This is the last post I’ll put on this blog, and the beginning of my career as a grown up blogger (hopefully).

From now on, you can find me here: Human Textuality

It might cost a little more, and require some edu-ma-cation about blogs and plugins and domains and stuff, but I think it’s a good thing. I’m also trying to clean up the look, just a little, while keeping it in a style that feels expressively me. Please bear with me as I make little changes and learn how to make the blog better for all of us:)

Any feedback you have would be much appreciated. The goal is to post three times a week beginning next week. It will also be my first week as an unemployed writer… ahem, freelancer.

Thanks for reading, and I hope to see and hear you in .com land!

The pudgy Hispanic boy two driveways over momentarily distracted the robin from his search. After a second’s pause, he returned his beak to the matted leaves in the gutter. There had to be a worm in there. Anything less was a waste of time. Spring was, after all, very short.

The boy, facing the street, looked backward over his shoulder, and hefted his basketball up and over his head. The ball disappeared behind him, perhaps into the net. Perhaps not.

Leaves jumped to the left and to the right as the bird picked at small sticks and wrinkled candy wrappers.

From the car, she watched all of this, while a man in LA told her the day’s economic news through the radio. It wasn’t terribly encouraging news, but the man had a nice voice.

The robin’s instinctive drive to find the worm in the dead leaves was impressive. How could he possibly know that there, in that exact few inch stretch of the edge of the street, would be a fat, wriggling worm? And what made him so certain that he would be able to catch it despite its flipping slippery body?

The man in the radio listed numbers from Japan, numbers from Europe, and numbers from New York. The robin, as if he could hear the report, tossed his beak at the very idea. What did he need that information for anyway? He knew exactly where the wealth was, and it was in this pile of leaves. There would never be a shortage of earthworms in his lifetime. There was nothing to worry about.

Beneath the surface of the leaves, the worm worked his way deeper into whatever it was he was in. Something like dirt, this particular terrain was stiffer, and smelled of mold rather than the musky velvet of earth. Regardless, he had to keep moving. Not only was he drying out, but the air seemed to be getting closer and closer, and something was making a lot of noise above him.

She wasn’t sure whether to cheer for the robin or the worm. If the robin won, the scene would end, and she could go in the house. If the worm won, the bird would fly off, and she’d wonder all night why his instincts had failed him. Both were mildly entertaining.

The boy went inside, letting the storm door bang shut behind him.

The robin had lost none of his passion. He knew he was getting close. The worm sensed that something wasn’t right, but simply didn’t have the brain power to do much about it other than continue crawling forward.

And then it was over. The robin had the worm in his throat, and the man in the radio finished his sentence about the drops in the market.

As the worm began to feel the effects of the bird’s digestive acids, the man in the radio played REM’s ‘It’s the End of the World As We Know It.’

That was poignant enough for  Thursday evening, and she went inside to do the dishes and eat left over udon noodles, while trying not to think about how much they resembled earthworms.

It all happened so fast…

I’d been perfectly happy with my brown rice and occasional couscous for a long time. Even after I stopped eating meat, those old standbys always did the trick when I needed a traditional meal base, or something a little more exotic with herbs and pine nuts.

But last night, everything changed.

We’d been eyeing each other a while, me and Bob’s Red Mill quinoa (say: keen-wa). We’d never even been formally introduced, but I think we both knew that it would happen eventually. The small white ‘grains’ had wiggled their way into my pantry, and at about 6pm last night, I gave in.

I thought nothing of ripping open the bag and measuring out the grain and water – I’d done it a thousand times with rice… this really wasn’t any different. But when the quinoa was finished, and mixing languidly with the seasoning and veggies in my Baby Buddha Bowl, I could tell by the look and smell that I was about to experience something new.

Maybe it was the complex taste (grain, nut, earth), or maybe it was the protein lovin’ on my vegetarian gut (quinoa contains all nine of the essential amino acids!). Whatever it was, I was in love. I couldn’t leave it alone. Part of me wanted to savor the satiating, yet delicate, treat. The rest of me wanted to devour every last bite to the point of indigestion.

