I did some math today and figured out that I've worked approximately 32 hours in the last 3 days and slept 18 hours over the last 3 nights. That means I've worked almost twice as many hours as I've slept, which can't be a good ratio. That would explain why - when I woke up this morning - the first word out of my lips was (warning: salty language ahead) "Shit." I can honestly say I think that might be the first time that's happened. I was horrified at myself. One should never wake up with such vulgarity on their lips. That should be reserved for much later in the day, on the freeway, in traffic. Just kidding. (Kind of.) But I was mad, just plain old mad that I had to wake up. And I was ready to go back to bed as I stepped out of it, which is really not how I like to live my life, not how I believe the gift of life should ever really be lived.
But, here I am, all imperfect and unfinished.
I prayed today (a much better way to start the day), that God would be strength in my weakness, that He would sustain me and help me to give to my clients, despite the feeling of exhaustion that sat on my eyelids and shoulders. And, although I can't say the day was easy, and that I had all kinds of wisdom and insight in my work today, I can say this. When I get tired enough, I stop depending on me. And I start offering my clients just plain old love, because that's what I've still got, tired or not. And I've discovered I often have some of my best sessions on those days. Interesting....
Love has a way of never running out. When I stop worrying about paperwork and the to do list, and I just sit with clients, look them in the eyes, listen, try to understand, be present in the moment, I often find that my soul is quieted, and something expands in me big enough to hold their stories. Because they are my stories. They are human stories. They are all of our stories. We all feel pain. Afraid. Alone. Sometimes, at least. And it's a really beautiful thing, to take my tired old self into a session, and to connect with the soul sitting across from me. Because, in that connection, I think we both come out the better for it. Less alone. With more hope. I'm grateful for that tender mercy, for the truth of Christ's promise that in giving, we receive.
So, tonight, I've got praises on my lips. Praises for God's endless well of love in Christ. Happiness after ending my day with an incredible concert (I got to see my most favorite Iron and Wine tonight at The Wiltern)!! And a whole lot of excitement about the pillow that awaits my heavy head.
Good night moon.
Showing posts with label Storytime. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Storytime. Show all posts
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
My Favorite Nugget Of The Day....
And I'm not talking McDonald's nuggets. I'm not even talking chicken.
I'm talking fish, actually ... my niece's fish, to be exact. She is four. She is cute (my niece, not the fish). I know all 4 year olds are cute, and that probably doesn't need to be said, but when someone is as cute as she is, one can really never say it enough.
Apparently, along with being cute, she is also brilliantly, hilariously creative. Because my sister informed me tonight that my niece has named her Betta fish "Captain Meeshang." CAPTAIN MEESHANG. I feel like that may very well be the best name I've heard for a Betta fish ever in my whole life. Heck, I feel like that should be the name of a band, or a boat, or anything cool, really. I want to go out right now and buy myself a pet just so that I can name him or her Captain Meeshang.
But, it gets better. This is Captain Meeshang's 3rd name. Captain started out as BlueBlue - which, though slightly more obvious - is still a pretty solid contender. BlueBlue; it rolls off the tongue and sounds like the name of a friend, no? And sandwiched in between BlueBlue and Cpt. Meeshang, her fish spent a small amount of time going by the name of Firesnout Dragon. Seriously?! The girl can name.
That's all I've got for you tonight. But it gave me a good, long laugh at the end of a very long day. And for that, I felt that Captain Meeshang, and my absolutely adorable niece, needed their own blog post.
Long live Captain Meeshang!
(Or maybe not, as he is - after all - a Betta fish, but still....atleast she gave him a name that has the potential to live in infamy.)
Sunday, November 7, 2010
muddy buddy
I was seriously freaked out around 6:55am this morning. Because around that time, the buckle to my bike helmet - while I was trying to loosen it - came right off. And it was a brand new helmet too. I bought it yesterday. For the bike race today. At 7:15 am. So, it was a bit of problem when the buckle came off about 20 minutes before I was to ride.
But a faithful friend fixed it for me. And all was well. Except it wasn't. Because, if you read this carefully, by now you will have realized that I bought a bike helmet for a bike race the day before I was to ride it. Oh yeah, and I bought bike gloves too. Because people who actually train on mountain bikes for races told me to. And I went out on the bike I was supposed to ride last night. For the first time. In like 14 years. Or something like that.
But this wasn't just any bike race. It was a running race too. And had obstacle courses. And I haven't run more than a couple of miles at any one time in weeks. Maybe months.
So, I was a bit freaked out.
I thought it was a brilliant idea when my roommates and I signed up for the Muddy Buddy race several months ago. One of my roommates has done the race twice, and swore up and down that it is a good time. Not stressful. Just silly.
The Muddy Buddy race is a leap-frog race. You do it with a partner, as the name connotes. And you take turns running a leg/biking a leg and trade off at the end of each leg of the race. And in between each leg, an obstacle awaits you ... climbing a wall, walking across a balance beam, you know, all of those ROTC boot camp type of drills. And at the end of the seven miles of hills and dirt, you reconnect with your partner to climb under netting and through a mud pit to the finish. And when I say mud pit, I mean MUD pit. As in, up to your elbows, all over your clothes, try-not-to-get-it-in-your-teeth-because-other-people-have-done-this-before-you-and-crap !! -who-knows-what's-in-this-MUD PIT.
So, I was a bit freaked out. And around 7:15 am this morning, I was thinking that perhaps this was not such a brilliant idea after all. Around 7:15am this morning, I stood with my roommate, Nikki, in bright pink, glittery shirts (purchased for the race, because seriously, if you don't know what you're doing, you at least have to look like you know what you're doing). And we vacillated back and forth between hysterical laughter and verge of tears. And we reviewed our goals: (1) Don't break anything. (2) Don't hurt anyone else. (3) Finish. And then the race started. And we were off. No looking back.
And a funny thing happened. Although, yes, it did hurt at times, although - on the last rocky hill - with my legs screaming back at me, I was definitely ready to be done, although Nikki and I almost peed our pants (I wish I were kidding, but I'm really not - we, um, literally kind of peed our pants. just a little.) while trying to push the bike up a muddy hill and falling not once, but 3 times, although all those things happened...
It was glorious. The air had a chill in it, but the sun was out. My legs worked. The brakes on my bike worked. I did not take out any innocent runners. My muscle memory came back, and I bounced along the trails. My lungs faithfully heaved in oxygen. And Nikki and I were able to run/bike alongside one another for much of the race. And we laughed. Man, did we laugh. Especially when we were trying to get that damn bike up that muddy hill. And we did the obstacles. And we enjoyed the scenic views. And I felt alive. And grateful.
