I have this unnerving, unflagging positive attitude, ya see. Just ask anyone at work; I do all I can to build you up, to give you hope. I never stop having hope, and wanting the best for anyone, and seeing the silver lining. Except when I’m confronted with something where, though a silver lining may exist or something can be taken away from the overall situation, I break. In that instant when my faith in hope, in something better goes, I lose my ability to see the blessings that still exist in my life, or those new blessings that occur out of such dark periods of broken faith.

So, I have been living in this darkness for months. When around me shown blessings abounding. I don’t know how I have been so lucky, but I can say I have friendships that manifest as more families than I can list. They are diverse in thought, look, and interest, but each one I am lucky to say I am a member of that family. The support from them is never ending, and flows freely when I need it. And somehow, in the past months, I have neglected to see that beautiful blessing.

I feel blind, and a sad to know that I had taken for granted such an amazing and loyal network. So, anyone who has given me love, a shoulder, an ear, and sometimes your silence as you sat with me: thank you. These were my blessings from all my family. And I hope I can give you that, too. Because if there is one thing I know for sure: regardless of my blood relationship to you, you are my family for a reason. And with me, that lasts forever.

To family in all its forms, thank you. And thank you coffee for making this post about as disjointed as possible. Go me!

Much Love,

K.E.

I could go through all the things I’ve done since then, the people I’ve dated, the nights I’ve had…but those are for another time I think. I mean, I’ve got a few good stories as of late. Because, clearly, I always have good stories when involving nights, me, and dating. I mean…I have a memoirs worth at 26. Anyone who can begin to plan their memoirs at 26 with such hilarity and melancholy as myself clearly has stories in two months. I’d hate to say I’m some Tucker Max of the gay world…but that would mean I’d have to be a complete douche bag. Which, let’s be honest (and since I’m known for it in the store and is the running joke between me and my boss,) I’m just too damn positive to be Tucker Max’s gay doppelganger. Plus…imagine just how exhausting that would end up being. I do like sleep.

Ok, I won’t lie, reading that previous paragraph really makes me determined to start writing those memoirs down, actually. I’ve gotten plenty of chances to share these ridiculous stories I’ve experienced with friends. To which, I have been told countless times that I have to turn them into a collection of stories and experiences. Because, apparently, these types of stories don’t happen to other people. Now do other people have such aplomb in telling them.

To be fair, I doubt I could give these stories true justice when written. I believe that they really are given their true grit (I’ve always wanted to incorporate that phrase into my writing at some point. Go me) and life by my vocal delivery of them. The written word, for all it’s internal voice, doesn’t always seem to convey the quirks of each person. I mean, I’m sure it would do it some justice…just not full justice.

I have thought of creating a second blog to start my memoir writing process. Mostly to ensure that those people who read this blog that…might be a part of the memoirs…wouldn’t particularly know it was them. Until, ya know, the final book was published and I became famous from the crazy situations they were privy to. Yet, the downside of creating a different blog is that then I can’t share these stories with the friends and loyal readers (all four of you, I’m sure) who would benefit from such entertainment. I mean…my own self deprecation from these stories would definitely make for a good laugh. I won’t lie.

Hmm. I’ll have to ponder this further. There is so much potential to this line thinking. At that, I’m gonna finish my coffee, think hard about the gym, and then maybe go to it (I’ve been very unmotivated lately.) I’ll be back, soon. Since I’m now coming back to the blogosphere.

Much Love,

K.E.

This weekend I returned to a great and good family and community: the Conservatory Family. We gathered, from the Mid-Atlantic (Kim and Hannah) to the Pacific Northwest (myself) to Alaska (Vince and Danielle) to only 20 minutes away (Jesse) to remember and celebrate the great life and person, Christina Parks.

We have all grown up; mature, with lines where there weren’t before, for some less hair on the head but more on the face. But are all the people we connected to in school.There is the care, the knowledge that no matter how far apart we live, or little we communicate. We made a difference in each others’ lives. And that in moments where we ache or celebrate, these are the people we want there to be with us. These are the people who matter, and these are the people who all love us. I have missed that wondrous community. It was a special moment in time to be surrounded by that love.

