Ghosts of Trees

On the northernmost end of J. Island is a stretch of beach that's only wide enough for walking when the tide ebbs to its lowest point. When the tide rolls back in, it drowns most of the available sand and curls right up against the edge of the maritime forest.

When I was there last week, I parked my car in one of the crude spaces near the picnic area and followed a little trail through the forest. The ancient live oaks stretched their gnarled branches over the path and the garlands of spanish moss filtered the sunlight into a spotty pattern on the forest floor. The path wended through the trees, so old and wizened, it felt other worldly. When I finally cut a swath to the other side and found the sandy stretch, it was really quite breathtaking. The beach was wide; the tide receded to the point that it washed just over the rippled sand dunes, and at its very edge, fishermen were more than knee-deep in the water.

The late afternoon sun buttered the landscape in a mellow golden glow. And down the naked strip of sand were trees - whole trees from root mass to spindly tops, washed up on the sand. The beach is called Driftwood Beach for this reason. But whereas I think of driftwood as scraps of sun-bleached board, these were water-stripped live oaks whitewashed by the sun and saltwater. Weathered smooth and replanted in the sand.

I found myself wandering through this beach-side forest, a beautiful wasteland of trees. It was serene; the wind tunneled away the voices of the few other beachgoers. Most people had already deserted the beach for dinner, and the further I walked along through the sand forest, the more remote it seemed.

I marveled at these amazing natural sculptures, carved from nothing more than wood and elements. They were austere and haunting. At another time, they were vibrant whip-slick saplings, and now they lay hollow and abandoned on the dunes.

The water gently lapped the shore; the sun oranged and grew soft. I climbed into the upstretching branches of one of the horizontal live oaks and gazed at the expanse of the Atlantic. To my left and right, branches arced and once-green root cords twisted in a massive wooden knot. These husks of trees weren't less than they once were; they were simply beautiful in an unexpected way. Trees outside the bounds of imaginable trees. Like the way that lives, imagined one way, end up a boneyard of unrealized dreams or directions abandoned. Clean white sculptures of what we once were or lives we never lived and haunting us with their imperfect beauty.

Rock-a-bye Baby, in the Treetops

These photos were taken last month before...well, before. But I loved them and wanted to share.
Besides, life is just a little better with cute photos of the Dillman.

Winter Drive

Weak winter sun, a pale yellow egg yolk in the eastern porcelain sky. Lacy stamp of a half moon in the west. Cragged limbs of a tree filled with obsidian crows, eyes beady and glassine against the cold. Last vestiges of woodsmoke curl through the tight air. Bitter breath in tiny clouds after cautious sips of hot coffee. Skin dry and papery in front of the heat vents, fingertips numb - where are my gloves? No sunglasses this morning, crinkle my eyes against that thin creamy light flickering through the slats of pine trees edging the road, marking each second with light and shadow. Trees along the downtown streets strain their bare fractal limbs against the sky - now tinged blue or pink, the sun growing orange and somehow closer as I turn past the stacked brick building. I could keep going - keep driving in this solitary winter landscape - but I shut off the motor, go inside.

Snow: Southern Style

It doesn't snow much in these parts. If you're from a part of the country where snow is a normal occurrence, and you've been lucky enough to experience it in the south, you know that we buy milk, bread and eggs, and take cover in the shelter of our homes. We do not, under any circumstances, attempt to travel during treacherous snowfall, particularly if accumulation exceeds half an inch. That's why I was marooned at Justin and Eva's on Saturday after taking refuge there following a day in the ATL office.

Snowfall started early Saturday morning and continued through the afternoon. And it was beautiful, deafening snow, soft and powdery, falling in big papery flakes. Enjoy.

The First Day Impressions

* The players: The Bossman, The Goofball, The Rockstar, The Clone, The Exotic and The Violinist

* Entrance into our hallway is the guts of the old freight elevator

* Stuffed monkey sailing over the partial wall of my office, donated by The Goofball to make my office more personal

* Lunch at the eatery of my choice (tuna melt, pita points, fresh fruit)

* Unlimited sick days??? (If you don't feel well, don't come to work.)

* First addition to desk: 5 x 7 of the Dilly Monster

* Worked on Client projects already (copywriting, conference call)

* Curbing desire to say, "At my old job, we..."

* Email from The President saying welcome

* The Clone and I talk and use the same phrases

* Email from the absentee Rockstar and voicemail from the absentee Bossman to check on my first day's progress

* "Does anyone have a quarter for the parking meter?" "I bet Ashley does. That's the biggest purse I've ever seen."

* Nice light in the afternoon through my window and I can see big oak trees

* 5:30, so very glad to go home

Leaving: Part Five - A Room of One's Own

One of the things I've missed most about being home is my space. Granted, there's no place like home, and in home, I've been reunited with the room I grew up in. I spent many an hour there feeling like it was the one place in the world that was really mine. It's undergone several incarnations, from the Holly Hobbie wallpaper to the sunflower explosion of the 90s to its more recent makeover to nice neutral tones. But upon my return, I've found it hard to fit back into it - quite literally, between the tiny bed and the tiny dimensions, I can't physically live there comfortably. Currently, my possessions are exploding from overnight bags and boxes and littering every room in the house - and especially the floor of my tiny room, which now has only sparse patches of carpet showing so that you can step carefully through the rubble.

