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Nobody’s happy while feeling alone

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

There are plenty of reasons why I claim Nickel Creek’s “Reasons Why” as my favorite song and one of the songs that tells the most about my life.

I realize it’s kind of a depressing way to describe yourself–read the lyrics for yourself if you don’t know what I mean. And I know I’m mostly a pretty cheerful, upbeat kind of girl. But I have probably more than my share of melancholy moments, and when they come I turn into little miss “woe is me.”

Sometimes I think that’s pretty normal for this stage of life. I’m in my early (almost mid!) twenties and I’m as far from being “settled” as I ever have been. Most days that doesn’t bother me (too much).

But then those moments of discontent come along. Yesterday was that kind of day… sometimes I get in a funk because there’s no one around, but then I’m in such a poopy mood that I don’t want to hang out with anyone. It’s pretty self-defeating and irrational.

My temporary employment is up in three weeks and I don’t know what’s in store next. (I know God’s in control, but that doesn’t mean I always live as though I believe it. So thanks for the reminder, but I haven’t forgotten. 😉 ) I have mixed feelings on the future. On the one hand, I have enjoyed working at the paper. If they offer me a full time job, I might have to take it.

On the other, I really don’t like this city. I know it took me a while to get used to living in Birmingham, too, but I never disliked Birmingham. I was just lonely. I don’t know if I could get used to living here again… maybe I could. But if I had to choose between employment here or there, the job would have to be pretty good to keep me here.

Of course, at this point that’s just wishful thinking… the employer’s aren’t exactly lining up outside my door. I guess I’ll just wait and see…

You can’t jump the track
We’re like cars on a cable and life’s like an hourglass glued to the table,
No one can find the rewind button girl
So just cradle your head in your hands
And breathe
–Anna Nalick

Protected: I’m a part of that… aren’t I?

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

The first reporting class I took in j-school was JN311, Intro to Reporting. It was mostly what you’d expect of an introductory course: we covered the five W’s and H, made mention of AP style and were required to do some reporting and writing in a lab setting.

But one day’s lesson stood out. In the second half of the semester we talked about disaster coverage. That sort of situation is exactly why I didn’t want to work at a newspaper–you never know when you’ll be called into a delicate situation, when you’ll be interviewing people whose relatives have just passed away.

Our guest speaker that day was (if I remember correctly) an editor from the local paper. Roughly three years earlier, a significant tornado had hit the city and one of the paper’s photographers was among the first on the scene. The speaker recounted the photographer’s experience as he captured this news-worthy but oh-so-delicate event.

My assignment yesterday wasn’t quite a natural disaster in the sense that a tornado is, but it was the first time I’ve interviewed someone days after they’ve lost a family member. I went through the motions of reporting in something of a haze–I wanted to take down every piece of information I was able and to retell the story for the public, but I wanted to do so with gentleness and respect.

My 25 inch (or roughly 800 word) story ran on the front page of our local section today. I poured all I could into recounting the events of this local family: the granddaughter has been in the hospital with cancer (oh, just visit https://sideeffectsofxarelto.org! its so sad to hear about that kind of drugs), and on Sunday night her grandparents and younger brother were in a car accident while travelling to see her. The grandfather was killed instantly and the grandmother is in critical condition. The boy survived without injury.

I blinked back tears as I met friends of the family and wrote the story yesterday… and again today as I began to receive phone calls and e-mails from readers.

As much as I love magazines, as much as I love a good clip… my life and my work are not about me.

What’s the use in all these words

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I clean out my CD collection periodically. I guess part of my obsessive nature is that I don’t like to hang on to music that I don’t really listen to. The money I get for selling them is only a fraction of what I paid, but I take it as the price I pay for impulse buys.

Keane is a good example… I love “Somewhere Only We Know” and my friends raved about them, so I grabbed the disc for $8.99 at Target. But I wasn’t impressed, and I already had the aforementioned single on a Paste sampler, so $3 was worth more to me than a CD I wouldn’t really play. Off they went to my used store of the month.

Today is another clean out, mostly prompted by an upcoming Chuck Klosterman book. But even though there are several discs I rarely play, some of them retain too many fond memories to sell.

Most of my Caedmon’s Call catalogue falls into that category. I never listen to In the Company of Angels, and I skip more than half of the tracks on Back Home. (I rarely even play 40 Acres, and it’s my favorite!)

I feel like I should load my favorite tracks onto iTunes and get rid of the hard copies. Besides the questionable ethics of that, I just can’t abandon the albums. I bought ITCOA after I fell for Caedmon’s. It was summer 2002 and I was stuck on a lonely mountain in southern California. Few of the songs resonated with me, but those that did, I loved deeply.

