by Tracey Flower
There’s an episode of Sex and the City where Carrie gets broken up with on a Post-it.
“I’m sorry, I can’t, don’t hate me,” wrote Jack Berger on that infamous square sticky note.
Poor Carrie. As she points out to one of Berger’s friends later in the Post-it episode, “there is a good way to break up with someone and it does not involve a Post-it.”
I can’t say that’s happened to me but after recently watching a re-run of that episode I got to thinking about the significance Post-its have played in my life.
There’s a small drawer at one end of the kitchen table in my parent’s house. It is full of used Post-its. The notes scrawled on them recall the when's and where's of the Flower family past: “gone to the store,” “walking the dog,” or “running far.” The handwriting dictates message ownership rather than a signature. The messages are short, to the point, and not totally significant in retrospect; the sort of messages Post-its were created for. Yet at some point some family member (Mom?) started saving them and the rest of the family followed suit. I’ve even seen them reused from time to time when a note from the past applies to a current situation or destination.
It seems silly, I suppose, to save Post-its, or even to note in a blog post that they’ve been saved. But if you sit down and open that drawer and start reading, you sort of end up getting a snapshot of the Flower family over the years, of a life lived, and remembered, on Post-its; of where we were and where we went, of what was important to us at that moment.
The notes in that drawer are only a small fraction of the many Post-its that have been shared between Flower family members over the years; reminders, questions, labels, and more have been documented on those convenient little pieces of paper. The habit has stuck with me over the years and I often leave myself, and occasionally my roommate, reminders on Post-its. And, in a 2011-take on my Post-it habit, my MacBook's desktop is wallpapered with Stickies.
My favorite Post-its to receive growing up were the birthday notes from my dad. He was always gone to work by the time I woke up on my birthday. And there was always a Post-it on my placemat (yep, my placemat, we had assigned seats) with a birthday message from Dad. So simple. So meaningful. And you know what? I’m pretty sure I have a good handful of them saved in a box somewhere in my parent’s basement.
This is my 50th post here on Flower Blog. If I could have I would have written it on a Post-it.
Showing posts with label growing up. Show all posts
Showing posts with label growing up. Show all posts
Friday, September 16, 2011
Friday, April 15, 2011
Flower Blog Turns Two
by Tracey Flower
Two years ago this month I started Flower Blog.
I did it to give myself a reason to write.
I always write in my journal and often jot down ideas. My computer is full of half-started attempts at stories, both fiction and non, but two years ago I was starting to feel as though none of it had a purpose, and without a purpose nothing was ever finished; no documents completed, no ideas fanned out. I was just plain slacking as a writer. I needed something to hold me accountable. Over the last two years Flower Blog has done just that.
As I look back through the past two years of posts I can see how I’ve changed and grown since April 2009. In the first year I posted only finished, polished versions of essays I’d started since I’d moved to Vail. Fanning out all those half-started attempts was my original intention with Flower Blog, and not a bad one; that first year produced some of my all-time favorite posts such as Romanian Mami and Jump.
But as I learned more about the wonderful world of blogging (and as I ran out of pre-polished essays to refine) I started to re-think my approach and starting pushing myself to write more candidly about what I was thinking and feeling and to just talk to my readers about my life instead of focusing on trying to create magnificent written masterpieces. In One Sunset at a Time, posted a year ago this month, I think I started to hit my stride.
And then something really remarkable happened in the last year. I found my voice. It came to me out of anguish, out of heartache. It came to me as I scrawled frantically in my journal in the middle of the afternoon when I was too tired and too heavy to cry anymore but still had more emotions to expel. It came to me in my darkest moment and was, to my surprise, still there when I was ready to let the sun shine in again.
As I look back through the past two years of posts I can see where I’ve been and where I’m at now, I can relive stories and recall emotions. I find comfort in these memories (oddly even in the awkward ones). Reading through these posts is like looking at a great big photo album. And, while, having a reason to write has made this blog a worthwhile venture, having my life documented in this way, and sharing it with my readers, is pretty damn priceless.
My top five faves from the last year:
A Little Thanks (December 2010)
Home is where the Moon Sets (May 2010)
On Goals, Forgiveness, and Turning 28 (September 2010)
My Book Café (May 2010)
On Soul Mates and Being Broken (November 2010)
What is your favorite Flower Blog post from the last year?
Two years ago this month I started Flower Blog.
I did it to give myself a reason to write.
I always write in my journal and often jot down ideas. My computer is full of half-started attempts at stories, both fiction and non, but two years ago I was starting to feel as though none of it had a purpose, and without a purpose nothing was ever finished; no documents completed, no ideas fanned out. I was just plain slacking as a writer. I needed something to hold me accountable. Over the last two years Flower Blog has done just that.
As I look back through the past two years of posts I can see how I’ve changed and grown since April 2009. In the first year I posted only finished, polished versions of essays I’d started since I’d moved to Vail. Fanning out all those half-started attempts was my original intention with Flower Blog, and not a bad one; that first year produced some of my all-time favorite posts such as Romanian Mami and Jump.
