Sallyutations!

Un-canon-y Connections

2009-06-23T21:56:00.001-04:00

I haven't written in a long time, over a month.
Excuses: haven'thadtimebeentoobusyotherthingstakepriority, slowinternetconnectionatthespringer,
haven'twantedtowriteunlessitwastherightthing... you know.

But here I go. Consider the editor in my brain sufficiently silenced. Moving on.

At the Springer, part of the daily ritual of Academy is a movement exercise set to music called "Salutations." Academy people assign all kinds of meanings to the exercise, and at the sound of Pachelbel's Canon in D, these meanings and memories flood those of us who have been around for at least part of the last 13 years here.

It wasn't until the end of the first week of Academy that I made the connection between the movement exercise Salutations and the title of my blog, Sallyutations. Originally, I took the name from the Charlotte's Web dialogue, where Charlotte uses the word "Salutations" to describe her "fancy way of saying hello." I want my blog to be just that-- my slightly more formalized, sometimes more thought out way of saying hello. But now I wish I could figure out how to set my writing- your reading- to this meaningful piece of music. I could just imagine it now...

As you open your bookmarked pages (because I KNOW I'm bookmarked on your browser) and you come to Sallyutations, gentle music begins to play. You admire my chic yet classic blog design and wonder how I came to inhabit this balance of style and substance. You discover that I've written another post. "Yes! Wahoo! Hallelujah!" you exclaim to yourself, and you scroll down to enjoy the witty wise words. Just as you finish my last post with tears in your eyes, the music swells and you are struck with a deeper understanding of the world and your place in it. As the Canon ends, you return to your world, changed ever so slightly.

Ok, ok. Just entertain me. Smile and nod.

But the point of all of this is (and yes, I know you've been searching for it-- here it is!) that Ron describes Salutations as a way to acknowlege the present, honor the past, and salute the future. We go through the movement twice-- once to say goodbye to the day and the work that we have done, and once to say thank you to those that have come before us. That if we do our work here well, other people will come after us to embody the spirit of this place.
I don't think my blog is so different than that. It's a way of greeting the world, of drawing nearer to those I love who may be far away, and to saying "If I do this whole life thing well, then maybe people who come after me will appreciate what I've done to help pave their way."

So, sorry. No Pachelbel's Canon for you. You're welcome to imagine the music if you'd like.

Now go bookmark me.

6 Signs of Sally the Senior

2009-05-09T16:50:00.002-04:00

How I know I'm getting old:

1. Brad found a long hair growing under my chin yesterday while we were waiting in the Wal-Mart Pharmacy line. We were behind a man with slicked back white hair and his belt 2'' from his nipples checking out male enhancement drugs and in front of a couple discussing the pros and cons of their metallic blue walkers.

2. In considering job options, the benefits package almost outweighs the salary or job description.

3. This morning, Brad and I spent a few hours shopping for and preparing a veggie lasagna for a friend who's just come through surgery. It was a great Saturday morning. This differs greatly from Saturday mornings of yesteryear which included Scooby Doo, Dunkin Donuts, sleeping in, or Peach Little League.

4. I wake up on Saturdays without an alarm.

5. Seeing the UGA graduates taking pictures at the arch, having brunch with their parents, and walking downtown for one more beer at City Bar now makes me proud. It used to make me jealous and nostalgic at the same time.

6. I can't stay up past midnight.

When I did I grow up so fast?

The Anniversary of an Almost Perfect Day

2009-05-05T12:29:00.003-04:00

Lots has happened in the last weeks, but I'm not ready to blog about it yet. Still clotting.

This week, though, Brad and I celebrate the one-year anniversary of our engagement. I thought I'd post my story of that day to remember what an almost-perfect day it was.

AN ALMOST PERFECT DAY (written in May 2008)
Imagine this scene with me:
It was a breezy May afternoon in Nashville along the banks of Percy Priest Lake. The air was cool and the sun was warm, the sailboats drifted, and the geese glided. Kids splashed in the water, young men hunted catfish, and ducklings hurriedly paddled to stay behind mom. A picture of serenity, of perfection. Almost.

The situation of my relationship with Brad has never been quite perfect. We fell in love ten years after we really knew each other. We lived in different states. We had different goals for our lives. We had lost touch over those years, and though we were still friendly, we weren't really friends. My most vivid memory of him, which he still denies, is sitting at lunch our junior year, watching Brad suck off the remaining bits of meat from my fried chicken bones. Enchanting.

