The Holidays are bittersweet for me. I think it’s because I seem to fail at the department of warm fuzzies that culture indicates I must feel. Christmastime almost feels like an illusion – or at least the materialized version of what this era dubs it as. I lived for it as a child, but as I grew and my eyes were opened, the Holidays weirdly exposed my loneliness. Even in the two years of spending them with a significant other, I felt just as lonely – if not more so – than I did gazing at the lights downtown in solitude. It’s that nipping blend of cold air settling in, grey skies, leafless, lifeless trees, and summer’s hues fading into blah, bleh, bleakness. Every winter I’ve spent on the East Coast, I’ll say to myself, “I just want my skin to be warm.” Los Angeles granted that desire of my heart for two lusciously green, sunny, 70 degree winters, but after moving back to NC in February, the cycle continues. And to top it:
Hello, regular depression meet my seasonal depression meet my Covid19 depression meet the Holidays.
The sunshine state was balm to my soul. No, really. Just as NC dipped down into the 20s and frosted everyone’s windshields, my dearest Floridian pal won a flipping 2 night stay in a tiny house and invited me to be her merry little guest. I left with leggings and a giant sweater and coffee, and arrived in what felt like Vitamin D to my literal soul. Hi, Pensacola. I will forever and always sacrifice 9 hours of stiffening my hip flexors and compromising my cervical spine for you.
Thank you, M, for rehabbing this weary traveler via your crunchy mama Biomat that I’m mildly obsessed with.
The tiny house was love at first sight. I mean…
Moriah and I screamed as soon as the door opened.
It was like a beautifully furnished, minimalistic, fully functional adult playhouse. It was all the fixings of a millennial’s dream: A loft, bathroom with perfect lighting, fire pit, palm trees serenading the outside, and of course, a Keurig with a frother on the counter space. What more could a girl ask for? I mean, hand me a Keurig with a frother, and I could live in a cardboard box and likely be fine(ish).
We were smitten. After hell week(s) in October, I felt a bit like Frodo Baggins when he wakes up in angelic light, plush bedding, and a bazillion dwarves and hobbits and enchanted creatures enfolding him feat. that bandaged thumb that Gollum bit the sh*t out of.
That is my long, poetically butchered way of saying: Florida was life giving. And I now want a tiny house. Taking applications for suitors who want to live the off grid life. I’m pretty fun and don’t require much maintenance! (Jk) (But not really)
Though the actual sunshine is life giving, the sunshine that Moriah is to my spiritual soil is even more so. People look at me and think, “Oh, she just travels for leisure and fun all the time!” But it really is not quite so. Sure, I have some travels, and many are fun. Ultimately though, I’m constantly on hunt for purpose within them. It is difficult for me to literally go somewhere for the pure fun and simplicity of it. Isn’t that dumb?! That nagging voice in my head always needs to learn something, somehow better myself, do some something that could somehow grow or refine me as a person. Even if I am on pins and needles to have such a laid back experience or see a new place, it’s like I have to have a “reason” deeper than just going.
Perhaps that is my Enneagram 4 seeping through in always having to search for meaning and purpose. Hello, my name is Anna Gray Smith, and apparently I’m bad at just having fun and being lighthearted and getting out of my head.
My only rationalization for Florida (aside from a friend, ya know, winning a tiny house vacay), was this: “I always come back feeling challenged and like I’m ready to better myself when I spend time with Moriah.”
And that, I did. She is not only a fabulous, tanner than well roasted rotisserie chicken (ok, weird, but whatever), bubbly friend, but truly a soul sister, rebuker in love, truth speaker, motivator, Gospel loving “Hadassah”, as I like to call women of virtue. She is the one and only friend who I can be biblically wounded by, yet simultaneously say, “Wow. That was awesome. THANK YOU!” as though I just received a Hallmark card with a butterfly on the cover. Moriah has influenced me greatly, and one of the few people whose influence has literally changed me as a person. She has seen me at my absolute worst (No, really. Ask her about that one time I cried on Marco Polo, or my not-so-love-life challenges. Lol.), most detrimental headspace, and darkest of seasons, yet remained constant.
We met as two baby teens at a retreat for creatives and photographers, and bonded by way of toilet paper and a panel of leaders answering R-rated questions on sex. Ask us about it sometime. Seriously.
7 years and still going strong, M-Nugget!
