It's about this time of year, every year, when I realize how reptilian I am. I tell people, when the topic comes up (and when wouldn't it come up that I'm a reptile?), that I'm cold-blooded.
Not talking personality-wise. I'm talking actual blood temperature.
For some reason I can't keep heat inside my body and I am almost constantly cold. My circulation is horrible. When I ran track in High School, I was exempted from having to find my pulse after sprints, because not even the coach could find it. It's all related: low blood-pressure, lack of circulation, cold extremities...
I am a reptile.
In the winter this becomes more of a problem because, being incapable of creating my own heat, I have to find external heat sources. The best heat sources involve hot water, and so in the winter months I am obsessed with soups, hot cocoa, hand-washing dishes, and too-hot-and-too-long showers. Showers are my favorite, and I can easily spend up to an hour every day in the shower (that's 3 showers times 20 minutes a piece). Lately this has been striking me as a grand waste of time. But, oh, the hot water! Blissful.
The other great external heat source at my disposal is Rob. When I come up to him on a winter's day or night, and I start lifting his shirt, this is NOT a come-on. And if you ever saw it (saw it), you would hear Rob screaming like a little girl, even before my hands hit his bare stomach. The problem with this heat source is that as my hands warm, I have to find new places to put them, since the heat source loses substantial heat by being in contact with my hands. And, the heat source frequently yelps as I find new warm spots.
When Rob is not available and I am feeling ashamed about the amount of time I spend letting hot water scald my body, I huddle over the main heating vent in our house. The problem with this external heat source is that it isn't constant, so I either have to deal with it being off a good deal of time, or I have to turn up the thermostat to keep the furnace running. And even if I DO turn up the temperature, I have to fight the kids for my spot over the vent. It's a family "fun spot." Definitely first rate real estate.
I do have a rice bag that I heat until it's nearly scalding and then I hug into my chest, leaving a red mark. Then I move it to my feet until they can't stand it any more, and then back to my chest. This process can repeat for about half an hour. And Rob loves the rice bag because it largely keeps his stomach incident-free.
So as I think about winter and maintaining body heat, my commitment to lowering my water and heating bills slips. I am a reptile, and I need warmth. However I can get it.
Showing posts with label essay. Show all posts
Showing posts with label essay. Show all posts
Friday, January 15, 2010
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
A Piece of My Existence
I was driving home from a soccer game tonight, doing some thinking. (Truly, some of my best thinking time is while driving. If I could write and drive at the same time, I would.) Thinking about an idea I've been building on for years. It's always bothered me that, say, missionaries will come home from their 2-year missions SO EXCITED about the country/state where they served. "The people are so nice/generous/humble/teachable." "The landscape is beautiful." To hear them talk, apparently everything about the place was Amazing. The people, the place, the food, the shops, the public transportation. Everything.
What bothers me isn't that they think the place they went was amazing. They should think that. What bothers me is that they don't seem to realize that this love could be--and SHOULD BE--translated to every other people and every other place on earth. They didn't love Mexico before they went there. Why do they love it after living there for 2 years?
Because it became a part of them.
As I was driving home from my game, passing ordinary, non-special Cincinnati places, I checked for a sign that always has something funny written on it only to be disappointed to see it blank. I was interested to see if there was traffic at a particular corner, because there's always traffic there, no matter what time of day, and that kind of stuff interests me. I checked how many cars were in the Kroger parking lot--it was late, what were people still doing at Kroger? I noted that there weren't any cars parked in the right hand lane that sometimes is a parking lot and sometimes is a lane--a few years ago, there were always a few cars parked on the road, in front of an apartment complex, but those people must have moved away because the lane has been car-free for a while.
Why do these non-special details matter--to me, if to no one else? Why do I look for them, think about them, wonder about them? Because they're a part of me.
There are people in my life. Non-special people by nearly every standard of judgment. My brother who is my best friend and can nearly read my mind. My husband who is the rockbed of my sanity. My children who keep me on my toes and in touch with laughter. My neighbors who have been so good to my children. My friends who listen to me and I listen to them.
These non-special people matter because they are a part of me.
But more than that, I am a part of them.
I think part of what we're looking for in this life, is validation that we exist. (Okay, this is part of what I'm looking for, and maybe everyone else knows that they exist and they don't spend a moment thinking about it. But go with me here.) These people, these places, these things... they are special to us because they tell us that we Are. We have memories of these places. We have shared experiences with these people. We can think back on times that were. We have carved our existence into a particular time and place and people, and those particular times and places and people become special to us because they tell us that we Are.
