It is hard to narrow it down, but tomatoes might just be my favorite part of summer. I refuse to eat those ugly pale ones that are all you can get in the grocery store in the winter. Tomatoes mean BLTs and canning and fat slices on hamburgers. They taste like heat and sunshine and afternoons at grandma’s house.

When Tanya Davis opened the show we saw on PEI, her first song was focused on the beauty she sees and loves around the Island. The line I quoted in the title of this post stood out to me: You have to stay in a place through all the seasons to appreciate everything that it is. I think PEI is a wonderful place to visit, but she is right: I only know a part of it. On the way back to our B&B, I told Mike, “The way that she feels about PEI is how I feel about North Carolina.” Perhaps it was one reason I loved her songs so much: I recognize myself in those words, in that rootedness. I love all four seasons here, even the things that seem to drive other people crazy. It is where I am from and it is a part of me as much as my family. It took me a long time to realize that everyone doesn’t feel this way.

On Prince Edward Island, I noticed that the tomatoes on our salads were, frankly, not very good. Possibly it is not quite tomato season there yet. Or maybe it doesn’t ever get hot enough for them to have a real tomato season, not like we do. It was disappointing. They had many other delicious foods, but I thought from time to time about all those tomatoes that I was missing back home, the juice running down your arm as you take a bite of your sandwich. I saw my mom on Saturday, and she brought me a bag of tomatoes from my grandma’s garden (and some from my great-uncle as well). I realized how glad I am to be home.

Title quote from “Potatoes” by Tanya Davis. Click here to listen to it.

Thanks to Claire, Kelly, and Sarah for inspiring me to think about home.

It is no secret that I am a half-empty sort of person. The word pessimist doesn’t even begin to cover it. Sometimes it comes across worse than I intended, simply because I prefer to think things through, to consider possible consequences. Sometimes I drown myself in those what-ifs, overwhelmed to the point of being paralyzed.

So I have been surprised lately to realize that I am feeling – it’s hard for me to even say it, for fear that I might jinx it – content. I know, I know, you think it’s because of the baby. But I have some witnesses who could tell you otherwise. The baby is still exciting and terrifying me in equal measures. It’s not just the baby that’s a good thing in our lives, though. There have been several things this summer that have made me realize what a good place we are in, with our beautiful house, our great jobs, and the time we have spent together. I feel – and, again, I don’t want to jinx it – as if I have begun to learn how to choose to be a better version of myself.

It’s frightening to admit to being happy, even to myself. It’s hard to keep from believing that it’s the calm before the next storm or that something terrifying might be coming. And maybe that’s true. That is how it seems to work. That’s my usual mode of operation. Maybe I will look back and laugh at these feelings of contentment.

But maybe not. Maybe some of the things that have happened in recent years have taught me something about growing. Right now I feel as if I am not just growing a baby, but that I am growing into myself.

As I was writing this, I knew that it echoed something I had read many times. I finally realized that it was my old friend Anne Shirley, which was appropriate since we just visited her Island. Even hopelessly optimistic Anne worried about happiness from time to time. I am comfortable being in such good company.

As for Anne herself, she was so happy that she almost felt frightened. The gods, so says the old superstition, do not like to behold too happy mortals. It is certain, at least, that some human beings do not. -Anne’s House of Dreams by L.M. Montgomery

He sat hunched up on a low, yellow, wooden bench, holding the tip of his nose between two curved fingers in a way that he had. His blond hair was a little too shaggy, and a lock fell across his forehead and over one eye. “I’m a window cleaner,” he said.

“A window cleaner and a musician?”

“No ‘and.’ Music is my window cleaning. If I weren’t so sick of it, I’d quote the Bible. You know that bit. Through a glass darkly. That’s how people see. It’s as though nobody was out in the world. You know what I mean? We’re all shut up in rooms. Everybody. And nobody can ever get in to anybody else’s room. That’s because we’ve got bodies. And the only way we can have contact with other people is through the windows in our rooms. You get what I mean? And some people have more windows than others. And everybody’s windows are dirty. So there have to be window cleaners. I’m one. At least maybe I will be one someday. That’s what I want to be.”

“Oh.”

“The trouble is that my own windows need cleaning.”

“Do they?”

“Sometimes I read things and I can see out better. Usually it’s music (you must play for me). Or a great actress. Or a painting. Usually I just get drunk, so I can forget I’m locked up all by myself in a room and it’s foggy outside . . .” -Madeleine L’Engle, The Small Rain

The summer races by, already the first week of July. Full of, mostly, nothing. I have read and napped, watched soccer and Friday Night Lights, waged war against fruit flies and made chicken salad. Already I have wasted too much time on things that might have been or things that might come to pass instead of focusing on what it means to be here and now.