I feel a great sense of freedom in thought with this here pal too. Thank you, M-Nugget, for letting my wildest colors burst forth. The sunshine states has me kinda like this…
…And then leaving like this.
Also, Florida has hopeless romantics who fly their words of affirmation in the sky. We couldn’t read the banner the first time the little plane buzzed by. Several hours later, it made another circle, and we screamed when we actually read it. And yeah, a young man walked by and then just stopped, looking at us, then the banner, then laughing at us and repeat. Hopefully Judy could read it, take 2!
…And also those who take new trends to the next level. Golly gee. People act like there’s a pandemic or something!
Our mutual highlight of the weekend was definitely what I affectionately dub our “Fireside chat” (bonus points if you got that reference) and having this trippy “full circle” moment via a FaceTime call with some of our dear pals, Thomas and Stephan.
Yeah, I know. I just heard the record screech.
Everyone: “Oh; two men? MmmmmHmmmmm….” Hold your horses, because plot twist, it was *ahem* platonic. Well, I think.
Anyway. Yes! We had an actual fire to follow, but had a metaphorical one during our 3 hour FaceTime call.
Picture 3 Americans on one end, and a Dutch man in the Netherlands on the other. We’re all super likeminded for the most part, except for the fact that 3 out of the 4 are far more conspiracy theoristy (Ok; so 2 out of the 4) and loud (Ok; still 2 out of the 4) (I’ll leave the guessing as to which 2 up to you). Perhaps I should set the stage a little.
Once upon a time, a very complex story and some Instagram clashing and heat later,
I befriended this guy in the Netherlands who annoyed the everliving daylights out of me when we debated politics and Covid19 and that one time he dared to question my journalist crush, Candace Owens (GASP). His name was Stephan Smith, but I read it as “Steven Smith” – you know – in my very A’murican like way. I told him he made me want to jump out a window at times during our essay style debates, and he told me I pronounced his name the wrong way.
“It’s Ste-phone Smit. It would be like putting together the words ‘Stay’ and ‘Fun’…but the ‘Fun’ is a little more of a ‘Phone’,” he counseled me via an audio message.
And so, I called him StayFun (And Stepho and Stephano) and also suggested we were potentially long lost cousins since we shared the same last name, and should spit into an ancestry tube to verify. The short version: Stephan and I clashed and mutually hit that “Unfollow” button on Insta (Crowd: “OHHHH!”) a long hot while back, then realized we actually had more in common than we thought, then realized (months later) our European vs. American mindsets actually concluded the same things but from two different angles, then realized we both listened to Blackmill and liked toast, then became pals. Boom. Hand shake.
Then there’s Thomas and Moriah. I won’t shpill into their connection (it is much different!), but they too began their friendship by clashing and debating. Moriah told him at one point that he made her want to throw a hammer at the wall, then parted ways a long hot while, then also realized they had more in common. When I visited in May and we recorded that one podcast we never published, she and Thomas had just parted ways. I basically heard the narration of their encounters from the very beginnings, and a large piece of me wanted to meet this mysterious, hardheaded, theological Thomas she spoke of. We sat on her sofa and I’m pretty sure she asked me 9827349 times,
“Should I text Thomas?”
And I’m pretty sure I said 9827349 times,
“YES.”
But alas, she did not. Some things must be put to rest for the time being, and therefore have the time to unfold. Seeing the infamous Thomas walk into our tiny house was very full circle. Sitting on a couch in a tiny house with Thomas and Moriah, while FaceTiming Stephan across the ocean in the Netherlands…was even more trippy and full circle. There was much American girl style shrieking and laughing and giddiness and ridiculously absurd questions. If I feel connected to someone or we share some sort of “EUREKA!”, I say that we share fetal tissue. And so, of course Moriah and I dubbed our newfound little group the “Fetal Tissue Fam”.
Stephan answered the call, and Moriah and I sat there laughing for probably a solid 30 seconds. I predicted this to her days leading up to our “Full circle” Skype sesh. I said, “I feel like I won’t really know what to do with myself, will likely laugh so hard when I see all of our faces together, and probably say something inappropriate or awkward to break the ice.”
Aside from the words “Flat earth” being mentioned at one point, it was great joy! Would give it a 10 on Yelp!