My advice: Don’t hold back. Give in to the the super grain that wants to get to know you.

Here’s my Haphazard Recipe for a quick lunch or dinner:

Ingredients:

• 2 cups water
• 1 cup dry quinoa
• olive oil (1 tbsp-ish)
• 1 diced Roma tomato
• handful chopped onion
• handful frozen peas
• minced garlic (to taste)
• Greek seasoning (to taste)
• pepper (to taste)
• dash salt
• lemon juice (to taste)

Directions:

1. Boil the 2 cups of water
2. Add all the quinoa, reduce heat and cover
3. When quinoa is finished (similarly to couscous – water all absorbed, grain soft and fluffy), fluff with fork
4. Mix in olive oil, tomato, onion, peas, garlic, Greek seasoning, pepper, salt, and lemon juice
5. Put all food in face

Smart Cookie Tip

This part was totally an accident, but I actually cooked the quinoa just a little longer than it needed. The result was a lovely golden brown color throughout the grain, and a slightly toastier flavor.

Other good points to know about quinoa:

• It’s gluten free
• Not actually a grain, quinoa is more closely related to leafy greens
• It was considered the ‘gold of the Incas’

I realize that for those of you who have worked with quinoa before, this is all ridiculously obvious. But for me, it took impulsive hunger and the need to use up leftovers to open that bag. I’m hoping that all of you who haven’t yet enjoyed quinoa take a cue from my sudden and expected long-term affair.

Bain sult as!

Lately, I keep hearing about a phenomenon that I think we can all understand:

‘Suppressing bad feelings is not good for your health.’

Duh.

But, the conversation goes further than this. It not only says that long-term neglect of depression, grief or even just the blues is bad, but that momentary facades – like a forced smile – can make a bad-mood-day worse. In turn, the whole mind-body unit takes a hit.

For example, an online article from the February 21st New York Times describes a scientific observation of bus drivers. Because bus drivers come into contact with so many people in situations that call for common courtesy, the hope was that they would sometimes display happy faces that were less than genuine.

This is not to call bus drivers sour. I’ve known several to be incredibly friendly and even entertaining. But, everyone has a bad day, and it’s much easier to sulk in a cubicle than at the wheel of public transit.

Anyway, the findings were interesting. From the Times:

“The scientists examined what happened when the drivers engaged in fake smiling, known as ‘surface acting,’ and its opposite, ‘deep acting,’ where they generated authentic smiles through positive thoughts, said an author of the study, Brent Scott, an assistant professor of management at Michigan State University.

After following the drivers closely, the researchers found that on days when the smiles were forced, the subjects’ moods deteriorated and they tended to withdraw from work. Trying to suppress negative thoughts, it turns out, may have made those thoughts even more persistent.

But on days when the subjects tried to display smiles through deeper efforts — by actually cultivating pleasant thoughts and memories — their overall moods improved and their productivity increased.”

It goes without saying that chronic low moods can spiral downward into anxiety, depression, illness, disease and any number of health issues that arise when the mind spreads it stress to the body.

I’ve noticed similar ideas in February’s edition of Natural Health Magazine (‘The Great Emotional Escape’) and on an NPR interview from last year, which I cannot find the link for to save my life. Sorry.

So, why are we hearing this now? Is it seasonal (there’s a reason this cruel month is short)? The still dismal economy? Are suicide rates creeping up? Probably some of each, along with the ever-swinging cultural pendulum that brought us from the neon of the 80s to the grunge and goth of the 90s to the pop of the new millennium to now. Another thing – no one can deny that the past decade has been tumultuous for the United States. It’s taking a toll, and we’re just not feeling so perky these days.