I try to remember that when people talk about their kids or their vacation or their native land. These things are special to them because they know these things, and are known by these things. These things are no more or less special than the people, places and things are in my own life, but those things are Theirs, and that makes them Special.
I don't think the lesson we should learn is that nothing is truly Special. I think the lesson is that we ought to open our hearts a lot wider, because so many things, so many places, so many people, are special and wonderful and good. The world is a big place, and we're each experiencing a little piece of it. We share some of those pieces with many others, and we only have few pieces in common with others still.
I think God did that on purpose.
What bothers me isn't that they think the place they went was amazing. They should think that. What bothers me is that they don't seem to realize that this love could be--and SHOULD BE--translated to every other people and every other place on earth. They didn't love Mexico before they went there. Why do they love it after living there for 2 years?
Because it became a part of them.
As I was driving home from my game, passing ordinary, non-special Cincinnati places, I checked for a sign that always has something funny written on it only to be disappointed to see it blank. I was interested to see if there was traffic at a particular corner, because there's always traffic there, no matter what time of day, and that kind of stuff interests me. I checked how many cars were in the Kroger parking lot--it was late, what were people still doing at Kroger? I noted that there weren't any cars parked in the right hand lane that sometimes is a parking lot and sometimes is a lane--a few years ago, there were always a few cars parked on the road, in front of an apartment complex, but those people must have moved away because the lane has been car-free for a while.
Why do these non-special details matter--to me, if to no one else? Why do I look for them, think about them, wonder about them? Because they're a part of me.
There are people in my life. Non-special people by nearly every standard of judgment. My brother who is my best friend and can nearly read my mind. My husband who is the rockbed of my sanity. My children who keep me on my toes and in touch with laughter. My neighbors who have been so good to my children. My friends who listen to me and I listen to them.
These non-special people matter because they are a part of me.
But more than that, I am a part of them.
I think part of what we're looking for in this life, is validation that we exist. (Okay, this is part of what I'm looking for, and maybe everyone else knows that they exist and they don't spend a moment thinking about it. But go with me here.) These people, these places, these things... they are special to us because they tell us that we Are. We have memories of these places. We have shared experiences with these people. We can think back on times that were. We have carved our existence into a particular time and place and people, and those particular times and places and people become special to us because they tell us that we Are.
I try to remember that when people talk about their kids or their vacation or their native land. These things are special to them because they know these things, and are known by these things. These things are no more or less special than the people, places and things are in my own life, but those things are Theirs, and that makes them Special.
I don't think the lesson we should learn is that nothing is truly Special. I think the lesson is that we ought to open our hearts a lot wider, because so many things, so many places, so many people, are special and wonderful and good. The world is a big place, and we're each experiencing a little piece of it. We share some of those pieces with many others, and we only have few pieces in common with others still.
I think God did that on purpose.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Ironing Jeans
First, so no one feels sorry for me as I talk about laundry duties, I like doing laundry. I know that a lot of women hate it, but I don't. It's great thinking time. It's a peaceful and quiet and relaxing process. When I stay on top of it (which I normally do), it's a joy.
Now on to the story.
When I was in High School, I had a friend named Julie. Well, she was more a friend of a friend, but I liked her. She was nice and thoughtful, but she also was self-conscious in all the ways I wasn't, and seemed to lack that last piece in the Self-Esteem puzzle. She constantly was wondering if she was too fat even though she was a beanpole. And gorgeous on top of that. If it had been possible to hate her for being skinny and gorgeous without knowing it, I would have hated her. But she was impossible to hate. I think everyone loved Julie.
One day a friend and I were talking about wrinkly jeans. Probably because I was wearing wrinkly jeans. I didn't care about them being wrinkly, mind you; I would have worn muddy jeans to school without caring. Oh, wait. I did wear muddy jeans to school.
And my friend said, "Julie irons her jeans."
I wasn't aware, first off, that ironing jeans was an option. People iron church clothes. That's it.
And I couldn't believe, second off, that any human being would ever think it worth it to iron jeans.
I remember looking over at Julie in her immaculately wrinkle-free jeans and scoffing. Her Self-Esteem points lowered, in my mind, about 5 points that day.
Flash forward to the present. I iron Rob's clothes now. Not only has he dropped 70 lbs. in the last 5 years, he also now owns clothes that fit him. And he looks good in them. Plus, he teaches at a university on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so he needs to look somewhat professional. We're not talking white shirt and tie professional, but at least non-wrinkly clothes professional.
