I have a super great old friend from college, Jen. She’s a writer (here’s her book) and a journalist. And a mom.

She lives in Des Moines and recently she acquired chickens.

She and her husband and her kids have chickens in their backyard. 

Do you ever look at your friends, when they do something cool/amazing/odd/wonderful/outrageous and think:

“Uh oh.”

Here it comes. The Existential Chicken Crisis.

The other day, my friend Deb was over and she mentioned chili or something and then she said:

“Ah I saw that article you posted on Facebook, what was it? The 10 Foods You Should  Never Eat? And I thought OH NO!! Here I thought I was doing something great, making homemade chili! But I use CANNED TOMATOES! Ah shit. They were on that list.”

See?

Uh oh. Existential Tomato Crisis.

There are times — many times — when I have wished I were a moron. Existential Chicken Crises are definitely one of them.

Oh don’t worry. It’s not a permanent feeling. It’s just passing moment when I think:

“OH wouldn’t it be so much easier if I were an idiot and didn’t notice ANYTHING at all and could just work as a waiter forever, and then come home and roll around mindlessly on my Made in China sectional, right after I put ALL of the wrappers from my fast food — include the recyclable and compostable ones — in the trash can?

Then I have  to say no to myself. My days of waiting tables and eating quesadillas at midnight — for the most part– are over. That’s fine with me.

It’s just then I have to DEAL with the new information. I have to DECIDE: am I going to be a person who hosts chickens in MY backyard, or am I going to keep buying them from the chicken factory?

Or something in between.

Once new information seeps in, it makes just living a decent life a tussle.

I don’t think it’s keeping up with the Joneses so much. It’s keeping up following our own ideology: what our family wants to be.

Existential Chicken Crisis commence.

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I set the table with
Clean, cut glasses, Christmas crackers
Flatware. Before breakfast
All the flat edges glimmer
In anticipation.

Do you ever wonder: What the hell is the point of Elizabeth’s blog?

It’s this: details.

It’s a place to read In The Details, as a way to understand ourselves, each other, the world.

“Letters from a Small State” is about “the little stuff.” It’s a place to be with and notice the little things that shape who we are. All those million details. 

So this blog could be about toast racks or or pink drinking straws or a small car accident. And it is. But it is also about how we make meaning from all the stuff we pack around ourselves everyday. Or choose not to.

But why?

I guess I started to really winnow down my blog topics to focus on the IDEA of details when I realized I needed practice writing about the details. I wasn’t too good at it. I’d often spend too much time pontificating, rather than noticing.

For example, maybe I might notice a man’s shoe, and then write an entire blog post about how that shoe affected how I thought about that man, and who I thought he was. Not only that, but what that meant to our culture.

Except that I did it all upside-down.

I’d preach my proclamations — about the man, about myself, about the world — but I’d forget to really think about THE SHOE.

The shoe, after all, is where the thought began. It was a kind of microcosm of IDEA. The shoe took me into “small state” — a series of linked theoretical and cultural conclusions and ideas that change, forever, my idea of “shoe.” But the shoe was NOT the idea. It was the place it began.

A detail is sometimes a thoughtless beginning.

What’s Coming up….

In January, I start a new series, on The River of Stones, 2012. I’m calling it “What Details Know.”

It will be a series of “small stones” published here, and also shared on ny blog at The Stratford Patch.

I hope you enjoyed the December series on the dream of Holidays… If you have any feedback, feel free to contact me anytime.

—

You can be a detail masher yourself. Anytime, here on my blog. I always warmly accept submissions.

In January, join me and lots of other beautiful people, on The River of Stones.

To join Fiona Robyn and Kaspalita’s River of Stones, all one does is:

1. Notice something properly every day during January.
2. Write it down.

Small stones (like the one written above), according to Fiona Robyn:

“Small stones are everywhere, all of the time.  All you have to do is pause and let them appear.”

Take the pause in January to read or write a small stone.  Be a detail picker.

And be in a Small State.

–

You can read more about How to Write a small stone, here. And follow the completely wonderful Fiona and Kaspa on Twitter.

–

This is the second to last post in my December Series: “If Only in My Dreams.” See you back here on Dec. 31 for a recap.

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When I lived in Kansas City, I was single.

This meant that I spent a great deal of my energy and mind space being frustrated and unhappy about my “alone”ness.

Like most young women (and men too, I guess), I really wanted to find someone special to connect with, to be with, so long as we both shall live.

And I did! YAY!

But before that time, I spent many Christmas times alone. Not the actual holiday itself, because on the that day I would head back to my parents’ house and hang out there.

But that time from Thanksgiving and the Plaza Lighting Ceremony to Christmas Eve … that was spent pretty much on my own.

