Candice

So, I've been a little writer's blocked, and a little bummed in general lately, because my friend Candice passed away about two weeks ago. She was my friend Joe's wife, and I didn't know her overly well, but I knew her well enough to know how fun she was and what incredible spirit she had. I was feeling stymied by what to write about her; nothing seemed concrete enough to put into words or good enough to sum up the amazing presence she had. Maybe it's because I lost a friend a few years ago quite suddenly, or because I lost my aunt to cancer last year, or because I recently supported a friend through chemo, but I feel what must be just a fraction of Joe's pain so acutely right now. Candice and Joe lived in Seattle when my sister and I lived there for a spring and it was the first time I'd spent time with either of them since graduating college a few years before. Joe lived in my dorm and Candice went to a school near enough to allow them to visit each other occasionally (or maybe more often; I wasn't clued in to their exact schedule). Nevertheless, they were the only people I knew in Seattle and we were glad to get to spend time together again.

One day, we went to brunch in their red convertible. We must have been listening to NPR on the radio because Candice and I soon got on the topic of NPR shows we like. I like general favorites: Car Talk; Wait Wait, Don't Tell Me. I also love the way A Prairie Home Companion really hits the nail on the head with accents and down-homeyness and makes me miss my native midwest. Garrison Keillor's voice is soothing and he has such fantastic comedic timing and storytelling ability. I am generally pretty sensitive to and prejudiced about voices. Too many or too glaring differences between the way I speak and the way another person speaks could sour my first impression, or lasting impression, of them forever. To that end, though I appreciated the concept of This American Life, Ira Glass's minor speech impediment (can you call it that?) really rankled me. Perhaps it's because I had a speech impediment once upon a time (my mother was shocked recently to learn that I've really just gotten very good at hiding it, but I still have to think quite hard about pronouncing my Ls and Rs), but listening to his show made me uncomfortable. So there we are, driving along in Joe and Candice's convertible, the wind whipping our hair around (well, not Joe's, so much) - Candice's dark brown curls and my straight, light brown locks - and discussing NPR. I was enjoying getting to know her a little better, since I liked her so much already, until the following exchange, called over the noise of the road:

Candice: I just love This American Life, don't you?
Amy: Actually, I don't listen to it. Ira Glass's voice drives me crazy, and not in a good way.
Candice: Oh. Huh. The only person whose voice I can't stand is that Garrison Keillor.
Amy: What? Uh... I don't know if we can be friends!

Of course, I was joking, since we were already friends. In fact, Candice's faith in This American Life was a major reason I later tried (and succeeded in) putting aside my prejudices and listening to the content and came to really enjoy the show. I don't know if she ever listened to PHC, but it doesn't really matter. The point is that I was so worried about trying to write about that exchange clearly and make it a fitting tribute to Candice's memory. What I realized is that what was special about Candice to those who didn't get a chance to know her super well isn't easy to pinpoint or explain. But the fact that I knew her well enough to be saddened by her absence, and her death's effect on Joe's life, shows how welcoming she was to everyone. She was incredibly outgoing and disarmingly funny, making you feel like you really knew her, had known her all along, and how blessed you were to have had her in your life, in whatever capacity, and for however long.

Sanctuary

It starts slow, just one or two voices. The opening notes are high enough to hear with strong breaths and attention-getting intentions behind them. Within three or four syllables, the rest have caught on and joined in. Fifty or so voices, of all musical abilities and ranges, swell together in harmonies that seem only to appear when we're together, inspired by our love for each other as individuals and together, drawing out the exact right notes from each of us. Some of us close our eyes to fully absorb the beauty of the slow, clear sounds. These words, intended to praise God for the meal we just prepared and consumed, seem to also praise God for bringing us together and nourishing us with spirituality and community. I listen with the bittersweet presence of someone fully enjoying and yet knowing it is fleeting and we will soon be back home after our weekend away, looking forward to every other Friday when we can catch glimpses of this magic again.

