cocoon of this security blanket, this hodgepodge of makeshift patterns made from flour seed bags, I think of how its stitches hold me tightly together, how her life is woven deep within me, though it is now unraveled. It has hemmed up my seams, though its stitches are now coming undone. It intricately soothes with its nostalgic scent of Rainbath and microwaved chocolate milk, its well-worn sepia tinge and its accidental coffee stains while she hangs patiently by a string. Though her patchwork is complete, her presence it still at work, laboriously spinning and spinning in the fibers of my soul, at the foot of my bedframe, in the oversized crockpot on the stovetop, in the checking out of library books, in the taking out of Christmas decorations, and in the gathering of a hand-quilted family and friends. 

Home

These are the days we will remember

These are the times that won't come again

The highest of flames become an ember

And you gotta live 'em while you can

So take 'em by the hand, they're yours and mine

Take 'em by the hand and live your life

Take 'em by the hand don't let 'em all fly by 

-Keith Urban

I think sometimes we do get a say in what happens down the road. We hope for something, work toward it, and sure enough it happens. But then sometimes we have no say, and we definitely have no control. Regardless, it's a good thing to know what "the say" would be, in case it should count for anything. But I am the most indecisive person I know, and coming up with my say is sometimes more stressful than writing a ten page paper: deciding on a restaurant, picking out a bedskirt, choosing an outfit... I can turn these trivial matters into end-of-the-world decisions quicker than a thunderstorm passing through on a summer afternoon. My problem always has been in not knowing what I want, and I'm forever changing my mind about what I want to "be" when I grow up (as if any of us ever do) or where I want to travel to next. And though I pictured the next nine months of my life to be a struggle, me daily wishing I were back in New York now, or scheming a way to sneak myself back up after graduation (hopefully not waiting tables), I have to admit that the decision has already been made. And football season hadn't even swept through Columbia yet to win me over.

I know what my say is, if it amounts to anything. Because as much as I miss New York each morning when I cut on the Today show, see a picture uploaded on Twitter of some crazy new dish from Queens Comfort, hear Jay-Z on the radio or think back to a random favorite memory of mine in the city, I would be crazy to go back. Ok... maybe not crazy to go back, but I would definitely be crazy to leave home again! It was rough adjusting at first, and my mom will be the first to tell you that I, after having spent three months doing things only for myself, have not been the easiest person to get along with since my return. But I'm working on it!

I'm so thankful for all the wonderful places I've gotten to travel to these past two years, all the many new friends and lessons learned along the way, and if I feel led to go somewhere again in the future, then I'll be gone in a heartbeat. And I do think there's something to be said for throwing one's self out of your comfort zone, learning to appreciate yourself for both your weaknesses and your strengths, learning to be on your own but not be lonely, and learning to let go of the things and people that- when it comes down to it- ultimately don't matter. But if my say counts for anything, then I could stand to only travel down one quick 100 mile stretch of I-26 (and possibly a short stop off of I-95 for old times' sake) for the rest of my life and be completely, contentedly happy. 

Because I've never craved normalcy so much in my life. When I stopped moping about being out of the excitement of the big city and started to appreciate what I had right in front of me, things changed. To recognize that each season in life is for a reason, whether or not you know what the reason is at the time, is important in keeping a positive outlook on whatever circumstances you find yourself facing. And I make it sound like I'm going through some hardship... yeah right. The unbelievable simplicity in these past few days has got my heart right back to where it belongs: sprawling across a whole pew with my family at the Cathedral, babysitting my favorite little nephew, walking to Za's from my cute little house for dinner with best friends, strolling the streets of Shandon for walks at night with said best friends, stealing half of my sister's out-of-this-world closet, decorating the new house, lounging out at the beach with my sisters and even lil baby Connor. What's great is that even the little things- like driving a car which I didn't get the chance to do all summer, stopping through a drive through, and even a routine eye exam has been "like new" to me. I just wish I could freeze all of this and maybe come back to it sometime down the road when I'm going through a tough time. Because things will not always be this easy. 

