Anne’s gardenia

Years ago, when I moved into my house, my friend Anne gave me a gardenia as a housewarming gift. As a Northern girl, I didn’t grow up with gardenias, or for that matter, know much at all about many plants, trees, or flowers. One of the things I love most about the South is the working knowledge so many folks have with the trees, plants, flowers, fruits, and vegetables that grow so abundantly here in the heat.

Anne planted the gardenia very purposely right near my front door, and every year, I forget about it, until the first hot days of spring arrive, the white buds burst open, and the sweet, heady, heavenly smell envelops my senses and yard.

Anne gave me that gardenia, in part, because her Grandma whom she had adored and lost just before we became friends, loved them.

After enduring nearly simultaneous breakups, Anne and I solidified a lifetime friendship by licking our wounds, mending our hearts, perfecting our sarcasm, making dinner, and laughing over cocktails.  In fact, I think the other reason she gave me the gardenia was to remind me of what flourishes and flowers even in the most extreme conditions.

And we did.

Scenes from my most recent adventures

It’s been fast and furious in the life of this writer lately, and I’m grateful to my clients for sharing their projects and energy with me. However, I’ve been a bit remiss with the blogging. To get back into the groove, I offer a few glimpses from my most recent adventures for your enjoyment/amusement.

Team building and bowling in Columbia:

We're bowlers. We bowl.

Sunlit morning

Tree in morning light.

Courtney hosts and is guest of honor at the most elegant birthday dinner party ever.

Aaron Draplin takes over Charleston…well, Blue Ion at least…and offers some sage advice, laughs, and pure inspiration.

Aaron Draplin and a rabid fan (read: me)

Store-bought baked goods & lukewarm coffee

Today would have been my Dad’s 83rd birthday. Early this morning, my sister called to tell me that she dreamed of Dad, our aunt, and grandparents. She dreams of them all often. I began to cry while she was telling me the dream, overcome by a wave of missing, not yet awake enough to try and stave off the sob. The suddenness of the moment reminded me of Holly Hunter in that scene in Broadcast News, when she sits on her bed, holds the phone off the hook, and cries…hard, for a minute or two…daily. Hard cry. Done.

A little later, I spoke to my Mom who was heading to yoga (I love this), then to the cemetery to visit Dad’s grave, and finally to a one-year-old cousin’s birthday party, which somehow all seems appropriate.

On my way to work, I phoned my brother, also at work. We made small talk, and I eventually told him that I called because it was Dad’s birthday. I guess I just needed to talk to everyone that I knew loved him as much as I do. I asked my brother if he remembered Dad eating Entenmann’s Hot Cross Buns, a seasonal item only available around Easter…and Dad’s birthday. He remembered, and laughed, and I did too. “Those were AWFUL,” I said. (I love you Entenmann’s, just not your hot cross buns.)

As was standard with any bread product or baked good my father devoured, he generously buttered each piece before eating it, and washed it down with lukewarm coffee.

I can see him in my mind, sitting at the kitchen table, sunlight streaming through the windows, the Sunday paper spread out everywhere, eating those hot cross buns, sipping coffee. Content.

In some ways, it didn’t take much to make him happy. In other ways, I’m sure it was the hardest thing in the world to do.

That’s who we all are, I guess. Simple. Complicated. Content. Wanting. Ever so beautifully flawed and flawless.

Happy birthday, Daddy.

Venus & Jupiter

Good evening sky with its
Less than crescent moon.
Just above a steady star hovers
Glows from the inside out
Like the first clear plastic peg
That pierced your charcoal Lite Brite sky
So many years ago.
Slightly south of lunar
Another star ablaze with
An internal pyre
Of unknown origin.
Only later
In the dusty, mysterious
Morning mist
Do you discover
The stars were
Venus and Jupiter
Not celestial bodies at all
But gods of love and sex
Sky and thunder
Vying for the attention
Of the soundless spring moon.

History

I read the history of a nearby beach
Affectionately called “the Edge of America”
As it happens, in the 1700s, this sandy stretch of land
Was rather less affectionately called “Coffin Island”
Due to ships passing by from the harbor
To lay their cholera dead to rest
In shallow, sandy graves
And sail on

Strange
How easily graves become the foundations
Of something else
How coffins
Become towns

This is time’s gift
Softening grief’s jagged edges
Turning marrow and bone to dust
Calling our attention back
To the shimmering sunrise

Happy moments from the not-so-distant past

The days have been long and wild and jam packed, but you, dear blog reader, deserve some love. Check out my assortment of great moments from the not-so-distant past.

A few recent project launches with my pals at Blue Ion.

The Blue Ion Guide to Mobile Marketing:

It's a mobile thing. Grab your smart phone.

The Huge Foundation:

I also had the honor and pleasure to speak at last week’s Pecha Kucha 13. Not only is Pecha Kucha super cool in its own right, but lucky #13 was an all-woman cast of speakers at none other than Ashley Hall. Major ups to emcee Sharon Graci who rocked it, even after accidentally huffing inhalants.

