This could really mean anything. Technically, it could be scarier than the end of the world itself. Think: Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road.” Of course, it could also be better. An era of world-wide peace and happiness, perhaps.

But an eery thought occurred to me the other day. Similar to the movie “Children of Men,” what if one day, every baby in the world started being born blind? The cause of the blindness was inexplicable, a cure could not be found. Scientists blamed cell phone radiation, nuclear leakage. No one could really explain anything.

Everyone’s perspectives would change.

Superficial things like beauty, skin color, weight, fashion would no longer be an issue. One might argue that there’d be no point in living in a world where you couldn’t experience any of the beautiful things offered to us, like sunsets and oceans. But through your other senses, I think you’d still be able to experience true beauty. And more importantly, you’d be able to know people for who they really were, not just who they seemed to be on the outside.

Government actions would change, too. Everyone would focus their attention, the entire rest of their lives, on adapting the world to a human race that could no longer see it. Cars and trains would need to operate on their own, through magnetic force fields that kept them from running into each other. Who knows if planes could ever operate again. Thousands of seeing-eye dogs would have to be bred.

Television, texting, the internet…it would all change. Every label, every book, every historic document would have to be converted to braille.  The field of advertising would change to solely radio ads and braille print ads.

People would most likely develop a sixth sense, something that made up for being blind. Who knows? The intricacies could be considered forever.

I really don’t think anything at all is going to happen in two years. 2012 is going to come and go and in another few years, the world will be scared with another date and reason that the world is ending.  But, while we’re here, I don’t think it’d hurt if we were all a little blind to the superficial things in this life.

Feet hitting the earth one beat slower than my heart pounds. Laughter bubbling up inside me. My cheeks, my nose, my fingers, are cold and numb. I feel the icy air slickly behind my teeth more than I do on my tingling skin. Leaves swirl around my feet, whispering the secrets of the trees that loosened their grips enough to let them go.

The sun casts shadows through the branches, splaying across the peaks and valleys of the grass. The illuminating rays hold no partiality, lighting up even the smallest of nooks. Beckoning me to follow their example.

And I’m running. And my heart beats with childhood joy, tainted, mingling with adult burdens, adult worries. And I could be any age. But I feel eight.

Running, exploring my world. The world that is my front yard. And chimney smoke lingers in the air, having billowed from neighbors’ houses for hours, or decades. My fingers strum along the chain link fence as I run, vibrations tickling my arm. And my mother is on the porch, watching. Smiling. And as she walks inside to check on dinner, I close my eyes and begin to twirl.

Arms outstretched, spinning. Vaguely wondering if maybe I’m the one standing still while everything else performs pirouettes around me.

Happy Holidays!

I’ve been blessed with a wonderful roommate…a guy I’ve known since I was about six years old. Our quirky friendship has developed into one where he can kick my door in and assassinate me with his Nerf gun on a whim. I feign utter annoyance.

And The Creative Circus, what a school! I can’t believe I go here – still- and classes have been in session for three weeks. I’m the one in pastels and pearls in a sea of eccentric, hipster artists. But I love it–and I’m slowly adapting while also staying true to myself. I still wear pearls, for instance, but now I also wear leggings and boots and drink PBR by the pitcher in hole-in-the-wall bars.

The work load here is insane compared to any other school I’ve ever attended. In the past few weeks I’ve written hundreds of headlines, drawn about a hundred marker comps, and filled sixty pages of a sketch book with creative ideas. I’m always creating new things and stretching myself….no simple memorization of facts here. I’ve been trying to stay in touch with people as much as possible, but the constant work keeps me busy. I hope everyone dear to me is well. A friend of mine had a death in the family as soon as we arrived. I can’t imagine…and just pray everyone I love stays safe and healthy.

With all of the high quality artists that are here, it’s hard not to question my own worth and abilities, but I know I’m in the right place. My work has already improved so much in this short time. Creative advertising is so different than PR…it’s been a switch for sure. Thinking so out of the box…so out there….it’s going to take me a little while to learn the craft. Good thing I have two years. I love and miss everyone.

Inside there's an actual circus tent. Be jealous.

But, still, children are really something.