The concert was beautiful, and of course extremely emotional. An personal honor I treasure forever is singing in that concert, knowing that Jeanne wanted me to sing for Christina one last time. I chose Richard Strauss’ “Allerseelen,” a piece that has always been a beautiful and emotional work for me. But it took new meaning for me once Christina passed. First, the text has a beautiful meaning and idea that there is but one day a year that the dead may be with living again, so let us (the poem’s subject and the person he’s speaking to) be as we once were. The clear connection of wishing to have that one day a year where I wish that Christina and I could be together one more time, there is a line that catches me: wie einst im Mai. Translated, it means “how once in May,” or more lyrically, “as it was in May.” This lyric sticks with me so personally, because the last time I saw Christina was in may of 2010 at Pacific’s graduation ceremony. And in the morning, she came to Bianchi, and we all sat and talked, just as we always have.

I wish so badly sometimes that I could have that moment again, to be as it once was in May. But I know that it will not be that way. Yet, in that concert, I got close again. With everyone around me, I had that moment of feeling as if I was back in Stockton, sitting with her, and feeling as though there were no care in the world. It was truly beautiful.

This experience will forever stay in my mind, I know. Seeing the faces that have changed with time, the talents that have only grown with age, and the people who are still those people I met in undergrad but all grown up…it gives me hope that though we lost a wonderful person and friend, her example of living will always be in our hearts. The Conservatory family is one of joy, love, and community. Something she would be proud to have been a part of.

Wie einst im Mai, Christina. We’ll get there, I know. You are missed and loved fully and endlessly.

Much Love,

K.E.

What’s odd is the process of learning a piece is, strangely like riding a bike or sex (I’m not trying to be vulgar. I promise.) I look at the notes, I read the spaces, I look at the text, and know exactly where I begin. The rhythm starts first, where with syncopation and beat I see moments where the melody matches the rhythm, perfectly pinned to the text so perfectly set. The pitches come next, learned without words. Words just get in the way at first (this is kinda where the sex part of the analogy comes in…); I try to work in the words first, but they confuse mind, batter the rhythm, and overall make something fluid and tender a very choppy, mundane, and rough experience (see. There.)

So, it’s all about motion and line. A single vowel through the whole piece at first; flowing, caressing, moving. A line that lets you develop the mood, the texture, the thought…and see where, without words, the emotion of tone is written by the composer. Without words at all. I start to find the sadness, the love, find the ache, the bittersweet, the triumph, the joy, and even the solace. Without words you discover that each word is written by pitch, waiting for the words to match their inherent emotion.

So you add the words, where you roll r’s and aspirate t’s and focus vowels. And, without knowing, you slip back five years and discover you’re back in a practice room, or the library, or Buck Hall. You hear the drifting sound of lessons being held, of classes being taught, of laughter from the facilities office. Or for the lucky, the person who snagged a classroom for a practice room. Through the window you look and see the trees and ivy, creeping up the side of the nearest building, whether is be the library, Faye Spanos, Bannister Hall, or even across the lawns to the distant Greek houses. Suddenly, without warning, you’ve drifted back into this world you had disappeared from. Yet every detail is fresh, every moment is clear, every sight and sound complete in accuracy. For a moment, you are home in Stockton, on the campus of University of the Pacific, young and wide eyed and no longer weary. For a moment, you are young.

It only lasts that moment. And suddenly, I’m back in my apartment in Vancouver, where it’s gray and blustery with no ivy to be seen out the window. It is silent, except the fan above my laundry closet. I’m back from my dream, and there is still music in front of me, connecting me to that distant memory. Connecting me to so much that I hold dear.

So after rhythm, melody, emotion, and words, there comes that moment you piece them together. That moment comes, and there is accomplishment, and finality. I’ve connected back to something precious. In my head, in the distance, I hear the carillon of Burns Tower, wafting through the air. Singing the songs of its daily recitations.

I haven’t learned a piece of music in a very long time. If these are the things that come with it, I may have to keep learning more.

Much Love,

K.E.

I am glad to say that I feel like I’ve been able to pull myself out of a certain haze I had fallen into, and kept myself out of it. Though I had found clarity, I wasn’t sure I had really begun to say that I could survive each day. Following last week, I know that I am surviving each day. I have days where the focus shifts, and can become a bit foggy. Which is to be expected. But on the whole, I am grounding myself, and I am finding myself capable of surviving every day, whereas not long ago, I didn’t feel I could survive two hours of a day. These are little victories, and one’s I celebrate. If only because it gives me something to celebrate.

I’m using yoga again to give me some grounding, too. I’m doing a 30 Day Challenge, where I’m trying to go 30 times in 30 days. Which sounds insane, yes, and sound painful, yes. But in the past week I’ve gone six times, and for the actual challenge, four days. Today, I even did something that I honestly didn’t know I could do: I did a Bikram double.