And I don't mind the ironing. Again, all laundry is therapeutic for me. But the problem is that he wears jeans to teach sometimes, so I iron his jeans, too. And his relaxed-fit cargo-style khakis.
At first this wasn't a problem. I can acknowledge that in our image-centered world, wrinkles mark you as second-class. But then I would hang up his jeans next to mine. Nice, pressed jeans next to my wrinkled, well-loved jeans. And suddenly I was feeling second-class, too.
So I started ironing my own jeans, too. Not all the time. Sometimes they don't need it. But a lot of times.
And every time I iron my jeans I think about Julie in her immaculately wrinkle-free jeans. I probably iron a pair of my jeans at least once a week. So once a week, as I convert my wrinkly jeans into lovely, pressed jeans, I think of Julie and, in my mind, I apologize to her.
Now on to the story.
When I was in High School, I had a friend named Julie. Well, she was more a friend of a friend, but I liked her. She was nice and thoughtful, but she also was self-conscious in all the ways I wasn't, and seemed to lack that last piece in the Self-Esteem puzzle. She constantly was wondering if she was too fat even though she was a beanpole. And gorgeous on top of that. If it had been possible to hate her for being skinny and gorgeous without knowing it, I would have hated her. But she was impossible to hate. I think everyone loved Julie.
One day a friend and I were talking about wrinkly jeans. Probably because I was wearing wrinkly jeans. I didn't care about them being wrinkly, mind you; I would have worn muddy jeans to school without caring. Oh, wait. I did wear muddy jeans to school.
And my friend said, "Julie irons her jeans."
I wasn't aware, first off, that ironing jeans was an option. People iron church clothes. That's it.
And I couldn't believe, second off, that any human being would ever think it worth it to iron jeans.
I remember looking over at Julie in her immaculately wrinkle-free jeans and scoffing. Her Self-Esteem points lowered, in my mind, about 5 points that day.
Flash forward to the present. I iron Rob's clothes now. Not only has he dropped 70 lbs. in the last 5 years, he also now owns clothes that fit him. And he looks good in them. Plus, he teaches at a university on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so he needs to look somewhat professional. We're not talking white shirt and tie professional, but at least non-wrinkly clothes professional.
And I don't mind the ironing. Again, all laundry is therapeutic for me. But the problem is that he wears jeans to teach sometimes, so I iron his jeans, too. And his relaxed-fit cargo-style khakis.
At first this wasn't a problem. I can acknowledge that in our image-centered world, wrinkles mark you as second-class. But then I would hang up his jeans next to mine. Nice, pressed jeans next to my wrinkled, well-loved jeans. And suddenly I was feeling second-class, too.
So I started ironing my own jeans, too. Not all the time. Sometimes they don't need it. But a lot of times.
And every time I iron my jeans I think about Julie in her immaculately wrinkle-free jeans. I probably iron a pair of my jeans at least once a week. So once a week, as I convert my wrinkly jeans into lovely, pressed jeans, I think of Julie and, in my mind, I apologize to her.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Who am I kidding?
What's wrong with me? Why is Teancom so ridiculously addicting?
I'm not allowed to use the F word any more, and I'm fine with that. These days, when he has attitude and he's screeching at me, and not listening even if I threaten him with punishments, he's not my Favorite anyway.
But there's a special smile just for him. I realized it the other day in this moment:
Teancom wanted fruit snacks because he is addicted to them. There was one package of fruit snacks downstairs, I knew, and I told him that we could get them in a minute or so. (I always try to make him stall a little, because of the addiction factor, and also cause I don't do many things on first request.) A little while later I walked into the living room where all three kids were and said, "Who wants to help me get fruit snacks from downstairs?"
There was a slight pause while Teancom registered what I'd said and then he shouted, "Me!"
I smiled a smile of pure joy, a smile that only Teancom gets, and held out my hand towards him to lead him downstairs.
As I walked towards the stairs, I realized that during the brief pause when Teancom had been thinking about his reply, Miciah had also responded to my question. She said, "I do!" ... Of course, the question was a set-up; I knew Teancom wanted to help, fruit snacks are exclusively his thing, and the question had been directed to him the whole time. But I didn't light up to Miciah's response. Heck, I didn't even HEAR it!
... Perhaps it is a lost cause and I am doomed to be a horrible mother. But I can't make up a special smile when there isn't one! I don't feel like I love my other kids less, just differently.
