snails

Every time it rains, these little yellow snails come swarming out of nowhere and crowd onto our sidewalk. I never see them in the grass or on the flowers. I only see them on the sidewalk, after the rain.

I usually see two or three. Sometimes, a careless person will step on one, and i'll see the shell fragments and slime squished on the edge of a stair.

Fifty snails. Or seven. Math is not my strong suit.

Yesterday, there were TONS of them, all over the stairs and sidewalk. There was one cluster of like, fifty snails of various sizes and shades of yellow. I have never seen that many of them all at once.

I only see this kind: the little mustard-y yellow-brown with the black racing stripe. I've never seen any other ones. They never stay for more than a few hours. I go home for lunch somewhere around 1 or 2 pm, and i leave work for the day at 5. When i'm there for lunch, there are snails. When i'm home from work, there are none.

Snails are cute, sure. And they're slow-moving, and their shells are pretty and fun to decorate with, and they are delicious. Yes, i've eaten snails. Twice. Once in France, and once in Spain. In Spain, they prepare them very simply, steamed or boiled with seasonings, and you just suck them out of the shell. They are very tiny, and the method of cooking usually leaves their heads poking out of the shells, their tiny faces frozen in a series of silent screams. Spanish snails are pretty upsetting to eat. French snails, on the other hand, are baked or roasted in a thing like a muffin tin, each snail in its own little compartment, and they are neatly tucked into their shells and covered in butter and herbs. You eat them with a fork, and you never have to see their faces. This way is much better.

I have to confess, however, that i fibbed a little when i said that snails are delicious. The truth is that, much like octopus, snails don't have much flavor beyond what they're cooked with. This is another reason to prefer the French method: they mostly taste like melted butter and herbs.

But these little guys are not for eating. I just like to watch them enjoy the sunshine.

Every Tradition Starts Somewhere

Seven years ago, i celebrated Easter at home with my family. We did the whole nine yards: Pancake Day (or Fat Tuesday), Lent, Good Friday services, Sunrise Services, Easter baskets, and egg hunts. That was my last Holy Week at home.

Six years ago, i was in Spain from Fat Tuesday (February 20th that year) until the middle of May. I spent all of Lent and Holy Week in Seville and Badajoz and Malaga (with a day trip to Portugal).

Five years ago, Agelseb's mother came up to Boston for Easter weekend, and we celebrated together.

Four years ago, i had no roommate and all of my friends had gone home for Easter break, so i went to CVS and bought crackers and grape juice and a candle. I lit the candle in my room (even though it was against the rules), and took communion and read scriptures alone as my own Good Friday service. I seem to remember also doing my own Sunrise service that year, but i'm not sure.

For the next two years, i did some variation of this service. Once i played worship music softly in the background, once it was silent. Once i fasted, once i did not. Last year i bought fancy bread and high quality grape juice and prayed quietly in my room.

This year, i am expanding this new tradition a little. On a whim, i invited John to participate. He suggested that i invite Benji and Mrs. Benji as well. And then i invited Pammer and Larissa (though none of them could make it). And i have spent much of my week researching Passover seder traditions and the Haggadah. I've been writing menus and reading scripture and thinking about seating.


As it turns out, the Haggadah is really freaking long. Like, fifteen pages, and most of that is the post-meal blessing. I hope no one will be offended by this, but since none of my guests are Jewish and most of the service is a reflection on Jewish history and culture, i cut it down to about three pages. I wanted to keep some sense of the history, but i also wanted to reflect my own culture and the culture and needs of those i had invited to break bread with me. The Haggadah says that anyone who does not mention the lamb, the matzo, and the bitter herbs has not done their job, so i have included those things. Wherever possible, i kept the original language, and only condensed it. I have written only about two or three lines in this service. The details are still being ironed out, but i'm kind of looking forward to this odd new tradition of mine.


First, a blessing for the wine:

Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the universe, who creates the fruit of the vine.

Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the universe, who has granted us life, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this occasion.

drink wine

Then, a blessing on the greens and side dishes:

Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the universe, who creates the fruit of the earth.

A blessing on the matzo:

This is the bread of affliction. Whoever is hungry or in need, let him come and eat.

A blessing on the lamb:

This is the Passover sacrifice for deliverance. Whoever is hungry or in need, let him come and eat.

