I’ll admit it – I take my mom for granted. I don’t always think about how she stayed home full-time with Na and me until we were in elementary school. At that point, she began working at the same school so that she could bring us to school and bring us home. Until then, she took us to the library for storytime and community puppet shows and performances. She allowed us to help her bake, usually for our teachers or other people. Her specialty was persimmon cookies and bread, using the fresh persimmons from the two trees in our backyard.

Some days, she would take us downtown to visit dad at work. I remember playing on a concrete slide (that is no longer there), and occasionally getting to buy Swedish fish (at a store that also is no longer there). We’d check out dad’s office and play with all the knick-knacks on his desk, and I’d marvel at all the colors of markers he got to use. One day, when I was in maybe in 1st or 2nd grade, mom let me get my ears pierced at Bedazzled, located downstairs from dad’s office. Years later when I wanted a third hole – but only on one side –  mom also got one ear pierced with me.

I really liked having mom at the same school. When I needed lunch money, I only needed to run to her classroom. After school, we’d go to her preschool classroom to wait. While we waited, we either played out in the preschool playground or played with the kids. I remember my classroom even went on a field trip with my mom’s kids, with each student in my class paired up with a preschool buddy.

Na always remembers that, when we were kids, mom killed a snake in the backyard with a shovel. I think adrenaline kicked in when she saw the snake and thought about how it could hurt us. Talk about a mother’s protective instinct. I don’t remember that, though. But I do know that my mom is tougher than she looks, and I’ve seen her assert herself many times. That’s something I could learn from her.

One of my strongest memories of my mom is not as dramatic as Na’s. It’s from the day of my high school graduation. The ceremony was in downtown Sacramento, about 25 minutes from home, I think (without traffic). I’d forgotten the golden sash showing my participation in the California Student Federation, which I was supposed to wear around my neck during the ceremony. To be honest, I can’t even remember what I did to earn it, or what it meant. Regardless, my mom wanted me to be able to have it. Right before the ceremony began, she dashed home to get the sash. I was already lined up in the hallway, about to enter into the auditorium. I remember her rushing to me, sash in hand, just in time.

Since becoming an adult, moving away from home, and being pretty independent, I know I haven’t been the easiest daughter to build a relationship with. I make a point to keep in touch, but I’m aware that I can put up walls sometimes. I may not want to be taken care of like a kid, but I have to understand that a mother will always act like a mother. And that’s probably a good thing.

So, mom, happy mother’s day…and thank you for all you’ve done for me – and continue to do. Happy mother’s day, also, to my mother-in-law, and thanks for raising a great son. :)

And happy mother’s day to all the other special women out there who are mothers, mothers-to-be, women who care for other children as their own, and to those who have had to say goodbye to their own. You are loved.

These few days in May always bring a lot of reminiscing for me. The first significant date is May 7 – our wedding anniversary. Today, we celebrated six years of marriage. Coincidentally, yesterday I stumbled upon my outdated Shutterfly account, which was full of photos from my life in LA. Some of the ones in there included our engagement and wedding pictures. Sometimes I feel like the six years has gone by really fast; but, at the same time, I feel like those years of being in LA were eons ago.

Last year, I posted about the beginnings of our relationship and reasons why I love Matt, so I’ll spare you all the sentiments this year. All I’ll say is that I’m thankful for him – the things I really admire about him and, dare I say it, even the things that drive me a little batty.

These dates also are significant because exactly five years ago, we packed up a U-Haul and drove up to Seattle with my dad and Matt’s mom. We had never seen our apartment until we pulled up to it. It was a warm, sunny Seattle weekend (in May!), and after we unloaded everything, we launched right into hitting the Seattle spots – Pike Place, Kerry Park, and Ezell’s Chicken (made famous by Oprah). We were newlyweds on a new adventure – and we haven’t regretted it since.

When I looked at the pics from Shutterfly, I felt like the experience of living in LA was a distant memory. I felt like there was a lot of emotional adjustment upon moving there, and I look back at those years almost like I was a different person. Then again, I know Matt would agree with me that we’ve both grown a lot since moving here.