Brich rachamana 
malka d'alma 
ma'arey d'hai pita
("Blessed is the merciful one, ruler of the world, creator of this bread")*

You are the source of
life for all that is
and your blessing
flows through me

Oh Lord prepare me
to be a sanctuary,
pure and holy, tried and true,
and in thanksgiving
I'll be a living
sanctuary for you

Va'asuli mikdash
v'shachanti b'tocham
V'anachnu n'varech ya
me'atah v'ad olam.
("Build for me a holy place so that I might dwell within. And we will praise you G-d from now until forever")*

*Translations provided by Velveteen Rabbi, Rabbi Shefa Gold, and Rabbi-in-training Bryan Mann.

Mickey Mouse ice cream

When I was little (somewhere between 4 and 6), my family took a trip to Disney World. It was deliciously hot down in Florida, just the way I like it. It was even still hot at night, warm enough to warrant my parents giving in to the overpriced ice cream sold at the hotel's store. I was so excited to get this novelty that out of all the things we did, this is the one I remember the most. Outside the store, the lights of the outdoor pool shone on me as I tore into the thin, shiny, plastic wrapper and beheld my treat. It was shaped like Mickey's iconic head; ears made of chocolate ice cream and face of vanilla, and then the whole thing was covered in a thin candy shell - again, ears chocolate, face vanilla - and stuck on a popsicle stick. I took a deep breath and bit off an ear. That first bite was divine: cool, creamy ice cream and rich chocolate sheets that melted on my tongue. I quickly realized, however, that the warm Florida night was working its magic on my frozen friend and the first bite had disrupted the whole shell. Jagged shards of candy shell slipped on the melting ice cream and stuck out in all directions and innards were starting to drip everywhere. It rapidly turned into a race that many are familiar with - the panicky licking of the ice cream cone until it's "under control" but then almost gone. Where's the enjoyment? I joined the race that night and I like to believe I won (though probably it was a tie since I likely had ice cream and chocolate all over my face by the end), but I've been wary of ice creams with shells ever since.

Just in case

I have my ID out and ready with my boarding pass. I have it down to a system - how many little plastic bins I need, when to take off my shoes to minimize sock-to-dirty-tile time, what order to empty my pockets and take off my belt, my watch, sunglasses. Frankly, I'm glad for the distraction. I always have a book or magazine to pass the few minutes between arrival at the gate and when I can board, because I try to cut it close. I've only missed two flights in my life. One was this morning.

But this time, I'm ready. I even had a nap and a shower to make up for the hectic morning. This trip is going to be great. When they start pre-boarding, I go to refill the water bottle that I finished off at security and use the bathroom so I don't have to go while we're in the air. I shuffle onto the plane with a few dozen other passengers. Tossing my duffel bag into the overhead bin, I slide into my row. I check out the air flow above me and turn the knob quickly, making sure I can find and adjust it without looking. Water bottle and magazine go in the seat pocket; airsick bag is located and put right in front, just in case. I fish out my ipod and make sure it's hidden from flight attendants' prying eyes but easily accessible. Maybe it's the distraction, maybe it's the way the sound waves hit my inner ear, but listening to music nearly always helps, if just a little.

I'm absorbed in my magazine for the rest of boarding so I don't notice until we take off that my row is empty. The row ahead of me is empty also. I sneak a look across the aisle to my left and see a couple about my parents' age, chatting. I can't make out what they're saying over the roar of takeoff. A small wave rolls over my head and I turn my eyes straight ahead, and close them. I breathe deeply and try to focus.

I focus on anything - usually breathing and relaxing, but if things get challenging, I'll try my tricks of doing long division or name the state capitals in alphabetical order. As soon as we tip back to go airborne, I think the same thing I think every single time, a gentle self-scolding: What am I doing here? Don't I remember all of the awful flights I've been on in the past? Don't I remember that last awful flight? My heart races and I wonder how bad this one will be. Most of this flight to Austin is very smooth, but I realize I'm used to going east and west, not north and south. Maybe the wind patterns will be really different? My palms are getting sweaty. Breathe. It's too bad there's no one to talk to. I travel with someone I know so rarely but sometimes light chit chat with a stranger is distracting in a good way.

