I was born in Southern California and lived there until I was eight and a half. During my time there, I experienced several earthquakes, although none of them huge. I do remember one when I was about seven that was sizeable. It happened in the early morning, my parents were up, in the room my sister and I shared and out the back door (we lived in a very small house in those days) before the world had time to stop shaking. For me, the best part of that day was that school was cancelled, and I got to carry my earthquake kit around with me.

My earthquake kit was a small wicker basket with a battery operated radio, some band-aids and a couple fruit leathers in case I got hungry. We also had family sized earthquake kit that lived in a large plastic garbage can, bound with twine, in our side yard. My mom had set it up when I was about four and my sister was 1 and a half. It had canned food, diapers, some medical supplies and granola bars. It probably had other things in it, but they’ve escaped my memory. The reason I remember the items I do, is that we were constantly “borrowing” things from the kit. When my mom ran out of diapers for my sister, she would bend the plastic lid back and grab a few from the can. There were many times when my friends and I would pilfer the granola bars and other snacks from the bin while we were playing outside. Out of band-aids? Head for the earthquake kit. The kit became like an extension of the pantry, and was rarely replenished. Well, at the least the granola bars, my mom learned they didn’t last long in there. What wasn’t replenished often became obsolete (my sister was out of diapers relatively soon after the can’s creation)

I can still see and feel the can. The lid was tied down with green plastic twine, from a spool that my parents acquired before I was born. It was used to mark off the boundaries of the garden, wrap newspapers for recycling and often for my cat’s cradle string (it also made an appearance in a dream I had last night. My parents still have the spool, it never runs out). The can was brown plastic, the lid thin and pliable. There was a crack in the plastic from the constant bending back and forth.

I’m not entirely certain why this relatively minor experience from my childhood popped into my head recently, but I’m guessing it has been triggered by Katrina. My family was lucky, in the face of potential disaster, we took minor precautions that we never had to use. Sadly, it doesn’t always work that way.

I went to the doctor this afternoon, and she said, judging by my lack of swelling and discoloration, I’m not broken, just sprained. And, even if I was broken, it would only be a small bone in my foot, and they wouldn’t treat it any differently than a sprain. So I’ll be limping around the city for the next couple of weeks, but hopefully no worse for wear.

I’ve got figure out what’s going on with me these days, though. Within the last four days, in addition to the foot, I managed to lose my driver’s license (and then find it in my closet), put a big dent in the side of my car (although it is an almost 14 year old wagon, it has next to no value, so it doesn’t really matter) and go to the wrong first night of my class at Wharton. I’m really doing a great job of screwing things up lately. I’ve got to get myself back on a better track soon, or I’m going to end up shooting my eye out (although I’ve never held a gun, and have no intention of getting near one).

I think I may have broken a bone in my foot yesterday, during a particularly clumsy bike dismounting moment. I have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon. I feel like a huge idiot.

Today was Ingathering Sunday at the First Unitarian Church of Philadelphia, and despite it being the first Sunday of the church year, I was five minutes late, which is normal for me. I found my regular seat, on the left side, near the back. The place was full, and our new interim minister was up front. Sitting there, I remembered why I go to church. It’s the feeling of belonging to a community, in which people know me and I know them. It is a space where you don’t have to be careful with your smiles, but instead can grin at all who you see, surrendering to the joy of being. Where we watch kids, who we remember as bumps in their moms’ bellies, old enough now to pour their summer memories into the water communion bowl. Where we sit quietly, with our feet flat on the floor, backs pressed against the pew, breathing deeply, the whole congregation taking and releasing air as one unified body.

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Di Brunos,
originally uploaded by Marusula.

Ingrid and I went over to my friend Cindy’s house at 1 pm today, to collect her and head for the Italian Market. Our mission was to have lunch, take a wander and find something to eat for dinner, all things for which the Italian Market is uniquely suited. The plan had been proposed around 10 am, and had been tweaked and altered about four times in the subsequent hours, and we were finally off. We took Ingrid’s car, because I managed to lose my driver’s license today (very big pain) and I figured that while I don’t have the card, it’s not the greatest idea to do a ton of driving.

We parked on 10th, next to field near Pat’s and Geno’s and headed for 9th Street. I was totally spaced from lack of food, so that was the first goal. We wound up at Di Brunos, and I ate my panini in about five minutes. It was an amazing combination of tomatoes, mozerella, proscutto and pesto. So yummy. We sat at a table for about half an hour after our food was all gone, enjoying the shade we were under and the sun just beyond our chairs. A 12 week old border collie mix was with the people at the next table.

The market was surprisingly empty for a beautiful Saturday afternoon, but it was nice to be there without the crushing crowds and gawking tourists. I was actually able to stop at moments and take some pictures of the produce, something that doesn’t work so well when there are people standing four deep in front the lemons, limes and zucchini.

Dinner ended up being a big mixed green salad with Cajun spiced salmon and roasted onions, tomatoes and red peppers. We felt like we had a very food-magazine worthy meal.