A day after we unpacked and our parents flew back to California, I started my job at WV. It has been five years now that I’ve been there, and I haven’t grown tired of it yet. There have been many, many hard moments, but also many good, good ones, too. It’s funny to think back at my first few months there and how my relationships with my teammates, comfort level, and familiarity with everything has changed. I am so thankful to be there, and am glad that Matt can be there, too.

Here are a couple of pics from my Shutterfly account…

(We totally staged this photo. Matt tried to catch the real moment, but the camera went off a little too late. So we reenacted this. hehe. I look so cheesy.)

(Engagement shot by Susan in San Diego. I remember we had a disagreement on the way down to SD because the directions I wrote down weren’t right – and I, unfortunately, hadn’t brought Susan’s number with me. I felt horrible about being late – and unable to contact Susan – and Matt was giving me a hard time for not being more responsible. Somehow we made it – and Susan was still waiting for us at our meeting spot – and we managed to make peace with each other and look like we loved each other in the photos.)

(Wedding day – pics also by Susan! I still love, love, love the pink and green combo and our polka-dot motif!)

(View of the smoke from the Porter Ranch fires on my way home from work. At night, from my apartment building, I could see the flames in the hills. Crazy. I don’t think wildfires are much of an issue here in western Washington.)

(Taken at a mall in Sao Paulo in 2002. I paid to jump on a big trampoline and was ambitious to try a flip. I managed to do it, but couldn’t control my landing. All of my momentum propelled me forward onto my face. You could imagine I got a lot of laughs. Fortunately, I didn’t get hurt.)

Life sure has been interesting.

If starting the last post was hard, this one will be even harder. It was somewhat easy for me to recount all the facts of the story, but it won’t be as easy to revisit all the emotions and  share them in a somewhat coherent manner. I guess I’ll just pick up where I left off…

When we thought we would be having a baby, we decided to redo our floors, which had been on our to-do list for awhile. This required that all our furniture be piled into one part of the house and be removed from all of our rooms. For about a week, Matt and I slept on sleeping bags in one small bare spot in the “man cave,” surrounded by a bookshelf on one side, a couch on another, and two desks on the third side. If a miscarriage could ever have poor timing, this would probably be it. Our house – the one place that should’ve been our place of refuge – was a disaster zone.

The day that the miscarriage was confirmed, Matt and I stayed out pretty much all day – not wanting to go into the office, but not being able to go home because of the guys working on our floors. Not having much of a desire to do anything, we decided to watch the newest Narnia movie. I can’t even really remember much of it. What I do remember was that I cried whenever I saw Aslan. I’ve always loved that God is depicted as a lion – an animal whose mane I’d love to bury my face in, but also one that commands reverence and awe.

But to see Aslan – and to think of God – that day made me want to turn my face away. If I were face to face with Aslan, I wouldn’t want to run to him. I’d turn away and pretend I didn’t see him, because I wouldn’t know what to say – and I wouldn’t know if I’d even want to say anything to him. The thought of being in the presence of God and not wanting to run into His arms made me extremely sad. I didn’t want to feel that way, yet that’s exactly how I felt. But if you asked me right then if I was mad at God, I would’ve said no.

The next day, I left the house the same time Matt went to work. Again, I wanted to stay in bed, so Matt said he’d go the office and find a hotel room on Priceline so I could have as much solitude as I wanted. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to get around to doing that till late afternoon, so I spent pretty much the whole day at Target. I went through a shopping list and then spent several hours in the Starbucks inside the store writing in my journal and finishing up Christmas cards. While I was busy and out, I was less likely to think about the miscarriage.

But that night as I tried to sleep, resolved to go back to work the next day, I had time to let the sadness creep back in. Whenever I can’t sleep, my automatic response is to pray to God to help my mind rest and for my body to fall asleep. But that night, I caught myself. Why would I pray to God to help me fall asleep when this was the same God we prayed to every night for a healthy baby? And then it hit me. I was angry at God. I was questioning why God allowed this to happen to us. Again. And partly out of relief that I was being honest with myself and also partly out of sadness that I felt that way, I began to sob.