When I was talking with my sister, Tina, out on the beach, she mentioned that I should stop doing things on a whim and start thinking about my long term goals. And I started freaking out! What long term goals? I'm twenty-one years old, how should I have any clue where I want to be in life twenty-one more years from now, when I don't even know where I want to be in one?  And though I think her statement was a bit much (we can't all be Intern of the Year, sis) and I still have no idea what I will be doing a year from now, I am proud of myself for at least knowing where I want to be. 

"Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart." -Psalm 37:4

 

A Measure for Success

Although I have admitted to this fact already, my current juncture is still one of both looking back and thinking forward: I'm analyzing my summer but yet I'm still in it; I'm dwelling upon Sullivan's Island and I-95 but I'm not quite home. My emotions span every inch of the hyper/hypo spectrum, so much so that "emotional" is the only descriptor that fits. But don't worry! Because although my mind is constantly wandering back to that unexpected afternoon in the awe-striking Rose Room of the New York Public Library (which was, in fact, modeled after Thomas Cooper Library in Columbia, SC. Not!), or that wrong-turn-turned-lucky-find fundraiser gala at the Museum of the Moving Image, I am not reliving such memories from the comfort of my air-conditionless second story walk-up in Queens. Oh, no; I abandoned the misgivings of my self-pity party somewhere over the course of the heat waves that rolled in this last week.

New York Public Library; flickr.com

In addition to planning my first, second and third meals upon returning to South Carolina (East Bay Deli, Chick-fil-A, and Pawley's Front Porch, respectively), over the past couple of days I've been persistently checking things off "the list." I have braved it up to the Bronx to stand in awe of the world's largest cathedral: St. John the Divine- I'm sure you're thinking, But what about St. Peter's Basilica? Well, it's technically not a cathedral; St. Peter's is the largest church. Regardless, both sacred places are overwhelmingly colossal and make me to feel as insignificant as The Cricket in Times Square. I have cabbed it into Manhattan before the sun's promised rise to stand in line for three hours, for nothing else but to relive the teenaged girl butterflies of a celebrity sighting: Regis and Kelly! I have served up Chicken 'n Eggos and Fried Green Tomato sandwiches like it's my job- oh yeah, it is my job. Thankfully, the truth is that no matter what I find myself doing at any given moment, I'm relentlessly tackling these last four (oh. my. gosh.) days in New York as though my well-being depends on it. And I can't help but think it does depend on it.

St. John the Divine; starsandfits.com

Last night at work I asked Casey, our chef, if he thought I had succeeded in my summer. All along, he has been the one reminding me to "sleep when I'm dead," and take advantage of everything throwing its attention at me right now. A motivational speaker hidden in a chef's coat, that Casey. And he can cook! Of course he fell to the floor laughing at my question but after pulling himself together, Casey wittily admitted that in his eyes, I have indeed succeeded. I have passed his test. But this tossing around of the idea of success got me to thinking about how we define success for ourselves: what standards we employ and what measures we undertake to achieve such success. Although I think it differs from person to person, I want to share the map of success I had unknowingly mapped out for myself before arriving to The Big Apple.

I did not intentionally make a list of goals for my summer, but I was tricked into doing just this at the end of my spring semester. One of the prompt choices professor Dan Smith gave to our rhetoric class was to discuss a way in which what we had discussed over the course of the semester would relate to our future. Open-ended prompts can be quite the intimidators, but with a little direction and a helping of passion, these burdens can be tackled with ease. Naturally, with excitement of the immediate future on my mind, I chose to write about my hopes for New York. Until today, I had forgotten completely about this paper, but it has served as an applicable measure for my rate of success or lack thereof. I apologize for the paper's length, and I will do my best to make manifest the lines I hope to leave you with most of all:

