1. spelling things.
2. dodging the issue.
3. making turkey lemon cutlets.
4. keeping the peace.
5. eating ice cream.
6. writing lists. and paragraphs.
7. cleaning up messes.
8. making messes.
9. making oatmeal.
10. shoveling snow.
11. packing boxes.
12. unpacking boxes.
13. packing away dreams.
14. saving for a rainy day.
15. stirring chocolate milk.
16. stirring up trouble.
17. applying band-aids.
18. running slowly.
19. burning toast.
20. remaining at rest.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Great Full
Gratitude, according to the dictionary, is not a verb. But I see it as an action nonetheless. Obviously this is a good time of year to be grateful; November always works for me in this capacity. My birthday month, its the time of year that I am forced inside to ponder the passage of time. And as the weather chills and the days get shorter, I must deal with life at a slower pace. The school year is in full swing, and my freneticism as a teacher and mother have finally settled down. Plus it’s kind of hard to miss the giant inflatable turkeys and cornucopias of thanks.
I am thankful for the usual of course. My family and friends top the list, especially my children. I am thankful for peanut butter kisses from the three year old, and the artful way he bedecks the entire house with a roll of toilet paper. I admire the drawings and comedic timing of his brother, and the attention to details my daughter pays.
As the pile of birthday candles grows bigger and I reflect on a health scare this summer, I am growing ever more appreciative of my health and the strides I will take to hold on to it.
But I think the gift that strikes me the most this year is that of re-creation. I started last November when I took that National Novel Writing Challenge. I wrote fifty thousand words in a month and created a pretty interesting story, if I do say so myself. (Which I have to, because no one else has yet read it!)
I’m not sure if that sustained writing and achievement of a goal was really the springboard, but by the time the first of the year rolled around, I was ready to start my whole life anew. I have spent the last ten months literally re-creating myself.
I think I am so thankful because this is still so shocking to me. I have changed my way of thinking, the shape of my body, and the spirit that breathes within me. And I have done this myself. I just never really thought it was possible to do a total u-turn on the road I was traveling.
Gratitude is an action. I believe this wholeheartedly. When I run, when I breathe, when I write, when I believe, I am drinking in the moment. And I am also proving to the universe that I both appreciate it and deserve it.
And a million trillion others just like it. And I will be grateful for each of those too!
I am thankful for the usual of course. My family and friends top the list, especially my children. I am thankful for peanut butter kisses from the three year old, and the artful way he bedecks the entire house with a roll of toilet paper. I admire the drawings and comedic timing of his brother, and the attention to details my daughter pays.
As the pile of birthday candles grows bigger and I reflect on a health scare this summer, I am growing ever more appreciative of my health and the strides I will take to hold on to it.
But I think the gift that strikes me the most this year is that of re-creation. I started last November when I took that National Novel Writing Challenge. I wrote fifty thousand words in a month and created a pretty interesting story, if I do say so myself. (Which I have to, because no one else has yet read it!)
I’m not sure if that sustained writing and achievement of a goal was really the springboard, but by the time the first of the year rolled around, I was ready to start my whole life anew. I have spent the last ten months literally re-creating myself.
I think I am so thankful because this is still so shocking to me. I have changed my way of thinking, the shape of my body, and the spirit that breathes within me. And I have done this myself. I just never really thought it was possible to do a total u-turn on the road I was traveling.
Gratitude is an action. I believe this wholeheartedly. When I run, when I breathe, when I write, when I believe, I am drinking in the moment. And I am also proving to the universe that I both appreciate it and deserve it.
And a million trillion others just like it. And I will be grateful for each of those too!
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
My Resurrection
Somewhere between the two-dozen portolets and the sea of spandex, I realized that I was about as far outside of my comfort zone as I could get. What started as a lark one stormy night almost exactly five months before had led me to the starting line of the Towpath Marathon’s 10 K race. The air was crisp, the autumn leaves danced, and the anonymity of the throng of people helped calm my thudding heart. I’m sure I was the only one wearing nine-dollar Target running shoes. And clutching my i-pod as though my life depended on it. Really, it kind of did.