Robinella & the CC String Band are probably on their way to a new home, charming as I do find their album. The fact is, I never listen to it and the memory it elicits is a particularly bad (though now irrelevant) one. “Man Over” is my favorite track but it also reminds me of the tears I shed over someone’s drunkenness. That’s not something I want around.

But it’s not the man, it’s the drug

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

This is what I want to know: is it normal for your music collection to be affected by your boyfriend/crush/friendly member of the opposite sex du jour? I mean, I think it makes perfect sense, but my tastes have always been affected that way.

Those influences were interestingly contradictory when I was a high school senior. The first guy I dated labeled a John Michael Montgomery tune “our song” and won me a stuffed animal that Kevin Sharp carried through our local fair. Even after we broke up we attended a Shania Twain concert together. (Ever the princess, I slept in and awaited his call to confirm we got the tickets while he waited in line on a Saturday morning.)

My other high school boyfriend could hardly be further from country. He bought me Fuel tickets for my birthday. We went on a trip to Daytona (gag puke) for a Less Than Jake concert. It was under his influence that I got into Reel Big Fish and Limp Bizkit (later eradicated from my collection in The Great CD Clean Out of 1999).

My taste continued to fluctuate through college, in part because of whoever I was hanging out with and sometimes because of who I had a crush on. Heather, Jon and Mike encouraged my country phase. Apryl introduced me to Jennifer Knapp. Philip and Amanda brought Nickel Creek to my attention. Philip also added a little Tiger pride (and conversational piece) to my CD collection, and along with Stacy, he launched my interest in Caedmon’s Call. Jesse played Diana Krall (which Geof later purchased), who served as a reminder that I needed to get into some real jazz. (Two Miles Davis discs later, my collection is still weak.)

The trend continued as Brandon sent me a Counting Crows mix and an autographed Andrew Osenga album. (He also recommended Miles selections, though I haven’t purchased his next choice yet.)

I think Scott has had the greatest (individual) influence on my recent-ish purchases, though. Ryan Adams, Dave Matthews Band (yes, I was terribly late jumping on this bandwagon), possibly Damien Rice, Coldplay and Johnny Cash all wormed their way into my heart at his urging. That’s 18 CDs purchased as a direct result of his influence. Given that I own fewer than 200 albums, that’s quite the percentage.

Huh. I’m not sure I like that. I play the “independent woman” card too often to be comfortable with a man exerting that much power in my life. Yes, my girl friends make recommendations too, but I never seem to spend quite as much based on their opinions.

Or maybe it’s just because I liked/”dated” Scott at the height of my CD buying days. (He does spend more at Best Buy than most people I know. That could also be a factor.) In any case, his influence remains more than a year after we “broke up.” I can’t wait for the new Ryan Adams double disc album to be released next week… and as it’ll be my first day of work, don’t you think that’s a worthwhile splurge? 🙂

I’m supposed to be falling for the newish Hem disc, Eveningland, sometime soon at the urging of Geof, Aaron and Bjorn. I’ll let you know how that goes. 😉

Underneath this age is the heart of a child

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

It’s been three years since I graduated from FSU. I remember much of that day vividly, though I really didn’t journal about it. I remember crying when Philip and Stacy left my house the night before because I didn’t know what to expect of our still-young friendships. I remember pulling over on my way to Schoolfield’s graduation party and crying off my make up. I was suddenly unsure about the early graduation I’d so long anticipated. I remember an early dinner at Carraba’s and running from Wescott to the Civic Center after taking pictures. I remember the blisters that made for a painful walk across the stage. I remember a half-hearted visit to Stetson’s.

Then just as quickly as it began, it was over. I was a college graduate, young and uncertain of what was next. I had a graduate school acceptance on one hand and a whole lot of nothing on the other.

I don’t remember when I decided not to go to Alabama, though I remember the fear and self consciousness that held me back. And I can still vividly recall the night when I began to reconsider that decision.

I’d been a graduate for almost six months by then—I was actually one day shy of that anniversary. I knew I couldn’t stay in my current master’s program. I was clinging to memories that had passed and friendships that were changing.

Against that backdrop, a stranger innocently asked why I hadn’t gone to Alabama. Though I risk crediting that simple question with too much power, it was then that I began to take slow, tentative steps toward Tuscaloosa.

It was in a coffee shop in that small Southern city that I celebrated the first year I’d held a bachelor’s degree. That degree hadn’t gotten me far at that point—I hadn’t even decided yet to enroll in the master’s program from which I would eventually graduate. But I was finally at a point where I was willing to take risks (however small). I was only 21 years old.

I guess I have grown up a bit in the years since my college graduation. I’m more confident in my relationships. My friends are still terribly important to me, but I don’t base major life decisions on them anymore. Though they do provide a sense of security, I’ve seen how my relationships grow, change and encourage me regardless of what city and state I call home.

