resistance, it is the “antithesis to nature”

Though the true beauty is lost behind the glossy finish of the magazine's pages, a photograph taken by Diane Cook and Len Jenshel in last month’s National Geographic depicts the rooftop of Chicago’s City Hall.

Rather than an expected sparse landscape of black tarred top and twisted vents – lush green sits against those vents as well as a backdrop of sky on the verge of night and surrounding skyscrapers lending light via offices still illuminated after hours. The municipal building in the windy city is just one of the world’s examples of a living roof. Forgotten spaces suddenly renewed.

Living roofs, which provide energy efficiency in utilizing spaces that often do little less than get hot as they sit in the sun, according to National Geographic's Verlyn Klinkenborg, in “Up on the Roof,” aren't new. In Germany flat roofs have been required to turn their tops green since 1989. On the surface, one sees what is a beautiful urban garden. But just beneath the surface is the real beauty. Some specifically designed systems collect rainwater, filtering and trapping it rehydrating the soil, a fully functioning ecological system creating a new habitat for plants, birds, insects and yes – even a few amphibians – and reducing the world’s carbon footprint one roof at a time.

And that got me thinking. Change is everywhere. And in no way is it limited to what’s above our heads.

Right now, no single industry in the country or around the world is escaping the need to reinvent itself. And it's rather exciting. Because it means new ideas, new methods, new products and ultimately new ways of being will evolve. And call me partial, but personally I think the change in how we exchange, produce and provide information to the general public is the most exciting of all. I entered this industry with my soft spot for printed newspapers, the smell of newsprint and the heroic images of the newsmen depicted on television and in movies. Because I thought nothing was more classically American than a man or woman tossing a few quarters up on the counter of a newsstand on a busy street and tucking a paper under their arm on their way to work.

But times have changed, as is painfully clear every day in our industry. And the conversation among all of us news hounds never seems to end. But the direction of our talks are changing. The topics started out troubling and thick – like really bad fog. In the annual State Of The News Media Report put out by The Project of Excellence in Journalism an overview of the industry says it all in the first sentence: “some of the numbers are chilling.”

And the first of several major trends reported, “the growing public debate over how to finance the news industry may well be focusing on the wrong remedies while other ideas go largely unexplored.” Journalists are losing their jobs and fighting for freelance opportunities, newspapers have thrown in the towel on a tangible product completely – jumping feet first into online media.

They’re going to make mistakes as they navigate these change filled waters. A lot of the papers that have turned their heads solely to the online avenue also assume they don’t need to write anything, pulling feeds and headlines to other services rather than keeping the valuable minds of their own reporters. But they’ll figure it out.

Brainstorming what can turn out to be a brilliant new idea, taking daily processes and whipping them up and tossing them around, pulling a fresh take on an old practice – is all part of the romance of change. So why do we fear it so much?

Because the reality is that change sucks.

Because once we figure out we need to start changing…we realize that we need to start changing. It’s a challenge. It's a process. It's work. We're uncertain of the outcomes. It’s painstaking. We build a new product and we have to be patient and wait for it to take off… We start changing our own behavior and we have to wait for the change in belief and in mood to come. We leave a bad relationship and we have to wait and see if a better one awaits.

We get frustrated and we fall down. More than once, more often than not. But the thing is, what was once wonderful, sometimes has to remain what was once wonderful. So we can be awakened to a new kind of wonderful.

Who would have thought…as those skyscrapers burst into the skyline decades and half centuries ago that eventually one day, they would house a lush green meadow? “When we go to the rooftops in cities, it's usually to look out at the view,” Klinkenborg writes. “...I can't help feeling that I'm standing on the view...” What an interesting perspective. Change is everywhere. Navigating it is hard. But resisting it is pointless and frankly, harder. In resisting it, we're the only ones who lose.

For those of us down on the ground, in the newsroom, we have so many opportunities ahead of us to reach you, the priceless reader. We can come into your living rooms, be stuffed into your mailboxes and paper boxes, upload to your iPod, Blackberry or mobile phone. We can be delivered to your PC or Mac in a matter of seconds – one example of the newspaper's future: the New York Times has introduced the the Times Reader 2.0 – the entire paper uploaded to your computer in a matter of seconds, with a paid subscription, so you can carry the news anywhere you go.

Imagine that. A news publication delivered to you, providing revenue and exercising the invaluable act of journalism all at the same time. Novel.

No matter the landscape, a rooftop, a newsroom, an auto giant, a government, your own home, we never know which changes will be good changes until we try. But we figure it out. It’s just going to take a new perspective – and a few changes. And who knows. As painful as it may be to change, when it's all over, the view on the other side may just be a bit greener.

one thing that never goes out of business

I’m writing from the dark place.

The dark place happens when deadlines are looming and weekends fill up with errands and the trash needs to be taken out but there is very little time to do so and there seems to be so much more ahead of what one really wants to do – fun things like catching a good summer blockbuster movie, or scouting out cheap tickets to a summer concert, reading a good book, visiting with friends or letting a mind turn to mush in front of pointless television.

The dark place happens when problem solving takes the front seat and innovation takes the back.

In matters of business, if economic pressures of a changing socio-economic climate is the dark place – it is, as a matter of fact – that innovation that is the light to help us find our way out of the tunnel.

I have a thing for entrepreneurs. Maybe it's just the fancy title or the fact that they have their own magazine. But then, writers and musicians and sock puppets have their own magazine, so come to think of it...that's probably not it. I have a thing for entrepreneurs. Because it seems like such a rush to, one afternoon, be sitting in a leather arm chair somewhere, pondering one's business, one's direction, possibly a glass of scotch in hand and the next day – putting that plan into action. Developing that idea into a bona fide business, scouting out space and strategies, turning one simple idea into the next big thing.

There are probably plenty of ways to describe an entrepreneur, but that seasoned figure, sitting in a leather arm chair…mind as electric as a lightning storm…that's how I romanticize them. I could romanticize a turkey sandwich, but still... I have a thing for entrepreneurs.

When I first thought up a series focusing on some of the area’s own savvy business minds, I thought the least I could get out of it was a handy mini-slate of stories. At the very least, maybe a better idea of whether or not all the talk about the nation’s innovators would have a strong impact generating new business throughout the country, thereby aiding in a rebound of the economy, carries any weight.

What I got, however, was one of the most inspiring projects I have had a chance to work on yet.

Some businesses may be faltering. Car sales are down and home sales are down and they trickle down to the machine shops and the real estate firms and before you know it you’re muttering to yourself as you head home, thick in the dark place, that you’re lucky to have a job.

But one business that will never suffer – one commodity that will always be in demand – are ideas. Good ideas. Brilliant, creative, innovative ideas.

Walking into Veni’s Sweet Shop to pick up a few delicious treats at the end of a hard day, driving past Tem-Pace’s facility in the heart of Niles’ industrial area on Terminal Road, peeking at the products being thought up over at G&H Machine Group – and as you’ll hear Monday, learning about how the guys at Thesis in Three Oaks are taking other people’s ideas and giving them tangible identity to make them visible to their target markets, may all sound like business as usual. But it is not.

Each has, standing behind the curtain, an innovator whose passion is evident in every aspect of their business. Each is a brain child of an idea that was thought up in living rooms, libraries, offices or during a break from work when a little stress needed relieving.

