little girls lost

I misplace my children.

Regularly.

First time it ever happened, spawn was almost two, I guess or maybe almost three.  In any case she was in her terrible twos which lasted approximately from 18 months to age 6.  We were at a crowded mall at Christmas.  The store had extra display racks all over the place.  The kid was in a stroller which was impossible to steer even though it was one of those little ones.  And she didn't want to be in the stroller anymore.  She'd made that pretty clear.  Maybe I let her out, could be, I was kinda stupid and sleep-deprived back then or maybe she let herself out.  In any case, she was out.  Out and gone.  I think I watched her climb under a fixture and then I looked away for a second, because I was there to shop after all.  I looked back and she was gone.  I looked for moving racks and annoyed shopper's faces.  Nothing.  Then... PANIC.  Absolute panic.  People every where.  And we were living outside DC where people don't even look at you.  Don't even want to think about what else was unpleasant about DC.  So there I am, stroller, no kid, ready to completely lose all grip on reality.  I had no idea what to do, where to look, who to turn to.  And then this angel man, who clearly was waiting on his wife and bored out of his mind- thank God, tells me that he saw her run out of the store.  I don't know the rest of the story except that I found her and that I still don't take her to the mall.

Let's see.  I lost little loud one one day after a visit to the library.  We came home with books, some might say "of course", but that one is less enthralled with books than the rest of the family, so it really isn't "of course" with her.  In fact one day this summer, I suggested a library visit and she said, "Why would I want to go to the library?  There's nothing there for me."  I nearly cried.  Anyhow, a year or two ago, we went to the library and got books.  I went about my business until I noticed that I didn't hear anything.  Now, not hearing anything when little loud one is around is an indication of trouble.  When she is quiet, she's cutting off her hair, or coloring on the wall, or gone.  First I called her name about a bazillion times. (she never hears the first bazillion -1 times.)  So I started looking.   I looked outside because she's an outdoorsy kiddo.  I'm pretty sure I went to some neighbors and so on.  No sign of her.  So I went up to her room.  She was reading a book, like it was normal.

Last year I lost spawn again.  I'm minding my own business at the end of the school day (wasting my time on the computer) and it occurs to me that I'd had an awful lot of peace.  So I wandered out into the living room.  I surveyed the evidence and realized that spawn was not home.  I knew this because:  no backpack directly in the middle of the floor, no shoes thrown about, no jacket lying willy-nilly.  No way that kid was home.  I can't remember if she had a phone then or not, but it wouldn't matter because neither she nor the spouse ever have it turned on.  I searched brain banks to see if there was some after school activity that I hadn't remembered.  Nope.  Then I figured she must have missed the bus home.  She missed the bus to school every stinking day, so this was not out of the realm of possibility.  So I drove to the middle school and started looking.  For once, the school was deserted.  I started panicking a little bit at this point.  Then I had a brilliant thought.  I called home and little loud one answered the phone (which is actually pretty amazing in itself), and I asked her to check spawn's room.  Yep, you got it.  She was in her room the whole time, and thought I was crazy for misreading the evidence.

Also last year, in the spring, I lost little loud one.  She walks home from school.  It's a block away.  Generally it takes her a half hour to get home, because there are things to see.  Well, I'm waiting. and waiting.  and waiting.  It's more than an hour after the end of school and no little loud one.  I called school, her best friend's house, neighbor's house, looked around the neighborhood, talked to the lady with the fuzzy dog, went to school, exhausted all my ideas.  At this point, I was revving up a panic.  I had some kind of appointment with spawn and I certainly didn't want to go to that with little loud one lost.  I drove around the block one more time.  There she was, standing next to the lady with the fuzzy dog.  The look on my face must have told her what she needed to know because she crossed the street, after looking both ways even, and got in the car without saying one word.  She was covered in mud from head to toe, but I didn't care about that.  It turns out she'd stopped by the house with the garden and a little girl with the same name.  And they were playing.  The mom apologized for not immediately calling me.  Not that I blamed her at all.  For a little while at least, little loud one made it home in under 20 minutes.

This little trip down memory lane is brought to you today by the fact that I lost a kid this afternoon.  Spawn didn't come home from school.  I was waiting for her to call for a ride home because she's too lazy to walk 15 minutes.  I've been ignoring the phone all week, because I'm sick and I just don't feel like getting her.  It's annoying and ridiculous.  So I was studiously avoiding answering the phone today excepting that it didn't ring.  So, I thought for a millisecond (because that's about all the thinking ability I have today.)  I processed the whole list of possible after school activities, nothing seemed right.  I put it out of my mind while I fetched little loud one from the after school activity (that I remembered) and fetched the spouse to solve my computer problems.  Then it hit me, you know after spouse said it, that she was where she was supposed to be. Not home, but at her new church gig.  The one I can't remember because this is only her second week and she still isn't officially signed up for it.

Is there a punchline here?  Probably not.  It shouldn't be this difficult to keep track of two kids.

lowering the bar

I had one of those days yesterday.  One of those days that sets the standards.  Low.
I woke up extra early.  Not exactly sure why.  Maybe it was the time change or maybe it was just a desire to dawdle more.  In any case, I woke up early and then proceeded to be late to work.  Later, in fact, than I was the day before.  It really is pretty hard for me to be late to work.  It's not like I have far to drive or need to be there at some unseemly time.  It's ridiculous that I can't get to work on time.  But there it is.  Late.

One of the kids read me her story.  It was about a lady who croaked and she was going to the feneral (funeral).  She smiled while she read me the story.  Croaked?  Yup.  croaked.  I had nothing.  What the heck do you say to a kid who is smiling when she reads her story about somebody croaking?  That there was a teachable moment.

Then we had our first field trip of the year.  Herding cats in a grocery store.  These varmints can't behave in the cage of our classroom.  I gotta admit I dreaded taking the show on the road.  I had low expectations.  They met them.  I got a big headache.

I did manage to vote.  Yay, me.  But I needed remedial voting instruction since I filled in 5 circles instead of 4.

Let's see.  I'm playing piano for the little munchkin choir.  This may not seem like a big deal, excepting that this is not my thing.  I've accompanied singers exactly twice in my whole life and both times were with one or both of my kids.  The elder spawn is quite skilled at rearranging her singing to match my playing (a skill we have worked on).  That song was short too.  The last time I did this was with both kids and I was so bad that little loud one laughed at me in the middle of the song.  Bad.  Like horrible.  Like colossal failure.  Like when the song was done, I collapsed in a heap of giggles (in the middle of church, in the middle of the service) that lasted pretty much until the end of the service.  And I decided then and there that playing piano while someone sings along was something I could just cross off my bucket list for all eternity.  Apparently eternity only lasted a couple months, because when choir director asked if I would, I didn't say "hell no".  So yesterday's rehearsal went just spectacularly.  Not. Choir director was very kind and didn't explode.  I guess it's a real good thing the kids can sing loudly.  I'm hoping for divine intervention on Sunday.  Or something.

