Leigh Kramer

What I'm Into (July Edition)

Hanging out with my legacy brick after a White Sox winner

July has been hectic with not one but two trips to my hometown. The former included 4th of July festivities, my first White Sox game since moving to Nashville, and our annual family reunion. The latter lasted a mere 30 hours. Being there for my friend's wedding was entirely worth it. 

 

Read and Reading: 

I didn't know anything about baseball summer leagues so I was thoroughly fascinated by The Last Best League (Collins). Focusing on the Chatham A's 2003 season, Collins introduced me to the world of college prospects, how minor league teams work, and what players must endure in order to go pro. A must read for any baseball fan.

The memoir What Remains drew me in right from the start. Carole Radziwill is a fantastic addition to the Real Housewives of New York. She was an award-winning ABC News journalist for 15 years and married to Jackie O's nephew. Her husband Anthony was diagnosed with cancer shortly after they married and his cancer treatment became the focus of their next 5 years together until his death. One of the book's notable gems: "'Metastatic' is a clean, unemotional word, but in layman's terms it means, 'You're screwed.'" She really captures some aspects of life with cancer, including insights from the lens of a caregiver- often cancer's secondary victim. Three weeks before Anthony's death, his cousin John F. Kennedy Jr. and his wife Carolyn Bessette Kennedy, one of Carole's closest friends, died in a plane crash. Tragedy upon tragedy. Radziwill writes sparsely and respectfully, avoiding name dropping and the sort of gossip easily attached to the Kennedy family. Her recollections are often warm and witty and she writes of grief in a way only fellow mourners can understand.

Currently reading: The Art of Fielding (Harbach), An Everlasting Meal (Adler), Book of Hours (Rilke),  When Helping Hurts (Corbett and Fikkert) and The War of Art (Pressfield).

Kate Morton unveiled her new book! I cannot wait to read The Secret Keeper.

(I read 7 books this month.)

TV: Must-see TV: So You Think You Can Dance, Bunheads

Project Runway is back. I'm not sure how regularly I'll be watching, in spite of my love for Tim Gunn. Last season fell flat for me.

Movies:

Anne of Green Gables and Anne of Avonlea were childhood staples. My friend Rachel and I must have watched each hundreds of times. But I hadn't watched them since until this past weekend. A few friends and I gathered to watch Anne of Green Gables and it more than stood the test of time. This had nothing to do with the drinking game we played and everything to do with the wonderfulness of Anne Shirley, Matthew and Marilla Cuthbert, and Gilbert Blythe. Cue dreamy sigh.

Funny Picture:

This might only make you laugh if you're a Papa Roach fan. I died.

Found via Knox McCoy's excellent Monday Morning Meatloaf.

Favorite Video:

I loved watching Bob Ross when I was a kid. I'm so impressed with what PBS created here. It made me feel nostalgic and inspired. "Paint freedom on a canvas." I will, Bob Ross. I will.

 

Music: 

New discovery: I knew of The Welcome Wagon thanks to Sufjan Stevens's involvement but I hadn't given them a good listen until visiting Kristin earlier this month. Now I'm hooked.

Mumford & Sons has a new album coming out. I can't wait!

A couple of weeks ago I attended the Pearl Joy Brown benefit, with artists including Sandra McCracken, Derek Webb, Griffin House, and Leigh Nash. Great music, great cause. I love how the music community supports one another! Pearl was born last week and continues to amaze everyone. She came home yesterday! Please continue to keep this family in your prayers.

While home for the second time, my parents and I had dinner in downtown Wheaton and then walked around for awhile, fortuitously stumbling into a band festival. I was especially impressed by Salvation Story Steelpan Orchestra, an inner city ministry began by a South Side Chicago Salvation Army. I'm a sucker for steelpans.

If you have Spotify, you have got to check out Josh's summer playlist. I think he's my music kindred spirit.

Food:

Such presentation!

While I was in my hometown, I had my favorite green curry chicken from Thipi Thai and stopped for penny candy at the Popcorn Shop for candied grapefruit slices.That's just the tip of the iceberg of all the eating that goes on while I'm home.

Caribou Coffee also broke my heart by discontinuing the best Tea Latte ever invented: Black Thai Tea Latte. What to do without good tea latte options? I've turned to Hazelnut Lattes in my sorrow.

 

What have you been into this month?

