CELEBRATE!

How do you celebrate the good times in your life; the smile-inducing memories?  All the years I spent doing fun-run events, marathons and triathlons, mark some of my favorite personal achievements.  Not that I ever came in first or even finished in the top ten; I certainly did not!  But I saw improvement in my abilities for a time and learned a lot about myself.  

In order to do triathlon I learned how to swim properly and ride a bike with clipless pedals.  I gained personal bests in 5K and 10K events.  And, without realizing it, I was keeping MS in check.  MS was there, lurking, during those years, showing up as a persistent lack of stamina that I could never overcome.  An MRI for a stubborn headache revealed evidence of “demyelinating disease” while I was training for my next triathlon.

I have a couple of notorious closets here at home that contain things untouched for a while; okay, years.  Maybe even a decade ... or more.  

In one of these deserted chambers dwell my treasured running memorabilia.  T-shirts, finishers' medals and swag, camel-backs and clip-on food pouches.  There’s even a foil thermal blanket handed out at a marathon finishing line.  All of them, hard won emblems of my years of fun runs and weekend warrior-ship!  I’ve even kept every bib number I’ve ever worn in a large photo album.  Priceless stuff.  

What to do with my trinkets and sentimental keepsakes?  The t-shirts in particular, are dear to me as evidenced by the pile of them that have lived in a far corner of my bedroom walk-in closet.  I decided to make them into a quilt, so that I could enjoy their colorful graphics and the achievement, fun and fitness they represent. 

The things learned during those years have remained with me long after my last event.  I may not have the same abilities I had once but I am grateful for the time spent running, swimming, biking.  No regrets, just appreciation for having taken an opportunity when it came.  Now as then, I celebrate the good stuff.  More smiles to come.

Pandemic Puzzle

I just want to say that the pandemic isn't fun anymore.  At first, like maybe two weeks in, it was kind of surreal and edgy.  Annoyingly interesting.  "What is covid-19?"  we wondered.  "A bad flu bug that's fatal to the elderly?"  No one knew what to think really.  Now we know it's no joke.

But we're all on Zoom and Webex happily chatting, thrilled with new-found techie stuff.  You can talk and laugh with your friends and it's kind of a cool thing to do.  (We're so close to being teleported ... I can feel it.)  

I'd guess that parents probably lost the fun factor before everyone else did.  Suddenly you are teaching your kids at home, trying to entertain children that one normally would not see during work hours.  An eternal weekend forced upon us.

And now, these many months later, it is probably safe to say most of the population is fed up with being told they should stay home all the time.  And so, we wait.  

I am working on my third monster puzzle in four months; 1000 pieces of blissful absorption that has the ability to keep me up way past my bedtime.  I have converted to grocery delivery.  What took me so long to embrace this I couldn't tell you.  May I never cross the threshold of my neighborhood grocery store again, unless absolutely necessary.  The money I save not having to wander through the bakery section on my way to get milk.

I have cleaned and oiled the sewing machine and made a bunch of face masks.  Started a quilt with all those running event t-shirts that have lived on a shelf in my closet for a long, long time.  Lots of little projects that were always in the to-do pile have bubbled up to the surface and keep my mind off of my aforementioned numb appendages.

And I should also mention, I have done what I can to keep GrubHub, Door Dash, Uber Eats and InstaCart solvent.  Eating out at home isn't so bad.  In fact it's awesome; you don't have to put on presentable clothing, shoes, saves gas.  I mean, I do miss eating out, but I can indulge behind closed doors and succumb to a blissful food coma afterwords.  No one need ever know that I ate dessert first or half a medium pizza.  Ah yes, the momentary pleasure of a good craving.  

Windows

The cat loves the window.  Kitty TV.  She never seems to tire of looking out at the birds and squirrels.  The green space behind the house is often visited by deer, a tiny micro meadow adjacent to a fairly busy road.

There isn't a lot going on for me right now.  Actually, there isn't a lot going on for a lot of people as we collectively try and stay healthy during the coronavirus pandemic.  The trips I had planned, the restaurants I enjoy, the movie theaters I visit -- everything is on hold. 

There have been some good things that have sprung up out of staying at home.  I've discovered the joys of grocery delivery.  I marvel at how much less money I spend when I don't go into the store.  Now that the panic buying has subsided and paper products are beginning to reappear, getting everything on my shopping list has become more dependable.  