The evening did not improve.  Went to class, quite apathetic.  I needed to deliver a piece of paper 4 feet away.  I crumpled it up and threw it at the recipient.  Professor observed that she'd never had that happen in a grad school class before.  I explained that I was trying to lower the bar.  I did apologize.  And laugh.  And really, that was probably ok.  Then we were making up hypothetical questions to ask the author of this article we'd read- an article that really kinda bugged me.  My contribution was the most unpolitically correct question you could possibly ask.  I do walk of shame.

Class over, I'm walking out with classmate who is also in tonight's class that I skipped last week for spawn's concert.  Classmate instigates discussion of where I was.  I proceed to mention the things I was supposed to do to make up for missing class- that I still haven't done.  Then she tells me that we got out of class an hour early last week anyhow.  This launches my little tirade about how that professor had given the speech about giving us our money's worth and would never let us out early and then she hasn't kept us until 9pm since (not that I'm complaining about that).  I'd forgotten one detail.  Wed. prof teaches a class on Tues. in the same building.  The building I am currently walking out of talking about the professor.  Who is 2 feet behind me.  Who proceeds to walk with me for the next 10 minutes as I'm trying to engage in intelligent conversational smalltalk with very large feet in my mouth. 

I was hoping that she hadn't heard me.  Yea, she did.  Because when she revisited the money's worth speech tonight, she was looking right at me.


The bar is very low.

and so it begins

My youngest was completely desperate to do Girl Scouts this year.  yippee.  I'm sure Girl Scouts is a perfectly lovely organization once you get past needing to sell your soul and lots of overpriced cookies to support a gluttonous parent company that is more interested in lining their pockets than making sure that girls have a fun experience.  After all, it's the troop leaders who are responsible for the experiences, rather than GSA.

Why am I so yucked out by Girl Scouts?  A mere 6 years ago, the other spawn was desperate to do Girl Scouts.  She had friends, I had friends, sell cookies, have fun, what's the problem.  Well, the problem was that my two friends instigated a coup for cripe's sake.  A Girl Scout Coup!!  Between each other.  Naturally I'm in the middle, the girls suffered, it was just bleeping ugly.  I had planned a pile of badge junk to do under the encouragement of friend L, let's call her Lying Sack of Shit, to help out stressed friend P, let's call her Psycho Nutjob.  Well, when L went to headquarters to get P thrown out as troop leader, in addition to wanting me to "testify", she also tossed my piles of badge junk to the curb.  In a sense saying that my time/energy was good enough under the P regime, but not good enough under the L regime.  And then has the nerve to ask me to chaperone the Girl Scout trip as a driver.  And to lie to me about where we were going to stay(yes, some people might read the directions before the rest stop and therefore not need to have a confrontation in front of Sheetz.)  I'm not holding a grudge.  Much.  In any case, L has moved back to where she belongs and P is still a casual friend since our daughters are still casual friends.  And I thought that my Girl Scout experience could be called complete, finished, done.  B'bye.

Until little one is so desperate to do it that she might actually have said something about cleaning her room and taking a bath voluntarily.  So we're in.  First meeting we get the dreaded sales packet.  Fine.  I pulled out my checkbook.  We'll order some shit.  I paid for membership.  I paid for Camporee next weekend.  I paid for the badge thing later this month.  I'll buy her a stupid overpriced vest or sash or whichever darn thing she wants.  And I will sell freaking Girl Scout cookies in February with a smile on my face.  I thought my checkbook would be enough interaction with Girl Scouts.

Except not so much.  Three weeks in and I get an email from the troop leader.  Can you please _____, because you know you're going to volunteer at some point?  Yup.  She's right.  Four years of being on PTO together and she knows that I will say yes.  Actually, she knows that I will not even wait to be asked.  I will raise my freaking, stupid hand. (which is why I don't go to PTO meetings anymore)  Oh, shit.  I'm going to end up asking her if she needs a cookie mom.  Somebody disconnect my internet.

Fine.  We'll give this Girl Scout thing one year.  Next year, little, loud one will be too busy in middle school to do girl scouts.  And I will again say b'bye.

eavesdropping

I just got back from an interesting little coffee date with a friend.  We had all manner of conversation during this hour.  I personally had a lovely time talking maybe a little too loudly at Panera, laughing at the outrageous things we were sharing, and watching the young couple across the way go from playing footsie to sitting next to each other doing that hair thing.  I noticed people coming and going, but not really.  I certainly didn't pay much attention to the lady three tables over clipping her coupons until she joined our conversation.  Joined our conversation to the point of actually taking it over.  Really?

We finally made our escape and hurried out.  I sorta feel like I need a shower.  My friend and I laughed about that (as well as being relieved that she didn't appear to have heard the entire conversation.)

I'm an eavesdropper too.  I admit it.  I people watch.  I watch parents interact with their kids and smile.  I periodically glanced at that couple and rolled my eyes.  Sometimes I look like I'm reading a book, but there are definitely times where your conversation is more interesting than my book.  I've been known to actually open my mouth to make a comment.  But even I realize that is just not done.  At least most of the time I realize this.

The other day I was waiting in a small hallway for an interminable dance class to be done.  I had work to do, but neither the motivation nor the concentration to do it.  I was stressed and exhausted.  The last place I wanted to be was in this stinky, cramped hallway, but it seemed a good enough location for killing 45 minutes.  Another mom and her cute little guy were having a conversation.  She asked a question that he didn't know the answer to and my filter was out of order so I put out my answer.  I did a metaphorical face plant the second the words came out.  (A common phrase in my existence, "did I say that out loud?")  She made it perfectly clear that my answer wasn't wanted.  Uh, yea, sorry.  I'll shut up now.  And I'll do my waiting elsewhere next week so I don't interrupt your private playground.  In any case, my answer was "Simba".  Sue me.

So, yea.  I get the idea that people may be listening in on conversations and maybe some conversations shouldn't be held in a crowded place.  On the other hand, I think there is an unspoken rule, reinforced by the lovely young mother who might not have said those words as rudely as I heard them, that your comments belong in your head.

A note to creepy eavesdropping lady.  It is perfectly ok to insert your advice on making finger sandwiches, but it is not ok to give your advice on more personal matters.  Really, it's not.

tears of a clown

The two things that I am best at.  Laughing and crying.  I laugh for pretty much any reason.  Sometimes even in situations that others find amusing too.  I laugh at kids, pets, life, toilet humor, mundane events, spoonerisms, malapropisms, ridiculous logic.  I guffaw.  I giggle.  I twitter.  I laugh past the point of reason.  Laughter feels good.  I try not to laugh to hurt other people.  I do occasionally have to apologize and explain when it seems like I might be laughing to hurt rather than just being amused.  Laughter releases all sorts of excess baggage and feelings.  And so on.

The crying serves a function as well.  I cry when things touch me.  There are two books that I absolutely can't read out loud.  The Giving Tree and the kid's book with the toilet on the cover.  Both books demonstrate the nurturing of mothers (or caregivers) as children grow into adulthood.  Ignoring the fact that the tree gives up everything for her ungrateful "child" and the mother crawls into her grown son's window to rock him as he sleeps- both of which are uber creepy- I feel that depth of emotion for the child as the child slips away.  Lest you think I want my children to be dependent on me forever, I absolutely want my growing-too-fast children to mature into self-reliant adults.

