Hannah, just breathe…

I’ve noticed a theme of late: The “be” mantras.

In other words, people telling  me to “be” XXX. Or even me telling myself to “be” XXX.  

It’s starting to drive me a little nuts.

For example:

In yoga today, as I struggled to regain my breath and my footing after an intensely strenuous Baptiste flow series, as I tried to settle and calm myself, the instructor walked past me and said quietly, “Be in the moment. Just relax.” Now, I know it’s her job to tell me this, but still, I wanted to just collapse into child’s pose, press my forehead against my towel, and scream, “I am in this moment! Why the hell do you think I’m breathing like a dolphin over here?!” 

Every day that passes in this job hunt, someone says to me, “You need to be patient.” This “be” mantra is probably my favorite, because each time a person says it, I actually find my impatience level spike dramatically. The very word “patient” makes me even more restless. How’s that for ineffectiveness? Maybe if people starting telling me to just be impatient, then I’d see better results?  Hmm.

Right after giving me the patience pep-talk comes, “You need to be aggressive.” At this, I usually start listing in my head all the ways I already am “being aggressive” in looking for a job. Sending e-mails to men and women I don’t even know but whose names were given to me from friends or friends of friends. Searching nearly a dozen different job boards and sending myself position after position that looks even the slightest bit appealing. Asking every damn person I meet or see if they know of anyone who’s hiring, who has publishing contacts, who needs a good, strong writer/editor on their team. Telling myself, at the end of yet another quiet day, that I must keep trying, even if the phone is silent and the In Box is empty.

It is in these moments that I start my own “be” mantras, such as, “You need to be happy.” As in, I made this huge move because I wanted it. Plain and simple. Hopeful, eager, experienced and well-educated, I convinced myself I’d succeed in landing a job, finding an apartment, and settling myself quickly and contentedly within a matter of weeks. Seeing as how that hasn’t happened and we are approaching the end of week three, this “You need to be happy” mantra has become all the more important.

I hate that I have to remind myself of it, though, you know? How happy are you, really, if you’re telling yourself to be so?

But I guess we’re always giving ourselves little pep talks like this, right? After all, if we can’t be our own loudest and best cheerleader, we’re in trouble. (Even if we have a devoted yoga teacher whispering in our ears that ego—and feeding that ego—can be our worst enemy.)

Last night, over a dinner of Irish soda bread and honey and hanger steak and red wine, I talked with a dear friend of mine about how I’m struggling in trying not to be so terribly hard on myself regarding this job search. Anyone who knows me well knows I am a punishing and fierce critic of myself, and being unemployed and facing silent rejection isn’t helping. Case in point: I question my decision, I fret over my resume’s soundness, I second-guess each job I apply for, I worry I’ve left behind a great life.

So, maybe, just maybe, it is that much more important that, annoying as they may be, I listen more to these “be” mantras.

Be patient—with myself and this horrible process. Be in the moment—in my beautiful city, with my lovely sister and brother-in-law and friends, with a strong sense of self and worth and want. Be thankful—I made it here, to this moment, in one piece.

Be happy—I am one step closer to making my Boston life happen.

Although growing up I was much more of a hide-and-go-seek sort of kid, I was recently tagged by fellow blogger (and writer extraordinaire) Rothko.

Now, being somewhat new to the blogosphere, I’m not entirely sure what being tagged or given a “meme” means, but what I’ve garnered—from my Journalism 101 research skills, thank you very much—is that being tagged is kind of equivalent to those “About Me” e-mails/surveys I used to adore filling out in high school and college.

Yes, adore. I loved thinking about and creating clever ways to answer questions about my favorite eye color, shampoo scent, ice cream flavor, and first love. A bit self-indulgent, perhaps, but I’m a writer. What do you expect?

Although I have no specific questions to serve as guidelines, I’ll take Rothko’s cue and tell about seven “random/weird/quirky” things that make up this little lady called Hannah.

1. I count letters. Yep, that’s right. I hate math and numbers and formulas and equations, but dear God, I love counting letters in words. It goes something like this: If I’m sitting somewhere—let’s say on the T—and an advertisement is in front of me, I will literally count how many a’s are on the sign vs. e’s. (E’s nearly always win, by the way. I usually root for the a’s, i’s, t’s and r’s.) I do this everywhere, though. When I’m driving, when I’m looking at a menu, when I’m walking down the sidewalk and reading street signs or storefronts. I don’t know if it’s because this bizarre activity helps pass the time or if it’s because I simply love letters and words or if it’s some deeply ingrained psychological issue. But, try it sometime. And then you’ll find yourself counting letters all the time.

