Two by Two

They are at it again, these mallards. Orange webbed feet sludging through a giant mud puddle of tall grasses. They join me every morning and I laugh because the pristine lake is a quarter mile away. I’d take the wide-open lake over a buggy, dirty puddle myself. But yes, I act like this too sometimes, can’t see the lake for the puddle. I get you, ducks.

It is nature day on the trail this morning. Everyone is moving two by two, like the famous ark scene, but without the rain. Or the imposing old man. As far as humans, I have the trail to myself: the cheese runs alone.

Two deer cross my path, eyeing me suspiciously. Would there be any other way, for the most majestic of creatures to see this humanoid huffing and puffing her way down the path? The deer must have really been wondering. They don’t move out of the way as I loudly approach. For a minute I am frightened: Bambi Attacks (Very Slow) Jogger. News at 11. But we make our peace as I run by, a place on the path for each.

There are two robins, two garden variety black birds, two cardinals, one the most astonishing of reds. They cavort and bounce in the morning’s warmth.

The sun rises through the trees and I can see the reddened sky over the lake. A glorious way to start the morning. My dad echoes in my head from miles away: “It's all part of nature, you see.”

Yep, he got it, set me on this path to look with a young girl’s wonder even when my knees are telling me I am not so youthful anymore.

I pass the deer again. They let me get closer this time. My own little audience watching me from atop the little hill where they stand. I am sure they are cheering on the inside.

Two birds overhead reflect the mirrored light of the new sun’s rays, all white and celestial on their undersides like that dove from the ark.

Once again I pass the puddle. The ducks join me on the path as I pass. And yes, I can run slightly faster than they can waddle. Another one of my dad’s favorite sayings comes to mind: “You with the webbed feet, get out of the pool.”

And then it hits me. The cheese really isn’t running alone after all.

Tip of the Iceberg

The look on her face was acute revulsion mixed with awe and horror. It was as though I was the train wreck and she could not look away. I couldn’t have surprised her more if I had pulled out an uzi and started shooting up the classroom. Sarah and I had to meet later that day for a writing competition. I suggested that she text me when she was close to the site. Then I watched her face flower into disbelief. She turned bright red and took a few steps back. She just could not grasp that her eighth grade teacher could text, much less suggest it as a means of communication. We had a good laugh about it later after the tournament, but I could tell that it was still too much for her to fathom.

I wonder what she and her classmates would do if they knew more. I suppose they don’t spend much time thinking about what their writing teacher does when she is not standing in front of them, or where she may have spent her time before the days of her teaching career began. They probably think I dropped bodily from the atmosphere into their classroom, and at the end of each school day I just box myself up until the next lesson. I bet I could really rock their worlds with a few of my juicy secrets. Or even the mundane ones.

Would they believe, for instance, that my dad was a repo man and I used to help him make investigative calls? He even found a car with a dead body in it once. Could they imagine me at the top of the Eiffel Tower with an American tourist named John, or running hand in hand with said tourist from the train station to the Louvre just before closing time? Could they picture me singing in a Dublin pub, or hitchhiking in the back of a white van, or herding cows that lived on my cousin’s farm in Ireland? They would probably also have trouble grasping that one night I drove to Niagra Falls and back with some friends, solely to chew grape Bazooka bubble gum in sight of the torrential horseshoe-shaped waters.

As I age, I suppose my dreams seem much more humdrum than the adventures of my youth. But if a kid thinks that me texting is outlandish, perhaps she would be surprised by other simple things as well. Like the fact that I have taken up jogging. Can’t really claim to call it running. Not yet anyway. But what if they could see me sweating on that path through the woods near my home? THEY might be the ones in need of resuscitation. What if they caught a glimpse of me dancing in the rain with my daughter, or building sand fortresses with my sons? Or if they could see me struggling to write, to express myself, to publish, to go after my dreams? We probably have more in common than they realize when I put a blank paper in front of them and watch them clamor for a muse.

There are other secrets. Places in my heart that I am sure would shock even me. And dreams that are just coming to light. It’s been a wild year so far and a time of great insight and change in my life. And face it. If I am honest, it really hasn’t been all that long that I have known how to text. So perhaps Sarah is not that far off in her shock. But really, if she and her classmates only knew what was lying underneath the still waters of the woman who stands in front of them, I do think they would be amazed.

And as I struggle to unearth the dreams myself, to forge the new paths that keep me moving forward with vision and strength, I am pretty amazed myself!

Weighed Down

The bag is still sitting in the corner. Its been there for weeks, stuffed between my dressers and the basket of unmatched socks in my bedroom. Apparently I am waiting for it to sprout legs and walk away by itself, but clearly that is not happening.

I have been working on this project for the past five months. The project of making a tinier, healthier me. I have cut calories, eaten more than my share of crisp cauliflower, and avoided the endless stream of goldfish crackers in my house. Then there are the workouts. I swear Jillian Michaels is trying to kill me. She and her 30 Day Shred have been tormenting me for well over thirty days now. I have done boot camps, pilates, and even a very difficult and suspicious routine dubbed Yoga Meltdown. Against my better judgment, I have even starting running.

