sea salt

I finally got my body back. It took 24 years, sometimes working to find it, but mostly trying to lose it. * I was 8 years old, and refused to sit on my teacher's lap because I thought that if I did, she would realize how fat I was. I was 10 years old, and fought my dad nearly to tears because I didn't want my picture taken with my blue ribbon after winning my swimming race; I was still wearing my bathing suit and was aching to go wrap my towel around my body so nobody would see it. I was 11 years old and trying to be anorexic, and my friends refused to sit with me at lunch because they disapproved. I was 16 years old, and stopped eating carbohydrates, quickly getting noticed by the thinner girls and sliding easily into clothes. I was 17 years old, and my mother found me throwing up in the bathroom for the first time. I was 19 years old, and after breaking up with my boyfriend, he yelled at me in the basement of our dorm and told me I was too hard to please, and...

This weekend we helped Kevin's parents unpack their storage unit. It was filled to the top, boxes and furniture that once filled a 4-bedroom house with two young children. Now that they've downsized to a much smaller condo, it was time to finally empty out the things they'd amassed throughout their life as newlyweds, young parents, empty-nesters. I was eager to help - I pride myself on being ruthless when it comes to getting rid of old stuff, realistically assessing if I'll ever wear that sweater ever again, feeling secure enough to move on and leave some of the past behind. I implored Kevin's parents to get rid of a small orange tent they've had for 35 years - the tent they used on their cross-country honeymoon trip. "I've known your family for 5 years and you've been camping approximately 0 times," I said. "I know, but what if our grandchildren want to go camping?" "Like we'd ever let our kids go camping in a 35...

Note: I wrote this draft on July 17, and emailed Jodi to ask if it was ok to use this beautiful picture of her. I did not hear back from her before receiving the news that she died on August 2. Instead of revising this post to reflect on her death, I've chosen to post the original, which reflects on her life. * A few months before I began my MFA program at Lesley University, I received instructions to read the first essay submissions of the writers who would be in my first workshop. I had been accepted for the nonfiction writing track, so everything I read was a personal essay. Everything was true. As the submissions came in and I began reading and editing, I realized I was an outlier. With the exception of one other writer, I was the only one who hadn't written about being abused in some way. The essays shocked me, saddened me, and made me feel strangely guilty that I'd grown up with loving, protective parents and relatives who would never dream of hurting me...

Moment of silence, April 22, 2013, 2:50pm On April 10 I was on a plane. Kevin and I were returning from a 2-week trip to the UK, where we had visited England, Wales, and Scotland. As we settled into our seats for the long flight home, I flipped through our guide book and itineraries, reliving each interaction, each long walk, each wonder that left us speechless, overtaken with beauty and history. One night I couldn't forget was the first night we spent in York. Famous for being the most haunted town in all of England, York seemed an exciting place for us to visit (Kevin loves all things haunted and spooky, while I shudder at night when the wind blows through the trees. We're quite a pair.). After a long walk through the city, we ate dinner at The Golden Fleece - the most haunted pub in York, with over 100 different ghosts reported through the years. The interior was dark and cramped, and the air was heavy. I got chills just looking at the photos on the wall, the "B...

At the Hyannis Half Marathon, two months before I ran the 2007 Boston Marathon Yesterday I watched in horror as the TV screen at our office showed live footage of the explosions at the Boston Marathon. I texted my cousin, who was running, and then I just sat in disbelief. Even though I was two miles away, safe in my office, and would return safely home (thanks to a friend giving me a ride so I could avoid the trains), it felt so close. My beautiful city stained with blood. The beautiful tradition of the race forever haunted. A beautiful day marked by terror. I went home and cried into Kevin's arms. And then we prayed for the families of the victims, for the city of Boston, for the first responders...and for the people who would no longer stand, walk, or run on their own two legs. Like many people, I was horrified to hear stories and see graphic images of people who had lost limbs in the explosion. But I couldn't help thinking about what would happen next for them. For...

Grammy and Grampy at our wedding, October 2010. A month before my grandfather died, he told me a secret. Kevin and I were in his room at Spaulding Rehab, and for the first time we were the only visitors there. My grandfather was well-loved in health; in sickness, he inspired a steady stream of cheerful visitors.             “Hi, Grampy,” I said. “Can I have a kiss?”             He puckered his lips the best he could. Since he no longer wore his dentures, his lips outlined the sunken hole in his face. The smoothness of his cheek told me my aunt had stopped by to give him a shave.             I took out a Christmas ornament and hung it from a pushpin on the bulletin board with a calendar and the name of the nurse on duty.               ...

In honor of the beautiful children of Sandy Hook Elementary School, and in loving hopes for my wonderful nephews.   My two nephews are almost 5 and 6 years old. Like so many young boys their age, they love things that fight: Spider-Man, Batman, Darth Vader, Stormtroopers, pirates, and lately, ninjas (shh, these ninja cookies I made them are a surprise for Christmas). They aren't violent kids, and my sister is a tremendous mom who shields them from as much violence as she can. They don't play violent video games, they don't watch violent movies, they are scolded when they pretend to shoot people. And yet, in their young, black-and-white world where justice reigns supreme, they are drawn to a good fight. They like to know who's a good guy and who's a bad guy. There has to be a winner, and there has to be a loser. It's one of the most complicated and beautiful aspects of children: they want pure truth, without anything muddying the waters. I am a...