We had a fo’real fire and s’mores (thanks, Thomas!!) and more soulful convo until 1:30AM to follow. I’ll just say: Spending that time with Thomas and Moriah felt like a long lost family reuniting. It felt like this Divinely orchestrated conversation and connection, and I can say that it was at the top of my highlights within the twists and turns that has been 2020.
I am still pinching myself that 2021 is on the horizon. I’ve been trying not to wear myself out, as I’ve realized back to back busyness does not help my physical health or sanity in the slightest. So, I’ve scaled back a whole lot. My runs hover no further than 5 miles max, my schedule is beginning to space out, and some days, I allow for a full day off with literally no physical activity or tasks. Just rest. It’s a bit of a new concept to this here restless soul, but I’ve felt so much better. 2019 was hard. 2020 has been hard. Actually, it’s drained me, and oddly felt like a hazy dream that I cannot wake up from.
…But it’s faces like these that make the gloomy days all the brighter! 10/10 recommend coffee chats, walks downtown, word vomiting, and abdominal workouts via hyena laughing with likeminded souls. To the people in my life: Thank you. Unbeknownst to you, you are the reason life feels warm on even the darkest of days.
*Cue Better Place by Rachel Platten*
“Gwen, AG takes terrible selfies.”
Me: “IT IS TRUE; SOMEONE ELSE PLEASE TAKE IT!”
*snaps*
Friends don’t let friends spend heated election nights alone.
I also got struck down by a uhm…pathogen…that wiped me out with a vengeance at the end of October. I like to call it “Saturday Night Fever” (fake crowd laughter). What did I do?
Run to the doctor, get a Covid19 test, take some foreign pill thingy, fear for my life? Duhhh.
Jk. My personal protocol looked more like this…
Sleep. Elderberry approx. 982734 times a day. Burning oneself alive via heating pad or hydrotherapy + magical droplets of lavender. Sleep. Sunshine and snail’s pace walk. Sleep. Pressed juice. Sleep. Water and more intentionally surging one’s fever. Sleep. More eldeberry. More Vitamin D via mother nature and more snail’s pace walks. More sleep.
And then one day, I woke up and felt exponentially better. The end.
Wasn’t that climactic?
Ok. End passive words towards certain happenings in this world.
If you’ve kept up with any of my words in regards to this thing called Covid19 since March, then you are fully aware that I have some…uhm…theoristy roots. 😉 Confession: I actually love it when people dub me a conspiracy theorist, even if that means seeming kooky and ridiculous. The moment someone realizes my Vans and nose ring and ex-city life only but facaded my otherwise conservative, theoristy, skeptical mindset, is just fabulous. I got unfollowed/subtweeted/troll stalked the most when I began posting my discovery of (GASP) the Q Theory back in springtime, and also posting a bunch of alternative health videos and opinions I later dubbed as bullsh*t.
Let’s just say, Stepho (a rational realist) had some salt towards my enthusiasm of such things at the time. Also may or may not have been a large piece of why he clicked that “UNFOLLOW” button. LOL. The other week, I sent him this photo of my sixth cup of jo. Before I even had time to defend myself:
*Simultaneously*
Me: “Feat. the Qatar mug my father got from an Arabic Starbucks!”
Him: “A Q’Anon mug, I see.”
Touche.
One of my bestest pals, Li Li, is an Asian cuisine pro. She is from China, so she knows the ropes of what noodles and foreign substances are both edible and tasty and what is authentic vs. what is Americanized and introduced me to the random shards of vegetables and questionable shroom like thingies and noodles floating in broth called “Ramen”.
And it was fipping delish. Confession: I did in fact hold up a bouquet of miniature shrooms with a raised eyebrow.
Li Li: “I have a plant identifier app. Let me take a photo.”
Li Li: “It doesn’t recognize it.”
Without my consent, she then proceeded to flag down a waiter and hissed at me to, “Just ask him!!”
I obliged and held up a spoonful of brothy shrooms.
“Hi, yes!! So…what exactly is this?”
O’Henry Hotel’s gigantic bathtub was a staple. It felt a bit like staying in a spa. Don’t be fooled. These were the scratchiest bathrobes we’d ever worn, but they fit the ambiance and spa-like occasion, so we sacrificed.
Last but not least…
Dutch pal StayFun sent this here little book to my doorstep a few weeks ago…
…And it may or may not have to do with my next destination, come 2021. ; -)