I cry during movies.  My little one insisted that I finally watch "Up" with her recently.  Well, I cried at the beginning. I cried at the end.  I cried in the middle a little bit too.  It is a beautiful movie.  The crying was for different emotions.  I was sad that he lost her, but I was moved when she let him go too.  I can't make it through the opening credits of Schindler's List.  I cry for the senseless suffering.  I cry for the fact that a man who seemingly couldn't do anything right made such a huge impact on a few people (well, a lot but not enough- if you know what I mean.)  My biggest cry movie I haven't watched in a very long time.  Legends of the Fall.  I love this movie.  It's where I fell in love with Brad Pitt and Aidan Quinn and Julia Ormond even.  It is an amazing movie.  (Anthony Hopkins is brilliant as well, no surprise.)  If you have never seen it, you should- but have tissues.  This movie puts me in despair for hours.  So I only can watch in when I really need a good cry but don't seem to have a reason.  ha ha.  

For many summers, I read aloud a book to the younger generation of our beach friends.  Somehow the books always seem to have a part where my voice cracks a little bit.  In fact, the last book I read, I was brave enough to look up and saw others joining me in the tears.  We had to stop and have a little cryfest.  One kid, who I jokingly say has no soul, remained dry eyed.  She's not as emotional as the rest of us.  This is ok, of course.  I'm a little jealous that she doesn't have to worry about making a fool of herself in public.

Crying cleanses the soul.  A smart friend told me this.  I agree.  Apparently it's a Jewish proverb, "What soap is for the body, tears are for the soul."  It's kind of like oiling a hinge.  Sometimes the joint just rusts and doesn't move unless you oil it.  Crying is the WD40 of life. 

But I do find myself leaning more towards tears when I'm stressed and tired.  I am then ill equipped to see the positives, to deal with the hurts real and imaginary, to respond to situations that are not ideal.  In those cases, the crying is not the solution, but the symptom.  A wise person I live with often suggests I go to bed.  As if getting adequate sleep is an option when I'm stressed and tired.  Clearly he is someone who isn't plagued with insomnia when not at his best. When I'm stressed and tired, I compound the problem with feeling guilty for every thing I have ever done that was wrong.  There are many things.  Many things.  Daily.  Hourly.  Big things.  Small things.  It doesn't matter.  They all plague me and cause the tears to flow, the brain to work in nonproductive overdrive, the body to feel heavy and old.  And so I cry.  Big tears that make no sense, solve no problems, ease no troubles.  Are these tears cleansing my soul?  I don't think so.  If they are, I have the cleanest soul in town.  I know this is not true.  

How do I deal with these endless, purposeless tears?  Go to bed?  Sure, that would be great.  Laugh?  Yes, that probably would help.  Forgive myself for my imperfections?  Yes!  The hardest thing ever.

Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion.  I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward.  ~Kurt Vonnegut

the waiting is the hardest part

I'm a squished spring, ready to blow.  I'm coiled inside.  Nothing is fast enough.  Nothing can keep my attention.  I'm cranky.  I'm a little mean.  I'm flitting from one thing to the next.  I'm too anxious to sit still long, so the things I want to do are impossible.  I'm sick of noise, so I don't want to be near anyone.  I'm talking like Chewbacca.  I'm a little less hairy than Chewbacca, thank goodness.

Why am I this beast?  I'm waiting.  I'm ugly when I'm waiting.  I'm no good at it.  I don't like it.  In the immortal words of Freddy Mercury, "I want it all and I want it now."

I make the waiting harder.  Almost always.  I'm waiting to hear back about my grad school application.  It's been a week.  How long do they need?  Well, I know that this past week or this current week is the culmination of the huge summer project that I hope to be doing next summer.  Perhaps they are busy enough without reading an application.  The reason the application was submitted at such a lousy time was that I put off finishing it until summer when the people I needed recommendations from would be otherwise occupied.  Had I finished before the end of school, I would surely know by now.  I would know and be able to plan my fall schedule.  I would be able to get the ball rolling, as it were.

I'm waiting to hear whether I have a job next year.  I probably do, but it's not definite.  I can't seem to be half full about this.  Perhaps I can't be half full because so many school employees lost their jobs at the end of last year.  Why would I have a guarantee when they have more seniority?  So I'm waiting.  This waiting isn't my fault, but that doesn't make it any easier.

I'm waiting to see what happens this week.  My daughter starts marching band.  I loved marching band.  I still talk to friends I made through marching band.  We went great places, we had great fun.  We were silly on school buses.  We worked hard but had fun after school.  We always had something to do on a Friday night that had little to do (really) with football.  For 5 long years, I've been telling my kid that she will love marching band too.  It's been very dramatic at times, since she says she despises clarinet.  So soon we find out if I was right to push.  On the other hand, it won't really be soon to find out that she likes it.  The first half time show isn't until mid-September.  This kid is a performer, so that will be a factor.  So right now I'm waiting to see how much whining I'll have to listen to until then.  I'm waiting to see how much money I'm going to have to fork over to listen to that whining.  I'm waiting to see what the new band director is like.  I'm waiting to see if she'll be friends with the kids in her group.

I'm waiting for an end to a different kind of drama.  An end that apparently will never come.  So I guess I'm really waiting to I figure out that I'm just going to have to get over it.  With every day, it becomes less important to me- which is good because I'm sure it's been completely unimportant to the other people for a long time.  Unfortunately, things always creep in to temporarily make it more important for a little while and I have to start all over.  This is why I'm considering installing a 2 x 4 in the basement for those moments when I need an attitude adjustment (read "smack upside the head").

Then there's the motherhood waiting.  How is this school year going to go?  Are they going to be happy with teachers/classes/friends?  And the long-term waiting.   Is Rebecca ever going to talk slower than the speed of light?  Is Katie ever going to learn to use an inside voice? True story:  a few summers ago Katie went to a pottery camp- the first of many camps where she has irritated the heck out of the teachers.  Imagine.  An enclosed space filled with many children, one of whom goes to 11 nonstop.  I'm sure they all went home with headaches.  We saw the camp instructor outside at a downtown event.  We all spoke to him, including Katie.  He said that was the quietest he'd ever heard her be.  We laughed and said she was using her "outside voice".  In fact, for a while we told her to use her outside voice when we wanted a little less volume.

I have a new hobby that was supposed to entertain me while I'm waiting.  It's not helping.  I'm too frazzled to work on it right now, but yet I still need to obsessively check on it to see what's happening.  Nothing is happening.  And when I did work on it, then I have to wait to see what other people thought about it.  I'm doing this for fun, right?  Why do I care what anyone else thought about it?  Why do I turn entertainment into something that I have to wait for?  Why can't it just be a nice little surprise?

