Some days, it’s easy to wake up and be excited about life. There are things happening. There’s stuff going on. There is a resolve, and a hope, and an expectation. There is the possibility that this might be the day that changes the rest of your life.

But a lot of days feel like today. Just another Wednesday. Just another daily grind. Just another wake up, go to work, eat lunch, back to work, go home, feed the dogs, go on a walk, take a shower, go to sleep. I would venture to say that most of the time, we experience days like this.

The “big moments” are few and far between.

Yesterday I mentioned that “adventure isn’t always exciting” – and I am currently experiencing that first-hand. We live in a world so conditioned for the thrill, the adrenaline, the fireworks, and it makes it hard to be satisfied during the quiet stretches. I want something amazing to happen – something that will act as an injection of joy and achievement and fulfillment.

But you can’t win a gold medal every day. You can’t land your dream job every day. You can’t fall in love every day.

Ultimately, I think that the “big moments” feel good because of the little moments. The gold medal feels good because of the thousands of hours invested in the hard work of training. The dream job feels good because of the misery felt in the former cubicle. The new love feels good because of the prior loneliness and longing. The “big moment” is the result of the often monotonous momentum leading up to it.

But all of our moments, big and small, exciting and tedious, are a part of the same thing: the only life we’ve been given. And as Jack Kerouac wrote, “Believe in the holy contour of life.”

I believe that there is shape and significance to our lives, even in the silence.

My head is in a vice. I am so tired that coffee doesn’t even taste good. I stare blankly at the contents of my big red bag – wallet, calendar, book, chapstick, mail, sunglasses, gum – wondering what I should do.

“You should balance your checkbook.” “I can’t.”
“You should look at your to-do list.” “I can’t.”
“You should eat that piece of gum.” “I can’t.”

I was in Kansas City this weekend for a birthday extravaganza with my mom and my sister Becca, as the rest of my family was out of town, and was booked on the last flight back to Nashville last night. But it was delayed, and then delayed, and then delayed… so late that I told Julie not to pick me up, and that I would find a way home. But even when I disembarked the random middle-of-the-night airport shuttle van and finally crawled into bed at 3am, I felt happy that I am now 26, and that I have such amazing people in my life.

Seriously. I don’t deserve the friends and family that I have. Thank you for all of your well-wishes on my birthday yesterday, and for continually walking with me through this life – even if it’s simply through reading my blog. I am so grateful for the gift I have found in these connections.

I know that I am not going to do a very good job blogging today, so instead, I’ll give you a video.

Working Girl from Annie Parsons on Vimeo.

I promise to do a better job tomorrow.

I am particular. I am complicated. I am high-maintenance.

I readily admit these things about myself. But in recent weeks, I have been reminded of these things by those closest to me. It doesn’t feel good. I become defensive and sensitive, and rapidly look for other things to distract me or fill me or cheer me up.

But then I step back and realize that these things are true, and perhaps I have not had my priorities in order. I talk about my feelings instead of releasing them to God. I seek to control rather than trust. I smile sarcastically and entertain and feign confidence, when all the while I am shriveling up inside.

And so it’s time for a bit of a detox.

This blog has been a big part of my life for over a year now. Some wonderful things have come out of its existence, and I am absolutely grateful for the friendships and connections I have made. But I think that I’ve made it too important in my life. I’m going to take a little break from the blogosphere – a few weeks? A month? I’m not sure. I’ll be back when it feels right.

During this time, I’m also giving up alcohol and carbs, which will assuredly make me into a stark-raving bitch. Be glad that I’m going underground.

Things I will continue to do:
1) Go to work.
2) Go on walks.
3) Eat fruits and veggies and protein.
4) Talk to my mom on the phone.
5) Write.

I will also continue to read your blogs daily, so keep at it.

I am not suicidal. I am not homicidal. Please do not feel the need to send Search & Rescue after me – I will emerge on the other side of this in one piece, I promise. But in the meantime, I am craving some quiet, and the space to feel – good or bad – and rest for my weary, weary heart.

I’ve heard that after the darkness, we often emerge with a newfound creativity, life-force, peace, and sense of purpose. Here’s hoping.

Let The Big Silence begin.

There have been times in my life when I have thought, “I wish I could get stuck on a desert island.” Don’t get me wrong – only for a month or two, and always with the assurance that a yacht would come pick me up on a certain day.

I could have time and space to myself. I could spend endless hours with no sound, no voices, no human interaction. I could think and read and write. I would be forced to deprive myself of sugar, as there would be none around. When I finally left, I would be so breathlessly ready to re-enter society.