I feel a swelling of pride when I think of Miciah. She is a great person and so fun-loving. I giggle when I think of her dancing and being crazy, just to get laughs from others. And I love that she's so inclusive with her friends. She loves to be helpful and is so thoughtful. I love who she is and who she is becoming.
I feel warm fuzzies for Elijah. He's a sweet, sensitive soul who craves hugs and kisses and attention. He does sweet things like giving me his precious Care Bear and blanket to take to bed with me. I know he does these sorts of things because he wants me to be happy. He takes great pride in doing his school work well, and loves to hear that I'm proud of him. Even in Elijah's hardest moments, I'm never deeply frustrated with him. How can I be? I know that he's a soft person, and that's adorable.
Teancom is ... waking up in the morning to softly playing music, the sunlight streaming in the window radiant and soft, and cuddling up with someone you love, knowing the world is right and nothing is wrong. Knowing nothing can EVER be wrong. He's an unexpected soft touch on the cheek when you're having a bad day, a tight hug around your neck when you're ready to cry. He's well-timed, easy-going Pure Joy, delivered directly to you, distilling upon you, withholding nothing. Joy that is so easy to come by that you're not sure what you'd do without it. A deep well of radiant bliss.
Teancom loves so purely, so joyfully, that I can't help but think that if I could just tap that love. If I could just take a piece for myself. If I could store it up in my heart and transform it, and in turn let it transform me. If I could channel it somehow...
But he's just a boy. He's not Love and Joy and Goodness.
And that's it, isn't it? That's why Teancom is so addicting. Teancom is a symbol to me. Notice in my paragraph about why I love Teancom, there's not a single thing about Teancom the person. It's all about the love he radiates.
Huh.
I'm not allowed to use the F word any more, and I'm fine with that. These days, when he has attitude and he's screeching at me, and not listening even if I threaten him with punishments, he's not my Favorite anyway.
But there's a special smile just for him. I realized it the other day in this moment:
Teancom wanted fruit snacks because he is addicted to them. There was one package of fruit snacks downstairs, I knew, and I told him that we could get them in a minute or so. (I always try to make him stall a little, because of the addiction factor, and also cause I don't do many things on first request.) A little while later I walked into the living room where all three kids were and said, "Who wants to help me get fruit snacks from downstairs?"
There was a slight pause while Teancom registered what I'd said and then he shouted, "Me!"
I smiled a smile of pure joy, a smile that only Teancom gets, and held out my hand towards him to lead him downstairs.
As I walked towards the stairs, I realized that during the brief pause when Teancom had been thinking about his reply, Miciah had also responded to my question. She said, "I do!" ... Of course, the question was a set-up; I knew Teancom wanted to help, fruit snacks are exclusively his thing, and the question had been directed to him the whole time. But I didn't light up to Miciah's response. Heck, I didn't even HEAR it!
... Perhaps it is a lost cause and I am doomed to be a horrible mother. But I can't make up a special smile when there isn't one! I don't feel like I love my other kids less, just differently.
I feel a swelling of pride when I think of Miciah. She is a great person and so fun-loving. I giggle when I think of her dancing and being crazy, just to get laughs from others. And I love that she's so inclusive with her friends. She loves to be helpful and is so thoughtful. I love who she is and who she is becoming.
I feel warm fuzzies for Elijah. He's a sweet, sensitive soul who craves hugs and kisses and attention. He does sweet things like giving me his precious Care Bear and blanket to take to bed with me. I know he does these sorts of things because he wants me to be happy. He takes great pride in doing his school work well, and loves to hear that I'm proud of him. Even in Elijah's hardest moments, I'm never deeply frustrated with him. How can I be? I know that he's a soft person, and that's adorable.
Teancom is ... waking up in the morning to softly playing music, the sunlight streaming in the window radiant and soft, and cuddling up with someone you love, knowing the world is right and nothing is wrong. Knowing nothing can EVER be wrong. He's an unexpected soft touch on the cheek when you're having a bad day, a tight hug around your neck when you're ready to cry. He's well-timed, easy-going Pure Joy, delivered directly to you, distilling upon you, withholding nothing. Joy that is so easy to come by that you're not sure what you'd do without it. A deep well of radiant bliss.
Teancom loves so purely, so joyfully, that I can't help but think that if I could just tap that love. If I could just take a piece for myself. If I could store it up in my heart and transform it, and in turn let it transform me. If I could channel it somehow...
But he's just a boy. He's not Love and Joy and Goodness.