I'm reading a book.  I can't wait for it to be over.  I usually love this author.  I've read and enjoyed many of her books.  My Sister's Keeper, Nineteen Minutes, Change of Heart, House Rules were all thought-provoking, interesting, moving stories- books I wanted to talk about.  I'm having trouble being moved by Sing You Home.  Well, I was moved at first.  In the first 10 pages, I was on the verge of tears twice.  I think I waited until page 27 before the tears finally spilled.  But by page 97, I was done with tears.  They were running a buy one/get one deal on melodramatic plot twists and Jodi got a bulk discount.  Everything that you can imagine has happened to these characters.  I'm immune now.  I'm going to finish it now, if I can make myself.  I need to lend the book to a friend who I'm seeing later today.  I'm going to wait to read another one of her stories.  And, yes, I want to talk about this book with someone else who has read it.  If only to find out if I'm right or if I'm just Chewbacca.

the road

I was looking at one of my favorite photo websites on Facebook (ok, truthfully probably the only photo website I look at).  There is was!  The photo of a beautiful, if slightly downtrodden, gateway with a small, inviting driveway, leading to a mysterious, undisclosed location. Now, I happen to know where the gateway is so the location is not a mystery to me.  But still, I looked at this photo today and I saw the possibilities of the future. 

Time passes and things change- age- if we must go there (which I really refuse to do.  I'm NOT getting older.  I won't allow it.)  The mortar between the bricks gets a little cracked.  The earth may settle under the footings.  The paint may chip away at the gate.  But looking at this photo, I don't see the reality of those things.  I see the flowers surrounding the gate- beautifying, enriching, encasing with life and promise.  I see the path, small, but big enough for the travel of whomever needs to go there.

I can imagine.  In a romantic mood, I can imagine a lovely young woman in a sunny yellow hooped dress with all the trimmings arm in arm with her beau strolling up the path to her home where her mother waits anxiously at the window.  In a more realistic mood, I can imagine two sisters fresh out of the creek, covered in algae and mud, chasing each other up the road to their mother waiting angrily at the window.  In a dramatic mood, I can imagine the battle-weary, damaged, tired young man slowly limping his way up the path as his mother wistfully at first, then joyfully, waits at the window.  But this was not a story about the mother who waits at the other end of the road- at least I didn't think so.  But maybe it really is- if I'm having a philosophical, spiritual mood that I wasn't aware of.

I thought it was a mood of decisions.  Not even that there is a decision to be made at this moment.  But choices are always there waiting.  So we choose.  There is the path forward, uncertain.  There is the path that we already traveled.  The path traveled is important too, no doubt.  The path traveled is what makes us who we are.  Every road we've tried, every fork with the choices we've made, every time we've left the path completely makes us who we are.

I think about the gateway.  Since I know where it is, I know what lies the other direction.   It's a well-maintained, historical, interesting cemetery.  I've spent many hours there throughout my life.  People I loved are buried there.  People I miss.  But the cemetery is not for the living.  If I stay there at that gateway thinking about the cemetery and the past, I'm not living. 

And now I mix my metaphors.  Life is not just about moving forward or staying back, it's also about choosing paths.  We don't see it, but in the location there are other paths nearby.  One path leads to the same place (convenient, that).  But nearby is another path that leads to another exciting possibility- in fact one that is a little less likely to get me arrested for trespassing.  Also there are two roads that lead to wonderful places.  So if I step back from the photo, I suddenly have more choices.  I can now insert my quote from a perfectly delightful poem by Robert Frost.  Admit it, you felt it coming.

 

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference

I seem to choose the less traveled path in principle.  Sometimes I wonder if I choose a path that requires a machete just because I like the struggle.  Other times I wonder if the path makes me interesting or just weird.  Sometimes I wish I would choose the common path just for the ease.  And sometimes I follow the "regular" path like a lemming.  And sometimes what seemed like the common path at the time, was not. 

Sheryl Crow, the queen of deep and quirky, gives this advice...
Jump in, let's go
Lay back, enjoy the show
Everybody gets high, everybody gets low,
These are the days when anything goes
Every day is a winding road
I get a little bit closer
Every day is a faded sign
I get a little bit closer to feeling fine

I'm certain Sheryl is talking directly to me.  She lets me know that it's ok!  Life is complicated and that's good.  Sometimes traveling the road will make me happy, sometimes it will make me sad, but I have to be on the road.  The show is worth it, and I will be fine.  And don't just do it halfway.  JUMP in.  Don't walk on that road.  Run, skip, dance, sometimes stroll leisurely, maybe even walk backwards, but do not just walk.  Sometimes bring a machete or a companion or a guide.  Sometimes wear hiking boots or rain boots or sandals.  Sometimes wear a parka or a sweater or a bikini (ok, never wear a bikini).

Do we follow the path?  Do we dare to see where it leads?  Do we make a choice less common?  Do we wander the path that might lead us home?  Yes!!  

Baileyville Photo:

http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=216181528421038&set=pu.141602132545645&type=1&theater

certain that it's probably not going to happen

This week was a week in my head- not a particularly pretty place.  I spent the whole week thinking about something that I was sure was going to happen.  It crossed my mind at odd times.  It made my disposition less than sunny.  I finally took charge of myself and said, "Self, this is not going to happen.  You need to get a grip and move on."  So I did.  I made a list in my head of the things that aren't going to happen and started thinking about the things that are going to happen.  Truthfully, the following items were not on those lists because you really just can't know all my secrets.  And, by the way, the thing I convinced myself wasn't going to happen actually did, and it was completely underwhelming.

I got to thinking about a fun math lesson from school this year.  The kids were learning about certain, unlikely, and definitely not.  I made little cards with examples from each category.  The kids had to read the card and decide which category the statement fit.  Being a silly person, I had an amusing time writing the cards and hearing the results of my labors.  As I was leaving for the day, the little boy I always called the wrong name (not my fault- his best friend has the same name without the "th" in the middle!) got the one "Mrs. K. will call me the wrong name."  I laughed the whole way home.  Everyone thought the "Mrs. S. is going to have a baby gorilla." was hilarious.  Those were the best two, but how much fun we had playing this game.  It was definitely a fun way to think about real vs. not and certain vs. uncertain.

Not going to happen

* I'm not going to win the lottery.

* I'm not going to transform in Donna Reed overnight.

* I'm not going to influence my outsides by wishing.

* I'm not going to be perfect at anything.

* I'm not going to be famous.

* I'm not going to grow up.

Likely to happen

* I will do something stupid like almost go to jail for a parking ticket.

* I will say or do something I shouldn't.

* I will be a very blond brunette.

* I will volunteer for something I shouldn't that will cause me great aggravation.

* I will be sad for no good reason.

* I will want to do something good for other people.

* I will finish this stinking grad school application after working on it for 5 months(?)

* I will work hard at my summer camps and have fun in spite of myself.

* I will be mean to my beloved hubby when he's sick, taking up space, and not doing anything for me.

* I will influence my insides by being stubborn and by wishing.

Certain to happen

* I will laugh at something funny one of my kids say- daily.

* I will cry through Annie, Les Miserables, and Folger's commercials.

* I will finish reading several books, but not as many as I have on my list.

* I will find humor in other people's silliness.

* I will get a hug when I need one.

* I will be loved by my family and love them right back.

* I will be sarcastic.

* I will be as moody as a teenager- and I have an excellent role model for that one.

