“But I refuse to burn my energy adding extra magic and sparkle to other people’s lives to get them to love me. I’m busy casting spells for myself. Everyone who was ever told a fairy-tale knows what happens to women who do their own magic.”

This article. If you’re a woman, especially in her twenties, should be mandatory reading material. Mandatory even if you’re offended by f-bombs. I stand up and salute this writer.

“Religion can be the enemy of God. It’s often what happens when God, like Elvis, has left the building. [laughs] A list of instructions where there was once conviction; dogma where once people just did it; a congregation led by a man where once they were led by the Holy Spirit. Discipline replacing discipleship.”

Bono talks Jesus. Preach Bono. Preach.

“I think I can love my country and want it to do better (sometimes a lot better even). I do not think that these two things – my love and my criticism – have to be mutually exclusive.”

My friend Jerusalem talks love of country and all things 4th of July. Love this so much. 

Lastly, I’m taking a blog break for a bit. I’m going to spend some time with my sister (who is back on vacation from her THIRD year in China).  We’re partying on the 4th. I’m going to keep plugging away at my latest writing project. Heck, maybe I’ll even clean my house. I mean… miracles do happen. 

Until then, have a wonderful holiday week. Take a deep breath. Sit outside and look up at the trees, and the wind, and the clouds. If things are good, be thankful. If things are not good, know that they can, and will, get better, and be thankful anyway.  

Hugs to you all. 

Life. Whoa. Nelly.

I feel tremendously overwhelmed.

It’s a mixed bag that tastes simultaneously like key lime pie (love) and cough medicine (hate).

It’s confusing, to be so thankful and so tear-out-my-hair-in-tufts at the same time.

I won’t pull out my laundry list of insanity because if you’re a working mom your list probably looks identical and then you’ll be all, “So what, Liz. Just get a grip already.” And then I’ll probably say something nonsensical like, “No, YOU get a grip already.” And then we might cry because it’s Monday and we’re both running on four hours of sleep. Then we’d realize we’re on the same team and we’re biting at each other, and then we’d hug and say, “I’m sorry… no I’M SORRY.” And then if men saw us they would elbow each other and say, “Women. Eh?”

We simply cannot give men that opportunity.

So let me just say WHOA NELLY.

That is all.

 

Eureka has fantastic eating establishments, and not just because of the good food.

The ambiance people, it’s awe inspiring.

It makes you eat a little slower and lounge a little more.

Eating by myself was perhaps the strangest part of vacationing alone.

I had my first meal in the ballroom of the Crescent. It was so quiet, and people spoke so softly. I sat by myself in a corner, beneath a window covered completely in ivy, listening to ice in glasses and the distant hum of big band music. I imagined the wood paneled room full of dancing. I imagined it abuzz with talking, giggling girls (the Crescent housed a girls school for many years). I mean, come on, I don’t mean to beat a dead Harry Potter horse, but just look at that first picture. Us Americans won’t get much closer to Hogwarts.

I ate my last dinner at Rogue’s Manor, and spent most of the evening trying not to choke because I was so busy looking up at the tin tile ceiling. I spent two hours there, eating, reading my book, sipping drinks. The wait staff didn’t hover, they just let me be. I didn’t say more than ten words, and I realized I really enjoy eating solo.

On my last day I gassed up the car and checked out of the Crescent. I stopped downtown at Mud St. Cafe for a quick breakfast before hitting the road. I ordered a mushroom omelet with cheese grits right before a large family filed in and sat at the gigantic table next to me.

The parents were in their 60’s, and had grown kids in tow. One of them had a small baby. One of the adult “kids” was seated closest to me, a 20-something girl with pale skin and hands that waved when she talked. She was telling her mother something, when all of a sudden the entire table turned on her and said, “SHHHHH.”

In unison.

All eight of them.

At first I thought it was a joke.

“What?!” she asked.

Her dad leaned over and hissed, “Be quiet, you’re practically shouting.”

Gals, I kid you not. She was talking at a completely normal decibel level.

“No, I’m not shouting!” she insisted, still speaking at a completely normal level.

One of her sisters rolled her eyes, “Shhhh! You are so loud, and you can’t even hear yourself.”

The irony? The baby was screaming the entire time.

It got rougher when her mother said, “Elaine, go get me some coffee.”

Elaine-the-loud-talker-but-not-really dutifully got up and made her way to the coffee bar before two or three other people called out, “Get me some too.”

“Yes,” her mom said, “Get enough for everyone.”

“Ya’ll, I only have two hands,” she muttered, her shoulders slumped. I felt heart sorry for Elaine.

“You can make more than one trip,” the eye- rolling sister barked before turning to the man next to her, “She has always been so lazy. Remember how she wouldn’t do the dishes in high school?”

I realize this happens from time to time in every family. Everyone takes a turn as punching bag at some particular juncture. It’s not ideal, but it’s still sort of our pack nature. Someone gets harped on for their hair, or clothes. Someone else gets ribbed about their job, or past breakup, or the way they threw fits as a child.

The bad thing is, families have memories like elephants, and it can be unfortunate, because no one wants to talk about their bad elementary school grades, or major, or high school boyfriend when they’re grown. But, it happens. Sometimes families pick.

But this family. Wowza. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Bless Elaine’s heart. Maybe she was a loud talker when she was in kindergarten. Maybe she was kind of lazy in high school (although my bet would be she was just hiding from all of them). But darned if she would ever live it down in that family.