And that's it, isn't it? That's why Teancom is so addicting. Teancom is a symbol to me. Notice in my paragraph about why I love Teancom, there's not a single thing about Teancom the person. It's all about the love he radiates.
Huh.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Needle-Point
I sat in the middle of the parking lot in my van, doors open to let in the air because Teancom was asleep in his car seat. It was 6:15 on a Thursday night and Elijah and Miciah were out of sight practicing on their respective soccer fields. For a moment or two I sat thinking about how great it was that Teancom was asleep, since he hadn't napped earlier in the day. I looked back at him and smiled. Sleeping children are beautiful.
Then I did something that I hadn't done in years. I picked up a needle-point project. Yep. Tamra Thacker was doing a sewing project. It's a project that my Mother initiated when she was in town one time, playing around and finding new avenues for her sewing habit. Unlike most of my Mother's sewing ideas, this particular project interested me because it was different, fast, and required absolutely no skill. But I hadn't finished it then, of course. I'd let it sit on my shelf for 2 years, waiting for the right time. Twiddling my thumbs at soccer practice seemed like as good a time as any.
As I wove the thread through the fabric, I felt a sense of calm and peace come over me. Suddenly I felt a desire to be drawn back in time. Not back to the days of my own Mother doing sewing projects at my soccer practices, but way, way back. Back to days before women's rights, when being "accomplished" as a women meant that you were an excellent cook and made amazing quilts.
I had a desire to sit around a fireplace late into the night and use the dying light to embroider my skirt and darn my husband's socks. My husband would read to me out of the Bible and I would nod appreciatively at appropriate times, perhaps when he gave a particularly stirring rendition of Psalm 24, or spoke with emotion in his voice as he recounted the story of Abraham and Isaac. We would spend some time talking about the discipline of the children and he would tell me about the crops. I would briefly tell him about my day, and then listen with heartfelt interest as he talked about more important things that happened to him.
I imagined this conversation between my 1750's counterpart, the virtuous Tabitha, and Robert, my hard-working husband.
We are sitting in front of the fireplace in the evening hours. The children are asleep. Robert is putting the 400-lb. family Bible on his lap. As he starts opening it I say, "Oh, Robert, how I love to hear you read to me from the Bible. But I was wondering if I could suggest that we read some Shakespeare tonight."
Robert looks at me stonily but silently.
"We can read the Bible, too, but I just love the story of Hamlet," I continue.
Robert is shamed by my brazen comments.
Of course, though, my suggestion wouldn't have happened at all, because I would have known that speaking like that towards my husband was a sin.
As I sat in the van thinking upon this happy scene, I knew in an instant that women's rights have set me back. Consider it! Knowing how to read is a burden--I could certainly accomplish more sewing projects if I didn't have the chore of reading books to slow me down. Being able to vote is a particular bother, because then I have to spend the time to be informed. Back in the day I couldn't vote--how can property vote? I didn't have to be bothered with thinking for myself or reading for myself. I just had to bother with raising 11 children and cooking and cleaning, and sitting around a fireplace sewing blankets for my children.
Who thought up women's rights anyway?!
Then I did something that I hadn't done in years. I picked up a needle-point project. Yep. Tamra Thacker was doing a sewing project. It's a project that my Mother initiated when she was in town one time, playing around and finding new avenues for her sewing habit. Unlike most of my Mother's sewing ideas, this particular project interested me because it was different, fast, and required absolutely no skill. But I hadn't finished it then, of course. I'd let it sit on my shelf for 2 years, waiting for the right time. Twiddling my thumbs at soccer practice seemed like as good a time as any.
As I wove the thread through the fabric, I felt a sense of calm and peace come over me. Suddenly I felt a desire to be drawn back in time. Not back to the days of my own Mother doing sewing projects at my soccer practices, but way, way back. Back to days before women's rights, when being "accomplished" as a women meant that you were an excellent cook and made amazing quilts.
I had a desire to sit around a fireplace late into the night and use the dying light to embroider my skirt and darn my husband's socks. My husband would read to me out of the Bible and I would nod appreciatively at appropriate times, perhaps when he gave a particularly stirring rendition of Psalm 24, or spoke with emotion in his voice as he recounted the story of Abraham and Isaac. We would spend some time talking about the discipline of the children and he would tell me about the crops. I would briefly tell him about my day, and then listen with heartfelt interest as he talked about more important things that happened to him.
I imagined this conversation between my 1750's counterpart, the virtuous Tabitha, and Robert, my hard-working husband.