And, in the end, we climbed through that mud pit and came out the other side unashamedly covered in mud. I'd forgotten how good it feels to just get dirty sometimes.
So, although I plan to train for it next year, and to NOT buy my bike helmet the night before the race, I write with a thankful, happy heart. And really, really, REALLY sore muscles.
And all really is well.
Here we are before the race started, pretending we are confident:
My two roomies and me. Kristin ran with her boyfriend - my old roommate and dear friend - Joey. I think this was probably pre bike-helmet-strap-breakage, and pre-mud:
This is my dear friend, Amy. She is wise and funny and also totally hoss. And she did her best to calm Nikki and I down before the race began. It should be stated that she and her buddy went on to win the race in our division:
And then, this happened. Check out my roommate's shocked face at the pit being a little deeper than anticipated. And check out my face of hysterical laughter upon watching my roommate's shock and seeing droplets of mud hit her teeth:
And then we were not so clean and fresh, but much happier. Funny how that works:
And this is what accomplishing your goals looks like:
But a faithful friend fixed it for me. And all was well. Except it wasn't. Because, if you read this carefully, by now you will have realized that I bought a bike helmet for a bike race the day before I was to ride it. Oh yeah, and I bought bike gloves too. Because people who actually train on mountain bikes for races told me to. And I went out on the bike I was supposed to ride last night. For the first time. In like 14 years. Or something like that.
But this wasn't just any bike race. It was a running race too. And had obstacle courses. And I haven't run more than a couple of miles at any one time in weeks. Maybe months.
So, I was a bit freaked out.
I thought it was a brilliant idea when my roommates and I signed up for the Muddy Buddy race several months ago. One of my roommates has done the race twice, and swore up and down that it is a good time. Not stressful. Just silly.
The Muddy Buddy race is a leap-frog race. You do it with a partner, as the name connotes. And you take turns running a leg/biking a leg and trade off at the end of each leg of the race. And in between each leg, an obstacle awaits you ... climbing a wall, walking across a balance beam, you know, all of those ROTC boot camp type of drills. And at the end of the seven miles of hills and dirt, you reconnect with your partner to climb under netting and through a mud pit to the finish. And when I say mud pit, I mean MUD pit. As in, up to your elbows, all over your clothes, try-not-to-get-it-in-your-teeth-because-other-people-have-done-this-before-you-and-crap !! -who-knows-what's-in-this-MUD PIT.
So, I was a bit freaked out. And around 7:15 am this morning, I was thinking that perhaps this was not such a brilliant idea after all. Around 7:15am this morning, I stood with my roommate, Nikki, in bright pink, glittery shirts (purchased for the race, because seriously, if you don't know what you're doing, you at least have to look like you know what you're doing). And we vacillated back and forth between hysterical laughter and verge of tears. And we reviewed our goals: (1) Don't break anything. (2) Don't hurt anyone else. (3) Finish. And then the race started. And we were off. No looking back.
And a funny thing happened. Although, yes, it did hurt at times, although - on the last rocky hill - with my legs screaming back at me, I was definitely ready to be done, although Nikki and I almost peed our pants (I wish I were kidding, but I'm really not - we, um, literally kind of peed our pants. just a little.) while trying to push the bike up a muddy hill and falling not once, but 3 times, although all those things happened...
It was glorious. The air had a chill in it, but the sun was out. My legs worked. The brakes on my bike worked. I did not take out any innocent runners. My muscle memory came back, and I bounced along the trails. My lungs faithfully heaved in oxygen. And Nikki and I were able to run/bike alongside one another for much of the race. And we laughed. Man, did we laugh. Especially when we were trying to get that damn bike up that muddy hill. And we did the obstacles. And we enjoyed the scenic views. And I felt alive. And grateful.
And, in the end, we climbed through that mud pit and came out the other side unashamedly covered in mud. I'd forgotten how good it feels to just get dirty sometimes.
So, although I plan to train for it next year, and to NOT buy my bike helmet the night before the race, I write with a thankful, happy heart. And really, really, REALLY sore muscles.
And all really is well.
Here we are before the race started, pretending we are confident:
My two roomies and me. Kristin ran with her boyfriend - my old roommate and dear friend - Joey. I think this was probably pre bike-helmet-strap-breakage, and pre-mud:
This is my dear friend, Amy. She is wise and funny and also totally hoss. And she did her best to calm Nikki and I down before the race began. It should be stated that she and her buddy went on to win the race in our division:
And then, this happened. Check out my roommate's shocked face at the pit being a little deeper than anticipated. And check out my face of hysterical laughter upon watching my roommate's shock and seeing droplets of mud hit her teeth:
And then we were not so clean and fresh, but much happier. Funny how that works:
And this is what accomplishing your goals looks like:
Sunday, October 18, 2009
On This, The Eve Of My 31st Birthday
"Can I get a do-over?" the little girl asked her mom, and waited to hear her response.
"A do-over?" her mom questioned, puzzling at where she'd learned the expression, at what had prompted her to want the chance to repeat a bit of life, to change what she'd done previously.
"Yes, a do-over," she repeated, making it quite certain she'd known what she was asking.
"Why would you want a do-over, honey?" her mom asked. "Do you regret something you already did? Are you scared about what is to come?"
The little girl thought for a little while. And when she was thinking, it was quite quiet, so the minutes passed, and her mom waited.
And after a little while, she answered.
"Yes mom," she said, "I do have regrets. There are moments I wish I would have done differently. There are choices I'd re-choose if I could. I've made mistakes. And I am scared about what is to come. I don't usually like that I can't see around the bend. But that's not why I'd want a do-over."
At this her mom was even more puzzled.
"Well then, my darling, why do you want a do-over?"
"I want a do-over," the little girl went on, "Because life has been so good. If I could - for even a moment - rewind and watch my life... the people I've loved, the Saturday morning breakfasts, the places I've seen, the bowls of ice cream in summer, and pasta before a big race, and chili on a snowy day, the birthday parties and pets I've loved, and Christmas morning cinnamon rolls, the church camp roommates and college roommates and graduate school roommates and so much late night laughter, the feel of hugs from you and Dad, the Fall colors, the sacred knowings of my bestest friends, the weddings and bike rides and mountaintops reached and waterfalls seen and the moments that can only be fully shared and understood by my sisters..."
