a. e. smith’s official website

Yes, all day I’ve been enjoying copious amounts of attention and well wishes.  It’s been delightful.  And though I’m loathe to admit it, I’ve actually needed the overdose of positivity.  A few things as of late have thrown me off a bit, so I’m glad to get some encouragement (and birthday cake).  I’m glad for the reminder of how many good people are in my life.  That’s reason enough for a happy birthday.

- I can buy a quality side table for $12.99

- I can lift almost every box and piece of furniture they offer without helpers.

- I like putting things together.  It gives me a feeling of accomplishment.

- I don’t have to buy a membership to get the warehouse prices.

- They rearrange their furniture more often than I do.  This helps me feel less insecure about the frequent urges I have to rearrange my own furniture.

One of my talents is being able to ignore things.  Some might not call tuning out a talent, but anyone who has been in a dorm room, tent or other confined space with a snorer can perfectly understand what makes it an asset.

At this moment I’ve managed to clear my desk of most everything, save for a few essentials: my computer, a clock that makes a nice ticking sound, a small vase of fresh lilacs I snipped today, a guava scented candle and a glass of water.  (I made the mistake of putting the candle a little close to the vase and can now testify that burnt lilac leaves do not have a pleasant scent.)

While the desk looks clean, the landscape around it is monumentally messy.  Just walking through my office improves my agility and coordination.  Cairns of unsorted papers mark the way.  When you reach the end of the trail there’s a little signpost that explains the distant scenery – a tangle of unused computer cords to the east, miscellaneous work projects near the southwest, and just off the horizon, several piles of bags containing who knows what.

I have sometimes gone not days, not weeks, but months without fully unpacking from a trip.  I could pretend that it’s some psychological thing about not wanting to return to reality, the finality of the trip being over, and so on, but the truth of the matter is simply that I didn’t feel like unpacking, so I didn’t.  After a while it seems a little ridiculous to have a semi-packed suitcase in my bedroom, so eventually I get around to it.  What’s surprising is that it doesn’t really bother me, even if I trip over it every day.  And then when I do finally get around to unpacking it, I find all sorts of treasures.  “Oh!  I wondered where my favorite t-shirt went!   Hey look!  It’s that present I got for Candice’s birthday…which was 1 month ago.  Cool – the free chocolate candies I stole from the German train station.”

Admittedly, it can be a dangerous way to live.  Take, for instance, the wet swimsuit I forgot I had packed in a plastic bag until we could get home and dry it.  By the time I found it, the suit was not so much swimming apparel as a science experiment.  I’m sure it’s a lesson my dad tried teaching me repeatedly, but I never paid attention.

One of the highlights of spending last week in New Mexico was rafting Taos Box, a 17 mile whitewater rafting adventure of class 4 rapids on the Rio Grande.  It was incredible.  The scenery alone was amazing.  Add to that the excitement of frequent, large rapids, and you’ve got yourself a really good day.  I’ve never had such fun whitewater rafting.

And of course the only thing that could make it better is a connection to the Terminator.  That’s right, part of the film was shot along the very bridge we rafted under (and that I also walked across — please note: it shakes, especially as the cars go by and there’s a breeze).  You can actually catch a glimpse of the awesome Rio Grande Gorge in the preview.

If you’re ever going through Taos, New Mexico, don’t miss rafting Taos Box.  We went with Los Rios River Runners and highly recommend them.

So I just got back from a week-long road trip with my husband.  I love going new places.  And I really don’t mind being in the car just looking around.  I think you can learn a lot about a place.

For instance, I’d love to know what it’s like telling people you live in Cahone, CO.  In fact, I was shocked that no one had added an ‘S’ to any of the road signs we passed.

Also, when it comes to the Adopt-A-Highway program, I’d just like to express my personal appreciation to the Doobie Brothers Fan Club for doing their part.

I also learned that certain McDonald’s now offer bagged ice — 10 pounds for 99 cents — and that if you want to see a bunch of foreigners wearing cowboy hats and commenting about a tall American woman like me, your best bet is the McDonald’s in Moab, UT.