A blessing on the bitter herbs:

These are the bitter herbs of suffering. Whoever is hungry or in need, let him come and eat.


A general blessing:

The Holy One, blessed be He, redeemed not only our fathers from Egypt, but He redeemed also us with them.

Thus it is our duty to thank, to glorify, to exalt, to adore, and to honor the One who did all these miracles for our fathers and for us. He took us from sorrow to joy, from deep darkness to great light, and from bondage to redemption. Let us therefore recite before Him Hallelujah, Praise God!

Now eat and drink to your heart’s delight.


After the meal, all who ate recite the Grace:

Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the universe, who, in His goodness, feeds the whole world with grace, with kindness, and with mercy. You open Your hand and satisfy the desire of every living thing.

Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the universe, the King who is good and does good to all, each and every day. He has done good for us, He does good for us, and He will do good for us. To You alone we give thanks.

Even if our mouths were filled with song as the sea, and our tongues with joyous singing like the multitudes of its waves, and our lips with praise like the expanse of the sky, and our eyes shining like the sun and the moon, and our hands spread out like the eagles of heaven, and our feet swift like deer we would still be unable to thank You Lord, our God and God of our fathers, and to bless Your Name, for even one of the thousands of millions, and myriads of myriads, of favors, miracles and wonders with You have done for us and for our fathers before us.


And then Scripture readings:

Exodus 12:1 Now the Lord spoke to Moses and Aaron in the land of Egypt, saying, 2 “This month shall be your beginning of months; it shall be the first month of the year to you. 3 Speak to all the congregation of Israel, saying: ‘On the tenth of this month every man shall take for himself a lamb, according to the house of his father, a lamb for a household. 8 Then they shall eat the flesh on that night; roasted in fire, with unleavened bread and with bitter herbs they shall eat it. 11 And thus you shall eat it: with a belt on your waist, your sandals on your feet, and your staff in your hand. So you shall eat it in haste. It is the Lord’s Passover.

12 ‘For I will pass through the land of Egypt on that night, and will strike all the firstborn in the land of Egypt, both man and beast; and against all the gods of Egypt I will execute judgment: I am the Lord. 13 Now the blood shall be a sign for you on the houses where you are. And when I see the blood, I will pass over you; and the plague shall not be on you to destroy you when I strike the land of Egypt.

14 ‘So this day shall be to you a memorial; and you shall keep it as a feast to the Lord throughout your generations. You shall keep it as a feast by an everlasting ordinance.’

Luke 22:19 And He (Jesus) took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, “This is My body which is given for you; do this in remembrance of Me.”

20 Likewise He also took the cup after supper, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in My blood, which is shed for you.”
Luke 23:44 Now it was about the sixth hour, and there was darkness over all the earth until the ninth hour. 45 Then the sun was darkened, and the veil of the temple was torn in two. 46 And when Jesus had cried out with a loud voice, He said, "Father, 'into Your hands I commit My spirit.'" Having said this, He breathed His last. So when the centurion saw what had happened, he glorified God, saying, "Certainly this was a righteous Man!"
48 And the whole crowd who came together to that sight, seeing what had been done, beat their breasts and returned. 49. But all His acquaintances, and the women who followed Him from Galilee, stood at a distance, watching these things.

Awasiwi Odinak

When i was younger, if you had asked me what i wanted to be when i grew up, i would have told you that i wanted to be Laura Ingalls Wilder. I started reading the Little House books in elementary school and fell completely in love with the vivid descriptions of delicious homemade food, the wild adventures in the woods and on the prairies, the strong-willed and independent heroine, and the pioneer lifestyle.

At the time, we were living in the old house. I was enchanted by the seemingly boundless fields surrounding us. I liked civilization well enough, but being intensely introverted, i felt more comfortable in a place away from other people. I liked knowing that i could run until i was exhausted and still not see another person. I liked to look around me and see nothing but level fields, with trees far off in the distance. When Pa and Laura would stand together and gaze at the horizon, i could see the illimitable prairie in my mind's eye, and i too longed to explore it. I wanted to start walking, and keep going until i reached something new, something untouched by man.

I love to travel. I've been lucky enough to travel quite a bit in my life. I love even the boring parts, like four-hour layovers, and the inconvenient parts, like carrying my suitcases a mile to the train station. I love to fly, i love to drive, i love to take buses and trains, i love to sail and cruise.