Sam, the youngest and smallest of the group, just started kindergarten this year. He sometimes has a little trouble not crying in the mornings when his mom drops him off at school. But he shyly showed me a picture of his family that he now carries around in a little sandwich bag tucked into his bookbag. He said, “Miss Sarah, see? It helps me not miss my mommy and daddy so much while I’m at school.” Seriously? Melted my heart. All over the floor.

And, Abbie, despite her short attention span, is the first to rush to help anyone in need. She holds doors open for the group like a champ. And she’s always thinking outside the box. I was coloring with her the other day, and we decided to draw a Halloween picture. I reached for an orange crayon and asked her to draw a pumpkin. She got a mischievous little glint in her eyes and said, “Let’s color everything a DIFFERENT color then it’s supposed to be!” Pretty soon we had a beautiful Halloween picture: blue grass, brown flowers, red pumpkins, green clouds and four bright, yellow suns. Sure, the sun is yellow, but four of them! But sunshine is nice, so why not? What was I thinking, trying to force her little mind into the box of normality? Pretty soon I’m going to be starting classes at one of the most creative schools in the country! I think I need to take a hint from Abbie and start thinking outside the box more.

I got goodbye notes from them today, thanking me for being their teacher and saying they’ll miss me. So sweet. They’ve certainly helped me remember a few important things in life:

It’s okay to miss the people you love. New things are scary and it’s okay to cry, but don’t be sad for too long or you might miss out on something fun. Holding doors open for people makes them feel special. Be creative – clouds can be green if you want them to be. Sunshine is nice. You will never, ever, ever need to know the difference between a quadrangle and a rectangle in real life. Err…no name calling. And be sure to write thank you notes.

It’s nice to get friendly reminders of things like that every now and then.

But the funny thing is…we turned out to be exactly the same in the non-sensible way we think! I told her that when I initially board a plane, I immediately look to see how many little children are onboard too. Because there’s no way God would let a plane full of cute little children and babies crash. Crazy, I know. It doesn’t make any sense. But it comforts me. I also believe that if I don’t say a little prayer, the plane is more likely to crash. My hair stylist (Sara, coincidentally) is the SAME way. And I’m 99% sure she wasn’t just humoring me to get a big tip. She said she once boarded a flight with a slew of soldiers returning from Iraq onboard. She breathed easy during that flight. There was almost NO chance that those soldiers could live through fighting a war in Iraq, but then die in a plane crash on the way home. I like to think that it was therapeutic for both of us to find out we were kindred spirits. We both admitted that we thought, surely, we must be the only ones. But we wondered aloud how many people on planes might play the same mental games we do. Everyone always looks so calm and bored.

Which led us to the ultimate question: if you knew when and how you were going to die, would you want to know? Sara said no. She pointed out that if she found out she was going to die at 42, once that year rolled around, she’d be waiting for death every day. I said that I think I’d like to know. If I found out, for instance, that I was going to die of cancer at the age of 57, I’d have much more pleasant flying experiences for the rest of my life. And, sure, if I found out that I was going to die at the age of 30 in a car crash, that would be disappointing. But, I’d be living it up until then. I wouldn’t put off traveling the world until after I retire. I’d go sky diving. Sara reluctantly admitted that you could take a lot of risks. “Ah,” I said, “but, if you knew you wouldn’t die, I suppose it wouldn’t be a risk.”

The joy of living is the risky business, even if I’m not the biggest risk taker of them all. So, I guess I’ll continue to live life slightly worried. On plane flights, I’ll play the game. I’ll act calm and bored. I’ll glance at my watch. I’ll sigh. It’s so taboo to look like you might be a nervous flyer. But on the inside, I’ll be crying. And silently counting children.

Some of these recent influencers have been my friend, Catie, whom I met while hosting at a restaurant in Myrtle Beach where she’s a chef. I talk with her in the kitchen when I should be up at the front, greeting people. Another: Pat Conroy, of course. The influence on so much in my life: my views on Charleston and South Carolina, my writing, and, now, my (future) cooking. At the book signing where I met him, I realized you could have two of his books signed, so I immediately purchased his cookbook. It was the only book of his that I hadn’t read in full. It’s delightful. A few of the dishes are a bit complicated for me right now; he’s from the school of making chicken stock from scratch. Scratch! That’s three to five hours of just boiling the chicken! That’s before you even start cooking what you started off to cook in the first place! But, he’s also from the school of “dying is more fun in the South.” Which, although a bit snarky (thanks, Eric!), is kind of true, in a way. When loved ones die, Southerners tend to comfort each other through the cooking and sharing of rich, heavy, fragrant, delicious, comfort foods.

