Small enough to hold

Griffin is tall. Really tall, especially for a two-year-old. Just over three feet already. And although he's not a baby anymore, he is still very much a little boy. And one who is still small enough to hold in my arms.

I've been noticing that lately. Paying very close, quiet attention to the moments (sometimes brief as they are) that he is trusting and content and still in my arms. "Up, Mama," seems to be his mantra of choice these days. He always wants me to pick him up. Sometimes so he can see what I'm doing -- cooking, chopping, cleaning, whatever -- sometimes I think just because he's missed me throughout the day and wants to be spoiled and cuddled and held. I'm always happy (breathless, thankful, overwhelmed) to oblige.

It's funny, when he was a baby, we actually were worried for a time because he didn't seem to be all that cuddly. He always seemed to be going, going, going...only sitting still for seconds at a time. That, of course, has changed quite a bit. He'll sit in your lap for book after book (Go Dog Go, Goodnight Moon, Polar Bear Polar Bear and The Eye Book being just a smattering of his current favs -- in Grif speak, Woof, Moon, Roar and Eye). He wants to be held after every bump and scrape (some bigger than others, but always running to be lifted up and consoled -- as if the power of my arms can make all the hurt go away). He'll run to me to be held when he's frightened or hesitant. He runs to me with a resounding "MAma!" and a huge smile when I come into his room at daycare at the end of the day...all but throwing himself into my arms. Sometimes, he'll walk right up to me, hold my face in his hands, and give me a big (slightly sloppy) Grif kiss. Or he'll sit on my lap, facing me, and just lean his forehead in til it touches mine. Full of easy, innocent wonder and love. These simple things overwhelm me.

Lately too, after bathtime, he likes to be cuddled while still wrapped up in his the towel, head on my shoulder. Which is one of the most amazing, startling, poignant times, since we are always in front of the bathroom mirror, where I can actually see his full weight -- his full trust and love -- as he collapses his whole body in my arms. I hold him up -- I hold him close -- physically and in so many other ways, in my heart, in my mind, down deep in my soul. Oftentimes here, I get the smallest, slightest twinge of envy, as I wish I was small enough still to be held so fully, so totally by someone else. I wish I could remember that feeling of being lifted up, and surrendering so completely. What an amazing thing.

And if he wakes up too early, either from a nap or in the morning, we will sit in his chair in his room, with his head on my shoulder, and his little long body still small enough to fill my lap. In silence, we'll just stay there, neither of us ready to get moving just yet. Me, holding him. Him, being held. And I'll look down at his sweet face, holding him close, and just reveling in, marveling in, wondering at the amazing, miraculous, natural thing it is to hold my child in my arms.

Without direction

I feel my shoulders creeping up around my ears. My anxiety level building, filling me up with this weird restless feeling that has me wanting to just walk away from this job (that I need to be at right now). Near tears that I can't do this today (anymore)(just yet). And lunchtime yoga is still two hours away.....I feel like I'm literally about to boil over...with what, I'm not sure, but I know that maybe this is the best way to get it out and under control.

I had a hard night last night with Griffin. He was a tired, unhappy, fit-throwing monster last night (for lack of a better description). No nap at daycare. Two-year-old "wants" that he wants NOW. It made for a very un-fun and stressful (and again tearful) evening. And I felt so frustrated at him, and myself. Are we raising him the right way? Not giving in to the tantrums that if we do, will only lead to more? Nurturing him enough for him to know that some days it's ok to lose your cool (cuz it happens to us all)? Funny, I think about his name a lot these days...and those are the things I want him to be. Powerful like a lion. Free like an eagle. Right now though, he's just a cub who doesn't always know the difference between playtime and serious time -- a fledgling who's just starting to spread his wings and test the air. He was a lion for Halloween this year. And that (and this pic) captured him so perfectly -- his innocence, his youth, his playfulness, his sweetness, his trust, his potential....

My mind is racing so fast with emotions and wishes and sadness and hope that I can barely keep up here, let alone actually concentrate so that I can get the work done that I need to do here today. I don't want to write silly home page copy for a client that I'm working with now. I just don't want to (sound like a tantrum?). And if I can't do it (if I get anxious and upset and distracted every time like this) then how am I supposed to do this on a freelance basis? If I can't even concentrate here, if I can't motivate here, will it be worse when I don't have a timesheet and a boss to answer to? How can I teach my fierce little lion of a boy to be as peaceful as an eagle if I'm having so much trouble doing the same? I just want to go home and take a bath and a nap and maybe cry for a bit....I want to run away for a bit. But instead I have to hold it together. Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.

And just like that, this crazy stream-of-consciousness-not-really-like-me-jumble-of-craziness has done some semblance of its job, as a slight sense of calm and purpose has returned. Amy Seeley below helped -- I listened to these seven songs while writing this (and will probably just keep re-starting them throughout today). I have to breathe. I have to let all the frustrations -- from last night, from this job, from everything -- go. Just breathe. Be calm. Celebrate in my health. My breath. My strength. My beauty. My fortune. My life. I have to focus again here. On this day. On this paragraph. On this one inhale...and let the rest go.

 

I once was

So, I've been quiet here recently. Procrastinating really. The date since my last post grows further and further into the past, and instead of doing something about it (like perhaps write, as a writer should do, does), I've let it simply haunt me and remain unchanged.

Sometimes I use time as an excuse, as in, I have no time to do that today (sometimes this is acceptable...most times, well, not really). Most of the time I think it's because I  feel I should have something so prosaic, so profound, so paramount to write about that I can't fulfill my own expectation....and instead choose not to write at all.

Very recently, however, a good friend of me reminded me that this is not what this blog is about (thanks, Sue). Although public and with a small "readership" (one that I would love to expand of course), really this space is all about me -- who I am, who I want to be, and where I'm going. (Yes, I stole that directly from you, Sue. Thanks for that as well.) I start writing "half-blog" entries in my head so often, but then the workday comes and both they and the time fade away before I grab onto them firmly and set them down here. So instead of always feeling like this blog has to be lofty, or perfect, or moving, or targeted, or newsworthy, or readworthy, or even "good" (whatever that means), I'm going to try more to just write. And not judge. And not hesitate. And not over-think. And not procrastinate. Just write.

So this morning I was thinking about when I used be a skydiver. Distinction -- not when I went skydiving, but when I considered myself a skydiver. The short story is that my sister and I did it together -- I gave it to her as a Christmas gift certificate and told her that when she was ready to redeem it, I would go with her. We decided to do it the "real" way -- no, I'm not talking about tandem, nor about static line. We went hard-core all they way -- it's called AFF, Accelerated Freefall. What it means is that after 12 hours of class, one rain delay and another four-hour review, my sister and I went up to 13,000 feet, hung from the wing of the plane, and with ONLY an instructor holding on to our jumpsuits -- a mere handful of fabric, no straps, no safety net, just a hand-hold more to steady us in flight than as any kind of assistance -- we jumped out, freefell, pulled our own cord, and floated down all completely solo. This is one of those points where even years later, words don't really describe it....

But that's not the point of the story. Nor is the point that my sister left her evil monster husband after that first jump day (although it could be, given the point of this post -- she'd been married to him for 20, yes, 20 years, and leaving him after that jump? No coincidence I think). Nor is it that we went back for a second jump and did it all again (only this time we did maneuvers in mid-air). The point is that I thought myself a skydiver. A fearless, jeep-driving, wild woman, cool-girl skydiver. Not just someone who jumped out of planes, but a skydiver. The word had weight. I did things like that back then -- weighty, somewhat crazy things like driving solo across the western half of the country in my jeep (pre-cell days, remember). Hiking the Grand Canyon. Playing rugby. Going rock-climbing for four hours before my shift at a crazy restaurant where I would spend the following 10 hours absolutely running my tail off. Writing poetry. Painting watercolor scenes at the pond by my house. Driving by airports and dreaming of flying...the energy I had, the romantic notions, the ideas...