Growing up in a small town, i quickly became accustomed to the idea that i would have to go places if i wanted to see things. There wasn't much to do where i lived; even going to the grocery store required a ten-minute car trip. The mall was forty minutes away, as was the nearest Walmart. And i didn't mind that. I lived far from the things of man, and to me, that meant peace and purity. The air was clean, the grass was fresh, and even the manure in the fields smelled almost sweet.

But then i discovered cities.

I'd been on field trips to DC, Baltimore, and Annapolis. I'd been shopping in Dover. I'd traveled to Chicago, Paris and Cologne. But those were always trips with a purpose. We saw the Holocaust museum in DC, as well as the Air and Space museum. We went to the mall in Dover to do our Christmas shopping. We delivered furniture to my cousin in Chicago. We climbed cathedral towers all over Europe.

When i was sixteen, my mother and i went to New York with my cousin and her mother. My cousin and i were both turning sixteen, and instead of a party, we took a weekend trip. Although i'd been a tourist in Europe, it was a trip of learning and culture. This trip was all about fun. We went to the city not because it was a place to learn about new cultures, or to see architecture, or because travel is broadening. We went to the city because cities are fun.

I fell in love with New York. I knew that Laura would have been horrified and disappointed, but i didn't care. New York City was like nothing i'd ever seen before, nothing i'd ever imagined. Movies and TV couldn't prepare me for the rush, the energy of being there.

I live in a city now, and i love it, but it's still not quite home. I miss clean horizons: views where all you can see, in every direction, is nature. No telephone poles, no cars or buildings, no people. Just water, or trees, or fields. Sometimes my need to see a clean horizon is so intense that i begin to feel suffocated. You know when you've been sitting at a desk all day and you start to feel twitchy? Like you just need to get up and walk around for a few minutes? That's how i feel nearly every day. But it's not just my body that longs for movement. It's my soul, too.

I walk a lot. I often walk four miles to my church, and i walk a mile each way to work and back nearly every day. I walk to the grocery store and back (another mile each way). I started walking because i don't have a car. I'm pretty practical, and i don't like to ask for help, so when i need to be somewhere, i just go. I don't freak out about how far it is or how long it will take. I get my ipod and some directions and start walking.

But walking is not just a way to get from point A to point B. It's also a way to keep my wanderlust in check. When my soul starts to get twitchy from being still and cramped for too long, i take it to find a clean horizon where it can breathe. When i start to feel claustrophobic from the people all around me, i go somewhere far from the things of man. Walking is the only thing that keeps me from selling everything and backpacking across Europe, or hitchhiking across the country. Sometimes i dream about leaving everything behind and becoming a nomad, seeing the whole world on my own terms. I want my only limits to be how far i can walk before i need to sleep (under the stars, of course).

In my head, i know that i can't just take off. And i know i wouldn't really like it after a while. I have friends, and work, and responsibilities here. And the reason i have those ties is because i like them. I like my cat. I like my books. I like my bed. I pay bills because it's worth it to me to ensure that i can keep my books and cat and bed. After about a week of being a homeless traveler, i'd be ready to return to civilization. But if i sold everything and left, there would be no going back.

So i walk.

I Blame My Mother

Three years ago, in the cafeteria, i came up with a plan B: quit school and simply become the next Anna Nicole Smith.

I have always had a soft spot in my heart for cute little old men, with their cute little old manners and their cute little old hats and their cute little old too-short pants and everything. But what i never knew is that they also have a soft spot in each of their hearts for me.

One night, i was eating my dinner, when in came an absolutely adorable little old man, wearing a pin-striped fedora, and a sweater and jacket (despite the heat), even a bow tie. Let's call him "Carissa". He had these huge, bushy, pitch-black eyebrows that stood out against his bushy, snow-white hair. He was just too cute for words.

Because my mother raised me to be polite, as well as raising me with my soft spot for cute little old men, i smiled as he walked through the cafeteria. At that, Carissa came over to my table, leaned down next to me, and asked if i was Irish.
"No . . ." i answered, bemused.
"Oh. Are you Polish?" he continued.
"No . . ."
He asked me about six more of these before i finally said, "I'm a little bit German and a little bit French."
"Oh! Do you speak German?"
"No . . ."
"Do you speak French?"
"No . . ."
"Well, how come you are so beautiful?"