That was just the first of many, many nights and days when I would feel torn about my emotions, and would often end up in tears because I was confused over how I was feeling and how I thought I was supposed to feel.

I can’t explain what happened to resolve that hurdle, but I do remember having to leave church early the following Sunday because I couldn’t stop crying toward the end of service. When I got home, I didn’t even eat lunch. I laid in my sleeping bag and cried. I finally figured that I would pray – but I had no words to say. It was like I dialed God’s number and just stayed on the line without saying anything. After maybe 30 minutes, I fell asleep. And when I woke up, I felt like a burden had been lifted. I no longer felt angry at God, and if anything, craved anything that reminded me of Him. He was hurting with us and walking through this with us, and I didn’t want to shut Him out anymore.

The hard part about telling so many people about the pregnancy was that so many people knew about the miscarriage. But that was also a blessing, because a lot of people were praying for and thinking of us. Going back to LA to spend Christmas with Matt’s family also brought on some anxiety. We knew the time off was needed. But would I be OK? Would I be a complete mess or would I put on a brave face as to not make people feel uncomfortable? Fortunately, Matt’s family told us in advance that they would give us whatever we needed – time on our own, time together, whatever. That was really nice. Matt’s mom also made sure that I received physical rest and nourishment, something I wasn’t paying as much attention to.

Over the next few weeks, we heard from many people about their own experiences or those of people they knew that were similar to ours. “So and so had two miscarriages – and then they had their two kids.” “I had three miscarriages, and the pregnancies that followed were fine. Don’t worry, it can still happen for you.” It was encouraging to hear those stories of hope. And I began to feel hopeful.

But as weeks turned into a month, and then another month, those stories comforted me less and less. I wondered if those mothers even remembered what it was like to be in this waiting period, and if they did – why weren’t they in touch? Did they no longer remember the sadness they felt after their miscarriages, before they had their healthy pregnancies? I also began to realize that everyone else had moved past this and probably thought I had as well. Sometimes it seems like even Matt has moved past this and would also forget if I weren’t the only anchor holding him back to it. I certainly don’t expect any of our friends, co-workers, even family members to remain in our pain as long as we are, but it’s so nice when people remind us that they are thinking of us.

I remember one conversation we had with my parents via Skype. We talked about something that we have planned for the same weekend as our original due date. My mom later emailed and said that she detected some sadness in my voice, so it’d be good for us to get away when the due date arrives. I couldn’t remember if I intended to be sad, and then I wondered if my mom was being too sensitive. But then I realized that I should be grateful that she is thinking about how I may be feeling and also that she chooses to tell me that she remembers our pain. And I know when the due date rolls around, I have no doubt she will be thinking of us. And I will be grateful that she remembers.

I am also realizing that many people feel uncomfortable in my pain. Even telling people about the miscarriage made me feel like I was responsible for their reaction. I do believe that most people who don’t ask me how I’m doing are simply being respectful of my privacy. I understand that and would do the same if I hadn’t gone through this. But even when I mention the miscarriage or say something like, “When I was pregnant, I remember….” , I could sense when the person I’m talking to is uncomfortable. So I back off and change the subject, because I don’t want them to be uncomfortable. But in doing so, it means I’m not being fair to myself. I’m pretending like I’m not feeling a certain way or that I don’t remember a certain time in my life – for the sake of that person. It’s one thing to always talk about it when it happened 20 years ago. But how can anyone expect me to not be thinking about the miscarriage when it happened only three months ago? Can I pretend like we never saw the little peanut on the ultrasound machine, and that we never saw its heart fluttering? Am I supposed to act like I never fantasized about having a little one running around the house? Of course not. But why do I feel like people expect me to act like it never happened?

