It might’ve been the coffee, but all of my peers around the table seemed excited and passionate, the exact opposite of the way I’ve felt lately. Instead of embracing technology, I’ve run from it. Twitter, Facebook, my RSS reader have all been sources of distraction. Worse, it feels like constant information overload!

But to be creative, you have to embrace the new and the different.It’s a constant series of tasks. Filling the well. Talking to people. Being wrong.

A chunk of my week is spent at work, where I am one of three millennials working diligently in our cubical silos. I’ve learned the rules pretty well, and everything is fine as long as I adhere to the rules. But data and rules aren’t creative. Streamlining procedure is the best I can do. While I’m good at it, it leaves me exhausted at the end of the day.

I’d rather be fingerpainting.

So my goal is to integrate the creative amidst my data gathering, my research. Marring the details with the bigger picture and the pretty.

How do you integrate the creative into your every day life?

Fortunately I can get my poetry the old-fashioned way.

Poetry and I had a love/hate relationship at first. I begrudgingly memorized several poems for 4-H day readings, sticking with Shel Silverstein, Vachal Lindsay, T.S. Elliot. My oddness showed early. Anne Shirley, the original redheaded orphan opened my eyes, however, introducing me to The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes.

When I really fell for poetry, it disguised itself as song.  Fascinated by the dial on a tiny purple radio perched on the school room windowsill, I managed to tune in HPPR’s High Plains Morning. For the first time I found out that NPR could play something other than Car Talk and Classical music.  As I did my schoolwork, I’d listen and write down snippets of lyrics.  That’s how I found Vienna Teng. 

I have four of her songs, and every time I listen, they carry my spirits away.

I found an unlikely ally in the quest for un-stodgy poetry in Garrison Keillor. His Minnesota drone disturbs my mother, but I found myself tuning in to the Writer’s Almanac regularly. Good Poems and Good Poems for Hard Times contain some of my favorite verses:

The Poet’s Occasional Alternative by Grace Paley

Weather by Linda Pastan

Rita Dove’s Parsley  ought to be in the mix as well, but its not. I owe my love for her work to a dear friend and teacher, who walked me through the ways of literary analysis.

By now, it should be clear that I have a liberal view of the term “poetry.” If it’s not, my next two recommendations will seal the deal.

Michael Perry (who you can’t stop me from gushing about) cut his teeth as an essayist. His memoirs have outshown his early work, but I love it all. In person, he’s a storyteller, first and foremost. When it comes to putting his words on paper, he notices all the details we let slip into the background, creating art from noise.

A more recent addition to the authors whose craft I admire  is William Gibson. I’ve read Pattern Recognition and I’m currently savoring Spook Country.  The first line of virtually every chapter captures your attention with the slightest of details, pulling you deeper into the dazzling, disorienting tale he tells.

My grandpa was one of thirteen, born shortly after a pair of twins.  By the time he could hold his own bottle, Bert and Alma were still very small and on bottles themselves.  In fact, he was growing faster.  Their grandmother was babysitting when she saw my grandpa crawl into the twins’ crib and take one of their bottles.  She picked him up, scolding him. “You’re a peck of trouble!” she said.  It stuck.

Everett Orval Edwards, Jr., was too big a name for a little fella, anyway.

My Grandpa never grew out of his orneriness. He’d always pull in to the driveway with the latest joke he picked up at the Co-op with his morning coffee. He loved planning practical jokes to share with the gang at the pinochle parlor, often building complicated doodads to accomplish the job.

When I was really little, my grandpa was a full time farmer, but all of his equipment and tools were at our place, meaning he was over all the time. He’d come over in the cool of the day, work for a few hours, drive home precisely at noon, eat lunch— Grandpa Peck liked a little bread with his butter and a little tea with his sugar— and nap, and then come back to work.   As he got older he started to forget things, so in the afternoons, I’d trot out to the shop to help him tinker.

The shop was my grandpa’s domain.  Although you could put a grain truck in it along with all of the other tools and supplies, Grandpa Peck could put his hands on whatever widget you wanted.  I learned early on that if you took down the claw hammer to build a lop-sided birdhouse, you put it back on the peg board where it came from.

Although I’m not the most mechanically inclined, Grandpa Peck never fired me as his helper. When I was 13 or 14, he brought home a one-way from an auction—the best deal, he claimed.  It only needed all new blades. We put it up on blocks, pulled all of the discs off, replaced them, and Grandpa Peck hitched it up to his John Deere and took it out for a test run.  Within hours, he bent the main shaft.  I don’t know how many times we worked on that one-way—I think I could still put it together in my sleep.

