His eyes met hers, a smile nipped at one corner of his mouth, and she tried not to smile back, but oh god she was blushing. Her lips pressed together tightly, don’t smile, don’t blush, don’t giggle. Oh my god, she was acting ridiculously. No, she shook her head again, grabbed at her phone, her hair tie, her necklace, anything to not meet his eyes again.

At last, when he turned from her window, she was able to breath. She glanced in her rear view, watched him make his way further up the exit ramp. Just in time. One more minute and she might have made a really bad decision. It had been too long.

As he walked away, she shifted her eyes to the side mirror. Tall, lanky, and for all his begging, well-enough fed. She pictured his body under his clothes, imagined them hard and lean. His arms at least looked tan and strong; they would hold her in place should she try to back away. And his jeans were dusty, not grimy or caked with years of sweat and piss. He probably didn’t even smell bad. At least nothing a good shower wouldn’t change. She wondered what he would look like stepping out of her shower, skin warm from the water, a towel tussling his hair.

Oh my god. Jesus, just stop. Stop. She shook her hands, hoping to dislodge the thoughts that were making her palms sweat. She squirmed in her seat. The light was taking forever.

He was heading back down the ramp, nearing her car, he’d have to jog to get the money she’d hold out. Fingering a 5 dollar bill, she wondered what their conversation would be like. What his voice would sound like. How she would even ask…oh god, she shouldn’t do this.

At that moment the light turned. Yes. Oh yes. She was saved. She giggled, almost maniacally, her faced flushed again, this time with embarrassment.

In front of the store she found a parking spot. She browsed the tables and counter tops, walked around, half to calm herself from the encounter on the off ramp, half to find something for her office. Something charming for her desk. Something her patients could admire. Something pretty.

Her eyes settled on a rounded, polished stone, about the size of her fist. It was gorgeous, amber and marbled pink, streaked with lines of red and sharp orange. Picking it up she took it to the man behind the register.

“A gorgeous piece,” he muttered, all jowls and chins.
“Yes, what kind of stone is it?”
“Coprolite.”
“Oh, is that some sort of ocean coral or something?”
“No.” He said, very matter-of-fact. “It’s fossilized dinosaur shit.”

*** *** ***

I wish I could relax. I wish I knew how. People who have known me for years would call me laid back, cool-headed, accepting…but my mom is not wrong when she calls me tightly wound and high strung. I’m always going. Always looking for what is next, never satisfied with what I have now. I have a need, and emptiness that needs to be filled. A longing for something. But for what, I don’t know. I don’t know.

So I search and search. I try on different metaphoric hats–different places, different jobs, new people, no people, experiments in adulthood, things I can easily back down from, back out of if it becomes too frightening, or too restricting. I have claustrophobia of the spirit. I’m terrified of things that could trap me, stick me to one place or one person, make it impossible to run away or escape if need be.

I always wonder what my life would have been like had my family not moved around so much. Had we stayed in Ann Arbor. Had we stayed in Libertyville. Had I not moved after 5th grade, had I not moved after my sophomore year in high school. If I kept the same friends, or had at least known the same people in elementary school, and junior high, and high school, and maybe had some friends, or known some of the same people going into college. Would I know where I belong? Would I have a place I could call my home? Would I know how to keep the friends I make, instead of running away for no reason if they get too close, if they know me too well, if I’m too vulnerable around them? If I show them that tender spot I hid behind my ribs?

I have lived in 20 different houses or apartments, in 11 different cities over the past 29 years. I can renew drivers licenses in 4 states. Even my job is in constant motion. On Friday, I was in 5 different states. I wish I knew what it felt like to be somewhere. To stay somewhere. To know that elusive place called home.

But whenever something doesn’t feel right, whenever I question what I’m doing, or who I am, or what my purpose might be, my first thought is where do I move next? Where on my list of places I might want to be will finally feel like where I’m supposed to be? How will I even know when I find it?