It’s a strange feeling, wanting to talk so openly about something that has caused – and still causes – me so much pain. But after hearing from other people who continue to grieve over their own losses, I realize that it’s quite normal. It’s normal and healthy to want to validate your pain and emotions, and it’s OK to want people to remember the baby that you lost. That’s the primary reason I’m writing about this here. I would feel dishonest with myself if I were to return to blogging after my break without mentioning the miscarriages. My perception is that outsiders see a miscarried baby as something unborn that never breathed a breath in this life – therefore, it had no real life to grieve for. But it’s more than just a physical loss – it’s a dream that was never fulfilled, and that can be just as heartbreaking. I want to tell people about our experience, because it’s not right for people who go through this to go through it alone and be misunderstood.

In January, when I got together with Keba, she said to me, “I can’t believe I haven’t seen you since I lost the baby.” Her word choice was subtle, but it spoke volumes to me. She could have easily said, “I haven’t seen you since the miscarriage,” but acknowledging that we lost a baby demonstrated that she knows we’ve suffered a great loss. And because it’s a big loss, it’s OK for us to feel the way we feel, even if it makes no sense to us or the people around us. To recover from losing a baby sounds more serious than simply recovering from a miscarriage. I still use the term miscarriage because it’s the easiest way to refer to the situation, but it sounds more clinical. I also tend to use that term because it makes people feel less uncomfortable, which may or may not be the best thing to do.

Keba is due to deliver her first baby in less than a week. Over the past nearly five years, she’s become one of my closest friends – and definitely my closest friend in town. We make a point to see each other several times a month, it seems. I don’t always want to surround myself with pregnant people, but I can’t imagine not being a part of her life during this exciting time. I want to hear about her pregnancy, so she entertains my questions and lets me know how she’s doing – which, to me, honors me by not feeling sorry for me and by not feeling fearful that I’ll hold her pregnancy against her. She also asks me direct questions about how I’m doing, and never makes me feel like I have to hide my emotions from her. If I start a sentence with, “When I was pregnant…” or “If we’re able to have kids, I want to…,” she doesn’t flinch. She gives me plenty of room to hurt, doesn’t judge how I feel, and then continues to share messages of hope.

She also has gone through a different type of loss recently, so we both have our moments when we mention things that remind us about our losses – but our conversations also can be lighthearted and fun. We’re not just moping around all the time, and sometimes, I feel like people who don’t understand where I’m at might be afraid that I’ll just sit around and cry if they ask me about the miscarriage. So instead, I make a point to spend the most time with people who allow me to be myself – whether or not I want to talk about the miscarriage – and who don’t act awkward if I want to talk about my feelings.

I continue to struggle. A lot. And each day, each week is different. Sometimes I feel alone in how I feel. Sometimes I feel angry at other people. Sometimes I don’t feel like doing anything – and then I am hard on myself for being lazy. And then I try to tell myself that it’s OK to take care of myself and just do what I want to do right now. Sometimes I can’t rejoice in the news of someone else’s pregnancy, but then I force myself to talk to them about their pregnancy, which usually makes me feel happier for them. But then when they don’t acknowledge my situation, I feel like they’re not mentioning it because they don’t want to feel bad that they’re pregnant while I’m not. A lot of times I wish I could talk to people about how I feel, that they wouldn’t look uncomfortable when I even slightly refer to the miscarriage.

There are many days when I’m unmotivated at work and get irritated at every little things. But then I hear about people in situations much worse than mine, and I end up thinking of things I’m thankful for. Sometimes I get sad that I can’t bond with people who are moms, and then I get annoyed with moms who don’t have anything to talk about besides their kids. A lot of times, I just want to work out, because it provides me with physical and emotional rest. Sometimes I wonder where all those people are who were so overjoyed at our pregnancy or the ones who have been through miscarriages. And I wonder who else has gone through what we have – and still don’t share their pain with anyone, thus continuing the cycle where people can’t talk about their grief. Then I think about friends who’ve experienced grief in the past, and how I failed to check in with them, thinking I was being respectful by giving them space and not taking the chance to see if they needed support. And then oftentimes, I am so thankful for the few people who remain with me and make a point to push aside their discomfort to ask me how I’m feeling – not just in general, but in regards to all the baby stuff.