How do you live a life filled with items that fit into such slots?  How do you move on from the things that definitely won't happen?  How do you turn maybes into certainties?  How can I live life as the blondest brunette ever?  Yep, good questions.  The answers are clear.  Life is uncertain, eat dessert first.  Life is mind over matter: the people who mind don't matter and the people who matter don't mind.    Be flexible.  Even though I hate that word just a little bit, I can do it.  I can do whatever I put my mind to.  And so can you.

mania from heaven?

This past week has been... interesting.  A few times I found myself wondering if I was really quite sane, even a little bit, I mean.  I just was so stinking.. happy.  Nothing bothered me.  I wasn't required to be "flexible" about a thing.  I pretty much accomplished nothing.  And, wow, was life amusing this week.

My children, and the assorted random friends who showed up, seemed to think they deserved lunch.  I freely admit that I disagreed.  But I pretty much forced myself from my busy business of doing nothing to throw some pasta in a pot.  While elder spawn watched (and why exactly wasn't she making the noodles anyhow?), I "opened" a box of spaghetti.  Unfortunately, it was already open.  So when I lifted the box, the enormous box of spaghetti dumped its contents directly below it.  On my feet.  I looked down- this hurts way more than you'd think by the way- to see a spaghetti sculpture impaled on my feet.  I seriously looked for blood.  After I finished laughing.  And laughing.  And laughing.  Rebecca joined me in laughter for a while until she thought maybe I'd laughed just a little too long.  Then she left the room as she realized cleaning up was going to have to happen.

The next day, another friend over for a lunch- even more culinarily delightful than spaghetti.  Then her mom called to make a plan to acquire child.  A plan that involved a trip to the library and Rita's.  I was all about it!  So we went to the library.  Rebecca disappeared upstairs.  This is important because we actually left her behind and had to go back to get her.  Anyhow, chaos at the library included a chance meeting with several kids from my class this year.  Including the one Katie calls my "nemesis".  Absolutely not.  This boy provided me with endless laughter this whole year.  Anyway, I made the mistake of telling this boy that we were going to Rita's also after the library.  So we all went together (as his mother and sister really had no choice), me, my two kids, my friend, one of her daughters and this other family.  Amusing already.  We did have the private girl table.  Thank goodness.  So. The spaghetti incident happened to come up in conversation, which made me laugh again.  My giggles morphed into guffaws from the looks on my daughters' faces when they realized that I actually cooked that stinking spaghetti.  Um, yea.  I wasn't throwing a pound of spaghetti away (especially since I wasn't eating any of it anyhow).  Well, then there was some flailing about (I did mention that Katie was with us, right?) and Katie hit Rebecca's spoon which did the predictable double flip, spewing gelati all over the table and assorted other places.  This sent the psycho (me) into absolute gales of laughter.  Then there was Katie holding a spoon full of stuff while also laughing, a constant stream of ice stuff dripping on her legs and clothes.  Which was also hilarious to me.  I was laughing so hard, I could barely see the stares of horror around me and those 3 stuffy ladies LEAVING Rita's in a huff.  I couldn't even look at my friend.. who, while completely wonderful, is NOT like me. 

As we're leaving, Katie tells me that she thought my "nemesis" was really annoying.  This made Rebecca and I laugh all the more.  Day 1 of school I knew this boy was Katie's clone, from the constant loudness, absolute unsolicited opinions, in your face all the time, all the way to the matching forehead scars.  Oh, yea, and he never listened to a word I said.

The last time I had a week even a little bit like this past week, was the end of April or early May.  I found myself just walking around smiling- even more than usual.  I must have looked completely simple with that smile on my face.  No apparent reason.  It took me days to realize why I was so happy.  I'd just finished a free-for-all.  April was Easter and all that goes with that.  The final weeks of my Penn State course which entailed the final written project and the horrific presentation.  And the culmination of Rebecca's middle school musical and my being in charge of ticket sales- ticket booth is great fun but a big time commitment.  So all of this finished up.  So here I was, in the situation of no longer smacking my head against a wall and it felt good.  So my foolish smiling was the absence of chaos and stress.

Not really being very bright, it wasn't until my week of utter laziness was coming to an end and my corresponding mania was ebbing, that I realized I was so manic, happy, and amused this week because I wasn't banging my head against the wall again and it felt good.

So I guess it's a good thing that there are very few weeks that are like these.  Or maybe it's good that I can vent happiness.  Or maybe I do really need therapy for incredible mood swings.  I think I can safely say that a little bit of laughter in life is good.  It feels good.  According to Reader's Digest, it's the best medicine.  I know for darn sure, when your life is filled with people who may or may not listen to you, who may or may not take initiative to make their own stinking lunch, who may or may not think you are a public embarrassment, it's a good thing to be able to laugh at them and yourself.

rememorial day

It's Memorial Day again.  As a central Pennsylvania girl long before I moved to central Pennsylvania, Memorial Day in Boalsburg is full of history.

This is how we celebrate it now:  my little family joins my mother, father and brother in a trek through the cemetery in Boalsburg putting flowers on the graves of dead relatives.  It involves getting along with those people for at least an hour.  It involves telling my daughters stories of the relatives.  Probably the same stories each year, but since I doubt they are really listening the stories seem fresh.

How we used to celebrate was certainly different.  When the great aunts and uncles, now the beneficiaries of the flowers, were alive the cemetery visit was an amazing adventure.  We'd meet at Anna Nanna's (it was years before I found out her name was really Aunt Anna Mary) sweet little house with the gorgeous garden.  Someone had visited a florist for the beginnings of the arrangements, but so many of the flowers came from Anna Nanna's garden.  Columbines are forever a symbol of this day for me and always make me think of her.  I'm sure my help was less than helpful, so I'd wander about to check out the sheep and their little backyard surrounded by trees and covered in succulent grass.  In any case, what seemed like hundreds of people put together these fabulous arrangements- the floral containers stored in their garage just for this day, as far as I know.  I don't remember how we got the flowers and the people across Atherton to the cemetery, but we did.  Wow, what a big deal to get just the right flowers to the right relative.  In those days, I probably hadn't even known any of the people.  The list was long.  I probably whined and was in a hurry, but I don't remember it as being tedious.

Aunt Anna Mary and Uncle Fred were so interesting.  They were childless, so their house was probably a nightmare for my mother when my brother and I were young.  I remember Anna Nanna as a sweet, little old lady who always wore classic clothing and school marm tie up pumps.   She had this sweet lady voice, but really was tough as could be.  She had a foot pump organ which she eventually allowed my brother and I to play.  She had a gorgeous braided rug that I seem to remember she let me help mend on occasion.  Uncle Fred was interesting.  He was pretty crotchedy and a wealth of bad language by the time I knew him.  I just talked to someone the other day who'd interviewed him years ago.  He was a famous guy in his day.  In my day, he was a bald guy with good stories.