Through the cultivation of these ideas, businesses are created, a need is provided for and sometimes – just sometimes – our world is changed by the products and services these entrepreneurs put their blood, sweat, tears and dollars into creating. Without such innovators – we might not have an automobile industry just waiting for us to re-imagine it. We might have an industry of news just waiting for a creative new way of getting to people. We might not have television or movies to lose ourselves in. We might not have that designer handbag that we covet or our favorite pair of tennis shoes – or Starbucks.

I have a thing for entrepreneurs because they are risk takers. Savvy in their industries and tireless workers. Their passions are their business. And it shows. It shows in a unique quality. In a desire to constantly make their businesses better. Be it through finding stronger methods of human resources, finding good financial advice to weather a tough economy, developing a diversity or even just hanging on to a faith that keeps them going when they fear they’ve put everything they have into something that the masses just need to be exposed to.

Their businesses are true reflections of themselves.

Each month, Entrepreneur Magazine highlights businesses such as these. They offer up advice on everything from venture capitalists to building a better website. I read up their articles like candy.

Because they’re all based in ideas.

No matter what your passion is – whether it is what you do every day – or just what you long to do…there is something to be learned from these brave businessmen and women who are one by one, storefront by storefront, office space by office space and endeavor by delicious endeavor – changing our world.

Instead of focusing on what is not working – on what the masses no longer seem to be drawn to – innovators focus, rather, on what might entice. And they go after those ideas with reckless abandon.

It is a warm thought. A light in the dark place. That dream business you always wanted to start, the nonprofit organization you always wanted to put your time into, the product you always thought would look good on a shelf in a store somewhere – now is the time to pull out the drawing pad, even as the sun sinks below the horizon and the day’s hours grow long – and just start sketching it out a little bit. The idea of an entrepreneur, for some, for me anyway, has always emitted a “lone ranger” quality. Those seasoned men and women work tirelessly and furiously on their own to turn their vision into tangible reality.

But that’s not true. Ideas breathe in the like-mindosphere I’ve mentioned a time or two before.

Take the chance and begin throwing them out there – and you might just find a talented resource in the form of a counterpart, or a colleague or a supportive spouse. Each of them a face you’ll see when you look back at the forefront of your dream. Be sure to read about the guys at Thesis (www.designbythesis.com) on Monday and check out www.entrepreneur.com the next time you’re in the mood for a little inspiration.

Better yet – tempt your sweet tooth at Veni’s, indulge in the art of glass at Tem-Pace’s Carapace, take a second look at www.ghmachinegroup.com or step inside any of the unique businesses right here, right outside your door.

one year later - still living the dream

There's a thing about writers. Novelists, screenwriters, poets, essayists, journalists. We have a thing. And I can't quote this as my own - I read it long ago, in Nora Ephron's novel "Heartburn." The thing is: everything is copy.

We writers pass you on the street as you're window shopping, picking up groceries, picking your kids up from school. We take notes. We watch your eyes. We look for the joy and the sadness. We jot it down in our mental notepads and when you close your eyes to sleep, we hang on to those little details. We put them all together in fictitious tales where you are the hero - or we remember the reality of them when we try to tell the stories of our world.

We try not to eavesdrop when we're sitting next to you in a café, but we can't help it. And we hear you divulge your greatest secrets, your vulnerabilities, your annoyances to the people you trust - or those you like just enough to tell them so. They make up the characters in our plays, the heroes in our comic books. That's what we writers do.

There's a thing about journalists. We don't just write up stories to fill pages. When this whole gig started, the founding fathers of our craft built a platform of truth and poignancy. Our job is not just to inform and to tell the truth - but to present the world as it is - as it matters.

And it all matters.

We tell the stories that can't be made up. From the long lines for corn dogs and the way a child's eyes light up the first time they see the county fair to the way to shelling of war torn villages in lands far, far away.

We sit back and we watch - and more often than not - we try to give a voice to those who may feel they have none. We try to keep them informed. We put it down on the page and we hope against hope that at the end of the day, we have done a good job at whatever story we have tried to tell.

This week marked my first year here at the Niles Daily Star. And one year later ... I try to think of everything that has changed my world since then.

The dream, originally, was as romantic as Cary Grant following after Rosalind Russell in "His Girl Friday." Wake up to the sound of the bustling city, the grumblings and the heavy trucks and the sirens and the heartbeat of the streets. Step out into a crisp morning and wonder, where are the sirens headed, what's the grumbling about, how's the heartbeat today as you pick up a cup of coffee and tuck the competitor's rag under your arm and head into the newsroom. And the sound of the rustling of the pages is like the best soundtrack.

Well, dreams change.

In a year, several presses have gone quiet. It's a wonder how many will ultimately survive a world that used to churn out so much newsprint that children's hands were stained with ink after an afternoon of "Extra! Extra! Read all about it!" It's not that the world doesn't read anymore. It's just that they want to read everything in 140 characters or less.

And that matters.

When the gig started, there was no question of its relevance. And there was no need to be punchy. Martha Gellhorn wrote more than just reports on the shelling of Madrid in 1937. Without falling into bias like just about every other journalist that comes out of college with the dream of being the next coiffed morning talk show host, she wrote searing descriptions of the men and women and children who remained amidst the rubble. Who continued their walk to the market under a charcoal grey sky.

She wrote the world as it was. And it was enough. And it inspired the dream.

Some dreams change. Today, for instance, Cary Grant would likely be uploading a tweet on his Blackberry while chasing after Rosalind Russell through a newsroom with several empty desks and ergonomic office furniture and a bunch of writers who aren't sure what the dream is anymore.

When I lose the dream, I look back to Gellhorn and remember that original dream. And all of the others that I have stored up in a special file. The streets of Havana. The back alleys of Gaza. The cliffs of Santorini. The streets of New York City. Madrid. And everywhere in between.

More and more industry heavyweights are grasping at finding the new in the dream. They're busy, "reinventing" the magazine, trying to make their websites profitable, putting their presses to bed, trying to figure out how to make advertising lucrative again. And more and more journalists are getting worried that there may be no platform in the future for their words.

We writers have a thing. We watch you, we build on you, we tell your stories. The best we can. In one way or another. The relevance of that can only end in all of you. If you choose not to find any relevance in each other.

One year ago, I came in with a little dream. When I started, all I wanted to do was write for a newspaper. Check.

Thankfully - I'm reminded today of how much that dream has grown. I want Cary Grant. Rosalind Russell. Martha Gellhorn. Madrid.

I don't want to reinvent the art of journalism. I want to recreate it. Just as it was meant to be. Because even when the presses go quiet and shrink to the size of a microchip - the stories we tell are bigger and better than ever. They're you.

Everything is copy. It all matters.

Extra, extra, tweet it up - get thee to a blog - but most of all ... read all about it.

Jessica Sieff is a reporter for the Niles Daily Star. Reach her at jessica.sieff@leaderpub.com.

the battle to save the shop around the corner

“Let’s take a better look/Beyond our storybook/And learn our souls are all we own/Before we turn to stone…” ‘Turn to Stone’ - Ingrid Michaelson

There are those who live for what they do. And they know nothing but. And now, in a time of such economical and cultural change, we realize that sometimes, we have to be able to expand ourselves, our skills. We have to be able to be diversified. Still, there is a mourning in this shift, which is shaking the futures of Americans in industrial shops across the country.

I have written before about the soft spot I have for industry. The small mom and pop machine shops where mornings consist of thermoses of coffee, uniforms with names embroidered over where the heart lies not far underneath, beating with the hum of large, bulky, various machines.