My memory of that girl I was is jaded -- on the surface, she seems so confident, so daring, so free and fearless. And for the most part, I was (dare I say, still am?). But the truth is that I was also alone way back then. Lonely. Achingly, terribly, horribly so. And although I miss those days somewhat -- truly, who doesn't miss the crazy, carefreeness of their youth? -- I'm no longer that fly-solo-by-the-seat-of-her-pants girl. I have a husband who is my whole heart (and who, ironically, is a pilot -- my oldest of friends find that hilarious), I have a son (a child, a wee boy, the ultimate light of my life, the center of my soul), and a life with them that I love so very much and that I waited so very long for. I have so much. So very, very much.

I want to remember these things for the good that they were. I want Grif to know that I drove a blue jeep for 17 years (still miss ya, Big Blue). That I was the captain of my college rugby team (and we were good), that the only times I've been to the Grand Canyon have been by myself. That I once spent a month crewing a 34-foot sailboat and sailing around the Virgin Islands. That I bought a harmonica determined to spend every day playing it but never did. That I've started two different books, but not yet finished either. That all these things made me the woman, wife, mother, writer I am today. And that I wasn't afraid to do any of them. To try them. Or to leave them in the past where, for now, they belong as good, wonderful, gotta-smile-at-that memories that remind me I'm still beautiful, strong and free. I can't wait to tell him that I wasn't afraid to step out of that plane....and let go. And fall.

Five years ago....

Five years ago today....there was a full moon. And the day began with an early morning bath and a cup of coffee that upset my stomach. And then we laughed the entire rest of that glorious day and night away....

Five years ago today, I had my hair and makeup done -- my hair turning out not so great, but my makeup...I remember looking in the mirror and thinking I had never looked so beautiful. And my dress, well, I still am in love with it. Five years ago, the only time I cried was when I saw my mother come out of the hotel as we picked her up in the limo. I had never seen her look so utterly lovely and radiant.

Five years ago, I looked at Jim down the aisle of a church, he and I alone, as he turned around and saw me for the first time in my dress. And I laughed when I thought of how nervous I had been in the car ride over. I'm still blaming the coffee.

Five years ago, my sweet dad walked me down the aisle surrounded by the best of our friends, companions, family. Five years ago, we read Walt Whitman, and played Verdi and the Marriage of Figaro, and spoke from our hearts when we gave each other our rings. Five years ago, we took time out to thank my girl Mary, for all she had done for us. And Father Keyes made everyone laugh, and cry, and think that if there were more priests like him, more people would be returning to the Church.

Five years ago, we took pictures outside, boarding these gorgeous brick-red chris-craft boats with a glorious blue blue metallic sky above to match my "something blue" shoes. Five years ago, my mother gave a Spanish toast, my father blessed us all in tears, and my dear friend Lark gave a speech to end all speeches about love and life and living and thanks.

Five years ago, we did things just a little differently than everyone else (said lovely planner Susan, who we will miss and remember just as much as Father Keyes on this day), from the music, lights and the setup to the food, fun and flowers. Five years ago, we were each other's Shining Star, with a silly Dancing Bear pinata and Spanish cava and chocolate fondant cake. Five years ago, we danced our feet off, broke the bar (so to speak)(or not, depending on if you ask my father about the bar bill), ate like kings and had a vivid and glorious day, one I remember in fine detail even these years later.

Five years ago, I married the love of my life. My soulmate. My best friend. My lover. My pilot. My husband.

Five years ago, we had a blast. And although every day since then hasn't been as magical and perfect and carefree and fun as our wedding day, I wouldn't change a single day. People are still talking about how fun and amazing our wedding was -- we can't get together with anyone who was there on the lake that night of the full moon without retelling a story, a favorite moment, a salute to a great getaway and an over-the-top occasion. I'm inclined to agree.

Here's to the next five, and all the rest to come. I love you, Jim. With all my heart yes.

When did I become a hippie?

I grew up in the 70s and 80s. Came of age (in my mind anyway) in the mid-90s. My music repertoire had its roots in Styx (I blame my then-teenage neighbor), then later in Rush, the Fixx, the Alarm (I blame pals Rick and Joe) and other similar bands like the Clash, Joe Satriani, the Cult. Post-college brought me into contact (as I fell in love) with Pearl Jam and the Dave Matthews Band. And then there were the Frank years, and all things ladies of blues, Etta, Ella and Nina. But I never would've called myself a hippie or anything even slightly related. Slightly boho-gal, yes. All-out Jeep outdoorsy cool chick, probably. But hippie? I had one tie-dye shirt (that I made). Didn't go to festivals (didn't even know such a thing existed besides Woodstock). Never saw the Grateful Dead on tour (never even knew much of their music). Would not have known what a drum circle was. Nor a jam band. Phish grew to fame in the east while I was there, and I missed that too entirely. And then, somehow that all changed.

I remember the first song that my husband played for me -- the first one that he really wanted me to hear. It was by the Jerry Garcia Band, and it was a cover of Shining Star by Earth, Wind and Fire. And it was good. Really good. I instantly fell in love (your guess here whether I'm talking about the song or Jim). He had told a friend of his years before that he would play that song for the woman he was going to marry, so in a way, it was a mini-audition for the wife and lover and friend and companion that I was already well on my way to becoming. Come forward to our engagement, which began when he asked me to marry him at Bonnaroo, during the Dead show while they played Morning Dew (a sweet, soulful, classic folk melody)...and then keep on going to our wedding, which featured both significant songs, a reception introduction orchestrated by Phish's First Tube, and filled with Jerry Garcia wine, Jerry art on all the place cards, and a Dancing Bear pinata. Oh yes, I'm serious. It was a blast....

I credit my lovely (hippie) pilot of a hubby with all this music discovery. Music is amazing, I think. How one song can change your entire day, mood, life sometimes. How one song can take you back 20 years, and surprise you by the fact that you still know all the words. And the words -- ahhh, the writer in me is always so focused on, so moved by, so inspired with what the songs actually say and how they say it, most times more than the music itself (although also a critical part). That's one of our big differences -- for Jim, it's all about the music, and the words are secondary, sometimes unimportant. It's the absolute opposite for me. To this day, I still print out words to songs that strike me -- songs where the words could stand alone, but are brought to such an amazing life with their accompanying chords and notes and voices. Songs where the words alone bring a tear to my eye, make me smile, cry, wish, hope....

I'm now a huge fan of both the Grateful Dead and Phish, and find myself sorry that I missed some of the "golden years" when touring with the bands was an experience and not just another show. I've been to Bonnaroo twice. A number of smaller festivals like the Hangout and two and three-day shows galore from Red Rocks to Alpine Valley and back. In fact, much of our vacation schedule is crafted around festival season. I just got back from a two-day Phish run at Deer Creek. Funny, how music can change a life, no?