I am a list-maker, a recipe-follower. I like clean, straight lines and well-defined boundaries. But those are not necessarily things that help me include other people in my life, not if they aren’t on my list of things to do: return the email, make the telephone call, take the time. It is hard to remember this when work is stressful or I’m not sleeping well or it’s just plain cold and rainy outside, but the phone calls and the coffee and the actual conversations are things that make the here and now better. I am comfortable getting lost in a book or a great song. It is easier to hide behind the pages of a novel or notes of music. It is especially easy to hide behind written words that I can control.

I think I need help seeing answers, why things work out the way that they do. So that I can tally up all the columns and make it all turn out right. But I should know better: Sometimes we get answers, sometimes things make sense, sometimes we learn from our experiences. But often, we are simply left with our questions, to decide whether we really mean what we say about faith being the evidence of things unseen.

I would do better to spend my time seeing other people, letting them be complicated and laughing with them. To get lost in a rambling conversation over dinner and maybe a glass of wine.

What do you do to keep your windows clean?

We had a day full of the pool, food (so much food), friends, more food, and then fireworks. Mike and I closed the day out by listening to one of my favorite songs about America, one that wasn’t played at the pool (please note: Celine Dion singing “God Bless America” is not an appropriate song for the pool. Neither is “America” by Simon and Garfunkel. Just because it has the word America in the title does not mean it’s an appropriate choice): “Land of My Sojourn” by Rich Mullins. He gets it right, that love of what we have and the longing for what is yet to come.

Nobody tells you when you get born here
How much you’ll come to love it
And how you’ll never belong here
So I call you my country
And I’ll be lonely for my home
And I wish that I could take you there with me -Rich Mullins

Photo by Katie Brady, shared under a Creative Commons license.

I spent time last Tuesday evening explaining to several of my friends exactly why I have not been watching the World Cup. Soccer is boring, for one thing. They can play the whole game and end in a tie. I don’t understand the rules. The field is too big. It’s just not my thing. Most of my complaints are contrasts to basketball: lower scoring, less actual “possession” of the ball. And then I spent the next morning planted on the couch watching that Algeria game. Because I enjoy being a part of something bigger than myself. Because I thought I should give it a chance. And because I thought it would be a great opportunity to make jokes about golden snitches and Viktor Krum. Also sea salt and French mustard. Mike was unconvinced, so I watched by myself.

And I had fun. (I am probably the only person who is not bothered by the vuvuzelas. I think they are charming.) Finally all that nonsense I kept seeing on Twitter had some context. Finally I had some idea of what my friends were talking about. And finally I understood at least a couple of rules. And then, maybe you heard, there was that whole thing in the 91st minute and Twitter broke and Mike and I high-fived (he came back for the end, after I had done all the sweating it out) and it was awesome to be an American.

I can’t say that I have completely changed my mind, but I do think that Bill Simmons is right: It might actually be time for soccer to make some inroads in America. They got me to watch, not just that one game, but several of the games since. My mom and I had a conversation about soccer, something we have never done before.

I am fairly stubborn, but sometimes I change my mind. I eat eggs now, if they are over easy. I have been known to yell at the TV on Sunday afternoons at the fall, even though Mike had to talk me into the whole football thing. I drink Diet Coke and listen to the Decemberists. (I do not, however, listen to Joanna Newsom. Or wear leggings.) I changed my mind. Well played, soccer. Well played. I’ll see you again. Later today.

Did you ever have a crush on a lifeguard? It’s a big theme in books for teenage girls, but it’s a rite of passage I missed somehow. The beach by my aunt and uncle’s beach house (aka one of my favorite places on the planet, see above) doesn’t have the lifeguards in chairs that I always imagined when reading The Baby-Sitters’ Club. Until last year, I had never spent a lot of time at the pool. The only interaction with a lifeguard that I can remember came at the city pool when I was in 4th or 5th grade. I had gone off the diving board and one of the lifeguards approached me and asked me if I could go off again in a few minutes and pretend to be drowning so that one of the newer lifeguards could “save” me. And then I could get $5 of snacks at the snack bar. You know how I love snacks. So I, of course, said yes.

Now that I think about it, I am fairly certain that my terrible terrible swimming skills are the reason that I was asked to pretend to drown. Let’s just say it wasn’t too difficult for me to fake it. (Also, is this actually standard procedure? Do lifeguards generally pay people to pretend to drown?) Sadly, I cannot remember what the snacks that I purchased at the snack bar were. I hope I got nachos.