What’s that you say? I did two classes back to back. Yes, you read that right. Two Bikram yoga classes, 180 minutes, in one day. And how do I feel? Well, to be honest besides like Gumby and a little sore in the hamstrings…I feel phenomenal. I feel so fresh and alive. There is also accomplishment in it for me, too. That is something easy, and isn’t what everyone can do. I did something, and stuck to it. I survived it. I pushed myself. And lo and behold I came out the other end on top. I survived it.

And suddenly, I’m typing and I’m sobbing. No matter how I make it through the day, I still can’t get past how much it hurts. Even in my victories, I miss her. This one in particular because I think that she would be proud of me too. I did something new and outside the realm of what I thought I could do. I was free for a moment from preconception and what I told myself I couldn’t do, and in that freedom I discovered I can be stronger than anything I’ve thought I could.

I just wish I could share that revelation with her.

But even with that moment that just happened, I’m doing OK. There will be moments like this for many a year to come. I don’t think there will ever be a time when I’m fully done missing her.

Much Love,

K.E.

I have had a few days of clarity as of late. The fog began to lift Saturday, when I hiked Cape Disappointment. In California, Christina’s family and friends hiked the Marin Headlands, and though I couldn’t be there, I wanted to go on a hike and a journey that gave me what they all were hoping to achieve with their hike: clarity. I got to the coast, and my goodness was it COLD. I had mentioned that last Thursday was snowy? At the Washington coast, there was still a good inch of snow of the ground, and a biting, fierce wind with a temperature of about 34 degrees. It fit my mind frame well, in my opinion. The hike I chose went to a lighthouse, and gave a view of Astoria across the Columbia River Head, up the Washington Coast, and to the open sea. I knew they spread flower petals to remember her. In the blistering wind, I stood at the corner of state and felt for a moment that I had landed after falling through a vast abyss. I had come to a place where there was footing, where there was ground. I had stopped falling. The promontory, bitter cold and snow capped, had given me the vantage point to view the world with weary eyes and awake. I drank in the gray, the cold, the sea, and knew I had found some ground to feel secure on again.

I began my trek down, and looked again upon a cove that I had passed on my way up. In the center, a rock stood, with a single tree rooted firmly in the rock; resolute and sturdy. At the time, it was low tide, so the rock wasn’t surrounded, but I could tell that at high tide, it became an island, surrounded by cold water in a rocky cove. With a certain spirit, I headed down into the cove, and went to the rock. It was covered in sea plants, with a dusting of sandy mud which, at first, I worried would cause me to slip. There was enough rock protruding between the sand, though, that kept me anchored. I climbed onto it, and began to track my way toward to the front of the rock, standing fearless towards the mouth of the cove. I approached, and turned a single corner to feel the smash of frozen wind, which cut through every layer I wore and froze me to my core. I stood, paralyzed by the icy wind, and stood. It whipped my face, burned my ears, and teared my eyes. I stood, and felt the wind rush over me. I stood and could not move.

I turned my head to the left, and there was the tree, on the top of the rock some 6 feet above me. Standing tall, not even shaking in the wind. Branches strong and open, a calm stilling force amongst such a brandishing and unwieldy wind. I stared at the tree, so strong and proud, yet humble and still, and knew at the moment, that Christina never truly left. She was standing right here with me, against the wind and cold which had paralyzed me for that moment in time. I looked back to the cove mouth, and stared out into the sea, eyes open to the burning wind, and encapsulated in this moment in my heart. I stood alone and strong, yet I stood with my friend, and stronger because of her. The wind kept blowing, and with it flew from my head some of the anger, some of the grief, some of the fear, and some of the angst. And she held me there, safe through all of it. Standing anchored on her rock, resolute, strong, proud. She was with me, and I with her. I felt alive again. I felt clear.

The clarity fades a little, of course. We are human. This morning I’m less clear, and feel a little less like the light is in my eyes and the smile will come naturally. But when I ache, when I feel the anger bubble up, when I fear, I think of the tree. The tree which stands on a rock, rooted against the wind and the cold, surrounded by frozen sea yet never is submerged. I think of that tree, and remember my soul has been blessed to have an anchor in her and who she was. I anchor my soul to her clarity, and some of mine returns. Even if only for a glimmer of time, I see clear.

I miss her everyday. But she is with me, everyday. I am never alone.

Much Love,

K.E.

I sat inside for a while, watching the world outside move along on this snow filled day without school and for some without work. I stayed inside, and watched.

