Miles and I pulled out of Meadowlark Resort last night, just before seven. I had my old and well-loved "Surfacing" album from Sarah McLachlan providing a soundtrack to a sudden and unforeseen upsurge of melancholy. I wept my way through the first hour, tossed my cookies in a gas station bathroom near Wausau, and then practiced a little emotional stability. I know, I know...me and my glamorous life. I don't mean to make you all feel so uninteresting in your own lives, but ah! Such is the price of greatness!



I thoroughly enjoyed my morning routine there. The bed was slightly less than comfortable, so I wasn't good for sleep much beyond four. I'd pad out to the living room in my unitard and complete an hour of yoga before jumping in the shower. With the coffee brewing and my banana bread oatmeal bubbling in the microwave, I would open my laptop and just write. It was a quiet, reflective time that I cherished. I watched every sunrise over the lake and felt a keen connection to the life and breath of Mother Earth. Words seemed to flow from me ungoverned by daily complication, and I caught a glimpse of Heaven.

There is a genius to be found in the simple. There is a wisdom to be found when the thinking stops. After nine months of feeling unsure of where to call "home", I found it in myself   this week. I only wish my "hello" wasn't so blurry in the backdrop of "goodbye".

I retrieved the pack from my pocket and tapped it forcefully against my opposite palm. Two emerged and I grabbed both, admitting that I would need the second in no time at all. My mother looked on, disapprovingly.

"You're hitting those kind of hard today, aren't you Sweetie?" I was the only in the vehicle who had this particular craving, so it was only natural that it should make them uneasy...or, so I told myself.

"I've cut back a little," I soothed. My habits, though none of her business, ought not to cause such concern. "I'm down to a pack and a half a day." It was apparent almost immediately that this information soothed most inadequately.

"I just don't know where you picked that up!" she huffed. "It's such a disgusting habit...people just throw the ends wherever they happen to be at the time, with no regard for the rest of the population!"

"I always take care with my disposal."

"OH? You never throw it out of the car window while you're on the highway?" Busted. She's seen me do that.

"Just once in a blue moon...settle down."

"No, I'm concerned. And do you know that there is nothing more offensive than hearing somebody do it over the phone? I HATE that! It makes me want to smack the person until it falls right out of their mouth!"

"I'm not much of a phone person."

"Don't get smart with me—I just don't understand how you developed such an addiction! Your father doesn't do it! I only do it socially!"

"Oh, Mother, please. Enough, already. I have no plans on quitting. Besides, it helps me keep my weight in check."

"Laura, Laura, Laura..." she sighed, defeated. She cringed outwardly and expelled her exasperation just loud enough for me to hear. "GUM!"

This is what the pre-dawn light revealed at the onset of this day. I watched in appreciation from the padded seat at the bay window. "This is bliss," I thought as I sipped my coffee and inhaled the serenity of the sleeping house, the sleeping land. Morning is fresh and clean, and there is no better time of day.

The chipmunks chased one another, squirrels flourished their bushy tails, and soprano chirps filled the barren pockets of silence. I watched as a bald eagle flew over the lake, and so ran for my camera. Of course, by the time I got out there, the eagle was back in hiding, but I couldn't resist a picture of the ethereal morning.

Growing up, I was often compared to my aunt. I don't know that it was meant to be compliment, being flung at me in an exasperated voice around a spray of spittle as it was, but I took it as such. What?—with her being one of the most generous, most unprejudiced people that I know, how could it be anything but?

I learned from her example. She is my mother's younger sister, and so bore the burden of babysitting quite often. Though she talks about those days with a grimace, and reminds me nearly daily that she dropped me on my head and that my eyes used to be bugged out and freaky, I know that she enjoyed being a part of our young lives.

Brenda encouraged me to be my own person in a time when I needed it most. She has always been a cheerleader on the sidelines of free will. To this day, I seek her counsel when I am feeling particularly troubled with something I am feeling. She pats my hand with understanding and says, "Your twenties will be very frustrating, but it will start to get easier in your thirties" or "It's strange, I don't remember ever giving birth....."

Now, it is her birthday, and I wonder if she really knows how much she means to me. Our conversations flow freely with cynicism, jokes, and laughter...but love is the undertow, all too easy to miss. Thank you Brenda, for who you have helped me to become, for the way you treat my husband, for all that you are, and for all that you do. Happy Birthday.

"Oh did you get mail?" Miles asked as I ripped into an envelope. I found the obvious question unworthy of him, but swallowed a smart remark. He waited with abated breath for my reply.

After a small passage of time and deciding not to allow him to go on thinking that I was committing a federal offense, I responded affirmatively. From the tattered edges of the torn envelope, I could see that the paper was detailed in a creamy white with pale gold designs. A six-horse stagecoach sprawled across the page while some black type overlapped. A wallet-sized bit of plastic shone against the early morning light.

...

I opened the account while in college for they had a branch near my school and one near my home. It sat dormant during the three years I lived in Wilmington, as Wilmington is too lazy have have Wells Fargo banks. Last week, I went to summon the all-but-forgotten checking account into the land of the living. It was a stand-up, dependable sort of account which, fee-free and big-brotherly, had guarded every penny of that $5.49 I had left in its care.

They had to re-take all of my information, and I wondered more than once if simply opening a new account would have been easier after all...I was quite the Monday morning fiasco for one frazzled bank employee. "Good Grief! We have to order all new stuff!" And there was I, without a life preserver, left to drown in a sea of choice. "Check design?" "Doubles or singles?" "Overdraft protection?" "Mayo or Miracle Whip?"

I pulled my elevated breathing into the still of the morning as I raked a shaky hand through my tousled hair. Staggering uncomfortably, I leaned my weight against the counter and pressed my damp forehead against the cold plexiglass that smelled of verdigrised pennies and tootsie rolls. Clearing her throat hesitantly, the bank employee asked in a small voice, "Debit card?"

...

It was difficult to read the text as I found myself caught up in the pretty illustrations in the watermark of the form. Miles leaned over my shoulder and asked conversationally, "So you got your debit card?" The question was worthy of our dear Jason, the wee one and North Carolinian of all North Carolinians, who once maintained a website under the name master of the obvious.

"Yes," I answered unnecessarily. "No PIN, though." In unison and unrehearsed we muttered, "They send those separately." I shrugged unconcernedly, and offered in all seriousness as I stuffed the pretty letter back into the envelope, "...should make it easier to use it responsibly."

Miles grunted and muttered something that sounded unsettlingly like, "...whole damn family is crazy..."