a relationship with joy.

And life is eternal;
and love is immortal;
and death is only a horizon;
and a horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight.

On Tuesday I attended the memorial service of my last grandparent, my mother’s mother – Joyce Barbara Harris Hubert Sexton. It was held in Denver, Colorado – a beautiful and free spirited place, that truly suited the kind of person she was.

It is odd to me that through her death, I feel closer to her than I ever felt to her during her life. Somehow, as my family members sat around drinking beer and telling the many wild stories about my grandmother, I was able to derive an image of her that I have been seeking for many years.

Throughout my life, I have always felt slightly gypped in the grandparent department. To start with, both of my grandfathers passed before my birth. My grandmothers were always in states so distant, that trips were rare. Phone calls also were infrequent, and generally only consisted of the kinds of surface level questions that grandparents always ask – how is school? What did you do yesterday? What’s your favorite subject?

As I entered college I started to feel as though I was missing out on something in having such a small relationship with my grandmother. Knowing that phone calls would never really let us get to know each other, I wrote her a letter. It was a long letter, that said more than I normally would tell. I signed it “Write Back! Olivia.”

I don’t know why, but my grandmother never did. I assume she just read my plea as just another way to sign a letter. I know that her non-response was not intentional. But – I decided that I had tried, and perhaps Joy and I weren’t destined to be best friends.

This past Tuesday, as I heard stories about her, I couldn’t help but to learn how much we had in common all along. She was so interesting, and had so many stories to tell. Though she was always reserved to tell them – I can’t help but wish I had tried harder.

my place in the sun.

Good Morning August.

Happy Birthday Mom.

It is hard to believe that the last of the summer months has come. It feels like only days ago that I arrived in Stroudsburg in my Honda – the trunk and backseat brimming with whatever I could get to fit. Hauling my laundry baskets and boxes up into the corner bedroom of Turning Point made me reminisce about moving into a dorm. My first night was lonely. I took to the back porch to admire the view, and ended up plowing through the new David Sedaris book in short time.

But now, just weeks later, I feel at home in this strange place. For the first time in a long time I’ve taken time to be by myself. Though I’ve made friends here, I still spend most of my evenings reading, writing, dancing, cooking or – when I’m feeling just so – watching a movie. In a way, my time here has been like a private retreat. I’ve made progress on my personal journey to wherever it is I’m heading. Happiness? Success? Death? Nobody really knows. But we’ve all got our eyes on the horizon in preparation for what’s next.

I’ve learned that I am the type of person who gets attached to the experiences I encounter. I think back to the days of summer camp, when my ride home was full of tears and throat clenching pains. I suppose not much has changed, because I’ve never met an experience I didn’t like. Well… OK … I guess I would have been happy missing out on that awful haircut. But when it comes to the places I go, and the people I meet, I’m hooked. I feel as though I could fit in just about anywhere – which really, ultimately, makes me feel like I may never find that one place where things are perfect enough to stop.