Between my amusement at the situation, my confusion at the leap from linguistics to aesthetics, and the general weirdness of the conversation, i began to blush. And giggle. Both of which are my reactions to uncomfortable situations, and one of which (the giggling) i inherited from my mother. I think i said something along the lines of, "Thank you. I don't know," and Carissa went back to his seat. (My friends assure me that my behavior was much more flirtatious than this, consisting of several "Yes, sir"s and "No, sir"s, all uttered with doe-eyed glances. I can honestly say that i remember none of this.)

After regaining control of myself (which took a considerable amount of time and effort, the giggles having escalated nearly to the point of making me fall out of my chair), i jumped up and raced across the cafeteria to my friend Steven, who had missed the action.

I filled Steven in on the events, and then returned to my seat, intending to collect my things and exit the cafeteria with what little remained of my dignity. But i was denied this escape by three of my friends who insisted that i stay put.
"Why?' i demanded.
"Because he is writing something on a napkin, and we think he's gonna give you his phone number," was the reply.

At this point, the giggles and blushing had me almost completely incapacitated. Falling back into my chair, i awaited my fate.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, Carissa came over to me with his napkin.

"Since you are German and French, and you don't speak any German or French, I thought you should know a few phrases," he said. Handing me the napkin, he pointed to the first one and said, "'Ich liebe Dich!' Do you know what that means?"

I actually do know a tiny bit of both German and French, so i was able to choke out the reply: "I love you."
"Yes, very good! Now, what is this one? 'Je t'aime beaucoup'?"
Ordinarily, i would have known this one as well, but at this point all rational thought was beyond me.
"Ummmm . . . " was the best i could supply.
"It's the same thing, only French," he explained.

Carissa then asked me my major, asked if i planned to get my doctorate, told me to get my master's at ENC and then go elsewhere for my doctorate (i believe he suggested a school, but i was pretty much past the point of comprehension, let alone retention, of information), and i think he may have made another observation about my beauty before leaving me. I grabbed my dishes and wallet (and the napkin, which i later had framed), and ran. My one thought was to get out of the danger zone. But on my way, the RD for the boys' dorms stopped me.

"What was he sayin' to you?" he asked, suspicious.
"Oh, umm, he asked what my major was, and he wanted to know if i was Irish and stuff," i explained, not very coherently.
"So, everything's okay, right?"
"Yeah, yeah, everything's fine," i answered, still suppressing nervous giggles.
"Okay. I didn't know who he was, so i just wanted to make sure that everything was fine."
"Yes. Thank you," i managed, before bolting for the door in a fit of giggles. I think my face had surpassed red at this point and was nearly purple.

Oh, well. There's always a silver lining. I guess that if i ever decide that school is just too much for me, i can just drop out and become the next Anna Nicole Smith. I hope my mother will be proud.

boarding passes

Sometimes, when i'm cleaning out my purse or suitcase, or flipping through a journal, an old boarding pass will fall out.

I have taken about fifty flights in my lifetime, including layovers. I love to fly. One of my favorite flights happened in 2007, when i took my big Europe trip. It was an exciting time, obviously, and there were a lot of flights in those six months, but i am only talking about one now: the one where i flew over Ireland at night.

Usually, when you fly over cities at night, you see a dazzling display of rainbow brilliance, like the jewelry box of a goddess dumped out onto the ground. The lights sparkle and swirl, dazzling the eye far more than the brightest stars ever have.

But Ireland was long stretches of deep, velvet darkness, with only tiny lights here and there to mark the villages. It was like the night sky on a misty night, almost devoid of stars. I had never seen anything like it.

Henry Drummond, in "Inherit the Wind", once said this about progress (in a truly fantastic speech): "Mister, you may conquer the air but the birds will lose their wonder and the clouds will smell of gasoline."

I understand his point, and as i said, i love the speech, but i have to quibble with him on one point. The birds have lost none of their wonder. Flight is still full of romance.

Which is why i keep my boarding passes. Tucked into my journal or lost in the lining of my duffel bag, they are like roses from a lover, pressed between the leaves of a diary. They are a tangible reminder of my victory against gravity, of my magical wanderings across the earth and through the skies.

Plus, sometimes i forget to throw them away.