I've been retired for four years now, so I've had a little practice keeping myself entertained at home.  But while we wait out the virus I am challenged to find new ways of being with myself and others.  Does the cat miss going outside? The window she and I enjoy looks out over my green space, but another window looks inward where there is also ample space to explore. 

 

Sunday morning, obviously

Of every other day of the week, Sunday should really smell like bacon and coffee.  Really.  About a year ago, I let go of my frantic grasping of vegetarian eating with the startling realization that even adherence to that noble gastric discipline takes lives.  This morning I stand quietly in my kitchen peeling the wrapping off a package of sulfate free strips of impending deliciousness.  And with my fill of breakfast I sit down to satiate my next appetite at the keyboard. Right now, it is time to write; now, since it has been a while. I will play some piano later on.

Back to Sunday morning and the past 5 years of living alone, this has been my day to accumulate my stuff from the week and attempt to write something that I will like reading afterwards.  The book of short essays that masquerades as a memoir is ready enough for me to make a call to an editor or two.  I almost think it would be easier not to stop writing it than to say it is “ready” because I know it will morph into something else once a more astute eye looks at it. 

So obviously, Sunday mornings will need to become Monday mornings and spill over into Tuesday and Wednesday.  Thursday has always been my favorite day of the week so I don’t want to exclude it.  Fridays I should go shopping and out to lunch or catch up with friends over good Mexican food.  Now that the inevitable has transpired I will potentially have Sunday mornings all week, sans bacon but always with coffee.  You see, my corporate gig is over, at my choosing, with some encouragement pointed towards my bank account.

All the mornings spent getting dressed for work, standing in my closet thinking, wishing, hoping, “If I get a package....” are now history.  Surreal as the day the last of my five kids packed up, took her sweet dog and moved out of the house, the package actually arrived, the eagle landed in an email.  I am ready to fly. 

With all of the joy that I feel in the closure of a fruitful 19 years with the same company, I am burdened with the realization that many other employees were not given a choice to leave.  We knew.  We waited to hear.  Some would be taking their last walk to the exits and we knew the day was coming, but for me, this foreknowledge did not dampen the shock. 

It is not the change that was shocking.  Granted, passing by cubicles with random items left behind by employees that had been let go was a downer.  Change is constant.  Even my dad, by whom one could set a watch, changed over the years and not just by aging.  What I find more disturbing is how far the human response will go to obtain a desired object.  Grasping for a desired outcome, or goal is not a bad thing unless it becomes necessary to trample others in the process. 

To be fair, a certain element of grasping is at the heart of any for-profit business venture.  Grasping in some degree is likely at the heart of just about anything initiated by a living being.  The animal kingdom is a food chain and I inhabit a link somewhere in it.  I can feel bad about that if I care to think about it much but without it would I have been born?  There is something to the whole survival of the fittest, circle of life thing, but road kill is just gross.

This might be a bit too long for a blog post.  I feel a new essay coming on.  I’ll make some more coffee, but that’s enough bacon for today.

What's A Writer To Do?

Happy New Year!  I’ve been writing a book.  A memoir, if you’re asking me what sort of book it is.  Someone once told me that everyone has at least one story to tell but I believe that within the one story there are hundreds or maybe thousands of stories.  That is encouraging to me.  There is no lack of material.  The familiar places you and I visit have seen us clearly.

I don’t know what the vast majority of readers want to read these days.  The initial offering of reading material online is typically short and usually provocative.  When I look through the popular reading lists, it seems there is a vast world of literature and book publishing out there.  I wonder where I might fit in with all that or if I would want to.

When I was still in high school, I had wanted to become a journalist but as I began to look around at the media, I was discouraged.  There seemed to be so much hype necessary for stories to be heard and I was not, I am still not, a hype kind of person.  I do like the short essay or column form and columnists do not need to tow the line of sensationalism.  It helps to have some notoriety in the social-sphere, particularly if you have a cause or a philosophy to promote.  I might have a few of these I can pull out of hiding.

I share my writing in blog form and even submit an essay here or there.  What is important to me is that my voice is authentic.  I am happy to always be finding my voice, because I know the living of years brings change.  I would want a reader to “hear” me as my words are read.

