some fragmented thoughts about fall break in New England.

Every now and then obscure moments will make the cut into my arsenal of memories. Passing remarks, powerfully emotional experiences, something transcendentally lovely will etch itself firmly and quietly into remembrance.
But this is rare. Usually I collect memories like disorganized moms collect coupons—sporadically and at high concentration. There are certain words that I remember with detailed first person clarity. It’s as though my brain’s memory-gathering setting will switch on at random intervals and begin to make careful note of every minute--remembrance worthy or not.
This week will be one of those weeks. I can tell already. The first indicator of this is that I will be spending these days in October in New England—a place I’ve never been before. Newness of any kind always—without fail—causes me to revert helplessly to my eight-year-old self. I am obnoxious with poorly suppressed excitement, breathless with hopefulness, and altogether untimely in my chosen moments of laughter.
The week will be passed at my friend Colleen’s house in Bloomfield, Connecticut. I am with eight friends: Colleen, Ashlea, Susan, Victoria, Kevin, Christa, Moselle, and Jen. We will be leaving Kevin in Boston, as much as we like him. Christa, Jen, Victoria, and Moselle are girls I don’t know so well. I have therefore made the decision to really get to know them. If dorm life has taught me anything it’s that living with someone for a long time doesn’t make you friends, and conversely that it doesn’t take long at all to know someone well if you only try.
In the great process that has been my college-experience so far I really hope that this is the week God and I work out my struggle with insecurity. It’s been startling how much insecurity has gnawed at me this semester. I’m sure it has something to do with being single and imperfect and maybe a little to do with the devil’s mysterious dislike for me. Regardless, it’s high time I move on. I am no longer 15, despite what occasional acne breakouts and well meaning age-guessers tell me.
Earlier I saw a sign on the highway for New York City. It was so strange. It felt kind of like having a frequent but improbable dream suddenly materialize in a surreal way that must surely break some natural law. In my mind I have just made a large musical crescendo sign that starts in Birmingham, comes to a point in Tulsa, and finishes under New York. I enjoy the feeling of gradually tucking away little parts of the world to keep and remember and talk knowledgeably about.
Just now we are crossing a bridge that overlooks nothing but crest after crest of brilliant leaves in all the colors of a faded 70s loveseat, like the one we used to have in my living room at home. We’re listening to Sting’s “Fragile,” and Christa and I just exhaled at the same time, then shared exuberant smiles in response to Sting or the landscape. Maybe both. But probably the landscape.
I’m particularly happy right now, because I have complete control of the playlist for the moment. Putting modesty aside, I would just like to say that I am quite good at creating playlists. This morning we experienced sunrise to U2’s “Beautiful Day” and Mutemath’s “Peculiar People.” We drank coffee and watched condensation evaporate to perhaps premature but very welcome Christmas music—consisting mainly of the Carpenters, Bing Crosby, and TSO. We entered Pennsylvania with one of my favorite instrumental albums, which happens to be very fitting: “Autumn in New England.” At our first rest stop, we opened the doors to Susan’s car and all nine of us listened to a recording of “O Come O Come Emmanuel” that Kevin and I, along with two friends from school, recorded last fall. And now, we are listening to my love song playlist—hence the Sting, and now, Ben Harper. Funny that I just devoted a long paragraph to our trip’s soundtrack. My priorities are quite plain. Well, as I am looking very sleepy and makeupless, and as I haven’t quite conquered insecurity (this being only the first day of the trip), I will take a break to apply mascara and chapstick. And to pester Susan for a bathroom break.

Susan’s lying in the floor, tuning her guitar. Christa’s reading on the couch, Ashlea’s asleep still, Colleen went across the street to make lunch for her uncle, Moselle just got back from a run, Jen’s washing dishes, and Victoria is getting ready to go to the store. I got up at 10:30 today—I sleepily climbed the basement stairs and found everyone quietly reading in the sun-filled living room. Colleen had cooked apple pancakes, so I helped myself to pancakes and maple syrup while I listened to Colleen read out loud from The Fairy Queen.
Last night, after gathering around the baby grand piano and making music with the family in the McMahon livingroom, the eight of us took a walk to the park. It was cold! I borrowed Ashlea’s scarf. We had secret telling time when we got there, and therefore stayed for nearly an hour. We danced our way back, and Susan and I almost got ploughed over by a car coming over the hill. Thankfully, we scampered up the steep curb just in time. It was a definite adrenaline moment.
We’re keeping a list of quotes from the trip. Some of them are truly funny—others are just funny to us. Regardless, it was a stroke of genius. A couple of my favorites: “It’s like they’re working on my teeth from under my back.” – Jen, in reference to the massive drilling work being done in the basement as we woke up this morning. “Bambi must have been an engineering major.” - Colleen, regarding Bambi’s shyness towards Faline. “Connecticut, is Colleen hilly?” - Me just being disoriented.
One kink in my personality is that I get easily irritated during periods of leisure. When I’m not being productive, I get exponentially persnickety and choleric. I want to go run, but I don’t want to have to take another shower. I want to do homework, but I feel gross and therefore want to run first. But I don’t want to take a shower. I don’t want to eat because I haven’t run, but it’s almost lunch time. I want to clean up, but I want to get dressed first, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to go run, so I don’t change yet because I know I’ll have to shower. So there is the dilemma. And that pretty much explains why I’m typing right now. I’m stalling. Chances are, any second now I’ll get up, put tennis shoes on, and go run. But in a minute.
I’m making cookies tonight. It’s been fun having so many domestic girls in the house: everyone loves to cook (except Jen but I don’t think she hates it as much as she pretends), Christa anonymously folds random loads of laundry, we all wash dishes when we happen to be in the vicinity of a full sink, and we vacuum and clean to de-stress and feel useful. I keep thinking to myself that I am surrounded by dynamite wife material. There are eight awfully lucky boys out there who have no idea the tremendous domesticity and sweetness that will overpower them sooner than later.
Last night, Colleen’s dad played and worshipped on the piano while some of us talked to Mrs. McMahon in the kitchen. The sensation of Dad in the living room at the piano was so familiar that I got ridiculously homesick. I have so many memories of doing the dishes or folding laundry at home to the soundtrack of my dad making heartbreakingly beautiful music on our old upright. I really took it for granted. It was so normal—he would just sit down for hours and play his heart out. To me it was always kind of sad to see him there, because he has so much talent, so much inspiration, so much magical music bottled up inside of him…and now he’s an associate pastor and a school teacher, faithfully providing for his family and playing the old piano at home when he has time. There is something quite bittersweet and sacrificial about that. He says he’s content and fulfilled, but I want my daddy to be happy.
Well, a sleepy Ashlea and I just decided to go running. So I’m off to put on my literally destroyed All-Stars (poor planning) and turn my iPod to the 80s playlist.