And as she went on, her voice got louder, her eyes lighting up and she stared off into the space of remembering....
"The boys I've liked, the men I've loved, the fears I've faced, the hills I've climbed, the steps I've danced, the first job and first kiss and first apartment all on my own and first nephew and first niece and first day of school," and then she paused,
"But it's not just the good stuff Mom, or even all the 'firsts,'" she said, though it seemed like maybe she was realizing it herself as she spoke, "There's been lots of lasts ... too many...the last day with my childhood pet, the last sight of one of my favorite people, the last time we all slept in the same house. There's been hard stuff, you know? But, strangely, it's all the hard stuff too, all the ways the hardest moments of my life have been inextricably knit together with the best moments, so that I've learned never to despair ... even when it's so dark you can't imagine sunrise. I've learned how to endure winter, trusting in summer. I've learned, Mom. I've learned so much from the hard stuff. And somehow, in the end, there's still good ... even in the hard stuff."
And by now, her mom was quiet, looking at her little girl, wondering at how grown up she'd become, wondering at how much growing she still had left to do.
But it wasn't just her mom. As she spoke, the little girl realized, too, that she wasn't so little anymore. She sat there, all full to the brim with memories, knowing too that those were just the highlights. There were days, weeks, months, and years full of ordinary moments she'd lived that she didn't remember, moments that had accumulated like snowfall, one after the other, to build a great big beautiful life.
She looked down at her hands and realized that they were the hands of a woman, and had her stories in them. They held the callouses from hours of playing harp, the scar from that cut from her old refrigerator she'd gotten during one of her many moves, the thousands of words typed as she'd pressed on toward her degree. They weren't sticky with popsicle juice anymore, didn't have dirt under the nails from playing in the backyard.
And then she looked at herself in the mirror. Wrinkles spread out from the corners of her eyes, etchings of laughter carved into the wall of her soul. Her hair was no longer fine and straight, like it had been she was little. And the mole on her cheek had faded since childhood.
"Huh," she thought, looking at the woman in the mirror. "Well hello, you," she spoke to herself.
And at that, she turned around, certain of just a few things.
One, she'd still love that do-over, would love to watch her life like a movie.
Two, knowing what she knew now, there were a few things she would've changed.
Three, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, that rather than wasting time on regret, her energy was much better spent living fully in today.
Four, she also knew that all of her life, the good and the bad, had brought her to this moment, and none of it was wasted. It all served a purpose because God has this amazing capacity to make all things new, to bring beauty from pain and good from evil.
Five, every day, full of opportunity, is a do-over. We write the stories of life in this moment.
Six, she wasn't as afraid of the unknowns any more.
Seven, but she was still a little afraid of them.
Eight, she'd been loved so much.
Nine, she'd loved so much.
Ten, and that had made all the difference.
And then she realized one other thing...although she'd grown into a woman, that little girl was still inside her and would remain there her whole life through. And that's why -- when she celebrated her birthday with her friends, and they gave her a crown -- she wore it ... just like she'd worn that paper crown at Burger King 25 years ago, celebrating her 6th birthday, with her friend Jenny.
Because this she also knew: no matter how old you get, life is too short to turn down a crown on your birthday.
"A do-over?" her mom questioned, puzzling at where she'd learned the expression, at what had prompted her to want the chance to repeat a bit of life, to change what she'd done previously.
"Yes, a do-over," she repeated, making it quite certain she'd known what she was asking.
"Why would you want a do-over, honey?" her mom asked. "Do you regret something you already did? Are you scared about what is to come?"
The little girl thought for a little while. And when she was thinking, it was quite quiet, so the minutes passed, and her mom waited.
And after a little while, she answered.
"Yes mom," she said, "I do have regrets. There are moments I wish I would have done differently. There are choices I'd re-choose if I could. I've made mistakes. And I am scared about what is to come. I don't usually like that I can't see around the bend. But that's not why I'd want a do-over."
At this her mom was even more puzzled.
"Well then, my darling, why do you want a do-over?"
"I want a do-over," the little girl went on, "Because life has been so good. If I could - for even a moment - rewind and watch my life... the people I've loved, the Saturday morning breakfasts, the places I've seen, the bowls of ice cream in summer, and pasta before a big race, and chili on a snowy day, the birthday parties and pets I've loved, and Christmas morning cinnamon rolls, the church camp roommates and college roommates and graduate school roommates and so much late night laughter, the feel of hugs from you and Dad, the Fall colors, the sacred knowings of my bestest friends, the weddings and bike rides and mountaintops reached and waterfalls seen and the moments that can only be fully shared and understood by my sisters..."
And as she went on, her voice got louder, her eyes lighting up and she stared off into the space of remembering....
"The boys I've liked, the men I've loved, the fears I've faced, the hills I've climbed, the steps I've danced, the first job and first kiss and first apartment all on my own and first nephew and first niece and first day of school," and then she paused,
"But it's not just the good stuff Mom, or even all the 'firsts,'" she said, though it seemed like maybe she was realizing it herself as she spoke, "There's been lots of lasts ... too many...the last day with my childhood pet, the last sight of one of my favorite people, the last time we all slept in the same house. There's been hard stuff, you know? But, strangely, it's all the hard stuff too, all the ways the hardest moments of my life have been inextricably knit together with the best moments, so that I've learned never to despair ... even when it's so dark you can't imagine sunrise. I've learned how to endure winter, trusting in summer. I've learned, Mom. I've learned so much from the hard stuff. And somehow, in the end, there's still good ... even in the hard stuff."
And by now, her mom was quiet, looking at her little girl, wondering at how grown up she'd become, wondering at how much growing she still had left to do.
But it wasn't just her mom. As she spoke, the little girl realized, too, that she wasn't so little anymore. She sat there, all full to the brim with memories, knowing too that those were just the highlights. There were days, weeks, months, and years full of ordinary moments she'd lived that she didn't remember, moments that had accumulated like snowfall, one after the other, to build a great big beautiful life.
She looked down at her hands and realized that they were the hands of a woman, and had her stories in them. They held the callouses from hours of playing harp, the scar from that cut from her old refrigerator she'd gotten during one of her many moves, the thousands of words typed as she'd pressed on toward her degree. They weren't sticky with popsicle juice anymore, didn't have dirt under the nails from playing in the backyard.
And then she looked at herself in the mirror. Wrinkles spread out from the corners of her eyes, etchings of laughter carved into the wall of her soul. Her hair was no longer fine and straight, like it had been she was little. And the mole on her cheek had faded since childhood.