Maybe I’ve already been there, but haven’t recognized it. Seattle. Or maybe it’s the place whose memories I hold the closest to my heart. Ann Arbor. Or maybe it’s the place I wish I was now. Helsinki. Or maybe it’s somewhere I’ve never been. Maine. Or somewhere I go for work. Conneticut. Or the place I was the happiest. Santa Cruz. Or someplace I’ve always wanted to move. Boston.

I don’t know. But the only way I can think to find whatever it is I seek to find, is to keep moving my feet.

BREVITY
Brevity describes itself as “a journal of concise literary nonfiction”, publishing works of 750 words or fewer. The best parts about Brevity? First and foremost, you can read current and past issues online for free! Secondly, Brevity focuses on publishing new writers; I love that! And last but not least, the short format is awesome in and of itself; the narratives are boiled down to their essentials and each sentence has power and meaning. It’s a terrific format. In fact, the magazine has become so popular that they are suspending submissions between May 2011 and September 2011 to give their poor staff a break. My favorite essay so far, White Guy by Steven Barthelme, is a mere three sentences long, but I laugh every time I read it.

GLIMMER TRAIN
Glimmer Train was founded by two sisters, who read and hand select each piece for their magazine. Many of their short stories come from sponsored monthly competitions. And like Brevity, Glimmer Train also focuses on publishing works from emerging and new authors. I subscribed to this magazine ($36 for 4 issues) after seeing an issue in my library, and I have not been disappointed. In fact, my renewal is coming up in a few months and I may re-subscribe for the next two or three years. Not only are there eight to twelve short stories per issue (enough stories to skip around based on your mood, or breeze over any that don’t suit your tastes), but each edition is gorgeous! Beautiful cover art, matching bookmarks with quotes from the featured works and author signatures, and childhood photographs of the authors. It’s a very homey publication. And just look at how lovely the editions are:

I am very proud to support this publication and encourage you to check it out. You can buy single issues online (though they sell out quickly), or subscribe for one to three years. Glimmer Train also has a related newsletter called Writer’s Ask where accomplished writers or teachers talk about writing techniques and offer advice to other writers.

ONE STORY
One Story is a literary magazine featuring just that, one story. It’s really quite a clever format, as it allows the reader to really focus on the short story. Each edition has three parts: the short story, the author’s biography, and a Q&A with the author interview that focuses on the writing process for the published work. I absolutely love it! And I would imagine that it is perfect for commuters. Perhaps my favorite thing about One Story is that they never publish the same author twice–each edition introduces you to a new author. One Story is published every three weeks, and at $21 for 18 issues, it is a bargain! Not only that but for $1.49 a month, Kindle users can have it delivered wirelessly to their device; this is how I receive my subscription. And let me tell you, I am always so excited to see a new edition pop up in my Kindle, that I (usually) read it immediately upon delivery. After all, as the website says “there is always time to read one story”.

* * * * *

So often we only focus on novels or published anthologies centered on one theme or year. In fact, I’m sure there are many readers out there who aren’t even aware that literary magazines exist, aside from The New Yorker. Having only recently discovered these magazines myself, I feel proud to support these smaller publishing efforts. I highly recommend checking out these or other literary magazines, especially for voracious readers. There is enough material to keep you entertained until the arrival of the subsequent editions. Plus these literary magazines are like tiny little treasure boxes and an absolute joy to read.

I have seen many a person struggle with the ‘which side is my gas tank on’ dilemma, when really there is an easy solution. If you look at the gas gauge on your car, there is a little triangle. The tip of the triangle points to the side of the car that the gas tank is on (see below).

The gas tank in this car is on the left-hand side

The other frustrating part about putting gas in rental cars is How in the world do you open the cover flap? These are the common areas to check:

INSIDE THE CAR
1) To the left or right of the steering column, sometimes near audio controls
2) Down by your left knee, but still in the console — Toyota hybrids especially, some Chevys
3) On the floor of the car next to the seat adjustment apparatus
4) In the arm of the door on the driver’s side — Chevys trick you with this one frequently

OUTSIDE THE CAR
1) Open the gas flap directly
2) Spring loaded gas flap opened by quickly pushing and releasing the latch point (right side of cover flap)
3) Opens like a trap door by pressing OPPOSITE to the usual latch point (left side of cover flap) — I think it was a Lexus that effed me up completely here

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Now a plug for a gem amongst rental car companies: National.