But as I learned more about the wonderful world of blogging (and as I ran out of pre-polished essays to refine) I started to re-think my approach and starting pushing myself to write more candidly about what I was thinking and feeling and to just talk to my readers about my life instead of focusing on trying to create magnificent written masterpieces. In One Sunset at a Time, posted a year ago this month, I think I started to hit my stride.
And then something really remarkable happened in the last year. I found my voice. It came to me out of anguish, out of heartache. It came to me as I scrawled frantically in my journal in the middle of the afternoon when I was too tired and too heavy to cry anymore but still had more emotions to expel. It came to me in my darkest moment and was, to my surprise, still there when I was ready to let the sun shine in again.
As I look back through the past two years of posts I can see where I’ve been and where I’m at now, I can relive stories and recall emotions. I find comfort in these memories (oddly even in the awkward ones). Reading through these posts is like looking at a great big photo album. And, while, having a reason to write has made this blog a worthwhile venture, having my life documented in this way, and sharing it with my readers, is pretty damn priceless.
My top five faves from the last year:
A Little Thanks (December 2010)
Home is where the Moon Sets (May 2010)
On Goals, Forgiveness, and Turning 28 (September 2010)
My Book Café (May 2010)
On Soul Mates and Being Broken (November 2010)
What is your favorite Flower Blog post from the last year?
Monday, March 28, 2011
Of All the Places I've Lived (in Vail)
by Tracey Flower
In the spirit of apartment hunting, taking stock of my life and my pending six-year anniversary with Vail, I’d like to share a list of all the places I’ve lived since I’ve been here. A list that, in writing it, I realized tells the story of my time here, of where I’ve been, who I was and how I’ve grown.
All the place I have lived (in Vail):
In the spirit of apartment hunting, taking stock of my life and my pending six-year anniversary with Vail, I’d like to share a list of all the places I’ve lived since I’ve been here. A list that, in writing it, I realized tells the story of my time here, of where I’ve been, who I was and how I’ve grown.
All the place I have lived (in Vail):
- May 2005-May 2006: My first home in Vail was Timber Ridge Unit N5. (NOTE: Timber Ridge is Vail Resorts employee housing and dirt-cheap because it’s dirty, old and likely to crumble at any moment. Also fondly known by nicknames such as The Ghetto and Timber Ritz, I’ve mostly bopped around units in this complex as the location and the price fit my needs to a T. Yes I get made fun of for it. Yes I’m slightly embarrassed to get off at the bus stop here. But at least the rent doesn’t break me.) This is still the address listed on my Colorado driver’s license and I was once refused a Town of Vail Library card because I had since moved from that address but never changed my license. I lived in that unit with three guys and it was quite the experience for someone who had up until that point lived with mostly women.
- May 2006-November 2006: I moved into a two-bedroom condo in Simba Run, just down the road from Timber Ridge, with three of my girlfriends. It had a washer/dryer (jackpot!) in the unit and a pool and gym on the premise. We may have been twenty-something’s sharing bedrooms but we felt like we were living the highlife.
- November 2006-November 2008: Timber Ridge Unit I8. The longest I’ve lived in one place since living in my parent’s house and I’m quite sure the longest anyone’s ever lived in the same Timber Ridge unit. Almost all of my closest girlfriends in Vail lived with me in that unit at one time or another, and our second winter in I8 marks the only six months when we were all single at the same time. Some of my favorite adventures in Vail housing moments happened in that unit.
- November 2008-February 2009: Timber Ridge Unit K3. I lived here with two guys, one of whom was my boyfriend. He broke up with me. I moved out. End of story.
- February 2009-April 2009: Timber Ridge Unit C5. This was the unit my friends were forced to move into when the house they were renting in West Vail caught fire one night. The fire destroyed the home and most of their belongings. I moved in, devastated, a few months later when my boyfriend and I broke up. We weren’t thrilled to be living in that place, it was crowded and the reasons we were there were lousy, but I must say at least we all had a place to go.
- April 2009-November 2009: My girlfriends and I moved out of C5 and into a townhome in the Telemark Condos. By far the biggest and nicest place I’ve lived since my parent’s house, it was a relief and a treat to be there after the winter we had all had. It had three bedrooms, three bathrooms and a washer/dryer. It had something like four floors and there was a pool on the premise. This was the only time in my life that I have had my own bathroom. Alas, it was only a six-month lease and at 2,400 buckaroos a month (800 of those my responsibility) not really affordable. It was also the reason for the great landlord security deposit debacle of 2009, but that’s another story for another time.
- November 2009-April 2010: Timber Ridge Unit K14. With all my former roomies either shacked up with their significant others or moved away, I was left to fend for myself so I sucked it up and went for the cheapest option for a room. I ran into a friend I knew through work when signing my lease and he moved in to the unit’s second bedroom. I’ve had better and worse roommates than this one but it was, in all, a pleasant living experience (and a huge weight off my wallet after that pricy condo).