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The Summer I Learned To Play Catch

Being an obsessive White Sox fan, you might be surprised that I've never enjoyed playing baseball. In fact, I recall pick up games at my cousins' house in which Jon's best friend Ian would stand behind me and tell me when to swing.

I loved Ian.

I am, shall we say, selectively athletic. Quite a few sports hold little appeal or I've long accepted a lack of playing talent.

Of those I enjoy, rowing tops the list. Joining the crew team remains a college highlight.

My presiding non-interest in sports has never bothered me. If I'm not reading a book, I'd rather be hanging out with friends over a glass of wine than chasing after a ball. If a sport interested me, I gave it a whirl.

In my mid-20s, the majority of my friends enjoyed playing sand volleyball Sunday afternoons. I'd often go cheer them on and work on my tan. Every once in awhile I'd brave the courts. Even though many people were too competitive for my tastes, I usually had fun.

I wondered what else I should give a second try.

As my baseball fandom increased, I realized how better understanding playing the game would help me appreciate it more. Now this didn't mean I wanted to join a league or anything like that. Going to a batting cage- either by myself or with a kind friend so as not to embarrass myself- or playing catch would fit the bill.

It's not that I didn't think I could catch the ball at all. I was merely unconfident in my hand-eye coordination. And I certainly didn't think I could catch a ball under any sort of pressure. My competitive nature really only emerges for Scrabble games. Anything else stresses me out.

I declared the summer of 2006 would be the summer I learned to play catch. My friends were supportive yet incredulous. As in, how had I made it this far in life without being certain I could catch a ball? Apparently, one can grow to be 26 years old and do just fine. Because honestly, short of a baseball stadium, how often do balls come flying at you out of the blue? Wait. Don't answer that.

This goal came about with the purest of motivations. I think. Maybe not. There was a boy in the picture, after all.

Of course, I wondered: if I caught the ball, would I also catch the guy?

On a day that turned into our second or third date, the boy and I sat next to each other at church and then the same table at our post-church haunt with friends. My roommate and I lived practically next door to the restaurant but he insisted on driving us home.

The boy got out of his car and lingered, while my roommate headed in to our apartment. We talked about afternoon plans and the boy suggested we go to a nearby park and read for awhile.

The sun warmed the park bench where we sat, lulling him to lay down next to me after he'd read for a few minutes. A smile tickled my lips as my eyes strayed from the book in my lap to the slumbering boy next to me. The day seemed ever full of promise.

The boy's nap didn't last long and when he woke, he decided we should play catch.

I narrowed eyes at him. Up to this point, I'd envisioned doing this with friends who'd known me awhile. Not a boy I was trying to impress.

But still. He trained those puppy dog eyes on me and I couldn't say no. He trotted off to his car to retrieve a tennis ball- the perfect starter ball. He remained confident in my catching abilities. I remained confident in my ability to embarrass myself around cute guys.

We started out close together, never a bad thing. He lobbed the springy yellow ball to me and I caught it, light in my hands. I tossed it back, a little more certain with each catch and throw.

My mom taught me conversation was like throwing a ball back and forth. Similar to the give and take of relationships.

Back and forth we went. I relaxed. I laughed. I glowed. My aim stayed true. We spread out further and my success continued, going so far as to run back and catch when he overthrew. The student had become the master.

OK, not really.

The boy and I didn't work out. These days my only games of catch involve children under the age of 4. That sunny summer day, the ease of an afternoon in a park with a cute boy, is still emblazoned on my mind.

I keep trying new things and re-trying old things. Just in case. We never know what will happen if we try.

Can you play catch? Have you ever re-tried something you weren't good at before?

Strength In Breaking

This poured out of me the other night and since Amanda said she'd hurt me if I didn't share more poetry...

One of my strengths is the ability to sit with others in their darkest moments but when it comes to my loved ones, I would give anything to make it better. This is how I live in the tension.

I will away tears

    dripping down my face

Rivers of sorrow crisscross cheeks

Eyes squeeze shut

    searching for strength

And open to look into Grief's beholder

I cannot undo this for her

I hate this for her

I am helpless

These eyes of mine continue their leaking

Saying what is unsaid

We sit together and

    I listen

I see

    strength in shouldering her burden

In letting her see me break

    on her behalf

A Change of Pace

I'm not necessarily in a hurry to get to wherever I'm going. I view myself more as an efficient driver than one with road rage issues who feels the need for speed.

Still, I surprised myself by purposefully driving the speed limit while I visited my hometown last week. Yes, out of state speeding ticket fines kept me in check. But I also realized there was no need to rush. Familiar roads called to me and old shortcuts came to mind as I met this friend here and another there.

