Tag Archives: overly-sentimental

the things we cannot carry

Posted on 29 September 2010 by anothernicole

i think a lot about tim o’brien’s book the things they carried, even though the last time i read it was in high school. but there is something haunting about it — especially about the wording of the title. in the way that some people get songs stuck in their head (i do that, too), i sometimes find myself with phrases stuck in mind. a particular wording that i just can’t shed, that just keep repeating itself in my mind. many times, when i am in an introspective mood, o’brien’s title comes to mind. the things they carried.

sometimes i consider the title because i think of the things that the people close to me are carrying; other times because of things i myself carry. but lately, i consider it because i cannot stop thinking of the things we cannot carry. the things we have to let go of. the things that, try as we may to hold and hold and carry and keep, we are ever-aware that we must drop. i’m not talking about things that we naturally shed — certain memories, old habits, quirks, youth, etc. i’ve been thinking more in terms of the things we know we must release. not just that we cannot take them with us, but that we must let go of them. some memories, relationships, certain dreams (i will never be an olympic gymnast), and so forth.

perhaps we do not really release them – perhaps we carry with us everything. but i think that’s not quite true; at least not always. there are somethings, some dreams, some goals, some thoughts, some plans, we must relinquish, some things we know we cannot carry.

perhaps they fall into a big metaphysical pile somewhere – a heap of dust and ashes or the wayside dandelions that grow in the cracked asphalt. can other people come along and pick up the pieces, try on for size that which could not fit us? or do they blow away into oblivion, safely dispatched from our grasp? perhaps they are the things we release so that, once the sting of empty-handedness has passed, we are just a little bit more free.

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postscript

Posted on 10 February 2009 by anothernicole

this is a bit of a postscript to my post “in my heart” :

a friend of mine, also living in a town that she didn’t originally call “home,” and i got a in a little discussion about our thoughts on home and towns we love and this sort of thing. in light of that discussion, and sanae’s comment on my post, i had a few more thoughts i wanted to let loose.

(if you have thoughts along this line, i would love to hear them. most of you guys have moved at least a few times, and i’m terribly fascinated by the idea of home. perhaps i have been ever since i learned that there was a book called You Can’t Go Home Again. it’s by thomas wolfe, and i’ve never read it, actually, because i think deep down i’m afraid he might be right).

sanae noted (quite perceptively, i thought) that sometimes what we love about a place, what we think has put it in our hearts, is really just memories — and as much as we love those, they are a part of our past. but we’re always relocated to create new memories. she ends with “if the austin chapter isn’t closed, it’s just been relocated, perhaps.”

i thought about that quite a bit. and to some extent, yes, i believe she is right. maybe we can’t go home again because “home” never exists as it was. i remember moving to bible school, and calling a friend and saying how much i missed austin. and she told me that what i really missed was the years i had spent in austin, and those had changed. everyone had graduated and moved, and even if i were to come back to austin, it would not be the same austin i recalled. that’s definitely something to consider.

but i think my feelings for towns run deeper than just their memories. i’m getting increasingly fond of the idea that i carry towns with me – in pockets and in my heart. i told sanae that, yes, austin is a part of my past — but since it has shaped me so much, it’s also a part of my present.

what’s the difference then — between towns i carry in my heart, like austin, and towns i carry in my pocket – london, the cambridges.

i think it is this — austin is so much a part of me — of how i define myself and how i want to be able to define myself, that i consider it carried in my heart. in some ways, i’ll consider myself an austinite no matter how long i’m gone for, and no matter how infrequently i return. when i am there, i belong there. and when i am not there, when people mention it or tell stories about it, i still know that i belong there. it is my town they speak of. i carry it in my heart. and i carry its heart in my heart — not just its memories; something of its essence is etched in my being.

but london i carry in my pocket. its a part of me, and i love it, and when i go back i feel comfortable and excited and it just fits… but im not a londoner. i tell people, with pride, that i lived there, and i love going back. i always want to go back. but it is like this i think: once i was a part of london, and i love that — but london is not really a part of me. not like austin.

im not sure what kind of keeping i will do with boston/cambridge — right now it is in my pocket — perhaps one day it will be in my heart, too.

in response to this train of thought, a friend offered some insight a coworker had given her: “there are many forms of the ideal place we call home.”

maybe home is an idea in our head, and the towns that fit it best get carried in our hearts. and the rest makes us happy, and we love it, but never quite defines us.