It’s even better if you are an Emerald Club member. Seriously, just sign up before you rent, the rewards are instantaneous. As an Emerald Club member you skip the desk and the lines, walk straight to the Emerald Aisle, and choose any car in your status whether you are Emerald Aisle or Executive Elite (at small airports you may still have to visit the desk). Plus the Emerald Club usually means a free upgrade for you, in addition to skipping all the time-consuming BS in the beginning.

My absence started with wanting to rethink my blog and my book reviews. But during that time I read too much and became overwhelmed with the number of pending reviews I wanted to write. December = 10 books in 5 weeks, now my total is over 24 for the year. Much higher than my usual. I also wanted to branch out and post some stuff beyond books, but I was writer’s blocked on those, too.

Then I got a new job (huzzah!), and now it’s half a year later and I have pent up guilt guilt guilt for neglecting my poor blog.

I should probably follow the writing advice given by Anne Lamott in Bird by Bird (one of the many books I blazed through during my off-time), and overcome my writers block by simply writing.

Small goals. Shitty first drafts. Overcome writer’s block by writing. Picture frame focus. Write something every day. Breath in, breath out. Practice kitty zen.

Non-fiction doesn’t feature often in my “TBR” list, but The Devil in the White City has been on my radar since my friend, Lucy, read it in college. She had recommended The Time Traveler’s Wife to me, which I loved, but I didn’t pick up the book until recently.

Marvelously paced, the book chronicles the lives of two men–Daniel H Burnham, the architect tasked with the impossible job of creating and managing construction for the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair, and H. H. Holmes, a serial killer who uses the World’s Fair and his self-designed “Murder Castle” to sate his sickening blood lust.

The book is exceptionally well-written and engrossing; there is no mistaking that Larson loved researching for the book, and this love is projected onto readers. Larson alternates between Burnham’s and Holmes’s stories on a by chapter basis, a frustrating and rewarding experience for me. I would get so absorbed in Burnham’s tale, that I would find myself almost annoyed when I had to switch over to Holmes’s story. However, such is Larson’s story-telling, that I would immediately fall into step with Holmes’s story, and greet the next Burnham chapter with the same amount of annoyance and interest. As a reader, I strongly felt the “one more chapter” or “I’ll read through the next Holmes chapter” drive, and I found myself accidentally staying up until 2 or 3 in the morning just to finish “the next chapter”. One might think a serial killer’s story would be more compelling than that of an architect who has to overcome a dying economy and years worth of bureaucratic red tape, but I found myself devouring each chapter and equally interested by both narratives.

Larson also manages to place readers in time. There were so many new products and inventions introduced during the Fair, that Fair goers were thrust into the future with wide eyes. But such was Larson’s talent for revelation, as a modern reader I found myself as in awe of Shredded Wheat and Ferris Wheels and rows and rows of electric bulbs powered by alternating current (AC) as were the Fair-goers of 1893.

And on a personal level, Larson could not have captured Chicago more perfectly. I spent juinor high and half of high school in the Chicago suburbs and Larson made my heart ache for the city, and for the people, and for the wonder feel of wind blowing over the lake and onto my face.

The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison
Paperback, 224 pages
Published by Penguin, 1994
ISBN: 978-0-452-28219-3

In allegorical stories particular characters represent a much larger theme or concept, a concept that transcends the bounds of the character to represent society or human nature on a larger scale. In Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye, Pecola, a mere child, assumes a much larger role. Pecola, the unfortunate young girl, impregnated by her father, represents the plight of the black person in an unforgiving, post-Great Depression society.