Crammed into my parents' house, I'm like a jack-in-the-box, stuffed without grace into a tight space and ready to spring at any moment if only I get wound up enough. As the days and weeks have rolled past, it's been impossible not to long for my house on Grace Street. Sometimes at night or in a passing moment, I'll recall my favorite details about the old apartment - the wide-board wooden floors and the places where the edges were cracking and splintering; the design on the black tin cover on the fireplace; the eerie circles of light cast upward by the living room chandelier that came from New Orleans; the thick grey plaster walls that held stains from hurricanes and air conditioner leaks; and of course, the giant many-paned windows that stretched up the walls and filtered in the sunlight, the moonlight and the view of my tree.

But there's something beyond the love of the old house itself in my longing for it. There is the point of it being a place that was mine - searched for and discovered totally on my own. And I belonged there. And I had solitude there. Though the solitude may have been too much at times and sometimes I looked forward to breaking away from it, there's a bit of me that wishes for a long stretch of quiet evening with sole possession of the remote control or the stereo or just silence if that is what I wished. Then there is the need for all my things: ready access to all my books (even if just to take them out and open their covers and flip idly through the pages without ever reading them); all of my CDs including Ray LaMontagne, Scarlett's Walk, Under the Iron Sea, and the whole John Mayer catalog which are somewhere in the storage bin; my photographs and teacups and the print of The Pink House that I love so much. Without the trappings of me, I feel a little strung out, unable to feel like much is really mine.

Just having turned 28, I think that I should be expanding out into the world. Instead, I feel like I'm shrinking, back-peddling into a former self that can fit into this house. While on some levels, it's been wonderful to reconnect with my parents and share their roof again, there are moments that I feel absolutely monstrous, like I'm going to Hulk-out and lose my mind. After so many years of relying on and only having to answer to me, myself and I, constant companionship can be stifling. Perhaps that's why I'm up past midnight most nights, relishing the quiet and the stillness. When, if I just close my eyes, I can pretend that when I open them, there will be the soft mellow glow of the downtown streetlights through the window casting shadows along the walls, all the way up to the cavernous ceiling while silence fills a space that is mine. All mine.

Octagonal Oddities

Tagged by Pen to reveal 8 weird things about myself...as if what I write everyday doesn't qualify.

1. I am obsessed with trees. I have in my closet a branch of a weeping cherry tree that used to reside in our backyard and was cruelly cut down because it grew into the septic tank. At Berry, there was a holly tree that grew outside my window, and in Wilmywood, the giant ancient oak outside the Grace Street house was mine all mine. Trees make me feel peaceful and contemplative. Something to do with my name, perhaps? Or maybe I was an Ent in a former life.

2. I feel bad when I am not part of a cultural phenomenon. I feel guilty about the fact that"Smells Like Teen Spirit" was one of the most formative songs of my generation and I simply wasn't that into it. Clerks and Mallrats? Never seen 'em. The Simpsons? Not that funny to me. It makes me feel like a lesser member of the human race, like I'm not being a team player because I'm not participating. It's one of the main reasons I watch American Idol.

3. I like to have the same conversations over and over again, particularly with my mom. If we've talked out a situation once, we've talked it out 100 times. Sometimes we even use the same phrases. There is no answer, no resolution to these conversations. They are just familiar terrain that we like to explore over and over again. Like we need to say, "Remember that rock from yesterday?" Yep, I remember.

4. Embarrassingly weird, but Sister Act Two: Back in the Habit always makes me cry at the end. I'm serious. Those kids singing "Joyful, Joyful" and beating out the giant choir from St. Wherever, and I am in a puddle. Oh, Whoopi.

5. I don't like to listen to music unless I know the words. When I get a new CD, I listen to it at least twice with the liner notes in front of me. I've got to get a hang of the chorus, a thread of each verse in order to build on it until I know all the words. Perhaps this is why I cannot get into jazz. And as a second to this, when I find an artist that I like, I feel compelled to get all of their music even if I only like one song. I want to own them - all of them - and know all the words. This is how I like music.

6. I only like art that looks like something. I know this is incredibly low-brow and unhip of me. But if I'm going to hang it up, I need to see something in it - a cloud, a dog, a barn. It can be abstracted, but there's got to be something there. I'm sure there is great meaning in Pollock. But I don't want it on my wall.

7. I am obsessed with my left-handedness. I like to note what activities I actually perform left-handed...writing, eating, drinking, painting my fingernails, repelling.... I make note of anyone around me who is left-handed - store clerks, waiters, delivery men. I acknowledge it, like we are somehow comrades in arms because of our left-handedness. If I'm watching a movie, I will notice if an actor is left-handed. And I have to say it out loud. "Diane Keaton's left-handed!" (This during watching Baby Boom with my dad last weekend.) It is like being part of a secret society to me - and yeah, Hendrix is in it with me.

8. I see shortening people's names as a sign of affection. And some people hate this and find it a real insult that you would shorten their name. My friend Niki and I have been friends since first grade...back then, we were Nicole and Ashley. But as years went by, it shortened and shortened until we were Nik and Ash. And we used to joke that some day we'd just be letters. I also call STGD by the first letter of his first name which is "T". There are exceptions to the rule - names that simply don't lend themselves to being shortened or people who simply don't fit the acceptable shortening. But really - if I cut off most of your name, it's because I love you.

Tagging the hometown gals - Nik, Andi and Megan.