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I’m biting my lip as confidence is speaking to me

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I’ve spent most of my life on intellectual pursuits. I learned to read early and have had my nose in a book until bedtime on most nights since I was 4. I sobbed when I brought home my first B. As an adult, I’ve supplemented driving and chores with podcasts. Part of the reason I love journalism is because I’m constantly learning. Yes, I spent several years as a cheerleader and dancer. But as much as I loved my increased flexibility and the adrenaline rush of performance, I was enamored by my philosophy of supporting the school and the intellectual challenge of perfecting a series of movements.

This all occurred to me tonight as I rested on my living room floor in child’s pose. I’ve never loved exercise, and I’m fortunate that my high metabolism has yet to make it an obviously pressing need. But I’m drawn to yoga because it helps me slow my mind and relax–a lesson I’ve never managed to glean from books.

This year has been filled with changes that have taught me so much. I’m still trying to develop a regular yoga habit, yes. But I’ve also branched out in other ways. It’s been a year when I’ve dated more (and found someone who I care about deeply). I’ve always had a handful of close friends, but in my teens and 20s I thought I needed to be friends with everyone. In 2011, I’ve seen my social circle shrink as I’ve begun to accept that some people are acquaintances, and I’ve seen it expand as other acquaintances become friends. I am facing exciting professional challenges as the magazine where I work approaches its 50th anniversary. I’ve seen friends struggle with too many less-thrilling challenges of their own, and I’ve tried to be supportive and apologize when I fall short.

I’ve read far fewer books in 2011 than is my norm, but I hope the lessons I’m learning make as great an impact as the knowledge I’ve always sought in more academic outlets.

Today’s subject line is a lyric from “Give Out” by Sharon Van Etten, whose music I’m currently obsessed with.

Simple as it should be

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I was still comfortably ensconced in my mid-20s when I was first told the distinction between the second and third decades of life. A man I was dating turned 29 and began contemplating what 30 would have in store for him. “I’ve loved my 20s,” he said, “but I’m really looking forward to my 30s. The 20s are when you’re figuring out who you are and what you’re doing in life. I think my 30s will be when I settle into that.”

I’ve heard that theory repeated many times since, and so my enthusiastic countdown to 30 began during my 29th birthday party (which took place more than a week before my 29th birthday–the joy being born near a holiday!). Maybe I’ve placed unreasonable expectations on my 30s, but the past two-and-a-half months have been a strong start.

And I’m trying to make some concerted changes that will benefit the rest of my life. I’ve always been slim, but with the exception of five years of high school cheerleading and dance, I’ve never been much for an exercise routine. But I want to enjoy every year I’ve got, and even now, when I’m young and healthy, I feel much better about myself when I exercise. So I’m trying to develop a habit.

Yoga’s my activity of choice because it slows my otherwise-active mind, forcing me to focus on how my body feels in the present. Tonight I practiced outside at the Alys Stephens Center, my mat pointed at a towering sculpture and my breath often in sync with my friend Laura Kate. Halfway through the hour-long class, rain gently began to gently fall on us. I was skeptical at first as my mat became slick (always cautious!), but we quickly moved to ground work, where I didn’t have to worry about slipping. As cars drove through UAB’s campus and rain fell on my face, I thought to myself, “Yes. I need to make this a habit. I need to take better care of myself. I need to be in the moment, even as I plan for tomorrow.”

I hope that’s a significant part of what my 30s–and beyond–will prove to be about.

Taking solace in the kitchen

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

It’s been a busy summer, and that’s meant a calendar full of travel and concerts. So much time on the go has resulted in a lot of eating on the run, whether picking up a meal in a drive through (it’s happened more than it should!) or dinner at a restaurant before rushing to the next event.

I love a good meal out, and I’m not afraid of a fridge full of leftovers. (I can eat the same meal for days without getting bored.) But a homemade meal means more to me than nutrition; cooking slows me down and encourages me to take care of myself.