This week, I’ve been nostalgic for Kansas City. I have so many great friends there. This is how I am remembering that time.

Even though I was “alone,” — a girl on her own in the big city — I had a family I created from people I met who loved me even though I wasn’t related to them at all.

Now that I have kids around here, I have lots and lots of things on my To Do List for this time of the years. LOTS.

So it is nice to reflect now and then on the “alone” days. I guess some days I even pine for them. But I also try to remind myself to not make them seem more wonderful than they actually were. Because I know I was pretty lonely back then too.

Now, I just want to remember them… the good, the sad, the beautiful.

The lights, the porches, the roommates, the parties, family visiting, the demanding customers I waited on, the smoky bars, the uncommitted men, and the house with two cats.

But most of all, the friends, the hugs, and the laughing.

–

This post is part of my BIG QUESTION December series “If Only in My Dreams.”

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–
Part of the December “If Only in My Dreams” series. Thanks.

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In which I tried to explain to the kids that our little “artificial” tree is actually “real.”

Existentialism 101

Me: We are putting up our tree this afternoon.
Kid 1: Is it a real tree?
Me: Well, yes, it is a real tree. A real tree in that it isn’t imaginary.
Kid 1: No, I mean, does it–
Kid 2: She means is it the kind with the needles, no.. wait, I mean
Kid 3: The kind that grows out of the ground! That we CHOP DOWN!
Me: Like the one we got when we went to Jones Farm.
Kid 1: I didn’t like that. It was too cold.
Me: The tree we are putting up today is a real tree. A real fake tree.
Kid 2: NO!! I mean, a tree, that like has smell!
Me: I am sure the tree we are putting up today smells. Perhaps like chemicals or petroleum byproduct.
Kid 4: Wha?
Me: Let’s put it this way: The tree is really, real. It will really be in our house.
(Silence)
Kid 3: When can I open presents?
–
Another lovely post in my December “If Only in My Dreams” series. Read more!

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Guest Post by Writer-Runner-Teacher Tricia Dowcett

Whenever my mother asks me what we would like for Christmas, I always reply that I would prefer to do rather than to have.  A show, a day in Boston, a trip to a museum.  She will usually frown and insist that at Christmas, the kids should be able to “open something.”  “They’re not going to get excited when they open Lion King tickets,” she worries.

Admittedly, a gift that is essentially a promise of a gift is a difficult concept for a young kid to wrap his tiny, Target-warped brain around.  But, should that stop us from trying to shift expectations?  Sure, the look of joyous satisfaction on a kid’s face when he gets that Razor scooter or battery-powered Jeep is a pretty rich reward, but who is really more satisfied—the kid, or the parent?  The battery will die and the Jeep will collect mud and spider eggs, and the kid will count the days until the next big holiday so he can get more stuff.

A Walk in the Dark

Tonight, Lexi and I took a walk after dinner, and she asked me if I might point out Orion.  We found the brightest star on his belt, but the clouds prevented us from seeing the rest of his “body.”

“I’ve never seen Orion,” she said, and that surprised me, because I look for him just about every night.

But it’s true: we don’t really go out into the dark and look at the stars.  When we walk in the evening, I’m usually trying to stop the dog from pulling, or the kids from running (we have no sidewalks, so nighttime strolls with the kids can be a little unnerving), so my attention is forward rather than upward.

I told Lexi that on our next camping trip, we’d lie down and look at the stars.  “We can even camp in the backyard again,” she said.

“Yep.  … Hey!” I said, an idea taking shape, “maybe we can go camping on Christmas!”

She laughed.  “Mom!  You don’t go camping on Christmas.”

Too Small for Presents

One of my favorite Christmas Eves, I told her, was spent under the stars, in a natural hot spring in Colorado.  The pool was full of snow-drunk revelers— families, older folks, young couples —all joyously creating an alternative Christmas.  I slept in a cabin about the size of Thoreau’s hut, too small for presents, but large enough to fit a little wood stove, our wet hiking boots, and a bottle of champagne.

I’ve celebrated 39 Christmases, and this is the one I still hold close to me, in a little sachet under my sweater.

Why not, Lexi?  Why not go camping on Christmas?

–

This post is part of the December Series “If Only in My Dreams.” Click here to read more.

Feel free to tweet (#BigQDreams), comment, or if you have more to say, click here to submit.

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I want things handmade. I want a life devoid of BPA-worries.
I want the holidays decorated in popcorn strings and toes of knee-high socks filled with sticky penny candy and tiny oranges.
I want to have the hot cocoa, but not the packaging the dried chocolate-flavored granules come in.
I want to make the gift bags, without needing the troll Jo-Ann in deathly fear of whatever other impulses may come.
I want the craft, but not the storage.
I want handmade — the originality, the texture and depth. The artist’s signature. But not the price.
I want beauty.
I want art.
I want tomorrow, but I am unclear about today.
–
I will to unwrap the porcelain cow again this year.
I will place him in his manger scene.
Arrange the kings and the baby Jesus.
Avert my eyes from box and its $9.98 Walmart tag.
–
I am not sure what I want.