Why do we read? What about our favorite authors makes them to stand out in our minds? Why do we return to these literary idols- Thoreau, Whitman, Lewis, (insert favorite author here)-  page after page, novel after novel, into the wee hours of the morning? High numbers in sales and ability to withstand time directly indicate the success of such figures; these scholarly greats all share in common one thing I desire: arete, or excellence. I do not believe these idols have accomplished such feats by accident. Rather, each has undergone arduous conditioning in the ‘cultivating of the self’ (Smith 2, 9). I choose to narrow down and discuss one point of pertinence, my (hopeful) writing life. The value in rhetorical practice, though, can be seen in any field; it is impossible to envision success in any aspect of life without having developed these skills. For rhetoric is “the practice of living and learning in ways that develop and enhance one’s experiences, knowledge, and skills” not just in terms of literary advancement, but also in terms of one’s relationships with others, one’s career, one’s lifestyle, one’s anything (Smith 2, 8).

So, I want to be a writer; actually, I am a writer. If have learned anything- aside from not trusting a fiance and best friend to be left alone- from my favorite author, Emily Giffin, it is this: “First, stop referring to yourself as an ‘aspiring writer.’ You might aspire to get paid for what you do, but you are a writer if you write.” Paid or unpaid, I hope to be the type of writer somebody, somewhere wants to read someday. What exactly elicits this want, this desire, in a reader? I believe it is the author’s ‘abilities’: his or her logos (Smith 2, 2). By strengthening my skills in communic-ability, account-ability, and relate-ability, I hope to further open up new poss-abilities for myself and for my future in light of my writing life: new job opportunities, new experiences for writing material, and new resources for skills sharpening. I do not imagine that this type of strengthening, this ‘cultivating of the self’, could ever be unintentional or by chance. Rather, one must purposely stretch and challenge herself, she must drag herself out of her comfort zone, and she must adhere to strict, ethical standards. I want to be skilled in “the art of possibility,” rhetoric, both for my own sake, and for those who many one day read what I have to say (Smith 2, 6). 

Any author worth reading, if nothing else, understands the value of relate-ability. Fiction and nonfiction writers alike produce page-turners as a result of their capacities to develop prose that strikes a chord with a reader’s heart and mind. A well-written story embodies universal truths and mythic qualities that pertain to the human soul, those truths that convey both “what it means to be human, and how human beings [should] behave” (Smith 2, 5). Such writers are honest, in that they uphold a sense of moral integrity, and thus likable as a result of this honesty and humility. By sharing in the struggles and defeats of the everyday man, the aspired writer wins the acclaim of the masses. In his inaugural address as a Boylston Professor of Rhetoric and Oratory, John Quincy Adams stated: “The ways of moral living must be studied and cultivated so as to become second nature, because the better the man the more benefit he confers upon his associates and fellow citizens through his art” (Smith 1, 2). Though this type of “moral living” is all too often overlooked in today’s society, I think it important to strive for such excellence as a means of gaining credibility among one’s peers. To become a better writer, as well as a better student of life, I hope to strengthen my skills in relate-ability.

To communicate well, a writer and her reader must posses a mutual understanding; as a result, a “community” is formed. An understanding, or learning gathered through experience, can be referred to as empeiria. (Smith 2, 6). This notion of empeiria is adequately described in “The Neurological Construction of the Self” article, which discusses the discovery of the experiential and relatable ‘self’ when it says: 

Finally, to the extent that we have common experiential relations with-in the world and its communities, and thus common accounts of those relational experiences, we have shared experiential accounts of life and the world that enable us to relate to and commune with one another by sharing (communicating) those accounts. (Smith 2, 9)

By throwing myself out into the world, I hope to gain some clichéd “life experience” and some wisdom and insight into the lives of others. On Sunday, May 1st, I will move to New York City and waitress for the summer. (I should note that I have never waited tables a day in my life, nor have I lived in such an intimidating city.) I have nothing to lose, and a whole world of experience to gain. Without a doubt the scariest decision I have made, my summer in The City holds more potential and growth for me than I can know at this point. But I think it is an understanding that stems from an active participation in the environment one finds herself, that leads to communicability progress. By seeking to understand foreign or different communities and thus, make one’s self apart of such a community, connections are formed, wisdom is gained, and knowledge is shared. This summer- and every season thereafter- I hope to gain some “street credibility” to back up my writing as I throw myself out of my comfortable lifestyle and into one of the most culturally diverse cities in the world. 