Tonight we had the UU Young Adult happy hour over at the World Cafe Live upstairs restaurant/bar. I scheduled it there because Eric Hutchinson, my very favorite new artist, was playing. I’m all about doubling up on fun stuff when the opportunity presents itself. I got there a little early, and entertained myself with a book and a beer at the bar. Evidently, that bar doubles as the defacto happy hour space for the employees of XPN for a bit, before (the) hoi polloi show up. I sat at the bar, between Kate Gaffney (who has a new cd coming out at the end of the month) and Roger LaMay (general manager of XPN) with a couple of female XPN-ers that I didn’t know. It was interesting to hear Roger talk so openly about the happenings of the station. He mentioned something that made me think that the All About the Music Festival’s move from Penn’s Landing to Wiggins Park wasn’t just about a better location, but also about the difficulties they had working with Penn’s Landing. They left after about fifteen minutes, and my eavesdropping opportunity was over. The happy hour was fun, and the show was terrific (I already wrote about it over at the Philly Metroblog).

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So I was talking to my mom today as I walked across campus to pick up the mail, and she described the dream she had had the night before. She was standing between my dad and my sister, holding our family cat, Dinky. Dinky is gazing upwards, and pipes up with, “Ooo, look at all the angels!” My family is pretty darn shocked that Dinky is talking, and all look up, to see if they can see the angels. They aren’t visible to anyone but the cat, and so my sister leans in and whispers, “I don’t believe him.” Dinky gets huffy and offended, and my mother chimes in with an enthusiastic, “I believe you, Dinky!”

And that was the dream. My sister thinks it means that Dinky is going to die. My mom just thought it was cool, a spiritual cat. I haven’t heard what my dad’s verdict is, and I’m completely befuddled. Anyone care to venture an interpretation on that one?

I was waiting for the light to change at the corner of 34th and Market today, when the guy standing next to me sneezed loudly. I thought about it for half a beat, and decided to go for it. I said, “Bless you” to a total stranger. His thank you carried a decidedly shocked tone. The woman on the other side of him was also a little surprised that I had acknowledged his sneeze.

I don’t like that he was surprised that someone would offer this small kindness and I don’t like that I hesitated to offer it. I feel like in the wake of Katrina, when we’re all hungry to help, maybe the best way to help is to redirect some of that energy towards being kind, show some little bits of love, to the strangers all around us.

Just a thought.

Every September while I was growing up, my mom would sit my sister and me down at the dining room table, hand us pencils and paper and ask us to write a couple of new school year resolutions. I would resolve to be nicer to my sister, to eat less candy, to clean the cat box more regularly or to turn out my reading light at night when my parents asked me to. It always felt fitting to set goals for the year in September at the start of a new grade, when all things felt fresh and full of possibility.

These days, I’m not as much of a yearly resolution maker, because I feel like if you fail at your big yearly resolutions, then there’s this feeling that you can’t start over or try again until the following year. I resolve every day to create a Marisa who is content and able to receive and accomodate all the unexpected things that life uncovers, so normally I don’t feel the need for yearly resolutions.

But when September and the beginning of school rolls around, I still feel a tug to sit myself down at the dining room table, collect my thoughts and declare to the world that I am going to work to be better at something. I do need to be better about taking my vitamins, maybe I’ll start there.

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Grass,
originally uploaded by Marusula.

The rough grassed tickled the back of my hand, as I lay, stretched out on my stomach on an old yoga mat dug out of the back of my car. It was Monday morning, after breakfast. I was determined to squeeze every last moment of relaxing out of the final few hours of camp. A book lay ignored, upside down and open next to my elbow. A slice of my back was exposed to the sun and air, between the waistband of my jeans and the bottom of my tank top. The breeze drifted by and touched this stretch of skin, and in that instance, all my awareness was centralized in that one spot. The rest of my body did still exist, but it was extra, I was ALIVE where the wind had made contact. That sensation lasted another moment, but with my next full breath, I expanded back into my fingers and toes, nose and pores, happy to be in this body, in this light and in that field.

I got home yesterday afternoon, contentedly exhausted, sandy, sunburnt and a little smelly. I threw my dirty clothes into the washing machine and was gifted with one last wafting odor pocket of the brackish waters of the Chesapeake before I closed the lid. I took a long shower, and scrubbed the last of the gritty mud off the bottoms of my feet. With the last of the physical remnants washed down the drain, all I have left of the weekend is a still-in-progress multi-colored lanyard (you’ve got to do at least one art project at camp) and a collection of really terrific memories.

There was swimming and playing in a sun-warmed pool. A bonfire, s’mores, and a two year old having her first experience with a marshmallow. A group of friends sitting around the fire after all the families went to bed; drinking, laughing and telling stories. Six of us laid out on our backs on a dock that stretched far into the bay, looking at impossibly bright stars. Skinny-dipping. A drive into town, on narrow ribbons of road, no other cars in sight. Naps in the grass. Kayaking, sailing and more swimming. Ingrid on the guitar and the rest of us singing in waning light. An impressively tall Jenga tower. Bad food made delicious by hunger and joyful company. Packing up, taking pictures and driving home again.