Throughout the novel Pecola encounters hardships fairly unique to blacks in the 1940s. She is ignored; she is shown little affection, even from her family; her needs are ignored, even by her people; and Pecola is not viewed in the same light as the Shirley Temple-like white children. Encounters with other characters in the novel highlight the struggle of the black culture as she faces abuse and deceit where ever she goes.

The first aspect of Pecola’s life to abuse her is her home. Her father rapes her, implying that black society, by not rising above the station and behaviours assigned to them by the white people, that blacks are essentially fucking themselves. Pecola’s apartment itself is an impoverished, dilapidated space remodeled from an old store front. The store was, once upon a time, prosperous but eventually went out of business. The recycled goods in which Pecola lives represents the second class treatment and segregation of the blacks. The Bluest Eye was written after the Civil Rights movement– when blacks were segregated from whites into second class, decaying facilities. Pecola’s isolated, decaying home mirrors current events as observed by Morrison. The segregation is even noted when Morrison points out that the rich white people lived up the street, across town, and up hill– higher up both literally and figuratively– from Pecola’s wretched living situation.

Through Pecola’s mother, Pauline, Morrison relates another hurdle that the black culture must overcome. Pauline steps on a nail and becomes slightly handicapped. This symbolizes the blacks’ already weakened condition. Through years of mistreatment and feelings of indifference directed towards Pauline, she becomes an apathetic servant who bows down and obeys her white “superiors”. Morrison uses Pauline to represent the individuals within black society whose feelings of inferiority prevent them from taking a stand against the whites for equality. Pauline ignores her daughter, thus ignoring the please of the other blacks in society who strive for equality. Pauline, instead of comforting her daughter after Pecola knocks over a pie, runs to help a crying white toddler and promises to bake the toddler another pie. From this experience, Pecola realizes that her needs are less important than a white person’s and learns to not fight back. The cycle of self-doubt, apathy, and inferiority is forced upon the next generation.

Even God and religion betray Pecola. When Pecola goes to Soaphead Church for help, he appears to grant her wish for “the bluest eye”, yet still uses Pecola for his own purposes. While promising Pecola blue eyes, Church has the unsuspecting Pecola poison a dog. Though he appears helpful, in the end Church, too, betrayed Pecola. Here Morrison uses Soaphouse’s name to not so subtly imply that the Church, a safe haven for worship and hope for most of black society, will not help the blacks attain their dreams if they are naive to the limits of prayer. Prayer alone will not save the blacks. Morrison is stating that unless black people educate themselves, and open their eyes to the motives of the white people AND of their fellow blacks, they will remain forever vulnerable to deception and betrayal as was Pecola. Moreover “Soaphouse” implies a place where things are cleaned and washed. Morrison is also warning her fellow blacks not be deceived into white-washing culture. To assimilate so completely into the white culture will also leave blacks unfulfilled. She argues that blacks should retain their individuality and cultural pride in order to retain their strength.

Through repeating interactions and motifs, most notably in the repeated birth scenes, Morrison shows the reader that each of these insidious traits are passed from one generation of blacks to the next. The first birth highlighted in the novel is that of Pecola. The procreation of her mother and father creates Pecola, and Pecola’s observation of her parents’ experiences with white people teaches Pecola how she should act towards white society. Pecola is taught to yield to white people, and to be ashamed of her existence and appearance as a black woman. These characteristics are perpetuated when Pecola’s father rapes her and impregnates her with an inbred baby. This baby shrivels and dies. Here Morrison is saying that if the bad characteristics, such as inferiority complexes, indifference, and withdrawal, aren’t stopped, they will be taught to each subsequent generation of black children until the entire race shrivels and dies. Morrison is warning her people and her culture that to sit idly by and to allow white people to degrade the existence of the blacks will destroy black culture.

