My alarm went off at 7:09 this morning, and I hit snooze. Seven minutes later, when it went off again, instead of hitting the snooze, I turned the whole thing off and dropped directly back into a dream.

I dreamt that I was in a house that looked a lot like the one my parents live in, only with more bedrooms upstairs. I was there because a young woman had just committed suicide because she was unable to achieve her goal which was to get married and have three children. She was so focused on the proposition that that was how her life was supposed to work out, that when it started to go another way, she couldn’t accept it and ended it.

Her spirit was still in the room and we started talking. The interaction was initially friendly, she was grateful and relieved to have someone with whom to talk, until I tried to convince her that she didn’t belong in that space anymore. She turned on me and started calling me names, saying I was both fat and ugly, directing violent and deep vehemence towards me. I walked to the bank of windows to raise the blinds that covered them, thinking that the light would help her realize that this was no longer her world. In the dream I started speaking the words, “You don’t belong here,” first weakly and then louder, until the voice in my head was shouting. She pointed her attention towards me and defensively screamed, “You’re wrong. You’re the one who doesn’t belong here, I’m going to be here forever.” With that she was gone, having walked away from me, straight through a wall. I stood there for a moment, knowing that she was wrong, knowing that she didn’t belong there and knowing that I would win.

At that moment my brain started battling for consciousness, pulling me up through the hazy dream-state and back into the waking world. It was hard to open my eyes, my face still partially frozen in REM sleep paralysis. I stumbled over to the window to open the blinds and let the cool air in, an unconscious mimicking of my actions in the dream. Heading for the kitchen to make coffee, my still-groggy brain started to process and interpret. I think that the girl was a piece of me, one that I’ve been working on getting rid of. She’s the voice in my head that I believe that tells me that I’m worthless and that I won’t succeed. She brought me to battle in my subconscious representation of home, thinking she could win there. She was wrong.

I left work yesterday, spaced out and ready to get home. In the first block of the 15 it takes me to return to my neighborhood, I heard someone pounding a car window and yelling. Stopping short, I bent down and realized I was looking into the eyes of my friend Shay, who was leaning over the passenger seat of her car in her attempt to get my attention.

I had been thinking about Shay all day long, because she started a new phase of her life today, one that took a lot of courage, fearlessness and trust in the universe. A month ago she gave notice at the job she’d had for almost five years, in order to go back to grad school full time and finish the MLS she’d been working on part time. Last fall we were sitting in Rittenhouse Square with tea and snacks, talking about life, the future and our attempts to change our lives, when I suggested she go for it. I remember telling her that she could do it, that if it felt right then she could make it happen. And now she has.

Shay was sitting there in her car, gathering her things to go to her first class as a full time grad student as I walked by. We hugged and stood on the corner talking for ten minutes, before she had to get to class. There was a feeling of rightness, of completeness in our encounter. I had been there with her at the conception of this phase of her life, and by lucky chance I got to be present at the birth as well.

Shay, I can’t tell you how proud I am that you’ve taken this leap and are working towards this goal with your all. This is just the beginning of many wonderful things to come.

I woke up this morning like I always do on Monday mornings, just a little bit reluctantly. I got myself into the shower before the 7:50 am edition of Marketplace started and out of the bathroom seven minutes later than I had promised my roommate. Thankfully, he’s an easygoing guy who doesn’t start to get annoyed until I’m more that ten minutes late. Hair dried and body dressed, I sat down at my computer with my bowl of Trader Joe’s Hi-Fiber Oh’s (a friend thinks them akin to eating cardboard, but I enjoy the little bits of indigestible fiber that crunch between my teeth) and sliced banana, to check my email before heading off for work.

There was an email from my college/blogging friend Katey entitled, “good news, blogger” that enticed me to read it first. And the news was good. She was writing to tell me that, unbeknownst to her, the editor of WNC Woman had been following her blog and was interested in publishing several entries, as well as an article about blogging. As part of the article, she gets to include a list of her favorite blogs, and wanted to know if I wanted to be included. I wrote back right then, trying to infuse as much of my squeaky-voiced excitement in my response as is possible in writing.

The article will be published in the February edition of WNC Woman, and will be available online. When that time comes, there will be linking. In fact, quite a lot. Prepare yourselves. In the meantime, take yourself over to Katey’s blog again, because as this article shows, I’m not the only one who thinks it’s terrific.

For the third day in a row, I am abundantly, exuberantly, inexplicably happy. What’s more, I am overflowing with gratitude for the number of wonderful people in my life. I realize that officially, this is the wrong time of year to wax poetic about the things that are causing me joy and for which I am grateful. With the year still fresh, young and new to the world, it’s tradition to examine your life, look for the things you deem to be “wrong” or “bad” and try to change them. But that’s just not where I’m at right now. I’m really just stuck on the gratitude right now.