So I’m striving to make kitchen time a priority, regardless of how full my calendar becomes. Earlier this month I found the perfect dish for that aim: Sunset magazine’s sage-rubbed pork tenderloin with sage butter. It’s perfect for an impromptu dinner gathering because the meat doesn’t require a lengthy marinade, and it’s also inexpensive. Preparation is simple, and perhaps best of all for an on-the-go lifestyle, it’s excellent left over.

That, plus the time to unwind in the kitchen, is a winning recipe to me.

http://www.myrecipes.com/recipe/sage-rubbed-pork-tenderloins-with-sage-butter-10000001622411/

Dear Birmingham

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

Birmingham and I went through a rough patch at the end of last year. That happens at some point in most relationships, but it was a first for my eight-year love affair with this city. I sometimes wondered if the city still cared about me or the people I love. It was a tough few months.

Something changed in March, and I knew we would get through it, together. But some time before then, the very cool public radio program State of the Re:Union (incidentally, based in my hometown) visited Birmingham to record an episode for its second season. In each place they stop, the producers ask residents to write letters to the city. Some writers read theirs aloud for the program, and others are published online when the episode airs.

I wrote my letter to Birmingham during my rough patch. I was hurting and couldn’t bring myself to write about it in a very personal way. But I knew that, no matter what was ahead for me, I love this city and always will. The result, published in full on SOTRU’s website, is a tribute to the Magic City, the place I call home and a city that will always hold a piece of my heart.

Dear Birmingham,

You are beautiful. I know that’s a message you’ve heard a lot lately, from the spray-painted graffiti that has appeared on overpasses and walls, and its echoes in newspaper columns and Facebook groups. It’s a message you should repeat to yourself, day after day. Cling to its truth.

Continue reading on SOTRU’s website

The Straightener

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I don’t know much about poetry. (OK, there’s a lot I don’t know much about.) But at some point during my tenure at the Cullman Times, I stumbled across an interview with former United States Poet Laureate Billy Collins, and it resonated with me. Though I didn’t read even a line of his work for years, I copied a few sentences of that interview and taped them to my computer monitor as motivation. Though I’m on my third job since that time, I’ve carried that paper with me from office to office.

“The real thrill is composition. To be kind of down on your hands and knees with the language at really close range in the midst of a poem that is carrying you in some direction that you can’t foresee… It’s that sense of ongoing discovery that makes composition really thrilling and that’s the pleasure and that’s why I write.”

Years later, I learned that Collins was coming to speak in Birmingham as I edited an article about the event. Finally, I began reading the words he labors over. I attended his reading a few months later, and was overwhelmed by the range of emotion his work invokes.

Tonight I’m sitting at a bar, solo, because the friend I was supposed to meet got caught at work. No problem; I had the newest Collins collection in my purse. And as I read the second poem, “The Straightener,” Collins again cut through the every day and pricked my heart.

“Today, for example, I will devote my time
to lining up my shoes in the closet,
pair by pair in chronological order

and lining up my shirts on the rack by color
to put off having to tell you, dear,
what I really think and what I now am bound to do.”

I don’t know much about poetry, but I know I recognized myself in that.

Here we rest.

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

Last night I went to a toga party, anticipating a silly but otherwise simple celebration of a friend’s 29th birthday. I didn’t realize the night would also mark likely the last time this particular group of friends was together. A dear friend is leaving for two months in Spain, and she doesn’t know what awaits her after that. Another friend is departing for Atlanta. A couple at the party is moving to Zambia. Another friend recently found out he’s a year from a move to Utah.

People seem to leave Birmingham in their early 30s, especially if they’re single. As I said to a friend during last night’s celebration, Birmingham offers so much to do–but most people do it in pairs. It’s been hard to watch friends leave, and in the past few months, it’s also challenged my relationship with my city. I’ve spent many days feeling adrift and wondering about my place here.

I don’t have all the answers, and I guess even those answers could shift throughout life.

But I know this: On April 27, I boarded a plane to New Orleans hours before storms were set to hit Birmingham. We had already been pummeled by an intense thunderstorm that morning, and meteorologists were predicting a much worse afternoon. But as many of my fellow Alabamians have written in the days since, we’re accustomed to tornado weather. We know where the “safe places” are in our homes, and we prepare accordingly. It’s rare to get really worked up over a storm, though; I can only think of two times a tornado has touched down near me in the last eight years.