We are sitting in front of the fireplace in the evening hours. The children are asleep. Robert is putting the 400-lb. family Bible on his lap. As he starts opening it I say, "Oh, Robert, how I love to hear you read to me from the Bible. But I was wondering if I could suggest that we read some Shakespeare tonight."
Robert looks at me stonily but silently.
"We can read the Bible, too, but I just love the story of Hamlet," I continue.
Robert is shamed by my brazen comments.
Of course, though, my suggestion wouldn't have happened at all, because I would have known that speaking like that towards my husband was a sin.
As I sat in the van thinking upon this happy scene, I knew in an instant that women's rights have set me back. Consider it! Knowing how to read is a burden--I could certainly accomplish more sewing projects if I didn't have the chore of reading books to slow me down. Being able to vote is a particular bother, because then I have to spend the time to be informed. Back in the day I couldn't vote--how can property vote? I didn't have to be bothered with thinking for myself or reading for myself. I just had to bother with raising 11 children and cooking and cleaning, and sitting around a fireplace sewing blankets for my children.
Who thought up women's rights anyway?!
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Demons Getting Drunk
Once a month I think I'm crazy and then I realize that once a month I think I'm crazy. And that makes me feel a little better.
Only it doesn't really.
And then I think about my demons. I don't have big scary demons. Just little annoying ones that dance around a fire getting drunk late at night. And I know I should hate these demons.
Only I don't really.
Sometimes I really like them. I invite them in and feed them dinner and laugh at their jokes, like they're proper house guests.
Only they're not really. And I know it.
Some people have REAL demons that they struggle with. They spend years working hard, sweating without time to wipe their foreheads, to get rid of their deadly demons. My demons fortunately aren't hurting anyone.
Only I know that's not really true.
And the demons will dance on my grave in a drunken stupor. And everyone will say, "I knew it."
Only they didn't.
Only it doesn't really.
And then I think about my demons. I don't have big scary demons. Just little annoying ones that dance around a fire getting drunk late at night. And I know I should hate these demons.
Only I don't really.
Sometimes I really like them. I invite them in and feed them dinner and laugh at their jokes, like they're proper house guests.
Only they're not really. And I know it.
Some people have REAL demons that they struggle with. They spend years working hard, sweating without time to wipe their foreheads, to get rid of their deadly demons. My demons fortunately aren't hurting anyone.
Only I know that's not really true.
And the demons will dance on my grave in a drunken stupor. And everyone will say, "I knew it."
Only they didn't.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Falcor in the Sky
I looked into the sky and did a double-take. Because there in the clouds was Falcor. You know, the dragon-type creature from The Neverending Story. The dragon that carries you to your dreams. The cloud I saw was the spitten image of Falcor. Seriously.
Look, it's not like I'd just seen the movie. I haven't watched it in ages. But if you'd seen the same cloud, you would have known that it was Falcor, too. Or at least his twin brother.
So there I was, a 28-year-old, staring at the Falcor cloud until it morphed back into just a cloud, wondering what my Dream is. Where would Falcor take me?
Would I ride on his back to the Vatican and my dream vacation? Would I take my kids with me? Probably not. But certainly I'd want Rob there. Rob wasn't with me right then, though. So I'd first make Falcor take me to Rob. And then maybe the two of us would just ride on his back to a lazy meadow filled with wild flowers and we'd all bask in the golden sunlight. For one commitment-free day. Skip the Vatican; I'll take a quiet day.
That's time away. But is it my Dream?
I don't have too many dreams, is the problem. I have nothing that I want to accomplish before I die. I have places I would love to go (Hawaii, the Vatican, Alaska, Glacier National Park), and things I would love to do (write a children's book, play soccer until I'm ancient, work at a nursery (the kind for plants)). I can think of things I want to own (a killer tent, lots more books). I can imagine the Tamra I want to be when I'm 75 years old, and the financial situation I want to have. I know that I want my children to be happy and successful in life, and I want my husband to feel fulfilled in his work. But these aren't Dreams. They're simply what I'm working towards. Ever so slowly.
It might sound cliche, but I truly am blessed. I have so much to be grateful for. And I can't come up with one thing that I'd like to have that I don't already have. ... Well, maybe I'd like my mortgage paid off. Okay. That's a good one. Excellent: Falcor can pay off my mortgage.
And then we'll go chill in the meadow.
Look, it's not like I'd just seen the movie. I haven't watched it in ages. But if you'd seen the same cloud, you would have known that it was Falcor, too. Or at least his twin brother.