Taking it one more step, I know from first hand experience that positive thoughts cannot banish negative ones. Sometimes they actually make the bad things that much worse by comparison. Depression’s like that. And you cannot walk away from depression – you’ve gotta call it on its bullshit and duke it out.

Of course, recognition of the difference between true unhappiness, wallowing and self-induced negativity is essential. Owning up to dissatisfaction is one thing, and letting it run its course is alright. Nurturing it is unproductive and lame.

Remember the extremes: The 50s housewife who slapped on her lipstick and baked her sorrow into a cake, and the emo kid who knows it’s cool to be so bored and is only happy when it rains (apologies – I was a 90s teenager). Hopefully we can get over demanding anything – good or bad – and just… be. Happy, mostly.

Sources:

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/02/22/health/22really.html?_r=1&ref=health

I am so captivated by this thing.

What Is It?

Reminding viewers of an enormous pupil, this fascinating piece of naturalness is known as The Great Blue Hole (hereafter GBH), and is a part of Belize’s Lighthouse Reef on the coast of the Caribbean Sea.

The Lighthouse Reef is an atoll. Atolls are distinct from other reef types, such as barrier and fringing. Most common in the Indian and Pacific oceans, atoll reefs enclose a space in the shape (ish) of a circle or horseshoe.

Atoll Reef Formation

The theory about how atoll reefs form goes like this (thank you, Darwin, among others):

At one point in time, living corals began to build a reef around a volcano or seamount (underwater mountain that does not break the surface). As the reef went through stages of fringing and barrier, the volcano or mountain cooled and eventually collapsed. The coral, needing light to live and grow, kept working its way toward the surface of the water. By the time we see it, the entire formation is simply a ring of coral around a lovely lagoon.

Why the Deep, Dark Blue?

Atoll reefs often display vibrant colors when seen from above – my favorite description thus far: peacock blue. This variety of light blues and greens is offset in the case of the GBH by the midnight blue of its lagoon. Estimated at 1,000 feet (300 meters) across and 400 feet (125 meters) deep, the hole is essentially an underwater cave.

I had a little trouble finding quick info on why this atoll has such a deep lagoon, but my guess is that it has to do with the age of the formation and the shape of the original mountain.

Basically, the GBH is a beautiful freak of nature, and older than we humans can fathom.  It’s like getting to see the passage of millions of years condensed into a hypnotic moment.

“I want to go to there…”

Do you want to visit what may be the world’s largest sea-hole? Of course you do. If you’ve got the money, time and gear, you may certainly swim in and explore this wild part of the planet. In addition to the GBH itself, the formation houses rare sea life and numerous caves.

Sources:

http://earthobservatory.nasa.gov/IOTD/view.php?id=37741

http://www.eoearth.org/article/Atoll

http://www.chaacreek.com/belize-travel-blog/2010/09/the-blue-hole-cousteau-never-had-it-so-good/

http://planetoddity.com/the-great-blue-hole-of-belize-worlds-deepest-sea-hole/

I don’t markedly observe death dates. I don’t feel ‘down’ or visit the cemetery; I don’t mention the fact to those who don’t already know. I think about the significance of the date, sure, but I like to keep my annual rituals happy – there’s already enough to be blue about in the world.

The only thing I do is draw little black curtains around the day on my calendars. It’s enough for me, and adds just the right touch of drama. Fitting.

But today is different. It is the 15th anniversary of my father’s death.

The memory of that Friday afternoon is vivid: I walked in the door after school, about the time of day that I write this now, thinking of the plans I’d made with friends to go see Mr. Holland’s Opus. My mother appeared from somewhere almost immediately, and spoke to me like an adult. In my mind, she said something like, ‘Well, your daddy just went to Heaven.’ I missed it by seven minutes. I wasn’t surprised – Hospice had been in our home for weeks. More than anything Dad’s passing was a relief… the signal to stop waiting, and start grieving.