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in my heart

Posted on 8 February 2009 by anothernicole

i’ve struggled to start this post several times now, perhaps because i am still struggling to understand the experience itself. what is it that i want to convey? i want to convey how much i truly love austin: the city, the people (the ones i know, and the strangers, too), the buildings, the roads, the buses, the weather — i love this city. i love it for (and not in spite of) its flaws. i think of this city, and i think of a few lines from e.e. cummings’s poem “i carry your heart with me:”

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
…
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky …
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

i carry this town(do i carry its heart?) with me, not in a pocket as perhaps i carry the other towns i cannot bear to leave – towns like london and bath, anaheim and both cambridges now. i carry austin in my heart.

and then the struggle is to convey the truths above and the truths below:

that last night i was ready to leave, to go back to boston. how can i be ready to leave if austin is so much a part of me?

perhaps i am ready to leave the chaos — we are helping a friend move house and its physically exhausting, emotionally exhausting, too. i am trying to see as many people as possible — cramming them into the corners of afternoons because i truly want to see them, and i cannot figure out how to stretch 24 hours into being any more than that — which is exhausting as well.

and, to be fair, i have done the things i came to do. there are other things i want to do, too, of course, other people to see (of course! of course!) … anyway i don’t know.

can you love something — have it be a part of you — and still be ready to leave it?

p.s. its the middle of the night. my perspective might change after some sleep.

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2009 (babbling)

Posted on 1 January 2009 by anothernicole

it’s a new year — what should i say?

i’m back in boston, back from my trip, and even though its 2:45 am here, i’m wide awake because my body is still on california time.

strangely fitting — my body thinks it’s still in 2008. it does not register that a new year has begun. oh, i spent an enjoyable evening with friends — never fear — but things wound down long ago (we are so very grown up now: alarms to wake up to, places to go, schedules to keep, and bedtimes to yield to) and i am back home now — processing the scenery.

it looks so like 2008 from here: the ground is covered in fresh snow from 2008; my laundry from last year sits folded on my bedroom floor; the suitcase from my 2008 vacation lies opened, half-unpacked in the middle of my room. my cell phone battery is dying, last year’s energy nearly drained (but not quite), and even the darkness outside is leftover from 2008. (how funny that we begin a new year in the middle of the old night. even days — though they technically start at 12:00 — we herald with the dawn. but years begin shrouded in darkness, and we add our own lights and fanfare to compensate).

everything is so still, as if this new year tiptoed in, barely moving the air. i don’t think i’ve had a year start like this before — usually i’m with people, sometimes a big group, sometimes just family; some years start quietly, but that’s because i’m too tired to be social.

this morning (which feels like night — i am still waiting for dec 31′s sleep) i watch, matching the quietness: brimming with questions about a year that starts so wide awake and so, so silent.

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heart-warming

Posted on 23 October 2008 by anothernicole

What follows is an email my old roommate forwarded to me from a military chaplain in Iraq. I found it really inspiring. Enjoy.

From a Chaplain in Iraq:

I recently attended a showing of ‘Superman 3,’ here at LSA Anaconda. We have a large auditorium we use for movies, as well as memorial services and other large gatherings. As is the custom back in the States, we stood and snapped to attention when the National Anthem began before the main feature. All was going as planned until about three-quarters of the way through The National Anthem the music stopped.

Now, what would happen if this occurred with 1,000 18-22 year-olds back in the States? I imagine there would be hoots, catcalls, laughter, a few rude comments; and everyone would sit down and call for a movie. Of course, that is, if they had stood for the National Anthem in the first place. Here, the 1,000 Soldiers continued to stand at attention, eyes fixed forward. The music started again. The Soldiers continued to quietly stand at attention. And again, at the same point, the music stopped. What would you expect to happen?

Even here I would imagine laughter, as everyone finally sat down and expected the movie to start. But here, you could have heard a pin drop.

Every Soldier continued to stand at attention. Suddenly there was a lone voice, then a dozen, and quickly the room was filled with the voices of a thousand soldiers, finishing where the recording left off: ‘And the rockets red glare, The bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night That our flag was still there. Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave, O’er the land of the free, And the home of the brave.’

It was the most inspiring moment I have had here in Iraq. I wanted you to know what kind of Soldiers are serving you here. Remember them as they fight for you! Pass this along as a reminder to others to be ever in prayer for all our soldiers serving us here at home and abroad. For many have already paid the ultimate price.

Written by Chaplain Jim Higgins
LSA Anaconda is at the Ballad Airport in Iraq, north of Bagdad

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