So there I was, a 28-year-old, staring at the Falcor cloud until it morphed back into just a cloud, wondering what my Dream is. Where would Falcor take me?
Would I ride on his back to the Vatican and my dream vacation? Would I take my kids with me? Probably not. But certainly I'd want Rob there. Rob wasn't with me right then, though. So I'd first make Falcor take me to Rob. And then maybe the two of us would just ride on his back to a lazy meadow filled with wild flowers and we'd all bask in the golden sunlight. For one commitment-free day. Skip the Vatican; I'll take a quiet day.
That's time away. But is it my Dream?
I don't have too many dreams, is the problem. I have nothing that I want to accomplish before I die. I have places I would love to go (Hawaii, the Vatican, Alaska, Glacier National Park), and things I would love to do (write a children's book, play soccer until I'm ancient, work at a nursery (the kind for plants)). I can think of things I want to own (a killer tent, lots more books). I can imagine the Tamra I want to be when I'm 75 years old, and the financial situation I want to have. I know that I want my children to be happy and successful in life, and I want my husband to feel fulfilled in his work. But these aren't Dreams. They're simply what I'm working towards. Ever so slowly.
It might sound cliche, but I truly am blessed. I have so much to be grateful for. And I can't come up with one thing that I'd like to have that I don't already have. ... Well, maybe I'd like my mortgage paid off. Okay. That's a good one. Excellent: Falcor can pay off my mortgage.
And then we'll go chill in the meadow.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
The First Pre-Spring Day - March 7, 2009
I stood at the front edge of my deck, looked into my neighbors' backyard and was shocked to see a swimming pool, as if they had just installed it instead of what was really true: it's been there since we moved in 4 years ago. Somehow the sight of it seemed brand-new to me. I looked down at my sandaled feet, beyond which lay three steps, the last barrier between me and the grass beyond. My husband was already in the backyard walking around and he called for me to come. I hesitated, though. I hadn't been down those steps for months, and it just didn't feel right. But that seemed silly to me, so I gathered a little bravery and in short order was standing on the lawn, too. I sighed in relief and pleasure and closed my eyes for a second: Spring.
The kids and their friends were playing on the swingset. Birds were chirping and flying about. The warmth of the sun was on my face.
I realized in a moment that I had missed being outside. I looked around my backyard at the tiny garden, almost ready to come back to life; the grass where I've spent so much time weeding for fun; the bush that I'd almost forgotten about, but that would soon be ablaze in yellow. I hadn't been in my backyard for months. I don't mind Winter: I like to look at it while sitting inside my warm house, drinking hot chocolate. But I don't like going out in it. And now, as Spring was almost upon us, Winter almost completely gone, I was rediscovering the beauty and calm of natural beauty.
I walked into the front yard with my husband. We were on a task that directed us to the garage, and strangely, the garage felt new, too. I go into the garage all the time, and the fact that it felt new to me on this First Pre-Spring Day was odd indeed. Nothing had changed. It was the same garage as always. I shook my head at the thought and went to work, but I couldn't stay on task. Soon, almost impulsively, I was playing in my garden, pulling out the dead leaves, discovering a little green growth underneath. I wish I could describe the feeling of tearing out the old dead stuff and finding new loveliness under it all. There's nothing else quite like it--it's the magic of a garden.
My 2-year-old son helped me gather the dead leaves and put them in a large trash can. He found a light-brown dried leaf and said, "It's my flower. Can I keep it?" I told him that of COURSE he could keep it. He said, "Hurray!" and cuddled the leaf next to his cheek. I couldn't help but smile.
Pulling out the winter leaves didn't take too long, and certainly not as long as I would have preferred. "I could spend all day in my garden," I thought, and suddenly it dawned on me that I often DO spend all day in my garden during the growing months. Funny how I'd forgotten that. Nothing was left but to survey the garden space and search for signs of growth. There were a few stubby weeds, but they weren't weeds right now--they were green happiness. A few bulbs had started shooting to the sun, and the rose bushes were just barely showing purple here and there. I called my husband over to see the signs of Spring that I'd found, and luckily he loves gardens as much as I do, so he was thrilled to see the growth, and hunted for more.