With the third ability, accountability, comes a responsibility. Just as rhetoric, because of its abstractness, cannot be concretely measured, neither can one’s responsibility to herself be quantitatively measured. Keeping one’s self accountable for her actions, besides maintaining a positive moral compass, includes taking advantage of one’s potentials and always striving for personal growth. It is imperative to always work towards eudaimonia: the highest human good that Aristotle spoke about so many centuries ago (Smith 2, 11). By striving for this excellence, this arete, one sees that the talents she has been given are not wasted. I hope to never take advantage of these gifts, talents and privileges I have been blessed with. Not only is a writer accountable for herself, but she is also held responsible for the ideas, facts and messages she conveys. 

This summer I hope to form a ‘self.’ I hope to see, to do, to experience, to learn, to struggle, and ultimately to grow. Accomplishing these challenges is how one is able to look back on herself from a year ago and not recognize the person she sees. Growth does not occur by staying in the same place, in both the physical and intellectual sense. Rather, one grows as a result of the changes she allows to take place. This growth is a person’s ‘whole duty’ that John Quincy Adams refers to in his inaugural address: “Wisdom, learning, and virtue herself are estimated through a man’s demonstration of their possession through word and deed, and the whole duty of man consists in making himself capable of such things” (Smith 1, 2). This ‘whole duty’ is what makes all the difference in the world. During this semester, this course has reminded me that these qualities still matter: these chivalrous, outdated, noble virtues we see protagonists chase after in the most renowned of novels. They are not lost causes, nor are they merely fictional qualities. Success is not by luck; it is, instead, a result of hard work and intense training of the self.

Smith, D. “Collection 1” from “Handouts and Reading Supplements” in Course Documents. <www.blackboard.sc.edu>

Smith, D. “Collection 2” from “Handouts and Reading Supplements” in Course Documents. <www.blackboard.sc.edu>

Tipped Out

"It's just that there is so much to do and I want to do it all. If there are that many cuisines available for takeout, imagine the number of events: rock concerts, comedy benefits, book launches, TV wrap parties, art openings, restaurant openings, theater openings, even the opening of my mail is a fete if you add champagne... It wasn't my fault, you see. New York was tempting me. It expected me to participate, always, the way a gregarious person's friends expect her to always be "on"... The city lures its inhabitants, seduces us; it's an evil hypnotist, a nefarious prankster..." 

-Jane Borden, I Totally Meant to Do That

Last week in New York! I'm not sure how it happened, but as usual, the days creeped past faster than anticipated. One month turned into one week, and now here I find myself FedExing cardboard boxes of books and shoes back to South Carolina- because there is no way this extra baggage I've managed to accrue will fit into two fifty pound suitcases plus a carry on. Who am I kidding... I couldn't even make it to New York in two bags before I purchased all of these "must-haves."

While I stare at my summer list, noting the handful of to-do's I have yet to check off, I cannot help but find joy in knowing that several unhighlighted tasks will remain as such: sans pink highlight. As much as I wish to do and see everything worthy of my list, I find more comfort in realizing many things will remain un-done, un-seen, and un-appreciated. Because the more I still have to accomplish, the more "pros" I will be able to tally under their respective column on my anticipated NYC post-graduation list. I should definitely move back to New York, I mean, I haven't even made a trip to the Bronx Zoo! And how could I have gone all of last summer without visiting Caroline's Comedy Club in Manhattan. Idiot! Whether or not I choose to move back is a decision at least nine months premature, but my stacking up of benefits in favor of New York can't hurt, right?