2. My middle name comes from the river over which I was born. Meaning, Hannah (alas, dear readers, my middle name/blogger identity, not my real name) comes from the Susquehanna River in Pennsylvania. My father added the “h” on the end so I could spell it forwards and backwards (bonus to my fellow English nerds who know what these words are called!). Some might think the fact that I was born in a car while driving over a river is the more random/weird bit, but I like the middle name story more.

3. I collect pens. Everyone who’s ever worked with me or seen my desk (at home or in the office) knows I keep a ridiculous number of pens—whole drawers-full, in fact. But, I like variety. Besides, each pen feels different between my fingers and on the page, and some pens write on some paper much better than others. Identifying which pen complements each passing mood and piece of paper is an art, really. For pen enthusiasts such as myself anyway. I have yet to identify an absolute, all-time favorite, but stay tuned.

4. I have seven scars on my right arm and none on my left arm. Two scars are from water polo (nasty Californian chick who didn’t trim her nails enough), one is from closing my hand in a car door (oops), one is from burning the top of my forcep on…something on my 25th birthday (absolutely no recollection how), one is from accidentally resting the bottom of my wrist on a cookie tray I just pulled out of the oven (ouch), one is from dropping my curling iron and fumbling it before it rested for a good five seconds on the inside of my bicep (still looks like a bruise), and the last, which is also the most recent, is from moving to Boston and scraping the top of my wrist really badly on a door frame (so random). I don’t know why this one limb of my body scars so damn easily and quickly, but for awhile I think my mother was genuinely concerned that I was either abusing myself or in a secretly abusive relationship. Nope—just a klutz.

5. I order food like Sally in When Harry Met Sally. For example, here’s how a classic Hannah salad order would go: “I’d like the cobb salad, but instead of blue cheese crumbles, I’d like feta, and instead of onions, I’d like sliced carrots, but only if you have them, and if you don’t, then just no onions, and I’d like a balsamic vinagrette instead of the ranch dressing. Oh, and do you think you could add a few croutons, too?”  What?  I just want it the way I want it. 

6. When I was in second grade, I fell madly in love with Joel Leininger, a kid from the wrong side of the tracks, i.e., on the “bad” bus line. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, he appeared brooding and mysterious, and I was convinced genius or kindness or fascinating and sweet complexity lay just beneath his scowl. And so, I proceeded to pine over him for the next three years until fifth grade, when he finally noticed I existed. He passed me notes folded in the shape of houses and crosses and footballs. We held hands once on the playground. He said he liked my smile and my laugh. He walked me to my bus one time, too. After less than two weeks, I decided he was suffocating, strange and way, way more serious than I was and promptly ended the relationship. And this, sadly enough, could be the ultimate metaphor for my love life to date.

7. And, finally, because my mind has drawn a blank on identifying one particular story, I give you a hodgepodge:

I like winter more than summer, chocolate more than vanilla, autumn over spring.

I prefer skirts to shorts, flip flops to sneakers, long hair to short hair, half full rather than half empty.

I adore laugh lines and cheesy one-liners.

On any given day, I crave salads, olives, milk, naan, toast, mango, rhubarb pie, red beets, strawberries and slices of coconut cream pie.

I’d rather be cold than hot, tall than short, compassionate than competitive, introspective than brash.

I notice freckles, scars, crooked teeth, how short you’ve cut your nails, how long you’ve gone without a trim, how you fidget, how you lean, how you hold your pen, how you tilt your chin, how you say hello and even how you say good-bye.

After this many years, I’ve finally come to terms with being a romantic realist, a practical big dreamer, a hardworking lover of lazy days, a hopeless optimist—all at the same time.

And that, dear readers, is me. 

p.s. Stay tuned for who I tag next!

[A second post---making up for all those days during the last few weeks that I had no time to write!]

“Lady of Courage” is the title to my thesis, which I finished this past weekend.

This Friday, after receiving signatures from my entire thesis committee and the dean of my college, my thesis will be carried to my school’s library, professionally bound, and then filed in the stacks. I’ve allowed it to be made available on the school’s online thesis directory, too, which is electronic and searchable by the entire world (I think). But, let’s be real here. Who knows if anyone will ever read it.

It.

A 110-page essay I spent roughly six months writing. My greatest literary accomplishment to date. My longest piece. My baby and also the bane of my life of late.

When people think of a thesis, they mostly think of a big research paper or a big, complicated project involving charts, graphs, figures, an annotated bibliography, and an unparalleled amount of stress, fear, and loathing. But my thesis is different—it is a personal narrative, “creative nonfiction,” if you will, a story about my parents and me and my life. It is autobiographical—well, as much as it can be.

Because really, how much truth can we put into our autobiography, which is, when it comes down to it, solely based on our perception?