So in the spirit of the hippie I've become -- loved becoming, become through love -- I leave you with my latest favorite song. A good DJ "friend" played it to end his run on my favorite local radio station, and it seemed to me to be the perfect send-off, the perfect goodbye, the perfect so long for now. It's a sweet, slightly sad tune, but as always, it was the words that hooked me, with the music sealing the deal. So from one hippie to another, I hope you enjoy it....both the words and the music.....and think of the "many worlds I've come since I first left home"....and that you'll "listen to the river sing sweet songs to rock my soul."

Home

I'm dreaming of home today. Strange, too, that at this minute, Pandora is playing "Home" by Jack Johnson as well. It's a slow song, not sad, somehow a happy melancholy little ditty. And that's exactly how I'm feeling (again?) today -- somehow happy yet melancholy.

Home -- it used to mean my little farm in the woods. I had a hard time leaving that home -- that home that I had almost totally rebuilt from the inside out, and poured every bit of my energy and heart and soul into -- even though leaving it behind meant starting a new home with my husband. The last time I left the farm -- only a  few weeks ago -- I'd never felt so relieved to get back home to our house in Cincy. It was oddly sad yet some how a relief to realize that. To realize that the house in the woods was no longer really my home -- at least not the home where everything was brilliantly familiar and warm and settled. The farm has this sense now of a home since passed -- still there, still chock full of good, good memories and pretty tokens that I still want in my life, but no longer the place where I can let everything go and truly relax. It's a place in transition now -- ready to become someone else's home, or one that I can only call my own during holidays.

In many ways, I still think of Kansas City as home -- but more in the sense of that's where my roots are. It's where I'm from. It's where I'll always be from, I think (originally, that is).  My sisters still live there; the farm and my parents are close -- that area will always be in the most literal sense, where everything began and therefore, home in that sense.

I dream too of the time when Colorado might be our home. It always seems just another two years away that we could find a new home out there in those clean mountains, where peaceful, giving, green living seem just a bit more important and easy and real than they do here. A new home where Grif could grow, and where Jim and I could live the next chapter of our lives as a couple, as a family. 

But home these days in my heart is so very much simply the boy and my pilot. I'm missing them both today. Missing that feeling of home when we are all together. The boy was not himself today either -- my only thought all morning was how I wished, wished so very hard, that I could have stayed home with him today. And although that might yet come true (daycare could call and homeward bound we would both be), I think it's more the fact that my responsibilities at my full-time job got in the way of staying home -- of being home -- with the not-so-sick boy who was just not acting like himself this morning.


Home -- I want to be home more. For both the boy and the pilot -- but for me too. Work and all things not "home" seem so much less important these days. I feel like if I could just be home more, everything would fall into place a little bit neater, a little bit easier, and more importantly, a little bit happier. And although I know that may not be entirely the truth, there's a small part of that that is true -- the hopefulness that comes with the ability to just be home more.

I'm thankful that I even have a home to call my own -- and a wonderful family and life in which to nurture and grow and love a home with. And I think our home is lovely -- located in a honestly great neighborhood with truly generous neighbors -- friends who've helped make it a good home for us and each other too. Because of all this, I have a happy place to come home to. To be home at. "So Damn Lucky" -- that's what's on Pandora now. Too, too true.

I miss home today -- and all that it entails, from farm to cities to boys and more -- home is where I want to be.

No comparisons, no opinions.

No judgments, no opinions. This what my yoga teachers always remind us throughout class. That's not why we are there -- we're there to do yoga (and all the things that entails), not spend 75 minutes focusing on what's wrong with our body or that pose or make mental comments about we look or how far we can push....That's not the point at all. But it's hard not to do that -- both in yoga (in front of a huge mirror) and in everyday life. It's so easy to look at someone else's work schedule/job/hair/weight/body/house/children/life and not hold up your own examples in comparison...even easier to find your own somewhat lacking, easy to think how much better your own whatever would be if you could have just a little bit of what they have.

I've been making those comparisons a lot lately. Too much, frankly. And I've been letting myself come up short. Which is not only unhelpful, but truly just silly. I was looking at a friend's hair the other day and thinking to myself how great it looked (do I have to say also that I was wishing my hair looked that good all the time?). About an hour after we met, my friend sent me an email and mentioned how much she loved my hair and wished hers was more like mine. I thought that was hilarious -- how telling, a sign from the universe? a reminder? whatever, it was hilarious.

I have lots of other friends that post pictures of their kids all the time -- on blogs, on Facebook -- taking the time and effort to honor this progress (to catch it on film) and I find myself wishing I could do -- had done -- more of that with Grif. It's hard for me not to listen to my stay-at-home neighbor when she goes on (and on) about what her 2 year old can do...then worrying about things that Grif hasn't yet mastered, or isn't ready for, or doesn't know....how hard it is not to take all her praising and pride for her own brood and put Grif up next to them...hard to not think he's not measuring up in small ways within my strange mommy brain and somehow blaming myself for these "lacks" because I'm working full-time. Because, of course, if I could work part-time or freelance from home (like so many of my friends do) all these things that I find troublesome in life would magically fix themselves and Grif would be reading Shakespeare next week, right? And my hair would be perfect too, and my weight where I want it and my house clean and....funny how completely ridiculous these comparisons (and the thoughts that lead to them and away from them) seem in print....

I've been on vacation twice now in the past month with two lovely friends (in locales that required swimsuits, so that didn't help with the no-comparisons-no-opinions thing). Both thin, thin, stay-at-home moms. Hard not to draw comparisons there, right? And yet, as much as I found myself envying their time with their kids, their time to workout, their time to do things other than juggle work and daycare with groceries and cleaning and laundry and life, I realized that I didn't want their lives. Not even a piece of them (ok, well, living in the UK would be nice, but not something I'm dying for). I love my life -- I'm ready for it to change, change radically, and working hard to make that come true, both in my work situation and therefore the time and life I have with both the pilot and the boy, but that doesn't mean I've forgotten to be soo thankful for everything I have. Because I am -- so very thankful. I have so much -- and that's not to say more than anyone or better than everyone, but just enough today, for me. And my life. Comparisons be damned.

So, I'm done comparing my weight with that of the females in my life. I'm done comparing my current work requirements and schedule with all the people in my life who are doing it differently (or not at all). I'm done comparing my car, my hair, my dog, my kitchen, my beauty, my wardrobe, my pictures, my blog entries, my legs, my eating habits, my looks, my style, my everything with the people in my life. I'm done finding all these things not quite good enough or sad that I feel like they could be (should be) better, more, most. I'm most especially done comparing my sweet boy Grif to all the other kids on the block, or in his school, or with those of my friends. I think we both deserve better than that. No, I know we deserve better than that.

No judgments, no opinions, no comparisons. Done and done.

My Dad

This past weekend, I was away with my boys on the Cape, enjoying a sweet mini-break with some lovely old friends (who are, in fact, quite British now with their four sweet children, so forgive if my writing sounds a bit more clipped and UK-accented than usual). And although I didn't altogether forget it was Father's Day -- in fact, I had carefully planned a gift and a card from the boy for Jim, and then made special mention of the day to my friend's dad who was visiting as well -- I had to be reminded by my husband to actually call my dad on Sunday. And of course, my response was a wee bit reticent -- I recall saying something to the effect like, "But I already sent a gift and a card..." Bad daughter. For the record, I did call. And had to leave a message since my parents were out. And then, yes, ignored their call back about a half hour later (we were on vacation...at the Cape -- and my friend had company, I didn't want to be rude). Yes again, bad daughter. At least somewhat anyway...

