Fireflies

I saw my first fireflies in Kentucky tonight.

When I was a little girl, the only day that could come close to rivaling the sheer, unbridled joy of Christmas morning was the first day of fireflies.

Seeing them tonight immediately transported me back to Winding Lane. My brothers and I were up with the sun and, after nourishing ourselves with Cap’n Crunch and ice cold milk, we took off running, carpe-ing that diem like it was our job. We’d warm up with a neighborhood bike ride around the block (on the sidewalk, of course). The more, the merrier. Next activity up would be driveway hockey; I would usually either play in net or spin the Jock Jams turntable on our old boom box. Around this time we’d break for lunch. We’d sit out in the backyard and eat the tray full of sandwiches that Mom made us and contemplate life as only a child under the age of eight can. Then it’d be back to business. Tag, hide-and-seek, Nerf wars. Boy, our schedules were packed. We’d drag ourselves into the house for dinner, sun-drunk and breathless, wolf it down as quickly as possible, and head back out for the best part of the whole day - twilight.

I think even at that age we understood the magic of the hour. The air smelled sweeter, it weighed heavier on our tiny, sweaty brows. If we’d been playing wiffle ball all day, we’d have to stop, because the ball would play tricks on our eyes in the hazy gray light and the bases would start to disappear (I would inevitably be the first casualty in this circumstance, and I often had the bruises to show for it). We’d play a few rounds of tag but, frankly, it’d been a long day of running and tagging and laughing, and it was time to rest. Porch lights were on, and we could hear the murmurings of our mothers sitting outside with each other. The grass felt so cool on our dirty little feet, so we’d plunk down in it and spread our arms out to the darkening sky and soak it all in like we were the only people on the face of the earth and all of this was for us.

And then, there they were. Little points of light winking at us from above. Like stars, but stars that we could catch and hold and whisper our wishes and secrets to. Oh, man. At that moment, my little heart knew no greater bliss. Summer lasted forever and every single day would be spent like this one. My brothers and I would never get older, and we’d always be best friends with the boys on the block. Our moms would always be there to keep an eye on us, and the fireflies would light up the night sky for all eternity.

Love was so incredibly simple then. We existed, therefore, we loved. We loved absolutely everything, from the grass crinkling under our necks to the balmy breeze brushing over our scraped and sun-tanned legs. Our wide eyes drank in those tiny glowing spots in the big night and we felt warm and safe in the arms of the universe. “Vulnerability” meant nothing to us. We were invincible. At least until September.

Somewhere along the way, I think we tend to lose sight of this love. Love becomes a word, a thing convoluted and contrived and confused. We forget that love is. It doesn’t have to be explained. Excuses don’t have to be made for it. We don’t have to look for it, and it doesn’t have to find us. It shouldn’t hurt, and it shouldn’t make us to be something that we aren’t.

We know love when we lay down our weary heads and find comfort waiting for us there. When we don’t have to try to justify our existence; we’re accepted and cherished in our pricelessly broken states. When a light as tiny and seemingly insignificant as that of a firefly can lend meaning to our entire being, and give us hope for a million tomorrows.

Evenin'

Neighborliness is something that people around here pride themselves on. And it’s something that struck me as one of the greatest differences between eastern Kentucky and Long Island from day one. Sharing is a given; since so many people do without, those with are almost always happy to lend a hand. There’s a strong sense of community and hospitality that I’ve never experienced anywhere else.

This evening, one of my housemates was baking bread for the dinner he’s preparing for tomorrow. We did most of the shopping for it last night and, when confronted with the conundrum of whether or not to purchase eggs, I assured him that we had plenty in the fridge back home. Well, turns out we didn’t. He discovered this halfway through the dough-making process; the recipe called for two egg yolks that were not currently in our possession. Luckily, they would be brushed onto the risen dough, meaning we had plenty of time between the braiding and the brushing to go out and acquire the necessary comestibles.

See, the problem with Smalltown, USA is that nothing stays open very late - something to which I’ve yet to grow accustomed. So, when we set out at just past nine, I figured we’d have some luck somewhere. First stop was IGA. Closed at nine. Then, RiteAid. Closed. The gas station? Well, they had milk, Lunchables, and bologna. No eggs. My friend had the idea that the Hilltop Pizza across the street from the pumps would be able to sell us a couple of eggs. Unfortunately, they had none on the premises, though they did genuinely seem like they would have been glad to assist us if they had.

We surveyed our options. Being that we currently reside in farm country, we contemplated trying our luck with finding an actual egg-laying chicken which would be willing to part with some of her handiwork. Ah, but where there’s a farm, there tends to be a sawed-off shotgun. So, that was a no-go. We figured that our best plan of attack would be to head west through Sand Gap; there are a few convenience stores there, and surely one of them would be open and have eggs. If all else failed, we’d drive straight on to Berea, home of the nearest Walmart.

Suddenly, inspiration struck. The nights are getting warmer here, and the front-porch-sitters have begun to make their way out to their nocturnal posts. Why not test this Southern hospitality theory and try our luck?

We passed by a Church of God that had a large white colonial next to it. There were three figures sitting on the front porch. It was decided that the following would make a better story than “we drove all the way to Walmart.”