I remember my parents, my childhood, my years at home in Pennsylvania, myself, so very differently from the rest of my family, because my experience was, obviously, different. And so my story of them, of that time, stings and burns as much as it pays homage, because I chose to write about the bad with the good. No milk in the coffee, no sugar on the lemon—I wrote it strong and straight. I had to do this, because moments and words and memories they’ve opted to bury might be the very backbone of my recollection and of my understanding of who I am, who they are, how we came to be a family. 

I had to do this because, in the end, I chose my truth. Raw. Unfiltered. 

And today, I packaged up all 110 pages, printed on the fancy 100 percent cotton paper, and sat down at my sister’s cherry dining room table and wrote my parents a letter to go with my final draft. That letter serves as the only cushion I can give them before they turn that first page. It is my one chance at explaining to them, once and for all, “This is my story, my perception, my experience. Don’t waste your time judging it against your own.”

But, can they do that? Can any of us?

Will they be able to read what I’ve written and recognize it is of another time, another chapter of my life, another phase of who we all were as people and as a family? Can they separate themselves? Will they see I am trying to write the story of how I am their daughter, how I am me?

I worry they can’t or won’t or don’t know how. I’m worried they, and my sisters, won’t read it at all. And that’s a truly devastating thought.

Pride nudged me into putting the damn package together, despite my fears that they won’t understand why I said what I said, why I remembered one thing but not another. Pride at finishing, pride at my phrasing, pride at the praise my professors and advisors gave once they finished reading the last page. And, in a way, pride at capturing who my parents were—and have become—and how they raised me and my sisters and the life they created in our old stone farmhouse. But, pride can be a selfish emotion, and I worry, in this case, my selfish desire to share this accomplishment may induce more hurt than happiness.

What a rock and a hard place.

And further, here is this phenomenal, monumental event in my life—I finished my master’s degree—that’s completely buried beneath my stress and worry in finding a job, finding an apartment, finding my way around a new city. Every day, my parents and friends ask me about these things and neglect to ask about or remember that one other thing.

Yes, that thing about how I finished graduate school. Yes, that’s right. Done. I am “master of arts.” But no, don’t worry, it’s not a big deal at all.

It’s all about perception anyway, right?

It’s strange to think I completed a work on which I gave so much time, effort, emotion and in which I felt such pride, success, joy and heartache. To have that sit before me, to look at those pages covered in my words, my thoughts, my voice, and to know it will receive no fanfare, no real and memorable recognition from the very people whose opinions I value the most is, in a way, absolutely gut-wrenching.

But, such is life. So it goes. Onto the shelf, where so many other chapters of my life rest.

And, who knows—perhaps my parents and the loved ones to whom I’ve given copies will be courageous and will read on. After all, the title of my piece comes from my father, who inscribed volumes of poetry and pieces of literature he gave to my mother with the words “To my lady of courage.” What a lovely line, fit for such a lovely, brave woman.

They, my dear parents and loved ones, are strong people, of thick stock, and if I have any faith at all, I must believe they will, someday, read this piece and see me, as I wrote myself to be, on those pages and will see I honored the part they played in that final creation.

Tonight, after a long, exhausting, annoying day, I went to a 7:30 p.m. Baptiste yoga class and sweated, panted, sighed, sank into myself and forgot everything that had plagued me throughout the last 12 hours. I melted into my mat. I bathed in the loose-limbed, freeing stillness.

I got soaked. I let go.

And it felt good. Damn good.

Baptiste yoga is very different from Bikram—different in good and…frustrating ways. Let me explain a bit, for you interested yogis. 

Good, because I’m working totally new muscles. Baptiste consists of more weight-bearing asanas (poses) that work your arms, your shoulders and your upper back much more than Bikram asanas. The “flow” of Baptiste challenges my cardiovascular system more, too. Throughout the entire first 50 minutes in class, my heart pounds steadily, whereas in Bikram, there’s only really one time (the balancing series and triangle) that my heart rate spikes significantly.  

Baptiste yoga also allows for more free-form movement, both in and out of poses, as well as lots of sighing, heavy breathing, moaning, groaning and laughing. The room absolutely ripples with sound, throughout the entire class. I like this—I like that we’re encouraged to make noise, to release our breath and our tension fully and unabashedly, and to listen to our fellow yogis do the same.

Now, the frustrating.

I don’t like that every class consists of different poses in a different sequence. (The “Baptiste flow” is always the same, but that’s it.) I know this may sound silly to some, but I absolutely love the consistency and the discipline of Bikram classes. I like that the teachers explain things in the same (or just slightly different) ways and that you still learn something new about the pose. I thrive on routine, on discipline, on structure, and Bikram founded his classes on these elements.

I also don’t like how little explanation the teachers give in Baptiste classes. You’re really on your own to find your place in a pose, which is nice, in a way, but it’s also frustrating, because I can’t tell if I’m doing things right or wrong. I want direction, instruction, pointed areas of improvement.

