Elmer Fudd-isms (or Just Plain Duck Hunting)

It’s That Time of Year Again: Duck Hunting Season (Not Really)


My office looks out onto a lake/wildlife preserve just outside of downtown Nashville. It’s really a pristine and relaxing view to be able to look out upon. All day ducks, geese and heron placidly drift through the water.

Within this gaggle of geese and paddling of ducks, you’ll find a peculiar specimen: an odd looking water bird. I am told he belongs to some weird species of duck that is much larger than his mallard brothers. He is possibly the ugliest thing you could see -- a mugwort breed of duck and buzzard with a bleach white head and red patches above his eyes.

In ways he reminds me a lot of myself. Like him I often feel quite awkward, a bit out of place, swimming about in the pond with the rest, but at my own pace and in my own little world. I mostly feel like this as I try to figure out this man-woman, duck hunt called “dating.”

It’s a strange phenomenon, this whole mating ritual. Guys strut about town, their feathers out in display for all to see. (Here in Nashville they take on the plumage of tattoos, emo-wear, low-cut V-necks and band-age) The girls do their share of primping, corseting, curling, and painting themselves as well.

Then, there’s me.

On good days I feel presentable (at most) and hope my character (however marred and in need of editing) would make up for my deficiencies. But, like that water-buzzard, I feel strangely out of place. Different. Following from a distance. Observing. Watching (and waiting) for a sign of interest. (A mating call, if you will.)

I realize more and more why so many of us are still single, still searching, still out in the fields with our whistles waiting for someone to take notice. We’re all stuck in our heads. In our ideals. In our daydreams of what “perfection” looks like.

More and more, I feel as if time is buffing out the things that were so precisely carved out of my own Pygmalion creation. I’m learning that the heart -- a man’s character and beliefs -- his integrity and passions are more attuned to how this heart is moved. Looks matter, yes, but the heart (of a man) is what I’m hoping to understand, to hold, to cherish. All the rest is just peacock plumage - pretty packaging that fades and wears and, more often than not, distracts from what is inside.

May(Be) December Romance

You might tire of me,
Because our December sun is setting;
I’m not who I used to be...
["Brothers On a Hotel Bed", Death Cab For Cutie]

Recently, I’ve held strongly to a posture of vulnerability. Of trusting and entrusting. It’s scary to be this open though, especially for people like me who are held together with fraying ropes. To allow others to see the brokenness and the refuse of life you’re so apt to sweep under a rug or stuff in a closet to forget about is... horrifyingly terrifying.

It’s a gamble every day. A high stakes game. And, yes, sometimes we’ll tilt or go bust. Sometimes people will take advantage of us, hurt us and run off with the part of our hearts we’ve been so happy to share.

BUT…

If I (we) am to grow into a more loving, honest, grateful person, I need to proceed with abandon (as hard as it is).

I’m terrified. Really terrified. Scared-cat-on-a-tin-roof-during-a-lightning-storm terrified. Especially when it comes to matters of the heart, romantically speaking. And, in all honesty, I’ve done such a bang up job of building a wall of disinterest and “friendliness”, remaining in these daydreams with all their overly-romantic Jane Austen-esque ideals , I’m afraid I don’t know how to steer through the stormy seas of romance.

* * * * *

A dear friend and I once shared how we were always stuck in the most-hated “friend zone”— she for one reason and me for another. But, I realize she is, in ways, more apt to navigate these waters than I. I am much too scared to even take a step forward. I straddle the line - one foot in the rocky boat with all its promises of love and warm embraces (and possible heartbreak, tears and pain) and the other foot planted firmly on the dock of singleness that I’ve grown so accustomed to. Suffice it to say, I am a land-lover... apparently.

To be honest, I don’t even know what it would feel like to be the object of someone else’s affections. To be counted beautiful, not “pretty.” To be thought captivating and enchanting, not odd or strange or weird. To know that a man would want to (would choose to) know me… and love me. For me. Not because of my talents or my "it" factor, but... Just. For. Me.

It’s so much easier to play in the waters of friendship. But, I’m finding my heart pulling me towards the unknown depths a lot more these days. The currents of time are pushing me out farther and farther from the shore without my knowledge, without my consent.

I guess we can say that our little Annibelle is growing up.

How terrifying.

Morning Glories

Today, for no reason at all and without my phone’s prompting, I woke up. Early.

As I lay in bed, half-groggy, half-alert, the sun slowly rising to greet the day, I began to daydream:

Of hopes and dreams and future things.
Of love and marriage,
Of horses and carriages
Of hands to hold
and sweet kisses on foreheads

I dreamt about what could be and smiled in eager anticipation.

Then, reality struck me in the head and I awoke to the day, showered and drove to work.

Such is the story for this morning glory.

Departures

Last night a couple friends and I gathered at a small, historic theater here in Nashville called the Belcourt. It’s a captivating place, which drowns you in a sort of nostalgia of the senses. The smell and sights of old wood, of screens flanked by ornate draperies and gilded carvings cause you to feel as though you are about to experience something other-worldly, something void of time or reality in a way. And, yet, the quirky rotation of artwork in the foyer brings you to moments of giddiness as you realize how very ironic it all is. The old and the new converging like they do here? It's Nashville epitomized.