So, it occurs to me today after reading Boho Girl, that I could once again "borrow" from her loveliness of spirit yet again to pay tribute -- in writing this time -- to my oh-so-lovely-and-loving Dad. My favorite, fondest memories of my childhood include my Dad (and a surprising amount of them revolve around food as well). My dad used to bring home small plain cheesecakes from his restaurant, and I vividly remember sitting in our avocado green kitchen and simply digging in, just the two of us. No plates. Me on my stool. Dad in a chair. Two forks and away we went.

Longjohn donuts at John's Spaceage on Saturday mornings, Dad making huge breakfasts on Sunday morning, always exactly ready when Mom and I got home from church. As a wee child, I remember summer Dairy Queen outings every Sunday night -- Dad always got the "daddy-size" hot fudge sundae, and I always had the small one (usually in one of those upside-down plastic baseball caps they used to have). I literally almost shed a tear these days when I drive by the spot where that old Dairy Queen used to be. So vivid those memories are.

I remember a "boys" fishing trip that me and my dad went on in Destin when I was in college. I was the only female onboard, and dad and I got stuck in Florida while a huge tropical storm moved in. We caught a fair number of fish. Just the two of us.

I remember hot summer nights at our old house sitting outside on our patio, with Dad listening to the baseball game on this shoddy little radio, a beer in one hand and a cap on his head. The smell of Coors still brings back those humid nights so clearly.

I remember the first time that Dad cooked at the American Royal BBQ contest -- what a night of good food, late music and general craziness. Once again, just dad and me. We were laughing so hard at how huge the whole night was.

Only one time during high school did I get officially grounded. And to get me out of my mother's range, we decided to take a drive. Four hours later, we came back with the blue Jeep for me (which, for the record, I owned for 17 years). My sweet father shooed me out of the house to go enjoy my new car while my mother was literally screaming in the background, "I ground her and you go out and buy her a f***ing car?!?!?" That's simply one of my favorite dad stories of all time.

I've only ever really seen my dad mad -- fully angry, embarrassed and near fury -- once. And that was following a crazy tequila night involving my then boyfriend (now hubby), my mother and my eldest sister. I still don't know exactly what when down (I was working), but it involved my dad being mad at my mom and sis for well over a week. And the only time I've ever seen my dad lose his cool was on the plane to Switzerland, when he thought he'd lost the passports, and ended up finding them in the sleeve of his parka. He's always so calm. So centered. So even-keeled. And always with a half-smile on his face.

I remember my wedding -- and all the plans that led up to it -- and how my dad made sure that the whole affair was so very much about Jim and me, and not anything, or anyone else. I also remember him figuring out the bar bill the day after. The memory of his sudden exclamation, out of nowhere, of "That's like 10 drinks apiece!" still makes me giggle a bit. And my favorite shot of my dad, with his dark glasses and a cigar in his mouth and this silly grin on his face...we call this pic the Godfather. My sweet dad.

I remember overhearing him talking to a friend of his one day, who couldn't understand, couldn't fathom why I didn't want to take over my dad's million-dollar corporation, the family biz, just step right in a career and go, and hearing my dad telling him, "Because that's the easy way out for her. And she's not like that."

There was the time when I was living (struggling, floundering) in Boston, and he called me up and just said, "Come home." Armed with excuses -- my internship, my job, my apartment lease, my roommate -- he interrupted and just repeated, "What are you doing up there? Come home." And I did. And, of course, father did know best in this particular case.

I remember my dad and I gardening, cleaning, taking care of cows and chickens and trees and fences and such on the farm we basically built together. The farm I had to leave behind. The farm he still takes care of cuz he knows I can't bear to let it go just yet. 

And now I look around and see all the pictures of my dad as a grandpa. Popo to Grif. And he's been so easy and comfortable and good with the boy from the very beginning. My favorite memory is of my dad asleep on the couch, head back, mouth open, with Grif, asleep on his chest, head back, mouth open....

My dad. I know he won't ever get to read this himself, but I'll tell him about it. And we'll laugh and talk again about all the silly things we used to do -- the good memories. The crazy stories. The good, good, goodness that is all things my dad. Happy Father's day, dad. With all my heart.

Yoga Postscript

Yesterday, after writing about being down and trying to figure why (and how to change it), I went to yoga. Hot yoga (moksha) -- and it kicked my butt. I brought all my negative feelings and sadness with me, and physically it was one of the hottest, most challenging, people-packed and energy-draining classes ever (plus I hadn't had enough water throughout the day -- not advisable). Granted, it had been nearly two weeks since I'd done yoga, and it showed, but I really think it was more my attitude that affected my practice. I got halfway through and my body was just done. Spent. Worked out out. It wasn't a great practice physically.

Mentally -- now that's another thing altogether. Interesting thing happened...halfway through this crazy 90-minute practice, when we transition from all the standing postures to the seated and spinal strengthening ones, we rest. Shavasana. Supine, eyes closed. The point where everything becomes relaxed -- breathing, muscles, body, most importantly, mind. My mind of course was running wild at this point -- this point that only exists to focus on your breathing and body and to meditate not ruminate. Our teacher actively guides us through this posture -- helping remind us to let everything go -- thoughts, judgments, opinions, effort...giving us cues and instruction about how to better do this. And the strangest thing happened.

She said: Think about what you need to be happy.
I thought: (all at one time as I chuffed slightly at the ironic humor of this question, especially considering my frame of mind) wellthat'seasymoretimewiththeboyabetterjoborevenbetter,part-timejobsoIcouldstayhomewhatastupidquestiontoaskmeofallpeople....

And suddenly in the middle of this crazy freight train of thoughts that was literally pouring through my mind at breakneck speed, this strong, confident, powerful, calm voice said over all the insanity: THIS.

And suddenly, everything else was silent, unimportant.

She said: Think about what you need to be healthy.
I thought: (immediately, instinctually, without a pause) THIS. The smile on my face grew a bit.

She said: Think about what you need to be peaceful.
I thought: THIS. A resounding thought, and my smile grew even wider, and then I sighed with contentment at the realization of this wry, unexpected truth I had discovered.

The rest of the practice went as expected -- meaning not so great because I was well and truly at my physical limit, and I paid for it the rest of the night with a headache from pushing too far. But mentally -- well, let's just say I walked out of there feeling lighter and thankful and balanced and confident and at peace. And marveling that this voice in my head had finally (too) heard enough of my complaining and sadness and took the perfect opportunity to remind me about what was good. And important. And right. And to forget about the rest and be thankful for everything else.

Yoga is so cool, no?

All will be well

Giant sigh. I hesitated to even attempt this -- to even write these words today -- but I've been feeling this way on and off for the last week or so, and it's just getting to me. I'm not looking for sympathy, not looking for advice, or compassion. I think I just need to get this feeling off my chest -- out into the world -- and maybe that will create some kind of catharsis so I can get rid of this melancholy that has haunted me so these past days. Maybe I can purge it through writing a bit about it. Cuz that's what writers do, right? Get it out and on paper instead of bottled up inside....

Is it the moon? It'll be full this week. Is it post-vacation blues? Is it that summer is here and I'm craving outside sunshine and fresh air instead of over-air-conditioned office cubicles? Is it that the boy has been sick and not himself either this last week and therefore so very, very trying and cranky? Is it that even my husband seems fed up with my mood swings -- snapping at me unexpectedly, which, of course, makes me snap back and then immediately burst into tears. God forbid it's something as simple as PMS.

I find myself apologizing for the silliest things -- sorry I couldn't get to the phone fast enough. sorry I didn't bring you that water right away. sorry that grif had diaper rash and was screaming bloody murder when I tried to let you sleep in. feeling sorry for myself...even I'm sick of hearing that word come out of my mouth (or circle my thoughts).