Although my lack of checking off is in some respects embarrassing, it is both consciously and subconsciously intentional. I discovered this crafty "method in my madness" on one of my many subway slogs under the East River today. I had travelled into Manhattan with no real purpose other than to stroll the streets. I stopped at a few jewelry vendors, touristy retail shops in SoHo, and even Eataly, an upscale Italian marketplace packed with nice restaurants, fresh markets, and gluttonizing gelato. But somehow nothing was able to fulfill me; I realized just how stuck between New York and home I currently feel. Like I'm in some waiting room. I'm still in New York, yes; but I'm not really here. I'm merely wallowing in the aftermath of my experiences here, reflecting back on both the unexpected challenges and the privileged episodes. Essentially, I'm trying to make sense of it all, when I should be taking advantage of what's currently still in front of me. And the struggle ensues.

On a lighter note, to continue along with my ongoing theme of perfection in unintentional book selection, I had yet another serendipitous moment today as I walked through Madison Square Park. My friend, Rebecca, had suggested I read I Totally Meant To Do That by Jane Borden back in May. I somehow just got around to buying and reading Borden's memoir, and the timing could not have been more perfect. The book juxtaposes the post-grad, city life of New York with the cliched southern environ as it was experienced in the rearing of its author. Through humor, reflection and a knack for story-telling, Borden struggles both to define and choose a home: New York or North Carolina? NYC or NC? Her witty tales strikes multiple chords within me as I strive to define New York in terms of its role in my continual coming-of-age. If I could choose one book to erase the author's name and in its place scribble my own, this would be it: the first of three Magic Genie-providing wishes. Did I mention that the girl is downright hilarious? Jane Borden gives Chelsea Handler more than a run for her money. I cannot wait to read what Jane comes out with next. Twitter stalk: successful. Fan-mail list: you betcha.

But I still have yet to arrive at the providential point: today, as I walked through Madison Square Park, searching for a shaded bench on which to sit and finish the last chapter of Borden's memoir, I almost ran square into a signboard of the park's events. And what did I find at the bottom of the list but the name Jane Borden itself. I'm not kidding! I only wish I could conjure up this kind of story all by myself. On July 28th- after I am gone- Jane will be visiting Madison Square Park, the exact place I had chosen to finish up the last few pages of her book, to share her story. I'm so sad I won't be in New York! Maybe I should move back sooner? 

Jane's Madison Square Park reading

Expirating

“But I had come from out of town, and to me New York was a hive. You could not just live here. You had to be somebody, do something, it didn’t matter what. You were not a part of the city unless you were on a bus or a subway and on your way to an office or a factory or a schoolroom. How could you know New York if you had not bolted your lunch in a coffee shop or had not had your subway stall under the East River? You could not. The best way to know New York, to learn to love New York, was to let it wear you out.” -Mary Cantwell

Because I have allowed so much time to slip through my fingers without breaking to write about all of my "tips," I was forced to consult my handy calendar to remind myself just what all I've been doing these past few weeks. To say that I've been busy is an understatement! But that's okay with me... because when else will I be able to walk out of my apartment and be singing along to a Broadway musical in less than thirty minutes? When will I have the chance to sit and read a book under the oaks of the Grand Mall in Central Park? Odds are I probably will never cheer Joey Chestnut on to a First Place Trophy in the annual hot dog eating contest at Coney Island again. I most likely won't be eating Carvel Ice Cream out of a Yankees plastic baseball hat then turning around an hour later to find myself taking a picture of Van Gogh's "Starry Night" at the MoMA. And I certainly won't have the superlative world of shopping at my disposal once I leave from here. As exhaustive as these past couple of months have been, I can thankfully say I will leave New York with no regrets, and no taking for granted any of the advantages this city has to offer. 

My parents came to visit me over the weekend leading up to the Fourth of July. I can't describe just how excited I was that they were taking time out of their busy schedules and coming up only to see ME! No siblings, no relatives, no work, no grandchildren (ahem). I'm blessed to have been born into such a huge family, but center-of-attention time has been cut into fourths, sixths, and now sevenths with the arrival of "the favorite" of the family, Connor. And rightfully so. But to have three days of "only child"-like attention was anxiously anticipated. I'm sure they would have loved to fly up to New York and relax on their break from the real world, but I wasn't cutting my parents any slack: we were subwaying, taxiing, and running rampantly all over the five burroughs. I wanted to be certain they left New York more exhausted than they had been when they first arrived after a hard week's work. 