- May 2010: Month of my botched move to Australia. I packed up my life and squeezed it into the world’s tiniest storage unit and whatever didn’t fit I gave away. I loaded up my oversized bags and headed home to Michigan, where I had planned to spend two weeks with friends and family before departing for Australia, where I was going to live for at least the next year. As we all know it turns out life had absolutely no regard for those plans and after a confusing, frustrating, upside down, life-changing month I was back in Vail.
- June 2010-present: Timber Ridge Unit K14. And home again? My roommate was still in this unit when I returned, and still had all the stuff I had given him that wouldn’t fit in my storage unit, so I moved back in and reclaimed my stuff and my space (and, eventually, my life). He moved out about a month later and I enjoyed a summer of living alone before the housing office gave me two brand new roommates. It hasn’t been the most pleasant living arrangement ever but I’ve made it work and now I’m looking forward to what’s next, both in the world of apartments and for my life in general.
What stories do the places you've lived have to tell?
Monday, February 28, 2011
Just a Small Town Girl
by Tracey Flower
I really am a small town girl, although it’s a label I’ve only recently learned to embrace (or even accept). When I was in college (hell until just a few months ago) I was convinced that I would have to move to a city at some point. To grow up. To move on. To make something of myself. I mean, Carrie Bradshaw’s “Sex and the City” column would have most definitely not made sense in, say, a little resort town somewhere. I felt especially compelled to make a big move this past summer when my life was all twisted around and turned upside down. After my plans to move to Australia fell through my plan was to come back to Vail just to get my head together, to get my life together, and then move on to something bigger and better. But a funny thing happened as I worked through my grief and found happiness again, I found contentment in this place I call home and instead of resisting it, instead of telling myself I should want something else or something more, I gave into it.
Giving into small town contentment has relieved an anxiety I didn’t even know existed in me until it was gone. I love living in this small town, I really really do. I like day-tripping to Denver and visiting cool quirky cities like San Francisco and Melbourne. And whenever I have a rant about tourists (or, ahem, guests as Vail Resorts prefers us to say) my dad oh so gently reminds me that I grew up in a resort town and well, what did I expect moving to another resort town. Why did I move from one small resort town to another? I suppose, simply, because it fits. Because somehow I think in my deepest gut I’ve always known when I visit a city that it doesn’t fit in the same way, because if I’m being really honest (and I finally am) cities are great places to visit but I don’t want to live in Denver or even Melbourne.
Perhaps part of why I can embrace my small-town contentment is because Vail has little bits and pieces that fulfill the bits and pieces of me that crave city life. There’s music, art and culture to be found here and what this town lacks in diversity, alright well there’s actually no redemption there, this town could use a little diversity. I was recently in Crested Butte and I found myself enamored with that town’s rustic charm, there’s something about it that just feels more authentically Colorado than Vail. There’s no hint of Disneyland in Crested Butte, no plastic-y fancy resort feel. As I wandered around a used book store/coffee shop in the Butte I found myself, just for a moment, wishing Vail had a little more quirk to it. But then I returned home and joined my girlfriends for a fancy cocktail at the new hotspot in town, Frost. This posh lounge feels modern and fresh, like something one might find in, yep you guessed it, a city (a locale that wouldn’t be caught dead in a town like Crested Butte). I realized then that perhaps my small-town contentment might just be contentment with making Vail my home. In one day here I can go for a hike in the middle of nowhere, see a concert with my favorite people, and drink cosmos in a swanky new bar just like the one and only Carrie Bradshaw. Vail has bits and pieces of small-town mountain charm but also has tastes of city life that, frankly, towns like Crested Butte (and my hometown of South Haven, Michigan) don’t.
I think, though, more than anything else my contentment with my small town status comes from realizing that I have, in fact, done a lot of growing up in the last year. And a lot of moving on. And when it comes to making something of myself, well, I had my first article (and byline!) in the Vail Daily this week, not to shabby at all.
I really am a small town girl, although it’s a label I’ve only recently learned to embrace (or even accept). When I was in college (hell until just a few months ago) I was convinced that I would have to move to a city at some point. To grow up. To move on. To make something of myself. I mean, Carrie Bradshaw’s “Sex and the City” column would have most definitely not made sense in, say, a little resort town somewhere. I felt especially compelled to make a big move this past summer when my life was all twisted around and turned upside down. After my plans to move to Australia fell through my plan was to come back to Vail just to get my head together, to get my life together, and then move on to something bigger and better. But a funny thing happened as I worked through my grief and found happiness again, I found contentment in this place I call home and instead of resisting it, instead of telling myself I should want something else or something more, I gave into it.