Also, and this is so ridiculously random, but nearly all of the women in Baptiste classes wear yoga pants or long capris, in addition to ridiculously expensive, elaborate yoga tank tops, and I don’t like that. In Bikram classes, you wear as little as you possibly can. I’ve seen women in bikinis, for God’s sake. I kind of can’t stand the “fashion” element of Baptiste classes, especially not when my yoga “wardrobe” consists mostly of Champion via Target sports bras and teeny-tiny shorts. 

But, really, in the end, yoga is yoga. At least in my practice.

Whether my mat lays on the carpet of a Bikram studio or the hardwood of a Baptiste studio, it bears the same body, the same weight and sweat. I still find release, relaxation, peace. My limbs lengthen, my breath deepens, and my mind calms and clears itself.

I am peaceful.

And that’s what I’m ultimately seeking anyway.

Namaste.

Welcome to the life of the unemployed.

It goes a little something like this:

Alarm goes off at 6:45 a.m., so as to allow plenty (and yet, somehow, still not enough) of time to get a shower, watch a bit of the morning news, make a slice or two of toast, and so on, before dashing out the door for a 9 a.m. interview.

Drive for nearly an hour in horrible traffic, cursing the roadways and my fellow commuters and all the while stressing about sweating in my newly dry-cleaned suit and vowing to rip to shreds the nylons that have started to cut off circulation to my mid-section.

Arrive at interview with barely one minute to spare. Check reflection in review mirror. Remind myself: “Deeeep breath.  Deeeeeep breath.” before dashing across the parking lot, praying I’m headed toward the correct building.

Make it through interview without A.) sounding too foolish; B.) flinging my pen across the room (I have a habit of talking with my hands, and yes, I actually did throw my pen across the room once in an interview); C.) sounding too desperate (please, please, please, please save me from unemployment-induced bankruptcy); D.) insulting previous employers and bosses; and E.) acting fake, overly confident or overly accommodating. 

Tough, to say the least.

And then, finally, comes the emotional post-interview mix, a cocktail of excitement (I survived!), enthusiasm (I want this job), energy (I will be [insert company name]’s newest cheerleader!), and optimism (I did well, I played my cards right, I’ve got it in the bag). 

This cocktail is quickly followed by a shot of fear (crap, maybe I didn’t answer everything as well as I thought), two shots of doubt (maybe I was too eager? too talkative? not talkative enough?), three shots of sudden pessimism (I’ll be unemployed for the rest of my life), and then a final chaser of utter exhaustion (when can I hide beneath the covers…indefinitely).

Yep, that’s what my days will be like from now until…um, I don’t know when. Until someone hires me, I guess. In between all of this, I’m also scheduling informational interviews, researching companies, applying to jobs, completing freelance work, and trying to make it to yoga classes and out for runs so as not to lose all sense of sanity. 

This, my friends, is my new life. 

Characteristically though, I’m trying to stay positive. I went into this morning’s interview ridiculously prepared, and I know I delivered honest, thoughtful answers and assessments of myself and my work. I tried my best, and really, in the end, that’s all you can do, right?

I have to remind myself my job hunt here in Boston may take time. I will get discouraged. I will get angry. I will want to sit on the floor and just bawl my eyes out. I may even want to say to hell with this move, I’m headed back to D.C. (although that’s highly doubtful).

But, I can’t give up. And I won’t. 

Aside from job-hunting hell, Boston and I suit each other. My entire body and self feels more alive, more energetic, more interested and curious and creative. I’m hungry to explore everything, to go everywhere, to experience each little aspect of this new city, of my new self in it. And, after a few wrong turns, I finally have a general sense of where I am here in Jamaica Plain—I now know how to get to the Trader Joe’s, Brookline Village, the Brookline Baptiste yoga studio, the West Roxbury Bikram yoga studio, the Chestnut Hill mall, the South End, the Mass Pike.

This is progress, to say the least, considering at this time last week, I was frantically writing down which freaking street I lived on before I even left the house, in fear I might forget. 

But, I’m a fast learner. I’ll catch on soon enough.

Although I have no job, a dwindling bank account balance, and constant sense of anxiety and dread resting on my shoulder, I’m happy. I’m proud of myself for fully making this leap, for finishing and turning in my thesis last week, for staying focused on the job hunt and on my freelance commitments, for doing my best to not impose too, too much on my sister and brother in law.

I’m proud of myself for trying, in all the little and big ways, to be content in this bizarre, uncomfortable new life of mine.

Who knows how things will pan out tomorrow or next week or even next month—who knows where I’ll even be by then. In a new job? In a new apartment? In a new frame of mind? Only time will tell.

And it is in these moments that faith—in myself, in my hard work, in my ability to make the best of any situation—is, truly, my greatest friend.