My affection for this integral part of our country’s heritage has only strengthened since last I wrote about it. Because we have something in common those industrial, tool and die, machine shops and me. Both of the mediums in which we work are in serious danger of becoming obsolete.

I think as a country, we all thought bailout money would bail us out. The big auto dealers would turn around with brand new cars we would have never thought they would come up with. And we would all want to buy them. And the money would just appear in our pockets. And the lines would run again.

And thanks to those lines, the rest of the world of industry would pick up. People would be all about building things and making things and developing things and it would all consist of heavy machinery and construction and manual labor. And parking lots would be full. And families would be secure. And our engineers, machinists, welders, etc. would not be facing the threat of their own extinction. But things haven’t turned out that way.

The all too recent example is 450 lives that hang in the balance of Tyler Refrigeration. Elsewhere, industrial parks sit all but abandoned. Plants have gone dark.

The New York Times recently went to Grafton, Wis., to sit in on a layoff at a family owned tool and die manufacturing company in which the vice president of administration, with the final list of those who would have to go, sank into tears after she had informed them all of the unfortunate news. The Washington Post took a look at areas such as Michigan, which had once thrived off of an auto industry that has all but gone away, searching for industries that might put people back to work in the future. Healthcare. Green jobs. But the future's classification stings. “Uncertain.” At www.toolanddieing.com, almost every moment of this struggle is chronicled with updates, stories of businesses across the country and links to resources within the industry.

I can appreciate community colleges that are reaching out to help those shop workers who may find themselves in need of “retooling”... But I am sincerely afraid to lose our industry. Because the fact of the matter is, if we lose our industry – we will have turned our backs on our own legacy. We will have built a history on the backs of our grandfathers and our fathers, who know this crazy world of steel and sweat better than we could ever hope to learn from history books, only to tear it down without so much as a Plan B. We have to save the shop around the corner because our grandfathers and fathers don’t have a Plan B.

Many small businesses, tool and die, CNC, precision machining, are looking for help in order to survive. Yet as a country, we don’t have so much as a method of CPR. Loans are tough to accept as a resolution when you’re struggling to keep employees. And if you’re looking for any help beyond that – coming from someone who has seen the frustration of many trying to do just that – good luck.

We have to save the shop around the corner – because it means starting with the big businesses uptown. Those who would have us all believe that the future of innovation couldn’t possibly gain anything from wearing a blue collar. It means pooling our most valuable resources, the men and women of the line and taking another look at what this country can do to build itself back up again. It would mean building a future workforce that can benefit from the teachings of the old school and the capabilities of the new school. It would mean enticing entrepreneurs to find new ideas that could put men and women back to work.

Because it can't all be that bad. It can't be that this is how their story ends. It means thinking hard, lending a hand, taking a chance on a new idea. We should save the shop around the corner because it would mean looking at our priorities. Priorities are goals for the future and truly inventive ideas. Stop-gaps are not truly inventive ideas.

Most of all – we should save the shop around the corner because it’s about the ideals. Those ideals are what built our railroads, mined our coal, generated our power, laid our brick, built our cars, our homes…our past. Our present. That our best asset is our hands, our minds and the ability to use them both at the same time. We have to save the shop around the corner – because if we don’t – what will be the next thing to go? Will our work ethic evaporate like fine dust that sloughs off metal shavings only to settle corners of the shops that now sit empty, nothing but natural light and shadows and locked doors. Will we no longer feel the need for inventiveness? Will we lose our convictions?

We have to keep looking for solutions. We have to keep asking for help. Put in the hours. Burn the midnight oil. It sounds so incredibly melodramatic, I know.

So how about this…we have to save the shop around the corner, because if we don’t, we will have a hard time meeting our neighbor’s eye when we pass them on the street. And because when our shops shut down – the silence will be deafening.

moms

To be quite honest, I'm a bit surprised at what I think of when I hear the word "mother." Almost immediately I envision golden sunrises, Donna Reed aprons and breakfast foods so heavy with buttermilk, eggs and greasy meat that one might as well not even begin to count calories.

I think of sunsets on sticky summer nights when the only thing that has any power of the humidity is ice cold lemonade and when the only thing that soften the aches and pains of a fever or the flu is the cold washcloth held to your forehead or the chicken soup that she'll cross town to bring you even when you're old enough to cook your own. I'm surprised at my initial reaction to the word because I have grown up in a life that has taught me well enough that motherhood is not all Donna Reed aprons and calorific foods.

When I think longer about the what I think motherhood means... I think of how I was blessed with the influences of exceptionally strong mothers in my life. On my maternal side, my grandmother is the mother of 15 children. Hers is a life filled with the teachings of thank yous and pleases and buttoning up shirts and making sure everyone was in school on time. And my grandfather helped. She cooked all the dinners and the breakfasts and the lunches and she still does. And she's always the last one to sit down to the table.

She turned those 15 children into bright, intelligent, successful human beings. Who know how to laugh when what they may want to do is cry, who find strength in just the sound of her voice. Her love knows no time and no distance, as many of her children live an ocean away in a country thousands of miles and who knows how many time zones apart.

She bites her tongue when she has to, a trial and tribulation that comes when children grow up and insist they know what's best for themselves - but she's not afraid to speak her mind.

In her strength, I see my own mother. The single mother who raised three children, worked full time and still fought for a well balanced dinner that we were all to sit down to together. As we children battled adolescence and nursed our broken family wounds, she put her heart last. Left it carefully on a shelf as she made sure our clothes were clean and our shoes were tied and we didn't forget to thank our grandparents or wash the dishes. When we're young, those are the things that seem standard. But they end up meaning everything. We spend a lot of our grown-up time trying to recreate those dinners, searching for detergent that's not only organic, but smells vaguely of childhood.

When her eyes were heavy with sleep, she kept herself up long enough to soothe our own fears as we lay beneath the blankets, warding off our nightmares. And when we became the ungrateful adolescents that all children become at one time or another - she swallowed the hurtful words we slung at her and always said goodnight with an 'I love you.'

Though I never got a chance to really know my paternal grandmother - she lives in a vivid memory from a very young age. And sometimes, even when we haven't had the chance to know our mothers or our grandmothers through and through - their strength is evident in presence. I remember her fondly. As kind. And with very strong hands.

And I have been blessed to see some of my closest friends transition into motherhood. And perhaps that experience has helped me to the perspective I have on motherhood today.

That the best parts of our mothers - have nothing to do with us at all.

My favorite stories of my mother, are about her, her days at work, what she enjoys about her home, the things she did when she was seventeen. Many of my favorite photos of her are those that capture her at that age, young and with long flowing hair, delicate with an underlying strength the world had not yet seen.

My favorite stories of my grandmother are the ones she tells where I can envision her on a kibbutz in Israel sipping on cups of coffee laced with cream, tossing words back and forth with the rest of the motherly clan. My favorite pictures of her are those with my grandfather, trapped in time and in black and white, when she'd slip in the occasional drink, chatting up the issues of the late 1940s, and those even younger still, when she was just a girl with the moxie of legends at her fingertips.

Because I think too often we think mothers are simply defined by motherhood. But they are so much more. They are little girls who dream, young women who live on the edge, who love and break hearts and mend a few broken pieces of their own.