And then came last Spring. After months of laughing, crying, comforting, and getting through some of the hardest times of our lives by supporting each other, we had built a friendship. One day we realized that our lives would never again be complete without the friendship of the other.

And then came the Summer. One date led to another, led to months, led to thoughts for the future. Such a perfect relationship. Almost. Our time near each other was ending. In August, I moved back to Texas.

And over those months, many miles were traveled, many prayers were spoken, many reassurances were made. We learned to communicate, we learned to disagree, we learned that our lives were both individually and collectively important. But it was never quite perfect, and it certainly wasn't easy. But we plowed through.

Those months bring us to our opening scene on that breezy, lakeside day. Now this day was not perfect, either. I was still hobbling from a recently sprained ankle. We were in Nashville to find me a place to live in my not-so-perfect transition from Austin. But we were determined to enjoy this beautiful lake in the middle of the city. And so we walked-- I hobbled-- past the catfish hunters and the kid splashers. We watched the ducks and the ducklings and the drifting sailboat and settled onto a big rock to rest my ankle and enjoy the day. I wanted this day to be perfect, as my life was about to get really hectic. I wanted the serenity and the peace of just being with my Brad.

Sitting on the big rock, I reached for Brad's hand and fussed when he kept it balled in a fist. I started to bury my hand into his, and in one perfect movement, Brad slid down to one knee and opened that hand. With a perfect sentence heard through my simultaneous laughter and tears, Brad asked me to marry him. The perfect diamond ring sparkled in the perfect May sun, shimmering. Laughing and crying, I promised my life to him and accepted his perfect proposal. It was all so perfect and everything I always wanted-- the weather, the lake, the rock, the proposal. So perfect. Almost. Brad tried to put that perfect ring on my right hand, not my left! I told him he had the wrong hand, and he responded, "Well, I don't know how to do this! I've never done this before!"
And we laughed and hugged and cried and kissed.

And in that moment of Brad sliding the ring on the wrong hand, I realized. All of this time, I've wanted the perfect situation for our relationship. I wanted to be in the same city. I wanted to have known Brad for the past ten years. I wanted to be able to share our lives by living in the same city immediately. I wanted Brad to know which hand to put the ring on. But that's just not us. We've never had the perfect situation. And I believe that because of our non-perfection, we have achieved a friendship and love that has been tested and that will last.

Our perfection comes in the struggle, in the figuring out. In the adventure.

And I can't wait to seek that perfection, sprained ankle or not, ring on the right or left, for the rest of my life.

I love Brad Baker, and I'm going to marry him.

Friendterventions

2009-04-19T17:18:00.005-04:00

This weekend, Brad, Jackson, and I had lunch with a few friends at the Cantina in downtown Columbus. We sat outside to enjoy the beautiful day and allowed Jackson, our now nearly 5-month old pup, to sit beside our table and snack on a few coveted ice cubes. Most of these friends had not met Jackson yet, and Brad and I shared stories of finding him in a Nashville shelter, his antics around the house, his recent trip to the dog park, and meeting his Uncle Buddy at Dad's house in Columbus. I shared how protective I feel of Jackson and how much I love our little doggy (which I admitted to be a little extreme at times), and I made this comment:

"I didn't think I was going to be one of those doggy moms, but I guess I am."

My friend Jens responded, "Well I guess you didn't consult your peers on that."

"Because my friends would have been able to tell me pre-pup that I would be one of those doggy moms?" I asked.

With a hint of the Kool-Aid Man's emphasis, Jens answered, "Oh yeah."

I didn't take Jens's comment as a criticism or an insult, but I was surprised with the certainty of his statement. He knew, without a doubt, what kind of doggy mom I would be-- a fact that had apparently not been nearly as clear to me initially.

I think there's something really interesting about this-- what our friends know about us that we can't always see ourselves. I consider myself a fairly reflective, self-aware person, but a good dose of friendtervention (or, friend intervention) may provide me with new levels of understanding of myself, my life, or my decisons. Now, I don't really know how a friendtervention might work... I'm certainly not keen on walking up to buddies and saying, "What do you think about my tendencies as a doggy mom... really?" That seems a little self-centered, even to the actor in me. But I do wonder about my responsibility as a friendtervention participant in others' lives. How often do I really speak what I believe instead of avoiding a hearty conversation? Why do I sometimes choose a surface-level reponse instead of sharing a more meaningful dialogue with friends and family?