But still the weight remains. Oh, I don’t mean the physical pounds on my body. Those are doing a pretty good job with their grand exit. Twenty-nine pounds and four ounces removed on this journey so far. Boy do I love the tenths place on that scale! And the clothing sizes, well, they have been dropping too. Down from size twelve to size eight, and even sometimes a six when the wind is blowing from the northwest and all the stars are aligned just so!

So what is the problem? Why is this bag of giant clothes still sitting in my bedroom? Why is it so difficult for me to give these clothes away, the old giant teacher sweaters and the pants that won’t stay up? I’ve basically halved myself, at least according to the size of my khaki pants. But the bag of clothes sits and waits for I’m not sure what.

Oh, I understand that I have some sort of block. Any grown woman who has been carrying around 30+ pounds for her entire adult life definitely has something to hide. Or to unearth. I’m just not quite understanding the why of it all. Oh, I get the mathematics. I understand how much my body needs to move and what needs to be consumed in order to lose weight.

But I can’t yet figure what my heart needs to do in order to feel like I deserve it. That I am worthy of breathing deeply and having my body respond. That I am capable of looking good in single digit clothing. That I can look forward to bathing suit season without cringing. That I can run and not collapse. That I can show off defined muscles.

It isn’t the money I spent on the clothes. Its not that I am attached to certain styles or colors. It is something to do with the nakedness, my need for covering. My fat did it for some many years. And these bulky sweaters are all I have left to hide behind.

But I think I’ve had enough. I really do. Spring is a good time for shedding: the detritus of winter, cocoons, fears. I want the fat to stay gone, and the oversized pants to find a new happy home. As for me and my new rock hard abs, you can find the likes of us racing down the beach and soaking in the sun soon enough. Without any old-fangled ideas or clothing weighing us down.

The Power

The air is heavy. Thick with humidity. And I don’t have a choice. I need to get out. It is a sharp longing, like my desire for oxygen or sleep. The storm is coming. Harsh rumblings pound closer and the sky glows an eerie shade of pink. I know I’ve got to move.

And it happens. Just like that. I am flying down the street, feet not quite sure what to do with newly found speed. I only run when being chased. It is a policy I’ve kept with well. But tonight is different. I need to get out fast.

The sidewalk meets my shoes haltingly, and my breath heats. I cannot believe this is me. Wouldn’t believe it at all if not for the faltering steps at the end of my own legs and the cymbals of my breath crashing in my ears.

I run as though my life depended on it. And as the storm pounds closer I can see that it does. The sky rips open top to bottom, like pale flesh covering thoracic cavity, and every bump in the road is illuminated. For an instant. Then the sky plunges to black and my feet struggle for balance.

I keep running. The wind chases me now. I turn the corner and head for home. I’m not in it for the distance tonight. It is too new and too raw. But now I see. There is more to me than I already know. Some strange strength is gathering like the roiling clouds blowing in from the west.

I reach my driveway just as giant raindrops start to fall. The wind and lightning torment each other to frenzy as I slam through my front door. And my chest heaves as I stare back into the night. Hail the size of kumquats is pelting soggy grass and the sky is lit up like the middle of the day.

The power of the storm is fierce. But there is other power here, too. And tonight I can finally see it as the lightning rages through the darkened sky.

Sands of Time

The night is perfect, if not a little too windy. One of those spring evenings on the lakeshore where you feel like you have finally cheated the long, harsh winter. I watch my son and daughter play in the sand at Lake Erie’s edge. He looks like Huck Finn, I think, as he saddles up to the world’s largest piece of driftwood. His giant flat feet slap the sand as he counts with his sister: “1, 2, 3, lift!” They are not quite strong enough to heave the driftwood back to sea. He insists on calling it the sea, this sandy-headed adventurer with the impish grin. It always makes me giggle.

The lake is crystal clear underneath the breakers that kiss the shore tonight. The algae has not yet had time to grow and the winter’s freeze has kept the water clean and pure so far. The air is sweltering and so odd for April. My kids run in and out of the water, being careful to avoid the rocks at the bottom. I dip my toes in and have to jump back immediately. The water is too cold for my adult sensibilities. But I watch them “accidentally on purpose” fall into the water in their clothes. Now they have no choice but to frolic and swim. It has been a very long time since I was the little girl, playing inside the break-wall and chasing waves with my father. We called this place Rocky Bottoms, a name we coined that still holds true now some thirty years later. Both the name and the place, it seemed, were like our own little secret.