When we level out, I stare at the seat back in front of me and eye my magazine cautiously. Do I dare try to read? Often it's tempting fate, but I'm already bored. The plane lurches and my eyes widen. We smooth out and I remember to breathe again, slumping down a bit in my chair. I put on my ipod and load up a playlist of gentle music - a plane list. I decide to try sleeping for a bit, even though I'd already had a nap that day.

The plane shakes a bit and wakes me a little while later. Then a bigger shaking makes my eyes fly wide open. I'm dizzy, the way you get when you spin around a bunch or someone pushes you on the tire swing for too long. There is such a short lead time between that and losing my lunch that I don't understand how people find that feeling pleasurable at all, why they ride tire swings and roller coasters and get drunk. My heart is racing again as the threat looms. I use the hair tie on my wrist to pull my hair into a loose ponytail at the nape of my neck, just in case. I can feel my pulse everywhere - in my temples, in my chest, in my arms. My arms are turning to jelly and I try to swallow.

The plane jerks downward, what feels like about a ten-foot drop, though at that height who knows how far it actually was. I get a second or two of lead time and fumble for the airsick bag, sticking just my mouth inside, just in time. Only the very practiced know just how to keep their nose outside the bag with scary accuracy; the acid, rotting smell only makes it worse. After a few heaves, there's nothing left in my stomach (again, carefully planned). Normally this is when it stops. I can hear the pilot over my retches explaining what wind shear is - sounds worse than your average turbulence, which also explains why I can't stop. I lean my forehead against the seat in front of me just to take some of the burden off my neck and help hold my head a bit still, keeping the bag firmly planted to my face. Eventually the plane evens out and my stomach settles.

I take a deep breath and lean back. Honestly, I feel better. A flight attendant comes by to offer me some napkins and I ask for a new bag too, just in case. I wipe my mouth and take a small mouthful of water, mostly to rinse my mouth. I have my toothbrush and toothpaste in my carryon for exactly this reason and once I get off the plane and sit still for a bit, my first stop will be the bathroom. I can't wait.

I hear the announcement for the initial descent and force myself to take a deep breath. The landing is as smooth as they get, but I've got one eye out the window, praying for a quick landing. I'm sweating, so I reach up to turn on the air. A minute later, I snap it off; I'm freezing. We bump down and my hips press against the seatbelt as the brakes are applied to calm this roaring cheetah of a machine to the speed of the average housecat, fitting in with the other grounded vehicles. I always remember that this was one of my least favorite parts when I was little, after all the trauma of takeoff, turbulence, and then the grand finale of landing, when I would cry and beg my parents to make the plane stop. I couldn't understand why, now that we were on the ground, we had to keep moving at all. I just wanted it to stop. They would just smooth my hair and murmur soothingly to me, which was all they could do. But now I'm a grownup and there's no one to cry to. The rushing of braking has dulled any other noises and the plane seems almost quiet for a moment in the white roar.

We finally come to a full stop and the flights flash on. Signs unlight with a bing, seatbelts unclick, phones chime to life. Around me, life springs forward, eager to catch a connection, meet their family, get checked into the hotel, move on. I sit. My legs are jelly.

As they leave their row, the couple seated across the aisle pauses. The woman asks if I'm all right and I nod with a weak smile. She says, "Our daughter is about your age. We had our eye on you. Just in case. Looked like you were having a rough time." I thank her and wonder vaguely if she was the one who called the flight attendant for me.

Once the rest of the passengers have left, I pack up my water bottle, magazine and ipod and drag myself out of my seat. I grab my duffel bag from the bin above me, retie my hair and make my way off the plane. I thank the staff, especially the flight attendant who helped me. I leave the new airsick bag for the next person. Just in case.