April 27 was different. My boss sent me a text message that night and told me to turn on the news. Entire neighborhoods and cities were demolished by tornadoes. Tuscaloosa, Cullman and Birmingham–the Alabama cities I’ve called home–were all hit hard. The death toll rose rapidly. I listened to Tuscaloosa Mayor Walt Maddox on national news, and later Birmingham Mayor William Bell. I nearly cried when I heard Mayor Bell’s voice.

And I was a week from returning home.

The tornadoes didn’t come close to my house; the morning storms wreaked havoc eight miles away on the neighborhood where my favorite coffee roaster is located, and the evening storms demolished neighborhoods on the west and north ends of town. Still, it felt wrong to be away. I wanted so badly to be back in Alabama, to see that my friends and coworkers were OK. I knew I would have been sitting at work, checking the news obsessively, instead of sitting in New Orleans, checking the news obsessively. But I yearned to be with my people. Alabama is where I belonged.

If you’re going to be away when your home city is struck by a natural disaster, though, New Orleans is perhaps the best place you could be. People were incredibly gracious and understanding. The next night, I attended a private dinner at the New Orleans Presbytere. The exhibit “Katrina & Beyond” depicted both the science of hurricanes and the stories of New Orleans and its people during and after Hurricane Katrina. After dinner, we were invited to write messages to either New Orleans or the world on our hands, to be photographed for Robert X. Fogarty’s “Dear World” project.

I knew almost immediately what I wanted to write. “Here we rest” was Alabama’s original state motto, and is the title of Jason Isbell & the 400 Unit’s newest album (which I’ve listened to obsessively since I got it, and which I fell asleep listening to the night of the tornadoes). Alabama has been my place of rest since I returned on Feb. 28, 2003. And when I returned from my week-long trip, I had never been so happy to see my home.

No one gives a damn about the things I give a damn about

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

Sometimes I fool myself into thinking I’m alone. Even in the whirlwind of people that often surrounds me, I worry that no one understands or cares about the things that drive me. And so when I hear that line (above) in Jason Isbell’s “Alabama Pines,” I feel like someone hears me.

Then a friend (or four) arrives, and I remember I’m not so isolated, after all.

Last night, one of my closest friends organized a get together designed to cheer me up after a couple of exhausting weeks. When I got home, my roommate was vacuuming so I wouldn’t have to. The organizing friend soon arrived at my house, placed a box of pizza in my hands, then unloaded her party in a bag: two sixers of one of my favorite beers, two bottles of white wine, two dozen baby bites and a small carrot cake. My best guy friend and his girlfriend came over. We listened to my favorite music, played my favorite board game and ate my favorite flavor of cake. And we laughed, a lot.

Tonight, as I sat through an instrumental break at a concert, I mulled over the reasons we get up every day. No, I didn’t hit upon any brilliant or original thoughts. But as I drove home, I thought: People you love, especially on a cool Alabama night, windows down, stereo up–maybe that’s enough.

So Mom, tell me the stories about my history

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I’m one of the lucky ones. When I was 10 years old, I decided I wanted to become a writer because I was more excited by writing essays than watching TV after school. I followed a traditional path, filling dozens of journals, writing for school newspapers and yearbooks, earning a degree in journalism. In May 2005, I entered the field of my dreams. Even as my pen earns my paycheck, I fill free time with writing and reading.

My parents always encouraged and embraced my love of words; I learned to read at age 4, and I’m convinced that was in part because of how much my mom reads. I’ve read myself to sleep nearly every night since (with music, my other great love, playing in the background). Their affirmation has come without regard for higher-paying careers, and in spite of my mom’s long-held fear that my career will carry me to New York City. (Daddy still hopes I’ll write the Great American Novel and fund his retirement. I’ll join him in that dream!)

I thought of this today as I read “So Your Child Wants to Be a Poet,” an entry in the New Yorker’s book blog, The Book Bench. One of my sisters–who fulfilled Mom’s fears years ago with her move to NYC–and I recently agreed that we hit the parent jackpot. Not every child does. I’m grateful for parents whose love and support continue to enable me to chase my dreams.