I remember one time at Anna Nanna's when her younger sister, the bold one, was visiting and she and I laid out in the back yard in our bras and underwear.  (I may actually not have been a bra wearer at the time.)  Aunt Ginny was absolutely my favorite.  She was all things cool and sophisticated.  She had gorgeous silver hair and always wore fabulous silver jewelry (definitely my role model for loving silver jewelry) and she knew just the right colors to wear to be gorgeous.  Aunt Ginny and Uncle Dave lived in Pennington, New Jersey for many years.  We'd go visit them every year, stay in their adorable house and go to the Jersey shore for a day trip.  Aunt Ginny loved Fiestaware- which I still love.  Uncle Dave was a jigsaw puzzle man.  We always did puzzles on that trip.  It was awesome when Aunt Ginny and Uncle Dave moved to Boalsburg!  They were so much closer.  I loved visiting them more frequently!

No Memorial Day retrospective is complete without mentioning Aunt Fern and Uncle Bob.  They had a sweet little house next to the park.  For years and years, I'd walk past their house with the wisteria tree and think of them.  (The tree is gone now.)  Aunt Fern was in charge of the annual soup and bread sale in downtown Boalsburg for as many years as I can remember.  This soup thing happens to this day.  We don't usually catch that event any more.  It was on the agenda for many, many years- even after she was gone.  Something about many people's vegetable combined into one and bread slathered in butter is a real treat after the decorating of the graves.  I don't remember much about Uncle Bob and Aunt Fern- they were pretty quiet.  Their only child was run over by a car when she was 16, perhaps that's why they seemed so quiet.

Boalsburg was a big part of my childhood, even though I didn't live near back then.  The great aunts and uncles, the tribute to Memorial Day, the craft booths, the family gatherings, the canons booming, the military museum all were a huge part of my family experience.  Then I got married and moved to Maryland and coming to Boalsburg for Memorial Day seemed too much of an ordeal, so we didn't.  Unfortunately, by the time we moved back to Pennsylvania, all these wonderful relatives were permanent residents of the cemetery.

So now, I bring my daughters to put flowers on the graves of the people I knew and loved who never knew my babies.  Rebecca asked me today at each grave if that person knew I had children.  The answer was always no.  So I told her little stories of each one.  The flowers are not so much for the dead, but for the living aren't they?

This event was made all the more poignant by the discovery of the saddest tombstone of all.  It's actually a beautiful tombstone- dark stone, with a pretty beach scene etched on the right and a coastline with houses on the left side.  A very peaceful tombstone.  The name etched so distinctly in the stone and in our hearts- visible from far away.  This grave site- too new to be covered with grass- is now covered in beautiful flower petals.  Rebecca and I stood there crying as we pulled the petals to decorate the grave of her beloved gym teacher who was much, much too young to leave this world.

alpha and omega

I have two favorite times of year: the beginning of everything and the end of everything.  Why is that?  I love the excitement of new activities.  The thrill of making the schedule work.  The joy of going from the somewhat uncluttered, unstructured summer to the carefully orchestrated schedule of fall.  But yet, equally exciting to me is the culmination of the chaos as one by one the school year activities wrap up.  I love having my Tuesdays full of church friends and kids, but I also love having my Tuesdays uncluttered with responsibility.  I love the excitement of classes beginning, but I love the relief of having all the work done, the stress relieved.  I love the thrill of the beginning of rehearsals for the middle school musical and the utter chaos entailed by tech week and performances.  But I also love watching my child, one of many, shine on the stage and then having the experience be over.  Finite.  I love the joy of nagging and fretting about getting the younger spawn to choir rehearsals, easily forgotten on a Thursday morning (that might be sarcasm).  But I also love watching the final choir concert where she belts out her favorite songs regardless of those around her.  Still to come.. two band concerts, an older spawn choir concert, a piano recital.   That's ok.  They are soon and will be incredible (or at least amusing- I guarantee that Katie beating a bass drum and plucking a string bass will be mighty hilarious.)  The older spawn, in spite of her whining about the practicing, positively sparkles on stage.

It's not just the kids who have beginnings and endings.  As I said, I just finished a class at Penn State- difficult but also enjoyable and worthwhile.  The culmination there was a paper and a presentation.  The presentation I really could have done without.  Really.  So, now Monday nights are free.  This is also a beginning, however.  Today I took the GRE for the first time ever.  I was nervous, panicked even.  I finally convinced myself that I could live with my results because I could always fork over the mula to take it again.  Well, not positive, but I think I may not have to take it again.  This is big for me.  This means I actually have to finish my application to grad school- a new beginning.  I have closed my eyes and leaped!!  I have no limits! (I'm paraphrasing "Defying Gravity" here.)  It doesn't matter that I'm old as dirt- probably too old for a career change- or that I'm not entirely sure I want to switch from the cushy job I currently have (which is possibly there for me next year, possibly not).  What matters is that I'm embracing a new beginning.  Yes, I've already taken 3 classes for the Masters.  So it's really not a beginning.  Still, I have to finish an application, put my fate in the hands of someone else who might decide that I'm not right for the program.  I'm willing to take that chance.  If I can conquer (to a point) a big, scary test, I can finish an application.

That's not all I have by way of beginnings and endings.  New beginnings:  I was asked to help backstage at the first production of the local summer theater.  How cool is that?  I had great fun helping backstage last summer at the musical of the season, "Hello Dolly".  It was fun!  I fully expect to help again this summer during the show that a friend's daughter has been cast in.  I love being asked to do something!  Who doesn't like to be needed and wanted?  Other new beginnings involve summer and the relaxed chaos that brings.  I'm teaching more summer camps than ever before.  Pretty terrifying, but equally exciting- or would be if I had a clue what I was doing.  Endings?  Yes, I have endings.  I'm done worrying about something I have fixed as well as I can.  I'm done beating myself up for making a bad decision. I'm not perfect, but I am dreadfully sorry.  That's the end.  No more tears, recriminations, wishes.  Life is too short to be sorry for what cannot be fixed.  I kissed the boo boo and now we move on.

"Some things I cannot change, but till I try I'll never know."  Change is a beginning... but it's also an ending.  Either way, the spawn and I get to belt along with YouTube.

baseball, hotdogs, apple pie and Chevrolet

Spring is just about here.  (I'm trying to be realistic just in case there's another freak blizzard.)  A young girl's fancy turns to... baseball?  This has been going through my head all day.  Clearly, I'm not young and you've probably never heard me mention baseball before.  Not only that, it's probably softball anyhow. 

For some reason the baseball mitts and balls have appeared in my living room.  I'm not sure why the spawn have brought these out, where they found them, what they are doing with them, or why I still hope they will eventually put them away somewhere more sensible.  In any case, there this items sit.  Calling to me.  Making me think random thoughts of games with bats, balls, and mitts.

A couple times a summer I may feel inclined to put on a mitt and play some catch.  I may throw like a girl, but I like to throw hard.  If there's no smoke coming out of the mitt, there's no point.  If I can move my shoulder the next day, we didn't play long enough.  The kids are afraid of me.  (Might have something to do with my aim.)  Hubby occasionally will play- let's be serious, he'll do whatever I ask him to do.  He's that kind of accommodating.  However, when we play, I can still feel my hand at the end.  Not hard enough.  Still... a bit diverting.