A new mantra guided my time on the road: there is no rush.

The precise speed limit appeared an enigma at first. The speedometer asked me, "are you sure about this?" And I'd nod decisively. Yes. Let's give this a try, you and me.

I still arrived on time. The cars around me were not disturbed by my staid pace or, if they were more like my former self, they'd switch lanes and go around me. Slow or crazy drivers didn't bother me as much because now the drive mattered as much as the destination.

It shouldn't seem so revolutionary. I'm a mostly law-abiding citizen, after all. Being fully present while driving opened my eyes just the same.

The week home unfolded with gift after gift. I left the Internet to its own devices and while I sometimes thought about what I was missing, it felt good to fully commit to the people before me. To experience life the way I used to before social media enhanced (yet also invaded) my life.

Sunday I went to our annual family reunion. I met up with a friend for coffee in the morning and left from there, instead of driving with my family. The leisurely drive felt more like a stroll as I passed from town to town until I reached the farm.

I caught up with relatives, ate a most delicious smorgasbord, managed to get a slight sunburn, and walked the land. Before I knew it, 4 o'clock beckoned and it was time to say goodbye. (Let the record show: bidding adieu is never a quick affair at our family gatherings, especially not at reunions where more than 150 of us are together.)

I hopped in my car and headed toward Urbana to stay with a friend for the night. Route 47 stretched before me and again, I was in no rush. A highway would have allowed for faster speeds but I would have missed out on much.

Verdant fields preached, in spite of rain-starved Illinois. A roadrunner like bird scurried across two lanes. Cows lolling about the pasture. The sun warming all in its sight.

Previous trips, my distracted thoughts whipped as frenetically as my desire to Get There. I'd process some, sure. But my focus stayed on my speed and passing slow drivers and avoiding speed traps.

This time I reflected. Conversations, favorite restaurants, old friends, beloved family. I reviewed the majesty of the past few days and counted them as good. All pointing me to my purpose and gifts. 

Three hours later I pulled up to Kristin's house. We chatted on her front porch awhile and later she and her husband Jason made me a fancy cocktail. A luxury of a night. You can see why I've made Urbana a stopping point on my way to or from home.

The next day I continued on to Nashville. I took in the giant cross as I drove past Effingham. It called to mind a road trip to New Orleans several years ago. The first time Liz, Megan, or I had ever seen the cross or heard the story behind it. It gets lost in the shuffle when I remember that trip. Beignets and cafe au lait at Cafe du Monde. An Incubus concert with friends. And yet, there was the same beacon.

Further down I-57, wind turbines mesmerized me as they always do. The whir and whoosh of their turning blades reminded me again, there is no rush.

Reminder after reminder to enjoy the moment. To be present. Still. Engaged.

***

Days later I'm driving home from work and it is no picnic. My thoughts need censors and there is no grace to be had on this highway.

Driving Tennesseans bring out my worst. But now I've experienced the other side of driving, the calm, centered approach and I cannot find my center here. Not even a day later.

The 65-440 interchange is backed up for no good reason, per usual. Cars try to bypass the waiting line and sneak in right before the exit ends. Cheaters! I denounce with contempt. And they are cheating. Ah, but my attitude. I wonder what I miss while trying to get around cars and through backed up traffic.

I wonder why this change of pace didn't follow me home to Nashville.

How do I stay engaged while surrounded by cars unable to drive the speed limit when it rains?

I suppose I make the choice one mile at a time.

***

Summer calls for a change of priorities. Or perhaps new ideas do. Either way, I'll be posting less for the next while. We could all stand for a change of pace. More time outside, another happy hour or show to attend, letting conversations extend for hours, falling into bed happy and content. Let's be present wherever we are, no matter what befalls us.

This Is How We Met: T.B. Pasquale's Story

T.B. was tricked into meeting her husband. I loved this unusual love story!

Want to submit your TIHWM story? Check out the guidelines here.

I never thought I would get married. I said this for the first couple of years after I was married and people would respond, almost immediately, with "Oh, you are a lovely girl, why did you think no one would marry you?"

It is so interesting how people hear things through the filter of their world view. I learned over time to clarify my statement: I never thought I wanted to get married. Apparently, this is an unfathomable concept for most. I didn't think I wasn't smart enough or pretty enough or good enough to be someone's somebody. I just wasn't completely sold (actually I wasn't at all sold) on the idea that I wanted somebody to be my someone.