Sometimes Grandpa would take me on errands, usually involving getting a pop at the Co-op. Once we went into town to see a lady in town who had a batch of kittens. I got to help  Grandpa Peck pick out a little orange ball of fur, and I held it the entire mile back to Grandpa’s house. That little fuzzball grew into an orange mammoth, answering to the name of Buckwheat.

Several years later, Grandpa Peck came to the house with  something to show me. On either side of our driveway, he had posted “Slow Cat Crossing” signs that he had handmade. By that time, I had a string of cats that followed me wherever I went. The neighbors joked, because of Grandpa’s poor paintbrush penmanship, they couldn’t tell if they were supposed to slow down, or the cats were just slow.

I loved him, with the deep dedication of a child. He smelled of Doublemint Gum, metal shavings, and sawdust.  He was always there, he was funny, and he was my grandpa.

After I left the farm, we spoke a few times. There were some phone calls for a while, which usually ended in tears. Why didn’t I come visit him? Why didn’t he come visit me? I asked in return. There was no meeting me on my terms.

The last time I saw him, three years ago, dementia had settled in. He couldn’t string full sentences together. All he could do was cry, cry, cry.  Now, his soul has passed on, freeing him from the torture of a decayed mind.

Rest in peace, Grandpa Peck; I will  miss you always.

The “official” plan: Mom and Sister Alice would drive to Denver for the game, where they would meet Kathay, who lives nearby. After the game, the three of them would go back to Longmont for the night. Since they would be driving Sister’s car, Mom told her to empty the back seat, since Kathay “needed a lot of leg room.”

The actual plan: I would fly into Denver, where Kathay would pick me up from the airport. The two of us would surprise Alice at Coors Field — a Larkette reunion. Then all four of us would go on a Boulder expedition the next day.

The problem: Keeping Operation: Swooping Condor quiet for a month!

Somehow we managed to do it. I give Mom massive credit for not spilling the beans.  On the day of the event,  Kathay and I took the bus in from Longmont.  As we drove in, we saw Mom and Sister Alice standing in the stadium in a window overlooking the parking lot.  The plan quickly became complicated, as they could see everyone coming and going.  I stayed about four paces behind Kathay as we made our approach.

Mom bounded down the stairs with our tickets to give them to Kathay, who then stood in line. Again, I follow a few paces behind. Sister Alice stepped to the overlook once more while we were in line, and almost saw me! I quickly turned around and started chatting with two nice Rockies fans behind us.  I snuck up the stairs in the midst of a group of people and shouted, “Happy Birthday!”

The look on Alice’s face was worth the plane ticket. She was clueless. If only I’d had the camera!

The Rockies won 15 to 4. We were rooting for the Cardinals too, since Albert Pujols and Lance Berkman played for the Larks.  Mom offered to take off her Larks shirt and wave it, since we forgot to make a sign.

Sister brought the binoculars. We were a bit high up…

It started raining in the 9th inning. We still managed to get an usher to take our picture.

After the game, we waited in the car for the crowd to dissipate. Sister finally understood why her car needed to be cleaned out. We flipped through Sister’s CD collection to find the latest Neil Diamond release. Apparently it was awful.  But we mocked it so long, we fogged up the windows in the car. We were just waiting for a cop to come over and tap on the windows. Fortunately, we  headed to Longmont before we had to offer up the Neil Diamond CD as bail.  We called it a night, after a nightcap at Mike O’Shay’s, a great Irish pub on Main Street Longmont.

The next day meant Boulder and the Buff. I always eat at the Buff when I’m in  Boulder. It’s a tradition we had to introduce to  Sister Alice and Mom.  The mochas alone come in mason jar. Mom was so impressed, she had to take a picture.

This was shortly before Mom suddenly took in a sharp breath, her eyes as big as dinner plates, a hysterical giggle barely escaping her though her hyperventilation. She was speechless for  a minute, and then excused herself from the table.  We stared in amazement at each other, and then I went in search of my mother. When she finally returned, she shared that she had seen a ten-year-old boy with a SNAKE wrapped around his neck! In Boulder, anything is possible.

After eating enough food to feed a small militia, we embarked on Pearl Street, where you will also see all kinds of God’s creatures in various forms.  We stopped in every Tibetan store, as usual. Mom and I now have matching Tibetan singing bowls.  The Crystal Dragon had moved, sadly, so we could not share the wondrous bumper sticker wall with Sister Alice.  She was quite approving of Boulder, since it  sparked happy memories of Madison.

We topped the evening off with a showing of Pirates of the Carribean 4, which was surprisingly good. We hit all of the bases, movies, bizzareness, and baseball. If only we had the time for a Scrabble game!  We had so much fun, that we’re thinking about making it an annual excursion!