I got to thinking about my youth (this is where the young girl part comes in.)  I grew up on a cul de sac, next door to the boy who was 7 days younger than me, but a year ahead of me in school, and up the street from a nice Irish boy.  (It is St. Patrick's Day, after all.  Had to mention that.)  The three of us used to play this game (that I can't remember the name of) in the "circle".  One person batted the ball, the other two fielded, then the batter laid down the bat, and the catcher rolled the ball to hit the bat.  Great game!  We had another game we played in the backyard.  This one I do remember the name of- Rundown!  There were two people playing catch and the third in the middle trying not to get tagged.  I'm certain that I got caught a lot.  I don't remember that, but I certainly do remember the fun. 

Regarding baseball teams... of course I'm a Pirates fan.  Alas, the same kind of Pirates fan as I am a Steelers fan.  So when they are in the Playoffs, I'm watching.  (not holding my breath)  Now, back in the day, oh yea.  I watched the Pirates.  The day being when Chuck Tanner was coach.  Dave Parker was a wild man.  Willie Stargell was a gentleman.  How could I not watch the Pirates?  My dad hogged the TV, so that's what I had to watch.  It's more painful to watch TV with my dad these days.  He's a fanatical clicker.  We get 10 minutes of baseball, 7 minutes of John Wayne, 8 minutes of Dirty Jobs.  Makes my head spin.  There's always something better to do at my house, so I don't even know which channel they broadcast the Pirates.  I will find out if the World Series is a possibility.

My parents live in Altoona now, so they've taken us to see the Curve about once a year.  Us being the girls, hubby and I.  My mom is disinclined.  The girls are way more interested in wandering about than in watching baseball.  We did have fun watching the silly games and their mascot.  Why can't I remember what the Curve mascot is?  Something vaguely Grimace-ish.  We stopped going to the Curve when the Spikes came to State College.  I will say the Curve was more fun. 

The first Spikes game we went to was for hubby's work party.  We had a buffet and seats practically outside of the outfield.  Not a lot of action out there.  Trust me.  I will tell you that one of the Spike outfielders of that season was a lying, cheating scumbag.  He "fielded" a pop fly and raised his mitt in glory.  No one knew any differently.  No one in authority anyhow.  We observant ones who were sitting beyond the outfield absolutely saw that ball hit the ground before his mitt.  Yessirree, Bob.  Lying, cheating, scumbag.  It was a year or two before I permitted us to attend another game.  The next game we sat in the real seats, near the food (and possibly there was a beer as well), where we didn't have to observe the action in the outfield.  Instead we watched Ike the Spike do lascivious things with old ladies and the Nookie (what the heck kind of name is that?) dance for homeruns.  Much more entertaining.

Hotdogs.  I have to feed the only children on the planet who won't eat hotdogs.  or macaroni and cheese.

Apple pie.  Hubby makes the best apple pie in the world.  That's all I have to say about that. Except that there was talk of pie recently.

Chevrolet.  I learned to drive in a Chevy Citation.  What a cute car.  I loved that car.  I will admit to being an idiot in the car many times.  There was this great hill that was really not on my way to anywhere.  But still I drove to the street just to go down that hill.  If you were going fast enough when you hit the top of the hill the tires left the pavement.  Roller coaster, baby!  One time I was driving with some major appliance in the back (not actually an odd occurrence in my youth), and cruised that hill.  The box hit the roof.  I'm probably lucky it didn't go through the roof.  And once there was a mound of dirt in the parking lot of the church.  Yup, I had to go over it.  My dad wondered a bit how the tail pipe got bent and why there was dirt in it.  I suspect he knew who the culprit was.  I may have admitted it.  On the other hand, I may not.

One more thing.  Three Rivers Stadium.  I may never have been inside (which is debatable), but I was sad to see it go.  It was representative of the goodness of youth, when Pittsburgh was home and the home team was black and gold.

going on an adventure

"Adventure brings excitement, creative flow, and energy, and these are essential to you. Yours is a highly artistic nature. Continual stimulation is required to keep your psyche healthy. Experience something new today. Even if it's just a walk to a place you've never been, it will give you the adrenaline you need."  a recent horoscope for me, the epitome of a Sagitarius.

Yup, I'm one of those dorks who likes reading my horoscope.  Sometimes because it is just so wrong.  Sometimes because it is just so right.

This one caught my attention for the right part.  I've been a little bored lately.  I do crave adventure and newness.  Not the bungee jumping kind of adventure- I'm way too boring and restrained (and chicken) for that.  I do seem to live my life to say the words, "what the hell was I thinking?"  Sometimes it's helping backstage at a local theater show when I'm teaching summer camps every day. (which is in itself in the WTHWIT category).  Sometimes it's volunteering to cut hundreds of fringes for kids to tie pillows to give to hospital patients.  Sometimes it's taking classes at Penn State or taking up water colors or learning to play the oboe (or more recently clarinet) or Irish Step dancing or playing a piano duet at a recital or dying my hair orange (supposed to be blond, but it was orange).  I seem to crave putting myself out on a limb with the potential for huge embarrassment.  So right now I'm lacking in the potential for huge embarrassment department.  For some reason this makes me a little sad.

It also makes me think (something that I don't generally like to do.)  Do I really need to put myself out there to have adventure?  Heck, no.  My little life is loaded with adventure.  My two daughters are an adventure every day.  This morning we had the drama of auditions for that local theater.  This involved wailing.  If these two could put as much emotion on the stage, I could be a Broadway mother.  Oh, and let it be known, I was right.  Spawn #1 had a good time.  My job?  An adventure every day too.  I'm in constant motion doing who knows what every second of the day.  Our classroom motto is "be flexible".  The kids are always laughing at me- whether I'm calling them by the wrong names (some days I just call everyone "Fred") or saying some nonsensical word like "hooziedink" (their favorite).  One day my little buddy, who's always happy to let me know when I'm being goofy, said he was "having a Mrs. Koch moment."  Meaning that he was either forgetful or unfocused or silly or all of the above.  I had to laugh at that.  The college thing is not so much a whim anymore.  It looks like I'm actually going to pursue that advanced degree.  Who knew I would finally do that?  Not me.  For sure an adventure.  Taking classes with 20somethings who share their interesting weekend stories while the prof is in the room is a thrill.

This is the part of the blog where I have inserted random quotes about adventuring.

“Remember what Bilbo used to say: It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to.” — Tolkien
So sometime take a walk and see where you end up.  It may be a walk past that fabulous house that you'd love to live in someday.  It may be the convenience store to buy a bag of contraband chips.  It may be through the woods or up a mountain or on the beach (if you're lucky).  It may not even be a walk.  Ignore the price of gas and take a wrong turn and keep on going.  You may drive past a llama farm or a gorgeous sun-dappled view.  Take a trip with your family (an adventure all of its own), get lost of course, tell stories, sing songs, fight with each other.  I may suggest you don't drive over a curb and trash your car on the way to the beach or leave the hot dogs on the kitchen counter on your way to the campsite.  (I may also suggest that you don't travel with my family.)

“Only those who risk going too far can possibly find out how far they can go.” — T.S Eliot
What do you lose by trying something a little far out?  Maybe some sleep.  Maybe a little bit of your self-respect for a little while.  But, all in all, the trying will probably get you a lot more than you lose.  Maybe not in the way you might think, but wisdom is also part of the adventure.


