So, as you may have noticed, I have fallen off posting with any regularity. I could give you a few reasons for this (new and exciting relationship, weekly sketch show writing/rehearsing/performing demands until mid-July, general summer busyness, a couple of minor illnesses) but the truth is, I haven’t been doing much writing of any kind, other than sketch writing, for a while.
Writing these posts used to be a (mostly) weekly exercise, something I had become very practiced and disciplined at doing. I also did an okay job of writing other pieces on a regular basis. I was working on the book at a decent (if not entirely dogged) clip. But a few months ago I suddenly found myself uninspired to write. In the past, I may have pushed myself, created forced writing time each week, slogged through a bunch of terrible writing. But this time I couldn’t do it.
It’s difficult calling yourself a writer, considering yourself a writer, and not feeling inspired to write. In the past, writing was almost a compulsion: I’d sit up in bed needing to scribble down what I was thinking, use my breaks at work to outline a piece, spend hours after work crafting essays and book chapters and blog posts. But aside from a piece or two, I haven’t written much of anything lately.
I try not to beat myself up about it, don’t let myself think of the hours I’ve “wasted” when I could have been writing. I won’t let it bother me that I started this post three weeks ago but didn’t finish it until now. Instead, I’m feeling more rested and renewed after my break. “The Dog Days of Summer” refer to the period of time mid-summer, roughly July 3 to August 11, when the Dog Star (Sirius) rises at the same time as the sun. According to Dictionary.com, it’s a “sultry” time of the summer, “a period marked by lethargy, inactivity, or indolence.” They certainly were just that for me.
Here’s what I’ve been up to:
I went for a walk this morning. It’s a beautiful day; currently the temperature is 81 degrees, but there’s a bit of a breeze and the humidity is pretty low so it feels amazing, even in the sunshine. And the sunshine is plentiful.
I passed a garage sale, some kids outside playing, a woman walking a dog. Several houses had American flags out. The smell of a charcoal grill wafted over the neighborhood. Today is one of the nicer Memorial Days (weather-wise) in recent memory.
I thought about all of the things I’m grateful for: the apartment I set out from, my job (from which I have the day off), this new relationship, which is pretty much the greatest.* The fact that I have the ability to follow my passion, that I can write anything I want, anytime that I want. Family, friends. Freedom.
I thought about previous Memorial Days: attending the parade with my dad, marching with the band in high school. I probably didn’t pay much attention to the meaning behind it before, I was just happy to have a day off to start the summer.
I’ve known a few people in my life who have served in the military in some capacity (both grandfathers, a cousin, my boyfriend’s dad), but I’m lucky in that all of them have made it home safely.
Others are not so lucky.
But I still benefit from those sacrifices, which somehow make them more significant. It’s one thing to give up your life on behalf of a loved one; it’s much different to do it for a bunch of strangers.
Everyone who died in service did just that.
My grandmother (my mom’s mom) was born 100 years ago today. We’re planning to honor her this weekend, which will be the 4th in my series of 15 25’s to 35 (yes, I still owe a post about the third one), but I wanted to give you a sense of what the world my grandmother was born into was like, and a few nods to the things that have come along since. Gram died 10 years ago this April, and I miss her dearly. This post is for her. -Sarah
Anna May Brown (later Dickerson) was born on March 25, 1916. At that time, the country was still a year away from declaring war on Germany, although much of the rest of the world was pretty entrenched in battle in WWI. Women still had the length of a presidential term to wait before they could vote in one. BMW was formed earlier that March. The company that would become Boeing was incorporated. Pancho Villa led Mexico in a fight against the United States.
Dadaism was a new art movement when my Gram was born. It was the year of the Easter Rising in Ireland. It was also the year that President Woodrow Wilson signed a bill incorporating the Boy Scouts. The Saturday Evening Post published its first issue with cover art from Norman Rockwell. The first published reference to “jazz” appeared in Variety. The National Park Service was created in 1916, and Margaret Sanger opened the first U.S. birth control center (a forerunner for Planned Parenthood), but one could still be arrested for lecturing on birth control, as was the case for Emma Goldman earlier that same year and Sanger herself a few months later. The toggle light switch was invented. Poland was established.
Wow, that sounds old.
It’s better when you hear I’m 34, but still. Guys, I’m 34. Today. And you know what? I couldn’t be happier.
I can’t remember the last birthday I looked forward to this much. Not only is it the third 25th (of 15), but my parents and siblings are coming for dinner, and I have a boyfriend with whom to celebrate. I feel like a teenager. (Hence the title of this post.)
But, unlike a sweet sixteen-year-old, I have the wisdom of adulthood (that’s that other 18 years). I’ve lived through the tumultuous teens and terrifying twenties, and I’m well into the thrilling thirties.
My sister and brother-in-law gave me an air plant for Christmas, and it is delightful. They gave me three, actually, but two of them aren’t faring so well. The one I’ve named Nemo, though, reminds me of the giant squid at the end of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. He looks like a deep sea diver trying to escape. It’s actually quite beautiful and active.
Despite the name, air plants are very aquatic in that you have to soak them twice a week for a couple of hours each time. Maybe it’s because I’ve been watching all that floating, or maybe I’ve just been missing the pool for a long time, but I decided to get back into swimming this year. And, luckily, the Y not too far from my apartment just reopened after being remodeled. I bought a membership and went for the first time on the opening night of the pool. Here was my experience:
I celebrated the 25th of January a day late, but not a dollar short. Tuesday, January 26 I met up with my thesis-writing group, the Merms, which has continued meeting regularly even though we all graduated three years ago. There are four of us, like the four seasons or the four cardinal directions or four sides of a square table.
We usually celebrate the holidays, well, closer to the holidays, but with our busy schedules the end of January was as close to the New Year as we could get. Which was fine by me, since I wanted something to celebrate around the 25th.
We went to the Commodore, a one-time speakeasy from the ’20s that boasted patrons like F. Scott Fitzgerald, Sinclair Lewis, Ma Barker, and John Dillinger. Not those people, but patrons like them.*
Is it possible that January is almost over? Man, it’s been a month. I have a post about the second 25th and how I celebrated (a day late but not a dollar short) coming soon, but I realized I never posted about my theme for the year, so here it is.
You might remember that my friend Stacia and I have a theme for each year, starting back in 2007. You can read all about it here.
Well, the first of the 15 25s has passed. It was Christmas, and in my family, it was a three-day affair, so it was definitely celebrated. The pre-show involved a lot of decorating (the tree, presents, cookies, my feet):
The main event involved a lot of destroying (presents, food, my ego in Nok hockey):
And I rang in the new year with friends.
I had the whole week off (huge job perk), which I used to both be productive in cleaning and organizing and lay around on my couch binge-watching Netflix. It was a pretty good break, and I feel like the celebration of the 25th stretched well into the new year.