“Un

Posted on May 21, 2013 by kaceemaree

I will never feel that I have finished
what I’ve started. I am doomed
to die unsatisfied.

There is simply so much
to be done. Feelings
to be felt. Places
to been seen. Conversations
to be had.

I am always racing. Against
time, daylight, myself.
My heart races with me,
at times with such intensity
it halts my breath.

I realize it
only as I gasp
for air. As if my mind
is too busy
processing swirling thoughts
to perform involuntary duties
necessary for survival.

I stay awake
writing, cleaning, reading, talking—
usually all at once—
until my body forces me to sleep.

Joints begin to ache, mind goes fuzzy
and even turning off the light
seems a herculean effort.

I squeeze as much
life
as I can into the day
because I’ve seen how early and abruptly
it can end.

I am afraid, though,
that the amount of
life
I force into the present
trims time off years
yet to come.

But what if the end
is the present? Then
nothing is lost. Or
everything.

Even if I knew
the exact moment
life would end. And it
was 80 years from today,
I would never feel
I’d done enough.

Shared
enough.

Seen
enough.

Planted
enough.

I would never
feel I was
enough.

And maybe it’s okay,
to feel I can never be
finished.”

Modeled after an Elizabeth Alexander poem, this actually inspired the title of my portfolio for the first class of my MFA program: Unfinished.

Stung

Posted on March 24, 2013 by kaceemaree

I recall it more vividly than most memories. I was two years old, I think. It’s hard to determine the precise age of events that took place early on without parents to verify the details. Most childhood memories seem to come not from one’s own memory, but rather from parents or siblings retelling them. The dog attack, for instance, which required more than a hundred stitches across my face, is something I only know through my dad’s recounting of the bite, the blood-soaked towel pressed against my face, the surgery, and my escape from the recovery room in search of him. Standing in a hospital gown, I smiled through stitches, he told me, when I found him in the waiting room. He scooped me up and gave the nurses hell for not watching me more closely. I’m sure that’s how it went. I was his little girl, he my protector.

My first memory is not one that was reconstructed for me like my face after the dog. I don’t even think I’ve discussed it with anyone who may have witnessed the incident. They probably didn’t think it too big a deal. As I said, I was two, a still-bald toddler (I didn’t grow hair until the age of three), just beginning to absorb the world, not yet capable of contemplating my place in it, like I often would later in life.

It happened in the backyard of the small, barn red house I lived in until I was nine years old, the age at which my parents’ marriage went from the slow deterioration I’d thought normal, to a merciless avalanche, taking any good memories I had of them together down with it. I remember that house well. Two bedrooms, the bunk bed I shared with my little brother, the porch where I napped with our graying golden retriever Zack. The house may have been tiny, but the land was much larger than most lots in the suburbs. Our acre of land was bordered on one side by a creek and on the other by our neighbors’ wood-fenced arena for their two horses.

The back of the yard met the woods where I spent hours venturing alone or with Zack close behind me, making sure I was safe. A weeping willow tree near the creek was strong enough to hold me as I swung from its vine-like branches like Tarzan before I knew who Tarzan was. An old pine in the front yard made the perfect climbing tree. Every now and then an apple would fall from the apple tree like a tennis ball from nowhere, and I’d inspect it for wormholes before taking a bite.

I could always be found outside entertaining myself, from the nature-supplied distractions to the simple swing dad made by drilling a hold in the center of a thick, circular piece of wood—the seat—and threading a nylon towrope through one end, tying a massive knot, and wrapping the other around a strong tree branch more than 20 feet above ground. Looking back, I suppose I kept myself out of the house to avoid my mom in her drunken stupor until dad came home from work. He had to work harder and longer days to make up for her inadequacies. My brother remembers dad being gone a lot, but he doesn’t remember why. Dad’s job required him to be on call, which gave him extra hours but less time at home. I always asked to go with when he had to leave for a call, and sometimes he let me. Once when we passed the Mall of America on our way home, I asked what all the lights were and he took a detour to the mall to show me Minnesota’s indoor amusement park. Dad liked to see me smile.