I think that it's something as simple as the fact that I am ready -- anxious -- for the next step. The next part of my life that isn't quite here. Vacation was so very lovely, perfect even (the music, the people, the setting, sigh again). So much so that it made coming back to work really much worse than usual. I'm somewhat obsessed with not working now -- finding a way to gather enough freelance work to be able to quit my current job, or find something part-time that pays well -- so I can spend more time with both the boys. Ready for the time when we can truly start making plans to move to Colorado. Ready...for it all. And I know I have to wait a bit longer -- and I'm fine with that, really. Prepared, even. But maybe that's what's making me sad. Maybe I'm focusing on the self-imposed limbo that I seem to be feeling these days instead of enjoying every single moment I've been gifted with....maybe...

When I was single and young all those years ago, this kind of feeling would spur me to hop in the jeep and go out to this little industrial airport, and watch the planes take off as the sun set. It would calm me -- not necessarily make me feel better, or less sad, or more sure of myself, but it would calm me nonetheless. And at least for that moment, everything was ok -- unfolding as it should -- and I would know that all would be well (all wi' be well, all wi' be well, and all a' manner of things wi' be well).

The blue jeep is gone, and that airport's sunsets are so very far away, but maybe, if I think about my pilot husband, and my crazy sweet miracle of a child who shines so very bright in my heart, I can bring that same calmness to this sadness. And I know it won't solve all my strange sorrows, but really, it'll be close enough.

Tomorrow

I've been thinking a lot about my next post here -- specifically, that I haven't even mentioned my life with books (so you know that one will show up simply because it is long, long, long overdue). I have lots of opinions and passions to share in that department (as those of you who know me will most definitely agree). I've also been thinking a lot about Colorado, and how raising my child in that kind of atmosphere (politically, ecologically, spiritually) would be (will be) so different than our current surroundings in Northern Kentucky. I even started that one. It's called "Rocky Mountain High." I'll finish it soon. Then you know I've always got something to say about the boy -- so I'm sure there will be yet another post waxing poetic about him, and being a mother, and a wife, and most importantly, being so very thankful for it all.

But for now, for tomorrow, this one is short. Simple. Obvious. Tomorrow, I go to the beach. Tomorrow, I journey to the shores of Alabama (by car, which means lots of napping and reading while my husband and our friend drive -- yes that's right, I probably won't contribute there at all -- call me lazy, whatever, I always offer to drive and always get turned down, which, honestly, I've grown exceedingly accustomed to). Tomorrow, we go to a place that is starting to feel the affects of the oil leak, and to which all the proceeds of this funky little hippie music festival will now go (cool, no?). Tomorrow, I go to the sand. And the ocean. And that smell of salt and sun and sea. Tomorrow I go to a place where when the wind blows, I'll be left with an oceany residue that I can feel and taste on my skin and clothes. Tomorrow...

It's been way too long since I've been to the ocean. And although I'm a mountain girl by nature, there is simply nothing in the world that can compare to that truly awesome power the ocean carries so easily on its blue, blue back -- the gigantic crash of the waves, the inexorable pull of the tides, the smile-inducing salty smell in the air itself that is so unique, so tangible, so memorable (you simply have to relax and smile as soon as you take that first deep breath of it). The thought of it overloads my senses (not to mention the thought of the great music, fun people and general mayhem that will naturally ensue).

Tomorrow -- so soon -- I go to the beach. With my husband. Just the two of us. Grif's first beach vaca will be in June on Cape Cod -- this one is just for me and the pilot. And while I will miss the boy fiercely, I am looking forward to a getaway with Jim, the late nights and lazy mornings, sand in the bed and the feeling of tight, tingly skin from too much sun.

Tomorrow is vacation. And we're going to the beach.

My Friend the Mama

Ok, so when I started this blog, I had no interest in making it what a friend of mine deemed "one of those mommy blogs." I'm all for posting every day about what amazing new milestone your precocious child is up to (Grif is up to nearly three feet at this point), or the latest in mommy accomplishments (yesterday, I managed to go home sick and take a three-hour nap), but I guess the term "mommy blog" still leaves a funny taste in my mouth. Because yes, I am a mom, and I do blog (often about being a mama), but there's something somewhat pigeonhole-ish about trying to classify what I do here...which, to me, is really all about writing -- about life and love and hopes and dreams and everything else that crowds my mind.

But this one is about motherhood, and not just mine this time. Grif is just over a year-and-a-half old. Nineteen months to be exact. No longer a baby, he's a boy now....and no one in my life, none of my closest or dearest friends, has had children since I had Grif. Until now. My dearest, soulmate of a friend (for those of you following along, you may remember her as the real life coach I mentioned a blog or two ago), my gorgeous, beautiful soul of a friend is pregnant. And when she told me -- over the phone and too many miles away -- I was overcome, overwhelmed, overjoyed.

To hear her say those words, "I'm pregnant," resonated so very deeply with me. I immediately burst into tears, nearly uncontrollable sobbing. I couldn't speak, I was so happy. All I could do was cry and tell her how very, very, very happy I was for her -- my heart was so full. My heart is still so full -- so full of joy, joy, joy for her. I immediately thought of my own pregnancy, and where she was at this point in hers. I thought of my crazy delivery, and silently asked the universe to please make hers easier. I prayed for the safety of her child -- repeating the same mantra that I pray over Grif four and five times a day, "please help this baby be healthy, safe, strong, smart and good." I thought of how we decorated Grif's room, and pictured her doing the same with the love of her life in their apartment in New York -- what colors to choose, what bedding, furniture, books, clothes....

But mostly I thought of how motherhood had changed me -- how I feel differently about children in general, how I truly didn't know how much Grif could alter everything in my life while still leaving me the same woman I always was. And to know that my dearest friend was about to experience all of this for herself truly knocked me flat. My heart burst open knowing how fully and beautifully she will embrace motherhood, and I come near tears again just thinking of the time soon to come when I will get to see her pregnant, get to meet her child, get to see that sweet child grow up within the circle of her heart. I repeat, I was overcome then, and am overcome again now thinking about all the things that Grif has brought to my life -- motherhood being just the first. I had no idea -- how could I have? And to know that she is about to feel all these same things...I sigh again with happy tears in my eyes. Oh my sweet friend, I am so very happy for you. From one mother to (now) another.

Shawn, 2, Madonna and Bono

For those of you who may not know, I did a 60-mile walk about a year-and-a-half ago. Yes. You read that right. Sixty miles, over three days, in the heat of a Chicago summer, raising a ton of money for Susan G. Komen and breast cancer research. It's a great cause -- and an even greater challenge -- one that truly changed my life, spiritually, physically, mentally. My friend Steph P. and I trained for over six months to get ready for it -- meaning we walked. A lot. And then walked some more...I loved every minute of it (ok, I could have skipped the blisters, but that's another story). But walking that much? I loved it. Every single step of that spring and summer of walking, walking, walking. I've not felt that fit in a long time. And it was just from getting out to take a walk.

The winter following the 3-Day, I got pregnant. And the following summer left distance walking a quickly diminishing option as I got rounder. Last summer was my first summer with a baby -- and again, walking was not a priority so much as cramming in every minute I could with both of my guys. This past winter and spring, hot yoga and pilates have been my focus, thinking that as spring and summer arrived, I'd get out and start walking more (again). To date, that has only happened once. Until last night.