Mike and I generally sit under one of the umbrellas by the high dive. There are zones where people sit, you see. The families with small children sit on the other end, by the baby pool and the shallow end. We prefer not to take space down there from people who actually need it. Plus, I enjoy watching the antics on the high dive. I have noticed that the lifeguards, in general, are long-suffering. They have to enforce the rules: swim to the ladder, stay off the rope, only one bounce, no running, no back flips. They have to deal with teenagers who are there without their parents, children who are there with babysitters (who would rather be on the phone and let the lifeguards babysit), and people like me who can’t actually swim and have no business being in the pool.

But I have noticed something else. There are a lot of things that the lifeguards aren’t in charge of that perhaps they should be. Inappropriate things happen at the pool, and there is no one to take care of them. I believe that we should give the lifeguards even more power to regulate these issues, for the good of humanity.

1. “Excessive flirting by the snack bar.” Look, we all remember what it feels like to have a summer crush. But when you can’t keep your hands off each other, well, it’s clear that someone needs to intervene. And Mike says I’m not allowed to. So I need the lifeguards to do something.

2. “Your bathing suit is see-through.” Please don’t buy a white bathing suit. It’s not worth the risk. Please don’t buy your son swimming trunks with white on the top. I have already been embarrassed by that at the pool this year. The little boy would have been embarrassed if he had realized it. Also, please don’t let your daughter wear a bathing suit for three or four years in a row. If it’s getting threadbare, it’s probably going to look bare when she gets it wet.

3. “You have no business wearing that.” I’m looking at you, lady with the side boob hanging out. Also you, fat guy in the Speedo. Actually, let’s just put a ban on Speedos. They make everyone uncomfortable. Since we’re talking about wardrobe choices, young man, please tie your pants. You’re mooning the entire pool every time you get out of the water. And, on a personal level: lady in the baby pool with a toddler and a completely flat stomach, go put on something other than a string bikini. You’re awesome. We all get it.

4. Similarly: “Should you really be eating that?” Our pool has an fantastic snack bar, but everyone around you is aware that, no, you should really not be eating those fries. Have a salad instead. Also, please buy a bathing suit that fits.

5. “Careful there, cougar.” Okay, I think it’s gross to call women cougars. It’s not my favorite term. But when groups of women are loudly and obviously ogling the . . . younger men, well, I don’t want to spoil their fun, but I do think something should be done about it. This is a family pool. (This relates to the ban on Speedos above.)

Other than Christmas, I am most vulnerable to nostalgia in the summer. Perhaps you feel that way, too, remembering long summer days spent outside, sweating it out during fireworks displays, bodysurfing in the ocean. Writing this made me surprisingly nostalgic for those days, especially the ones spent at the pool. In college, I had a friend who spent the summers being a lifeguard, and though our friendship has long since run its course, I miss what college represented to the two of us: all those days and possibilities ahead. Based on her reports at the end of the summer, I think she would have appreciated my suggestions here.

What social situations need to be regulated at your pool?

While digging through Susan Isaacs’ archives, I found this gem about writing as a sacrament. It got me thinking about sacraments, about sacred and healing things that happen in life. If, as The Book of Common Prayer says, sacraments are “an outward and visible sign of an inward and invisible Grace,” it almost seems as if the word is too big to be limited to things like communion and confession and baptism. Those are otherworldly holy things that are deeply, beautifully grounded in earthly vessels: bread, wine, water. But outward and invisible signs of inward and invisible Grace? Those are the very earthly things I cling to on a daily basis: the mystery of bread that rises, the beauty of a snaggletooth grin, the feeling of sand between your toes.

I am not a writer by profession, but I identify with what Susan Isaacs says in that post. There are times when I feel that something bigger than what I know is being said through my own words. As if I am the vessel of something larger than myself, which is what I believe it means to be a Christian: to carry the message of Christ in and through my body. I also think that there are times that putting pen to paper is like confession. Whether anyone sees it or not, it helps me to work out what I am thinking, to loose the knots in my chest that form during a frustrating day. For me, that is an outward sign of the grace that is present in my life. You might be an artist or a surgeon or a tennis player, but, like Susan Isaacs said, I think that those gifts that keep you honest with yourself about what is really going on inside you are a sacrament. It is one way to work through and clarify what you believe, growing the faith to go on.