I’ve been gone on vacation for a week and came home to discover several interesting things:

1. The church I attended in Boston burned down.  It was one of my favorite places.

2. My boss’s husband just became the new ambassador to China.  I’m not sure what that means for my job, but I do hope it at least includes an invite (if not an all-expense paid trip) to visit China.

3. My cat is a lot more normal in my absence if he has visitors.

The Lanyard – by Billy Collins

The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

One of my hobbies is to visit churches not of my faith.  It makes me feel like my own faith is not as peculiar as I think.  I like seeing the universal good feelings aglow in people of different backgrounds and beliefs.  And then I gain some added perspective on what visitors must think and feel when they walk through my own church’s doors.

In fact, there are some religions that I speak of with incredible love for the simple fact that I was treated with incredible love by one person or group of that faith at one time.  Warm fuzzies all around.

When it comes to my own religious convictions, I tend to believe that less is more.  I don’t feel the need to blow a trumpet announcing my beliefs; I figure those are evident in the way I live my life, the peace in my heart, and the happiness that surrounds me.

I do sometimes envy those whose church worship services include clapping or talking out loud in response to the speaker or raising one’s arms to the sky.  My Sunday services are far more reserved, which seems to work just fine for me most of the time.  But every now and then, I think of clapping with some Baptists of Meridian, Mississippi or sharing a farewell song and dancing at the Catholic church in Atabu, Ghana and I remember, when it comes to spirituality, there are no limits to inspiration.

It turns out I’m not very cool.  I don’t have any stupid human tricks.  I possess no unusual powers in any of my joints.  I have yet to perfect any utterly useless traits, such as playing the piano while in the shape of a pretzel or singing the star spangled banner using only one nostril.

It turns out uselessness is actually useful.  At a boring party, for instance, or when you’re stuck in the airport.  In those moments, hearing someone burp the alphabet actually inspires rave reviews, and the sight of someone bellydancing on their head is both impressive and amusing.

Alas, I possess no such rare gifts.  My gift is making clever quips about others’ gifts.  No matter the trick, there always comes a point when you have to ask, exactly how did he/she stumble upon that talent?  What moment of sheer boredom and/or drunkenness inspired it?

Now, a physical trait, such as an unusually long tongue or an extra toe, that I understand.  You can’t help but notice you resemble a llama.  The other stuff…I just don’t know.  I guess that’s why we have the circus.

Blogging is a funny thing.  People do it for lots of reasons.  Mine is amusement.  I’ve always been good at keeping a journal, but I find that my entries are often dull and uninspired when compared with, say, an e-mail I’ll write to a brother in a foreign country or a friend I haven’t seen in a while.  And when I write on this little web site, I suddenly feel more like myself, like what I’m writing sounds like me.  The mere idea of having an audience, even if it’s a faceless one, makes me feel like I’m in conversation with someone, which is such a natural state to be in, no?  (Side note: this week I learned that I have not one, but two readers of the blog — and one of them isn’t even related to me!)

I think I went to one too many Sunday School classes where they emphasized that we journal, in part, for the benefit of the generations to come — our great-grandchildren and historians and such.  That’s well and good, but for me it results in bland, heartless entries.  The thought of a great-grandchild reading my journal inspires censorship.  What if little Audrey the 3rd learned that her great-grandma sometimes swears and feels like throwing rocks at people?  What would she think of me for actually writing what I feel at a particularly painful moment?  It’s a hard thing.

So while I don’t use this venue as a tell-all, I do use it as a way to relate to the world.  The truth is that I don’t actually expect anyone to read it.  (Frankly I’m surprised that anyone ever does.)  In fact, I like the idea that I’m putting things that I love into the universe and no one knows it but me and maybe my husband.  Mostly I do it because it keeps me entertained.  I think I’m hilarious.  Maybe someday my great-granddaughter will too.