I wasn't feeling good yesterday. Feeling not so great about how I looked, how I felt. I hated what I'd chosen to wear to work that day, exasperated with my hair, not at all happy with my body. Feeling down and out and dull. Normally, this would spur a night on the couch to hopefully recharge, renew and just get rest for once. I had every intention of doing this. But instead, I took a walk last night.

I took a long, powerful, liberating walk. All over my neighborhood for nearly an hour. I didn't want to stop -- didn't want to come in from being outside and walking. I felt like I could walk for hours (and might have if it hadn't gotten dark at 9:00). And I felt good. Strong. Fit. Happy. Good (yeah, I said that already, but that's just how good I felt). And bewildered why I had let this simple and effective workout tool go so long unused and undone and unloved.

I took my iPod (something I didn't use when training for the the big walk). My iPod is a funny animal -- I don't use it all that much, and have a huge laundry list of songs I want to add, so when I do take it along for something like last night, I get caught up in what songs my Pod randomly chooses to play for me -- it's like it just knows what I need to hear, at just the right times....and because I don't listen to it all the time, these little gems still surprise me....

Sean Mullins started it all off with, "Yeah but ain't it a blessing to do what you wanna do..." Wry smile on my face, eyes on the setting sun, all I can think is yeah, I'm working on that one...right now as a matter of fact....



Tribal Dance makes me laugh somewhere in the middle. Holy cow, how long has it been since I heard this? Made me walk faster -- a lot faster. With a huge smile on my face. "You've got to move it, feel the temperature...get into it..." Yes indeed I do. Am doing....



At the end, Madonna helps me finish strong, comes on and says, "The more that I wait, the more time that I waste. I haven't got much time to waste, it's time to make my way." How true. Time right now.



Bono thrills me as I stretch and cool down with "And so she woke up, woke up from where she was lying still and said I gotta do something about where I'm going..." True beyond words.



Those randomly chosen songs last night -- these here and so many others -- made me walk faster. Farther. More confidently. Some brought a bounce to my step. Others a tear to my eye. Others were just vibrant reminders of times gone by. All made that walk absolutely amazing. Good. Great. Just what I needed really. And more importantly, they made me eager -- crazy -- to get out there and do it again. To get out there and just walk. And feel as fulfilled and powerful and strong as I did when I finished. And maybe, just maybe (ok, probably), start the journey toward another 3-Day next year. Care to join me? Come on, let's go for a walk.

Breaking the Silence

It's interesting to me how I have a love/hate relationship with my professional job (dare I say, career?). Outside of the fact that I truly love the work I do (I've often said that I'm a good editor because I love doing it, but the reverse is just as true), I love it that I often can steal away a few minutes or a half hour to write a little something here (steal being the operative word). It's when I'm at work that I have the most contact with a computer and the Internet -- I find it hard to motivate myself to sit back down at the computer at home after I've been pounding away at one all day at work (hence another reason why "the book" remains unfinished). So naturally I love it when my job allows me just a few minutes of downtime to put down some of the words that so often circle in my head. I love it when I can actually see the words churning out and know -- just know -- that I'm a good writer.

Yet I hate it (absurdly) when the events of the past few weeks -- the um, well, work -- have kept me so busy that I've been silent here. So although this will be quick (perhaps not short, but quick nonetheless), I was overwhelmed by the absolute need to break the silence and get something current out here.

I love my job for the past few writing projects I've done. Who knew that I could actually grow as a writer when writing copy for a client? I should clarify by saying that the most recent client was, in fact, ourselves, and that I've been writing (or rewriting as the case may be) the majority of the narrative that appears on our soon-to-be-launched new company website. I've loved taking on the ultra-creative, super-hip, highbrow and intelligent nature of this. I love it that the higher-ups trusted me to do this -- and even more, that they showered me with praise upon its completion. I love doing the background work to find out what's really cool with other companies like ours -- that kind of research is what made me love the ad business all those years ago in college, when I used to cut out magazine ads that I felt -- knew -- were particularly brilliant, whether due to the layout or the copy, more often than not both. I love it now that I can recognize that same quality in my own work here.

Yet I hate my job because the incentives to stay here have just been dramatically increased -- a nice pat on the back, both in the actual, real singing of my praises from the "bosses" along with a good bump in pay -- it's been fun here. Good. Satisfying. Fulfilling. And that, of course, is the very reason why the "hate" part of the job relationship is so poignant right now. I hate it when I realize how much I love my job, and the people I work with, and even more, the actual work I'm doing. I hate it because my job is still 100% full-time, in-office, and that makes looking for something else so difficult. Which I'm doing. And I still want. Terribly. I hate it when they make me love it here...and that's said with a genuine smile on my face, but more than a grain of sad truth.

Because I'm still missing days with the boy. My precious, sweet, growing, crazy long-legged boy. He's running and climbing everywhere and everything. He's fearless. Not yet talking (in real words that I can understand, I should say, since he's definitely speaking, just in his own language) but that day is fast approaching. And with it comes the realization this bright window of his future is being thrown open -- these special years where he can go to the zoo for the first time, slide down a park's slide over and over, laugh out loud at the joy of getting pushed on a swing...and it's now more than ever that I want to spend as much time -- as many days -- as I can with him.

This see saw of emotions has been very much on my mind of late. I'm so thankful that my job is getting better, I'm overjoyed that I actually like it again. And I'm saddened to think that I'll have to leave it in order to gain the time I so desperately desire with the boy in these years before he starts school. But leave it I will, if it means even one more day I'll get with Grif. And when that day comes -- when -- I'll happily and thankfully take with me the memories of these good days here.

So this life coach says...

I went to a Ladies Night Out last week at my favorite new pilates studio. Drinks and appetizers, jewelry for sale, 15-minute massages, salsa dancing...and a life coach. Before I go much further, you must first imagine how I just said that word, life coach, with a slight moue on my face. I know a life coach -- a real, sincere, good life coach -- my dearest, dearest, soul mate of a sister/best friend/maid of honor/godmother to my child, and I'm here to tell you, that my friend was made to do this -- she's been doing it for me on some level since we met when I was 16 and she 14...but this lady, let's call her Jane, exuded this vibe that was altogether too easy to role my eyes at. "I'm a life coach," she breathes in her cheery, determined voice...

Anyway, Jane set me on edge from the start...to get things rolling, she asked the ladies within earshot, "Are you ready to make a change?" Complete with her book in the background and worksheets in hand, I got an immediate used-car-sales vibe from her from the get-go. Good lord. Now again, I believe in life coaching, for creativity, for inner peace, for goal-setting, for learning better how to live your life. Jane seemed to have an agenda -- a business agenda -- and her job was to take us through this (very long, repetitive, staged) talk that would explain what a life coach does and the (long, repetitive, staged) process that she uses to accomplish her clients' goals. She mostly focused on health and exercise -- and how to change your daily behaviors and expectations in order to meet these body and diet goals. And she does much of her coaching over the phone apparently. Which just made me cringe even more. On the phone? Come on, lady.

At some point during her shtick, she finally posed a question to the group (imagine a dozen glassy-eyed women sitting somewhat morosely on exercise balls casually bouncing up and down to stay awake), "Who here has a goal they want to achieve -- and wouldn't mind sharing with the group?" As she stared intently (bright-eyed, expectant) at us, someone piped up with, "I want to finish my book." What the...? Did that just come out of my mouth? Crap. How did that happen? Where did that come from? Me, apparently. "Ooooooh, that's a good one," Jane exclaimed, clapping her hands in delight and focusing entirely on me now. Fantastic.

