Love Lived Here

I guess you could call this a love letter to my first, forever home.

We lived here. We loved here. Love lived here.

The inside of these walls saw smiles and laughter from all ages. From the newborns moving in to the grandparents coming through the doors.

The inside of these walls also saw tears. Lots of tears – both happy and sad.

They saw birthday parties, new pets, hide and seek in “the trees”, corn field running, Christmas gatherings, wedding showers, pool parties, bonfires.

They saw a lightning strike, broken bones, stitched up knees, surgeries, ambulance visits, grief.

These walls saw grief.

These walls saw my childhood. They saw me take my first kindergarten bus ride. They saw me celebrate high school graduation. These walls watched me move to Boston. Come home. Move to Ithaca. Come home. And finally, move out. The big moving out. The real one.

These walls saw me grow up. Fast.

I couldn’t imagine growing up any other way. I didn’t know it at the time but I needed the quiet streets, the endless backyard, the cozy fires, the food(and wine)-filled kitchen over holidays, the friends, the family.

This house made me who I am today because we lived here. And we loved here.

Love lived here.

– Rachel

Communicating Happiness: Whoops, I Guess I Forgot Again

Remember that cute idea I had back in April where I wanted to document positive moments through a 100 Happy Days series? Shockingly, I was not as diligent about this as I hoped, but here we are at the conclusion of the series! I wouldn’t necessarily say that life got in the way or I became too busy; but rather, I just forgot to tell you the happy things that occurred.

I think I actually forgot to tell myself the happy things that occurred.

For the past seven weeks I have been living with my grandma on Long Island while commuting to my internship in Manhattan.

The internship has not been easy.

Living with my grandma, however, has been a gift.

For anyone who has made the comment to themselves about how they need to go visit their grandparents, give them a call, or send them a letter–I highly suggest doing so. And doing so now.

I have always been close to my family, but this summer I am able to have daily conversations with my grandma–rather than seeing her just a couple times a year.

She’ll share stories or make comments about her life as a child, as a mother, and then there are my favorite stories: the one’s about her and my grandpa.

My grandpa passed away the same year I was born, so I never had the opportunity to know him beyond the stories.

This evening, my grandma brought up how today was a near-perfect day. And that it was nice to enjoy it with someone (hi, that someone was me).

She recalled how we leisurely woke up on the Saturday morning. We went to the beach on a beautiful day–my favorite beach day of the summer. We went out for a nice meal, a glass of wine and good conversation. And of course we ended our evening at Carvel because Grandma could never go to bed without ice cream. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from her, it is that you never, ever go to sleep without dessert.

On our way home, she told a story about a day she remembers with my grandpa. It was her idea of a perfect day.

She said they began the day playing a round of golf, and then went to their beach on the south shore of Long Island for a couple hours spent in the ocean. Finally, their day ended at a small restaurant on the water, nothing fancy at all.

This story reminded me of all the days I forget about. The ones that go so seemingly perfect, yet are not the ones I dwell on.

It’s the traumatic days that we can recall minute for minute, but we rarely recall the days we spent smiling.

Those are the ones I want held tight within my memory.

Not the days where I was on edge, upset, stressed, exhausted or sad.

The days full of bliss.

The days like today.

-Rachel

World Poetry Day

On my final night of spring break before heading back to my last block of college, I couldn’t sleep. Instead of sleeping, I found myself putting words together in my head: a poem. I haven’t written a poem in years. This is why it’s so strange that the night I wrote a poem was just a couple days before today’s World Poetry Day.

I was a child who loved words. I even received a collection of poems one early Christmas because of my interest in poetry. I was one of the few students who adored the chapters in high school English when we analyzed poems; however, since attending college I have lost touch with my love of poetry. My mind has been so focused on research papers, social media writing, blogging, writing for professional communications. I forgot that I once admired creative writing, embracing imagery in my words, sharing emotion with a reader.

Now let me get one thing straight–I was no young Maya Angelou; however, I did enjoy the challenge that poetry brought with it. The vulnerability you must have to put emotions into words and find the right word that feels perfect for every line.