That is, until about 3:30. When it began to snow again; thick, beautiful, feathery flakes began to fall listlessly from the sky, dancing slowly to the ground where they were made whole with their snow brethren on the ground. I was mesmerized, almost hypnotized. I bundled up, took a blanket, a cup of tea, and sat on my balcony, and watched for an hour as the snow fell.

It was genuinely beautiful. The flakes would dance together, then meet a new pocket of errant wind and then be met with new flakes to frolic with, as each one moved in an odd appointment to its final resting place upon ground or tree, my railing or my lap. The snow fell, peacefully and serene around me, and I watched it fall, wishing so hard that I could share this moment with someone; anyone. But I was alone, watching the snow fall, filling the world with it’s downy existence, and for a moment, though I wanted to share this moment so desperately, I relished in the privacy. This moment was mine, and only mine, and need only share it with my cup of tea and my thoughts.

Slowly, though, as the crescendo of snow began to grow and the flakes fell thicker and with more abandon in their dance, there appeared the beginnings of light in the sky. The sun, at this point curtained off from the snowy cavalcade, began to peak through the clouds. At first, I thought how intrusive of the sun; it was pushing its way into this almost prayer-like state I have, watching the snow ballet in front of me. Didn’t the sun know he wasn’t invited?

Slowly but surely, the circle grew brighter in the clouds, and I was sure the sun would destroy the flakes, and end this symphony of dance. Instead, underneath the orb, grew an incandescence, which started first as a sliver of light hiding above the homes in the distance. With each passing moment, the light began to illuminate the clouds further, warming them from within with a gentle softness, a tender glow. The sun, though still gathering it’s brilliance behind the cloud, was creating an opening to heaven right before me. The clouds in the western distance filled with light, and airy warmth I don’t know I’ve ever seen in clouds before. With this glow, suddenly the snow flakes began to glow with that same iridescence emanating from the clouds and from the sun, and what was prior a ballet of snow was now a symphony of light. Light in the snow, in the clouds, in the trees, in the bushes, in the air…there was light. There was warmth in the midst of such a bitter cold.

I was dumbfounded. I sat, watching, waiting, drinking in this moment of beauty that I had originally wanted not to happen. A serenity appeared, and suddenly I was smiling. I was smiling, because how could one not smile when such a beautiful occurrence unfolds before your eyes. The beauty filled me, and for a single moment, I felt my soul awaken for a moment, and come to life. It may have only lasted a moment, but it had awakened. My soul breathed in a breath of beauty that it so desperately needed. And with that moment, it slowly faded away.

The clouds again grew thicker, and the suns orb began to pale behind the gray curtains. Slowly, the warm light filtered away, and the snow returned to its feathery yet cold existence. After a few minutes, the light was gone. And I was sitting on my balcony, wrapped in a blanket, cold, and wishing I weren’t alone again.

I waited a few minutes more, to see if the sun would return; it didn’t. The snow kept falling, but tapering off in certain ways; the dancing had slowed, the movements felt listless, and their destination less fulfilling. The snow missed the light as well.

A moment passed, and I collected my tea cup and my blanket, and moved back inside my apartment, where there was no dancing flakes or beaming warmth. Just an electric heater. Which, at least, made it warm.

The snow outside fell for another 20 minutes or so, then tapered off and ended. There was silence. And again, I was alone.

No one ever prepares you for just how hard this all is. There are moments in the chaos, though. Where warmth comes shining through. Find them when you can. They are precious.

Much Love,

K.E.

As honest and sorta open as I am on this blog, I have always been an incredibly private person regarding my personal life. It’s a rare and precious group of people who have been privy to the pieces of me I keep so closely guarded. I feel like this heat in my chest is something that I’m almost too terrified to release, because in order to release it would be to give a voice to things I don’t want to admit. Namely all that I’m feeling and all that I’m experiencing each day, both good and bad. It’s this constant battle. Maybe I just need to wait. Maybe it’ll come in time.

The hike for Christina is this Saturday in the Marin headlands. I wish I could go, but I’m making a compromise. I’m gonna head to Astoria Saturday, and go out to Fort Stevens. My plan is to hike through the state park to what is essentially the furthest point of Oregon, and stand and watch the water crash against the beach, mix with the Columbia, and be with everyone in California in spirit. Just the fact that I’m gonna be going hiking to me is a testament t how much this means to me…I really. Really. Really. Don’t hike. I mean…I hike rarely. But I think I’m gonna start doing it more. Commune with myself while enjoying the natural world around me. Plus…being who she was, I think Christina would encourage me to hike more. It was something she loved, and loved to share.