"Huh," she thought, looking at the woman in the mirror. "Well hello, you," she spoke to herself.
And at that, she turned around, certain of just a few things.
One, she'd still love that do-over, would love to watch her life like a movie.
Two, knowing what she knew now, there were a few things she would've changed.
Three, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, that rather than wasting time on regret, her energy was much better spent living fully in today.
Four, she also knew that all of her life, the good and the bad, had brought her to this moment, and none of it was wasted. It all served a purpose because God has this amazing capacity to make all things new, to bring beauty from pain and good from evil.
Five, every day, full of opportunity, is a do-over. We write the stories of life in this moment.
Six, she wasn't as afraid of the unknowns any more.
Seven, but she was still a little afraid of them.
Eight, she'd been loved so much.
Nine, she'd loved so much.
Ten, and that had made all the difference.
And then she realized one other thing...although she'd grown into a woman, that little girl was still inside her and would remain there her whole life through. And that's why -- when she celebrated her birthday with her friends, and they gave her a crown -- she wore it ... just like she'd worn that paper crown at Burger King 25 years ago, celebrating her 6th birthday, with her friend Jenny.
Because this she also knew: no matter how old you get, life is too short to turn down a crown on your birthday.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Dear Rain,
I love you.
A lot.
I love the way you sound.
I love the way you make the air feel.
I love the way colors get brighter after you leave.
I love the way hot drinks taste on the days you are here.
I love that you enable me to wear scarves.
I even love when you surprise me, such that, while out on my morning walk with Charlie, he and I both end up soaked, trying to race home halfway through the walk, before you get us completely drenched.
I love that we got drenched anyway. And that I ended up laughing and humble, like a little kid, wiping water from my face as we splashed along.
But now I am warm again, bundled up at a coffee shop.
And I love that too.
And you made it all possible.
Thanks for showing up today.
Your fan,
Charlotte
A lot.
I love the way you sound.
I love the way you make the air feel.
I love the way colors get brighter after you leave.
I love the way hot drinks taste on the days you are here.
I love that you enable me to wear scarves.
I even love when you surprise me, such that, while out on my morning walk with Charlie, he and I both end up soaked, trying to race home halfway through the walk, before you get us completely drenched.
I love that we got drenched anyway. And that I ended up laughing and humble, like a little kid, wiping water from my face as we splashed along.
But now I am warm again, bundled up at a coffee shop.
And I love that too.
And you made it all possible.
Thanks for showing up today.
Your fan,
Charlotte
Saturday, September 5, 2009
The funniest thing heard today....
I am "Auntie SuSu" this weekend. Actually, I'm Auntie SuSu all the time. But this weekend, I'm actually in Denver BEING Auntie SuSu to my two nieces (ages 3 and 5) so that my sis and her hubs can have a weekend away ... their first full weekend away together since my oldest niece was born. She's now five. It's about time for them, I'd say.
So, for any of the mommies that may read this, I have only one thing to say to you. Bless you. And bless your stamina. It's been a good day, no major mishaps, broken bones, children lost, or natural disasters. But, Auntie SuSu is tired.
And speaking of natural disasters....
Storm crowds grew ominous today. And my sweet niece, being slightly on the fearful side, began to predict not just rain, but a tornado. Now you must understand something; my sis and her family just moved to Denver a year ago. And in this past year, they've already had several tornados in their area. So I think my niece is still trying to process this new-found threat.
So, trying to keep her calm and be the ever-optimistic and carefree Auntie, I smiled big and simply said, "Ooooh ... if there's a tornado, know what we're gonna do?" "What?" she said, eyes big. "We're gonna take the DVD player down to the basement and watch Mary Poppins as a special treat, even though you've already had your video for the day!!!" (Disclaimer: the basement plan came straight from my sister.) Both sets of eyes got even wider ... and then, little niecey said, "Oh! I hope there's a tornado!" And they both began to dance around.
I never knew a video could have THAT much clout.
So, for any of the mommies that may read this, I have only one thing to say to you. Bless you. And bless your stamina. It's been a good day, no major mishaps, broken bones, children lost, or natural disasters. But, Auntie SuSu is tired.
And speaking of natural disasters....
Storm crowds grew ominous today. And my sweet niece, being slightly on the fearful side, began to predict not just rain, but a tornado. Now you must understand something; my sis and her family just moved to Denver a year ago. And in this past year, they've already had several tornados in their area. So I think my niece is still trying to process this new-found threat.
So, trying to keep her calm and be the ever-optimistic and carefree Auntie, I smiled big and simply said, "Ooooh ... if there's a tornado, know what we're gonna do?" "What?" she said, eyes big. "We're gonna take the DVD player down to the basement and watch Mary Poppins as a special treat, even though you've already had your video for the day!!!" (Disclaimer: the basement plan came straight from my sister.) Both sets of eyes got even wider ... and then, little niecey said, "Oh! I hope there's a tornado!" And they both began to dance around.
I never knew a video could have THAT much clout.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Allen and Elizabeth
You notice friendly people when you live in L.A. They stand out. That's why, when 3 or 4 months ago Miss Elizabeth ran out the front door of her home to catch Charlie and I as we passed by on our morning walk through the neighborhood, I was so surprised.
"Hey there," she yelled.
"Hi,"
"I just wanted to let you know that I keep this bowl out in front of my house for all the dogs that pass by. The hose is right here. You just feel free to turn it on and fill the bowl up anytime you want!"
"Thank you! How nice!" (me)
"No, thank you," she said, "I love dogs, but I can't stand to love and lose another. This is my way of still having dogs to love."
"My name's Susan," I said, "and this is Charlie."
Miss Elizabeth must be creeping up on 80 years old. But every facet of her face shines warmth, and there's still a youthful beauty that emerges from her snow white hair, ruby lips, and smiling eyes. You can almost picture her as a young girl in front of her bureau, brushing her hair, dreaming of who she'd marry. She radiates a kindness and serenity that can only come from a life well lived and lots of love known. But when I introduced Charlie and I, her face dropped a little. And sadness flashed out and then back quickly, windshield wipers across her eyes. And then it was gone. She smiled, "Oh honey, I won't remember your names. I've still got my body, but my mind's gone."
Startled, I reassured her, "Well that's OK. I'll remind you next time. And what's your name?"
"Elizabeth."
Charlie didn't seem to realize the importance to Miss Elizabeth that he drink her freely-offered water, and he gave it only a lick or two.