I had been waiting to see Departures for a few weeks and had convinced these friends of mine to join me. But, out of an odd turn of events and scheduling conflicts, the gang of many became a small party of three.

We purchased our tickets and headed into the theater, purposely missing the previews for Jeff’s fear that we’d be sucked back into the belly of the whale that is the Belcourt and find ourselves here again for the next consecutive weeks to follow. [I snuck a peek at one of the previews and am now obsessed with watching an upcoming French film the title and viewing schedule I have no inkling of an idea about. I confess: I have an addiction… My name is Annie and I love movies.]

I was ill-prepared for the movie. It struck chords and unearthed things in me I had thought I’d tucked away so neatly, so deeply, that I would be unmoved by what we were about to experience.

I was so very wrong!

The unassuming movie about a young man’s struggle with losing one passion and finding another was captivating. His unresolved familial issues, however, undid me. I wasn’t expecting a movie about a mortician’s assistant to move me so, to rip apart the poorly stitched tears in my heart, but it did.

I thought of my father.

Like the main character, I often find myself forgetting his face. It’s been more years than I can remember since my brother or I have heard from him. The only pictures I have lie hidden in a box back home in Philadelphia where most of my memories reside.

He is, in many ways, a lifetime away.

Lately, I have been reminded of his absence. I look back to recent pictures I’ve taken with friends here and see him in me - the way his eyes would scrunch, the way deep furrows would appear around his mouth whenever he smiled. These things, these and his hands, are all I have of him now. And I stare in a sort of disbelief, a sort of bewilderment that numbs me to the core.

A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet…

I think of him on occasion. Of all the things he’s missed out on and will miss out on because of the foolish decisions he’s made. Birthdays. Weddings. Births. Grandchildren. Great-Grandchildren. And, it grieves me.

On bad days, I would rather erase him from my life (memory) completely, days when I hate even the sound of my surname. A name that has proven to bring much delight and pages of puns for some friends of mine. [I don’t mind, really, as they can (on occasion) be quite amusing.]

Sure, there are days I find myself daydreaming of the day when I will take on another’s (name) and it brings a sigh of bittersweet relief… momentarily. Yet, these three little letters (C, H and O) are my only connection to him. And, to finally let them go?

I can’t even begin to imagine the loss.

SHE

Yesterday, while at my wit's end at having spent over 4 hours driving all over town in a failed attempt to finally, legally, become a Tennesseean, I met her. In the heat of the day and in the fogginess of exhaustion, the eyes of my heart found this unassuming old woman aimlessly walking about a parking lot full of luxury cars, across from the ritzy stores of the Green Hills mall.

She reminded me of the face of a famous Dorothea Lange photo -- the same forlorn and distant gaze of hopelessness in her eyes. The same leathery face, weathered from the sun and years of a hard life, now etched on the slate of my memory.

There was a distinct heaviness about her, a shroud of shame almost. As we walked towards Starbucks, her slow, pained steps broke my heart. I glanced down at her feet squeezed into canvas sneakers much too small and knew they revealed more than I was privy to -- a confession that it had been days since she'd last known rest. I was sure she was hungry, but she refused everything I offered, only asking for money to "go home." Her words still echo in the recesses of my mind.

There are so many like her these days. My sinful heart's initial reaction is to look away, to pretend that this is not a reality when I know it is. The piles of cases and letters and stories at work can testify to the fact that for many, survival is a moment by moment ordeal. These faceless stories are reminders that nothing is guaranteed.


(Well, almost nothing.)

Time to Play Ketchup (er, CATCH UP)

First things first: I must apologize for my MIA status here in posting anything new. Fortunately for me (and perhaps all of you) no one reads this.

..........

A friend once said that she'd love to blog, but can never find the time to do so. She was too busy living/managing life. I guess it's a good thing that I've been in absentia for nearly two months then...


In the 6 or 7 weeks I've been "gone" life has indeed gotten in the way. Like a rushing, unpredictable wind, the gamut of the human experience has blown in and out of this quiet life of mine. Death and life, love and heartache, the ugliness of (my own) sinfulness, sickness and health, loss and (true) gain have all found their way here.

Friendships have been tested and some have fallen apart, crumbling into pieces so small I don't think they'll ever be forged together again. Thankfully, though, as is always the case when you are under the watchful, attentive eye of someONE so loving and faithful, I am (still) OK. Better even. Stronger despite the sadness that lingers. In losing one thing, I've gained much more... much better.

..........

Tonight I read through an old conversation I had with a once-friend-now-stranger. A two-hour dialogue about faith and the hope we find when things go so poorly and life (and love) seem to be against us. It's been nearly two months since I've spoken with him and we have made every effort to pretend the other is invisible, which proves much more difficult than I realized when you've allowed someone to enter in and see the mess that is your life and hope that same person will proceed with caution and, yes, appreciation of this heart you've let so few hold.

..........

There is an old Arabian proverb humbly hung on a wall in my office. In the five months I've been there, it's the first time these eyes so accustomed to seeing the details of life have found it. I read the sweet, honest prose and smiled:

A friend is one to whom
one may pour out all the contents of one's heart,
Chaff and grain together;
knowing that the gentlest of hands will take and sift it,
keep what is worth keeping,
And, with a breath of kindness, blow the rest away