After that he said, "Have you looked at the lilac bushes yet?" Lilac bushes? We have lilac bushes? We put in the lilac bushes last Spring and truly they didn't do too well under our care. We put them in on the far side of our house that gets the most sun and heat, and the least amount of attention: not a good combination. I remembered back to the start of Winter: I'd wondered then if the lilacs would make it through the Winter and into another Spring. Would they be healthy enough to bloom? But the start of Winter seemed so long ago, and I had forgotten about those ancient concerns. They came flooding back to me in an instant and I realized that the garden and our plants were a favorite conversation point for my husband and me. We spent most of the growing season talking about it, planning for it, dreaming about it, and as we checked out the lilac bushes and their hint of new buds, I smiled in anticipated pleasure of conversations about to be reborn.
The shadows lengthened against the tools hanging on the garage walls as the children rode their bicycles in the driveway. I thought about this First Pre-Spring Day and the joy we were about to find again. Joys I'd forgotten that I owned. I thought about the on-set of a new season, and the pleasure it is to watch things in newness. But it's not quite Spring yet. I thought back to the start of the day, and the weatherman on TV saying that the temperatures were 20 degrees above the norm. With no assurances that tomorrow it won't hit a cold snap and dump down 6 inches of snow. That's not True Spring. It's Pre-Spring.
But I'll take Pre-Spring.
The kids and their friends were playing on the swingset. Birds were chirping and flying about. The warmth of the sun was on my face.
I realized in a moment that I had missed being outside. I looked around my backyard at the tiny garden, almost ready to come back to life; the grass where I've spent so much time weeding for fun; the bush that I'd almost forgotten about, but that would soon be ablaze in yellow. I hadn't been in my backyard for months. I don't mind Winter: I like to look at it while sitting inside my warm house, drinking hot chocolate. But I don't like going out in it. And now, as Spring was almost upon us, Winter almost completely gone, I was rediscovering the beauty and calm of natural beauty.
I walked into the front yard with my husband. We were on a task that directed us to the garage, and strangely, the garage felt new, too. I go into the garage all the time, and the fact that it felt new to me on this First Pre-Spring Day was odd indeed. Nothing had changed. It was the same garage as always. I shook my head at the thought and went to work, but I couldn't stay on task. Soon, almost impulsively, I was playing in my garden, pulling out the dead leaves, discovering a little green growth underneath. I wish I could describe the feeling of tearing out the old dead stuff and finding new loveliness under it all. There's nothing else quite like it--it's the magic of a garden.
My 2-year-old son helped me gather the dead leaves and put them in a large trash can. He found a light-brown dried leaf and said, "It's my flower. Can I keep it?" I told him that of COURSE he could keep it. He said, "Hurray!" and cuddled the leaf next to his cheek. I couldn't help but smile.
Pulling out the winter leaves didn't take too long, and certainly not as long as I would have preferred. "I could spend all day in my garden," I thought, and suddenly it dawned on me that I often DO spend all day in my garden during the growing months. Funny how I'd forgotten that. Nothing was left but to survey the garden space and search for signs of growth. There were a few stubby weeds, but they weren't weeds right now--they were green happiness. A few bulbs had started shooting to the sun, and the rose bushes were just barely showing purple here and there. I called my husband over to see the signs of Spring that I'd found, and luckily he loves gardens as much as I do, so he was thrilled to see the growth, and hunted for more.
After that he said, "Have you looked at the lilac bushes yet?" Lilac bushes? We have lilac bushes? We put in the lilac bushes last Spring and truly they didn't do too well under our care. We put them in on the far side of our house that gets the most sun and heat, and the least amount of attention: not a good combination. I remembered back to the start of Winter: I'd wondered then if the lilacs would make it through the Winter and into another Spring. Would they be healthy enough to bloom? But the start of Winter seemed so long ago, and I had forgotten about those ancient concerns. They came flooding back to me in an instant and I realized that the garden and our plants were a favorite conversation point for my husband and me. We spent most of the growing season talking about it, planning for it, dreaming about it, and as we checked out the lilac bushes and their hint of new buds, I smiled in anticipated pleasure of conversations about to be reborn.
The shadows lengthened against the tools hanging on the garage walls as the children rode their bicycles in the driveway. I thought about this First Pre-Spring Day and the joy we were about to find again. Joys I'd forgotten that I owned. I thought about the on-set of a new season, and the pleasure it is to watch things in newness. But it's not quite Spring yet. I thought back to the start of the day, and the weatherman on TV saying that the temperatures were 20 degrees above the norm. With no assurances that tomorrow it won't hit a cold snap and dump down 6 inches of snow. That's not True Spring. It's Pre-Spring.
But I'll take Pre-Spring.
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