Vail: A small town with big views
Giving into small town contentment has relieved an anxiety I didn’t even know existed in me until it was gone. I love living in this small town, I really really do. I like day-tripping to Denver and visiting cool quirky cities like San Francisco and Melbourne. And whenever I have a rant about tourists (or, ahem, guests as Vail Resorts prefers us to say) my dad oh so gently reminds me that I grew up in a resort town and well, what did I expect moving to another resort town. Why did I move from one small resort town to another? I suppose, simply, because it fits. Because somehow I think in my deepest gut I’ve always known when I visit a city that it doesn’t fit in the same way, because if I’m being really honest (and I finally am) cities are great places to visit but I don’t want to live in Denver or even Melbourne.
Perhaps part of why I can embrace my small-town contentment is because Vail has little bits and pieces that fulfill the bits and pieces of me that crave city life. There’s music, art and culture to be found here and what this town lacks in diversity, alright well there’s actually no redemption there, this town could use a little diversity. I was recently in Crested Butte and I found myself enamored with that town’s rustic charm, there’s something about it that just feels more authentically Colorado than Vail. There’s no hint of Disneyland in Crested Butte, no plastic-y fancy resort feel. As I wandered around a used book store/coffee shop in the Butte I found myself, just for a moment, wishing Vail had a little more quirk to it. But then I returned home and joined my girlfriends for a fancy cocktail at the new hotspot in town, Frost. This posh lounge feels modern and fresh, like something one might find in, yep you guessed it, a city (a locale that wouldn’t be caught dead in a town like Crested Butte). I realized then that perhaps my small-town contentment might just be contentment with making Vail my home. In one day here I can go for a hike in the middle of nowhere, see a concert with my favorite people, and drink cosmos in a swanky new bar just like the one and only Carrie Bradshaw. Vail has bits and pieces of small-town mountain charm but also has tastes of city life that, frankly, towns like Crested Butte (and my hometown of South Haven, Michigan) don’t.
I think, though, more than anything else my contentment with my small town status comes from realizing that I have, in fact, done a lot of growing up in the last year. And a lot of moving on. And when it comes to making something of myself, well, I had my first article (and byline!) in the Vail Daily this week, not to shabby at all.
Monday, December 13, 2010
A Little Thanks
by Tracey Flower
I had—wait for it—an Oprah moment the other day. Well at least that’s what my friend Mel called it but I’m pretty sure the talk show host would have deemed it worthy of a hug and a round of applause (and maybe an all expenses paid trip to somewhere balmy and exotic) had I been sitting with her on that infamous couch. It was a Sunday and my first day off since the (Vail) Mountain had opened for skiing this season. We had been snowboarding all morning and enjoying the better than average early season conditions. We had just gotten off a chairlift and were sitting at the top of a run marveling at the deliciously good snow and breathtaking views (note to self: remember to look up and have your breath taken away on a regular basis) and it hit me. I’m happy. I’M HAPPY. Like really contently freely happy. I shared this revelation with Mel and she declared it an Oprah moment.
(Photo Credit)
This happiness is so new and so fresh to me that, in the days since that moment, I have found myself repeating it over and over to myself, I’m happy; slipping it on a few times a day like it’s a sparkly new party dress, twirling around in it and checking myself out from all angles. I keep opening the closet door to sneak a peek and touch it and make sure it’s real and still there.
I’m proud of this happiness; it’s something I worked for, something I fought for, and something I achieved on my own (and with a little help from my friends). It’s something more solid and more palpable than any similar feelings I’ve had in a long time (I’m talking years here people). It’s peace. It’s contentment. And I’m loving every second of it.
I wanted to share this with you, my lovely loyal readers, and thank you. Writing has always been therapeutic for me, especially in the last six months. Thank you for sitting with me while I kicked, screamed, cried, and muddled through my heartache. Thank you for listening as I exposed every feeling, emotion, and part of my pain, as I allowed them to reveal themselves to me, as I took the time to get to know them so I could eventually release (banish) them. It’s because I took the time to do that, and because you took the time to listen, that I know this happiness is something deep, genuine, and most certainly not fleeting.
There's an image I’ve been holding in my head a lot recently, it’s of myself about six months ago wandering around Melbourne in the rain and I’m too thin, sleep deprived, and incredibly sad and raw (I must note here that since I’ve been hanging out with this happiness I can see that there is something incredibly gothically romantic about wandering around a foreign city heartbroken in the rain). In this daydream myself now—my happy, peaceful, balanced, stronger, wiser self—reaches out to myself then and draws her in, comforts her, and asks her to join me here in this solid oh so happy place.
There’s a passage in the book Eat, Pray, Love (by Elizabeth Gilbert) where the author recalls a similar moment in her own life, where she realizes her current stronger self was always there waiting for her younger broken self to join her. She then uses her favorite Italian word to close the book, and that chapter of her life, attraversiamo. It means let’s cross over. And, so, my friends I invite you to join me as I do just that.