Having visited New York several times throughout the years, my parents forewent the frivolous touristy sights and left all of the planning of their trip up to me- though it pained my mom to be out of control for once. For Mark and Linda, this trip was practically like seeing a new city altogether: we hung out in areas they'd never ventured through, ate in restaurants they'd never passed by, stayed in a hotel that wasn't (thank goodness) in Times Square, and even sacrificed mass at the famous St. Patrick's Cathedral for a more local, but equally beautiful, option. 
Although I'm convinced that I was made for the only child lifestyle, I knew this kind of attention would not last. Since I realized ahead of time that I would most likely not be in such a situation again, I made sure to plan each hour wisely. We had a great time together, and I miss my wonderful parents already!


Besides my parents' visit, I have been scuttling all over this city: crossing things off my to-do list, meeting up with friends, taking writing classes, entertaining visitors, and- oh yeah- working. It's amazing what you can accomplish in twenty-four hours when you don't have a television and are not laying out at the beach all day (these would be my usual summer preferences). 

One of the highlights of my recent adventures includes a night at Lincoln Center- last night, actually- with Danielle who came to visit me for the weekend. We watched the last performance of The Sleeping Beauty by the American Ballet Theater, and I cannot believe that I've never been to a ballet before. I enjoyed all of the music, costumes, and dancing- even if I had to ask Danielle to interpret the actual story at each pause and during the intermission. It amazes me, that these performers are able to tell a whole story without even saying one word. It forced me to think of how many people I pass in a day and just how infinitely large of an opportunity I have to leave an impression or brighten their day without even saying a word. No, I probably won't be given a standing ovation for giving up my seat in the subway, nor will I receive a round of applause for holding open a door, but little wordless acts of kindness are the very first type to be thrown out when I'm having a bad day.  

As I walked toward the check out line at the grocery store this evening, I became pitifully aware of how envious I am of my milk carton; its expiration date far outlasts my departure from this place. Though I look forward to my being back with friends, family, and everything I consider familiar, I know that leaving New York will prove just as difficult as leaving South Carolina was back on May 1st. I wish I were staying longer for the exact reasonings that wear me out day after day. Two weeks and counting until I fly back home.

"As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish,  so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater, so is my word that goes out from my mouth: It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it." -Isaiah 55:10-11

My Various Activentures

Despite the fact that I've slipped into my swimsuit only once this entire summer, 'tis the season nonetheless. And when you're working in a place that serves up fried chicken and Eggo's oozing with maple butter, oversized funfetti donuts, and cornbread french toast topped with homemade whip cream, you've got to have some sort of plan of redemption up your sleeve. The best method of action, to me, has always been one of routine variability: keeping things interesting so you don't get bored or burnt out. Which is why I've chosen to take advantage of several of the many exciting activities New York has to offer.

• My most recent obsession has been hot yoga at The Yoga Room here in Astoria. I know this has been a popular trend for years, but I somehow just caught on and love it. Hot yoga is simply yoga on steroids; the intensity is turned up, along with the temperature (105*) and the humidity (40%). In less than five minutes, I'm dripping like a leaking faucet from every major sweat-gathering spot on me. My skin has never felt so soft, clear and squeaky clean- without having coughed up a chunk of change on a massage or facial, that is. You can never be hydrated enough beforehand though, and I seemed to have overlooked this major detail after session numero uno.