"Well, maybe when it gets hotter," she said. We smiled, and Charlie and I walked on.
That was several months ago.
Charlie and I have stopped in Elizabeth's yard too many times to count since then. And often, she comes out to greet us.
Almost every time, it goes like this:
"Hey there!"
"Hi Elizabeth!"
"Oh honey, have I met you?"
"Yes, I'm Susan, and this is Charlie."
"Oh, I'm so sorry. I won't remember. I've still got my body, but my mind's gone."
"That's OK Elizabeth; I don't mind reminding you."
And then Charlie takes his drinks, and I thank her.
"No, thank you," she always says, "this is my way of still getting to have a dog."
Charlie seems to know how much she loves him, because he runs up to her, takes some very love-filled pats on the back, and off we go.
But yesterday, yesterday was different. It started out the same:
"Hey there!"
"Hi Elizabeth!"
"Susan? Charlie?"
"Yes! That's us! Look at you! You remembered!" I say, stunned.
"Well, not really, but I put a post-it on the back of my door." She smiles. Meanwhile, Charlie is sniffing toward her still-open front door.
"He wants to come in!" she says, "Can I?" she says, reaching toward his leash. "Sure," I say ... even though I am itching to keep moving on because I have to get home and pack for my flight to Denver.
With a girlish joy, she grabs Charlie's leash and runs him into the house, and I follow.
And that's when I met her husband, Allen. Though all-man (I later learned he was a construction worker for most of his life), he, too, possesses that peaceful contentedness. "Come on in," he says, "I'm Allen."
Allen and Elizabeth's home is a book of stories. Allen starts to tell me the history of their home while Miss Elizabeth runs Charlie around to all the rooms in the house, smiling as wide as a child on Christmas morning. She is laughing.
"This home," Allen says, "was an old fruit shed built in the 1800s."
"Wow!" I exclaim, "You guys have done a lot of work." And they have. It could easily be a museum of California life between 1800something and 2009. One wall is entirely cedar and has that unfinished look of some old workspace or garage. I later learn that's the only original wall in the house. They sanded it and refinished it. But the wood still has holes in it, such that you get little peepholes into the adjacent rooms. Elizabeth has returned, thanks me for letting her take Charlie, and pulls out a scrap book.
I sweat a little. Flight's in 4 hours. But, I can't leave. They are too eager to tell me their stories. And I am too aware of the honor I am receiving in hearing them.
So, I look through their home renovation scrapbook. They removed a full inch of layers of wallpaper from the home. And Elizabeth's kept a square of every layer. Flipping through them is like watching decades pass in a moment. She's also got old newspapers that used to line the walls; they're deteriorating, but still readable. They look like they must be from the early 1900s. And they've got a chunk of the old cardboard and plaster that used to make up the entirety of their walls.
And then they move on to showing me the relics on their walls and the cast-iron wood-burning stove they found at a flea market.
"It needed some cleaning up," Allen states, "But we sanded it and repainted it and polished it, and now, it's good as new."
"Bargain shoppers!" I exclaim. And they stand proud. Allen proceeds to show me their office. "Almost everything in here was free. I found those file cabinet doors in an old classroom at UCLA when we were tearing it down. And I got the ceiling tiles from a bank in Glendale that was closing. And the shelves were out with someone's trash." And the room is lovely and clean, and you'd never know.
And the conversation goes on and on and meanders as conversations so often do. I find out that Allen and Elizabeth met twenty years ago, when they were both living in boats with their spouses. And then Elizabeth's husband died, and Allen's wife left him "for bigger and better things." And the rest is literally history; they've been together ever since. And before I know it, I'm holding framed photos of each of their old boats. "I spent 13 years on that boat," she says. Again, that windshield wiper flash of sad ... gone as quickly as it came. And I become aware, in that moment, that they aren't handing me framed photos of their boats. They're allowing me to hold the very fiber of their lives. And because us humans live in the here and now, in finite time, we are forced to try to fit all these infinite things like love and life into tangible objects, into frames ... to help us hold them.
Fairly soon after, Charlie and I head out. He is eager to keep moving on, and Miss Elizabeth can see it. But, as we walk toward her door, she shows me,
"See here, this is your post-it." The back of her door is covered with 15 or 20 post-its, her attempt to fight her failing mind. Ours' is blue, and on it, the words:
small red poodle
Charlie
tall brown-hair woman
Susan
"I hope we didn't tell you too many stories," Alan states,
"Yes," says Elizabeth, "You may never want to come back!"
They laugh, but I know they aren't actually joking.
"No, no," I say, "Just the opposite. I really appreciate you telling me your stories. You know, with the changes in technology and all the ways we have to reach each other, I think we're all getting lonelier and lonelier!"
"Yes," Allen agrees, "People forget that it's important to look someone in the eye and just talk to 'em."
"Thanks!" I say, "Have a good day."
"No, thank you," says Miss Elizabeth, "You've just helped us start it well."
Charlie and I walk away, and Allen and Elizabeth go back into their home.
And for the rest of the walk home, I think about Allen and Elizabeth and the uncommon kindness and trust they display. I think about facebook and cell phones and all the million different bits of "progress" we've made as a society and wonder if it's really progress. I make a mental note, "that is the kind of person you want to be."
It's hard, you know, in this age of garage door openers and locked doors. But then, there's Allen and Elizabeth.
I've still so much to learn.
"Hey there," she yelled.
"Hi,"
"I just wanted to let you know that I keep this bowl out in front of my house for all the dogs that pass by. The hose is right here. You just feel free to turn it on and fill the bowl up anytime you want!"
"Thank you! How nice!" (me)
"No, thank you," she said, "I love dogs, but I can't stand to love and lose another. This is my way of still having dogs to love."
"My name's Susan," I said, "and this is Charlie."
Miss Elizabeth must be creeping up on 80 years old. But every facet of her face shines warmth, and there's still a youthful beauty that emerges from her snow white hair, ruby lips, and smiling eyes. You can almost picture her as a young girl in front of her bureau, brushing her hair, dreaming of who she'd marry. She radiates a kindness and serenity that can only come from a life well lived and lots of love known. But when I introduced Charlie and I, her face dropped a little. And sadness flashed out and then back quickly, windshield wipers across her eyes. And then it was gone. She smiled, "Oh honey, I won't remember your names. I've still got my body, but my mind's gone."
Startled, I reassured her, "Well that's OK. I'll remind you next time. And what's your name?"
"Elizabeth."