Whether or not I finish the bigger work of a memoir, I have come to be completely in love with the part of me that writes.  I will always create with words.  This has been my outlet since I was a little girl.  It didn’t matter then if anyone read what I wrote.  Now it matters more.

The Smiley Light!!

Dear Diary:

I live in a smile-and-wave community.

I just love it. People say hello (it seems to me) a lot. Total strangers smile-and-wave, smile-and-wave. It happens often. Sometimes it can be a little annoying. I don’t know these people. I’m either not very threatening or I look like I need a friend. Maybe I have unconsciously taken on the characteristics of my Labrador retriever and everyone just assumes I’m friendly. Alright, to be honest I start a lot of this stuff – it makes me feel good.

I remember playing a game with my peers once when I was in high school, only they didn’t know we were playing a game.

The optimal time to play this game was when I was walking down the hallway alone and I would encounter a fellow student. I did not play the game with teachers or school administrators. They were generally hard-wired and auto-response driven and were not a reliable indicator of a decisive win.

Also, I wouldn't play the game in a crowd as it did not work in this bastion of puberty, due to the extremely high levels of hormonal static and the risk of fatal stigma shock. This meant early morning or after school hours. In order to play my game, a student would have to have 1) just come from some mandatory penance or make up exam, 2) a rigid scowl plastered across his or her face, and 3) at least two frown lines ingrained across their forehead.  The name of the game was, “I can make you smile.” This is how I played it.

Spotting the unsuspecting player I always made the first move and shifted my path slightly so as to deliberately invade their personal space which for a high school student is about a 5 to 8 foot radius in every possible direction. At a juncture that synchronized their full body scan of me, my full body scan of them, and my pace with their pace, I locked onto my target and our eyes would meet.

At that instant, in that fleeting micro second between eye blinks and not a moment too soon or too late the eyes must smile. Not the mouth so much, but the eyes must emit The Smiley Light!! 

This, my friend is ultimate power and something you must experience to believe! This force has been known to disarm every cranky pants in its path! This is what Pinky and the Brain never figured out in their quest to take over the world. This is what the Angry Beavers failed to conceive of.  This is what Ren and Stempy used to have before Ren stopped taking his medication.

Anyway, across the board game continuum that were my high school years and even beyond into the early days of career building I played The Smiley Light game until I forgot how and the busy, dawn to dark years had their way with me.

Fortunately, in my neighborhood, everybody plays and sometimes I even get to be the cranky pants.

Signed,
Chuckles

Transitions

The little girl never knew how small and vulnerable she was.  She lived in a world that seemed to her both vast and uncomplicated, immense in scale and minute in detail.  And all this within herself, coexisting in perfect balance.  For a long time she never saw a problem with this arrangement.  The boldness of innocence swept her along past the mirrors of social  acceptability.  

Small things were just as weighty as those considered large.  A grain of sand was a mountain waiting throughout eternity to meet her on a sunny summer day.  A small smooth stone had patiently existed through countless sunsets for a moment of marvel in the palm of her hand.

And so, without being a partner in the scheme, she seemed to be okay.  No need for raucous hilarity, pious solemnity or cataclysmic despair.  There was air to breathe and poetry to write and birds that sang every morning.  And then one unremarkable day the whispers came.

The gut level inkling that the previous rhythm had lost its place became a constant companion.  Was it when the mean girl pulled her hair and followed her after school to taunt and tease?  This mirror was, she thought, a fearful nuisance and if ignored it would surely go away.  Which it did.  The content of its incidence was so beside the point that it was hastily forgotten and never mentioned to anyone at home, shifting naturally out of the moment while in the same instant quietly present with her tormentors.  

The mystery of transition is that it is always happening.  At times rapidly, always an eternal event and sometimes difficult to perceive.

Tormentors abound obvious.  Woe to those who pause to acknowledge and collapse exhausted and sad from the din of those who pester and annoy.  Woe to those who ignore their attackers, waiting out the onslaught, all the while expecting to be jumped and beaten to the ground.  The only question really, is, “Will I, should I fight back?”  The answer will arrive when it is needed.  Meanwhile, transition happens, continues unceasing and needing no help from anyone.

Little girls transition to bigger, older little girls.  The world is still vast and minuscule, simple and complex, simultaneously filling up each living being.  Continuance requires change.  The transitory is always with us.  Ignore it and it will not go away.