The gun went off. Or did it? Not really sure if there even was a starter’s pistol, but as the crowd surged forward I knew the race was underway. The beginning was treacherous. A sea of humanity jockeying for position and trying to set a personal pace. I ran unscathed through the first madness, settling in fairly quickly with a speed I knew I could keep. And then the smiling started. The sunrise was beautiful, pinks and oranges still tickling their way above the line of trees. And the road was flat, dipping only slightly to give me a view of the hundreds in front of me. We ran three miles like this, scuttling for position, passing and being passed. I never stopped giggling.
The real fun started on the Towpath trail, a crushed limestone snake of a thing that flanked the river. I ran under towering bridges and beneath the reddest of leaves. The day was simply gorgeous, dappled light playing on the river and the path ahead. The five-mile marker shocked me. I had no idea I had already run that far.
Who knew I would have some juice left to kick it into high gear for the last mile? I passed a few last opponents with the finish line in view. A glorious feeling, really, to cross those rubber mats at the end of six plus miles. And something I could have never believed about myself.
The adjustment mentally has been even harder than the physical exertions of molding my body into that of a runner. The weight was easy to lose. The calves tightened themselves. But my heart? That is a lot trickier to manipulate. That morning on the Towpath cemented what I myself could not: the feeling that I am a runner and I can accomplish things I never thought possible.
My new training has already begun: 13.1 miles is my next goal, a half-marathon. This sounds too ridiculous to say out loud. But secretly, I know I can make this magic happen. I am not the same woman who started that race on the Towpath. I’m really hitting my stride, it seems. The Resentments song on my i-pod says it all: “Just a step. One small step. A leap of faith. And a resurrection.”
The gun went off. Or did it? Not really sure if there even was a starter’s pistol, but as the crowd surged forward I knew the race was underway. The beginning was treacherous. A sea of humanity jockeying for position and trying to set a personal pace. I ran unscathed through the first madness, settling in fairly quickly with a speed I knew I could keep. And then the smiling started. The sunrise was beautiful, pinks and oranges still tickling their way above the line of trees. And the road was flat, dipping only slightly to give me a view of the hundreds in front of me. We ran three miles like this, scuttling for position, passing and being passed. I never stopped giggling.
The real fun started on the Towpath trail, a crushed limestone snake of a thing that flanked the river. I ran under towering bridges and beneath the reddest of leaves. The day was simply gorgeous, dappled light playing on the river and the path ahead. The five-mile marker shocked me. I had no idea I had already run that far.
Who knew I would have some juice left to kick it into high gear for the last mile? I passed a few last opponents with the finish line in view. A glorious feeling, really, to cross those rubber mats at the end of six plus miles. And something I could have never believed about myself.
The adjustment mentally has been even harder than the physical exertions of molding my body into that of a runner. The weight was easy to lose. The calves tightened themselves. But my heart? That is a lot trickier to manipulate. That morning on the Towpath cemented what I myself could not: the feeling that I am a runner and I can accomplish things I never thought possible.
My new training has already begun: 13.1 miles is my next goal, a half-marathon. This sounds too ridiculous to say out loud. But secretly, I know I can make this magic happen. I am not the same woman who started that race on the Towpath. I’m really hitting my stride, it seems. The Resentments song on my i-pod says it all: “Just a step. One small step. A leap of faith. And a resurrection.”
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Roughly
Almost, some writing on a Tuesday.
The stutter steps of crunching acorns
Surround the brilliant blues of sky and mood.
And there is almost within me some (w)hole.
Tuesday’s child is full of grace
And that is inside me from the start
But the only thing that comes to mind is:
“I will pelt you with rocks and garbage.”
And it is Tuesday almost and time to fling these thoughts
Like acorns and watch them explode into the fire of nearly
Fall. And a million and's and but's and missteps
Crunching leaves and ideas and acorn hats until
I lean to pick the pieces from my shoes and almost
Fall myself.
The stutter steps of crunching acorns
Surround the brilliant blues of sky and mood.
And there is almost within me some (w)hole.
Tuesday’s child is full of grace
And that is inside me from the start
But the only thing that comes to mind is:
“I will pelt you with rocks and garbage.”
