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.