Charlie didn't seem to realize the importance to Miss Elizabeth that he drink her freely-offered water, and he gave it only a lick or two.
"Well, maybe when it gets hotter," she said. We smiled, and Charlie and I walked on.
That was several months ago.
Charlie and I have stopped in Elizabeth's yard too many times to count since then. And often, she comes out to greet us.
Almost every time, it goes like this:
"Hey there!"
"Hi Elizabeth!"
"Oh honey, have I met you?"
"Yes, I'm Susan, and this is Charlie."
"Oh, I'm so sorry. I won't remember. I've still got my body, but my mind's gone."
"That's OK Elizabeth; I don't mind reminding you."
And then Charlie takes his drinks, and I thank her.
"No, thank you," she always says, "this is my way of still getting to have a dog."
Charlie seems to know how much she loves him, because he runs up to her, takes some very love-filled pats on the back, and off we go.
But yesterday, yesterday was different. It started out the same:
"Hey there!"
"Hi Elizabeth!"
"Susan? Charlie?"
"Yes! That's us! Look at you! You remembered!" I say, stunned.
"Well, not really, but I put a post-it on the back of my door." She smiles. Meanwhile, Charlie is sniffing toward her still-open front door.
"He wants to come in!" she says, "Can I?" she says, reaching toward his leash. "Sure," I say ... even though I am itching to keep moving on because I have to get home and pack for my flight to Denver.
With a girlish joy, she grabs Charlie's leash and runs him into the house, and I follow.
And that's when I met her husband, Allen. Though all-man (I later learned he was a construction worker for most of his life), he, too, possesses that peaceful contentedness. "Come on in," he says, "I'm Allen."
Allen and Elizabeth's home is a book of stories. Allen starts to tell me the history of their home while Miss Elizabeth runs Charlie around to all the rooms in the house, smiling as wide as a child on Christmas morning. She is laughing.
"This home," Allen says, "was an old fruit shed built in the 1800s."
"Wow!" I exclaim, "You guys have done a lot of work." And they have. It could easily be a museum of California life between 1800something and 2009. One wall is entirely cedar and has that unfinished look of some old workspace or garage. I later learn that's the only original wall in the house. They sanded it and refinished it. But the wood still has holes in it, such that you get little peepholes into the adjacent rooms. Elizabeth has returned, thanks me for letting her take Charlie, and pulls out a scrap book.
I sweat a little. Flight's in 4 hours. But, I can't leave. They are too eager to tell me their stories. And I am too aware of the honor I am receiving in hearing them.
So, I look through their home renovation scrapbook. They removed a full inch of layers of wallpaper from the home. And Elizabeth's kept a square of every layer. Flipping through them is like watching decades pass in a moment. She's also got old newspapers that used to line the walls; they're deteriorating, but still readable. They look like they must be from the early 1900s. And they've got a chunk of the old cardboard and plaster that used to make up the entirety of their walls.
And then they move on to showing me the relics on their walls and the cast-iron wood-burning stove they found at a flea market.
"It needed some cleaning up," Allen states, "But we sanded it and repainted it and polished it, and now, it's good as new."
"Bargain shoppers!" I exclaim. And they stand proud. Allen proceeds to show me their office. "Almost everything in here was free. I found those file cabinet doors in an old classroom at UCLA when we were tearing it down. And I got the ceiling tiles from a bank in Glendale that was closing. And the shelves were out with someone's trash." And the room is lovely and clean, and you'd never know.
And the conversation goes on and on and meanders as conversations so often do. I find out that Allen and Elizabeth met twenty years ago, when they were both living in boats with their spouses. And then Elizabeth's husband died, and Allen's wife left him "for bigger and better things." And the rest is literally history; they've been together ever since. And before I know it, I'm holding framed photos of each of their old boats. "I spent 13 years on that boat," she says. Again, that windshield wiper flash of sad ... gone as quickly as it came. And I become aware, in that moment, that they aren't handing me framed photos of their boats. They're allowing me to hold the very fiber of their lives. And because us humans live in the here and now, in finite time, we are forced to try to fit all these infinite things like love and life into tangible objects, into frames ... to help us hold them.
Fairly soon after, Charlie and I head out. He is eager to keep moving on, and Miss Elizabeth can see it. But, as we walk toward her door, she shows me,
"See here, this is your post-it." The back of her door is covered with 15 or 20 post-its, her attempt to fight her failing mind. Ours' is blue, and on it, the words:
small red poodle
Charlie
tall brown-hair woman
Susan
"I hope we didn't tell you too many stories," Alan states,
"Yes," says Elizabeth, "You may never want to come back!"
They laugh, but I know they aren't actually joking.
"No, no," I say, "Just the opposite. I really appreciate you telling me your stories. You know, with the changes in technology and all the ways we have to reach each other, I think we're all getting lonelier and lonelier!"
"Yes," Allen agrees, "People forget that it's important to look someone in the eye and just talk to 'em."
"Thanks!" I say, "Have a good day."
"No, thank you," says Miss Elizabeth, "You've just helped us start it well."
Charlie and I walk away, and Allen and Elizabeth go back into their home.
And for the rest of the walk home, I think about Allen and Elizabeth and the uncommon kindness and trust they display. I think about facebook and cell phones and all the million different bits of "progress" we've made as a society and wonder if it's really progress. I make a mental note, "that is the kind of person you want to be."
It's hard, you know, in this age of garage door openers and locked doors. But then, there's Allen and Elizabeth.
I've still so much to learn.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Here's How I Ended Up In A Vet's Office Listening To A Lady Discuss Her Vomiting and Diarrhea
You know what happens when you make plans?
Last night, before bed, I sat down, wrote out a to-do list for today, and set my alarm to get up nice and early so I could get a good start to the day.
And I did get a good start... I took Charlie on our morning walk, and half way through, we came upon a stray dog. And you're talking to a girl (well, you're not actually talking, but....) who rescues earthworms after rain storms. And if the situation were reversed, and if it were my stray dog someone came upon, I would hope they'd change their plans to help my pup. So, after ascertaining that the dog was friendly and hopefully not rabid, I took Charlie's leash off of him, put it on the Australian Shepherd (the stray), carried Charlie and off we went.
I'll try not to bore you with the minutia that followed. It includes multiple phone calls to Animal Control and some very unhelpful people. Suffice it to say, I discovered that it makes you feel very alone when you're trying to help a helpless creature that no one else seems too concerned about helping. So, on we walked, the fifty pound Shepherd tugging me forward, Charlie flopping along in my arms, looking quite dejected at the fact that another dog had won his leash and that he was no longer walking and sniffing and peeing (some of his favorite activities).