I feel grateful for the people who sat around my living room last night until 11:30 pm, eating spaghetti, talking, laughing. For the friend’s mother, who is also a friend in her own right, who I sat with this morning at church. I feel grateful for the church member who introduced me to a newcomer this morning by saying, “this is Marisa, you really have to know her, she’s a special person.” I feel enormously grateful for the two girlfriends I ate lunch with today. For three hours we sat in front of a fire, plates of salad, bread and cheese on our laps, eating and sharing. We talked about love and dating, expectations and taking scary leaps. I stretched out on Georgia’s bed and indelicately cracked my back while tea was made and email was checked. We pulled tarot cards and safely shared how their interpretations hit home.

Life is good.

I spent the morning at the Italian Market, first having breakfast with a friend at Sabrina’s and then shopping 9th Street for ingredient for spaghetti sauce. I had an apartment full of people over tonight to eat the sauce over angel hair pasta and with bread spread with roasted garlic. I love having a roomful of friends, warmed by food and wine, talking and laughing. Now I have a kitchen full of dishes to do and I’m getting sleepier by the moment (no, I did not have any wine, I’m still staying away from alcohol after last weekend’s activities), so I’ll post a picture and say goodnight.

Despite the fact that I overslept this morning and leaped out of bed and into the shower with enough force as to violently bruise my left shin, I am in a ridiculously cheerful mood. Maybe it’s the venti coffee I bought myself in order to wake up, or the rare breakfast sandwich (egg and cheese on a roll) I got myself as a reward for finally getting a repair estimate on the garage-inflicted indentation on my car. Whatever the reason, I’m feeling good. Maybe the pod will pick up on my energy and give me an upbeat set. Let’s see.

(You know the rules by now, but to review: Send your digital music player into shuffle/random mode and report back the first 10 songs it spits out. No skipping or omitting, no matter how strange, eclectic or embarrassing the song selection may be).

1. Lancelot, Dave Carter and Tracy Grammar (When I Go)
2. Spin Out Of This, Life After Liftoff (Life After Liftoff)
3. I Want It All, k.d. lang (All You Can Eat)
4. The Pointless, Yet Poignant, Crisis of a Co-Ed, Dar Williams (Mortal City)
5. Forever My Friend, Ray LaMontagne (Trouble)
6. Rainbow Connection, Willie Nelson (Willie Nelson*Songs)
7. Black Cadillacs, Modest Mouse (Good News For People Who Love Bad News)
8. Eveline, Nickel Creek (Why Should The Fire Die?)
9. Everyday, Rachael Davis (Live In Bremen, Germany)
10. Mercedez Benz, Janis Joplin (18 Essential Songs)

Personally, I think that’s a pretty good set right there.

Favorite Song: Forever My Friend by Ray LaMontagne. I saw him in concert last fall on a fluke. A friend has bought tickets and then wasn’t able to go, so they ended up in my hands. What an amazing show (despite the funky opening act).

Seen Live: Dave Carter and Tracy Grammar, Life After Liftoff, Dar Williams, Ray LaMontagne and Rachael Davis.

Dave Carter and Tracy Grammar played a coffee house at my college when I was a sophomore. Knowing that they were folk singers out of Portland, as I was buying a cd after the show, I mentioned that my dad was also a folk singer in Portland. Dave brushed me off before I could go any further and roughly said, “There are lots of folk singers in Portland.” When I mentioned the exchange to my dad, he gave a little chuckle and said, “Of course I know Dave and Tracy.” I think that Dave thought they were too big to be playing a coffeehouse at a small college in Walla Walla, WA and wasn’t up for playing the “do you know” game with a random co-ed. The first spring I lived in Philly, I was listening to XPN as I was getting ready for work, when they announced that Dave Carter had died. I talked to my dad later that day, he was still in shock. Dave have been out jogging, had a heart attack and died. He had been handsome, talented, relatively young and (sometimes) charming and was suddenly gone.

Personal Connections: In addition to the Dave Carter connection, Tracy Grammar played on my sister’s cd that came out last summer. Also, a friend’s boyfriend was once asked to be the drummer for Modest Mouse (he turned the down).

That’s all I’ve got for today. For more Random Friday Tens check out:
Ben

Topping the list of my favorite things about visiting Portland each year (in addition to seeing my family) is going to New Seasons. It is one of the best, most appealing, well stocked and friendly-staffed grocery stores I’ve ever been in. I remember vividly the first year I went back to Portland after I’d been in Philly for 11 months straight. I went to New Seasons to pick up a bottle of wine (oh I miss grocery stores that sell wine and beer) and a few stocking stuffers. As I stood in line to pay for my purchases, the checker made both conversation and eye contact with me, thanked me for coming into the store and asked me if I needed help out. It had been so long since I had received such friendly service in a store that I was stammered and could hardly get the words out of my mouth to say thank you and no, I don’t need help out.

Well, the secret is out. Yesterday The New York Times ran an article all about the wonders that is New Seasons. That store is just another reason why the west coast may someday pull me back to it’s shores.

Above Average Jane has initiated a conversation about how faith and religion effect the political views of those on the left side of the aisle. She is asking bloggers, particularly political bloggers, to post something on or around Martin Luther King, Jr. Day (January 16th) that addresses,

how their beliefs, if they have any, impact their political inclinations, voting behavior, and what candidates they support. What suggestions would you have for the party of your choice, to reach out to and connect with the party faithful. Perhaps we will see consistent threads among the postings that will give some idea what issues resonate.