And it is Tuesday almost and time to fling these thoughts
Like acorns and watch them explode into the fire of nearly
Fall. And a million and's and but's and missteps
Crunching leaves and ideas and acorn hats until
I lean to pick the pieces from my shoes and almost
Fall myself.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Back to School
It’s not quite as bad as last year. Sure there is screaming and gnashing of teeth. (Okay, mostly mine.) And there are little people who refuse to go to sleep at bedtime, thereby making it much harder to wake them up in the early reverie. And there are some wardrobe malfunctions. Shoes that fit three days ago at the store will not find their way onto feet that need to walk out the door in five minutes. And there are routines to re-establish. Lunches are packed and clothes laid out the night before amid a lot of whining and griping.
But really, it’s not quite as bad as last year.
This is the time of year that tries a mother’s patience. Add to that the fact that I am a teacher AND a mother, and I have my own lunch to pack and clothes to lay out, and things can get really harried.
But they are growing up, I think. The middle guy’s in kindergarten, and happy as a clam to be going to school all day, walking to and fro with his big sis. She, for her part, has made it “upstairs” as a second grader, and seems able to handle the homework planner and guiding her brother to and from school. Even the baby, a misnomer if I ever heard one, is getting his act together for pre-school and excited about his Spider Man book bag and new friend Isaac.
We still have occasional screaming and tantrum-throwing, lost forms and lost patience, but the transition is as good as can be expected.
I think the patient will survive this crisis.
But really, it’s not quite as bad as last year.
This is the time of year that tries a mother’s patience. Add to that the fact that I am a teacher AND a mother, and I have my own lunch to pack and clothes to lay out, and things can get really harried.
But they are growing up, I think. The middle guy’s in kindergarten, and happy as a clam to be going to school all day, walking to and fro with his big sis. She, for her part, has made it “upstairs” as a second grader, and seems able to handle the homework planner and guiding her brother to and from school. Even the baby, a misnomer if I ever heard one, is getting his act together for pre-school and excited about his Spider Man book bag and new friend Isaac.
We still have occasional screaming and tantrum-throwing, lost forms and lost patience, but the transition is as good as can be expected.
I think the patient will survive this crisis.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Around the Corner
My legs are churning, heart racing. This asphalt path is good for speed. Acorns already litter the smooth course and the evening light falls faster into shade. I round a sharp corner and gasp so loudly that the man in front of me turns to see if I have fallen. I cannot take my eyes off the ball of fire dipping into the sky. It falls so fast, too fast for me to get a glimpse of it around the next bend. I content myself with the one moment of sheer beauty that I have witnessed, the brightest of red against the backdrop of blue sky and jagged trees.
Just around the corner. It could be my mantra these days. I am on the brink. “It” with a capital I is just around the corner. I don’t kid myself. It is not always so glamorous as a perfectly setting sun. Last week I rounded a bend on my bike and almost got clocked by the Superintendent of schools dragging himself home after a long day. A few days before that I scared the hell out of a deer and myself when I hit a curve too quickly.
But just around the bend works for me. And I’m an optimist, so I imagine they’ll be more royal sunsets than near collisions. So many lessons for me these days. So many things just around the corner. And they are not lost on me.
It’s the getting on the path that does the most good. Being there. In the moment.. Moving forward to see what might be there. Breathing deeply. Crunching acorns.
And waiting to see what is up ahead, around the next bend.
Just around the corner. It could be my mantra these days. I am on the brink. “It” with a capital I is just around the corner. I don’t kid myself. It is not always so glamorous as a perfectly setting sun. Last week I rounded a bend on my bike and almost got clocked by the Superintendent of schools dragging himself home after a long day. A few days before that I scared the hell out of a deer and myself when I hit a curve too quickly.
But just around the bend works for me. And I’m an optimist, so I imagine they’ll be more royal sunsets than near collisions. So many lessons for me these days. So many things just around the corner. And they are not lost on me.
It’s the getting on the path that does the most good. Being there. In the moment.. Moving forward to see what might be there. Breathing deeply. Crunching acorns.
And waiting to see what is up ahead, around the next bend.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Magical Memories
Another perfect day at the beach. The usual summer fare. But this one is slightly different, filled with a myriad of emotions and some old family friends. The usual players are along too: my tow-headed boys, their bronzing sister, the giant blue shovel and a big pile of buckets. Today the waves are tiny, the carpet of algae barely moves on the surface of the lake.
