3 months of silence.
Followed by 1 week of crazy.
Beat.  Sapped.  Tired.
But happy.
Ate so much.
Ran so fast.
Didn’t really sleep.
Got something I was hoping for.
Love my friends gobs.
And gobs and gobs.
Like, hug-you-in-the-sunny-parking-lot gobs.
Gorgeous in Nashville today.
Flying to Austin tonight.
Val’s picking me up.
Hooray, Val!
Joey and Sam are getting married tomorrow.

But it’s snowing back in Colorado.
And Mom’s in the hospital.

I can’t really focus.  Social whiplash and emotional incongruity.  Reasons to cry while the sun shines down.  And I think that’s just like life.

It’s all going to be okay.  Right?  It’s all going to be okay.

Tyler (4-years old) wants to change his name to “Laser.”

Micah (6-years old) prayed, “Dear Jesus, please help us find Waldo.”

Have I mentioned that I’m in Nashville this week?  I am.

I flew in for a wedding this past weekend (Mark and Erin MILLER - holla!), and am sticking around to work from the home office for a week before flying on to Austin for another wedding.  What can I say - three one-way tickets were cheaper than two round-trips.

I am staying in a posh condo right across the street from work, running with East Nasty a couple of times, having fantastic hair days, and getting some good, quality time with my amazing friends.  Call me dense, but I didn’t realize how much I missed Nashville until I got back.

Yesterday, I accompanied the Handy Graham to get his latest tattoo - which was my first time witnessing any such thing.  At one point, I knelt down close to ask him how much it hurt.  “Would it be like me digging my fingernails into your face?” I asked, and thought about trying it just so he could give an educated answer.  But he is tough and manly, and didn’t let on how much pain is inflicted by applying the 11-needle buzzing PEN OF FIRE to one’s achilles tendon.

Today just happens to be his birthday.  Happy birthday, Grahamer!  I hope you aren’t scabby!

And that is a birthday wish I can always stand behind.

As futile as Facebook can be, I took a shot of it because I wanted to remember that moment - that realization that the darkness that I’ve been sitting in for going on a year now just isn’t really there anymore.  Perhaps this is tempting a jinx, but I will say it anyway: life feels pretty good right now.

I know that in the middle of the depression, the disappointment, the pain, no one really wants to hear, “Don’t worry, it will get better!”  Those honeyed words can feel hollow and nugatory - because when all you can see is darkness, it’s hard to imagine the light.  In my experience, when well-meaning people try to band-aid despondency, it highlights a disconnect, and makes the depressed person feel even more alone.

But now, on the other side of this most recent bout with a powerful hopelessness, I am just so grateful that it’s over - and I want to remind those who are in it that it’s not always going to feel this bad.

It’s not.

It might feel bad for a long time, and before it gets better, it might even get worse.  I know that some of you out there have experienced mammoth losses, ones that I cannot comprehend.  Some of you have broken hearts that feel beyond mending.  Some of you have faced disappointment after disappointment, or suffered a family life that you didn’t ask for, or simply fallen into this same old rut over and over again, with no idea how to change your stars.

I do not pretend to have the answers “why.”

But it’s not forever.  You have not been abandoned.  You are loved beyond all measure - and even if you know it in your head, someday, you are going to feel it again, too.

So don’t lose hope.

I suppose I haven’t mentioned it yet.

Any willing participant had a chance to stand in front of the class with the Walkman headphones on and sing along with Bryan, to the cheers or jeers of her peers.

This was obviously very awkward.  First of all, whoever was singing was the only one who could hear the track; to the 30 other people in the room, all they were hearing was an unaccompanied, nervous, pre-adolescent warble.  Secondly, we were 10-years old.  The most passionate thing I could think of was footsy.  However, as I remember vividly, this didn’t stop one girl from closing her eyes and feigning Whitney Houston.

Yeaaaah, I’d fight for you… [fist pump]

To me, Bryan Adams remained frozen in memory, frozen in time, in that Pomona Elementary classroom - that is, until last year when my friend Duane reintroduced me.

Oh, friends.  What I had been MISSING OUT ON all those years.

Duane knows me well enough to know that he would need to be sneaky, so he started by sending me a few songs that our guy Bry had written with Gretchen Peters - one of my favorite writers in the history of the universe (remember, I wrote about her here).  From the first tentative listen to those tracks, all doubt was blown away:

Bryan Adams is where it’s at.  His songs are fantastic.

I have a short list of people that I have to see in concert someday - and in addition to Patty Griffin (which will FINALLY happen at the end of this month), Shania Twain, and Phil Collins, Bryan Adams has earned his place.

And I just felt like declaring it to the world.

Well, my little sweeties, prepare to forsake me for another.

I have this friend Annie Downs.  You probably already read her blog - but if you don’t, you should start.  Because people, this girl has got it going on.

Annie and I decided to swap videos, giving each other tours of our new homes.  After I moved to Denver, she moved across town in Nashville - and not knowing where she is?  Has been killing me a little bit.

But it doesn’t have to kill you!  Here she is, giving you a tour of her new place.

If you’re curious to see where I’ve been hanging my hat (proverbial hat, that is - I don’t actually own a hat), head over to AnnieBlogs.com to see my happy little home.

And… what’s that?  You can’t get enough of the Annies?  Don’t worry - we’re archived.

I have been overcome with this gigantic, humongous desire to go to California.

Since when have I craved California?  And not just California - but SOUTHERN California?  This is so unlike me.  I don’t even know who I am anymore.

Other things have been changing, too.  There is the obvious (I run stupid distances by myself on the weekends) - but there are also some new transformations that I feel like mentioning.

Peas ruin everything.  I suppose that I have never been a huge proponent of peas, anyway, but last week, I made the decision that I never want to taste another pea again.

I feel kind of shy.  My introversion has never equated shyness before, but here we are.  I come into contact with a room full of people that I don’t know, and it feels so scary to say hello to anyone.

And… well, that’s all.  I wish that I had three bolded points, because 3 is the best number (um, hello, three notes create a chord, Reduce Reuse Recycle, Three Blind Mice, the Three Little Pigs, and remember a little something called the HOLY TRINITY?) - but alas, I only have two.

But then again, in Vietnam, it is bad luck to take a picture with three people in it - because the person in the middle will soon die.  Three strikes and you’re out.  You have until the count of 3 before I sock you in the jaw.

I think that this blog just became my third point.

Watching the Oscars makes me want to be in show business.  I just want to tell stories for the rest of my life.

I guess that this blog will have to do.

But what I’m finding is that while quiet is good, silence can be hard.  A girl can drive herself crazy with the thoughts that she thinks in silence.  The vacuum of nothingness attracts all manner of mental material - because, as a wise man recently told me, “nature abhors a vacuum.”

Granted, he was trying to encourage me that my singleness will not be forever (dear sweet Jesus, please and amen), but still.  Same idea.

To fill up the hours and keep the silence at bay, thankfully, I have running.

In a small way, I think that running may be saving me during this move.  I am running 5-6 days a week, and at least one of those days is 10+ miles.  I’ve mentioned it before on this blog: what has come over me?  I didn’t become a runner until last year, when I trained for my first major race - and that was with my beloved East Nasties, who I do not have here in Denver.  I am stunned at my own commitment in their absence.

While running with the Nasties last year was just as much a social opportunity as it was a training regime, running alone is proving to be a discipline.  I have to corral my thoughts - because while my body is incredibly strong these days, it’s my mind that needs a crack of the whip.

In 2009, running was theirs - something that I participated in, but I didn’t own.  It didn’t belong to me.  But this year, running is mine.

Then again, perhaps I’m just avoiding the silence.