And then we came upon Charlie's vet clinic, which just happens to be on our route. "Ahah!" I thought. Maybe they'd be willing to help me ... even it's just to give me a second leash to use for the rest of the walk home. By that point, I'd decided to walk the dog the 2 miles back to home and hope animal control would eventually come. But those brilliant folks in the vet clinic did even more. They scanned my new furry friend for a microchip and discovered he had one. Fast forward past some unhelpful 1-800-microchip employees who eventually gave the veterinary clinic the owner information. Vet clinic called owner. Owner wasn't home. Yada yada yada. So, THAT'S how I ended up in a vet's office listening to a lady discuss her vomit and diarrhea. Whilst standing in the office waiting while the employee left a message on Pet Owner's voicemail, an elderly lady walked in to (I later learned) pick up her cat. But, while she waited, she regailed us all with details about the flu she was fighting. And all I could think was, "Yes! That's so what I wanted today when I woke up ... the chance to be in an inclosed space with someone who has the flu." Actually, that's not what I was thinking. Really, I was wondering at how, when you make plans, life happens. And before you know it, you're an hour and a half into your morning walk, standing in a clinic, exposed to the flu, trying to locate a Pet Owner. And your to-do list is sitting at home all clean and unscratched.
Now, fast forward again to several hours later. Mr. Wanderer has food and water and is pacing the confines of our garage like any good herding dog. And his owner is on the way over to pick him up. That's right. This story has a happy ending. Funny thing is, though, Mr. Microchip owner never called back. Turns out, the current owner of "Duke," (he has a name now) found him 8 months ago trying to herd a flock of ducks in a hospital parking lot. He and his family took Duke in and made him their own. And when Duke got away this morning, Pet Owner drove the streets looking for him and decided to check at the vet office to see if they'd seen him. Thus, even though Mr. Microchip pet owner never called back, Duke was reunited with the family that loves him because we just happened to walk past the clinic, I just happened to leave my name and number, and current Duke owner just happened to check w/the vet's office on the off chance they'd know something. Duke ran to his owner when he arrived, jumped happily in the car, and off he went.
Life is funny. You make lists. And sometimes you cross things off. And sometimes you go all Cesar Milan on life and walk a 50 pound Australian Shepherd next to a 10 pound poodle. I didn't get everything done today that I intended to get done. But it was a good day. And Duke is home.
Last night, before bed, I sat down, wrote out a to-do list for today, and set my alarm to get up nice and early so I could get a good start to the day.
And I did get a good start... I took Charlie on our morning walk, and half way through, we came upon a stray dog. And you're talking to a girl (well, you're not actually talking, but....) who rescues earthworms after rain storms. And if the situation were reversed, and if it were my stray dog someone came upon, I would hope they'd change their plans to help my pup. So, after ascertaining that the dog was friendly and hopefully not rabid, I took Charlie's leash off of him, put it on the Australian Shepherd (the stray), carried Charlie and off we went.
I'll try not to bore you with the minutia that followed. It includes multiple phone calls to Animal Control and some very unhelpful people. Suffice it to say, I discovered that it makes you feel very alone when you're trying to help a helpless creature that no one else seems too concerned about helping. So, on we walked, the fifty pound Shepherd tugging me forward, Charlie flopping along in my arms, looking quite dejected at the fact that another dog had won his leash and that he was no longer walking and sniffing and peeing (some of his favorite activities).
And then we came upon Charlie's vet clinic, which just happens to be on our route. "Ahah!" I thought. Maybe they'd be willing to help me ... even it's just to give me a second leash to use for the rest of the walk home. By that point, I'd decided to walk the dog the 2 miles back to home and hope animal control would eventually come. But those brilliant folks in the vet clinic did even more. They scanned my new furry friend for a microchip and discovered he had one. Fast forward past some unhelpful 1-800-microchip employees who eventually gave the veterinary clinic the owner information. Vet clinic called owner. Owner wasn't home. Yada yada yada. So, THAT'S how I ended up in a vet's office listening to a lady discuss her vomit and diarrhea. Whilst standing in the office waiting while the employee left a message on Pet Owner's voicemail, an elderly lady walked in to (I later learned) pick up her cat. But, while she waited, she regailed us all with details about the flu she was fighting. And all I could think was, "Yes! That's so what I wanted today when I woke up ... the chance to be in an inclosed space with someone who has the flu." Actually, that's not what I was thinking. Really, I was wondering at how, when you make plans, life happens. And before you know it, you're an hour and a half into your morning walk, standing in a clinic, exposed to the flu, trying to locate a Pet Owner. And your to-do list is sitting at home all clean and unscratched.
Now, fast forward again to several hours later. Mr. Wanderer has food and water and is pacing the confines of our garage like any good herding dog. And his owner is on the way over to pick him up. That's right. This story has a happy ending. Funny thing is, though, Mr. Microchip owner never called back. Turns out, the current owner of "Duke," (he has a name now) found him 8 months ago trying to herd a flock of ducks in a hospital parking lot. He and his family took Duke in and made him their own. And when Duke got away this morning, Pet Owner drove the streets looking for him and decided to check at the vet office to see if they'd seen him. Thus, even though Mr. Microchip pet owner never called back, Duke was reunited with the family that loves him because we just happened to walk past the clinic, I just happened to leave my name and number, and current Duke owner just happened to check w/the vet's office on the off chance they'd know something. Duke ran to his owner when he arrived, jumped happily in the car, and off he went.
Life is funny. You make lists. And sometimes you cross things off. And sometimes you go all Cesar Milan on life and walk a 50 pound Australian Shepherd next to a 10 pound poodle. I didn't get everything done today that I intended to get done. But it was a good day. And Duke is home.
Monday, August 31, 2009
I Think It's About Time For A Little Listy-List
1. I am off to Denver in a couple of days, going to take care of my two adorable nieces while my sister and her hubby take a Labor Day weekend away. While there, I'm also going to get to see one of my dearest friends, her husband, and their little boy ... who I haven't seen in far too long. I'm sooo excited to see them all. Though, I'm also a little stressed, because....