I wrote the following poem while sleepy, emotional, and desperate to put words to paper (or my phone, which I probably need to stop sleeping so close to). Again, I’m not saying I’m a poet, but that’s not going to stop me from writing. Just like being on the verge of tone deaf doesn’t stop my love of showtunes.

This is what those words became.

Titled: “We Overcome”

Children play
In fields of freedom.
With innocence
And superficial fears.

Time passes,
As it does too fast.
Play lessens,
Fears deepen.

Dark clouds,
Halt children at play.
Storm looms near,
Air thins.

Or so it seems.

Time passes,
As it does too fast.
Play lessens,
Fears Deepen.

Clouds part,
Light emerges.
Storm distances,
Air is plentiful.

We overcome
Our loss of innocence.
Freedom is near,
Angels at our sides.

-Rachel

A Few Deep Breaths

Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.

I can hear my dad’s voice now. In order to explain what this means I have a short, well semi-short, story to share.

I used to be a basketball player. Pretty amusing to think about as I am 5 foot 2 with zero capability of sprinting up and down a court at the moment. Basketball was never my favorite sport. Soccer held that role in my life; however, for a while prior to a few injuries, I played all the sports my friends played. Basketball happened to be included on that list. I was usually a point guard, shockingly not a post I know. Before almost every game I would get rather worked up with nerves. Who knows why I was so scared to go out and play a sport for my high school; nevertheless, it happened.

I recall when I would get this worked up, my dad would occasionally hit me with the “you need to relax, Rachie.” My parents were never competitive when it came to my sports, only supportive, so I never felt forced play them. This is why there was zero pushback on their end when I did choose to prematurely quit basketball and forgo my inevitable WNBA career.

As I mentioned, my dad would tell me on many pregame car rides, “you need to relax.” He always told me, “just breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.” He would repeat it until I was actually back on track, breathing calmly.

This was one of my dad’s “phrases.” Whenever I would get anxious whether for my school assignments, sporting events or theatre performances, I could always hear him saying “breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.” It never mattered if he was actually reciting it to me, I always heard it.

Now, in February of 2017, I still hear it. When I feel myself getting overwhelmed, I hear my dad’s voice in my head: breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. I may not be instantly relaxed, but I definitely get on my way to it.

It is something I know that I will hear forever. And forever in his voice.

Okay, so I occasionally overreact to situations. I over think far too much, and with that comes anxiety at times. When I reach these moments, Dad’s voice will always be there to calm me down: Rachie, breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. And of course when I actually am overreacting to a minor situation I’ll hear the just chill out, you need to relax. It will remind me to breathe. Because what I am making into a big deal, is really no big deal at all. At least not something that cannot be fixed with a few deep breaths.

-Rachel

And Then I Remember My Memories

I’m jealous of the girls whose fathers will walk them down the aisle.
I’m jealous of the girls whose dads will see them graduate college.
I’m jealous of the girls who got to crack open a beer with their dads when they turned 21.
I’m jealous of the girls who get to introduce the man of their dreams to their dads.
I’m jealous of the girls whose children will grow up with grandpas.
I’m jealous of the girls whose relationship with their dads didn’t change at age 16 after a disease stole that relationship from them.

And then I remember my memories. 

I remember looking over at the sidelines and seeing my dad at every single game after a long day of work.
I remember the ice skating trips, and my dad skating up behind me and lifting me in the air.
I remember the vacations—all the vacations with the five of us.
I remember the car rides and the hours stuck in traffic, testing every member of our family’s patience.
I remember my favorite movies being interrupted by a man on a mission with a vacuum cleaner.
I remember the bike rides around our hometown and being scared to ride down the big hills.
I remember the long, very long drives around that same hometown.
I remember going to church every Sunday and never missing breakfast right after.
I remember the Christmases where I was spoiled with gifts because my dad worked hard each and every day to give our family a comfortable life.
I remember the laugh.

And then I am no longer jealous.

I am sad, yes.
But I was blessed with a dad who placed his wife up on a pedestal and tucked his kids away in his heart with immense pride.

My dad was everything a girl could dream her dad to be.

Although he was taken from us far too soon, and the effects of an awful disease took pieces of him years earlier, he was and always will be the strongest, best man I will ever know.

Father’s Day, 2014

-Rachel