My first memory was not one of those days I spent outside in solitude. My parents, together then, were having a barbeque with a handful of friends in the backyard and I, the only child present, was cruising around the grass in my buggy, moving my feet Flintstones-style through the open floor. It looked like a toddler-sized golf cart, red frame with a yellow roof. I remember being inside it, turning the steering wheel this way and that way, maneuvering between the other toys strewn about the yard. I could hear my parents laughing and talking with their friends on the patio no more than 10 yards from me. I remember hearing an intermittent bbzzzz, then the noise stopped and a sharp pain shot through my ear. I screamed for my dad as hot tears started streaming down my cheeks.

Someone must have seen the bee because everyone figured out what had happened. Or maybe “bee” was part of my two-year-old vocabulary. A bee had interrupted my pleasant summer afternoon, invaded my buggy, crawled inside my left ear, and stung me. It was the longest and hardest I had cried up to that point. I cried as my parents and their friends rushed me to the bathroom, sat me on the counter and poured peroxide into my ear. I could hear the bubbles popping loudly like popcorn so close to my eardrum. I cried as they were telling me it was okay, I wasn’t allergic, that they knew it hurt. They didn’t know. How could they have? A bee hadn’t stung them inside the ear. They couldn’t know how it felt.

It was my first lesson in pain, an introduction to the surprises of the universe and to the notion that no one will ever truly know how I feel. I knew from that day on that at any moment I could be stung. Later I would come to learn that sometimes the recovery is quick, sometimes the stinging sensation lingers, and other times the damage is irreversible, with no one around to mend it and tell me I would be okay. I would have to figure out for myself how to be okay. When the world came at me fists swinging, I would learn how to fight back.

A Tribute to a Sweet Lady

Posted on March 5, 2013 by kaceemaree

{This will be read during my grandmother’s funeral service this evening.}

Hello. I’m Casie, one of Dorothy’s granddaughters.

For those of you who may not know, we (meaning my brother, cousins and I) called her Lady. Not Dorothy, not Dot, not Nana, not Grandma.

Lady.

I’m not sure exactly how it came about, but however it did, it was endearing and it stuck.

I’m a bit of a literary nerd, so as I was preparing what I was going to say today, I consulted the dictionary for the definition of “Lady,” of which there are several.

A gentle mannered and considerate woman.
Polite and well-spoken.
Of a lady; Ladylike.

What’s funny is those just about sum her up if you were to add humorous and kindhearted. The word “ladylike” hung around in my mind for a while and I started thinking about all the things I felt were Lady-like. Things she did and said.

The first quality that came to mind was that Lady never forgot a thing. She could recall events from decades ago in such detail you’d think they happened yesterday. She was the absolute opposite of an elephant in stature, but when it came to memory she could go toe to toe with one. Yes, elephants have toes. And, yes, there is scientific evidence that they, like Lady, never forget.

When I think of Lady, I also think about how deeply she cared for every person she knew. She gave everyone a nickname, always sent birthday cards, and not only remembered but stocked their favorite foods in her cupboards.

In fact, when her grandkids were young, Lady kept a candy cupboard. I’m not sure why she bothered to put it out of our reach because we were granted access to it every time we asked. Perhaps it’s because she wanted to see the joy on our faces when she handed us a 5-pack of Juicy Fruit gum, a Nestle Crunch bar or a Kit Kat. Beyond the special cupboard, she’d usually have a box of Whitman’s chocolates or Peppermint Patties, pound cake (which was Papa’s favorite that he was kind enough to share), plenty of Coca-Cola, and chocolate milk. Not the premade chocolate milk. No, no. She made us chocolate milk using whole milk and Nestle chocolate powder, and I’m sure all her grandkids can attest that Lady made the best chocolate milk in the world. We could never replicate it. It was simply the best.

Thinking back, I don’t know how she kept her sanity around sugar-fueled children, but she did. And she loved every minute of it. It could be that our energy was contagious, because she didn’t stop. She’d take us to the dollar store to get toys, sit down on the floor to play games, stay up late to do some star-gazing on the deck, then wake up early and make us a pound of bacon, which I consumed once by myself. Or so she told me. That is love. I can imagine the look on Papa’s face when she told him that their elementary school-aged Casie Doll, as she called me, had eaten an entire plate of bacon by herself and not left any for him.

I don’t know why sweets seemed to be at the center of our relationship, but it’s fitting. Lady was a sweet lady. When I brought her a slice of red velvet cake for her birthday a few weeks ago, she took it with delight. Now I find myself wishing we had shared it and continued what we called her “birthday party” for the entire weekend.