Just a few weeks ago, I had another positive pregnancy test. But within a week, the pregnancy was over. I found out it was chemical pregnancy, which means the egg was fertilized, but never was implanted in my uterus. I tried to be cautious about not being too hopeful and, fortunately, I had less than a week to get too excited. I sometimes find myself playing it off like it wasn’t anything too serious. If a miscarriage sounds clinical, a chemical pregnancy sounds even more so. But the truth is, my hope was stomped on again, and I have to pick up the pieces all over again. But I don’t feel defeated. Discouraged, maybe, but not defeated. As the Psalmist said, “…from the depths of the earth, you will again bring me up,” and that’s the truth to which I’m holding.

Nine years ago to the day, I started my first real blog. Prior, I just had crudely made a website that had a smattering of photographs, artworks and quotes that I enjoyed. But on November 26, 2001, I started a blog using Geocities, which is no longer around. I created a little icon of a wand-wielding fairy wearing a long green dress and green wings, Lisa Loeb-type glasses, and an up-do secured by a green chopstick. (Yes, that was supposed to be me.)

Each blog entry was a simple block of text, with the fairy icon at the end of the text linking the reader back to the main page, which was simply a list of blog post titles. In January 2004, I switched over to taffystay.com, which allowed me to maintain my blog via wordpress. Suddenly, blogging became much, much easier.

My first blog post was titled “hello, my name is,” and I began by saying, “So this is my first entry. I don’t even know if anyone will find this or if I would even direct anyone to it. I’ve been wanting to do something like this for awhile but who wants to maintain a web page on a 56k modem?” haha…boy, I’ve come a long way. When I started the blog, I was working off a desktop computer and dialing into Juno to check my e-mail. I shared a four-bedroom house in San Bruno, slept in a twin-sized bed with a bright green floral bedspread, and tried to be crafty by making curtains out of pale lime-green towels (an idea, I believe, from Martha Stewart).

My first entry was nothing too interesting. I talked about spending a few days in Sacramento and inviting ET, Tommy, Carol and Steph over to play games and hang out. I talked about deliberately not isolating myself from people, especially with my upcoming move back to Sacramento prior to going to Brazil. I also talked about “riding around in Kit’s chick-mobile with the cool mp3 player and collecting blood squares for lunch.”

In the months that followed, I talked a lot about capoeira fundraisers and events, saying goodbye to good friends, eating and working out (and then eating again) with Queencie, things I would miss in San Francisco, crushes, and other funny adventures that I couldn’t imagine getting myself into now.

I guess it’s reassuring to see that my writing voice hasn’t changed, and many of my convictions and insights haven’t either (although I would like to think that I’ve matured in some ways…).

I don’t know what this says about me, but I’ve printed out every single blog post since that first one. With my blog and my handwritten journals, I’m bound to have a solid record of my life ever since I was old enough to write in a diary. Our kids and their kids will be able to read my very first diary entry (I think from when I was 8??) where I mentioned that I hated socks with the line on top. In case I lose my memory, I’ll have something to read as a refresher, and I will wonder who this person is who I’m reading about. And maybe one day, our kids and their kids and their kids will want to read my writings because they want to know what I was like. I sort of doubt it, but it’s a nice thought. :)

I often wonder what the point is of keeping all my diaries, blog posts and letters from friends. Is it egotistical to want to preserve this much of me for the future, as if I were such an important person? Or am I simply creating a huge recycling task for my kids down the line?

I guess that’s not for me to figure out now. The fact is, I love to write. I love to share my thoughts, and it’s a lot easier for me to get them down on paper (virtual or otherwise) because I am not eloquent in person. I also have a hard time believing people would want to hear these types of thoughts in a conversation. Sometimes what goes through my head isn’t really casual dinner talk because we’re so programmed to talk about what we do rather than what we think. At least with a blog, people can choose whether or not to read what I have to say. And, nine years later, I’m still writing, regardless of who’s reading.

Sometimes it’s easy to lose sight of what we have in our lives when our focus is so tight on what we don’t have. It shouldn’t have to take an official holiday to make us think about what we’re thankful for, but sometimes that’s what it takes.