She gives two examples of posts from 2005 that hit some of the issues she’s trying to uncover. One is from Flavia Colgan over at the Huffington Post and the other is mine. It’s a brief entry I posted back in September about returning to the Unitarian church after a summer away. I’m not sure if it details my connection between politics and faith in the manner she’s looking for, but I can see how it is a take on church that is outside the mainstream. I don’t go to church because I’ve sinned and need to be redeemed (I don’t believe in sin), I don’t go in order to prove to the world that I’m a moral and upstanding citizen and I have no blind devotion to creed and dogma. I go for the love that exists there and the community of thinking, working, helping, evolving people who congregate in that building Sunday mornings at 11 am.

What’s your story of faith and politics? Or no faith and politics? Post on January 16th and tell us (make sure you tell Jane that you’ve done so).

My apartment has smelled the same for as long as I can remember. When I was a child and we’d come to visit my grandparents, I would take a deep inhalation of breath as we walked across the threshold, because it was the smell, more than the sights, sounds or people, that really let me know that we were here. It’s not an unpleasant smell, but not one that is easily articulated either. It has a little faded perfume, combined with wood, carpet, furniture and building. It is familiar as the long pink couch and glass coffee table that have sat in the living room since before I was born.

My presence does make an scent impression on the apartment, my shampoos, scented oils and cooking let the air know that I live here these days, as opposed to my grandmother. But, when I go away for a while and then come back, the smell reverts and I spend a split second looking around, checking to see if my grandmother is coming out of the bathroom, her perfectly manicured hands held aloft in delighted greeting. I’ve come to accept the fact that when it comes to the aromatic impression of this home, my grandmother’s 35 years here will always trump my measly four. I don’t mind the situation, in fact I prefer it, because it is just one more thing that makes it feel like home.

I actually missed out on being greeted by my grandmother’s scent when I came home from this last trip. My friends had come over the apartment early, to make dinner and wait for me, so when I opened the door, I was greeted by the smell of soup and a view of smiling faces. Tonight I went to the movies and was gone for about four hours. When I opened the door to walk inside and hang up my coat, I was forced to step back, so strong was the wave the scent memory with which I was assaulted. I could almost hear my grandmother’s gold bracelets clacking together. Somehow, the apartment knew that I had missed out on its aromatic greeting, and brought it back to welcome me home tonight.

A couple days after Christmas, still feeling a little down and blue, I took myself over to the main Goodwill store in Portland. There were tears in my eyes as I steered my mother’s unwieldy 10 year old Nissan Quest into a narrow parking spot. I got out of the car feeling sorry for myself, still feeling like there wasn’t and would never be a place for me in the world. A couple steps into my walk towards the entrance of the store, I looked down. At the toe of my left foot was a 20 dollar bill. My heart and mood lifted, and I reached down to pick it up. The thought flew through my head that this must be a little serendipitous gift from the universe, placed there to brighten my mood and lift me out of the muck I was reclining in. Just as I had straightened, a middle aged man bounded out of a just-parked car and ran over to me with his hand stretched out, saying “Thank you for finding my money.”

I don’t know if living in Philadelphia has made me skeptical, or if I would have always reacted in this manner, but I didn’t believe him and didn’t want to give him the money. He told me a story about how he had lost his wallet, that his wife was inside the store and couldn’t pay their bill. He even showed me the hole in his coat pocket, to prove that he really had lost it. I had watched him pull into the parking lot just before me, so I really didn’t believe that he had been there previously, and that this $20 flapping around on the ground really had been his. But he told a convincing story, and the part of me that is still all Portlander couldn’t walk away with it, knowing that the only claim I had on it was the fact that I was holding it in my hand. Before handing it over, my comment to him was, “I’m having a really crappy day, so I don’t need you to be shitting me right now.” He swore up and down that he wasn’t, and I handed over the money.

I walked into the store a couple steps back from him, and watched. There was no wife in line, and as he headed to the back of the store, I lost sight of him. I walked over to the women’s tops (organized by size and color) and called my mom to relate the story and I flipped through the rack of used cotton tees and sweaters. I started to cry. Her comment was that that’s the way it should be. Money comes and money goes, and if he needed it enough to scam me out of that found $20, then he should be the one to have it. She wrapped up with the statement that hit me the hardest, which was, “What if it really was his money, and you had refused to give it to him. How would you have felt if someone else had refused to give you back something of yours?” In the moment, it made me feel marginally better, although I still itched uncomfortably with the possible knowledge that I had been played by this guy.

Later that night, I sat by myself in a showing of “Good Night and Good Luck.” I wasn’t thinking about anything in particular, just enjoying the movie with a box of Red Vines (why can’t you find those things on the east coast), when I felt the interaction with the guy in the parking lot slide away. I suddenly felt silly for having worried about it, or for having resisted giving him the money. I felt like a chunk of rock had cleaved off my insides and that there was now room for some light to shine through. And I knew that everything was going to be okay.