My only regret of the evening is that I didn’t gather together April Magill, Rebekah Jacob, Deborah Kaufman, Laura Addis, Lindsey Graham, Signe Pike, Hirona Matsuda, Olivia Poole, and Sarah O’Kelley for a photo op. I will say thanks to them all for the inspiration, laughter, and deep thoughts. It was a pleasure to be in your company, ladies.

Also, special thanks to writer/connection maven, Cheryl Smithem and my pal Anne Chandler for their support and willingness to accept gifts of alcohol. And, thanks to Becca for fashion consulting and smoky eye makeup.

The gin has been slung. Photo by Sara Dwyer.

Quick cut to St. Patty’s Day and hope yours was grand. Thanks again to my pal Anne for this ethereal shot of the Empire done up in green.

Empire State

One last moment. As I was driving along the Crosstown this weekend, I saw a very petite ballerina in a pink tutu skipping along the sidewalk on the overpass as her Mom followed closely behind. Twas joy itself.

Early Spring

Tonight I took a long walk through neighborhoods near my hotel. Early spring bursting all around me. Trees raining pollen. Daffodils in full bloom. The deep, damp smell of new growth: grass, hydrangea, pear trees. I walked the wide sidewalks next to homes that looked so much like my hometown, I found myself lost in childhood thoughts, a lifetime of early springs. The ceaseless hope for longer days and time outside. The near-frenetic excitement that caused me to me shed my coat weeks too soon. The subtle, unstoppable change in the evening sky as I ran to the sound of my Father’s whistle calling me home.

Day 30: Like Milk in the Fridge

If you’ve been following along, this post is part of a (nearly) once-a-day-month-long-blogging-brouhaha with my pals Amanda Hollinger, Monica Wyche, and Ami Worthen.

Yes, my 30 days (and then some) are complete. But I’m not stopping. (Special thanks to the Accidental Cootchie Mama.)

As stressful as it’s been at times, it feels good to stick with something that in the end, always gives me pleasure and peace of mind.

Like Milk in the Fridge

Like milk in the fridge
That’s what she said
In response to my description
Of you sitting in your avocado chair
In a direct line with the front door

What I said exactly was
That image of you
Sitting there, watching the Yankees
Repacking your corn cob pipe
Reading the paper
Was certainty
Was safety
Was comfort itself

No matter that scores of times
I ran in and out of the house
Right by you in that chair
With little more than a “see ya”
Over my shoulder

The image of you in your chair remains
Even now
Walking into my house
After days spent away
I’m greeted by
The smell of still air
The vague chill of empty
A pile of mail in hand

I open curtains, turn on lights
Unpack
Walk room to room
I am not searching for you
Any more than I would search
The fridge for milk I know is not there

Instead I imagine you hear me
Prattling on about my everyday
Asking your usual question
“Are you working hard?”

I want to lay my answer at your feet
Crawl into your lap
Lean every part of me into you
So I know one thing for sure

Day 29: Emily Dickinson’s line as inspiration

If you’ve been following along, this post is part of a (nearly) once-a-day-month-long-blogging-brouhaha with my pals Amanda Hollinger, Monica Wyche, and Ami Worthen.

I found this poem while going through some old folders. It started with Emily Dickson and ended with me.

“adored with caution, as a brittle heaven” is no way to approach love.
she sees more than I
knits sweaters I wear
comfort against the bone chill of my fears
and insistent spirits
is it because I feel called to make sense of my past
that I often forget my now
wring my hands
point to the door though no one asked to leave
so easily torn in two
my own skills the finest
me the undoer
me the albatross
that’s where my head goes
until I pull back
past my past
to long days spent climbing trees
splashing through creeks
unabashed
headlong
into everything
though shyly so
when I was older
Annie Dillard recommended
spending the day
as it can’t be taken with
no brittle heaven
no such thing
just open acres
rooms without doors
and a woman with better vision

Day 28: Golf Lessons

If you’ve been following along, this post is part of a (nearly) once-a-day-month-long-blogging-brouhaha with my pals Amanda Hollinger, Monica Wyche, and Ami Worthen.

Golfer at four years old.

When I was about six, my Dad cut down one of his golf clubs to my size, covering its “new” handle carefully with grip tape. For the next few years, on any random spring or summer evening, he’d find me and say, “Come on, let’s head down to the field.” And off we’d go to Memorial Field: Dad, a bucket of golf balls, a few tees, my club, and me.

Though incredibly impatient when trying to help me with math homework, my Dad had never-ending patience when teaching me to hit a golf ball. I, on the other hand, grew impatient quickly, when the ball skittered off my club’s heel or when I skyrocketed a large clump of grassy earth, but not the ball.

I remember that I often wanted to give up and go home.

And I remember that he never let me.

Instead, he’d talk quietly to me, reminding me how to hold my hands, reminding me to keep my head down, to swing in one continuous motion.

Every once in a while, I’d hit that damn ball on its sweet spot and off it would sail. A white dot disappearing into summer grass.

He’d call out, “Attagirl! That’s a good one!”

And just like that, I’d feel like I could swing all day.