The story starts too long ago to recount, in a stark hospital where our mothers shared both nursing duties and friendship. And then their children came along and our mothers shared us too. Our big thing was Catawba, where each summer both families enjoyed cottages and beach towels, corn on the cob cook-outs and candy hidden in trees for the children to hunt. The years passed as they always do and we kids drifted in and out of each other’s lives like the boats on the waves where we used to play.
Until today. The winds have carried us right back to where we started. And here we meet on the same beach on which we played as children. Only now we are the grown-ups and our children are running and digging and frolicking in the surf.
My eyes are drawn to the girls: my daughter and his daughter, twins in more ways than one. (He is the oldest son of my mother’s friend. Many years ago, he and I spent more than our share of time in his aluminum boat together. We talked, fished, giggled. Almost lost our lives one hot stormy afternoon when lightning came close. And there was other heat too. But that is a story for another day.) Today it is his daughter and mine, running down the sand in tandem, chasing sea gulls.
They are relentless in their pursuit, single-minded. They deem the gray seagulls the slowest, so they focus their energies there. They share the intensity of oldest children and an interest in following rules. They look back to judge their distance from the group. But then the rock-throwing starts and (who would believe) they hit a sea gull on the tail feather. They are funny in their lukewarm remorse, softening the blows with guilty looks and shy smiles for each other’s parents.
Later we leave the beach and the girls walk hand in hand. How does this happen after a few short hours together? But really it is more. There is history here, a past they couldn’t possibly know. But perhaps like muscle memory, they understand beyond their capabilities what has come before.
We return to the cottage and they rinse the sand and suntan lotion from their sun-kissed skin. They shake their own tail feathers and giggle as they dress; only girls of this age could pull this off.
The night ends with ice cream, as any perfect summer day requires. The two sit shoulder to shoulder, sharing licks and sharing secrets. I feel sad, really, because I know how far apart they live. And the magic of Catawba will not transcend the miles, I’m afraid.
As we say our good-byes, I catch the eye of my old friend. His face reflects my own amazement and uncertainty. What a day it has been for connections and re-visiting the past through the eyes of the future. What a day for our daughters. And I catch the twinkle in his eye and think that maybe the magic of Catawba may prevail after all.
The story starts too long ago to recount, in a stark hospital where our mothers shared both nursing duties and friendship. And then their children came along and our mothers shared us too. Our big thing was Catawba, where each summer both families enjoyed cottages and beach towels, corn on the cob cook-outs and candy hidden in trees for the children to hunt. The years passed as they always do and we kids drifted in and out of each other’s lives like the boats on the waves where we used to play.
Until today. The winds have carried us right back to where we started. And here we meet on the same beach on which we played as children. Only now we are the grown-ups and our children are running and digging and frolicking in the surf.
My eyes are drawn to the girls: my daughter and his daughter, twins in more ways than one. (He is the oldest son of my mother’s friend. Many years ago, he and I spent more than our share of time in his aluminum boat together. We talked, fished, giggled. Almost lost our lives one hot stormy afternoon when lightning came close. And there was other heat too. But that is a story for another day.) Today it is his daughter and mine, running down the sand in tandem, chasing sea gulls.
They are relentless in their pursuit, single-minded. They deem the gray seagulls the slowest, so they focus their energies there. They share the intensity of oldest children and an interest in following rules. They look back to judge their distance from the group. But then the rock-throwing starts and (who would believe) they hit a sea gull on the tail feather. They are funny in their lukewarm remorse, softening the blows with guilty looks and shy smiles for each other’s parents.
Later we leave the beach and the girls walk hand in hand. How does this happen after a few short hours together? But really it is more. There is history here, a past they couldn’t possibly know. But perhaps like muscle memory, they understand beyond their capabilities what has come before.
We return to the cottage and they rinse the sand and suntan lotion from their sun-kissed skin. They shake their own tail feathers and giggle as they dress; only girls of this age could pull this off.
The night ends with ice cream, as any perfect summer day requires. The two sit shoulder to shoulder, sharing licks and sharing secrets. I feel sad, really, because I know how far apart they live. And the magic of Catawba will not transcend the miles, I’m afraid.
As we say our good-byes, I catch the eye of my old friend. His face reflects my own amazement and uncertainty. What a day it has been for connections and re-visiting the past through the eyes of the future. What a day for our daughters. And I catch the twinkle in his eye and think that maybe the magic of Catawba may prevail after all.
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