The strange thing about death is the seeming finality of it. The end of opportunities to create new memories. But death can only take away life that has not yet been lived. And if it hasn’t been lived, does it really exist? Has anything been taken? Death cannot take away the life that has been lived and the impact that life has made. That’s why we’re all here today: because Lady made an impact on each one of us.

I mentioned elephants before. I read a story recently about two elephants that were serendipitously placed at the same zoo after having spent just a few months in the circus together 23 years earlier. When they were reunited, they remembered one another instantly and roared with joy.

I hope you all never forget how Lady touched your life. Even the smallest kindnesses like offering you a stick of Juicy Fruit gum are important to remember. And some day, when you’re reunited by some force in the universe, I hope you’ll offer a stick in return. And she’ll smile, knowing you’ve been honoring her spirit since the day you last saw each other, in that circus we tend to call life.

Wild

Posted on September 18, 2012 by kaceemaree

It seems Cheryl Strayed is the fresh new author of the moment. I mean, Oprah resurfaced from retirement after reading her new book Wild just so she could rave about it to the world. Impressed yet? I wasn’t either. Not until I uncovered more about Cheryl’s life. She grew up in Minnesota and attended the U of M. I did both of those things. Her dad abandoned her family when she was young. My mom abandoned my family when I was also young. Her loving mother died from lung cancer when Cheryl was only 22 years old. My loving father died from lung cancer when I was just 24 years old. After her mother’s death, her siblings dispersed while she tried to hold them together. I’ve been desperately trying to keep my younger brother closer than ever since my dad passed.

It appeared that this woman’s life was somehow my life, only she’d gotten a head start.

Wild is the story of her 1100-mile solo hike on the Pacific Crest Trail that runs from Mexico to Canada on the West coast, through California, Oregon and Washington. She was 26 years old at the time and feeling utterly alone in the world, having lost her family and divorced the husband she’d married young. I’m 26 years old and I’ve battled lonesomeness intermittently throughout my life, but more than ever over the past two years. This book, I felt, was written for me.

Of course, every reader feels that way about particular stories. Egotistical, aren’t we? Maybe. Or maybe we readers are bound by some force in the universe to find the authors we do. An energy that draws souls together and makes them feel connected—emotionally, spiritually, beautifully connected—to at least one other human who feels and thinks and experiences life similar to the ways we do.

Cheryl writes that she always knew deep within her that she was a writer. (“Of all the things I’d done in my life, of all the versions of myself I’d lived out, there was one that had never changed: I was a writer.” p. 188) And at 26, she thought she’d have already published her first book. I’m reluctant to admit that my 20-year-old self also expected I’d have a published book by now. How ignorant, and arrogant. Though for any writer or artist the innate urge to empty yourself of what you presume you have to tell is with you since as far back as you can recall, it’s not until you’ve had the perfect medley of experiences that you can do your story justice and tell it from a knowing perspective. In fact, Wild has just now been published almost 20 years after Cheryl’s summer-long hike.

Beginning her trip, the only knowledge Cheryl had of the Pacific Crest Trail was that which she gained from the trail guidebook that had inspired her idea to hike it. While telling of her encounters on the trail (with people, nature, animals, her own thoughts even), Cheryl reveals significant life events that ultimately led to her journey. Her careful recollections of her mother’s diagnosis, suffering and death so heart-wrenchingly mirrored that of my experiences losing my father that I had flashbacks of my own life while consuming Cheryl’s words about hers. (“Those were the worst days, I believed at the time, and yet the moment she died I’d have given anything to have them back.” p. 100)

Reading the ways Cheryl described her love for her mother and her mother’s love for her, I couldn’t help but sense that their relationship must have been like the one I’d had with my dad. She refers to her mother as having been at the center of her, the way my dad had been for me. (“We were her kids, her comrades, the end of her and the beginning.” p. 13)

Several themes are thread throughout the story.