I am grateful to see so many people enjoying the wonders of nature this night. It seems like so many nights I have been here alone. But tonight is different. There is a family of seven on the break-wall nearby. They spell out O-H-I-O for a picture, minus the baby who is busy eating sand. There is an older couple up top watching the action from a bench. The snack cooler between them gets some use before they shuffle back to their car. A burly young man uses the boat launch for his twenty-footer and a couple of jet skies throw their wake nearby. There are other families with sand buckets and young kids and older people with dogs and bikes. A few teen-agers giddy with the freedom of warm weather round out the scene. We are all reveling in nature’s best party, a sunset overlooking the lake on a perfect evening like tonight.

I can’t imagine a world where north wasn’t Lake Erie and I couldn’t hear the many moods of the water from my front yard a half mile away. I don’t know that I could subscribe to a life without Lake Effect Snow and the cooling summer breezes that keep temperatures sane in the deep heat. And I sure don’t think a childhood is complete without skipping rocks and getting sand in your shoes. And your hair.
And your heart.

Precious Moments

The calendar dictates that my spring vacation is over, but there are some moments that I would like to hang on to. It’s like the Climax song that I was infatuated with in high school. (And isn’t high school the perfect place for infatuations?) “Precious and few are the moments we two can share. And if I can’t find my way back home, it just wouldn’t be fair, cuz precious and few are the moments we two can share.” The academic world in which I live is ruled by the bell schedule and the clock. I start and end my day with a sharp jangling, and I constantly have my eye on the clock to get it all in, make everything fit, and get the charges out the door on time. And God forbid I am in the middle of a sentence, no matter how profound, when the lunch bell rings. No one will hear the end of it.

My home has a much different feel. Vacations are not governed by time. We wake and sleep in a more natural rhythm (although, let’s face it: two year old and natural rhythm are usually mutually excusive.) We sometimes start with a loose plan, but are willing to jump off the beaten path and go with the flow. I like it that way. And so while others traveled to far-off beaches and enjoyed sun and sand over vacation, my home and I enjoyed some stellar moments. I love these glimpses when time stands still and I can focus on being rather than doing.

So here is a glimpse of moments, in no particular order, that I would like to tuck away in my memory:

The look on Marty’s face, half-hidden by sun and helmet, as he streaked down the sidewalk on his bike. Faster than I thought possible, his legs pumped furiously and his giggles kept the rhythm of the beautiful moment!

The fit of giggles I encountered with some new friends and some old ladies. We happened upon a Ladies’ Guild meeting while waiting for a speaker, and I saw a glimpse of the future I am sure (hoping) I will never find. God help me if I dye my eyebrows brown and wear sandals and hose together, or feel the need to talk about the social excitement of wakes.

The scenes in my back yard watching my kids play with the neighbors. We have been through foods, fires and tornados this week: it was big for natural disasters. Even as I type this, there is a very serious happening with swords and spy gear on my front lawn.

The sweat dripping from my face and the strength in my body that I never knew I had. This spring is a time for re-birth, a time for me to re-construct my body and mind and take control. I like this feeling of power an awful lot.

The lilt of my youngest as he constantly croons: “Mommy, I want to tell you sumpthing.” The boy is a myriad of runny nose and sparkling eyes and freeform ideas. And let’s not forget the pteradactyl shrieks whenever someone does him wrong. And even when they don’t.

The feeling of semi-consciousness as I waken from a nap in my back yard. The sun was out, the warmest of breezes blowing, and the book I had been reading was laying cock-eyed across my chest. Perfection.

The ham. Oh that amazing ham times two houses and the potato salad and the twice baked potatoes and the chocolate-covered pretzels and the…..Well, you get the picture. Easter was not a good day for re-tooling my body, but perhaps my soul took a turn instead?

The amazement I feel when I watch my daughter read and how she opens four books and reads the first chapter in each with her little eyebrows knit in concentration. And then she moves on to chapter two and so on until my head is dizzy. Can’t imagine that I had a hand in her creation. Beautiful!

The knowledge that the best things really are what money can’t buy. The way my kids feel in my lap when we read “Maltilda” before bed. The pitter patter I hear at bedtime because they just want one more hug. The grins of accomplishment that come from jungle gyms crossed or art created.

Precious and few. It’s really true.

Old

When I am old I will wear bold prints,
Or perhaps a red pleather coat with golden shoes.
I might adorn a simple black dress with macramé and beads of many colors.
And dye my eyebrows the deepest muddy brown.

When I am old I will speak loudly and out of turn.
I will fall asleep upright in chairs and ramble on with no one listening.
I will adorn my bony fingers with giant shards of costume glass
And coif my blue-tinged hair with careful hand.

When I am old I will shuffle my feet
And get up slowly from my chair. I will dress to the hilt and
Always wear colored hose with sandals. I will murmur often.

When I am old I will always get my money’s worth and dine
Exuberantly at the table of snacks. I will even take some home in my purse.
I will be nosy and always have an anecdote about a grandkid,
And dig relentlessly for connections.

When I am old I will think that a short trip across town is as amazing
As man walking on the moon. But maybe on both counts I’ll be right.
I will eat the cake AND the brownies with icing.
I will know that the elevators won’t arrive until long after I am gone.
And I will be finally comfortable enough to simply be.