I cried for a few minutes, and then washed the dishes. Mom was amazingly calm. People came and went, including my younger sister, who today can give astounding insight into the mind of a grief-stricken 10 year old. My strongest emotion was refusal to see the body. I could wait until the visitations, thank you. I dealt with the situation at hand, and went to see the movie.

There’s really nothing so special about this particular anniversary in and of itself – it doesn’t indicate any change in anyone’s life, and the number 15 doesn’t carry some special meaning for the death of a man my dad’s age and heritage (that I know of).

However, I can’t help but think a little harder about this one. See, I was 15 years old in February of 1996, which means that I’ve now lived half of my life without a father. Huh.

It sucks, of course. Still, there’s another part of me that kind of goes, ‘Well, that’s done then. One down, one to go.’

That might sound callous, and in part, it probably is. 15 years and regular life give you the time and tools you need to toughen up. I’ve grown up and made a life of my own that Dad would barely recognize. I don’t feel the loss of him everyday (at least, not with pain), perhaps because he was never a component of my adult life. My world at 15 was very different from my world now, and a happy fatherless woman is simply who I am. Perhaps a part of me knew even then that the bulk of my life would not be hindered by that tragedy.

Going further, the death of one of my parents, and the one who made the money at that, taught me a lot and made me stronger. Yeah, maybe I’m a little paranoid and obsessive when it comes to death and my own mortality, but I’m also better at life. I know how to balance a budget. I know how to live comfortably on a tight budget. I’m self-reliant. And I talk to my husband about what we’d do if one of us died tomorrow.

Being good at life is also enjoying and valuing it. My dad spent a lot of time working, and not enough time playing and taking care of himself. As much as I appreciate how hard he worked (truly – he kicked ass), I’m certain that his lifestyle contributed to his cancerous demise at the age of (only) 50. Because of his example, and my genes, I take very seriously my own health and that of those I love, and try not to let it ruin the fun. Balance is key.

So today is a death date that I’m recognizing out loud. It’s a milestone for me, and a way to explain why I am the way I am. I wish I had come this far and been able to keep my dad too, but I wouldn’t trade anything. The death of a loved one makes us who we are.

And I think about him every day.

My husband works second shift in a cargo office at our local airport. My 9-5 is just minutes down the road, and I occasionally visit him afterward for a dinner date.

What is airline cargo, you ask? Parts? Tools? Merchandise? Yes. Pets too? Most certainly. Many pure-bred puppies and kittens spend frustrated hours caged-up in his office, nicely complementing the stank of stale cigar already hanging in the air.

But you may not guess what the most common type of cargo is – the shipments that take up most of my husband’s time, and are so large that they must be driven in a cart from air craft to cargo office to customer vehicle.

It’s HR.

Human remains.

Yup.

Dead human bodies.

People are generally surprised by this, but it’s not really all that strange when you consider a few factors:

1. The Grand Rapids Gerald R. Ford International Airport is one of the few in the region that can accept human remains as cargo.
2. It’s totally possible to die on vacation.
3. Sometimes people do not live in the state where they own a burial plot.
4. This time of year, older people from Michigan (snow birds) are hanging out in Florida to avoid the cold. Snow birds often pass away in this retirement paradise, and make their return trip in the cargo bin.

Most of these bodies are probably not embalmed, and human remains shipped to the wrong airport are not something a ramp agent relishes in a less frigid season… But I digress.

So we have my husband, and we have several dead bodies in his care.

In turn, when I show up for a dinner date, there is most likely at least one HR waiting to be picked up or shipped out.

Now, I know how this sounds – youngish married couple eating dinner in dingy office next to a deceased snowbird, who is nicely laid out on a block of ice.

But it’s not like that. The bodies are in sealed bags inside sealed, wood-framed cardboard boxes, and they sit on a cart in a separate room. The closest I get to the individual inside is peering into the cart to read the name on the box. It’s possible that I used to wait on them at Russ’.

The point is that the most interesting part of the whole dead-body-cargo process is talking to the person that comes to pick it up. On a recent evening, that person was Lurch.