I'm not suggesting that friendterventions are always the right/best/smartest choice, but I do think a healthy dose of non-surface reality in conversations can go a long way in deepening relationships and encouraging honesty. I don't know if my behavior as one of those doggy moms would have changed if I had consulted Jens pre-Jackson adoption, but at least I would have been prepared for occasional extreme bouts of puppy love.

birthdays!

2009-04-01T16:51:00.003-04:00

There's not much more I love in this world than birthdays.

I love planning parties, inviting people, having friends over to our house, cooking, giving gifts, surprises, and of course, cake.

This Friday is Brad's 29th birthday, and though many friends will be out of town for a retreat, I am really looking forward to sharing this celebration with people we care about (on Saturday around 6-- all are welcome!).

Growing up, birthdays were always a big deal in our family. In the kitchen, mom hung old, paper letters strung together by yarn that spelled "Happy Birthday". Every year we knew they were coming, but every year, I rushed to the kitchen on the morning of my birthday to see if they had appeared again. Mom insisted on baking a cake of our choice (chocolate on chocolate, thank you very much), customizing the dinner menu to the birthday kid's choice, and planning a special day to celebrate.

One of my favorite birthday memories stems from my 10th birthday: my birthday party that year was a dance in our basement with a 'real' DJ (one of my dad's college students who played some tapes over our stereo system). Being in 5th grade, the girls masked our deep desires to dance with an outer disgust at the idea of dancing. To solve this problem, mom made little slips of paper with pairs of things-- salt and pepper, ketchup and mustard, etc.-- and split the pairs among two different hats. Each girl drew a slip of paper, each boy drew from the other hat. Our job was to find our pair and dance with the assigned boy. I, of course, took matters in my own hands. I quickly learned that I could use my birthday-girl power to force other girls to give me their slip of paper, ensuring that I was dancing with ketchup, not pepper. I wonder if Andy Berli ever questioned why he kept drawing my pair over and over.
Also that year, screen printing on cakes was all the rage. My mom had my 4th grade, snaggletoothed school picture screenprinted on a sheet cake. I thought I was really something special until friends started estimating just how many pieces of cake my forehead took up.

I just don't understand those families that don't celebrate birthdays. It's the one day of the year that we allow ourselves to celebrate those who are most important in our lives. Birthdays are a big deal!

So, on Friday, please remember to wish Brad a happy birthday. He deserves one. He's the best man I know, and we should all show him thanks for being born!

Happy Birthday, BB!

The play's the thing.

2009-03-24T15:58:00.003-04:00

When I was little, people often told me I was born as a thirty year old. Now that I'm almost thirty, I'm realizing how important it is to be young. These last few years, I've truly begun to understand the necessity of play in my life. I think that's why I continue to return to the arts again and again-- for their foundation in play.

When I was in graduate school, I wrote lit review after lit review about the cognitive, creative, and social effects of socio-dramatic play in non-arts classrooms (non-grad school translation: how essential imagination and extended periods of creativity are for learning in core subject areas). I built a thesis project around interactive play and cancer education. I co-taught session after session of professional development workshops with teachers who were trying to learn how to play in their classrooms again. Looking back, it's been the play-- the light-hearted, belly laughing, challenging kind of interaction with students, teachers, audiences, whomever-- that has kept me wanting more.

Today, I had the priveledge of working with my friend Becca in leading workshops for high schoolers in order to prepare them to see Macbeth later this week, produced by Rose of Athens Theatre. The workshops weren't particularly unique to things Becca and I had both taught before, but man! We had so much fun, and so did those high schoolers. Not only did we laugh, create secret handshakes, and die dramatic deaths, but I'm convinced that we also taught a difficult story to students and got them excited about seeing the show.

I wonder... did the 15th and 16th century audiences have pep rallies before performances? Because if they did, we did them justice today.

In this time of recentering and focusing in my life, Becca helped provide for me today something that I know for sure: I love to play. When work feels like play, it's not work.

The play's the thing.

No Excuses.