Stay tuned next time for a little giving.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Sunday Afternoon Adventures
by Tracey Flower
I had a blissfully happy childhood. My memories of growing up are full of giggles and warmth and every now and then something will trigger one of these memories and I find myself daydreaming and smiling like a fool (usually in random public places) as I watch the moment replay in my mind. Recently it was the smell of fall and the way the dry golden leaves crunched when I stepped on them. That day was cool and sunny and it didn’t take long before I was eight years old again leaf kickin’ with my dad, sister and brother on a Sunday Afternoon Adventure.
I’m pretty sure Sunday Afternoon Adventures started as a way to get my siblings (mostly my sister Susan and brother Aaron, our youngest sister, Lauren, was a tad too young to tag along then) and myself out of my mom’s hair for little while. Mom stayed home with us full-time back in those days and ran a day care out of our house (bless her). Whatever the reason for their existence, they were a treat for us.
If I remember correctly it was mostly a fall thing, they weren’t as necessary in the summer and winters in South Haven, Michigan bring frigid temperatures and lots of snow and wind, weather that encourages families to bond indoors rather than venture outside. We would set out walking in whatever direction Dad chose, the three of us following him, excited and curious. He led us all over, to places we didn’t know existed in our little town. We walked on the beach, down by the docks and to neighborhoods where the streets were lined with giant old maples and other trees that were on fire with fall colors, the ground littered with the trees’ red, yellow and orange outcasts. Dad showed us how to shuffle our feet for maximum crunch and scatter factor through the piles of leaves that lined those sidewalks, leaf kickin’ we called it (my apologies to the hardworking folks who had likely just raked those leaves out of their yards).
And there was always the mid-adventure candy stop at the SuperAmerica gas station. We were each allowed to pick one treat. I usually opted for something long lasting like Jawbreakers or Jolly Ranchers and I’m pretty sure Aaron always picked something basic but classic like M&Ms, both of us always making our selection without much debate. Susan, however, was another story. Susan took the choosing process very seriously, hemming and hawing over the choice between a Butterfinger and Red Hots or Lemon Heads and a Baby Ruth. I’m pretty sure she could have used that time more efficiently; say to write a novel or cure cancer (she was a very bright child). We at least could have had an additional half-hour to forty-five minutes of exploration time added to our adventures had Susan been able to make a more hasty decision.
Eventually we got too old for the adventures; there was homework to do, sports to practice, and, well, a level of coolness to maintain (that was all me, a middle schooler does not need to be caught traipsing through leaves with her dad, kid brother and sister on a Sunday afternoon). It is such a sweet memory, though, and one of many which built the foundation that has supported turning a blissfully happily childhood into an adulthood that is daily made more pleasant, manageable and at times even a little blissful because of it and memories like it (and because of the people with whom I share these memories).
Even if you didn't have a blissfully happy childhood (although I hope you did) what memories from being a kid make you smile like a fool?
The Flower children in fall: Aaron, Lauren, Susan, Me
I’m pretty sure Sunday Afternoon Adventures started as a way to get my siblings (mostly my sister Susan and brother Aaron, our youngest sister, Lauren, was a tad too young to tag along then) and myself out of my mom’s hair for little while. Mom stayed home with us full-time back in those days and ran a day care out of our house (bless her). Whatever the reason for their existence, they were a treat for us.
If I remember correctly it was mostly a fall thing, they weren’t as necessary in the summer and winters in South Haven, Michigan bring frigid temperatures and lots of snow and wind, weather that encourages families to bond indoors rather than venture outside. We would set out walking in whatever direction Dad chose, the three of us following him, excited and curious. He led us all over, to places we didn’t know existed in our little town. We walked on the beach, down by the docks and to neighborhoods where the streets were lined with giant old maples and other trees that were on fire with fall colors, the ground littered with the trees’ red, yellow and orange outcasts. Dad showed us how to shuffle our feet for maximum crunch and scatter factor through the piles of leaves that lined those sidewalks, leaf kickin’ we called it (my apologies to the hardworking folks who had likely just raked those leaves out of their yards).
And there was always the mid-adventure candy stop at the SuperAmerica gas station. We were each allowed to pick one treat. I usually opted for something long lasting like Jawbreakers or Jolly Ranchers and I’m pretty sure Aaron always picked something basic but classic like M&Ms, both of us always making our selection without much debate. Susan, however, was another story. Susan took the choosing process very seriously, hemming and hawing over the choice between a Butterfinger and Red Hots or Lemon Heads and a Baby Ruth. I’m pretty sure she could have used that time more efficiently; say to write a novel or cure cancer (she was a very bright child). We at least could have had an additional half-hour to forty-five minutes of exploration time added to our adventures had Susan been able to make a more hasty decision.
Eventually we got too old for the adventures; there was homework to do, sports to practice, and, well, a level of coolness to maintain (that was all me, a middle schooler does not need to be caught traipsing through leaves with her dad, kid brother and sister on a Sunday afternoon). It is such a sweet memory, though, and one of many which built the foundation that has supported turning a blissfully happily childhood into an adulthood that is daily made more pleasant, manageable and at times even a little blissful because of it and memories like it (and because of the people with whom I share these memories).