Over the past few days, I’ve been especially thankful for a home, and a warm one at that. I think about living on the streets when it’s 17 degrees out, trying to find shelter not only from snow but also from freezing temperatures.

I’m thankful for family who live a plane ride away, but feel like they’re much closer thanks to phone calls, Skype, e-mails, and visits. I’m also thankful for friends in town who feel like family and make us feel loved and supported. I’m thankful for long-distance friends whose love and efforts of communication make me feel like there is no distance. And, of course, I’m thankful for a God who reminds me that no matter what I’m going through, how I’m feeling, and how hopeless things can feel at times, I am loved unconditionally.

According to the suggested NaNoWriMo word count, I should have 25,005 words at this halfway point. As of last night, I have 21,487 – not too far off track. And if anyone is interested, Seattle tops the chart for overall word count with 28,719,615. Pretty impressive when you think about how people all over the world are doing this, yet our lovely Emerald City is coming in first.

Going into NaNoWriMo, I wasn’t sure how I’d fare. I knew ahead of time that I didn’t want to give up any of my regularly scheduled activities to write, but I also knew that I would have to turn down some seemingly more fun opportunities. I did hope to have some leeway with not making dinner as much (simply because I don’t particularly enjoy cooking), but I’m still waiting for Matt to say, “I’ll make dinner tonight, honey. You go and work on your novel.” First, Matt would never call me honey, and second, well, I also can’t see him offering to cook dinner.

For the two weeks leading to NaNoWriMo, my time in the shower became a time to brainstorm about my novel. And each night, I’d come up with a new storyline, but each one would raise more and more questions that I couldn’t answer. Aside from a few basic character traits, a beginning, and a climax, everything else in between had yet to show itself to me. I didn’t even have names for my characters.

But over the past 15 days, I’ve been pleasantly surprised at how things have turned out. The first day, I only wrote about 3,000 words – and that was after a whole day of trying to write. I was mentally drained, discouraged, and wondered how I had fooled my employer into hiring me for my writing abilities. But Day 2 was better, as was Day 3, and so forth.

Fiction writing is a new world to me. I like to think that I have some imagination, but to put it on paper is a different story. I read several books about writing prior to starting NaNoWriMo, and each one mentioned how characters will reveal themselves as the story progresses. They will tell you what they want to do, where they want to go, how they want to dress. It all sounded hokey to me. But on Day 1, I soon found myself favoring not my main character (who just so happens to be a lot like me), but one of the secondary characters. Her name is Claire, she’s in her 20s, and she wears a purple octopus costume on Halloween. I found myself spending more time on her character because she was so much fun to write about. I wanted to learn more about her, and I was eager to see what kind of person she would become.

Another thing I was aware of, prior to starting, was that I’d have to stash away my inner editor. I wouldn’t have time or energy to pore over each paragraph. There would be no self-editing. I would simply have to move on, as hideous as a phrase (or even entire paragraph) was. Each time I wrote, I had to remind myself that it’s about the experience and not about the finished product. And that’s not just me trying to deal with my fear of making mistakes. That’s what NaNoWriMo encourages.

I shared this struggle with a co-worker, who also has a hard time keeping her inner editor under control. I forgot how I came to this conclusion, but I speculated aloud that to be able to truly write freely, maybe I’d have to delete the story come November 30. Even as I said that to my co-worker, I thought, “That is CRAZY. That is so unlike me.” I’m all about being productive and having something to show for the time that I’ve spent on something. But as I thought about it more, it seemed like an appropriate thing to do – or at least consider – if I really wanted to write uninhibited. Even the thought of Matt reading it freaks me out. He told me he won’t judge me, and I believe him, but the idea of ANYONE reading it screws with my approach.

The other night, Matt used the “Share screen” feature on my laptop so that we could do some research online together, while still on separate computers. A few days later, as I was writing, I thought, “What if Matt’s sharing my screen without my knowledge, and he’s reading what I’m writing??!!” Yes, I’m paranoid.