I’m not the first of my family to live in the Hoosier State. Five generations up my family tree, you’ll find the Rheas,which trace back to the Scottish Clan McRhea.  After settling in Virginia,  the Rheas started to move west in the 1860s.  Joseph C. Rhea, the older brother of my great-great-great grandmother, was the first to settle in Indiana.   He ended up in Eminence, Morgan County right before the Civil War broke out.  When the fighting started,  Joseph joined up with the Indiana Volunteer Infantry, serving the Union. His brother, James , was still in Virginia. James served with the Virginia Volunteers, assigned to the command of General Stonewall Jackson.  James was captured and held as  a prisoner of war at Fort Delaware; at the end of the war, James joined his  brother in Eminence.

My grandmother, Sarah Frances Rhea married Peter Franklin Fox moved to Johnson County, Indiana, just east of her brothers.  My great-great grandma Annie was born in Eminence in 1883.  By 1887, the family was moving west again, settling in Kansas.

Eminence is less than thirty miles Southwest of Indianapolis. Today was a beautiful day for a road trip. I thought I’d see if I could find any Rhea gravesites. Google showed me three cemeteries.

The first I found was Shumaker Cemetery, and it was by far the newest of the three.  No Rheas to be seen.

The second cemetery, Whitaker- Patrick was harder to find. I had about given up, when a heavy truck was coming down a narrow road. I pulled off to the side to let him pass, when I saw a faint trace of gravel and a mowed path that led upward.

Hidden away, behind the trees was Whitaker-Patrick Cemetery. It was tiny, with only a handful of graves, but it was by far my favorite. No Rheas there either.

The clouds had been darkening a bit as the day went on. I just found the third cemetery, Walters,when the clouds opened up.

It was the oldest, as far as I could tell from the road.  I feel confident that some Rheas are at rest there, but I wasn’t going to check in the rain. And someone built a house right next to the cemetery, so its a bit odd to get to.  But that is an adventure for another weekend.  Once I’ve found Grandma Sarah’s brothers, then I’ll start hunting my great grandpa Row, whose family settled in Northern Indiana in the 1870s.

My main question is, why did they keep moving west? Morgan County is much greener than Western Kansas!

• Put four new states on my map (I tried to take a picture but it was blurry): I’ve already got some headway on this one.  In July, I’ll be going to Cleveland, Ohio for Brad and Katelyn’s wedding. I’ve been to Cincinnati briefly, but its basically on the border so it doesn’t count.   Sara and I are going to make our Kentucky trip happen. Most exciting, though, I just booked my tickets to San Francisco! Camogie Nationals here we come! I’ve never been to California. Now I just need one more state. Michigan and Wisconsin are top contenders due to their proximity. Suggestions anyone?
• Become a kick-ass camogie player: I have a lot of work to do on this one, partially because I can’t run for very long without wanting to die.  This needs sub-goals:

1. Run three times a week in addition to practice and games.
2. Find a hurling wall and practice two additional days on my own
3. Subscribe to the hurling nationals diet, starting now.

• Get my cooking mojo back: I used to be a blue-ribbon baker. The allergies have made those skills obsolete. The moving to a new state and a new kitchen has also knocked me out of my groove.  Since I now have a crockpot that doesn’t incinerate things, I think we’re on a good start. I doubt I’ll become a foodie, but I can try
• Create an article fit for publishing: My Capstone project has some really unique bits that can contribute to the general understanding of co-location. I just need to whip it in to shape. I’ll get something published before I die, one way or another.
• Work on a personal brand: I do not want to be a database administrator for the rest of my life. If I want to switch to rural affairs, I’ve got to get some street cred, or pasture cred, as the case might be.
• Explore at least one Indiana State Park: I hate to admit it, but I’ve never really been camping, not that involves a fire and a tent anyway. Indiana supposedly has a ton of parks. I think its time to change this.
• Explore Indy Neighborhoods and Find an Apartment: I’ve been around this city, what with the parks debacle last summer, but there are areas I haven’t explored, like Irvington and the Near East side.  I’m also hunting for the perfect little house, with a postage stamp of a yard, so Ferdinand can be free and live a normal life, and I could have a cat. My life has been without furry companionship for far too long.
• Go to a Drive-In Movie: It’s a crying shame that I haven’t been to the drive-in over on Tibbs Ave, which is definitely a shorter drive than from Hays to Kanopolis.  Drive-ins are possibly the best way to watch a movie, camped out on the lawn in the summer heat, watching a giant screen and the people playing frisbee in front of it. Enjoy them while we can!

