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.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
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.
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
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 differenceI 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
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