What followed was a series of questions -- showing the group the type of questions she would ask me if I were (eek) her client and she my (gasp) life coach:

Do you have a title? (I did, but it had been so long since I worked on it that in that moment, I actually forgot what it was.)
How long have you been working on it? (Forever. Actually writing it since...and I paused....2001.)
What's it about? (My mother. And her first husband. Who was killed in the Vietnam war. And hence is the whole reason I am here.)

Jane started to coo again, practically rubbing her hands together in some sort of life-coachy delight. But here's where she got interesting:

Why do you want to write it? (Because I'm a writer. Because it's a good story.)
Who are you writing it for? (Uhhhh. Good question. Myself? My mother? I wasn't sure. I'm still not.)
What's stopping you from completing it? (Everything. Time. The fact that I'm a mother of an 18-month-old, working full-time, with a husband who's a pilot and is gone for days at a time effectively leaving me a single mother and it's all I can do to set aside an hour to workout or find a babysitter so I can come to events like this...this came out in one breathless rush).

She asked me some other questions, about finances (yeah I have to work full-time right now) and my husband's support (yes he supports me greatly, can't wait til I finish the NYT bestseller so we can both quit working), challenging me with intentions (a writer writes every day) and things I was doing to further my goal (blogging) and what I was going to do in the very near future to accomplish this (um, well, set aside some time to write, review what I've already written and get back to it). And that's where she got me.

As insane and over-the-top and salesman-y as this too happy and intense woman was, she had me there. Set aside some time next week to write. Get back to it. Just write for god's sake. Write. The. Book. Already.

And for as much as I disdained her, judged her, scoffed at her, dismissed her, she got to me. I guess, she did her job. Although I don't need a life coach (yet), I've been thinking about her simple questions and the 15 minutes she spent firing them at me. And no, I haven't written any more of my book just yet (It Was A Very Good Year -- that's the title by the way, just like the Frank song). But I'm getting there. I'm thinking about it. I'm passionate about it again. No longer on the back burner, but burning brightly in my forward consciousness. I want to bring it back and finish it NOW. I want to see how it turns out -- where it takes me -- how it ends. I owe it to my mother, her first husband, most importantly, I owe to me -- the writer I am -- to complete this thing I began so long ago.

I'm off to yoga right now. And then home to see the boys and make dinner and hopefully relax a bit after this day. And maybe, just maybe, I'll write tonight. And if not, I'll have at least written this much about it. And that is a start that I can be happy with.

Early Morning Mama

Last night, Grif woke up at 4 a.m., whimpering, not really crying, but in some sort of (mild) distress. He hasn't been feeling too well lately, so coming fully awake from a deep, dreamy (Tylenol-nighttime-cold-induced) sleep was immediate and easy. A little water, some quick cuddling and a pacifier later, I came back to my own bed. Ready once again for sleep. Both of us. But the whole 15-minute experience got me thinking...

About mothers. And the fact that I am, in fact, one myself. Ahh, Motherhood. How it has changed absolutely every detail every emotion every goal every feeling every dream every daily action in my life. My dreams for the future no longer (solely) include finishing the book I've been working on (dreaming about) for years. Now my "dreaming" energy is focused much more (daily) on finding a job that will let me work a shorter work week -- so I can have an extra day (or two!) with Grif and my hubby pilot. My budget no longer includes a car payment, instead I have a daycare payment. My living room is no longer the home of my reading sanctuary -- now it shares equal space with Grif's main play area and toy storage. In order to workout, I no longer have to just sacrifice leisure time, now I often have to miss a few Grif hours (hardest when I come home from work first to squeeze in a half-hour before going back out -- a mistake I'm loathe to repeat since the boy breaks my heart every time with his immediate tears and wailing when I leave again). My weekends are no longer marked by the luxury of sleeping in, but blessed by the quiet of three-hour afternoon naps. My whole view of my life, being present in it -- in words and action -- means now being present and central and aware for this amazing small child of mine as well.

Most importantly, my life encompasses more than just the pilot and me together. Now, we are three. Three we are -- a family. And the wonder of this -- amazement, thankfulness, sometimes still sheer disbelief -- strikes me speechless every day. I'm no longer just a daughter, sister and wife. But a mother. Of a bright, beautiful, glorious child. Who loves running outside. And who's already eaten dirt out of one of my plants. Who spins in circles while dancing (usually clockwise). Who looks at me with his big blue eyes and smiles right at me. A small boy who runs to me -- his mama -- when I open the door at daycare and peek around the corner. Who is most amazing to watch when Jim sits him on his lap at the drum set -- how Grif plays, sticks flying. My own little child who can summon me from the depths of sleep to comfort him, his warm body cradled with mine and his head resting on my shoulder. Whose laughter is simply the most joyous thing I've ever heard (and Jim is the best at getting Grif to really laugh -- laugh to tears -- my favorite thing to watch).

I found a new blog this week -- another boho mama type -- but I read a post of hers on motherhood, and fell in love with her writing and her voice immediately:

To be a mother means to kneel a hundred times a day; to kiss a damp and tousled head after a nap, or to rub away some sticky mark upon an upturned cheek (and to wonder, was that oatmeal, or something worse?). It means pressing my knees into the floor, so I can look into the wide eyes of a small person who knows how to press all of my buttons and also how to unlock inexplicable emotions in heart...

Her words have stayed with me all week. And apparently, though the night as well....it was these words that kept me half awake last night (this morning). Waiting to hear if the boy was returning to sleep. Waiting to return there myself. And dreaming/smiling/reveling in motherhood.

Three For One

I'm full -- so very full -- of spring and spring fever and a bounce in my step. Joy abounds today and it's because of so many things -- a cool new song that I can't stop tapping my feet to, the gorgeous weather (I love not having to wear a jacket let alone a coat!), and the fact that it's such a lovely thing to realize (remember) that I am, in fact, a writer -- a good writer at that. I know, a bit full of myself there, but today, it just makes me smile ever wider. I feel good, ya know? How truly marvelous.

So let's start the beginning -- I've heard this song a few times on my favorite local radio station and Sirius, and it suits my whole mood for the week. I even sang part of it to Grif last night before bedtime (instead of my usual Van Morrison Sweet Thing)...there's something about the whistling....the chorus....the tune. It screams happiness and joy and lightheartedness (all perfect for lulling Grif to sleep). And it stands the test for late afternoon pick-me-ups. One might even say it kills it for afternoon pick-me-ups. It's sweet and lovely and good. And it hits both marks -- good music and good lyrics. Take a listen here....I dare you not to bop along with it.

Next up? Spring. I love winter (yes, I know, but I truly do -- it's my passion for snow skiing that does it, snow and winter mean steep, snow-covered hills, moguls and fresh powder, and attacking the hill with the perfect tune on my iPod). I love winter, but spring is the herald for so many things -- stomping in mud puddles with Grif, afternoon family walks to the park, hanging outside on the deck with a beer and my pilot after the boy is in bed (and while it's still light out), grill outs, pool days, basking in the sun during my lunch hour, Fountain Square Farmer's Market, beach and lake vacations...I love it all. And it's tangible today -- the cold, snowy days are over and everything is about to bloom. I can feel it in my bones, can't you?