It's fun to think of mothers when the mothering is put down for the night. When the insides come back out. To think of Donna Reed with her feet up on the coffee table, some good music flowing through the living room, a glass of wine in hand. Or sitting out on the back deck with friends, laughing a little too loud for the neighbors. The aprons thrown off, the hair down and screaming at the top of their lungs to an old, favorite song, telling jokes or jumping into a round of bull poker (long story). Of course, those pieces of our moms are always there. We just don't always see them.

Our mothers continue to live outside a simple term. They are our stepmothers – and I'd like mine to know, she has not been forgotten here. And they are our aunts and sisters and daughters and best friends.

I applaud all mothers. I stand in awe of them. I honor them. And most of all I wish them the moments when they melt back into those little girls, who knew the exhilaration of a plie in new ballet shoes, of their first painting or their first home where the silence was all their own. The triumph of their love and everything that goes with it.

They have their own desires, their own sense of fun - dance when no one is looking and all that. As a matter of fact, I consider myself exceptionally lucky - because my mother dances when everybody is looking. And I always think, how I would love to be as brave as that.

What are you waiting for? Call your mother. Take your best friend some flowers. Shoot a twitter to your sister. It's their turn.

the curse of the blank page

Once upon a time ... okay it was a few weeks ago ... my managing editor told me that he once wrote an entire column about the blank page. Well...I supposed if nothing else, rather than a lack of creativity, we could consider this simply a tip of the hat. Indeed. That sounds better than a lack of creativity.

I can't say if all writers fear the blank page. But I always have. Blank canvas always sounds better than blank page. The phase "blank canvas" is filled with possibility. Will you be a Monet or a Seurat or will burst through boundaries like Pollock? "Blank page" is ominous. It says, millions and millions of writers have come here before you. They have filled this space with brilliance. Now ... what have you got to say?

Where painters may see a canvas just waiting for color, or those writers who are immune to the idea of a blank page see simply some white background on which to put their words, I see a vast, empty space.

And I have to fill it. And it better sound good. Or I'm going to be in trouble.

My adolescent years are probably at the very least, responsible for 30 percent of the all the vanishing trees. Back then, my friends, there were stacks of wide ruled paper and pencils. No flashy laptop computer screens. So when it came time for book reports, poetry, letters, short stories - even drawings, I would write (or draw), crumple the page, throw it out and repeat the process at least 17 times before finally committing something to paper.

To this day ... the lack of a good lead, even just a relatively stable column idea will leave me staring at my screen, my fingers mute. My thoughts clogged in my neuro-gutter.

Blank pages are scary.

They're empty and they're stark white, unless of course you use that fancy patterned paper, but either way - they're empty and they are begging for you to put something down on them. And what is put down is going to matter because it will leave the transparent world of thought - and enter the tangible world of reality. But as I ruminated on the blank page - and as I've probably bored you with it - I realized ... we walk around, every day, living, breathing blank pages. Every day. And these days, we're seeing that more than ever. Even after 100 days of a president in office. Even after the celebration of a country's independence. Entrepreneurs are being forced to scrap business plans and get back on the horse, seek out a new idea, develop that idea amidst what is bound to be significant risks and hope for the best. One after another, we're being forced to face the blank page in an increasing world of unemployment. Ultimately in some way, shape or form, our jobs identify us. And losing one during a time in which any job and every job is a rarity and a prize to be won - some of us are being forced to work where we never thought we would, just to make ends meet. Or worse, figure out how to live a life that was once stable -in the unstable and uncertain.

And blank pages come even more frequently in small, everyday ways. When we lose a relationship, the vastness is painful and scary and unwelcome. And taking the chance to get into another one, in this case, is the same. We run through a seemingly endless checklist of what-ifs and what-abouts and afraid-ofs that, should they work out for the better, only lead to a big blank page sitting in the shadow of to-do items like the pre-rehearsal dinners and pre-weddings where what we're really doing is setting ourselves up for taking the first step on a big blank page.

The things we've never done before. The things we've been avoiding. The things we have to face each and every day. Every fear. Every trepidation. Every dare to hope. They're all blank pages that fill us with that feeling that forces us to keep a small bottle of Pepto-Bismol or in some cases, hard liquor, in the house.

But here's the thing about blank pages.

They're filled with the things we've always wanted to do. The hopes and the dreams and the double dog dares. The overcoming the trouble. The trumping the pain. They're scary. You can douse the nerves with Pepto. Or you can choose to feel the fear as a swarm of butterflies. You can write it down and erase it and write it down again. But you'll probably just get an ugly looking page with lots of smears and smudges. Or you can just start putting things down. You'll find you move on to the next page a lot quicker than you thought - and you can write down the learned lessons from the pages that came before.

How about that? I found something to write about after all.

Jessica Sieff is a reporter for the Niles Daily Star. Reach her at jessica.sieff@leaderpub.com.

A thin line between them and us

Every high school has a wall. And on that wall, are grainy, black and white or sepia toned photos of young men and women of that high school's past. When you're a teenager and you look at them, the people trapped behind the time and glass look more like your grandparents than the people who are passing you in the halls. They're dressed in ties, tweed jackets, and long sleeved shirts. There's something in the eyes that reflect sights that all the generations to follow would never know.

It was one year, a stint in the keystone state of Pennsylvania, and a big dose of reality later when news broke that gunfire had erupted at Columbine High School, a seemingly typical American high school in a part of the world no one had known about until April 20, 1999. News footage was chilling. Young kids, students, some with backpacks still slung around their shoulders ran in terror from a building where inside, fellow students and teachers lay -still under attack, wounded and some dead.

There was a moment, on that very day that something became quite clear.

It was just a year before that myself and my friends had been as unwitting as those students had been that day. In the library or the cafeteria or the classroom - unaware of how the unthinkable can sometimes be unbearably brutal.

And just like that - a line was drawn between those of us who knew what high school was before Columbine. And those who would only know it after.

Those of us who knew of the before, knew high school before stereotyping and merciless teasing resulted in anything other than the possibility of a fight or a good few years of therapy. There were isolated incidents of violence in schools before, of course. But nothing hit so hard as Columbine.

Brutality has its own line. A line that separates the times when the situation is so severe that it leaves a scar we feel forever and the times when the situation is the complete opposite - and we become ultimately desensitized.

High schools are filled with a new kind of cruel. Now, kids torture each other with public insults plastered on Facebook pages and MySpace pages, three-way phone calls where one is basically invited to some personal ridicule. Teasing, in some cases, ends only when one student is driven into such deep self-consciousness, self-hatred and depression, that they try to take their own lives. Guns are toted to school by hands that don't even realize they are - at the very least - too young to be touching them.

But the lines are very thin. A flip of the coin and we could find ourselves on the other side.

Lines sometimes divide us. They challenge us to cross them and challenge us to hold to them. They can be keep us safe from harm, or hold back the ability to love. We don't always have a choice when it comes to the line. Sometimes, we're just on the side we're on.

As a parent, your child might draw a line as they insist on growing up for themselves. We choose paths even our best of friends would not choose for themselves. And vice versa. Criminals test whether we're going to be victims or survivors. Every day, lots of lines. Between right and wrong. Bitterness and forgiveness. Enough and too much.

Along with the anniversary of the Columbine massacre this week was Yom Hashoah - Holocaust Remembrance Day. A day that reminds us all of the thin line between good and evil. Between life and death. Between life and survival. A line between the eyes that were closed before hatred entered the world in an unimaginable way. A line between the eyes that were opened after.

In Israel, to mark the day, sirens wail for two minutes. People stop their cars in the middle of the street. They get out of them and they stand quiet. For two minutes. But there is a line there too, separating those that do stop and those who don't.