I’m also learning a lot about how other writers approach fiction writing. Throughout the past two weeks, I’ve received pep-talk emails. In one of the more recent e-mails, the sender talked about how, as we’re writing, we may get consumed with the image of an anthill. Maybe it doesn’t fit anywhere in our story, but we can’t seem to shake the image. Well, why not put it into the story and see where it goes? If we keep giving in to these random tangents, maybe one them may actually lead to something amazing. Or, on November 30, we may end up with hundreds of tangents that have only led us astray. Either way, it’s OK.

So after I got that email, I had an opportunity to keep a tangent, or to ignore it. I took a chance and threw it in, even though it hasn’t developed into anything yet. One of the characters comes out from under a couch, and he has dust and furballs in his hair. He shakes out his hair and – instead of everything flying everywhere and then falling to the ground, as was predictable – the particles flew into the air and remained suspended, hovering over all the characters. Has anything become of the “magical” dust and furballs? Nope. And who knows if anything will come of them. That’s the image that came into my head, and that’s what I wrote down. A tangent.

Inserting a tangent, taking an unexpected and unexplainable twist makes no sense to me. Why do something that makes no sense? Because that’s that writing is about. It’s about being imaginative, exploring roads we’ve never considered. It’s not about being safe. Yet that’s who I am. I’m safe, but I really, really want to break free and be unpredictable. And I think that’s what this experience is already teaching me and prodding me to do. Hopefully this is just the beginning, and who knows, maybe it will extend to other areas of my life.

15 down, 15 to go.

The Urban Dictionary has spoken. Looks like we’re destined to live in San Francisco. Between the Mission and the Marina districts, I’d choose the Mission. You can easily access other parts of the city, you’ll have more good Mexican food than you can handle, most of Omulu’s capoeira classes are nearby, and – best of all – we’d be super close to Tartine Bakery.

A few weeks ago, Dorc e-mailed me a link to a 21-page paper titled “Always-on/Always-on-you: The Tethered Self”. The title immediately turned me off (too long, too many hyphens), but Dorc thought I would enjoy it – and she was right. The topic of the paper is about how people are tethered to forms of technology, thanks to connectivity which grows easier and easier each day. Our existence is not only about where we are physically – walking down the streets of Seattle, in our office buildings, in the groves of Yosemite. Regardless of where we are, we have the option of a new location – being online, on our cell phones, on Skype, etc.

When Dorc sent this to me, she said, “Ironically, it might be something you’d end up blogging about.” Again, she was right. Although I’ve had some fun experiences that I initially was enthusiastic about sharing (like the recent trip to SF or even the Harry Potter Exhibition), I’m much more motivated to write about a specific topic rather than a summary of what I’ve been up to. Maybe it’s because I spend too much time getting asked (and asking others) about what we’re doing rather than what we’re thinking. My blog becomes my platform to talk about what I’ve been thinking, and not having to wait for anyone to ask me (or caring if anyone wants to know). :)

The day before Dorc sent me the article, Matt and I had yet another conversation about him upgrading to the iPhone. While I think it’s a helpful tool, I get nervous about putting something in Matt’s hands that enables him to be online not only at home, but when we’re out and about. Call me selfish, but I don’t want to be one of those couples who sit across from each other when dining out, both staring into their phones. I gave Matt my blessing to get an iPhone, but I made him promise not to be glued to it when we were out together. It’s the equivalent to me pulling out a book and reading while he sits staring into his food.

The day after Matt got his iPhone, I sat next to my boss during a meeting led by her boss’ boss. Throughout the meeting, my boss continuously read and sent e-mails. She didn’t even bother muting her phone, so each e-mail successfully sent was accompanied by a loud whoosh. I looked around the room. Other people were on their iPhones and Blackberries. Yes, these are important people who have jobs to do, but since when did this become acceptable? “Always-on/Always-on-you” reads: “When an audience member closes down his or her screen, the gesture is a kind of ‘curtsy,’ a sign of respect to speakers whose status makes it unseemly to multi-task during their presentations.” On the flipside, continuing to do your own thing communicates a message that the speaker is not that important.