Now I have a master’s degree. I guess that’s the most obvious difference, but its significance is more in the gamble and passion that earned it than in the degree itself. Student loans and writing at the risk of rejection aren’t what most thrill seekers pursue, but they were big steps for a little girl who thought she had life planned out at age 20.

I’m where I dared to dream I’d be. When I took the GRE with little preparation and a runny nose, it was with the hope of earning an education and a job in Sweet Home Alabama. On this day three years ago, I was scared to take that chance.

I think the 20-year-old me would be proud of who her 23-year-old self has become.

Wait, I’ll be fine, just give me a couple years to say my prayers

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

This afternoon I dropped Alisa off under the Southwest sign at the airport. I sent her into the terminal with a tight hug, then slid into my car and tried to drive away before I could get too sentimental.

It didn’t really work.

It’s not like we had particularly unusual adventures over these last six days. It’s just one of the trials of having far-flung best friends. It’s hard to release that bit of normalcy, to watch a person who loves the whole you slip back to the other side of the country. You may have a guarantee to see them again soon, but that doesn’t make up for lost months of playing with your cat and teasing friends on IM together.

I held on to that melancholy mood as I enjoyed front porch conversation with new friends tonight. Different as these scenarios are, they account for my nervousness about moving. My best memories of that city involve Ed food, sidewalk chalk, lattes and Friends, piles of leaves and adventures born of two young imaginations.

Those things aren’t tied to the city but to friendships. I’ve just started to feel comfortable in the place I’ve carved out here, and I hesitate to leave it for a place that only holds memories.

It’s hard for me to believe that I’m not losing the people I’ve met here and that the city’s promise isn’t tied to the friends who were once there. Honestly, I’m really excited about some aspects of moving back. The job I’m going for sounds great and I’ll be working with one friend and making others. There are churches there and my home church is only an hour away.

The memories and friendships I cherish won’t be there and can’t be recreated. But they’re not supposed to be.

It’s a bittersweet excitement that serves to confirm what I’ve long believed—success is often harder than failure.

“Failure’s hard, but success is far more dangerous. If you’re successful at the wrong thing, the mix of praise and money and opportunity can lock you in forever.” -Po Bronson

Can I call myself a journalist if it’s only temporary?

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

Well I sure hope so…

’cause I GOT A JOB!

No, I don’t know when I start. I have to take a drug test first (I haven’t had one of those since high school!) and they said they’d like me to start ASAP. I don’t really know when that’ll be, so I’ll get back to you on that one. 🙂

I’m filling in for the health & religion writer at a nearby newspaper while said reporter is out of the country. (That means an average of four articles per week from start date until June 17, which is my last day of temporary employment.) There is a possibility of being kept on full time after this temp work ends, but I’ll let you know whether that works out come June.

And um, that’s all for now. Questions? Comments? Suggestions? I’ll come back with a REAL update… sometime.

I have seen you at your worst and I still love you when you’re down

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I started a new journal a few weeks ago. That used to be a pretty common occurence (as evidenced by the 14 journals scattered across my bedroom floor, all from the last five years), but this was my first new journal in almost two years.

When I inked my first words into these leather bound pages, I was sitting in a familiar coffee shop. I guess it’s been almost three years since I worked on a journal entry in that place. The memory is still dear, though… I remember sitting between two friends, writing while they studied… with bellies full of barbecue.

I began my newest journal at a table with two different friends, one old and one new. As I wrote, I wondered how much I’ve really changed in the elapsed time. Though I live in a different city in a different state, I was back in that coffee shop. I’m still friends with several of the people I was with that night years ago. I’m still clueless about what’s next in life.

But the more I thought, the more I realized I have changed in the (almost) three years since I graduated from college. I guess that’s part of why I ended up with these journals scattered across my room tonight. I’ve been flipping through their pages, recalling the over-excited girl I was and comparing her to the woman I’m becoming. (There is no excuse for three exclamation points in a sentence, ever.)

Some of the changes probably aren’t so great–I’m definitely more prone to cynicism now than then. But I’m also more prone to realism. I’m more likely to be honest about my struggles (and I’m more likely to punctuate a sentence correctly).

(My finances were better off when I was an undergrad, though. I thought it was supposed to be the opposite way around?)

I wish the changes were more obvious… I wish I was certain that I’ve lost that chip I carried on my shoulder after I graduated… but on days like today, I’m not quite convinced. When I’m discouraged, though, it’s comforting to look at the journals that hold my story, the friends who have remained by my side (or left and come back or appeared somewhere in the meantime) even when I’m at my worst.

And it’s comforting to know that God has a history of coming through for his people, even when they screwed up… and that he’s opened his promises to even me.