J.J. was a skinny kid who moved to our neighborhood when I was in middle school. He was my age, but a lot shorter than me (most of the boys were). More importantly, he played basketball in his driveway. For a few glorious summers, there were enough kids in my neighborhood to have big games of basketball, dodge ball, and hide-and-seek. So one afternoon I took my basketball over to J.J.'s house and rang the doorbell. "A bunch of us are playing basketball at the end of the street. Wanna play?" After that he became a regular in our pick-up games, which we played most nights in the summer and every weekend. We didn't know each other very well, as we went to different schools, but my parents liked his parents, he was nice, and really good at basketball. Perfect qualities for a neighborhood kid. And because he was so much shorter than me, I never had a crush on him. When we reached high school, J.J. moved back to Milwaukee to live with his biological father, and I di...

I never identified with kids who watched TV after school, or went to friends' houses during the week, or slept in until 11am on the weekends. The idea that kids my age had so much free time was mysterious and wonderful. What did it feel like to have all that free time? While I chose all of my school activities and am ever grateful for the experiences I was able to have as a kid and a teenager, there were times I wanted to know what it felt like to not have sports practice after school every day, often followed by another practice for another team. There were times I didn't want to wake up at 6am on a Saturday to play a weekend volleyball tournament. There were summers I wanted to sit around all day, instead of going to my job at a day camp and eventually two-a-day practices. In addition to sports, and homework, and AP classes, there was church, family, sisters' soccer games, college applications, and mandatory house cleaning. I had a very happy childhood - and a very bu...

I walked into our bedroom and the bags were packed. Suitcases bulging with t-shirts and socks covered the bed, and trash bags filled with old clothes lined the wall, waiting for their trip to Goodwill. I burst into tears. Heavy sobs and an intense panic took over my body: what will I do now? My husband is not leaving me. In fact, I knew that today, while I was at work, he was at home packing, preparing for our trip tomorrow from Nashville to Boston. His new job starts on Monday, and so he is going first, to settle back in, to find us an apartment, to prepare for my arrival a month later. We joked about how the time would fly, how we would Skype everyday as we did during our engagement, half of which we spent in different states. I know I will be fine, and I know this is the most practical way to move, and I know that in one month, when we are reunited, it will seem that no time has passed at all. But that didn't make the sight of packed suitcases any easier to bear. I t...

This week I had the chance to work on something truly meaningful. One of my coworkers asked me to re-write the copy for a brochure, advertising an annual 5K run . The run is in honor of her brother, who died seven years ago at the age of fourteen, dropping from a sudden heart attack after cross country practice. This assignment comes just four months after the news of Alison , who also died far too young. I worked on the brochure, filled with pictures of a smiling kid always surrounded by friends and family. His life obviously meant a lot to those around him, and it was lost in an instant on an otherwise normal afternoon. The images and writing about my coworker's brother were touching, but sobering. Along with the work of coming up with a new name and new copy for the run was the work of not trying to think of my life without one of my sisters, and trying to think about if the way I've spent my 28 years so far would be considered meaningful if I died tomorrow. As I worked...

Yesterday I had lunch with my best friend in Nashville. We were at a tiny burger joint, and at 12:30pm on a Tuesday, it was filled with men. We managed to squeeze ourselves into a spot at the greasy counter, facing the grills and sharing elbow space with men all around. "I quit smoking," she said to me. I smiled, but didn't see the big deal, as she only smoked a few cigarettes a day to deal with the stress of her new business. "And I stopped eating white bread and sugar." "That's ... a lot to quit at once!" I said, wondering why she would bring up a new diet while we were eating burgers and fries. She smiled and looked directly at me.  "I'm having a baby." ______________ On Saturday my husband and I participated in A Novel Idea - Jumpstart , a one-day workshop for adults who want to write a novel. A staunch creative nonfiction writer, I was nervous, but ready for a new challenge: fiction. The untrue. The invented. The haven ...

On May 22, I felt an overwhelming sense of pity. Sympathy, maybe. As everyone knows, a fringe sect (some might say cult) of Christians believed the world would end on May 21. And they didn't keep it to themselves. They created websites, wrote articles, made t-shirts and paraded through the streets of major cities in buses with fear-mongering verses about hell and damnation. They were passionate, excited and yes, over-the-top. But they really believed the world would end, and for them, assured they would go to heaven, it would be the best day of their lives, the last day they had to live on earth (which for many people, for many reasons, is indeed a happy thought). But May 21 came and went. The Internet quickly became clogged with jokes, pictures of "rapture pranks" and articles proclaiming the absurdity of how fervently these people believed in something that never happened at all. I admit, I laughed at a few, and we jokingly texted our pastor to see if he was still ar...

Those readers who know me in person know that I am, well, loud. My voice is loud, my laugh is loud, my gait is loud (it's inevitable when you walk as fast as a person who has lived in Boston). I like loud music, loud conversation, and loud white noise (which we use at night to hide the silence and its variety of soft, creepy noises). I know someone who finally got hearing aids after years of nodding along, asking people to repeat themselves, and not going to the movies because it was too hard to distinguish the voices. The doctor's tests revealed that he had 50% loss in both ears - he was only hearing half the world around him. With hearing aids, he was shocked to discover the sounds of things he had previously assumed to be silent. The ding of his car's turn signal. The click of his fingers on a keyboard. The wind. Most of these sounds are annoyances I've always tried to mask: the car radio covers the sound of the blinker, headphones at work make my keyboard sil...