She repeatedly refers to the aloneness she feels on the trail, her feelings about which fluctuate over time. // “I was alone again, just the trail and me.” (p. 287)
She also continuously tells of how she simply had to move herself forward. Turning back was not an option. // “There was nothing to do but go on.” (p. 238)
Then there was the presence of her excruciatingly heavy pack, called Monster, which mutilated parts of her body. // “I was amazed that what I needed to survive could be carried on my back. And, most surprising of all, that I could carry it. That I could bear the unbearable.” (p. 92)

While reading it, I felt about the book how I’ve felt before about new romantic relationships. Every hour away was too long. I couldn’t wait to be reunited with Wild each night. I came to the edge of tears several times, but the tears only broke free, rolling down my cheeks while reading about her mother’s horse midway through and then again for the last few pages of the book. As Cheryl recounts how she knew her hike would soon be over, I too realized that it would be, which meant I was almost finished with the story. A story that was now as real to me as my own life. “It was really over, I thought. There was no way to go back, to make it stay.” (p. 307)

I’m gushing with respect and admiration. I’m a better reader, a better writer and a better person for having read this penetrating, liberating, moving story. A brave journey, bravely and perfectly captured on paper.

Bravo, Cheryl Strayed.

Some delightfully stirring passages.

“I’ve always been someone’s daughter or mother or wife. I’ve never just been me” (273).

“The universe, I’d learned, was never, ever kidding. It would take whatever it wanted and it would never give it back” (209).

“I loved REI more than I loved the people behind Snapple lemonade” (199).

“The amount that she loved us was beyond her reach.” (p. 13)

“We didn’t exchange a word. Not because we felt so alone in our grief, but because we were so together in it, as if we were one body instead of two.” (p. 12)

“[The Ten Thousand Things] were all the named and unnamed things in the world and together they added up to less than how much my mother loved me.” (p. 303)

“One of the worst things about losing my mother at the age I did was how very much there was to regret. Small things that stung now…” (151).

“Here it could be the fourth of July or the tenth of December. These mountains didn’t count the days” (143).

“It had been so silent in the wake of that commotion, a kind of potent silence that seemed to contain everything” (145).

“The silence was tremendous. The absence felt like a weight. This is what I came for, I thought. This is what I got” (83).

“Alone had always felt like an actual place to me, as if it weren’t a state of being, but rather a room where I could retreat to be who I really was” (119).

“In my perception, the world wasn’t a graph or formula or an equation. It was a story” (141).

“The day we signed our divorce papers, it was April in Minneapolis and snowing, the flakes coming down in thick swirls, enchanting the city” (97).

“Everything I’d ever imagined about myself disappeared into the crack of her last breath” (34).

Be a good kid

Posted on September 12, 2012 by kaceemaree

A darling coworker friend of mine graduated from college this past May. I was reminded of this today as I came across a photo on Facebook of her dressed in a graduation cap and gown and her mother standing beside her.

I was the first in my family to become a college student. When I was in school, my dad would tell people about it with unbridled enthusiasm. “Proud” doesn’t even suffice to express how he felt. It was deeply gratifying for him to see the daughter he’d singlehandedly raised become a Minnesota Gopher.

Although I officially finished my bachelor’s degree requirements in summer 2009, I didn’t participate in a commencement ceremony until December that year. I couldn’t have known then that my dad was going to be diagnosed with terminal cancer just three months later.

After the ceremony, I met my dad and my brother in the compact entrance of the University of Minnesota Northrop Auditorium, along with hundreds of other students and families. Crowded spaces and hordes of people make me anxious. When I’m anxious I become crabby.

As we talked in the entrance to Northrop, my dad asked if we could go outside and take photos together. I declined and said I just wanted to get out of there. Seeing in my voice and on my face how irritated I was with the surroundings, he happily led me and my brother out to the car.

We never took a photo of me in my graduation cap and gown and he next to me grinning ear to ear. Although I did have my brother take a photo of me in graduation attire a few days later and frame it for my dad as a Christmas gift (which made him tear up upon opening), it’s just not the same.

When he was diagnosed a few months later, my heart ached with guilt about not letting him take our photo on graduation day. I even cried to him about it and apologized for my behavior. Like a good dad, he told me that it didn’t matter and that he was just happy to see me walk across that stage.

He would have loved that photo. I would have loved that photo. I become teary-eyed just thinking about how if I had that photo it would be sitting on my bookshelves as I write this.

I will never have that photo.

After graduation he’d introduce me to people with a smile. “This is my daughter, Casie,” he’d say. “My college grad.”

Be good to your parents. What may seem trivial in the moment can feel monumental when you look back on it.

So, about Black Friday…

Posted on November 25, 2011 by kaceemaree

Is it safe to leave my apartment yet? Are the mildly to extremely unstable people done shopping?