Even if you didn't have a blissfully happy childhood (although I hope you did) what memories from being a kid make you smile like a fool?
Monday, September 27, 2010
On Goals, Forgiveness, and Turning 28
by Tracey Flower
“Maybe our mistakes are what make our fate. Without them what would shape our lives? Perhaps if we never veered off course we wouldn’t fall in love or have babies or be who we are. After all seasons change. So do cities. People come into you life and people go. But it’s comforting to know the ones you love are always in your heart and, if you’re very lucky, a plane ride away.” ~The ever-wise, albeit fictional, Carrie Bradshaw (“Sex and the City”)
Many folks take the start of a new calendar year as an opportunity for fresh starts and change. Personally I think it’s more appropriate to make resolutions on my birthday. It feels more natural to take stock of my life that time of year, to review lessons learned in the past year, and to make a few goals for the year ahead.
“Maybe our mistakes are what make our fate. Without them what would shape our lives? Perhaps if we never veered off course we wouldn’t fall in love or have babies or be who we are. After all seasons change. So do cities. People come into you life and people go. But it’s comforting to know the ones you love are always in your heart and, if you’re very lucky, a plane ride away.” ~The ever-wise, albeit fictional, Carrie Bradshaw (“Sex and the City”)
Many folks take the start of a new calendar year as an opportunity for fresh starts and change. Personally I think it’s more appropriate to make resolutions on my birthday. It feels more natural to take stock of my life that time of year, to review lessons learned in the past year, and to make a few goals for the year ahead.
A year ago last week (my birthday was Tuesday) I turned 27 and decided I was going to make the year all about me (The Year of Flower I called it in my journal and aloud to a select group of friends). I don’t have any dependents, not even a dog or a goldfish, to rely on me; my life in general is already pretty much all about Tracey, but for most of my adult life (aka my life since college) I have been in some form of a relationship. I moved to Colorado for a boyfriend and shortly after we broke up I started another serious relationship and, as my 27th birthday approached, I started to get the feeling I wasn’t totally making decisions for my life based on what I wanted and needed.
My birthday last year came just days after the guy I was in love with left Vail to move home to Australia. Our relationship over the past few months had been complicated and tumultuous and because I was so invested in, so wrapped up in, him emotionally I found my day-to-day actions and decisions were heavily influenced by him. It seemed like the perfect time, then, when he left and my birthday arrived for me to take charge.
I made myself a list of goals. First and foremost I was going to get my head straight about that relationship. The first goal I wrote in my journal then was to be “happily single.” We had left things very casual and, although he was on my mind when I wrote that, I was fed up with myself for letting another person inadvertently control my thoughts and decisions to the extent that he had. I also wrote that I wanted to learn to cook, to get fit, to get paid to write, and to travel somewhere new. The Year of Flower was going to be a good one.
The first half of the year, the first third really, went exactly how I had hoped it would (OK except for the cooking part, I’m still working on that one). I will even say it was the happiest, the most content, and the most confident I have been in a long time. The last four months of the year, however, were a complete disaster. Quite honestly they were the worst four months of my life (if you read Flower Blog on a regular basis you know this. If you don’t now’s probably a good time to catch up. Start here). As I approached my 28th birthday last week and mentally reviewed the last year, and checked back in with last year’s goals, I realized I was right smack dab back where I had been a year ago. And that pissed me off.
I got my heart broken. No shattered. No ripped out, stomped on, and shoved back into my chest all achy and torn apart. And for that I was pissed. My anger wasn’t directed at The Guy though; or rather my anger was no longer directed at him (don’t you worry three months ago I was oozing anger toward him). I was pissed off with myself. I was pissed that I let myself, in the year where I was supposed to be taking control, find myself in a position (with a guy who had broken my heart once before) where I could get as hurt as I did. I was pissed that even while I thought I was finding this great balance in my life, while I thought I was being unapologetically selfish and, dare I say it, finding myself, I let my love for this one stupid guy ruin everything.
My dad told me a few months ago, when I was at my very worst, that even as I struggled to figure out how to forgive The Guy (not because he deserves or even needs my forgiveness but simply because it’s very tiresome to carry around that much anger toward someone for any length of time) that I was also going to have to forgive myself. At the time I had no idea what he meant (the situation wasn’t my fault, I had done nothing wrong). I think I get it now, though.