Another repeated motif is Pecola’s desire for “the bluest eye”. In the novel the bluest eye represents equality. Pecola aches for blue eyes because she knows that blue eyes will make her happy. This symbolizes the black’s push for equality; equality will make them happy and successful as a race. Morrison is keen to point out that Pecola is not wishing to be white, she only wants blue eyes. Here Morrison is highlighting the fact that black people do not want to lose their identity as a race. They only want to be treated equally and fairly. Taking this into consideration, it can also be argued that Soaphouse Church also represents the government. Soaphouse promises Pecoal blue eyes and when Pecola looks into the mirror, she sees blue eyes. However, to everyone else, Pecola’s eyes are still brown. Here Morrison is implying that although the government has enacted laws which give the appearance of black equality, the nature of society ensure that blacks still have very few rights, and ensures they will be treated no better than they were in the past. Morrison is issuing a word of caution to her fellow blacks, urging them not to abandon their fight for equality until blacks have achieved true equality. Morrison greatly values and is very proud of her heritage, and this love is apparent in The Bluest Eye.

I encourage everyone to read this book and not just for the thought-provoking allegory. Because the book deals with difficult subject matter such as molestation, incestual rape, and racism, people have pushed for this book to be banned from schools. Yes, the subject matter is difficult, but when else are young adults given a forum to intellectually exam difficult topics? There is a larger social commentary to this book, and many other banned books, that is important and should be discussed. If we blind ourselves to the baser elements of our society, we are weakening our culture and our collective intelligence as a society, exactly what Morrison is warning blacks not to let happen. How ironic that her attempt to enlighten us the reader, and us as a society is the object of censorship. We should not allow ourselves to be sheltered, or allow the wool to be pulled over our eyes. Social injustices such as genocide and discrimination occur because of such naivety and censorship. Banning The Bluest Eye won’t lead to genocide or a police state or totalitarianism, but it is a drop in the bucket. Enjoy a banned book, and enjoy The Bluest Eye. You will not be disappointed.

For another review of The Bluest Eye, see Park Benches & Bookends

Cape Spear is only about fifteen minutes from my hotel in St John’s, but detours through residential and rural neighborhoods, and down narrow highways lined with yellow-leaved trees. But the view from the point looking back towards St John’s was pretty, if a little bit gray:

The most Easterly point wasn’t well labeled so I meandered around the WWII cannon artillery for a little bit:

Cape Spear served as a North American defense point in WWII. These cannons were provided to Canada by the United States through the Wartime Arms Agreement. Don’t think I didn’t laugh like a 13-year-old boy as I snapped this shot:

From the artillery I decided to climb up to the lighthouses:

Truthfully, that picture above was not taken from the artillery, but rather from a point further down the hill…I used it for the dramatic effect :) But from the artillery, I did have to climb these stairs to get to the new lighthouse:

And then had to climb these stairs up to the oldest lighthouse in Canada:

I absolutely adore lighthouses. I could take a bajillion pictures and still not feel satisfied. So you, dear reader, are now subjected to two more lighthouse photos:

After wandering around for quite a bit, I eventually found the most easterly point in North America!! Actually, there was a “Most Easterly Point” as identified by this sign…

…but there was also a path below the “Most Easterly Point”, which was quite obviously even more eastern than the “Most Easterly Point”. So I took a victory picture here:

It was blustery and rainy and cold, but it was well worth the trip. Newfoundland is lovely! And since it is surprisingly close to the UK, there is a huge Irish and Scottish influence here. People speak in an interesting Canadian version of a brogue, and the men like to call me darlin’. Even my rental car GPS has an accent “In tah-hunert mayters, tarn laft” which translates to “In two hundred meters, turn left”. The architecture falls somewhere between Old World harbor town and modern day suburbs. It’s quite cute and remote. I wouldn’t mind returning for a more full tour of both Newfoundland and Labrador.

And finally. The “Harbour View” from my hotel window was not so picturesque as one might imagine, but all-in-all this has been a great little trip:

We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver
Paperback, 400 pages
Published by Harper Perennial, 2003
ISBN: 978-0-399-24677-7

I picked up this book to read on the plane to and from Scandinavia. Although I loved The Post Birthday World by Lionel Shriver, I was a little wary of this novel’s subject matter, namely the fallout and self-doubt a mother experiences after her son commits a heinous school shooting. But the book won The Orange Prize, and as I’ve said before, The Post Birthday World was absolutely fabulous (read it, for real), so I took the chance. And I was privileged to read a deeply moving, traumatic book about love and loss and motherhood.

