Chicago smells exactly like I remembered – Swisher Sweets mixed with vehicle exhaust and urine and fresh air from the lake. I know, it sounds repulsive, but somehow it isn’t. When I got on the ‘L’ today (possibly the loudest one I have ever been on!) I almost cried with joy. The screeching on the tracks, the passengers all watching each other half suspiciously, half carelessly, the way the door dings before closing – it all made me so happy. I whizzed along on the blue line for quite some time, taking in the different neighborhoods. The sky was the perfect grey and so foggy the tops of the buildings had disappeared. It felt like spring; like a good homecoming. My senses were on over-load as I took it all in as if it was the first time, but yet, it was all so familiar.

I could barely contain myself as I sat with my hands folded on my lap, staring out the window anxiously. I had no agenda but to take it all in. I soon found myself feeling more inspired than I have in years! The graffiti on the tops of the buildings that stood lined up against the elevated tracks, the sound of traffic, buses, and trains, and the people – orange hair, sharp suits, trendy styles and otherworldly outfits – made me feel like a child in a fairytale! The vintage buildings sharing space with the brand new architecture looked dream-like and mysterious next to the frozen lake.

I, with no agenda, took my time descending the stairs from the elevated platform but could feel the busy energy around me as people ran to catch busses or to get on to the next thing. I strolled to one of my favorite coffee places, getting a lovely latte to go and continuing on northbound. I walked through my old neighborhood, even passing my old apartment. I marveled at how much hadn’t changed. Walking far enough north, and crossing into the next neighborhood, I stumbled upon the storage facility where my belongings sit. It was odd to know that here I was, and there they were – both in this great city but somehow not yet connected. Eventually I got on another train and rode through a couple more neighborhoods, remembering previous apartments I had lived in or places I had worked at.

I explored the farthest north neighborhood, and then headed south to Michigan Avenue. The contrast of people and traffic and buildings between the two areas was vast, but the feelings I had stayed the same as I reveled in the complex yet continuous vibe of the city. My feet became sore from walking and my emotions were in need of some processing so I headed back out to the suburbs. I was sad to leave; I wanted to stay forever.

It has been quite a while since I got back to my sister’s place, but I can still smell the city. I have another month, more dental work, vehicle repairs, and ducks to get in a row before I can move back to Chicago. Today however not only made me realize just how much I am looking forward to going back, but it also reminded me that nothing is permanent. Two and a half years ago when I left my teeny apartment in Chicago and headed west I was heartbroken. I cried over losing that city. Yet, here I am, going back to my favorite place. And with all of the changes that I have gone through in the past two years, it is comforting to know that some things are still the same.

After an eight hour road trip with twin toddlers I am happy to report that I am still alive. In fact, besides the minor injury to my left shoulder (obtained from a catapulted blue sippy-cup), I am great! Turns out two toddlers do not always make for bad road companions – they can be entertaining to say the least. As if they thought I would fall asleep at the wheel, they did not manage to stop talking or singing (besides their post-rowdy lunch-break nap). Luckily their mother was along to keep them in line; also keeping me company and saving me from a catapulted green sippy-cup. Excitement was in the stuffy, car air as they were heading home, and I was on my way to visit my favorite city.

The twins have been nestled in their cribs for hours now, in which time I have spent mostly disoriented. Although this trip to Illinois is only temporary, I am sad to be away from the glowing woodstove in Michigan. I have spent the last month living out of a suitcase, without income, and contemplating things like settling and safety. While my nephews sleep peacefully I have downloaded apps for the Metra and the ‘L’, gone over city maps, checked my bank accounts, and searched job postings all the while feeling a bit homeless and lost. I don’t seem to thrive without routine or my own space. And living without a paycheck but having to pay for dental work and car repairs is unnerving.

It is all a bit stretching. Like a 2 year old strapped into a car seat all day, I feel like despite my efforts to get out of the moving vehicle I am getting nowhere, and I need to just sit back, enjoy the ride, and trust that I am going to end up somewhere really great. No matter how much I kick or scream (or throw stuff) it’s not going to change the seemingly endless dental work or uninteresting job openings. If I am really going to get somewhere inspiring and fulfilling I need to take life one day at a time, even if that means living out of a suitcase. So I will not fuss along this journey, but I will keep looking out the window; not giving up hope that eventually I will end up at home.

Today’s chore: haul wood and feed the deer. I looked the opposite of cute in denim snow pants, a puffy jacket, and a green knit cap hanging off of my head. The snow was packed hard with a deceiving layer of fluffy stuff on top. The wood pile and alfalfa are kept in the same shed; the deer’s feeding area in the forest near the back porch where the logs for the woodstove are stacked. I started with the large bail of alfalfa, carrying it by the string tied tightly around it. It took me a fair amount of strength to take the bail from the driveway to the backyard (a lot longer than it probably takes my dad). Once I got the alfalfa across the deep, crunchy snow I cut the strings and broke it apart, tossing it down the path the deer gathered at.