2009-03-23T10:37:00.003-04:00

It's been almost 3 weeks since I wrote a blog. It's been a busy 3 weeks: I moved from Nashville to Athens, legally and officially became Sally Baker, almost finished unpacking and organizing the house, hosted several house guests, began training the pup, actually spent time with my husband, built and planted a flower bed in front of our house, started season 4 of The West Wing (possibly the best show ever made... 24 comes awfully close), started the job search, began doing some work for Rose of Athens Theatre here in Athens, lost 2 pounds, and missed my Nashville friends terribly.

But no excuses. I had time to write and I just didn't.

I'm continually intimidated by writing... wanting to pen something meaningful and poignant without being contracted by Hallmark for their Touching Hearts, Touching Lives line of greeting cards.

So, what's the topic of choice for this entry? If you know, please clue me in-- I am not sure myself.

I'll just say this-- though the current state of my life and my work often feels a little directionless... scattered... unfocused, I am blessed to wake up with Brad each day, spend some time thinking/praying/meditating on the real purpose for my life, slow down long enough to reflect on the experiences that have come before, and trust that my energy is not wasted.

It's also really nice to wake up at 9:00am each morning. I don't think I've ever done that in the history of me.

Perhaps the next weeks (and the next blog entries) will be blessed with a clearer direction. I certainly hope so, for all of our sake.

Cheers!

2009-03-04T20:37:00.004-05:00

I love beer. There's just no way around it.

I never drank before I was 21, but a few months after I turned 21, I had a beer (a Natty Light? Maybe a Coors Light?) at Schroeder's in Rome, GA. Is there any way else to have your first beer besides one accompanied by giant baked pretzels?

I remember having less than half the drink and then asking my roomie, Leigh, to finish the bubbly refreshment. I couldn't handle it. I remember telling her that my toes were numb.

Since then, I would like to think that my tastes have refined a bit, choosing more flavorful varieties than a Coors Light. I now choose a beer based on its color, taste, origin, and brewery. I don't drink for volume or effect; I drink a beer for sheer taste and enjoyment. If I had more time and money, I might like to ascend to title of Beer Connoisseur.

Tonight, I visited Nashville's Flying Saucer for the first time. I was recommended to me by my friend Mitch (who knows more about the NFL and tells the funniest stories at lunch), and his recommendation did not disappoint. I tried three new beers-- a Nut Brown Ale from the local Blackstone Brewery, a Left Hand porter brewed in central Colorado, and a Scrimshaw Pilsner from Fort Bragg, CA. All delicious. And, though it's no Schroeder's, the pretzels are still tantalizingly good.

So, thank you, Mitch, for the thoughtful recommendation, and for all you Nashville travelers, visit the Flying Saucer next to the Frist Museum downtown. I promise it will not disappoint. And though the Saucer may not have the memories of a first Coors Light at 21, the pretzels are to die for.

Forecast

2009-03-03T23:38:00.003-05:00

There are many things I love about Brad, but one of them is not his obsession with watching the Local on the 8s over and over on the Weather Channel. He is not physically capable of turning it off. I often playfully fuss at him, reminding him of how much his obsession resembles the same one of my father's, and occasionally, he grins and looks away, glancing to see how close we are to the latest radar.

As much as Brad's obsession with Storm Tracking bugs me, I think it was my fate to marry a man who loves Jim Cantore almost as much as he loves me.

For the last two years, dramatic weather has marked major events in my life.

Two years ago on March 1, 2007, Columbus was attacked by major tornadoes. The storm leveled much of my parents' neighborhood, tearing giant trees from their roots, destroying power poles and lines, and even changing the physical landscape of their neighborhood. On that night in 2007, my mom was mostly unconscious at Columbus Hospice. She hadn't spoken to us or opened her eyes in days, but on that night as we evacuated her bed into the hallway of Hospice, she gripped mine and Amy's hands a little tighter, sensing that something was wrong. Hours after the storms subsided, Amy, John, Leslie, and I decided to return home to survey the damage and get a few hours of sleep. About 4 hours later, we received the call from the Hospice nurse that her breathing had changed and we needed to come right away. In the calm of the early morning, my mom breathed her last breath and hurt no more. I will never forget driving west on JR Allen Parkway that morning of March 2, looking into a bright pink sunrise framed by a giant rainbow. I've never seen colors so brilliant, and I didn't think I'd see that kind of rainbow ever again.