It would be arrogant of me to expect to be able to sum up the Holocaust and all that it is - in a paragraph or even a page. There's a line there too. Of when something can be too big for us to sum up. A line between what overwhelms - and what we can handle.

What I will say is that when I do think of the Holocaust, I think of one man in particular. Elie Wiesel. But not because his book about his experience during the Holocaust, his time at Auschwitz, 'Night' is a piece of literature so brilliant, raw, open and honest that it brings one to tears. Or because of his continued mission to bring humanity, justice and ethics to the world.

It's his voice.

With the weight of his life on his shoulders, every day, every morning when he wakes up and every night when he goes to bed, I imagine that Mr. Wiesel knows what it means to walk a great many lines. But one that interests me is the line between what one might expect to be piercing anger and what is his quiet humanity.

Wiesel is quiet when he speaks. Without even trying - he commands that you listen. Even when he's talking to someone else. In an interview with Oprah Winfrey for Winfrey's magazine in 2000, Wiesel said something that has stayed with me every day since heard it on an audio portion of the interview.

Speaking of his travels to countries where there continues to be acts of great brutality, Wiesel said, "I've gone everywhere, trying to stop so many atrocities: Bosnia, Kosovo, Macedonia. The least I can do is show the victims that they are not alone. When I went to Cambodia, journalists asked me, 'What are you doing here? This is not a Jewish tragedy.' I answered, 'When I needed people to come, they didn't. That's why I am here.' "

There are times that we can choose where we draw our lines, how far we bend them, when it's time to break them, how we cross them. Ultimately those lines we weave define our character. Between wrong and righteous. Ignorance and integrity.

When we're brought to a line, sometimes that line is between being and leaving.

That's why lines, as thin or thick as they may be, are flat. Drawn in the sand, a long stretch of tape across a tile floor ... etched in stone. They're flat. So we can hold to them and still see past them. So that we might stretch out our hand and let those on the other side know - we're here.

With a voice as soft as thunder

Most mornings begin the same way. Rush around over a cup of coffee. Pass the same houses on the same streets wishing and hoping that one day the street scape will change from small town-ness to skyscrapers. Step through the same doors and sit down to a big blank screen.

Then starts the uphill climb. Most days, sitting down to write is like a swim against the current. The current hitting with wave after wave of self doubt and insecurity and 'will this sound good enough,' 'is this written well enough,' those thoughts mixed with 'will I end up anywhere other than here.'

Those are the thoughts that wrap themselves around our weaker places like vicious vines that grow alongside a beautiful old house until they practically cover it all up. And then...Wednesday I caught a teaser on the 'Today' show about a woman who auditioned on Britain's Got Talent.

Later, I jumped on You Tube to see for myself the emergence of Susan Boyle. The “nearly 48” year old woman who had “never been married” and “never been kissed”, was displayed at first against dippy music, presenting her as a joke. As she stepped out onto the stage, the audience laughed. The judges rolled their eyes at responses that have been described as “inarticulate.” Someone in the audience gave a sarcastic whistle at her and the camera caught audience member after audience member laughing and rolling their eyes as she told judges Piers Morgan, Amanda Holden and Simon Cowell that she wanted to be a professional singer along the lines of British legend, Elaine Paige.

Then, the music started. And Boyle began to sing “I Dreamed a Dream” of the musical Les Miserables.

“I dreamed a dream of time gone by,” Boyle sang with a voice that simply can not be described in one word. It was beautiful, it was delightful, it was amazing. In just that first line, the audience that had been so merciless to Boyle just moments before, were on their feet, in tears and screaming for this woman from a small village in Scotland who has been described as shy and kind – who lives in a government subsidized home with her cat, 'Pebbles,' the youngest of nine children who had been caring for her ailing mother until she died two years ago.

Until her appearance on Britain's Got Talent, Boyle, who had been singing since she was 12, had only sung in and around her village, mostly in church. Which seemed fitting. Sometimes I think God likes to keep the most talented in the unlikeliest and hard to find places, almost as his own rare treasure – so valuable that they have to be sought out.

We live in a society in which we literally build stages on which to mock people. Sometimes I think the best talents, the most beautiful voices, the best painters, sculptors and artists are kept under wraps – until God knows that the world will give them their due.

Boyle's performance on the talent show continues to bring me to tears, even after having watched the clip countless times since.

Over 600 articles had been written about her as of yesterday afternoon. And the number of viewers of her performance on You Tube jumped from nearly six million yesterday afternoon to 11 million this morning.

Several of them take a look at Boyle's looks. They refer to her as “dowdy” or “frumpy.” And they echo judge Holden's remarks that the entire audience was against her when she walked out onto the stage, entirely cynical – and that it was a privilege to hear her.

“Everyone was laughing at you,” Morgan said, when Boyle had finished singing. “Nobody is laughing at you now.” What is most endearing about Boyle is not only her voice. Or the song she chose to sing.

“I dreamed a dream of time gone by/When hope was high/And life worth living/I dreamed that love would never die/I dreamed that God would be forgiving/Then I was young and unafraid/And dreams were made and used and wasted/There was no ransom to be paid/No song unsung/No wine untasted...”

No, the most endearing thing about Boyle was that following her performance, she began to march off stage without so much as a critique – as if she figured the judges would have tossed her off anyway. She was generally surprised when each judge praised her more than any previous contestant and passed her through to the next round. Her eyes went wide, her face flushed and she pumped her fist in the air and stomped her feet. And one got the sense that it is not just talent but purity that runs through the “nearly 48” year old woman from Scotland.

And when Cowell said, “Susan, you are a little tiger aren't you?” Boyle paused. Blushed and said hesitantly, “I don't know about that...no I don't know about that.”

Ms. Boyle, while the world will look at the bigger picture, the way an entire crowd misjudged you based solely on your appearance and while others will look at your talent, I would like to commend you on your bravery and say that you sang to millions of people who still sit at home with their dreams tucked away and tied down by their own self doubt, their own insecurities and their fear that the world might judge them.

You sang to a little girl who grew up loving to read, with unruly hair and a still compromised fashion sense who was teased from childhood to adolescence and sometimes even adulthood for being a little awkward at times and who often fears stepping out of her own village. And probably to countless dreamy children who continue to live in all of us.

And when you sang the lines, “But there are dreams that cannot be/And there are storms we can not weather/I had a dream my life would be/so different from this hell I'm living...” I lost my breath.

And I think everyone else did too.

In an interview, Boyle said she auditioned for the talent show for her late mother, who wanted her to do something with her life. I think there is no question on how proud her mother would be now.

And in that interview Ms. Boyle commented on the subject of the angle that so many are taking about the “frumpy” woman with the angelic voice.

“Modern society is too quick to judge people on their appearances,” she said. “There is not much you can do about it; it is the way they think; it is the way they are. But maybe this could teach them a lesson or set an example.” On the contrary, Ms. Boyle. I think it would be an honor just to be able to shake your hand and compliment your voice. And I think you just might be one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.

And this morning, I hummed your song on the way to work and dreamed a dream of time gone by. And I think I speak for millions when I say that, when times are really tough, you will lift us all as high as your voice carries.

The truth is – I would never be able to describe it well enough. So I encourage everyone to go to You Tube and search for Susan Boyle. It'll make your day. And it will remind you about what it means to dream. And that dreaming is just the beginning. Living is in the dreaming and the doing.

let you take me home

I would let you take me home tonight.