Emmanuel Cardinal Suhard says, “To be a witness does not consist in engaging in propaganda, nor even in stirring people up, but in being a living mystery. It means to live in such a way that one’s life would not make sense if God did not exist.” To live in that way, to have that faith, is to let yourself believe that the beauty of daily life matters and that the things that are so confusing will one day be made clear. For me, believing that what happens here matters is one of the most difficult–and therefore sacred–beliefs of all.

When I came home from work last Monday, this is what my yard looked like.

My church celebrates things like anniversaries and graduations and “important” birthdays by putting flamingos in yards. It’s a Baptist church, so there’s a committee that takes care of it. And apparently the committee deemed my award to be worthy of the flamingos. Which was especially exciting, because Mike and I had not yet had a flamingo-worthy birthday or anniversary. It was our first time being flamingoed. Or, as Brandi says, flocked.

While I was taking these pictures, a family pulled into the parking lot across the street. I didn’t hear what was said to start the conversation, but as they were walking towards the pool, the little girl turned to her dad and said, “I don’t know. I guess she just really likes flamingos.” And even though I am extremely opposed to tacky Christmas decorations (in my own yard, though I enjoy the tackiness of others), I did really, really like the flamingos. I liked what they meant: the excitement of other people celebrating with me. That has been the nicest most unexpected part of this whole thing. If all you focus on is the prize, you might miss a great deal of fun along the way.

I thought about walking over to the parking lot and telling her why I got the flamingos, but instead, I decided to let her believe that I just really like them.

On Saturday night, after a long and productive day (plus some lounging time at the pool), I decided that I wanted to make risotto. It was a Thoreau move, I guess: I made risotto to live deliberately. From time to time, I want to do something intentional, to make something that takes time and effort and patience. I spent a lot of time stirring that risotto. I would like to tell you that I thought deep thoughts while I was stirring it, but really, I just read Entertainment Weekly. When it was finally (finally finally) done, it was sublime. I could taste each of the individual flavors, and even though it doesn’t seem like the perfect food for a summer evening, it was warm and comforting in just the ways that I had hoped. We ate the entire pot, and Mike has requested risotto every night since. (I have told him no. Who has that kind of time on a daily basis? Probably someone with a maid. Or a personal chef. Who could take turns stirring with me when my arm got tired.)

It is the first day of our summer vacation, and the best way to handle two (glorious) months of freedom is also to live deliberately. While last summer’s pool extravaganza was what I needed in some ways, it did not nudge me out of the fog of depression I had settled into. My summer didn’t have a lot of focus. And I want to avoid that this summer by making curtains and moving furniture and taking care of house projects. I want to read challenging books and work on my scrapbook and spend time with friends. At the end of the summer, I don’t want to simply say, “We spent a lot of time at the pool.” I want to know that, yes, I got some sun on my legs, but that I also took advantage of my time. It’s my own mini version of Brandi’s 30 Before 30 list, and I will keep you posted on my progress.

(I might even make risotto again, just to keep Mike quiet.)

My freshman year of high school, I took a drama class. We did things in that class that have stuck with me more than I would have guessed at the time. We read The Cherry Orchard and studied the crap out of it, so much so that I could probably still tell you exactly which line constitutes the climax of the play. We had to memorize a poem or a monologue and perform it. I performed “Jabberwocky,” acting out the scenes of the poem. (When I studied “Jabberwocky” with my students this year, I told them that story, but I flatly refused to act it out in any way, shape, or form. They had fun asking me to, though.) We studied and acted out scenes from Death of a Salesman. I still remember standing on the stage of the auditorium, reciting those lines. And we read A Streetcar Named Desire, giving me my introduction to Blanche DuBois. Looking back, I realize now what a challenging sort of class that must have been to teach, full of football players and goths and nerds and everything in between. But that teacher made a lot of really great literature come alive. Plus, thanks to that class, I always get the crossword puzzle right when the answer is “Willy Loman”.

The world is a scary place, and it seems frightening to have to depend on strangers. It is hard enough to depend on the people that we know. Yesterday all sorts of people, friends and strangers alike, were incredibly generous and thoughtful and kind to me. It was a good reminder that, even when we feel like we are going at it alone, there are people in the world who care. Human beings are flawed, selfish creatures who, when given the chance, often rise to the occasion and do amazing, selfless things.

“If we are to love our neighbors, before doing anything else we must see our neighbors. With our imagination as well as our eyes, that is to say like artists, we must see not just their faces but the life behind and within their faces. Here it is love that is the frame we see them in.” -Frederick Buechner

That’s good advice for loving your neighbor just about anywhere: the grocery store, work and school, on the road, in our houses and backyards. It is humbling and gratifying to have strangers teach you what it means to really see other people. I am lucky they took the time to see me.