And then, I thought, who needs an island? That’s just my desk job.

The past week or so has been spent in relative solitude. I have been alone in my apartment for hours and hours (and, um, days) at a time, allowing the silence to overwhelm and consume me. As an introvert, the more time I spend alone, the more time I want to spend alone… and this can quickly reach an unhealthy place.

The other morning, I woke up. I sat up. I listened. And it was quiet – silent, even. I looked around my room, and didn’t hear anything. My eyes were taking in my surroundings, but my ears were not registering any stimuli. Then my brain gears started turning, and I started to wonder. So I spoke.

“Am I deaf?”

And I heard myself.

I know… always so dramatic.

Someday, I will have all 4 hubcaps for my Honda. Someday, I will not have to use milk crates as furniture. Someday, I will climb the cliffs of Cinque Terre. Someday, I will own a very grown-up chocolate brown couch. Someday, I will read the classics. Someday, I will have medical insurance. Someday, I will be a dog-owner. Someday, I will learn to be comfortable in my own skin. Someday, I will have income. Someday, I will feel a bit more stable.

But not today.

Today, I will buy a new filter for my thrift store purchased Brita water pitcher. Today, I will search for a long butane lighter to figure out how to light my gas stove. Today, I will live in Nashville. Today, I will be thankful for a car that starts. Today, I will eat a dinner of ham and cheese samples at the grocery store. Today, I will smile during a nightly phone call. Today, I will wrap myself in my red coat and wool socks. Today, I will look forward to someday.

And that is enough for today.

In the midst of the insanity that is my existence, I took a walk this afternoon. And as the sun shone down and I thought my many complicated and stressful thoughts, one thing kept popping into my head. Gratitude.

Over and over, there are things to be grateful for.

Despite uncertainty, despite my lack of health insurance, despite phone bills $100 more than they should have been, my life is pretty amazing. Things have a way of working themselves out. And joy has a way of finding its way back into my heart.

The trees are brittle and bare. There is a sharp edge to the wind, and the green grass is nowhere to be seen. It’s cold. It’s silent. But on some days, like today, there is sunshine. I am grateful for this season – this season of absence and anticipation. It means that the budding time is next.

It is the middle of the night. It is almost 2am. It is dark. It is dark outside, and it is dark inside. I am in my pajamas. I am in my bed. My bed is a pull-out couch. My hair is in a ponytail. The covers are twisted, and I can’t find the sheet. The only light is coming from my computer screen, and the crack underneath the door. My left shoulder hurts. This happens when I have been having too many asthma attacks. THIS happens when I don’t have medical insurance to get Singulair. My toenails are red, and my fingernails are red. It is quiet. The only noise is coming from my fingers typing. I am cross-legged. I am slumped forward. I am not alone in my bed. I am sharing it with my cell phone, my big red leather bag, my inhaler, a book called “The True and Outstanding Adventures of the Hunt Sisters,” two pillows, and a Princeton sweatshirt. I should turn on a lamp. But why? I am thinking about something very personal. I’m not going to tell you what. My left foot is asleep. Now if only my whole self would follow.

For the first time in months, I am experiencing a quiet moment. I suppose that I have had plenty of quiet hours in the car by myself throughout the fall, but this is the first time that I have been still, silent, with a hushed heart and nothing vying for my attention.

There are different types of “quiet.” Awkward silence. Screaming silence. Pregnant pause. That stale, uncomfortable deadening that occurs when there is no fan, no noise machine, as I try to fall asleep. Our culture tends to see “silence” as something bad, something to be avoided, and so we are constantly bombarded with an onslaught of stimulation. Noise, activity, electricity.

It is so overwhelming. There is no escaping the flurry of action.

And so when I find myself alone – alone – in my parents’ house, in the aftermath of the busy hubbub of Thanksgiving week, filled with family and friends and food, I breathe. My sisters have each gone back to school, my dad is at work, and my mom has flown back to eastern Washington to be with her father as he dies.

I think of him this morning, old, sick, and uncomfortable. He has known that death is inevitable – but do any of us really think that it is coming for us? I wonder what is going through his mind, if his heart is gripped with fear or with peace? I suppose he has been given a gift in knowing that he is going – so many are not given the advantage of this knowledge – but along with this understanding, does terror come? I hope not.

God only knows what the coming week holds for my family. In the meantime, I am soaking in the quiet, and praying for the peace of my dear, sweet Grandpa.