And that's really saying something, because usually I insist on driving.

But I would let you take me home tonight. Pull me from the car and deposit me somewhere safe and warm, like the couch. I would put up no fight and let you feed me something comfort foodish, like soup and tell me that you know what's best for me. Close my eyes, secure myself in your iron gate arms.

Because I need you to shelter me. And that is unusual for me. But I need your shelter now. Need you to rock away the nightmares and force my heartbeat to slow and match yours.

I would let you take me home tonight and keep me there. Though I never thought I'd want to be kept ever. I'd let you shelter me from the storm. Weather the worry.

Because I need a place to stay. Where there are no strings. I need a place to recoup. My body is stiff and sore from the recoil that I've mired myself in. I would take your hand.

I would let you take me home tonight.

it's been a long time coming...

My problem: That I always want to launch into something big and new and fun and I don't do half the preparation I should for it. In other words...though I sometimes have limited internet access I have been trying to format a new blog. New look and new name to sort of start all over on the chronicling of my life. For anyone who even remembers this blog still exists. It's been slow going. I'm working on it...and hoping to have something done here soon. But for now, since I had the opportunity, I just wanted to say - I'm still here. And here: www.facebook.com And here... www.twitter.com/jessicasieff.

saying goodbye to one of the good guys

I fell in love long ago, with the romanticism of journalism. That romanticism took the form of Robert Redford in "All the President's Men" and Michael Keaton in "The Paper." It is Cary Grant in "His Girl Friday" and George Clooney in "Good Night and Good Luck." In my image of the profession, the journalist is the everyday guy (or gal). Slightly neurotic, with sleeves rolled up and a quick wit about them, they find solace in the sound of keys being furiously tapped on a keyboard in order to make deadline. They are in a constant state of awareness - of what is happening around them. And every story counts - everything means something. And every lead - a chance to save the world - to show that world is a part of themselves they may not be aware of.

When studying journalism in college ... my teacher taught me a very important lesson in the very beginning weeks of class. He was discussing beats, the subjects that journalists will commit themselves to. Politics, entertainment, religion, world affairs.

Some kids laughed when he mentioned that obituaries were typically the most read section of a newspaper. "You may laugh," he said. "But the truth is, it is an important section. Not just because people read them. But because for many people it is the only time they'll see their name or have something written about them in the paper."

I imagined sitting down with the families and sharing in their lives and giving them a piece of their family member or friend, all summed up with sweet and sensitive words, wrapped up tight like a gift - and even with an obituary -someone's world would be touched.

I'm often reminded how valuable one life is - staring at the loss of many. In the loss of local officials or average citizens taken away by storms and flooding - or even a reporter whose influence was so great - it inspired an entire nation.

The amount of attention brought on by the passing of Tim Russert last week was in a way, comforting. To know that there are people out there who believe in and respect a journalist who sat week after week with political leaders, world leaders - and the one thing people continue to remember him for - is being a regular guy.

I am always at a loss when the profession that I love - and am still learning - loses one of its own. With Peter Jennings and David Bloom - the image of the hardworking journalist with dusty boots and sleeves rolled up to the elbow ... tired eyes and a sore voice ... grew a bit dimmer. It has been replaced with fancy ties and lapel pins and perfectly coifed hair. And men who are more attracted to the spotlight than the pathways carved out for all of us newcomers by such greats as Edward Murrow, Walter Cronkite and even Ernest Hemingway.

Everyday I find myself questioning the nuts and bolts of journalism. Journalists have a distinct honor. We are not just part of an industry. We are a tradition. A provision in the Constitution of the United States of America.

Bound by profession to the truth - but vulnerable to the fact that we do not necessarily control what is presented as that truth, we are ceaseless diggers and searchers for the story. For the piece of the every man in every issue - both on a small town community street- and at the far corners at the world.

Journalism is the art of bringing both of those perspectives together. The small town - and the whole world. It is making life relatable -by telling an amazing story. To tell a story that is equal parts personal, aware, and global. And most importantly - true.

The truth about Tim Russert is, he brought the everyday guy to the world stage with his work on Meet the Press. He was unpretentious and unflinching - all at once. He had Irish roots - like me, my father being born and raised in Dublin. As his Irish culture was brought to light over and over by speakers at his tribute last night - for the first time I felt a little closer to my own. To watch him, you knew he was informed - no, he was infused with the subjects he was discussing. He made me want to read twice as much and know just a little bit more. He was never unprepared in an interview. If he was, you couldn't tell. And he was always working on behalf of someone else. The people.

People may only see the new state of journalism ... that blurs the lines between report and commentary. In truth, the premise of the profession has not changed. People may stray from it from time to time. But the purpose remains.

And every so often someone like Russert comes along and shows it's possible to still have integrity and virtue and morality in what we do - and still be exhilarated by our work.

So, this weekend I will make sure to find time to sit down at my favorite Irish pub. Wait on a thick pint of Guinness. Have a drink for one of the good guys, and remember what it means to report, inform and remember.

fifth-grade-hood

I was nervous when my editor told me that I could have a weekly column. It's not unlike a blog except...it is. I found myself furiously wondering who would be reading it and if anyone would like it...

I was going to ruminate on change.... How difficult it can be to adapt to it - whether it's a new desk in a new building with new co-workers or a new leader promising new direction for a nation struggling to get back on its feet.

I considered the subject of the state of journalism itself ... because I have always attached a certain degree of romanticism to its character. The fast talking, always moving, always typing men and women who enjoy a drink here and there, keep their sleeves rolled up, tend to chain smoke - and believe they can change the world. But even I have to admit that aside from catching CNN from time to time - I read most of my newspapers online and frequently check for headlines on my cell phone. I too, am contributing to the demise of the public freedom I hold dear.

Serious subjects because as an adult I'm supposed to consider serious things...

But I decided to write about fifth grade.

Tuesday night, I attended the fifth grade graduation for the daughter of one of my best friends. As pictures of the children sitting proudly in front of all their parents played out in a projected montage -pictures of them from their academic start in kindergarten to their fifth grade year - I began to wonder. What was going to become of them as they enter the uncertainty of middle school and later the daunting halls of high school?

My inner cynic - she comes out from time to time - thought about the high school seniors whose speeches I'd listened to covering graduations in the area over the past couple of weeks. They all spoke ideally and I couldn't help but think of how I'd been in their shoes once. I'd thought I had it all figured out. I thought I had a good grasp on what college and the future would hold. Thought I had mapped out all the standard uncertainties and challenges while perfecting a master plan to being an adult - dodging the stereotypical pitfalls because I was going to be the one to do so.

But being an adult is thinking you have 'it' all figured out ... and realizing you're going to have to figure it all out again. And again.

Tears fell from the eyes of truly proud mothers, including the one sitting next to me, as their fifth graders stepped up to receive their certificates. Parents cry for their children, my inner cynic said. No doubt those certificates will get stuffed into a drawer somewhere. Lost and forgotten by the time they reach their own high school commencement.

And then the kids started to cry. Not all of them. But a few. They started to cry as they received their certificates and awards. As they realized they were leaving one school for another ... And my inner cynic shut her mouth.

Maybe, I thought, as adults we don't cry purely out of sentimentality when we recognize our children are growing up. Maybe it's because we realize that we've grown up. Maybe the idealistic notions of our teenagers that it's possible for them to 'figure it all out' better than we ever did aren't idealistic at all. Maybe they just seem that way in the absence of the confidence we used to have that we could figure it out for ourselves.

