Me: Hey Buddy, I got a video game for you. It’s called Excel.
Husband: What?
Me: Are you not listening to his convo?
Husband: blank stare, dumbfounded expression
Me: Man, it’s a good one.
Me, continuing because it’s what I do: You chewing on blood pressure pills these days?
I just made myself laugh — mission accomplished, goal met, boom baby. Boo-ya, as my father-in-law would say. Shout out to Ken. Needless to say, the gentleman next to us was having a fun conversation via cellphone with his son. I now know way too much.
Anywho. Baltimore airport is as good as bad gets. It started out nice, with the optimistic signs of a trailhead, when in actuality there is no trail — just merely walking the distance of the airport. I guess a glass-half-full perspective can really be applied in any setting.
Which is all the more applicable here. Our flight to CT keeps getting progressively delayed. I’m trying to calm my anxiety and tell myself it’s not a bad sign, but honestly, it’s just a cold front moving along the East Coast, bringing adverse weather systems with it. Quite the literal perspective. But the spiritual side of me, which attempts to draw deeper meaning and take an abstract perspective on life events, wants to be a little bitch and go, “Well, what if…” Someone please just tape her mouth shut, because I cannot.
If all goes well in CT, it’ll hopefully be the launching pad to a new career. And as I typed that, a plane just took off outside the window. If my spiritual guides can sway me toward the dark clouds, I sure as hell would like to see some sunny skies too. Again, glass half full.
This woman has a fuzzy little Pomeranian eating the lettuce off her Subway sandwich. More like repeatedly chewing it and spitting it out. Ohhhh dang, she just brought out the big guns. Some big-ass treats. My guess is the dog will be preoccupied for the next ten minutes and leave that sole leaf of lettuce discarded under their seat at the gate.
So, what else is there to do but take it all in stride, right? And maybe not think that delayed flights automatically equate to bad omens? Maybe. Just maybe.
Speaking of stride, there appears to be a man dressed in colonial garb ushering in our veterans with the sound of a tolling bell. Profound. Thank you for your service.
Guys, this is just line-by-line action at Baltimore airport. I’m delivering the news hot off the press.
But going back to taking things in stride, I wanted to journal about this the other day. I went to one of my close friend’s houses, and she needed help with some redecorating. I think she respects my keen sense for interior décor, as I quite often rearrange my home and surf that dopamine high I get after settling a potted plant into its new, cozy corner of our apartment. I like to change things up every six to eight weeks or so, whenever I feel that the plants are getting angsty and ready to spread out a bit.
Then I’ll rearrange for an hour just to go back to the same orientation, with the exception of one minor change — and that could just be relocating a reading lamp. But nevertheless, if it’s visually gratifying, I can literally feel my body’s #2 pencil perform a hard, sharp check mark. A complete and total job well done.
And as I stand back and wonder if anyone else gets as much gratification from gathering the sticks and spit to build their nest, I think how fortunate I am to have the ability to feel this way. What a privilege it is to be in love with my home. My space. That place where I can relax and call my comfort. My zen. Because it hasn’t always been that way. Home hasn’t always been a restful landing pad, but more like a land mine filled with unpredictable zones of pits and holes and cracks in the ground. Like life is a game of avoiding lava.
So, the other weekend, I was more than happy to help a friend rearrange a mantel. We cleaned it off, levelled her tall, vertical pieces on opposing ends, brought in some much-needed pops of color to balance the space, and stole the three plants living in quiet isolation on her refrigerator and made them sunlit icons above the fireplace.
At last, she and I were sitting on the couch, and I felt my body tracing the outline of the box, checking off my dopamine check mark for the day. I asked her if she liked it, and she hesitated, but said she did. I asked about the hesitation, and she remarked that the painting above the fireplace didn’t quite fit the aesthetic. I disagreed, but I could still see her perspective.
Fortunately, though, there were two green and teal floral paintings in her foyer that would better match the new French cottage aesthetic of the living room. I presented the idea of swapping the paintings.
“Yes,” she said. “But what about the large screw sticking out of the brick above the fireplace? This current painting hides it. The other two will not.”
I said, “Screw. The. Screw. The satisfaction alone will likely nullify its existence. Plus, you don’t have to figure it out now. It’s all about trial and error. Trusting what feels good when you move things around your space. Where you like the light to hit. What colors feel like a warm hug. What textures you want to wrap yourself in. That’s it. That’s what makes a house a home.”
And that’s when it clicked for me: I should take my own advice. Like with the continual process of interior decorating and indoor/outdoor plant collection and rearrangement, I should allow myself the same time and grace with writing. Let it be for me. It doesn’t have to make sense to anyone else. But it can make sense to me, and that’s enough. And hell, if it’s nourishing for someone else, that’s a bonus.
Also, this career opportunity. With the flight now delayed past our original arrival time, I have no choice but to take this day in stride. To appreciate this moment in time in the Baltimore airport and continue to look at the glass half full.