Food really means so much to people everywhere, though. Not just in the South. And different areas of the country identify with certain dishes so strongly–they’ve almost become a part of peoples’ identity.  Charleston has its shrimp and grits, Maryland, its crabcakes, Maine, its lobsters. New York City has its pastrami and cheesecake. Boston has its chowdah. Key West, conchs. This list could go on for quite some time. But food has become so much a part of socializing, of showing people you care. I suppose I think it’s important to do it right, and with flair.

Tonight, Catie was showing me how to make this dough called pate a choux, and with it, you could cook gnocci OR puff pastries. Two entirely different dishes, using the exact same dough! I was riveted. She laughed and said “I know–don’t you just love food?!” Yes, yes I do.

pate a choux...mmm

The palmettos stand proud and tall along the long, slotted wood-plank entrance into the edge of America–bending in the wind and giving flip-flop clad families a sword salute befitting royalty.

The beams underneath the pier make my eyes ache with pleasure, as lovely as any stainglassed cathedral I’ve ever entered.

The seagulls and sand pipers act as alterboys, leading the tides in with all their innocence and pretense as they scurry amongst the broken oystershells and sand dollars.

In the background, the choir of sand dunes sways in harmony with the breeze to the meloncholy notes of an old saltwater gospel.

And rows of beach chairs await those who will slowly fill the pews to gaze into the horizon and listen for the sermon to rise out of the gentle roaring of the Atlantic waves. I’m one of those gazers, and I hear a new sermon every time I go.

Peace, Love and Palmettos

Fooling around with oil pastels. I think it’s a lot easier to draw with charcoal, but I like the way you can blend a bunch of colors with oil pastels. Here’s a little sketch I did a few days ago of my favorite reading corner in my backyard. I found out by pure coincidence towards the end of my drawing that if you heat up the pastels you can blend them so much better…they were melting in the summer afternoon heat! On my next sketch I’ll plan on heating them up from the start. Also, in Atlanta I was thinking about taking some painting classes. Maybe the classes will help me keep my creative juices flowing for copywriting.

Exactly one year ago I was starting my first out-of-college job at Peppercom in NYC. I had been in the city about a week. The internship was everything I’d been working for. But where would I be if I hadn’t worked so hard? Would I have still gone to New York? Was it just in the cards for me to experience that amazing, beautiful city?

Now graduate school approaches. Atlanta approaches. So much has changed in just one year. Where is my life hurtling towards? Is my future-self already living up in New York again, with an amazing job at an advertising agency on Madison?

Do the things that happen to us happen because of choices we make? Or are choices already made for us, essentially? In The Time Traveler’s Wife, there is one part I especially love. When Henry is visiting Clare when she’s a child, Clare draws him a picture, signs her name, and writes the date. Suddenly, he says “No don’t date it, in the future it hangs on my wall, and it’s not dated.” She shrugs, erases it, and then asks what would happen if she DID date it, and he jokingly says, “I don’t know, probably start World War III or something. But…we can test it out.” She smiles, and recopies the date at the bottom. He returns to his present time, and walks to living room to look at the picture, surprised to see it just as he remembers it, undated. He asks Clare, now his wife, about it, and she replies “Oh, you freaked me out about the World War III comment, so I trimmed the date off after you left.”

Is there anything we can do to change the future? Or is the future there, all layed out, waiting for us to experience it as it comes? I find it amusing to think that my future husband is out there, living his life. Or anyone, really. People that will have a profound effect on me in the future, that I have yet to meet, are out there, oblivious to my existence right now.

Does thinking that destiny exists take all the work out of life? All the heartache? It is, often times, easier to get over lost friendships and broken hearts if you think there was nothing you could do, that it just wasn’t meant to be. Or does it just take all the excitement and fun out of it all? Perhaps life is a mix of free will and determinism, like The Butterfly Effect. Maybe there are several paths your life could take, and your choices determine which road you go down. Robert Frost claimed he chose the road less traveled by. But did it really choose him?

Maybe I should just live in the moment, instead of worrying about what the future holds so much.

What do y’all think?