Maybe instead of trying so hard to be a beacon of inspiration to our kids ... we could stand to soak up a little inspiration from them. Because they find pride in just being present. And they can go for hours laughing for no reason. They don't count the calories when grabbing a piece of cake and they can fall out of trees - and not think twice about getting back up. They work hard. They play hard. But most importantly ... they play.

And when you think about it ... that's pretty serious, heavy, world changing stuff.

a new silent majority

Each day we are bombarded with rough news. As of late, images and accounts of victims in Myanmar and the Sichuan Province in China have filled the pages of news publications and airtime on every news program. Watching people pick up shards of what is left of their homes and parents grieve over the loss of their only child - is not easy to ignore.

To look at the vast response in aid for such disasters - as for disasters of the past - one would not consider this world one of insensitivity.

In America - especially - one might not think. We are the nation of Pearl Harbor. Of Civil Rights. Of September 11th. We are the nation that sat in shame as we watched our own suffer through Hurricane Katrina and our hearts go out when we hear reports like that of a tornado that ripped through a Boy Scout camp Wednesday in Blencoe, Iowa. We are supposed to care about each other.

There is no comparison of one tragedy to another. Still, one image that remains in mind as of late is that of Angel Arce Torres, known to his friends and family in Hartford Connecticut as "Ponce."

On May 30, police surveillance video in Hartford captured a truly harrowing scene of two cars - one that looked to be chasing after the other - on the wrong side of the street. The first vehicle narrowly misses Ponce as he is crossing the street. The second does not. The video shows the 78-year-old as he is hit by the second vehicle - tossed into the air like a rag doll over the windshield and left in the middle of the street - as both cars speed off leaving him there.

The video is - quite frankly -nauseating. And what's worse is the scene in the moments to come ... as people stare at the elderly resident lying in the middle of the street and do what appears to be nothing. An estimated nine cars pass by Ponce - some having to move around him to continue on their way.

Details about the incident help alleviate the shock. Reports that four people called 911 as soon as they witnessed the incident. The fact that it took police reportedly minutes to get to the scene, the Hartford police chief classifying the incident as "inhumane."

Are we on our own road to dehumanization? Some could consider the Hartford hit 'n run an isolated incident - but is it? I have to believe that there remains a silent majority. That majority being the ones we don't hear about - who wouldn't be able to sleep at night knowing they are responsible for the reported paralyzing of a 78-year-old man. A father. A friend.

I have to believe that the number of the vigilant outnumbers that of the predators. That the do-gooders are actively trying to do good. I have to believe they have even more power than those with the freshly starched lapels and crisp white shirts and bold ties who flash their pearly whites as they make their way to Washington. It's not that I don't have faith in government - it's that Washington is a far way from home.

There's a lot of questioning going on in the area about police coverage in the township and complaints about crime. Is it just the typical start of summer? The warm weather making it easier for criminals to go out and do what they do ... create crime? Or is it something else entirely? Or worse - signs of a society that simply doesn't care anymore?

I have to believe that there exists a silent majority. I have to believe that silent majority is just waiting for its time to come ... when it will take back dignity and virtue and human decency. It will declare it unacceptable to drive past a man lying on the street. It will remind us that we are all fathers, mothers, husbands and wives. We are all someone's child. Someone's friend.

I have to believe in that it is just a 'silent' majority. Because to believe otherwise - is something I - and I would hope all of us - are not yet willing to do.

time. place.

A long time ago, a reader had given me some advice. In the middle of a loss of direction, a fog of frustration he said, "it's not you. It's the time and the place."

The time - kinda - and the place - sort of - have changed.

I no longer work at night, with truck drivers, until the birds come out to chirp incessantly in the morning with the sun. I'm a reporter. For a paper.

It's a small paper. And I haven't had to move anywhere. But I'm scared as hell. I'm scared that it was a bad decision - mostly because of the insanely scary pay cut. And the change. I'm scared my stories won't be liked or even accepted.

And I hate change. I hate new. I hate not knowing. More than that - I hate many changes at once. The change in job. Change in pay. Change in lifestyle. I'd be lying if I were to say it weren't too much for me. It kinda sorta is.

But it's a new time. A new place.

in the abundance of memory

I'm beginning to wonder if I've ever had a truly original moment as a full grown adult.

When I was in high school, I cared about my social status, but I didn't care enough. I didn't care enough to take the time to figure out what it meant to have good hair, a good wardrobe or good make-up. I didn't really care that I didn't quite fit into one particular clique, but rather certain percentages of various cliques. I remember being awfully frizzy as a highschooler.

Will used to call me "Jugs". But I can't remember exactly if that had anything to do with my boobs. I don't remember them being very big in high school, but I'm surprised at how big they are now and I'm almost thirty. I don't pay attention to a lot a lot of the time. I think the nickname had more to do with the fact that I was the only Jew in school and Will and I hugged each other a lot. Gimme a hug. Jew. Hug. Jew. Jug. Nah. It probably did have to do with the boobs.

I had a moment the other day when I could feel high school all over me like a heavy wool coat in the middle of summer. Oddly enough, it was memories of summer that did it.

I worked in a generic Dairy Queen in my small town for most of my high school years. It was my first real job and it was a beautiful tapestry of colorful characters with the added bonus of a measly paycheck that felt like millions when you don't have bills to pay each month. I often wish I could put my small town experience into words. But I haven't found the words yet. In that little ice box of a building I didn't just swirl together soft serve and broken pieces of candy bar but fell into a family that I only now realize I've lost a lot of.

I can still feel the stickiness that came with working there. The sweat from the hot, humid days when the air conditioning couldn't stand up to the steady flow of small towners who wanted slushies and hot dogs and ice cream cones. I can still smell the bleach Kim would pour into the mop water and feel the steam from the hot dog cooker. My job there was so intoxicating. So high school. So small town. So delicious.

I used to scribble soap opera style diatribes on the dry erase calender where our schedule was written in each month. A whole world existed for me when I went to work there in the afternoons. I picked up every hour that I could. It felt so exhilarating to be in that building rather than in my room where I was bored and scribbling into my sketch pads. At work, I was the nerdy intellectual one compared to everyone else who lived real lives with boyfriends and sex and drugs and alcohol. But I never seemed to mind much.

I can still feel those days. You know the times of your life that you can feel - even in memory. I can feel them there. I think I stopped feeling them for the most part when Lynne died. She was the boss of us all, the mother of one of us and a friend. And I wish I could have known her as an adult. And when she died I think a piece of me tucked that part of my life away and stopped being that nerdy girl with the big aspirations.

And when I saw Punky's mug shot in the paper - it all came flooding back to me. A stark, stinging slap to the face. Over ten years later and this is where we all are. I'm still watching old black and white movies wishing I were living somewhere else, Kim is a mother with a house and a husband and a life that is still heavy with tragedy and happiness and Punky is busy finding herself amidst recklessness...of which I wonder often her mother's opinion - had she lived til today. The memory of it all weighs a lot. The reality of it. I can feel high school and adolescence the way you can feel the cool water in a pool on a hot and humid day. Immediate.

I used to write and draw insanely. I can't even remember what I wrote about, but I do remember not thinking so much about it. Stories and poems and paragraphs of thought just went on the paper until my hands were cramping and it was past midnight. I miss that. The lack of self-consciousness of it all.