Formatted in a series of letters to her husband, Franklin, Eva Khatchadourian documents the story of her’s and Franklin’s love, their family, and her inability to connect with her son, Kevin. Initially I wondered why we are only privileged to Eva’s thoughts. Were we the audience to assume the role of Franklin? Was Franklin receiving the correspondence, but choosing to ignore these soul-baring olive branches? I decided Eva was writing to Franklin as I used to write to my friend Emily, just a name I wrote in a diary as I tried to connect with a part of my life that I had forever lost.

Eva uses these letters to justify her motherhood to Franklin. He can’t, as he did during their life together, claim that Eva is a cold-hearted, distant mother. He can’t chose to believe Kevin’s telling of events over his wife’s. He can’t dismiss Eva’s doubts about her son, about her role as a mother. He can’t dismiss her feelings. Eva finally is given the voice she was never able to have in their relationship after the birth of Kevin, and she pours her every self-doubt and frustration and sadness into the pages she writes to Franklin. She also uses these letters to probe deep within her heart and psyche to ask why. Why did Kevin commit these crimes? And the most heart-breaking question for her to bear: was she to blame?

Though there were moments of levity and genuine tenderness, as you may well imagine, this is a heavy book to read. We are privy to one woman’s sincere loss of everything that ever meant something to her; we experience her deep pain and profound self-doubt. This book was not an easy read by any means, but for anyone who has ever searched their soul for the meaning of their life, their reason for being on earth, there is an eloquence and honesty to Eva’s emotional release that everyone can relate to. Eva is also incredibly brave. She gives voice to thoughts many women have, but that are unforgivingly taboo — at one point she lists all of the reasons she doesn’t want to be a mother.

Through Eva’s telling of events, a common question we ask ourselves becomes Is Kevin really a horrible child, or is Eva a horrible mother? And the answer isn’t a simple black and white. Neither party is to blame, but neither party is innocent. I vacillated back and forth between thinking Kevin was truly an evil child to thinking he was misunderstood and acting out to earn his mother’s affection. And while I did think Eva was stand-offish and unsure of her role as mother, I could tell she harbored affection and love for her first child. And while Kevin seems like a horrid child, his actions as portrayed in the book are essentially his actions pushed through Eva’s filter. His actions aren’t necessarily true to reality, but they are true to Eva’s reality. And that is what the book is about, Eva is examining her reality.

Perhaps the best insight I had into her’s and Kevin’s relationship occurred 50 pages from the end of the novel. Eva and Franklin argue and determine they should get a divorce once the school year is over. Kevin would go with Franklin, and Eva would take Kevin’s sister, Celia. Eavesdropping, Kevin interrupts this part of the conversation and Eva realizes that Kevin doesn’t want to get stuck with his father, he’d rather go with his mother. It was the first time I realized that Kevin was really striving for his mother’s approval, an insight that was further supported in the coming chapters. Kevin gives a rare interview to a television documentary. The filmmaker asks Kevin about each of his relations in turn. Each is given a harsh critique, but when the filmmaker asks Kevin equally probing questions about his mother, Kevin, to everyone’s surprise, sticks up for his mother and everything she did and went through during and after his trial. And as the tv documentary pans out, Eva sees that the only decoration in Kevin’s room is a picture of his mother.

No surprisingly, there is also a clear Oedipal streak running through the novel. As Kevin ages his cries for attention, especially where his mother are concerned, become more and more sexual in nature. Even the method Kevin chooses for his executions is innately phallic; arrows, wooden shafts impaling soft flesh. Eva’s inability to cope with or react to her son’s odd, disturbing behaviour causes Eva to pull further and further away from her relationships with her son and husband. As she observes:

…I did feel under siege. My daughter had been half blinded, my husband doubted my sanity, and my son was flouting his butter-greased penis in my face. –page 300

If I hadn’t already decided I loved this book, one surprise element would have convinced me. I pride myself on the accuracy of my story-predictions; after all, I’m always right. However, I was genuinely impressed and surprised by Shriver’s story-telling at the end of the novel. Her ability to weave a story, even one as psychologically dense as this one, is unparalleled. She has the unique gift of completeness, each character feels like a whole being whose motives, flaws, and thoughts are natural to their imperfect humanity. This book was a fantastic read because it was poignant and true. It is highly recommended.