Black Friday. While wars, poverty and countless other tragedies take hold of people around the world, America has dedicated an entire day to senseless consumerism.

Thank you, Google. Preoccupation doesn’t quite cut it for this national shopping day. It’s a celebration. A tradition. A custom of consumption. Consumption preceded by consumption. It’s not enough that you’ve spent a day stuffing your mouth with more food than you typically consume in a week. No, no. Just about the time you begin to feel food literally punching you in the stomach from inside your intestines, you think, The only thing that can possibly make me feel better right how is to increase my credit card bill. And off you go.

Folding chair and blanket in the backseat, you’re ready to wait in line for hours outside of Best Buy for that 42″ flatscreen LED HDTV marked down from $499 to $199. You’re too entranced by the temptations of the retail giants that you don’t realize how resentful you should be of them. Their markups are so high that they can still make a profit when selling you that TV for $300 less than they usually do. You’re not getting a deal. You’re being shown how ripped off you are every other day of the year.

I actually considered going out this year to simply observe the chaos. I’ve never set foot in a retail store on Black Friday. But I’ve heard the stories. We’ve all heard them. Man trampled just inside Target doors. Woman maces other shoppers in her greedy path. Two-dollar waffle iron riot telling of Americans’ values. It seemed to me that anyone going out in this madness should be prepared to defend him or herself. A helmet and a bubble-wrap blanket seemed to me sufficient shopping armor until I thought better about it. I could see the store security video footage already. One look at a short blonde girl wrapped in bubble wrap, helmet on tight, and other shoppers would whisper to one another, See that one? She must be weak. The next minute all you’d hear is POP, POP POP, POP, POP POP POP, POP POP! So much for that bubble wrap.

Just the term Black Friday is terrifying. There is no color quite as gloomy as black. In fact, it was given that name for that reason. In 1966, Philadelphia police gave the day that name because of the overwhelming traffic and disorder caused by holiday shoppers the day after Thanksgiving. But over the past nearly five decades, brands have turned the day into a frenzied fight to the checkout line in hopes the holiday music and door buster deals will disorient you enough so that you don’t realize how much money you’re needlessly spending.

Yes, all this coming from a girl who works in advertising. An industry where people aren’t people. People are consumers. And brands try to convince them the little disposable income they have is better spent than saved. And we wonder why our society needs so much help. America, the consumerist nation.

I’m not suggesting I’m innocent here. I won’t sit by and pass judgment on others without turning the finger on myself. I enjoy shopping as much as the next 20-something trying to stand out in a crowd of cuteness. I bargain shop for $10 scarves, but justify $80 boots. But that’s pushing it. It’s a rare occurrence that I spend nearly $100 on an item. Something that’s a common practice for some. Even so, I’m still guilty. I’m a consumer. I could blame it on being a product of the culture I was brought up around. But I won’t. I’ll plainly admit that I do a shitty job of practicing self-control. Most of us do. This is why Black Friday exists. All of our small actions contribute to a nation of debt-burdened people uninhibitedly drawn to bright red “Sale!” signs.

Ouch.

A perfect day.

Posted on October 10, 2011 by kaceemaree

We spend most of our days doing things out of necessity. We work, more than we probably should. We run errands. We spend too much time with technology. We sit in traffic. We cook dinner. We sleep. Our routines don’t allow much time for us to just be…us. To do the kinds of things that calm our spirits, help us discover how freeing laughter can be and remind us of all there is to enjoy in the world. To have good days. Even perfect days.

If I were to design the perfect day, it would start with waking to birds chatting back and forth – no unnatural alarm sounds. I look out an open window to golden beams of sunlight gleaming through branches swaying slightly with the breeze. Something straight from the first pages of a storybook.

The best part about a morning that starts in such a way is knowing the day is yours to make of what you will. The best attire for an open agenda – an unagenda, let’s call it – is comfy jeans and a plain white cotton tee dressed up with a wispy scarf. Ready-for-whatever wear.

