The (best) detriment to my focus

The good news: I'm starting to crank some important work out.
The bad news: Hoffa stepped on my laptop last weekend (seriously?!), I had to send it off to the Dell Elves, and now I'm working from the desktop office computer.

Which means that my sisters have me pinned. They can push, know how to push, and do push just the right buttons to drive me crazy.

It also means that rather than the "Jessica is working and CANNOT be disturbed" Post-It note on the office door serving its purpose at all, it only provides an opportune medium to be vandalized...

The sisters barge in.

“Guess what-ey?!” Rosa Marie exclaims.

"Don’t say what-ey."

Preceded by a signature RoRie giggle, she responds, "I just say stuff like that to get on your nerves."

Inevitably, I roll my eyes.

"Jessica, you know what time it is?" asks Georgia, rhetorically, of course. "Time for a DANCE PARTY!!" She enters with the stereo system on her shoulders like a retro boom box, and max volume of "Turn Down for What"  begins blasting in the once-so-still office.

I could be annoyed. I could yell and scream and be the big sister bi-otch and tell them to go away. I have before, but it's not an effective tactic. It's a lot easier (and more fun) to go along with them. I sigh and shrug off my professional grown-up girl demeanor.

Within minutes all three of us are droppin’ it to the floor and attempting to twerk in our XL pajama shirts. Hoffa would have a cow.

"This is what it would be like if the three of us owned this house," Georgia proclaims. "Hashtag awesomeness."

Following our ten minute dance sesh, RoRie doesn't miss a beat. "Hashtag it’s time for you to come snuggle." As I begin to physically force her out of the office, she turns the tables on me and tries to push me into my bedroom right by the office. "Pleeeeeease."

She doesn't win, but these are the kinds of distractions with which I have dealt all summer - and all my life. Though they may occasionally keep me from my work, they also keep me from being too serious and boring. My sisters ensure that life stays fun, and, I confess, I'm glad to call them mine.

Summer Growing Pains

This morning, I decided I wasn’t going to work until I had done all the things I wanted to do. I went for a run, I had an extended quiet time with Jesus, I read chapters of To Kill a Mockingbird and A Reason for God. And now, in an eerily empty, calmingly still house, I am writing. Finally. Ideally, I would do all of this every morning before my day really began rolling. Alas, it’s already far past noontime, and I am learning that it just isn’t realistic for a day-to-day regimen.

I’m always excited to return to Charleston, and more importantly, to return to the people I love the most - the Compton Clan. While most people find authentic friendships and discover their identity in college, I struggled to replicate at Roanoke something I already knew intimately in high school. When Roanoke was hard, I used to crave time back at home. I needed it to replenish me and to assure me that I had real roots and community. But when I packed my belongings in D.C. over a month ago, it was the least eager I’ve been to come home.

What?! Jessica, the girl who obnoxiously talks about “the best city in the world” didn’t want to go back? I know, I know. It wasn’t because my love for home had lessened. It’s just that I have had so many enriching experiences – traveling, working in a professional environment, not living in a dorm room or depending on a meal plan. Somewhere in this past year, I grew up. I think like an adult, I work (kind of) like an adult, I interact with other adults…I am an adult, and that’s a good thing. But I am currently living in the house of my childhood, and after a year of independence and freedom, not responsible for anyone else’s schedule or needs other than my own, living with my family has been a rockier adjustment than I anticipated.

It’s still a cheery, bustling mad house here at 964 Tall Pine Road, but I, in the egotism and amnesia produced by years away at college, had forgotten what that was like. My tactic to make a daily list and knock it out bullet by bullet has proved frustratingly unproductive. Focus is unattainable and distractions are incessant; despite the numerous rooms in this house, there is no quiet abode. My stuff is never where I put it, hurricanes destroy anything I clean, and I feel like I can’t get a lick of personal undertakings accomplished.

What happened to the regular blogger? The disciplined student? The task oriented worker?

She gave herself up for her family. It took a few weeks, but I have re-learned family life. I needed to return to Barney’s preschool lessons of sharing and sibling kindness. I was no longer living amongst the polite formalities of platonic, respectful roommates. I am with my family - not just any relatively normal American family, but the Comptons, whose sharing policies are borderline socialist.  My clothes, my hair brush, my face wash and purse and even underwear are no longer mine at all! I go shopping in Georgia and Rosa Marie’s closet, and they check out mine.  Cain drives the Jeep, and I am without a car. Hoffa will mow the lawn at Sugah Cain for hours, leaving Mama with...pretty much everything else. So much for personal schedules; I must let go and move with the natural ebb and flow of Compton life. I am stretching, rediscovering the flexibility I must practice in a large family.