And last, well, the writer thing. I'm on the blog "team" here at work (yes, I'm at work now, ha!), and in the last five months, I've made the effort to blog twice. Twice! Yes, I've been insanely busy, but I can admit that even that seems a bit ridiculous. So I finally made a contribution this week (on, yes of course, wait for it....grammar -- when it's posted, I'll link to it here). I reread it this morn (cuz again of course, I'm truly obsessive compulsive in ensuring there are NO mistakes, even for something silly like a marketing blog). I read it again, and paused. It was good. Really good. And it made me smile -- call it trifecta, hat trick, whatever, but this last bit of realized happiness/joy/satisfaction/inner-smiling-ness seemed to demand a bit of acknowledgment in one crazy, all-inclusive tribute.

And so here it is. Welcome back, Spring. I didn't realize how much I'd missed you.

Caught wasting my days trying to prolong them...

Oh, Time, you silly, fickle bitch. How I loathe you worship you talk to you crave you need you despair of you hope for more more more of you. Somehow, I've let you get the best of me once again. Somehow, the hourglass has been supercharged and I find myself nearly in March!

My excuse? I've been busy. Too busy. With work. With life. With all of it. And frankly, I've let 2010 pass me by too quickly without taking the time -- to breathe -- and really enjoy it. Bad girl. Even worse, I haven't blogged, posted, written, created here (or anywhere for that matter) in so very long. So that's not really an excuse -- it's a confession. And one that I'm not happy to have had to make.

So! With a fresh new (simpler) look, we charge forward. Back to it! With hope, happiness and vitality -- with really being here, being present each day for myself, and more importantly, my family. Vowing to live each moment from here on with a smile on my face. To not let useless things like traffic getting to work and to Grif and to life frustrate me. To not let my exhaustion from work get in the way of enjoying playtime with him (he's getting so big, so tall), or "us" time with my pilot. To living each moment better, purer, clearer. Getting back to the real me that this odd winter has somehow sapped a wee bit, and left me feeling slightly out of sorts, melancholy and a bit lost -- not enough to really notice sometimes, but nevertheless diminished slightly. Perhaps that's what made losing (ignoring) these past two months so easy...and why March has crept up on me.

I feel like I often write in circles, coming back to the same message over and over -- but by god somewhere in this repetition the universe will hear me -- I will hear me! -- and hopefully conquer crazy days instead of letting them conquer me.

So -- we're off! Or, back, as it were. And to start this new start, I dedicate this one to Jack London. My parents went to Australia over 10 years ago. And for some reason, they took this picture for me. Ok, maybe not for me, but it was mine from the first time I laid eyes on it. And I've posted it prominently wherever I've worked...it's the quote I leave on most cards, the prose I recite aloud when the occasion warrants, the graffiti I use when given the chance. It's my mantra, and one that this entire blog stems from and revolves around. Hell, it's what I try to revolve my life around. And it's been too long absent in its entirety from this blog (and my life -- are ya getting the message?). To drive it home, in case you can't quite read the quote, I'll leave it here below as well. It's worth the time to read -- and feel -- and believe -- and take with you -- and live.

I'd rather be ashes than dust,
a spark burnt out in a brilliant blaze,
than to be stifled in dry rot.
For man's chief purpose is to live, not to exist.
I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them.
I shall use my time.

A Long Breath

Ok, so 2010 hasn't exactly been the stellar year I'd hoped for so far...in short, my work life (yes, my WORK life) has been so over-the-top, insanity-filled, really-crazy-busy-no-I-mean-really-crazy-busy that somehow January has nearly passed me by...not only without a new post here, but without even the time to READ the blogs that I usually (daily) enjoy.

I have, however, luckily made time recently (somehow) to get to yoga (one of my resolutions not just for the New Year, but for life in general). Two things, it's been ages since I've been...yes, I let the holidays (starting waaaay back in October with the boy's birthday) interfere in so many ways. I could blame it on my husband's crazy flying schedule, but I can think of at least five distinct times that I could have gone but either 1. chose not to due to laziness/grif time/jim time/steph time/laziness, or 2. I honestly did not think of it until it was too late...I'm blaming these on the holiday-induced sugar coma that I happily, willingly indulged in throughout.

So it had been awhile, and last Sunday, after my triumphant return to the hot yoga studio I love, I could definitely feel the missing time. My balance was off, my muscles sore and not at all accustomed to the poses I was forcing them to remember...but it was good. Yoga always is.

I went again last night -- after a horribly long, once-again-over-busy day at work, braving the insane rainstorm last night to get there, all of which made it so much more inviting to just stay at home and cuddle up on the couch instead of subjecting my body to the heat and sweat again...but I went anyway. And I swear it was hotter -- significantly so -- than any other class I'd been to. But somewhere in the middle, I think I may have crossed a road -- even with my month-plus absence -- for the first time, I felt my breath and my body push over a line I had not known existed. I was tired, drenched, somewhat defeated, but all of of sudden in the middle of Warrior II, I felt....powerful. Intensely, quietly, fiercely POWERFUL. I could almost feel my whole body vibrating with this strangely silent energy and control. And I reveled in it, felt it, took it all in...all with one long breath. And another....and another...

Afterward, standing in line at Chipotle to finish my eve with a healthy dinner (and yes I ordered healthy there!), looking in the glass at my reflection (which was still beet red, with soaked hair, and more than a little disheveled), I realized that I looked -- no, I felt -- taller. Yes, taller. Larger than life. Thinner even. I felt more.

I was totally exhausted afterward, mentally as well as physically. But in a good way -- a fulfilled way -- quite unlike the exhaustion that (I've let) work as of late drag me down into. And as I lay in bed that night, I lamented the fact that I'd let this blog -- this wonderful outlet -- go dormant for what seemed like much too long. And though this is not the entry I intended today, this is still nothing I truly have time for (here at work), this is much much longer than I wanted, it's here. Again. Finally. And I'm giving a good part of the credit to my yoga class last night. The rest goes to me, for getting there and doing it again. And for getting something even more than I planned out of it. Strength. Health. Presence. Peace. Rest. Breath. All of it oh so good.

And so, it begins (2010)...

Our holidays were truly magic...only my sister's house could be so full of chaos, love, wonderful food, a 90-pound puppy, and true, true goodness. Happiness. Fun. It was the perfect way to close down 2009 with laughter and family and everything it should be. The grand finale of a wondrous decade.

A new year begins...has already begun, in fact (how quickly). It sidled in while we were still opening gifts with Grif and eating decadent food and even more decadent cookies and pie. Sneaky, New Year, sneaky. I have so many hopes, big dreams, bigger expectations, giant demands from (of) this year...where will we be at this time in 2011 when we look back? Will I have accomplished all I wanted? Will I remember -- know -- to be truly grateful for it? Will even the things I failed to do (again, still) bring a feeling of contentment or peace, knowing that there is either time yet to complete them or that they weren't really all that important anyway....It brings a smile to my face to look forward. Breath held. Fingers crossed. Prayers answered. Thanks given.


So here's to 2010. Here's to snow days, coffee breaks and egg breakfasts. Here's to working out more (really) this year. Here's to even returning back to "real" life at work -- as I refuse to let the madness and slight disenchantment of my job get me down. Here's to fitting into that one old dress in my closet. Here's to sled/car/bike/plane/boat rides with Grif. Here's to summer afternoons and cool fall nights. Here's to spending more time with husband. To spending less money. To spending at least one long holiday at my little farm. Here's to all the things that I (we all) vow to do/change/start/finish every year, but never...quite...do. Here's to the hope of those things. Cuz really, as long as I still believe in these things, hope for these things, hope for my life, then I can truly enjoy this wonderful, beautiful new year. As I should.