There’s a line in the book Eat, Pray, Love that goes like this; “To lose balance sometimes for love is part of living a balanced life.” The author tells herself this when she realizes she has fallen in love with a man after a year spent traveling solo, doing some serious soul-searching, and finding her balance. I agree with that, but I would take it a step further and say sometimes you have to become unbalanced for love even if it means risking your heart. Because apparently, OK admittedly, you'll learn some serious lessons about life and yourself. I don’t know if acknowledging that counts as forgiving myself, because to be honest I’m still a little pissed, but I think maybe it’s a start. And with that shaky start I begin a new year.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
All About Family
by Tracey Flower
In my last post I talked about how my friends and I are all growing up and I mentioned some of the events of the last couple years that helped lead me to that conclusion. After I wrote that I got to thinking about those events and more, and I realized I don’t want to mention tough times without also talking about the people who have helped me through them. I’m talking about family here, both the people who I am tied to because of birth and blood and the people I am tied to because of friendships that have weathered time and, well, growing up.
I love being alone but I hate being lonely. This has been true for most of my life but I’ve only realized it in probably the last five years. I’m still trying to figure out how to maintain a balance between being alone and being lonely. I’ve always been content to entertain myself, whether spending time alone was something I elected to do or something that found me. The older I get the more I seek it out. The older I get I also realize more and more that for all the time I spend alone I need to give myself an almost equal amount of time with other people. I’ve also realized I gain more from my time alone when it’s balanced by time with others, it’s more purposeful and I appreciate it more. I think, perhaps, had I known that secret during my teen years I might have spent at least a little less time being so very depressed in high school.
Thing is I didn’t have the family structure in high school that I have now to be the un-lonely weight on the scale. Yes I had my mom, dad, and siblings and one or two good friends but even those relationships weren’t as strong then as they are now. Truth is it’s very difficult to have the kind of relationships we have as adults in high school, the kind of relationships that form when we decide to care less about appearance or background and more about who a person is and how we both benefit from what one has to offer the other and the world; the kind of relationships that keep you from sinking or floating away during the darkest of dark moments.
I have that now. I wrote a few months ago, after I left Vail for Australia and before everything fell apart, about how I realized that Vail is home for me. With that came the realization that my friends in Vail are family to me. We celebrate holidays together, take vacations together, live together, and work together. We’re all different kinds of people from different places and, like the people who share my DNA, we’re sometimes very different, we sometimes annoy one another, and we don’t always get along but somehow there’s an inexplicable love that binds us. In retrospect that realization couldn’t have come at a better time, I’ve never needed home or family more than I have in the last few months.
In the wake of my heartbreak came messages, phone calls, and support from all the people in my life I consider family, even from friends here and there I didn’t even know cared so much (second or third cousins when talking in terms of family). Everyone from my little brother to my college roommate to my international clan of girlfriends in Vail was there for me. And they still are. And knowing that, being able to lean on all that un-loneliness, has kept me anchored enough to avoid floating away. I had a thought the other day that somehow the knowledge that there are so many people who love me takes my focus off, and almost makes up for, the one person who doesn’t.
What about you? Who is your family? How and when have they kept you anchored?
In my last post I talked about how my friends and I are all growing up and I mentioned some of the events of the last couple years that helped lead me to that conclusion. After I wrote that I got to thinking about those events and more, and I realized I don’t want to mention tough times without also talking about the people who have helped me through them. I’m talking about family here, both the people who I am tied to because of birth and blood and the people I am tied to because of friendships that have weathered time and, well, growing up.
I love being alone but I hate being lonely. This has been true for most of my life but I’ve only realized it in probably the last five years. I’m still trying to figure out how to maintain a balance between being alone and being lonely. I’ve always been content to entertain myself, whether spending time alone was something I elected to do or something that found me. The older I get the more I seek it out. The older I get I also realize more and more that for all the time I spend alone I need to give myself an almost equal amount of time with other people. I’ve also realized I gain more from my time alone when it’s balanced by time with others, it’s more purposeful and I appreciate it more. I think, perhaps, had I known that secret during my teen years I might have spent at least a little less time being so very depressed in high school.
Thing is I didn’t have the family structure in high school that I have now to be the un-lonely weight on the scale. Yes I had my mom, dad, and siblings and one or two good friends but even those relationships weren’t as strong then as they are now. Truth is it’s very difficult to have the kind of relationships we have as adults in high school, the kind of relationships that form when we decide to care less about appearance or background and more about who a person is and how we both benefit from what one has to offer the other and the world; the kind of relationships that keep you from sinking or floating away during the darkest of dark moments.
I have that now. I wrote a few months ago, after I left Vail for Australia and before everything fell apart, about how I realized that Vail is home for me. With that came the realization that my friends in Vail are family to me. We celebrate holidays together, take vacations together, live together, and work together. We’re all different kinds of people from different places and, like the people who share my DNA, we’re sometimes very different, we sometimes annoy one another, and we don’t always get along but somehow there’s an inexplicable love that binds us. In retrospect that realization couldn’t have come at a better time, I’ve never needed home or family more than I have in the last few months.
In the wake of my heartbreak came messages, phone calls, and support from all the people in my life I consider family, even from friends here and there I didn’t even know cared so much (second or third cousins when talking in terms of family). Everyone from my little brother to my college roommate to my international clan of girlfriends in Vail was there for me. And they still are. And knowing that, being able to lean on all that un-loneliness, has kept me anchored enough to avoid floating away. I had a thought the other day that somehow the knowledge that there are so many people who love me takes my focus off, and almost makes up for, the one person who doesn’t.