I was wrong. On my wedding day, misty rain made for dramatic clouds a few hours before the ceremony. I was worried that rain would threaten our semi-outdoor reception arrangements... I didn't want my hair to fall flat... I wanted to get great outdoor photos... I didn't want the day to be humid. But while we were taking pictures on the church's front steps, I understood the rain's purpose of the day. I looked out and saw the same sky-framing rainbow as before. I hadn't seen a rainbow in over a year and a half, since the day mom passed on. She sent it to me.

And here, two years later on the first and second of March 2009, Columbus was again plagued with violent tornadoes and unusually heavy snow. In Athens, Brad and I lost power for about 15 hours due to over 8 inches of snow. We watched and listened as branch after branch came crashing down to the ground with no regard for house or home. But after the splitting and cracking subsided, we were met by a stillness that can only be brought by snow. In that white, silent night, I was reminded of the powerful weather two years earlier. How violently the storms shook our house, Columbus Hospice, and our lives, only to be followed with the peace and beauty of a rainbow.

Maybe I was destined to live a life with dramatic weather.

And maybe I was destined to marry a man who could prepare me for falling barometric pressure, help rebuild what storms had broken, and pray with me in the peace of fallen snow.

Ok, ok. He can watch the Local on the 8s.

Do Work, Blog.

2009-02-24T23:21:00.002-05:00

All night I've been trying to get to this page to write another blog. I've been looking forward to it all day, encouraged by the words of friends who read the first installment and have been begging--yes, begging-- for more.

But all night, well, since about 6:45 or so, I have been on the phone with friends and family. I've learned about the upcoming season at the Springer Opera House from an insider, about a newly-found patience from one of my two favorite sisters-in-law, about a new international connection from a dreamy Nashville friend, about the latest in the kitchen floor saga from the ultimate saga-ist, and about the recent approval ratings of President Obama from husbeeawcheebles.

But yet, no opportunity to sit and write, much less draw deep reflections from the day. All of these people-- Theresa, Peyton, Dad, and Brad...nearly 4 hours on the phone-- and no time to write the evening's Sallyutation.

And then it hit me. Didn't I just say yesterday that I hoped this blog would lessen the 200,000 miles between then and now? Didn't I wish for its power in bringing me closer to the people I love? Didn't I need more connection in my life?

Sallyutations, you have done your job. You have spawned conversations with four people I love dearly.

Do work, Blog.

Well, here we go.

2009-02-23T19:10:00.005-05:00

Well, here we go.

In my life, I have not shied away from change, challenge, or chore. I've sought out ways to expand my horizons, stretch my muscles, broaden my worldview, and learn new metaphors for trying something new.

But I've got to tell you, writing a blog has terrified me.

What is it about blogging that seems so scary? Is it an accessibility to my innermost thoughts? No, that's not it; I control what I write, and generally, I'm willing to share with most people my thoughts on everything from politics to poop (ooh! maybe that's my next title, drawing a stunning conclusion that my issues with both of those topics stem from lack of movement. Too early? Too early.) Does my fear come from an anticipated critique on my writing style? Probably not, as I usually enjoy writing for its own sake and blog as a means of sharing ideas, not as a step towards my first Newbery or Pulitzer. I've also been known to love correct grammar, spelling, and punctuation. Perhaps it's the commitment of blogging, of being willing to reflect and relate regularly.

Whatever the source of my fears, I've recently felt a growing need to blog. A need to connect, a need to explain, a need to close the distance. And so, I (wo)-man up and face the fear.

For the past ten years, I have been moving around the country. Since high school, I have lived in 5 different states, spent time in 3 different countries, earned 2 nationally-ranked degrees, driven close to 200,000 miles, worked for about 10 different employers, and woken up each day trying to figure out what was next. But these days, as I'm nearing 30 and settling down with Brad (my incredible and perfect husbeeawcheebles, as I affectionately call him), I am feeling more disconnected than ever. With those 200,000 miles and 5 states come unforgettable friends along the way, and it's becoming more and more difficult to share my life with any depth greater than a Facebook status update.

So, I'll try the blog. Hopefully, people I care about will read it occasionally. Hopefully, it will serve as a way to share the latest from the Baker Hacienda. Hopefully, it will help lessen the 200,000 miles between then and now.

No pressure or anything.