If poop truly does slide downhill, she was at the bottom with a catcher’s mitt.

I realized several things.

1. I’m going to do my best to make sure I’ve allowed my sisters to grow up in my mind. I think I do alright in that arena (mostly because they’re mouthy broads and would probably tell me quickly where to get off). But there’s just this tendency in families (especially among parents and older siblings) to forever freeze someone at an age, or a stage, and always mention it, and forget that they’re grown and over it. It’s just unfair. And annoying. I’m going to try to do better.

2. I’m going to dine alone more often. You miss so much, always talking and listening and laughing and being with other people. Sometimes its good to eat food bite by bite, without hurrying or gulping. Sometimes it’s good to take in your surroundings, relax and just observe for a little while.

Observations are good, especially when you see a family like Elaine’s.

May God bless that girl with a solo vacation of her own.

 

One of the things I’ve always wanted to do when I went to Eureka was bum around St. Elizabeth’s. It’s right below the Crescent Hotel, and you can hear her bells at all times of day. She’s built onto a ledge on the side of the mountain, and her gardens are full of beautiful plants, benches, and gorgeous marble saints.

The problem with this wish is it never jived with my traveling partners in the past.

But this time I had all the time in the world. I got my nails done and then traipsed out of the hotel, down the stairs and onto the church grounds. The freedom was intoxicating. The mountain air was hot, but not as humid and muggy as I expected. The gardens were quiet, nothing but blooming things and bees. I went inside. No parishioners. No priest. No one. Just me, doing the thing I always wanted to do.

I sat on a bench in the back, just so happy to be there, so thankful to have time to myself. I pondered how much easier it might be on Sunday mornings to get into the right frame of mind if we Protestants worshipped in such a beautiful place. It was silent, and the candles flickered, and the pink light shone through the stained glass, and I was happy. Very happy.

When I was little we vacationed in Eureka often, even if it was just for a day trip. I always loved St. Elizabeth’s. It was my first clue that my name was, well, more than just my name. There’s argument over the meaning, some say it means “God’s Promise” and others say it means “Devoted to God.”  It’s also one of the most popular  names used for baby girls since the 16th century.

I don’t say all that to be all gloaty and “my name is the best name na-na-na-na.” I just always felt, from a young age, that that was my church on the side of the mountain. Hilarious isn’t it? A Church of Christ kid taking ownership over a Catholic church? Hang on with me people. Don’t stroke out.

So I sat on that bench (which is my one complaint, those benches were like the Spanish Inquisition to my buttocks) and stayed for a while. I decided to go back and sit through mass, something I’d never done before. I thought about God. I thought about my name. I thought about all my doubts. I thought about all my blessings. I thought about the last two years and what kickers they’ve been. I thought about my frizzy haired daughter, who I missed very much, who just last week looked at me and said, “Mommy, be quiet.” I suppose you could say, I took a little stock of my life.

That’s what running away by yourself can do. You get to do what you want, and take a little stock. I was able to sit in that quiet church and realize some things I’d been too busy to notice. I thought about all the women over all the centuries who sat on a bench just like mine, in a church, quiet and away from their families, who took stock of their lives.

It’s good to do what you want, every now and then. It’s good to take stock

Here’s my opinion about running away.

Location is key.

A lot of people think that to truly have a vacation, to truly escape, you have to go far and spend much and use a passport.

That’s a bunch of hooey.

Here’s my criteria for a vacation.

Am I picking gum out of a small child’s hair? No? Boom. Vacation.

Am I rewashing mildewed laundry? No? Boom. Vacation.

Am I worrying that the air conditioner isn’t cooling below 75? No? Boom. Vacation.

Am I sleeping at least six straight hours? YES! Boom. Vacation.

Every state, every town, has somewhere fabulous to go within a three hour drive. You don’t have to buy a plane ticket. You just need a tank of gas and a spouse to wish good luck as you walk out the door, leaving that underachieving air conditioner behind.

My go-to place is Eureka Springs. It’s a Victorian era town built into the side of a mountain. The Crescent Hotel sits at the very top, overlooking the town and surrounding mountains. That’s where I stayed. I ate breakfast in the old ballroom, with its dark walnut paneled walls and crystal chandeliers. I watched weddings on the lawn. I sat at the rooftop bar while the sun went down. I got my nails done in the basement spa , which used to be a morgue during the building’s brief stint as a cancer hospital (cause you guys know I’m not truly having fun unless there’s a creepy crawly factor at play).

It’s spooky. It’s beautiful. I was able to walk into town without my car. I strolled the grounds amid flowers and trees and twinkle lights in the evening. And then I returned to my room just in time to catch a group of ghost hunters pointing meters at my door while saying, “There’s a lot of energy here.”

At that particular juncture I’d walked no less than 400 miles on the hilly mountain streets and my hamstrings were coding. I wouldn’t have cared if the ghost of Elvis was haunting my room. I’d have said “move over and be quiet” before falling asleep in his face.

So, in summation, don’t feel like you have to do something huge and expensive in order to get away. Look at your state’s website and pick a place. A lodge. A spa. A town chock full of antique stores. There is always somewhere interesting within driving distance. And don’t forget, there’s always your local Holiday Inn with its pool, perfectly working air conditioners, and non-mildewed towels.