Next came the wood hauling. Had there not been so much snow, this too would have been a quicker task. I collected the wood from the shed, taking the pieces from the giant Jinga puzzle my father had created while stocking up for winter. After carefully selecting the pieces I placed them into the teal, carrying canvas. Bracing the bunch against my hip I made my way through the yard, being careful not to trip in the holes from yesterday’s boot prints. It took several loads to fill the iron, u-shaped holder that the logs sat in to await the woodstove. It was almost dark as I finished my chores.

The fresh, crisp air, the quiet space, the deer peering at me silently from behind the snow laden trees was a far cry from the place my mind was at. As I took on the task of my chores I was thinking about Chicago – the sounds of traffic and the “el”, the diversity of people, and the buildings that went on and on into the sky. I thought about my life there, as it had looked the last two times, and how opposite it is from where I was raised.

In a couple of days I will get to visit my future home, my favorite place. I cannot wait to be around the energy, the endless rows of buildings that sit so near to beautiful Lake Michigan, the loud hum of the subway, and the vast opportunities around every corner. But part of me today felt torn as I stacked the logs that would later be used to heat the house. I questioned whether the serene and organic land I grew up on, with its local bakery and local florist and local brewery, is appealing because I know I will be safe or whether Chicago, with its walkability and opportunities, is my recurring destination of choice because it has become my safety.

After my chores were completed I packed my small bag for Illinois. I knew I wasn’t ready to start hauling wood on a daily basis, I knew the city was calling my name. While I packed I felt a little nervous excitement, and it was then that I knew I was headed in the right direction.

The heavy, wet snow sat in a thick pile atop the thin tree branches. With every single branch covered the forest outside my window looked like a frigidly divine place. The branches stayed motionless; with each additional snowflake they looked as if they would snap off. The white trees seemed to go on eternally against the grey sky. I was awed by the beauty as I peered from underneath my cozy bedding. The wintery scene beckoned me outside; eventually I got out of bed but only to sit by the woodstove.

The warmth of the house kept me inside for the majority of the day. Outside the snow continued to fall, but I felt safe and sound on the sofa. I longed to put on my Levi snow pants and mismatched mittens and climb into the snow banks without fear of cold toes. I wanted to stick my tongue out and catch the soggy flakes. I imagined making snow angels and packing up snow balls. I vowed that when I was done sipping my coffee, when the flames in the woodstove had died down, or after I took a hot shower I would suit up and head out.

The morning turned into afternoon; then the afternoon got later. It continued to snow lightly; the heavy branches finally began to give way, and as the wind shook them the snow fell down in big chunks. It looked like nothing I had seen before, yet I knew I had witnessed it quietly from the windows many times in my past – always too lazy or too busy or too comfortable to get out of the house and experience the winter wonderland first hand. But today was different. I could not resist the lure of the snow so as I finished my cup of coffee and took a long shower I warmed my snow pants and boots by the woodstove. Once bundled up I scooped up my nephews and headed out.

Time seemed to stop as we played in the snow. I made snowballs and crawled through the untouched layer of heavy snow across the front yard. I made two snow angels and even ate some snow. I caught fluffy flakes on the tip of my tongue as I stared up at the grey sky. I did not mind when I got too warm underneath my down jacket or when snow found its way inside of my gloves. Before I knew it, it had stopped snowing and the children and I had to return to the house for the evening. I was soaking wet but still a bit bummed that my time outside was over. The fresh air felt good in my lungs for quite some time after, my cheeks stayed flushed during dinner, and I could not stop wishing I had left the safety of my home and stepped outside much earlier.

Tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow I won’t eat as much sweets. Tomorrow I will maybe do sit-ups. Tomorrow I will take at least one step towards my dreams. Tomorrow I will cook something, make something, create something. Tomorrow I will be more aware of inspiration. Tomorrow I will remind the people I love just how great they are. Tomorrow I will get more fresh air; I will take deep breaths. Tomorrow I will not be crabby or lose my patience as easily. Tomorrow I will move forward. Tomorrow will be the greatest day yet.

But it is still today, and as my eyelids start to get heavy I count the minutes that I have left. My patience wanes as I get sleepy. Frustration sets in as I long for more time to be creative. I listen to the same song on repeat waiting for either a soothing affect or a second wind of inspiration. I count my blessings instead of sheep, stopping when I remember that I still have yet to brush my teeth and pull on my pajamas.

