on n.

It occurs to me that I haven't written about N here yet. So I thought I'd repost a bit that I had written around her birthday a couple of years ago.

On N:

Celebrated St. Paddy's with my oldest friend N, who cannot get enough of the Irish. I believe she hooked up with an Irish guy while we were backpacking in SPAIN. And ITALY. And FRANCE. It must be the accents. Or maybe the drunken singing.

Anyway, I met N in the 5th grade, when she was cool and popular, and I was totally not. Somehow, that ended up not mattering so much. She taught me how to put doritos in my sandwiches. I am forever grateful.

There are people you meet in a certain place and time, and you're friends because you (a) know the same people, (b) have the same interests, or (c) hang out at the same places. But sometimes, when you're lucky, it's that elusive option (d): They just get you. And you, them. With N and me, it has always been (d). It's not so much that she understands me perfectly, or that we've been best happy buddies always. We've had fights. BIG fights. But we always come around, eventually. She's stubborn, and challenging--as much as she is amazingly loving and smart and generous. She isn't easy, but I love her for that.

Writing her birthday card this year, I counted it up: N and I have been friends for seventeen years. Two-thirds of our lives, to date. And it will be another seventeen, as long as when we're 50, we can still have conversations like this:

N: "I think the mohawk may be making a comeback. I'll have to write that down in my journal."
Me: (incredulous) Your journal?
N: Because shut up, that's why.

[N looking up at the Parthenon in Rome. One of her favorite places.]

for the longest time.

Sam flew down for the holidays, and she and N and I spent happy hours drinking wine and trying on shoes. The three of us have been friends for so long, we no longer have to pretend to each other that we don't secretly spend our time and money on things like this and this and this. These people remember what I looked like in junior high. There is little left to hide.

And it's something when you can watch an 80s flashback movie together and it goes like this:

"Oh, my god, I HAD that sweater!"
"The purple one, with the hearts? Or the green striped one?"
"The purple one!"
"Oh, my god. You DID."

those little old ladies.

A couple of years ago, Motz and I decided to join the Friends of the Library. Officially, the Friends of the Library is a 501(c)(3) dedicated to supporting our local library. Unofficially, they are entirely female and over 70, and really, really like to drink tea. Lots and lots of tea.

We fell in love a little, with those old ladies, and spent a month drinking tea and skipping work and organizing this enormous booksale fundraiser with them. Those little old ladies worked incredibly hard, as did we, and in the end, almost everyone in town--from the Mayor down--had done found themselves doing something for the library booksale.



I think that experience, at its best, taught us about what is possible at the very smallest scale. We found that the desire in people to help and to contribute is all around us. And when we find it in ourselves, we can begin to see it and find it in others, too.

For Christmas, I hope you'll give yourself this: a moment to reflect and to see in yourself all that is good and all that is possible.

And, as we let our own light shine, we consciously give
other people permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our fear
our presence automatically liberates others.

(Excerpt from poem by Marianne Willamson, read by Nelson Mandela at his 1994 inauguration.)

This is probably my last post before the Christmas holiday. And while, yes, holiday season can be commercial and tiring and plastic and obligated and stressful... it's also a time for seeing the best in the world. That which is hopeful, and generous, and charitable. I hope your holiday is much more of the latter, and less of the former.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

ladies love libraries.

My ode to the local library, now at Green Girls Global.

despite the bad hair.

My old boyfriend returned from Europe a few weeks ago, and we met up to grab a drink. By "old" boyfriend, I mean high school old. Ten-years-ago old. A-different-world-ago old. OLD old.

He was the cool kid in high school--intense, focused, fun--the guy who planned spirit week, wore a kilt to prom, and made the state championships in swimming. Me? Well, I was the editor of the yearbook.

The senior class voted him: "Most Flirtatious."
I was voted: "Biggest Nerd." (Okay, it was actually something like "Most Intellectual"--but you get the idea.)

So you can see how it was.

I worshiped him in high school. I was seriously in AWE. For the two years we dated, I had no idea why he wanted to go out with me, and wasn't about to ask. In fact, I think I tried to speak as little as possible. Lest I accidentally reveal what a complete dork I was. It was nerdy little me with the braces and the bad bangs, and superstar jock him, and I went to school every day and held his hand in the hall and pinched myself a little.

Sitting across from him ten years later, I'm happy to see him, but the old sense of awe is gone. Like meeting the lead singer of the band you've followed for years, and thinking, "Oh, is that it?"

We sipped $2 cape cods at this divey orange wood-paneled bar, and chatted for several hours.

"I don't think you were like this in high school," he said.
"Like what?"
"There was always so much of you that seemed to hold back. Like you were afraid, or nervous. It made me sort of sad," he said. "You seem less afraid now. It's nice."

I am. And it is.

If I could write a letter now, to that former Miwa, it would say something like, "Stop pinching yourself, nerdo. " He went out with you because he wanted to go out with the school's Biggest Nerd. Because he found her worthwhile.

Ten years later, I find myself wishing I had, a little more, too.

And former Miwa, while we're talking? Lose the bangs. Seriously. Yeesh.

break.

Taking a little break from blogging.

It may not be true of all blogs, but it is true for mine--blog posting tends to go up and down as life intervenes. I used to feel guilty about these periods of not posting, until one day I realized that my blog follows my life and not the other way around. And felt quite satisfied with the arrangement.

Back in a week or so!

green girls global.

My first post is up at Green Girls Global!

Talking about polystyrene plastics and why the world would be better off without 'em.

Please go check it out!

what's that stuff called?

Over lunch:

"Oooh. That guy over there has grilled corn! Where did he get grilled corn?"
"I love grilled corn. With butter? Mmmm."
"Oh, and that red chili powder stuff. What do they call that?"
"I think they call that... chili powder."
"Conversation should be kept to a minimum this afternoon. I see."

ahoy, there.

Because we are the impatient sort when it comes to presents, P and I exchanged our Christmas gifts last night.

He, from me, a 7' fish. In a lovely shade of yellow.

To me, from P, SAILING LESSONS! A whole series of them, for the spring. Though I live on a boat, my solo boating savvy is is, er, quite not. I can tie the occasional knot and read a radar... but to really sail? My head, it exploded.

So looking forward to blue water sailing adventures, and misadventures. Coming to this blog in the coming months!



Ahoy!

munchkinland.

Just finished a run through a couple of Gregory McGuire books. He deals a lot in fairy stories--in the benign but wicked, in the ugly souls who try at beauty. What if the fair princess in the story was not so fair? And the wicked witch not so wicked? It has me thinking a lot about looks--yes, the outside kind--and how it shapes who we are and who we become.

Would Snow White have been Snow White if she were dark and heavy with a crooked nose? Would you be you, in a different body?

If I had to choose, I would have to say that the most defining thing about my appearance is the fact that I am so small. I am little, yes. Sixty inches even, on a good day. A bit less when I'm feeling schlumpy.

The more we allow appearance to define us, the more it, er, does. I know the ways in which I bank on being small--the fact of its littleness, its cuteness. Maybe even its insignificance.

In this small package, I imagine that my clumsiness is less clumsy. The aggressive parts of my nature, less threatening.

The tricky thing about appearance, I think, is that it is so immediately defining. I will never be tall in the world. But might I, if I chose, be tall in other ways? Could I walk into a room as if I were six feet tall? Could I wear long earrings? Take long steps? And if I did, would that really be me?

How would you still be you, if you weren't?