The Friday Five: Two Weeks' Worth.

You know that Friday night when you spend an hour and a half on your two weeks' worth of recaps and then Firefox crashes and you forgot to press Save and suddenly it's alllllll gone...?

Yeah.

Let's see if I can sum it up.

We did a Habitat build day, painting, sweating, laughing, and getting to know some great folks.

I was inspired by my coworker Hannah to try bread-baking with this King Arthur Flour recipe, and it was a success! (a.k.a. it was fully cooked and edible and actually tasted like bread.) Especially delish with butter and Sean's favorite four fruits jam.

My writing group started back for the semester with familiar and new faces, and it always reminds me of the benefits of personal writing, and the gift it can be to share with a trusted group.

We celebrated Sean's birthday with both our families, good BBQ, and a delicious creamy cookies cake from Publix (Publix bakery never fails, our wedding cake included). I am so very thankful that we not only like our families, but that they enjoy each other, too.

I've been jogging more recently, though my latest jaunt ended with two scraped knees for the first time since I was, like, eight. And this week I've walked 10,000 steps every day this week, which is definitely a first in terms of regular work weeks. It's taken just a few tweaks to my usual habits, like walking up and down five flights of stairs when I don't need to, and taking regular walks around campus with a friend. It feels great to know this can be done, even with a primarily desk job.

My dad went up to Virginia to visit friends (and, you know, do a century bike ride, no big deal) and ended up worshiping at the church in Richmond where I spent the summer before my senior year. Even though I couldn't be there, it was wonderful to know that he spent the morning with some of my favorite people who have had such an impact on my life.

It's been another difficult week for our country, especially in the Queen City of Charlotte that Sean and I love so much. During this time, I'm grateful for my college classmate Clint Smith and his first book of poetry, Counting Descent, and his important voice that I hope will continue to reach more and more people. I'm also thankful for friends and coworkers who I can talk with and listen to, and who help hold me accountable in continuing to learn how I can be an ally for for my black sisters and brothers, to learn how to use both words and silence to process and help create the changes that we so desperately need, to dismantle the systems of oppression and privilege that keep some from having all the freedoms that we are all promised.

How about you? What's keeping you going in the midst of this crazy world?

I'm reading!

When I lived in North Carolina, I took writing workshops from a wonderful writer and woman named Gilda Morina Syverson. She was encouraging and helpful in and out of the workshops as I wrestled with the idea of getting my MFA, and finally applied and began my program (she also wrote one of my recommendations!). She was incredibly well tuned in to all of her students' work, which was incredibly varied. When I teach, I always try to channel Gilda--her calm, her energy for each person's story, her drive to help us make our writing better, her ability to keep the group on track. My fellow writers in her groups always shared fascinating stories, no matter how ordinary they seemed on the surface. One of the toughest things about leaving Charlotte two years ago was knowing that I left behind a great mentor and peers.

Thankfully, Gilda and I have kept in touch, and there have been many times that I've emailed her to vent, ask advice, or tell her about a small writing/teaching victory. (And to congratulate her on the publication of her own memoir, My Father's Daughter: From Rome to Sicily. Check it out!) She's also the one who encouraged me to get back to journal writing, even--especially!--in the most chaotic of times. Even 250 miles down the road, I'm lucky to have her.

And now I get to return ("for one night and one night only!") to take part in a memoir reading along with my fellow students, not far from my favorite little town on earth. I'm really looking forward to reading my piece, can't wait to hear what others will share, and I'm so grateful to still be considered a student of Gilda's. If you're in the area on October 22, I'd love to see you there!

Birthday thanks for my husband, who brings extra to the ordinary.

Today's your birthday, and you think it's pretty ordinary.

No hullabaloo here. You don't like surprises, you buy yourself the things you want, you're going to make your own dinner because that's better for both of us, and I couldn't even order a cake without checking with you to make sure we got the right flavor.

Yeah, it's a pretty ordinary Thursday.

And yet. You make ordinary best. You make ordinary more.

When I turn the corner, I praise the ordinary glory of your car in the driveway, food on the counter, Thirty Rock on the TV, and you with your glass of milk in your grandmother's chair. Or I give thanks for the sound of your engine cutting off, your door shutting, the key in the lock. I rejoice in our evening rituals, in our quiet talks in bed (even when you're trying to go to sleep for your early wake up call), one of my favorite joys of married life. The talks shot through with deep knowing, even on the surface, even though there's still so much to learn.

You make ordinary an exploration.

You take in my worries and walk them back, deescalate, calm. Strong arms, strong words, strong heart. You stand tall on the mound and play the game with all you've got, but losing doesn't defeat you. When you were knocked to the lowest of lows, you stood up again with even more courage.

You make ordinary a gift.

You say that you have the humor of a five-year-old (how old are you turning today...?), and yet you are one of the oldest souls I know. Typically, you waffle in between the two, which never ceases to make life interesting.

You make ordinary fascinating.

Speaking of waffling, when we wake up on Saturday mornings you ask me, "What do you want for breakfast?", then dart around the kitchen and set my tea water brewing as I'm still stirring in bed. Sometimes, you decide you're going to cook two full meals in one day, filling the house with smells from a true Cajun kitchen of which your grandmother and aunt would be proud. You are steeped in family, and all that it means and matters.

I never thought a Sunday morning grocery run would be one of the most enjoyable parts of the week, striding jauntily into your happy place long before most people are awake, as we team up to figure out meals and grab what have become our staples, greeting the cashiers and managers that we now know by name. In church, you take my hand for the Lord's Prayer, because it's what you did growing up.

You make ordinary my prayer.

On a long drive, you hold us steady, and when it's my turn to take the wheel, even your sacked-out presence by my side is a comfort. When we travel, you're organized yet flexible, seeking awe and beauty, branching out from beloved routine.

Even when we are away from our ordinary, you make it feel like home.

Maybe longtime married people are chuckling at this post and saying that my joy in our ordinariness will fade. Maybe one day, with children and dogs and a mortgage and the pieces of life we don't yet have, the ordinariness of the simple, single couple will sound like the most marvelous, extraordinary thing in the world. Maybe it will.

And yet, our ordinary has already changed in these nearly six years, shifting in place, career, daily schedule, knowledge of one another and the world. We've had challenges; of course there will be more. We've had gladness and sorrow; of course there will be more.  

But in every day with you, there's ordinary. And you transform ordinary into something extra.

Happy birthday, love.