“You’re doing all the talking,” I told my friend as I turned the car around on a dirt road and pulled into the driveway.

I parked my New York-plated Cobalt and we both nervously climbed out. As I sauntered away from my vehicle, trying to project a more confident air than I felt, I heard the word “evenin’” escape from my lips. Straight up dropped that “g” and replaced it with a casual, folksy apostrophe. The silence I received in response indicated that I wasn’t fooling anyone.

My friend chimed in, playing the Christian Appalachian Project volunteer card like I’d never seen it played before. The man and woman on the porch looked at us warily, but not in an unfriendly manner. My friend went on to explain the situation, and before he could even finish, the lady smiled warmly and asked, “How many eggs do you need?”

As she ran inside to help us out, her husband informed us of his love for eggs, particularly the fried variety. We small-talked about the places from which we came until his wife returned and, beaming, handed us our two coveted eggs. We thanked them profusely and, cradling those eggs like they were newborn babies, scurried off to our car. We were practically giddy as we drove home, so excited were we to have been treated with such grace and good will by two perfect strangers.

My friend’s bread turned out beautifully. And Glen and Penny - because those are their names - will be getting a loaf of it tomorrow night.

Go now.

You are forgiven.



It’s easy to get overwhelmed in life, even if you’re living in Paradise. And it’s not necessarily always a matter of negative energy bogging us down. Sometimes we can get so swept up in the excitement and movement of every day that we forget to bring our feet back to earth and take a breath.

I found myself falling into that familiar pattern recently. It’s funny: I recently spoke with my brother, who told me that the question of whether or not I ever have a bad day here in Kentucky had been raised back home on the island. I had to laugh. When I look at my past blog entries - which happen to be how most of you keep up-to-date on what I’m up to down here - I really do appear to be walking on clouds, conducting a blissful existence filled with rainbows, wildflowers, and sunshine. For the most part, this is remarkably true. But there is the occasional sensory overload, a few days where I realize that my mind, body, and soul are moving at different rates of speed and I need to find a way to refocus my energy on what I’m here for (in other words, whatever the Boss is wanting).

Holy Week is such a perfect time to tackle this task. It’s such a naturally grace-filled time; even if you’re not trying to get closer to God, He’s nearly impossible to avoid. On Palm Sunday, an announcement was made after Mass that confessions would be heard at the church on Wednesday, accompanied by Eucharistic Adoration. Now, despite the fact that the thought of Confession makes me start wringing my hands (as you Newman kids know quite well), I was missing my churches on Long Island very much: my dark, hidden back corner at St. Joseph’s, the reverence and community of the Holy Hour at the seminary, even the musty old chapel at Joe’s Place. And I was feeling like I was trying a little too hard to be in control. So, I decided that I had to make it there. And, though it kept me up most of the night before, I went.

I won’t go into the gory details of my imperfections. I don‘t have the necessary space here, nor do I have the interest of my readers (well, that may not entirely be true, but if you‘re reading this, chances are you have a fair enough idea of all that’s wrong with me). Let’s just say that, upon leaving the church, I felt a much-welcomed sense of peace within me. The sun was casting a golden glow on everything, and with my friend driving home, I let the wind hold my hand outside the window and run its fingers through my hair.

We got back to Camp AJ, and my friend wanted to check on the status of a jugline he’d set out earlier. We hopped into a canoe, yours truly landing directly in a very chilly puddle of water. The night was pleasant, and we rowed out to the jug floating on the surface. Well, he rowed. I made a valiant effort. Thank God, these people seem to have quickly become accustomed to the fact that, for all of my good intentions, I tend to be a complete and utter gong show. I think they get a kick out of it for the most part, actually.

Anyway, having realized an absence of fish on the line, we spent a few minutes drifting, listening to the sounds of the birds and frogs chirping in the twilight. We eventually made it back to the dock and, being that my jeans were already soaked, I was seized with the notion of getting the rest of me equally wet by jumping into the lake.

This isn’t nearly as crazy as it sounds, guys. I’m the only one in my house who hasn’t done it, yet. The night was getting a little chilly, but I was still on this Penance high and, damnit, I was going to make the most of it. So, after ten minutes of “You won’t do it”s and repeated false alarms with my friend (who really couldn‘t tell until the very end whether or not I was serious), I jumped.

Ladies and gentlemen, I have never been so cold in my entire life. That dark water closed over my head, and every square inch of my skin was electrified by the cold. My lungs compressed, and I couldn’t even feel my blue-jeaned legs as they propelled me to the surface, where I gasped for air, wide-eyed and watching my friend enjoying my shock a little too much. He jumped in, too, of course, and we scrambled back up onto the dock, shivering and laughing before jumping in one more time for good measure. Then we tore up to the house in my car, windows down and blasting Led Zeppelin almost louder than we could sing along to it.

How awesome it is to be free. To be able to shed the mantle of guilt and pain and worry that gets heavier every day you’re on this earth in order to fold yourself in an embrace of love and forgiveness that’s always there and always has been. To quit letting your shortcomings hold you back from all that this life has to offer. To jump in and get the thrill of your life, to climb out dripping and shaking and smiling and thanking God for letting you wake up that morning. To get a second chance at a fresh perspective. To feel alive because you are.