Windows down, stereo up. Shortly after I press my foot to the gas pedal, I sing and dance like a tone-deaf adolescent monkey all the way to my favorite lunch destination, Great Harvest Bread Company in Minnetonka. First introduced to this delightful place by my dad, I’ve been a regular enjoyer for years. Each sandwich is made to a self-completed order form, first name at the top. While you wait, you can try bits of any or all of the freshly baked breads of the day. No place else have I had a fresher tasting sandwich and friendlier service. There’s one lady in particular who always recognizes me and gives me a just baked pull-apart oatmeal cookie with speckles of cinnamon and chocolate pieces at no charge. As tempting as it is to start with dessert, I first finish my sandwich, which is a treat in itself. The honey whole wheat has a soft, grainy feel that only baked-that-day bread can have. Two slices surround thinly sliced turkey and provolone cheese, sliced minutes before, and leafy green lettuce. Each bite tastes straight-from-the-farm fresh.

No day could possibly be perfect in my mind without time to write. Aside from my favorite people, it is what makes me happiest. Days like this bring out the best of ideas. Good moods lend themselves well to good writing. A good place to do it is also necessary. It somehow came to be that a coffee shop is one of the only public places, aside from the library, where it’s socially acceptable to sit alone for as long as you’d like. I’d bet they’d let you stay even if you didn’t order anything. Just like the library. Well, except better because there are caffeinated drinks and snacks of some kind. I love snacks. I even love the word snack. Snack. Snaaaaaaack. Once I have my drink and snack in hand, I meander through the table maze to the mini-sofa placed in that space for people like me. No, not people who’ve barely surpassed 5 feet and can comfortably spread their legs out across small furniture. People who’ve come in search of a spot conducive to free-flowing thoughts and escapable distractions. And there I sit. I write. I toss my head back a few times as if that’s a recharge mechanism for ideas. I unconsciously stroke the sides of my short blonde hair until the next word comes to me. I leave feeling accomplished, even if I’ve only written a few paragraphs. I’ve done something. And it was for me. No one but me.

As I said, the happiest of things is talking with my favorite people. Good, good people are rare. And I’ve found the best way to live a full life is to surround yourself with them. I can count them on about a hand and a half. My favorite people have a way of making me feel better about the world, and better about me. They bring out the best in me. I feel elated, albeit to different degrees, every time I talk with one of them. Serious or ridiculous, our conversations are energizing. Not in a pink bunny pounding a drum kind of way. It’s a kind of strength fueled by a restoration of faith in the potential of people to affect you and your capacity for affecting them. We have conversations every day, but usually they are simply that – everyday. It’s a special day when you can have the kind that makes you better than you were before it.

Next up, dinner. Destination: Green Mill in Uptown. There are 28 Green Mill locations in the Midwest, but this was one of the first. The outdated décor gives it a classic charm. The warm, dark wood of the older booths and the bar deserve to be preserved, not renovated. The multi-colored light fixtures are probably the newest addition and even they are a bit behind the times. But that’s why I love it. That and the food. The food is as pleasantly anomalous as the atmosphere. I order the same thing every time, and every time it’s a little different. French dressing. Pasta sauce. Garlic butter. Chicken wing sauce. Whatever the dish, it’s made from scratch each day. This place is an unsuspected gem. It keeps me coming back week after week. There’s something special about being a regular somewhere. I’m recognized and welcomed with a “How have you been?” Reserved for familiar patrons, this greeting is far more heartwarming than the “How are you?” heard by the newcomers and occasional visitors. When you don’t need a menu and your server doesn’t need an order because she already knows what you like, that’s when you’ve found a home away from home.

My usual Green Mill order is only made better when followed by some type of sweet treat. Not just any one will do, either. Perfect days call for near perfect dessert. Sebastian Joe’s ice cream holds a special place among my taste buds. It’s dense, yet penetrable by plastic spoon. Each spoonful that’s pulled from the naturally flavored mounds of chocolate and vanilla draws a lace of cold, velvety frozen dessert from dish to spoon until it gets so thin it breaks away, curling up to the spoon. I’ve eaten a lot of ice cream in my lifetime and only homemade ice cream does this. This is good stuff, people.

During the short part of the year when the sun stays out well past dinnertime, post-dessert activities can take place outside. It wasn’t until I started to travel more often, that I developed such a strong appreciation for the access I have to water as a Minnesotan. Lakes, rivers, falls, streams, ponds – it’s everywhere. I love it. There is nothing as calming as water. The way it glistens in the sun and rushes against its shoreline and ripples away from a fishing lure, rock, or footsteps. A waterfront view of the sunset is my idea of a storybook ending to a perfect day.