And I don't feel as original or individual as I did back then. I'm just realizing that now. I am loved by many for who I am. I know that. But I don't feel that quirkiness that I had once been so proud of. And I'm just wondering, as I wonder if I really do have something worth saying as a writer - if I've ever had that originality that is so blessed in adolescence. If I am an individual.

In New York, as I sat across from my Aunt Darya on a seemingly calm Saturday afternoon, she asked me if I had passion about anything. My answer was no. I've lost all passion. Passion is what fueled me to fill sketchbooks with drawings, what led me to fill notebooks with stories just for the story's sake. I miss passion. Passion is what led me to apply to Columbia and make the drive to orientation with Kim, buy a coffee mug and books from the bookstore even though I knew I wouldn't attend classes there and what led me to request information from Johns Hopkins. It's what led me to apply to Sarah Lawrence.

I always knew that even if I didn't always feel as though I was able to breathe on the streets of my small town, my passion for writing would keep me afloat.

Yet when Darya asked me if I had passion for anything going on in my life at the moment. All I could say was no.

I wish I had the words.

the visitor

I am on a current, constant search for inspiration.

I am worried that as a writer...I may have nothing important to say.

I worry that the stories I may tell may be better told by someone else.

But sometimes, in searching for inspiration...through movies or music or books - I find a quick moment of it. And the song, the film, the paragraphs or the pages...they make me tear up. Like this one did.

restore my soul

I lean over the counter at the doctor's office and take in the "prime time drama" aura. Rachel and I trade gossip in a hushed whisper. We make birthday plans. We berate Brangelina.

I tell her how nervous I am to be going to New York tomorrow. Where normally I would be thrilled, I am quite simply not. For a multitude of reasons that are too exhausting to explain here.

The Rabbi Harold Kushner says, in an examination of the 23rd Psalm - that we, humans can become overwhelmingly busy. So much so in fact that we neglect our very souls and sometimes it becomes necessary for us to take a moment to stop - so our souls can catch up to us. "He restores my soul..."

I don't tell Rachel this. That I feel like I need my soul to catch up to me. That I've been thinking at such a massive rate that moments are becoming unnecessarily heavy. She knows all of this anyway. Still, I am nervous. And I dare say, I'd pass the trip up all together.

Still, she talks me down. Calms me down. We go back to trading gossip and making birthday plans. I feel relief.

Of course now...after sitting in a quiet, and painfully boring office for the better part of night - I am nervous again. It is nerve wracking to want something so much. Because you can't want without knowing there is a possibility you won't get it. That is the ache that wanting is. I want something to seep into my pores and inspire me. To wake me up. To restore my soul. I'm afraid I might not get it.

But I'll settle for a glimpse of the place I've always considered my real home.

call me cranky

I am convinced that the Midwest is the only place in America that innocent people are forced to suffer the sound of windshield wipers running against windshields that are not quite watery enough... Causing a "WWUUUUURRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTTT" sound every time they wipe against the glass. Causing ears to bleed.

I say this because I bet the Western part of the country - with the exception of Seattle - deals with rain and sleet and snow as an exception. Not a normalcy. And the Eastern part of the country? I'm sure they get even more rain.

Because the Midwest is the ass crack of the nation.

I hate the commercials. Because I know that they are geared towards specific demographics and personality assessments that are developed by newly graduated marketing interns. So what we get is the round woman with a soft voice who feeds her five kids and the entire marching band warm biscuits with butter from Walmart. And people seem to swell here. You won't see them for weeks or months but when you do...you'd swear they didn't look quite as swollen the last time you did. It's not that they're technically overweight. They just look bloated. Like life is what bloats them. Not the carbonation from the beer they are most likely guzzling after five.

I hate that many see me as self-righteous for this. I swear, I am not...

It's not that I don't see the charm in this neck of the woods. Or that I realize I don't connect and shouldn't be here in the first place. A part of me does connect. And it's that part of me that I wish I could express, but alas, tonight I can't.

Processed foods make me sad. I'm not saying I'm not forced to put them in my cart from time to time, or that they're not an obvious fact of life - they just make me sad.

I can't wait for a break from life in the crack.

ghosts and phantoms

I believe in ghosts. Not the ones of the paranormal kind. The ones that people swear are responsible for their broken dishes or reappearing stains on the carpets or haunting sounds in the dead of night... Rather the ghosts that linger in the space between presence and absence. They live in the moments where time stands still.

What do I mean exactly? I don't know.

Today, I stepped outside into the air that was desperately trying to make it over the hump to Spring - and felt as though I couldn't breath. My mind has a way of travelling at light speeds and all at once I was overwhelmed with the idea that if you stay in one place long enough - you'll eventually see all of its ghosts. Ghosts of romances that never made it. Romances that went terribly wrong, sinking into tears and desperation and settlement. Ghosts of dreams abandoned for the house on the corner and the steady paying job. Ghosts of those who were supposed to live out life with us but now don't live at all...leaving time to stand still for those who were left.

Even paranormal experts will tell you that not all ghosts intend to harm. They're not all bad. So I don't say that I see these ghosts with a measure of cynicism or negativity. Those ghosts are a people and a place's history. It's story. And at the moment that I thought it I could barely breath in the crowd of ghosts around me. I could barely hear my ipod of the sounds of their memory.

They are much like the idea of the phantom limb. The fact that patients who are forced to have a limb amputated can still feel it, feel its pain after it is gone.

You can try to detach people or ideas or dreams from yourself. But it seems that, just like the phantom limb, even once you remove yourself from the subject - you can still feel it. Feel it's pain, it's joy, it's essence. You can tell someone that it's over - but you can still feel the way their arms wrapped around your waist. Their hand through your hair. You can stop dreaming. But you can feel the desire that inspired the dream.

Distraction, I think, helps the pain of that which is phantom. Keep yourself busy and you may not notice it. You may even go a whole day not feeling it. But take a second to stop and you can become overwhelmed with the weight of absence.

But I supposed it's the same wherever you go. And I suppose there's comfort in that.

today i ached for morning

Today I couldn't stop thinking about how sweet mornings can be.

The weather is only starting to change. And it's little by little. The high 40's and low 50's were nice last week - but they were only to be followed up by mid 30's with cold, sleety rain.

Still. It's amazing the memory that senses can hold. Like when a song or a movie or even just a portion of a song from a movie can transport you right back to where you were in the space and time when it was *the* movie or *the* song.

Know what I mean?

So today I ached for morning. No matter how cool it might be, six or seven o'clock is the sweetest time of day. When the sun is just rising, stepping outside, you can feel the earth turning over. Still warm with sleep - in its own perfect position. You know, the one you're in just before you fully wake up when all your covers are perfectly wrapped around you and you are so completely comfortable. Morning feels like that.

Everything tastes better. Coffee tastes better, eggs taste better, bagels taste better and newspapers smell better. The light is brighter.

Today I ached for morning.

The brain is sharper in the morning, I think. More gets done when the tasks are started in the early morning. The air is inherently crisp - even in 90 degree heat and humidity. It gets into the blood, into the veins. Morning creates the illusion that the day goes on forever. Like every day lasts a lifetime. Which subsequently makes sunset a delightful, calming and serene surprise.

Today I ached for morning. And for a sultry sunset - met with beers on the back deck with my closest friends. I think on the next, I might even slip in a couple of shots. To drink in and get as drunk as - a day that starts with the magic of morning...A day that seems like it will last forever.

Today I ached for morning.