The initial hump of singlehood after trauma and PTSD, followed by three years in a relationship that was just bad news, was rough, but I found the parameters of how I wanted my life to look and I lived my single life with intention. I would go to movies alone, eat meals in public in solitude, and began to enjoy the space without a “someone”. I felt safe and certain and my cocoon of singlehood warded off injury--emotional or otherwise. I found freedom (even if at times it was lonely) in being the single friend on a Friday night in NYC with all the couples and coming home to my apartment alone.

In some part, at its core my solitary life was a buffer between me and real intimacy--not just romantic intimacy (which is fleeting), but in many ways all manner of human and divine intimacy. But this isn't something I consciously acknowledged at the time. And it wasn’t the whole story. I really did like the silence of a quiet home with just me and a book or me and a movie, without the intrusive compromise of someone else to consider (some days I still like that).

By the time I met my would-be-husband I needed a lot of convincing that it made sense to couple up. I think if the introduction hadn't have been forced on me I never would have met him--on principle. I was morally against dating--it seemed like a painful and awkward endeavor, to be avoided at all cost. I was tricked into my first encounter with my future husband, Chris, by my closest friend from graduate school and her sister. They had him and his best friend show up at this seedy local bar where they had dragged me to--the kind with beer pong tables in the back. I had just come from a lackluster women’s poetry slam in the basement of a building on the Lower East side and I almost didn’t show.

I have no idea what we talked about that first night but I did learn that we were both therapists and both had a room full of books in our respective homes. We talked for hours but didn’t exchange numbers—I don’t think. The next time we collided among friends the conversation didn’t stop until three hours after he pulled up in front of my Hoboken apartment. As he said good night, I leaned in and kissed him, like it was natural. Then after I think we were both surprised and flustered and I ran inside my building, heart racing, cheeks blazing. It was like some sort of accidental compulsion—but felt comforting in the most unnerving way.

The third time we decided to intentionally meet at our only communal place of prayer--Barnes & Noble. He was Brethren and I was lapsed Catholic with a penchant for the eastern traditions, yoga, and meditation. But among books we were the same—ravenous word nerds. We scoured the religion and philosophy section and then passionately discussed Nietzsche, Bonhoeffer, Ghandi, and Rohr in the coffee shop until the store closed. We couldn't have been more the same and we couldn't have been more opposite. We both had a passion and a fire for God and therapy and life, but our philosophies on all points were diametrically opposed. I am pretty sure that was the night I fell in love--although I didn't admit it until months later.

I never intended on meeting Chris and I fought my feelings for him for a very long time. In many ways learning him, and letting go enough to love him was the thing that animated my soul, waking it from a sleep. Loving him was not about principles or self-imposed guidelines. It was messy and passionate and wild and beautiful. Loving him became something I never could have imagined loving someone could be--it was a conduit to helping me love God more sincerely.

I often think if marriage is anything it is a way for God to let us feel his love and our ability to love him in some tangible way. I think there are many kinds of love that can open us to the heart of God--being a spouse, being a parent, being a friend, or being clergy to name just a few. I don't think marriage is the only way to opening to that love, but for me it was the way that broke down my safety of solitude and gave me a greater personal "knowing" of God's love and how big it could be.

We got married in our living room in Kearny, New Jersey with a homemade ceremony of poems and personal psalms, my friend who introduced us as officiant (having been ordained for the service through a virtual certification the day before), surrounded by our closest family and friends and the soft flames of 50 tea light candles.

I never thought I would get married. It has been the hardest thing I have ever done and continue to do. Father James Martin, the Jesuit priest said, in the best explanation I have ever heard of celibacy, said that in not loving one person in particular he was given the space to love many people more deeply. I would say the same of the reverse in my life--in loving one person in particular I have been given the space in my heart and my soul to love many people more deeply. And love God more deeply.

I think there are many avenues to faith and love and God and an unraveling of the soul. This unexpected love which became my marriage has been mine.

________________________________________________________________

T.B. Pasquale is a contemplative prayer advocate, interfaith and ecumenical conversationalist, trauma therapist, young-ish adult ministry leader, and yoga teacher. She writes at www.crookedmystic.org and Seekers Magazine, can be found tweeting @tbpasquale, and is the founder of "The Society for Young Christian Contemplatives". She is working on two writing projects: "The Season of Dying" (nonfiction) and "The Barefoot Saints" (fiction).