It’s a scarf day.

Posted on September 1, 2011 by kaceemaree

I’ve been neglecting my blog. And I feel horrible about it. Not because I think anyone actually reads it, but because it’s one of the only things I do truly for me…to make me happy. While I get myself together enough to craft something new, I figured I’d at least post something I wrote a few weeks back for a creative writing class I was taking this summer…

It’s a scarf day.

They come in a variety of fabrics. Rayon, polyester, cotton, acrylic. Some are skinny, some wide. A number of them lightweight, others heavier. They can be patterned or plain, short or long. You can loop through, double wrap, or twist and drape. Available in a wide range of colors and shapes, scarves are the most versatile of accessories.

I have 46 of them.

They spill over two wire-framed cloth bins in my closet. They lie there each day, beneath my hanging clothes, just waiting to be pulled from the heap. The most popular of the assortment sit at the top, easily accessible and thus worn more regularly. I don’t mean to play favorites. In fact, I feel bad that the ones pushed to the bottom barely ever see the light of day. Sometimes, though, none of them have a chance. Some days simply aren’t scarf days.

It’s taken me years to unintentionally establish a scarf collection. As I acquired more and more of them, people around me started to notice. Friends began giving them to me as gifts, coworkers would remark that I must have hundreds, and certain clothing store associates came to recognize my recurring purchase.

I’m well aware that I don’t need this many scarves. And a few of them are so similar in subdued pinkish hue that the untrained eye might think they’re exactly the same. I don’t wear them for the functional purposes of staying warm, blocking sunlight or, I don’t know, keeping my neck intact. No, my affinity for scarves stems from a much more personal, albeit seemingly unreasonable, belief that each one tells a little bit about me.

Sure, anyone will tell you that people use clothing, jewelry, shoes, eyeglasses – anything, really – to express themselves. But this is different. I’m not trying to outwardly convey anything. I’m just as content wearing them when no one’s around. I’ve selected each scarf as a reflection of something about me. The brightly colored oranges, purples and loud pinks are a sign of my extroverted tendencies. The floral patterned few represent how carefree I can be. The subtle grays, beiges and whites with hints of design reveal my simplistic nature. And the lacy group suggests that I can be a girly girl when the occasion calls for it.

This isn’t just a pile of straight-cut pieces of fabric. I don’t have as many of anything as I do scarves. Each shows a different part of my personality and, when wrapped together, it’s a colorful manifestation of how I see myself. When I’ve been feeling particularly down, or just not particularly cheery, and I need something to remind me of, well, me, I know it’s a scarf day.

April 7th

Posted on April 7, 2011 by kaceemaree

I still hear your voice, remember your laugh, see your smile, and feel the goodness in your heart come through in mine. It seems like you just went away for a while and that you’ll be back. My eyes well up to the brink of tears when I realize you won’t.

I look at old photos. I miss you. I find birthday cards written from you to me. I miss you. Your favorite songs come on the radio. I miss you. I eat at one of your favorite restaurants. I miss you. I play back memories in my mind. I miss you. I breathe. I miss you. I laugh. I miss you. I cry. I miss you. I think of all the things that could have been – things I didn’t even get a chance to miss.

Maybe you never said goodbye because we never have to. Because we’ll always be with each other in spirit. Because I will forever carry you in my heart.

It’s April 7^th. Happy birthday, Dad. I miss you every day. Sometimes every minute.

Love, Kid

My dad with my brother and the cake I made on his birthday last year (2010)

I believe in…

Posted on March 28, 2011 by kaceemaree

{I wrote this in a notebook at the side of my dad’s bed on February 26th, 2011}

I’m not a religious person. I can count the number of times I’ve been in a church on two hands, and that includes wedding ceremonies. I remember my dad taking my brother and me to church one time and I was confused and nervous about how to act. I felt as if I’d suddenly found myself in the men’s bathroom, not quite sure what to say and how best to exit without anyone noticing my discomfort. Church is just not for me. I don’t feel the need to listen to someone else tell me what they believe while I nod along.

I believe in… Love. Purpose. Fate. I believe those three things could not exist without something controlling them. And there are unexplainable things that happen that I believe could only happen if some force was helping us all along.

{As I finished that last word and pressed my pen to the paper to form the period after it, my dad took his last breath. I was the only one in the room.}

create happy

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