What about you? Who is your family? How and when have they kept you anchored?
Friday, July 16, 2010
Growing up in Neverland
by Tracey Flower
Peter Pan: “Forget them, Wendy. Forget them all. Come with me where you'll never, never have to worry about grown up things again.”
Wendy: “Never is an awfully long time.”
Anyone who has lived in Vail for even one ski season will agree that this place is Neverland. Time and age seem to not exist here in this happy valley in the middle of the Rockies. People are youthful despite the fact that many suddenly wake up one day and realize five or even ten years have gone by since they moved here for one ski season. One friend of mine attributes the youthful appearance of valley residents to both the high altitude and the fact that folks around here enjoy a drink or two; “they pickle themselves with alcohol,” he says. Whatever it is youth does seem to flow like a fountain here and it’s easy to feel like we’re living in a bubble where we’re impervious to the stresses of the real world.
The other night I met a small group of friends for drinks to celebrate the marriage of two dear friends. The sun was setting over distant peaks and as we chatted and laughed over appetizers and big glasses of wine I realized something shocking; we’re all growing up.
It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, a look back at my life and the lives of my friends in the past couple years hints that real world adult stuff has been seeping through the protective shield of our bubble for awhile now; there was a devastating house fire, the death of a sibling, and some gut-wrenching break-ups. I had no idea the bubble was so weak (it must be the altitude).
The realization that we’re all growing up has stuck with, or rather haunted, me all week. And, to be honest, it’s made me feel a bit sorry for myself. Everyone is moving on. People are getting married, moving away, moving up in careers, and more and more just doing their own thing. And here I am, stuck. Back where I was a year ago, penniless and heartbroken.
My job at Starbucks has agitated this feeling. I’m back working at the same place I worked when I moved here five years ago. And, regardless of the fact that the events that have put me in this place at this time were out of my control, it seems like every part of my life has gone backwards at the moment and it’s depressing and humiliating.
I was walking home from work yesterday in the mid-July heat, sweaty, sticky and smelling of coffee, battling with all these thoughts and more when a strange quiet voice spoke up in the midst of them all. The voice encouraged me to compare my life now to my life last time I worked at that very same Starbucks (and I try not to make a habit of listening to all the voices in my head but this one seemed friendly so I obliged). And it occurred to me that despite of the events of the past couple months, I’m more content with my life and myself now than I was then. So, as it turns out, I too am growing up in Neverland.
Want to read about my life during that first summer five years ago? Check out Jump, Lions and Tigers and Bears, and Life With Boys.
Peter Pan: “Forget them, Wendy. Forget them all. Come with me where you'll never, never have to worry about grown up things again.”
Wendy: “Never is an awfully long time.”
Anyone who has lived in Vail for even one ski season will agree that this place is Neverland. Time and age seem to not exist here in this happy valley in the middle of the Rockies. People are youthful despite the fact that many suddenly wake up one day and realize five or even ten years have gone by since they moved here for one ski season. One friend of mine attributes the youthful appearance of valley residents to both the high altitude and the fact that folks around here enjoy a drink or two; “they pickle themselves with alcohol,” he says. Whatever it is youth does seem to flow like a fountain here and it’s easy to feel like we’re living in a bubble where we’re impervious to the stresses of the real world.
It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, a look back at my life and the lives of my friends in the past couple years hints that real world adult stuff has been seeping through the protective shield of our bubble for awhile now; there was a devastating house fire, the death of a sibling, and some gut-wrenching break-ups. I had no idea the bubble was so weak (it must be the altitude).
The realization that we’re all growing up has stuck with, or rather haunted, me all week. And, to be honest, it’s made me feel a bit sorry for myself. Everyone is moving on. People are getting married, moving away, moving up in careers, and more and more just doing their own thing. And here I am, stuck. Back where I was a year ago, penniless and heartbroken.
My job at Starbucks has agitated this feeling. I’m back working at the same place I worked when I moved here five years ago. And, regardless of the fact that the events that have put me in this place at this time were out of my control, it seems like every part of my life has gone backwards at the moment and it’s depressing and humiliating.
I was walking home from work yesterday in the mid-July heat, sweaty, sticky and smelling of coffee, battling with all these thoughts and more when a strange quiet voice spoke up in the midst of them all. The voice encouraged me to compare my life now to my life last time I worked at that very same Starbucks (and I try not to make a habit of listening to all the voices in my head but this one seemed friendly so I obliged). And it occurred to me that despite of the events of the past couple months, I’m more content with my life and myself now than I was then. So, as it turns out, I too am growing up in Neverland.
Want to read about my life during that first summer five years ago? Check out Jump, Lions and Tigers and Bears, and Life With Boys.
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