This is the time of night when tired angst meets with hopeful dreams. It is that time of night when the regrets of today birth goals for tomorrow. As I lie sleepily ideas are awakened, the dawn of a new day presenting a blank slate. Like New Years Eve I find myself promising to be better tomorrow, to do things right, to chase after every inspiration, throwing caution to the wind. I silently celebrate the end of today feeling blessed and full while believing all hope that tomorrow I will get closer to where I want to be.

After I brush my teeth I will crawl into bed. I will pull the down comforter up to my ears just like I do every night. I will tuck away my list of goals and ideas and promises, and I will drift away into a lovely dreamland. I will, for a short time, escape to a place where nothing matters. I will not care about today’s regrets – the amount of cake I ate or the lack of inspiration I felt. I will not think about tomorrow’s yoga poses or big city dreams. I will just be – the person that made it through today, looks forward to tomorrow, and always pulls her covers up to her ears.

The little redheaded boy was strumming on his little, red, plastic guitar when the force of his excitement sent him crashing to the ground. As with most toddlers, he screamed, his cheeks becoming the same color as the guitar. His mother ran to the rescue, scooping him up into her arms and taking him back to her seat. She placed him on her lap at the fancy table saying soothingly, “Would you like some of my dessert? That’s what always makes momma feel better.” I sat staring into my lovely piece of tiramisu, the glow of the votive candles setting the mood, contemplating the depth of truth in her statement.

I won’t lie and say that being 28, divorced, and childless is easy, but it’s definitely not difficult in the way people are assuming. Marriage was a delight to say the least. It was better than I could have imagined. The good times and the bad were all resulting in the most complex of relationships without me even realizing it, but yet I knew to cherish every moment. And when it ended I decided that this time around I would do single right…and I would enjoy every minute. Which is why when I get that question, “And what about you? Are you married too?” I just smile and say no…because I know. I know what marriage takes. I know the good times and the bad. I know that it requires more than what people could ever imagine they have to give.

And then there is the daily pressure from my parents to wed and produce offspring. While it is not something I want for myself, that doesn’t seem to matter. I am 28; therefore I must want to have babies. While I make plans to dye my hair pink and buy an air hockey table others are deciding what kind of man I will marry and how many children I will have. But what if I don’t want to marry the man who sits closest to me at church? What if I want to adopt a child? What if I want to dye my hair pink and buy an air hockey table first before I think about wedding cakes and baby names?

But I am 28. So the dentist asks, “Why Chicago?” I reply that I do not know. Possibly just because I love it and absolutely nothing else? Quickly I am learning that answer does not suffice, not in a small town where 28 means you should be birthing your third baby. So I tell the dentist (and the many others that ask) that I am young and I can and that’s why. Whether dumbfounded by my bravery or baffled by my rebellion, they say no more. Conversations as a 28 year old woman tend to not only lack a certain fluidity but also a gracious joy. As of late, I have spent more time defending my particular status than describing it pleasantly.

So there I sat, at the end of the night, finding myself wearing a bit too much faux fur while staring into lovely tiramisu. The little boy had stopped fussing as he took small bites of an apple tartlet. I watched him with envy – no one was expecting anything from him but to grow, he was allowed to wander around with a plastic guitar and people were entertained and proud, and when he started to cry someone gave him dessert. As I watched him stick his fingers curiously in the mascarpone atop his tartlet, the tears dried and all memories of his fall erased, I smiled. I took a bite of tiramisu and thought about how fantastic 28 continues to be – I don’t expect anything from me but to grow, I can wander around from California to Michigan to Chicago, and I can eat as much dessert as I want. And just like that, by the last bite I had forgotten about all of my frustrations.

Dear Tooth #14,

You are no longer sweet. I hate you.

Sincerely,

M.

In a cold land of ice and snow, there once lived two young brothers named Oranges McGee and Scooter. Each boy was very different and smart in his own way despite being born on the same day! Not only did Oranges McGee and Scooter share a birthday but they also both had very great red hair. A lot of the time they had to wear fuzzy, warm hats that their Gaga (grandma) made to keep their ears warm. The fuzzy hats covered their red hair, and made them look like elves (but in a good way).

Everyone loved Oranges McGee and Scooter, and not just because they smiled a lot and picked up their toys when their Mama asked them to. Oranges McGee was a great dancer and knew all the cool dance moves. Daily he would put on a show. It was difficult to get a front row seat to his show, but if you were lucky enough to get such a seat you were in for a real treat! Occasionally he would allow the audience members to dance on the stage with him (especially if he needed help with his break dancing). When Oranges McGee wasn’t dancing he was an avid “gamer”. Accomplishing the banana puzzle and the color game on his Gaga’s iPhone at an early age, most of his friends were certain he would grow up to be a genius. He was also very good at turning electronic things on and off – like his Papa’s t.v. or his Auntie Mamie’s stereo.