Spark Plugs

Near the end of my stay in San Lucas, Guatemala, it was my host sister, Jocelyn's, seventh birthday. My friend Jessica and I went down to the ice cream shop to buy her an ice cream cake. While we were there, I started feeling a little funny in the tummy area, and a bit lightheaded. Having already survived three bouts of amoebic dysentery in my three-month stay, I knew enough of the warning signs and decided to take it easy. I asked Jessica to take the cake home for us and I'd join them later, but the party was starting soon so we wanted them to have the cake sooner rather than later. I went outside the shop to the plaza and sat on the cement steps in the shade of a tree, watching a pickup basketball game. Not long after I sat down, a white couple emerged out of the throng of indigenous San Luquenos and approached me.

"Hablas espanol?" the woman asked.

"Si," I responded.

"Do you speak English, too?"

"Yes..." (Where is this going?)

"Oh, thank god," she said, and collapsed next to me. It turned out that she and the man with her, who were Canadian, had rented motorcycles from a place in Panajachel, which is about an hour's drive from San Lucas. Just outside the town, one of the bikes had broken down and they needed help calling the rental place and being picked up.

"Sure, no problem," I said, though inwardly my heart was racing at the thought of carrying on a conversation with someone in Spanish over the phone. I was still learning how to converse in person and the phone is even harder!

It was Sunday, but the Parish office was open, so I led them over - just a five-minute walk down the main street in town. I dialed the number they gave me and haltingly told the man who answered the situation. He was very accommodating and said he'd send a truck right away. But first, he wanted to know, did the couple have any idea what was the matter with the bikes? I relayed the message.

"We're not sure, but we think it's the spark plugs," the woman said.

After a moment's hesitation, I dragged up a word out of the depths of my memory, and I told the man on the phone that they think it was the bujias. There was a pause, and he asked me to repeat it.

"Las bujias?" I said, even more uncertainly.

"Okay, I don't know what that is, but don't worry, we'll send someone out."

I hung up the phone and told the couple to wait at the church and a truck would be along in about an hour. They thanked me profusely and I returned to the plaza, slightly shaken from the weird turn of the day and the adrenaline rush of a new experience.

I finally had a minute to compose myself and reflect on the experience and realized the hilarity of it. The reason I know the word spark plugs, despite not actually knowing what spark plugs are, is that in tenth grade Spanish class we were given lists of vocabulary to memorize, with a quiz each Monday. We resisted every list, but no list did we resist harder than the one about cars, including the word spark plugs. Our teacher insisted that we might need it someday, and he was right. Even if it didn't end up helping, I was proud I remembered it! (I looked it up when I got back to the house and I had the right word but it could be a regional difference, or else my terrible pronunciation!)

The Bike

"Mommy?"

With a sharp breath, almost a gasp, my mother's eyes flew open in the early light and she sat straight up, a swift, abrupt combination that never failed to startle me - probably more than it startled her, and I was the one who saw it coming.

"What is it?"

"Can I go outside?"

"Now? What time is it?"

I waited patiently for her to answer her own question. I couldn't tell time yet. I was only 6.

"It's 6 a.m., Lovey. Why do you want to go outside now?"

"I wanna learn to ride my bike."

"Oh, honey. Can't it wait? Just a couple of hours, then I'll come out with you."

"No, NOW!"

"Shh, shh. You'll wake your father." She sighed, not quite resigned to letting me go, not quite wanting to get up and come with me. I sensed her indecision.

"Pleeeeeeeease? I'll be really careful, I promise."

 She sighed again. "Oh, all right."

My face lit up and I jumped up and down, then turned and dashed back to my room to throw some clothes on. A few short hours later, I had conquered the bike that was missing its training wheels, and caught up to my big sister, who had accomplished the same feat the day before. Victory was mine.

Drip Drip Drop

Today, the sound of Boston is the sound of water: dripping, melting, running, rushing. We had a heavy, wet snowfall on Thursday and now it's in the 40s, with clear blue skies and lots of sunshine. Walking two blocks home from my friend Miriam's house this afternoon, all I heard everywhere was water. Streams of water rattling through metal gutter pipes. The steady drip-drip-drip of eaves spilling onto the sidewalk. The pitter-pat of gutters emptying. The whoosh of rushing riverlets racing to the sewer. Even the cracking and sighing of snow - frozen water - starting the melting process. It's not the best environment if you have to go to the bathroom, but it sounds like spring all the same!