Last semester I learned what life as a young, single professional is like. The day is full, but it's not too complicated, and you're aware of all that must be done. Now I am experiencing a different kind of "internship" altogether. Ultimately, I am my mother’s apprentice. I am learning how to juggle a full work week, my own interests and to-do’s, and the needs of five other autonomous individuals. Some days I work at Old South, other days I help Mama with house projects. No day is ever the same, and you can't prepare for the left field curve balls. Motherhood, even when all of the chickadees are pretty much grown up, is damn hard. Mama is the most giving, sacrificial person I know, and I am trying to emulate her. In some ways, I am doing alright.

But I’m 21, and I can’t break my self-centeredness. Aside from things that must be done - the Fulbright and Rotary scholarship applications linger, English Seminar summer reading is rather lengthy, and I haven’t even begun the TEFL online class I plan on taking– there are still things I really want to do this summer for my personal development and enjoyment. Train for a half marathon, pleasure read, swing dance, rock climb, serve, hang out with friends…

What has perturbed me the most is my inability to sit down and write. At the end of the IJM internship, we did a values seminar and took a ten question speed quiz in efforts to reveal our most immediate values. Two of my answers stood out to me:

1. You are covered on the front of a magazine. What does the title say?

Travel Writing Teacher Covers 6 Continents

2. If you had two extra hours every day, what would you do with those 14 hours a week?

Write.

How is it that this summer, with oodles more margin in my schedule, I have only written two blog posts? I like writing, it's evidently a value I esteem and want to do, and I’ll only become better with practice. I have so many stories to share; writing about backpacking consumed my thoughts on the trail, yet have you heard about my trip? I so often want to apologize for my inconsistency to you, readers, but really I should apologize to myself. I think the reason I haven't written more is that writing, real writing - descriptive, riveting, polished – is hard. It is a craft that requires discipline and concentration and rather significant chunks of time. I have prioritized my family, work, and friends over it, which are significantly easier to allocate time to.

Today has been so rejuvenating, and it has reminded me of the importance of taking time for oneself. Myers-Briggs once reported that I am half extrovert, half introvert, and I have been doing myself a disservice lately by neglecting the time I need by myself. Boundaries must be established. I’m still not certain how or where to redraw them, but time rations will be changing. Despite my "family first" mentality, these interests of mine deserve a high priority, too. Somewhere in the stretching, between the demands of home life and the discoveries and adventures of young adulthood, I will find what fits.

Get Me On The Trail

The summer going into high school, my experienced mom friend Berta patiently led my best friend, our moms and me onto the trails of Panthertown Valley, NC for the weekend. After setting up camp, we ventured out on day hikes with a hand-drawn map. We were so lost five miles into some forgotten logging road that when we picked up a bit of cell service we resorted to calling the map maker, desperate to see if he could steer us back on course . Despite our ridiculous amount of stuff, my very close call - or rather, step - with a rattle snake and our total lack of experience, that trip was a blast. It only made me more trail hungry.

After the Panther Town glory days, I spent each of my high school Christmases building up my backpacking supplies - stuff sacks, sleeping bag and pad, stove, water filter, tent, and finally a backpack for graduation. Going to Roanoke for college, I had every intention of using these supplies and diving into the Outdoor Adventure program on campus.

Intentions are not actions. Did I backpack? No. I did homework.

Fast forward to Fall Break of 2012. After I had been lugging this awesome backpacking gear around for years, I decided it was finally time to utilize it. 

My spontaneous friend Wesley agreed to go on an overnight trip with me down the Chatooga Trail, right on the Georgia-South Carolina border (We didn't hear banjo music, if any of you Deliverance fans were wondering). At least I had a fairly accurate printed map this time - even if it was only because I signed up for a free trial of a trail map website. I was in the throes of midterms, and planning was minimal. I picked Wesley up in Columbia on the way, and he didn't even have a sleeping bag. 