Scooter was the best little cleaner anyone had ever met! When he turned on the vacuum at an early age everyone knew they would never have to worry if they spilled their Cheerios when he was around. Scooter was always willing to help in any way! His attention to detail was significantly more amazing than anyone else of his age, and he clearly took care of everyone that he loved, especially Oranges McGee. Sometimes Scooter would spend an hour preparing food for baby dolls; when Oliver The Kitty and Marley The Woof-Woof heard him cooking they would be the first to line up for some of his delicious food. Most of Scooter’s friends knew he would grow up to be a genius!

Scooter and Oranges McGee were very brave and would sometimes climb things as tall as mountains – such as their Papa’s entertainment center! One of their favorite things to do was wrestle with their Daddy and they always won! Not only were they both brave, but they were both kind! Every time Scooter and Oranges McGee were around everyone was very happy, even their Auntie Mimi who had little patience for most kids and would sometimes get very crabby. But Scooter and Oranges McGee were not like any other boys in the whole entire world, and Auntie Mimi knew that and loved them very much!

Tomorrow morning I have to go get a 2^nd root canal in tooth number 14. At 8:45am I will be sitting in a dentist chair, loathing both the fact that I ever ate sugar and the fact that I agreed to such an early appointment. It will only be a few degrees outside; I will be shivering and sweating at the same time. I will meditate on two things as the dentist sticks her hands (and some ungodly tools) into my mouth – 1) A bible verse (whichever one comes to mind in that stomach turning moment) and 2) Alaska (usually a mountainous scene). Once they prop my seat up and the blood rushes back from my head I will collect my thoughts, feeling relieved that it is over and frustrated that half of my mouth is numb. As I go to leave I will hand them my credit card so they can charge me the total sum of… way too much money. And as I get back in my vehicle I will blast the heat while vowing to never, ever, ever, EVER eat sugar again!

I have given the whole thing a lot of thought…worry…anxiety…fear… I have rehearsed it all in my head. I haven’t planned my week past tomorrow at 10:15am. Today I tried to choose to be happy despite my dread of the dentist and my anger at having to spend so much money just for sleeping with a cough drop in my mouth (which is what I am blaming all of this on). I tried to choose, but apparently I didn’t try hard enough.

8:45 is too early for such misery, but tomorrow I will try harder. At 8:45am I will be sitting in a dentist chair, thankful that I have only one bad tooth in my mouth and glad that I don’t have to spend the rest of my day loathing the appointment. And once the left side of my mouth regains feeling I just might even smile.

I woke up this morning not at all cold. It was later in the morning then I care to admit; I had slept on the couch, in front of the television, and the morning news was already coming to an end. Pleasantly surprised that the house still felt warm, I refrained from building a fire in the woodstove. Instead I headed outside with my dog before starting the day’s chores.

Snowflakes were falling as I started a pot of coffee and fed the cats. After throwing in a load of laundry I noticed that the snowflakes had increased in size; I decided to get a fire going. It was a lovely afternoon as the snow fell heavily, covering the deer in white coats as they grazed in the back forest. Everything felt so at peace as I made up the beds in the spare rooms.

Once the last set of laundry was folded, the beds were all made, and the house was good and warm, I went outside before the daylight disappeared. The snow had only accumulated to a couple of inches, but I welcomed it as an opportunity to shovel. The fresh air in my lungs felt revitalizing, and the snow was light enough that I didn’t need to breathe hard. I shoveled an unnecessary amount of the driveway. Unnecessary in that my dad owns a John Deere Tractor that he plows with, and he would be home before the snow got too thick for our four wheel drive vehicles to get through. But I did a good job. And then I shoveled the steps and swept the front porch…and then the back porch. I brushed off my vehicle even though I did not plan on going anywhere. Before I could think of something else to do the sky started to get dark, and not knowing where my dad’s headlamp is kept, I went in for the night.

The snow kept on falling throughout the evening, but my quiet winter wonderland was soon inundated by redheaded twin toddlers. Noisy trucks were hard not to trip over, the contents of a whole toy basket laid strewn upon the living room floor. Every now and then one of them would start clanking on the piano. It didn’t take me long to forget about my beautiful steady flames in the woodstove or the giant flakes whirling around outside like a snow globe. I sat with my sticky fingered nephew on my lap, cheerios stuck to my arm, peeling him a Clementine as I tried to teach him how to say “hockey.” It was a far cry from a few hours ago when the deer were my companions, the snowflakes the fastest thing in sight, and the woodstove the only thing begging for my attention.

After the toddlers headed to bed the adults nestled down in the den. Folk music was playing gently as the large mounted buck head looked down on us. The snowflakes had taken a break, the flames in the woodstove died down, and I felt warmer than I had all day.