But I’m guilty in my own way. Throughout elementary school all the way to college, I wrote letters to friends during classes, especially during boring ones in which I knew didn’t matter if I paid attention or not. Does it make me a better person that I tried to be considerate by at least pretending like I was paying attention and taking copious notes – as opposed to someone who blatantly is not paying attention by sending e-mails on a Blackberry? My concern was not about being rude; it was about making sure the speaker didn’t perceive me as being rude. haha…

I know that I’m prone to spend a lot of time writing e-mails (which I’m trying to change), and I seem drawn to checking my e-mail whenever I get the opportunity. I’m deliberately spending less time away from my computer in the evenings…or, should I say, less time online, even if I am on the computer. I like keeping up with several blogs, and I like the idea of people keeping up with mine. But I don’t like people knowing everything about me simply by reading my blog. I don’t want reading my blog to take the place of someone actually e-mailing me. I want people to have to make the effort to keep in touch, to know what’s going on, because that’s what friends do. Friends make the effort to stay involved in each others’ lives. (Trust me, this is hard for me, too. It’s much easier for me to lay on the couch with a book than call up a friend.)

When I talk about staying involved in each others’ lives, I don’t mean being in constant communication, talking on the phone every single week, or exchanging e-mails each day. This could mean Skyping every few months or exchanging snail mail several times a year. To me, those in-depth, even if infrequent, exchanges mean more to me than the quick frequent updates. Take, for example, my relationship with my best friend, Dorc. She and I talk on the phone only several times a year, we e-mail a couple of times a month, and we’re definitely in touch with other people more than we are with each other. But I never feel out of touch with her, and I never feel like we’re drifting apart. Let’s be realistic. At my age, nothing changes that dramatically where I have to be in touch with anyone every few days…unless you really want to know about all the weeds that have taken over my garden or the new blood blister that I got from capoeira class. No? Didn’t think so. Let me clarify that I do enjoy receiving e-mails (so, mom and dad, don’t feel like you have to monitor the frequencies of your e-mails). I’m simply saying that frequent contact about all the intricacies of life doesn’t necessarily define a “close” relationship. That’s what works for me. It probably doesn’t work for everyone, especially those who are more “people people.”

Even as I write this, I’m well aware that many of my friends are those types of people who crave more frequent contact – and I need to balance what works for me with what works for them. One of the things I need to work on is to make sure my loved ones don’t feel like they’re bothering me when they do contact me. Because I’m a planner and have expectations for how my time is used, sometimes I can seem a bit…ruffled…when an unexpected phone call comes my way.

I’m curious to hear what works for you and why? What do you prefer when it comes to keeping in touch with people?

Sometimes the tug of the online community is pretty strong. I think about days on IRC (Internet Relay Chat) when our chat rooms seemed more realistic than life itself. People felt comfortable to cast aside their shyness and express themselves more freely. We bonded over drama caused by one particular member, and felt superior when we set up daily changing passwords to keep the troublemaker out of our room. The odd thing was that the members of our chat rooms were mostly people I saw each week at church. To miss a night in our chat room was torturous. I didn’t want to miss out on anything. And, aside from what I’ve already talked about above, the addictive tendency from my past online experiences is one big factor that keeps me off Facebook. I know how I could be online, and I see how Facebook has changed how people view friends (or “friends”) because of it. There are way too many things that I’d like to be doing, and I don’t want Facebook – and more time online – to be one of them.

Speaking of which, today marks Day 1 of National Novel Writing Month. I debated about announcing it, but decided to make it public. However, this is also my disclaimer that I am not obligated to share my work with anyone. :) The purpose of my participation is not to produce something to be distributed. In fact, I’d be lucky to end up with even a mediocre draft. Fiction writing is new for me, and – from my experience today – it’s not natural for me. It’s going to be harder than I expected to reach 50,000 words without putting the rest of my life on hold. The ultimate goal of National Novel Writing Month (or NaNoWriMo) is to become disciplined to write and, personally, to stop reading and talking about writing – and actually do it. If I could devote hours and hours to train for a half-marathon, surely I could devote one month to writing.