“Adventure isn’t hanging on a rope off the side of a mountain. Adventure is an attitude that we must apply to the day to day obstacles of life.” — John Amatt
Who the heck is John Amatt anyway?  Whoever he is, he is absolutely right.  Life is the adventure.  There's no direct path from here to there.  There's more than one way to choose.  Keep adventure in your heart and be prepared to find yourself unprepared, untrained, and surprised.

“ if you’re alive, you’ve got to flap your arms and legs, you’ve got to jump around a lot, you’ve got to make a lot of noise, because life is the very opposite of death.” — Mel Brooks
Do not be well-behaved.  Make a scene in public.  Dance in your living room with your spawn.  The adventure of life is not a quiet thing.  Life is loud and wiggly.  (just like my kids)

Bored, schmored.  I have no reason or right to be bored.  There are books to read, songs to sing, places to go, and people to meet. I just need to decide which adventure to have today.

empty chairs

As I stare out in the back yard I see my little fire pit enclave- a stone fire pit with an adirondack chair and an odd wooden couch with no cushions.  Everything was covered with a few inches of snow, up until today when the ice storm condensed the snow into a shiny, but less pretty mess of destitution.  I saw these empty chairs combined with the throes of a cold winter and the seating reflected my mood.  But this vision, this seeming reality, led me to think of another pair of empty chairs.  A very talented photographer friend of mine took a picture of two chairs perched together for conversation in the midst of a flowerbed of what we technically called "blue flowers."  The first time I saw this photograph I fell in love with it.  These two chairs, although empty, are filled with promise.  The promise of another spring.  The promise of fulfilling their purpose of conversation.  A copy of this photograph will soon be mine to enjoy every day.  (I couldn't be more thrilled that this friend accepted an exchange of her photograph for a pair of handcrocheted mittens- fun to make, more fun to someday see warming her fingers.)  Envisioning the promise of those chairs made me think and rethink about empty chairs.

I think of my favorite chair, which we call my "office".  This ridiculous chair, very comfy, purchased for $3 at Centre Peace resale shop on a complete whim, is a scene of comfort in my house.  This chair in which I can find a hundred ways to sit comfortably while reading, crocheting, sometimes napping.  This chair the location of many conversations with the children.  There have been numerous times when I would say to a crying Katie girl, "Do you want to come into my office?"  She sits on my lap (sometimes even still and quiet), as we negotiate through the drama of her life.  An office conversation never fails to end with a hug and a laugh.  

I think on the funny little love seat I insisted we pick up off the street. Yes, I'm somewhat ashamed to say we are notorious furniture scroungers.  This happens when you have 2 messy kids and 3 cats with claws.  We learned the hard way that there is no point in buying nice furniture. This love seat currently is not empty- holding the bellowing child who wants me to be there with her instead of blogging.  However, when it is empty I can think of many times when it is not.  The times when we watch a family movie.  We've tried to have all four of us sit on this little couch.  If anyone could sit still, this might work- it's a tight fit, but doable.  I can think on nights after the kids are asleep (getting rarer with that teenager who stays up too late), when the man and I can share a moment of quiet closeness or watch tv together.  We have to be close, not only because it's a small couch, but also because the cushions lean in to the middle.  Then I can remember a gathering of friends where somehow we had 10 people draped and gathered on this funny little couch and somehow we still looked comfortable.

That little fire pit arrangement in the back yard doesn't represent destitution at all.  The chairs may be empty now (and I sort of think I might go sit in the rain today), but they hold the promise of future fullness and memories of the past.  Those empty chairs hold memories of a chilly October evening when friends sat around that fire enjoying conversation and laughter.  Those empty chairs hold memories of my daughter Katie and I huddled in blankets as I read (with too little light) aloud Harry Potter.  Those empty chairs hold the memory that my handy hubby created that fire pit because I said I'd like one and helped me drag those chairs around it. So.  An empty chair is simply a chair that is not currently physically occupied- but there is plenty in it.

Life in Space

"When in doubt, blow something up." - J. Michael Stracynski

This quote was at the top of one of the chapters of a very entertaining book I just finished reading.  A fun, escapist novel about four author friends who end up writing together a novel about four author friends.  Clearly this is the kind of friendship we all crave.  The kinds of friends who would drop everything to help one of their own who is at the bottom of a pit of despair.  However, each of the friends has a secret, which comes out when their bestseller, written under only one name, gets analyzed on an Oprah-like talk show.  Chaos ensues, the friendships falter, lawsuits out the kazoo.  Then we get the happy ending that I generally require from my reading material:  friendships are saved, marriages are saved, contracts are saved, new relationships bloom where appropriate.  Happily ever after.

Then there's real life, where breaking a contract is wrong, secrets are damaging, and friendships can't withstand everything they are put through.  This is where the blowing up quote fits in.  In the immortal words of Kaylee, "Sometimes a thing gets broke can't be fixed."   Surprisingly enough, it's kind of a relief knowing that.  In the show, of course, they will all die if they can't replace that part.  So that's not the relief.  But knowing that particular item is lost to them forever, means they waste no time on trying to fix it, but concentrate instead on finding a replacement part.  Not that I'm looking for replacement parts right now, but I know the "catalyzer" is gone forever.

Kosh said, "Understanding is a three-edged sword."  The two points of view and the truth in between.  The truth is out there.  Oh, wait, not my sci-fi show.  Truth is sharp.  Sometimes the truth severs, but sometimes the truth leaves a clean line that can be stitched and eventually healed. Serenity, the vessel of my life, is getting some renovations.  My own Cap'n Tightpants/Wash  (we all know he's the funny one) is a rock solid driver.  My crew is getting a little more personal attention.  We're sometimes out in the black on our own.  But at least now we're not headed to a black hole. "Brilliant plan, I'm sure we'll all be saved."

Life lessons from space shows:  When you are sailing your spaceship into the dark, you'd best be keeping your eyes wide open and consulting star charts.  Sometimes your destination is a nice planet.  Sometimes it's a place like Z'hadum.  You have to decide if the potential for doom is worth the trip.  It probably isn't. River Tam regarding cows in a spaceship, "They weren't cows inside. They were waiting to be, but they forgot. Now they see the sky and they remember what they are."  Let nothing get in the way of remembering who you are or who you want to be.  Shepherd Book said, "You're going to burn in a very special level of hell.  A level they reserve for child molesters and people who talk at the theater." Well, frankly, that has nothing to do with this, I just like the quote. G'Kar claims, "No one here is exactly what he appears."  We all have layers.  Some are good, some are not. Pay attention to your dealings with others:  do your best to show your true self, but be aware that you might be hiding something.  And the other person?  Also a human with feelings, faults, hidden layers.  Another G'Kar quote: "I'm delirious with joy. It proves that if you confront the universe with good intentions in your heart, it will reflect that and reward your intent. Usually. It just doesn't always do it in the way you expect."  Gives me hope for a future of better decisions and the awareness that the path is never clear.

Many thanks to: Babylon 5, Firefly and The Accidental Bestseller by Wendy Wax.