• Whether it should be attributed to beginner's luck or the help of my southern accent is up for debate, but something was working in my favor when I walked into the New York Sports Club in Astoria back in May. I almost walked straight back out the door after having discovered that the "student summer deal" of $20/month was a deceptive lure with hidden activation fees behind it. I can just jog outside, I thought. But as I was headed for the elevator, this sweet (and also southern) trainer came up and offered to me a special deal. Because of Andrea's string-pulling, not only did I have unlimited access to the Astoria NYSC, but I was allowed to visit any NYSC in the city, which includes upwards of fifty clubs. Being a college student, I made sure to take full advantage of this outstanding deal after thanking my new best friend thoroughly. I didn't even have to pay a penny! One of my most memorable adventures at the NYSC was taking an Eastern European Dance class; I can assure you that even after five years of cheerleading, never have I ever shaken my hips the way I did in this class. And yes, the cliche coin belly-dancing skirt was included in this embarrassment!

• I have already mentioned my humbling tap dancing experience (in my previous blog entry) and have yet to make my surprise comeback, but a simple glance in the direction of those excruciatingly expensive tap shoes has got me googling this week's class times at Steps on Broadway. 

• One of the benefits to living in this neighborhood of New York is the beautiful Astoria Park. Located just a few blocks from my apartment, Astoria Park long ago held trial rounds for the Olympic Games in both 1936 and 1964, which means it is fully equipped with every outdoor recreational facility imaginable. This sixty acre park sits beautifully along the East River and overlooks the Manhattan skyline; it is the perfect perch for a gorgeous summer sunset-viewing or a late-night movie on the lawn.

• One "tourist trap" I had yet to accomplish before moving up to New York for the summer was in walking over the Brooklyn Bridge. So I did just that after a couple weeks of being here, and what a wonderful way to spend a cloudless afternoon! Yes there were crowds, but there were also remarkable views (both of the city and the Statue of Liberty), cheap souvenirs, and clean breezes. Exploring the Dumbo area of Brooklyn at the bridge's end also made for some exciting finds. 

• Today I had the chance to explore the scenic Hudson Highlands in Cold Spring, New York. Although this retreat of a mountain town is just a quick hour and a half train ride from Grand Central Station, the difference of pace, lifestyle and atmosphere could not be further from those of New York City. A relaxing two hour kayak ride was just the type of lazy day activity I had been hoping for as my friend John and I toured the antique village of Cold Spring. The town was picturesque and all prepared for the upcoming holiday weekend with American flags hanging proudly from all of the cute storefronts. 

• One activity in New York I cannot imagine ever getting old- regardless of how long or little you've been in the city- is a simple walk through Central Park. The Grand Mall, the Bow Bridge, the Carousel, Belvedere's Caste, the ballparks... these iconic figures attract all walks of life and bring out the kid inside of every visitor. I could never tire of strolling through Central Park on a sunny summer's day.

Not According to Plan

I was pretty grumpy yesterday until I wrote a page in one of Pat Conroy’s novels. Things had not been going so well for me until he stole about 200 words straight from my mouth. Right there on dog-eared page 159 of The Prince of Tides I found that little something able to put a smile on my face quicker than one of those self-serve, frozen yogurt places after a long night in Thomas Cooper Library:

"It was not until my second week in the city that I developed the first unmistakable symptoms of the New York willies. I always felt an ineluctable guilt when I was just taking it easy in New York when all those grand museums, libraries, plays, concerts and that whole vast infinitude of cultural opportunities beckoned me with promises of enrichment. I  began to have trouble sleeping and felt as if I should be reading the complete works of Proust or learning a foreign language or rolling out my own pasta or taking a course at the New School on the history of film. The city always stimulated some long-dormant gland of self-improvement when I crossed her rivers. I would never feel good enough for New York, but I would always feel better if I was at least taking steps to measure up to her eminent standards... At it's best, New York was a city of accidental epiphanies and I vowed that I would open myself to many such moments as I made my away around the city that summer."

So I lied. I could never have conveyed this message with as much grace and on-targetness as the old Citadel cadet himself. But isn't it funny when you think a set of feelings is unique to you, only to discover someone else has before, and will likely again, feel the same at some point (if not the exact same point) in time? I have been amazed at the correlation between the books I've randomly stacked up to read and their precise pertinence to my summer in the city. It's almost as though I'm taking an English course designed for its recurring themes throughout the semester, except these books were merely strung together by chance.