You remember Lurch – the gaunt, Frankenstein’s monsteresque butler from the Addams Family?

Just imagine it: A dark winter night in the middle of a quiet week, and we’re finishing dinner on the isolated outskirts of the airport campus. The most exciting thing happening is funny cat videos on YouTube.

Then suddenly, the door opens, and along with a gust of howling wind and a rush of light snow, slides in the tallest, thinnest, most corpse-like living man I’ve ever seen. His long body is hunched against the weather, and his expression is grim. Thin hair sweeps forward from his crown to his brow, enhancing his deeply-set and serious eyes. Totally Lurch. He’s wearing a respectable suit under a long black wool coat – the typical, and in this case literal, uniform of the undertaker. Classic.

You can imagine my delight. He was the second HR recipient we’d seen that evening, so I was in the zone – casual conversations with folks in the funeral industry is one of my favorite pastimes. And this character was going to make a good story. I honestly expected him to speak in grunts and low groans. But his appearance and demeanor were foreboding, not at all friendly, and I hesitated, remembering every sinister undertaker I’d ever seen in the movies.

Of course in reality, he was extremely friendly, and quick to animate his lined, gray face with a laugh. More than happy to share information regarding his job, he told us about learning his trade on the unclaimed bodies of homeless men, and giant morgues underneath bustling cities.: “Doesn’t matter how cold they kept it… that place stank!” By the time he left we were old pals.

And the whole time, I wished I had a camera, and some reason to take the guy’s picture. The whole situation was just too perfect.

That’s the story of how I met Lurch. I highly recommend him if you ever need a body moved.

A while back, WordPress discontinued my theme (Pressrow), and replaced it with a similar one (Pilcrow).

I just today realized that I could radically alter the appearance of my blog with this new theme, and spent the afternoon and evening playing with backgrounds and colors and sidebars and widgets. It was super fun.

I’m still trying to get things figured out, but I’ve got some new features and links, so feel free to poke around!

Thanks for visiting:)

My Dear Dead Relatives,

Why, oh why did you ever choose to settle in Michigan? Why did you select this region of unreliable summers, and predictably drawn-out winters?

Was it because the climate was similar to that of your Mother Country, or because the Great Lakes reminded you of the North Sea, or because you simply stopped at the first major body of water you came to?

Or maybe you sensed that this giant dirt-mitten would be a good seeding ground for your particularly puritanical sensitivities.

Whatever the reason, you obviously didn’t consider your 21st century descendants, who would have to suffer through the cold without the benefit of shortened work days and a modest Christmas.

Oh no.

You didn’t think of the fact that we wouldn’t enjoy Kerstmis at leisure, but that it would be squeezed into an already burdened schedule and under piles of snow.

We Euro-muts have to tolerate this time of year – not because of the cold, but because of the complete reversal of seasonal habit. Rather than slowing down, sleeping more, and spending easy time with our loved ones, we must work eight hour days in chilly offices, drive several miles on slushy roads to and from said offices, and run ourselves ragged to keep up appearances in a chaotic holiday extravaganza.

And you, smiling down on us, because the winter scene just looks so pretty and peaceful.

And me, cursing the snow and longing for the days when I’ll be cursing the sun.

But, I’m not going to stress. I did once, and all I got out of it was some Christmas radiation from the CT machine. Apparently stress feels like a brain tumor. Good to know.

In 6 months, I promise to thank you for freshwater beaches, piney woods, and a significant lack of hurricanes.

Love,

Katie

PS-> The CT scan was 2 years ago today, and really was perfectly normal. Thanks for the brain genes.

Have you even been convinced that you’re going to be a statistic?

One little bump on the head, and you’re most certainly experiencing intracranial bleeding.

A tired day and you have a rare form of cancer.

The only truly fairy tale marriage IN THE WORLD and it’s bound to be cut short.

Perfection,

Uncanny,

Tragedy,

Ironic,

And all too possible.