–
This post is part of the BIG QUESTION Series in December, “If Only in My Dreams”. Click and read more.

No related posts.

What is the rush, Rima asks?

What is the
haste to make waste of
Autumn?

–
Part of “If Only in My Dreams,” the December Series of The Big Question.

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December is the month of dreams, of nostalgia, of memories, expectations, hopes and disappointments.
We were all little children once… dreaming our dreams of light and mystery, wide awake under our covers. It doesn’t matter whether those covers were cotton or silk.

We are still those children. Some of us still imagine the twinkling light dreams – and decorate our lives that way. Some of us can only remember them. We cast those sepia shadows onto our grown-up holidays.

This month, my family and I are far away from our own families.

Colin and I are spending the holiday the way we did last year: here in Connecticut.

We are working to create our own traditions. We are working inside boundaries, like many people are: tight budgets and the even tighter bonds of our ideas of what this time of year should mean.

What does it mean to be home for the holidays?

How do we – intentionally or inadvertently — reshape the imaginations of our own children and our community?

Can we do it, without succumbing to the naiveté of nostalgia? Should we?

My December series is: “If Only In My Dreams” – featuring images, poetry, and thoughts that prod at the Big Question: What is our dream of holiday all about?

***

Feel free to participate; however you like.

You can:

Comment

Submit photos

Write a small stone or poem

Think about it

Talk about it.

Tweet it, hash tag #BigQDreams

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I heard: “Big Sur is calling to me” and here’s what happened to me.

I immediately felt the grey, El Nino winter that that I spent in California, in 1999.

I was working in a restaurant in Kansas City at the time a place that was renovating. All the staff was given 6 weeks vacation, unpaid.

So I planned for it, saved up money the way that single people can do– just enough– and bought a one-way Amtrak ticket to San Francisco. I had a cousin to stay with. And a college friend. And my first-ever laptop.

In the weeks, I hung out in Berkeley, writing things that got saved in the hard drive of a laptop I don’t own anymore. Also on floppy disk. Once I  printed onto dot matrix at some point too. My feet froze in the Starbucks as I wrote.

It was a psychological break from work for me that I hadn’t ever taken before. I was free to wander around… in my writing and in the day.

Unfortunately, most days were drenching cold rain.

On the weekends, I found my way to be with my friends Mallie and Adrian. We drove north and stayed in cheap hotels. Walked barren beaches and watched dogs chase men in wetsuits into the surf. We argued and ate. She dropped me back in Berkeley again for the weekdays, to come and find me again on the weekend.

More writing at the library table, and wandering around San Francisco alone. Then the weekend again and roadtrip.

We meandered south, where we found the sun. We stopped in Santa Cruz and walked along a funny boardwalk and up onto the cliffs, watching the wild surfers below us.  We went on for miles on two-lane roads through old Western towns that are hidden like real fossils. Stopping at bar that was rough hewn and soaked in beer and pops up in my memory like a movie scene.

We kept going, by the artists’ caves packed into the trees along Highway 1, and the little surprise restaurants in the middle of nowhere, overflowing with people and paperbacks and coffee stains.

We found our way to Hearst Castle Road, and timed it so we could take the tour. Stared at the abandoned and gleaming bowling alleys like they they were diamond rings sitting on a can of tuna in the supermarket. The castle on top of the hill that people wanted to be haunted with fame and glory was just draped in fog and stony silence.

We wound our way back up the first highway. Stopped in Carmel for lunch and felt cheated by the  diamond choker vibe. A strangeness of glamour tarred the wildnerness.

Another weekend we went north again. Into the redwoods, walking without anyone else. Only the rain and dead leaf carpets. Trying to adjust our sense of proportion. And our sense of alone.

In between the weekends, to solidify the strangeness, my cousin introduced me to a red-headed boy. And the boy took me on a date. To dinner in North Beach, San Francisco. And then to that wonderful, narrow bookstore where the Beats lived.

The boy took me out again, and then surprised me by finding me beautiful.

In weak moments, the sun winced its way out from the clouds.

Otherwise, the rain poured down. We had to kiss in a doorway to stay dry.

After another week, I stared at Bridal Veil Falls at Yosemite, my nose frozen, but far enough from the coast to be in the sun. Wishing to be back in Berkeley, the way girls in love do.

Then the train and the goodbyes and the wishes to stay and promises to come. And photographs — traded — all before the cell phone era. And I don’t remember the train home, even though I took it there.

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