To see my own thoughts on a published page was a remarkable sensation; these thoughts served as the little motivational reminder I needed yesterday, because my on-a-whim trip to Ohio was not going as planned. I came to discover, though, that nothing in life ever goes according to plan. It is both a blessing and a curse to be completely out of control. None of us would be where we are today should things always have gone according to our limited, naive and self-serving plans.


In the span of about an hour yesterday, I learned three disappointing facts: both of my flights had been delayed for no apparent reason (yet again), my writing class I had been looking forward to all summer was cancelled (it was supposed to be today) and I was going back to New York without having spent nearly as much time with Delores as I had hoped. Something that would have soothed my sadness much sooner would have been my realizing that I could do absolutely nothing about any of these circumstances. Instead, I chose to pout like a young toddler who hadn't gotten her way. Luckily I was alone in the airport during the midst of this eye-rolling and blame-pointing; otherwise, this would definitely have been one of those instances in which all of the Crabbe family would temporarily "hate" me, for lack of a better word. I can hear it now (in five different voices): "Caroline, you're ruining this trip for all of us." 


I digress. More often than not, circumstances play out much differently than planned. I could not count the number of times over the course of my visit to Ohio that Dana (Delores's daughter) and I made phone calls to people, saying, "Sorry, we're running late..." or "There's been a change of plans...". We were driving around Dayton ad nauseum fulfilling every action that could be included under the catch-all category of errands: chauffeuring her kids from their back-to-back summer camps, visiting Delores in the hospital, meeting friends at the outlet mall, going to Step Aerobics, basting ribs for dinner, cleaning loads of laundry, and the list continues to no end. I have a newfound respect for soccer moms and feel guilty for not having appreciated mine enough. "Mom, you're ten minutes late... again," I would say as she picked me up from Mrs. Libby's School of Dance each week. What a brat!


Somewhere in the midst of Someone Else's planning though, things fell together. First and foremost, I was able to see Delores- my favorite person in the world whose last name is not Crabbe. Without knocking my parents' childrearing abilities, I must say this lady played more than a trivial role in my upbringing: from the moment I came home from the hospital, she was My Delores. Twenty-one years later and she's still raising me. I can't think of anyone I'd rather sit and talk to for hours on end. Yesterday, on my way out the door to head back to New York, she gave me one of the most special presents I've ever received. This hand-crafted, stitch-by-stitch quilt made by Delores's grandmother back in the early 1900's was the last of its rare kind to be doled out to lucky heirs. And I have no trouble admitting I am the only non-family member to have received such a treasure. This was a much-needed, special visit to Ohio, regardless of whether or not things had gone my way. For that, I am grateful.

I don't think it looks half bad on my bed back home in New York, either!

I have finally set my return date to South Carolina as July 25th, which means I have a little over a month to see and do everything in all five boroughs of New York, and then some. My to-do list grows daily, but thankfully my have-done list grows equally as fast. 


Speaking of my to-do list and Mrs. Libby's... I spent a brunch-shift's worth of money on a new pair of tap shoes and a beginner's class at Steps on Broadway this afternoon. After seeing Billy Elliot last week, I had the strongest little itch to relive my old tap-dancing days. But, twenty minutes into the class, all I could think about were the ten years of lessons spiraling quickly down the drain. I lost all dignity trying to keep up with these "beginners." But in my defense, I found out afterwards this was a "rhythm tap" class and not a "show tap" class. Who knew there was a difference? I'm just proud of myself for sticking with it the whole two hours, and I will, surprisingly, be back to redeem myself soon. :)


I'm looking forward to watching my gamecocks play in the College World Series from The Mason Jar, the official Gamecock Bar of New York tomorrow night. And yes, these fans are tried-and-true, southern-bred, and overflowing with as much hospitality as the ones back at home. It's great to be a gamecock!

"'For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,' declares the Lord. 'As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.'" Isaiah 55:8