Today’s subject line comes from “Kankakee” by Andrew Osenga.

I need a little place in the sun sometimes or I think I will die

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

The Diagnostic Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders IV was a dangerous purchase, but it was a required text for my school counseling graduate work. As I cycled between classes, learning about counseling styles, schools of psychological thought and social and emotional disorders common in adolescents, I turned to the DSM-IV time and again. Yes, it was a valuable resource for understanding the disorders I studied during my single semester of counseling classes. But I was even more interested in using it to self diagnose, and to identify issues my roommates struggled with. I knew just enough to be dangerous, and I still regret selling the DSM-IV back when I decided to pursue additional education elsewhere. (It remains on my amazon.com wish list, though it’s probably for the best that no one has purchased it for me.)

I long to turn to that handy manual again as winter breaks, showing the South hints of spring. I face seasonal affective disorder every winter, and perhaps it’s made worse by the short short short winters I grew up with in Florida. Around February in each of the past few years, I’ve found myself listening to the Beatles nearly non-stop. Even their saddest songs avoid sounding depressing (“For No One” has never made me cry). Though I love depressing indie folk, sometimes I need sunshine and the only place I can find it is in music. (This also explains the year I decided to wear skirts every day till Easter, my own unintentionally Lenten ritual of sorts. I wanted spring so badly, I dressed for it long before it arrived.)

That feeling started far too early this winter; I began battling the doldrums in November, and found solace in a playlist I labeled “Sunshine for the Soul.” But spring has also come early, with several perfect, sunny and mild days in mid-February.

It feels silly to be so affected by weather and season, but I’ve come to accept their impact. As the South livens up with its early spring, I’ll concentrate on accepting the sun and warmth as the gifts they are.

Sunshine for the Soul

  1. A Love that’s Stronger than Our Fear – Derek Webb
  2. No Bad News – Patty Griffin
  3. Lantern – Josh Ritter
  4. Shelter – Ray LaMontagne
  5. Try – John Mayer Trio
  6. Walken – Wilco
  7. Chin Up, Cheer Up – Ryan Adams
  8. Bottom of the River – Adam Arcuragi
  9. Here Comes the Sun – The Beatles
  10. Wake Up – Arcade Fire
  11. The General Specific – Band of Horses
  12. Raining at Sunset – Chris Thile
  13. Babylon – David Gray
  14. Sons and Daughters – The Decemberists
  15. Long Shadows – Josh Ritter

Today’s subject line comes from Patty Griffin’s “Moses.”

Learn to labor and to wait

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

Though my words here become digital, I titled this blog “ink-stained life” because I have literally surrounded myself with words. Like most writers, my bookshelves overflow with work I admire and books I hope to eventually read. (I’m a book hoarder.) Magazines are piled in nooks throughout my house–on the coffee and end tables, yes, but also in drawers, nightstands and under a bookcase. Most of the art I own is letterpress, with messages I believe in: a line of poetry from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, a message of hope for a recovering community, a simple reflection on good coffee. My bedside lamp is even topped with a shade covered in calligraphy (though I think it’s in French–I certainly can’t read it!).

My point is, I firmly believe in the value of communication. It’s not just a job, it’s life. But tonight, my challenge is to condense one form of that communication into a 50-minute presentation.

I’m speaking Friday to a group of high school students at a journalism conference. I love this kind of thing, partly because I wish I had sought out more opportunities when I was growing up. I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was 10 years old, and I feel like I’m a lucky one: I make a living doing what I set out to do.

So I’m thrilled to teach these kids about feature writing. But tonight, I’ve lost myself in Pulitzer Prize Feature Stories and tried to avoid The Best American Magazine Writing 2002 (simply because there are too many tempting stories within, and I eventually need to go to bed). I’m overwhelmed by all there is to teach, and all I have still to learn by reading and studying work by people like Alice Steinbach, Chris Jones, Anna Quindlen.

Then, that’s exactly why I agree to speak at events like this. I want these kids to know the joy that comes from reporting, writing and improving.

Today’s subject line comes from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s “A Psalm of Life.”