As the wanderlust sets in, I’m so happy to claim a new chariot as part of my family, Bella:

She has been with me a month now and we couldn’t be happier. We’re dying to make our first big road trip. While I’m so ready to head for the flatlands, I’ll likely head to Tipton County, Indiana first. It’s supposedly the ugliest place in the United States. We shall see.

The other new addition to my family is Ferdinand. I haven’t talked about him much, but he’s been with me since June, now. I wasn’t certain he would make it through the winter, but he’s blossomed well with a bit of care.

This is a poor portrait taken a few months ago. He’s much taller now, especially since it’s gotten a little warmer in the apartment. Tomatoes aren’t the ideal house plant, but whenever I bump Ferdinand while cleaning the apartment, the tomato plant smell takes me straight into summer.

Fresh cherry tomatoes in February aren’t that bad, either:-)

<Note: Dear readers, I blame this crazy disjointed post on Capstone delirium. I’m awaiting the last pieces of our draft and pulling the thing together. The end is nigh! What am I going to do with myself next?>

Many things are new this year {more blogs on that to come}, but one is particularly of note, and particularly apt for a Sunday Blog.  I am in the process of joining a church! Never thought you’d hear me say that one, right?

I have explored a lot of religious traditions in my short life from evangelical Christianity, to Catholicism, to Pantheism, to Buddhism, to Existentialism.  When I practiced each one of these, I always felt like I didn’t measure up, like I was wearing someone else’s clothes, and like my imperfections were a problem that I had to solve.  Ultimately, I fell out of practice. I stopped going to church or meditating or exercising my radical free will.

After moving to Indy, I thought, “Why not give this religion thing another try?” People had mentioned Unitarian Universalism to me, so I looked up some videos online and then found that the Unitarian Universalist Church of Indianapolis was only about a mile from my apartment.

Unitarian Universalists don’t ascribe to a single doctrine, unlike most churches.  Instead it’s more of community for inquiry that recognizes the inherent worth in every human being. Instead of giving us a neatly packaged version of the “Truth,” UU lets its members  determine what “Truth” is for themselves. Worship services are not directed to a Supreme Being, but instead are a recognition that things of worth exist all around us, in every person and in every moment. The sermons / lessons / readings draw on all major religions and scriptures from Judaism and Christianity to Hinduism, Buddhism, and paganism.

Right now, I’m taking the New Member class, and I’m loving it. At the end of the month, we’re also doing a meditation class, which I’m hoping to have enough space in the schedule. But what’s crazy is, I have actually made it to every Sunday service but one this year of my own free will.  Next step, membership

The last time I felt this all-consuming exhaustion was in the middle of the Fall 2009 semester. I was applying for scholarships and trying to make up my mind about graduate school. Things just felt like they were falling apart at the seams, pulling me in every direction as I collapsed in a puddle of tears.

This time around, no tears. Despite all the demands, the papers due, the worthless group projects, the things that had to be done yesterday at work, I held it together, until my body finally gave up and said “Count me out.”  My shoulders still carry the weariness from this semester, from this year, but they did not buckle. I’ve neglected a lot of things and a lot of my friends, and for that I am sorry. But for the first time, I didn’t collapse under the pressure. Onward and upward!

I’ve wanted to donate blood donor for a long time, but I had just gotten back from England the last time I was near a blood drive.  Blood drives just haven’t fit in my schedule. Last week, I got an e-mail from the Indy Hurling Club announcing we were hosing a blood drive,  along with the Indy Impalas Rugby club.

As an ardent hurler, I had to support my team in the lurch. (And Louie kept sending these heart-wrenching e-mails about kids whose lives were saved by blood transfusions—if you read them, you’d have to go too.)  I signed up, and at 11 o’clock this morning, I wound my way to the Good Earth Natural Food store to find the Blood Mobile parked outside.

I see Blood Mobiles all the time (I live down the street from the Indiana Blood Center), but this was my first time inside one. They’ve taken huge RVs and turned them into mobile labs. The intake area is right next to the driver’s seat where they get your name and address. Then you wait for one of the little rooms where you fill out a health questionnaire in private. Next you move to the back of the bus where they have four curved chairs to let you lie down and put your feet up.

My friend Katie and I were both first time donors, both wearing Indy Hurling gear, and we both having our blood drawn by Chris the phlebotomist at the same time. I’m not kidding.

Chris had no trouble finding my vein and in a few minutes my blood was flowing into a pint bag.  I felt absolutely normal, if a bit wobbly when he disconnected the needle, but some apple juice and the granola bar in my purse soon fixed that.

Every pint of blood  can help up to three people. If all of our slots were filled, we helped 96 people today.  How awesome is that?