Not only did I just get back from vacation, but tomorrow is my last day working from the Seattle branch of my company. By Wednesday of next week, I will be on my way to my new-again home, Minneapolis, MN. I was born in Minneapolis, and lived there for a total of two post-natal weeks. In some ways I’m hoping this move will be a rebirth for me. I’ve definitely stagnated in life; whatever my expectations of post-college life, I think I speak for many my age when I say life is not as glamorous as I thought it would be. Nor do I find a logical path set before me; instead, I feel like a hurtling missile whose trajectory and guidance systems have been tampered with.

I will be living by Lake Harriet, the very lake my mother used to walk around as she tried to convince the already week-late Erin-fetus that it was time to be freaking born already. Living by the lake excites me, especially since I’ll be working from home. I will have some place to go, something to do during my work breaks. And there is a constant flux of people, so I (hopefully) won’t be some friendless loser whose only contact with the world outside is a monthly teleconference with her manager.

And of my favorite states in the Union, Minnesota ranks right up there. Michigan, Washington, and Maine (at least my fantasies of Maine and Maine winters) also score huge with me.

It’s strange, though. It’s my last day at work tomorrow, then on Tuesday the movers come, and Wednesday I start driving. But my actual move seems light years away; it hasn’t sunk in yet that I’m leaving this lovely, gloomy state; or that I’m leaving the one true and genuine friend I’ve made in years.

One comfort I have found is a strange companion indeed–The Kalevala: The Epic Poem of Finland. I stumbled upon this poem while trying to look up information about Nuuksio National Park. The meter seemed familiar, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on why, so I Wikipedia’ed it. And indeed the meter, trochaic tetrameter or the Kalevala meter, was used by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow when he wrote The Song of Hiawatha.

If you have read even parts of Hiawatha, you will recognize the Ojibwa (Chippewa) names of Nokomis, Minnehaha, Hiawatha, Minnetonka, and so on. Pretty much everything in Minnesota has an Ojibwa-derived name. And in another cool vacation-Minneapolis parallel, within the Chippewa National Park is an area called Suomi, which is Finnish for Finland.

So the Universe is reassuring me in all the signs-giving ways that this is, indeed, the right decision for me. I am happier for having found these poems, so I leave you with parts of both:

The Kalevala
O’er her eggs the teal sat brooding,
And the knee grew warm beneath her;
And she sat one day, a second,
Brooded also on the third day;
Then the Mother of the Waters,
Water-Mother, maid aerial,
Felt it hot, and felt it hotter,
And she felt her skin was heated,
Till she thought her knee was burning,
And that all her veins were melting.
Then she jerked her knee with quickness,
And her limbs convulsive shaking,
Rolled the eggs into the water,
Down amid the waves of ocean,
And to splinters they were broken,
And to fragments they were shattered.

The Song of Hiawatha
By the shores of Gitche Gumee,
By the shining Big-Sea-Water,
Stood the wigwam of Nokomis,
Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis.
Dark behind it rose the forest,
Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees,
Rose the firs with cones upon them;
Bright before it beat the water,
Beat the clear and sunny water,
Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water.
There the wrinkled old Nokomis
Nursed the little Hiawatha,
Rocked him in his linden cradle,
Bedded soft in moss and rushes,
Safely bound with reindeer sinews;
Stilled his fretful wail by saying,
“Hush! the Naked Bear will hear thee!”
Lulled him into slumber, singing,
“Ewa-yea! my little owlet!
Who is this, that lights the wigwam?
With his great eyes lights the wigwam?
Ewa-yea! my little owlet!”