I think that’s all for this post. I’m contemplating starting a second blog, actually…namely so i can start recording the crazy, crazy, crazy things that happen to my personal life. Such as events like last night. I mean, nearly being choked several times and convincing a drunk man to pay your tab…several times…deserves to be shared. I just…I just don’t know if the world is QUITE ready for it on this blog. A new one could have a little more anonymity…right?

Anyways, I’m gonna go. Maybe soon the snow will start to fall and I can enjoy hearing people freak out over four snow flakes.

Much Love,

K.E.

I made that jerk moment forward Wednesday night. I went from young adult to…well, adult. As I left work, I had been fairly composed the majority of the day. Until, as I picked up my coat and mentally thought of my time frame for getting to the airport, it hit me that I was flying home that evening to go see my family and my friends, so we could be together and begin our grieving process. In that moment, as the day’s shield came collapsing down and the emotions flooding back, I realized I was embarking on a ritual I had planned to never partake in until I was much older: flying home for the passing of someone you love. But also for the passing of not someone older, but someone your age. Someone so young.

It was sobering and scary. I had never thought I would have to fly home to begin a grieving process for a friend until I was…well, God knows, I had never thought it would happen until I had children, a family, something more than what I have now. There is no scenario where you imagine such a moment. Ever. So when it happens, you suddenly jerk forward from the time of your life where thoughts like that don’t occur into the phase where there is always that possibility. Where you examine your world and see that life truly is fragile, that love isn’t something you fritter away, and people, no matter how far away, will always be important.

Flying home to be with Jesse and Anya truly made me feel old. And not old in a vain way. Old in lost innocence way. We all lost someone that meant the world to us, who we had no concept of losing because of our faith that no matter what, we as a generation and an age group could somehow not experience this. I feel old now. And, in an odd sense, this feeling isn’t terrible

To feel old, to feel you have an understanding of life’s fragility, is not a downside. Though the days are up and down, and sadness sits behind my eyes (as told to me by some associates yesterday), I know that from this I care more fully and with more vigor for the people I love. I know that life, regardless of seemingly good health, can change fast, and that even when we believe we are healthy, there is no guarantee. So feeling old, feeling like I’ve gained years in a mere instant…well, they are years that maybe I need.

Some days are good. Some days are not. It’s gonna be this way for a while. But I think what makes it all OK in the meanwhile is that, were Tibby to see me, she would say something very similar to this: “Ok, you’re sad, I get it. Now stop it, you’re boring me!”

And with that, good night.
Much Love,

K.E. Atkinson

This is a loss that is painful, there is no lie in it. Christina was not only my hero, but so many other people’s hero. She was a good soul, a woman of strength who both defended feminism while joking that she should be in a kitchen baking a pie. She gave when no one else gave, especially if it was her opinion. Which was never hidden, mind you. In fact, tact may not have been a word she carried around in her dictionary too often. But she would tell you straight on, and there would never be a question as to what she felt about the situation or you. Yet it wasn’t mean ever; just very…very clear as to what she meant. She ate flats of strawberries in a single sitting, which always amazed me. She taught me to steam vegetables…and preceded to show that adding season salt on them made it taste better. She one time thought that she would be able to dry her bra really fast while still damp before class by microwaving it; needless to say, she melted it and was sad she had ruined her favorite Victoria’s Secret bra. Puddles the Duck could put a smile on her face with his many…many…many push ups. And Ducks and Huskies may never have the same meaning again.

I am of course devastated by her passing. I love her very much. There is anger, there is heartbreak, there is terror, there is emptiness, and also there is joy. Joy she’s no longer in pain. And for this I’m thankful.

I could go on for hours. And I will soon, I’m sure. But, above all else, I know she wants me to exist and live fully. Even if right now it will be hard to do so. And it may take a while to feel capable of being full again. I know with her strength as my inspiration, I’ll get back there.

I love you Christina, from the bottom of my heart. I will always love you, till the day I join you. You are my inspiration, you are my rock, and you are irreplaceable. I pray that you have flats of strawberries, Indian food, and all the guinea pigs you can play with where ever it is you are. And on that day I see you again, we’ll share a moment on a bed, sitting for hours, and catching up on the way we’ve been. Just as it’s always been.

I miss you dearly, I love you. See you someday.

Seriously…Much Love,

Kevin Eric Atkinson