"I lent it to a friend; I think we'll be able to meet up with him in Clemson." This is Wesley for you. I gave up long ago on trying to be prepared or make a plan more than a day ahead of time. Even though the sleeping bag didn't come through, in general, things tend to work in Wesley's favor. He has far more backpacking experience than me, section hiking through Georgia, North Carolina and Tennessee on the AT last summer. The problem is, he just goes, making things work out along the way. 

After he shivered through the night and a considerable dose of lactic acid built up in my muscles, we decided that rather than turning back and re-hiking the trail to reach the car, we would go ahead and press on to the end of the fifteen mile trail. A few more miles and we would be out to the road, where we could probably hitch a ride.

As things do for Wesley, all worked out. We hiked the whole trail, and after about thirty minutes of sticking our thumbs out, a construction worker drove us back to the trail head. After just two days, my body was exhausted in a way I had never before experienced..

I mean look at this guy. Wesley is the epitome of adventure.

But I have a confession. Even though I have all this gear, and I love the mountains, and I've hiked hundreds of trails (albeit at too fast a pace -- I've scared off a few too many potential hiking buddies), those two trips are my only backpacking experiences. It makes it kind of comical that I was seriously considering section hiking half of the AT this summer. I have poured over the way-points in a thru hiker's guide, I read Bill Bryson's A Walk in the Woods, I've spent hours researching what to pack and how to pack and what to eat and where to sleep. In lieu of months on the trail, though, I have chosen an alternative six days through Shenandoah National Park.Though this is much wiser, nearly 100 miles is still a mammoth when the longest you've ever backpacked is a weekend. Ready or not, as of tomorrow afternoon, Wesley and I will be at it again.

I am simultaneously so ready...and so not ready. I am tired of planning. I know what we're eating, I've figured out where we're sleeping and how long we're hiking everyday. When I was planning, it was fun, and I got pretty excited. But now I just want to stop thinking about it and let my legs start doing the work. Much as I appreciate Wesley's down-for-anything attitude, communication and cell phone use  is not a strong point for us, and you can imagine how helpful a guy who didn't bring his sleeping bag last time has been during this round of planning. I like having a plan. Wesley just goes for it. Nothing wrong with that; in many ways it's a lot easier. But it puts a lot of pressure on me to figure all of this out for both my own and my mother's peace of mind. Right now, I so deeply desire an experienced teacher who wants to - pun intended - show me the ropes of backpacking, but it looks like experience herself will be my teacher. She's one of the tougher ones.

When I was packing to come to Roanoke, I just frantically stuffed all potential gear the night before I left. Out of curiosity, I stepped on the scale. 41 pounds. Without water OR the tent. Oh God. For a 137 pound female, that equates to a minimum solid 11 unnecessary pounds on my back. I consulted some expert backpacking friends, I cut a lot of luxuries (so long fresh pairs of underwear). I displaced a whole bag of gear I was once taking. I added half the tent. It felt lighter, I felt good. New grand total? FORTY-ONE POUNDS. Jesus. Half a tent cannot equate to that bag. HOW is that math even possible?

So I'm leaving tomorrow, and my pack is still 41 pounds. I don't really know what to do, and my anxiety continues to rise. The only solution I have is to cut half the food and find a place to drop it in the middle of our trek. Fortunately Shenandoah is a long, skinny national park, and near sighted retirees cruise straight through it on the scenic Skyline Drive, so I'm not totally in the isolation of the deep woods. I've been told I can buy a milkshake along the way. I'm also worried about the average thirteen to fifteen miles a day I'm aiming to hit.  I am a strong, fit female, but I don't know what my body is capable of. It was pretty sore after our last trip. 

Right now, I'd covet your prayers. First to cut this weight from my pack. It's becoming laughable (though it certainly won't be on the trail!). But more seriously, to be honest, I'm pretty fed up with all of it. The excitement has passed, and I am so over planning, even though the plan is so alarmingly nebulous. Wesley is meeting me in Roanoke, but I still don't know when. I've been talking too long to too many people without doing. I just want to get out on this trail that has daily consumed many of my thoughts the last few months. Shenandoah is notoriously one of the most popular sections of the AT, brimming with fauna, ecological diversity and wildlife. Once I'm actually in the spring season green tunnel of the Appalachian Trail, I think I'll enjoy myself.  I just need to get on the trail.