2. I am still trying to get this monkey of a class off my back. I have one last class to finish by September 18. That's when all the work is due. It's my very own much-less-important VG Day ... victory over grad school day. It's an independent study class, and there's a reason I haven't taken one until now. I am not ... what some would say ... disciplined. Actually, I am disciplined ... just not until I have only a few hours left to accomplish massive amounts of work. Then, I'm very disciplined. Too bad a few hours will never enable me to complete an entire course! Wish me luck, furious working capacities, perseverance, ability to work through the blurry-eyed hours and a few hours of sleep just for the fun of it.
3. Murphy struck today. I'm not running around nearly as crazily as I used to do. I'm taking an independent study class after all. And I'm only spending one day a week at the clinic nowadays. Wouldn't you know it that on the ONE day I have to be at the clinic for an 8:30 appointment would be the day that my car would have a so-flat-that-the-car-is-tilted flat tire. I mean we're talking FLAT ... not to be confused with "phat," which it is not. Flat is not phat. Phat or flat, my schedule and appointment were saved by the kindness of my roomie, who gave his car to me for the morning. Thanks roomie.
4. The fires are still raging here in Los Angeles. My home, thankfully, is no where near the affected areas, but all the same, the air everywhere is full of smoke. I've gotten so used to these South California fires, to the Santa Anas, to seeing news story after news story about forest fires; it's a little bizarre and kinda sad I think ... that I'm so used to it. I was driving home from the clinic today and looked over toward the mountains to see plumes of smoke everywhere; there's so much smoke that it all now just looks like grey and white clouds. And I realized I hadn't paid any attention to it the whole drive until that point. But, two firefighters died yesterday, and I'm reminded now to pray for the firefighters and for the people who've lost homes. I went out of town this weekend, and here's what I saw when I was still about 30 miles away from home:
And then, when I zoomed in:
And, because it's a good round number to finish off a list, and on a much less important note,
5. Confession: I grew up watching General Hospital. I never even knew I was supposed to be embarrassed about that fact until I told someone that I was scheduling my college classes to leave 2-3pm open for "GH" as my sisters, my mom, and I all called it, and they looked at me like I might as well just have said, "I'm moving to Botswana." For any of you who know me, you know that when I get addicted to a show, I get, well ... addicted. As in, look-up-interviews-by-the-main-characters, learn-their-bibliographies, buy-magazines-about-the-show, subscribe-to-said-show's-website, research-show's-author, well, you get the picture. So, when I say I watched General Hospital, I mean I WATCHED General Hospital. I cried when Jax watched Brenda's crazy mother drive the car with Brenda in it off the cliff. I gasped when Jason Quartmaine woke up from his coma with amnesia. I cheered when Jagger and Karen rode off into the sunset on his Harley. And I sobbed when Scotty Baldwin held Dominque in that beautiful garden as she died of cancer. Are you feeling me? I was THAT kind of fan. And then I went and lived overseas and couldn't watch GH anymore, and I discovered that I was just fine. And I haven't really watched it since. But, all of THAT to say, speaking of Scotty Baldwin....
I was in a lounge this weekend with a few friends. There weren't many people there, and I looked over and saw Scotty Baldwin!! Actually, his name's Ken Shriner, but to me, he'll always be Scotty. After the "I can't bother him; that's rude's" and the "What if he's a jerk's?" and the "I'm a total dork to even think of speaking to him's," I gathered my gumption, walked over, apologized for my rudeness in bothering him, and told him simply that I'd grown up with him ... at which point my friend swears his face fell a little. Ooops. Totally didn't mean to make him feel old. Either way, he was very nice, and offered to take a photo with me. Luckily, like any good amateur photographer, I had my camera in my purse.
It's funny; I've met a few other celebrities ... probably more popular than Ken Shriner from General Hospital. But for me, meeting him was a bigger thrill. And I think it's because GH was more than just a soap opera to me; it was a silly, meaningless set of stories I shared with my mom and sisters growing up. It was bonding. All the women in my family would talk about this new character or that doomed wedding, about the fire at the warehouse, or the drug deal on the docks. And we'd giggle and surmise and take bets. I know soap operas are trashy and meaningless, and I know that actually, very little happens on them, and characters come back to life way too often. But, the silliness that transpires between sisters and mothers and girlfriends ... well, that stuff is not so meaningless. That's why, after the picture was snapped, I proceeded to text Mom and Sisters immediately to tell them about my run-in ... not with Ken Shriner, but with Scott Baldwin, and they texted back, totally delighted.
2. I am still trying to get this monkey of a class off my back. I have one last class to finish by September 18. That's when all the work is due. It's my very own much-less-important VG Day ... victory over grad school day. It's an independent study class, and there's a reason I haven't taken one until now. I am not ... what some would say ... disciplined. Actually, I am disciplined ... just not until I have only a few hours left to accomplish massive amounts of work. Then, I'm very disciplined. Too bad a few hours will never enable me to complete an entire course! Wish me luck, furious working capacities, perseverance, ability to work through the blurry-eyed hours and a few hours of sleep just for the fun of it.
3. Murphy struck today. I'm not running around nearly as crazily as I used to do. I'm taking an independent study class after all. And I'm only spending one day a week at the clinic nowadays. Wouldn't you know it that on the ONE day I have to be at the clinic for an 8:30 appointment would be the day that my car would have a so-flat-that-the-car-is-tilted flat tire. I mean we're talking FLAT ... not to be confused with "phat," which it is not. Flat is not phat. Phat or flat, my schedule and appointment were saved by the kindness of my roomie, who gave his car to me for the morning. Thanks roomie.
4. The fires are still raging here in Los Angeles. My home, thankfully, is no where near the affected areas, but all the same, the air everywhere is full of smoke. I've gotten so used to these South California fires, to the Santa Anas, to seeing news story after news story about forest fires; it's a little bizarre and kinda sad I think ... that I'm so used to it. I was driving home from the clinic today and looked over toward the mountains to see plumes of smoke everywhere; there's so much smoke that it all now just looks like grey and white clouds. And I realized I hadn't paid any attention to it the whole drive until that point. But, two firefighters died yesterday, and I'm reminded now to pray for the firefighters and for the people who've lost homes. I went out of town this weekend, and here's what I saw when I was still about 30 miles away from home:
And then, when I zoomed in:
And, because it's a good round number to finish off a list, and on a much less important note,
5. Confession: I grew up watching General Hospital. I never even knew I was supposed to be embarrassed about that fact until I told someone that I was scheduling my college classes to leave 2-3pm open for "GH" as my sisters, my mom, and I all called it, and they looked at me like I might as well just have said, "I'm moving to Botswana." For any of you who know me, you know that when I get addicted to a show, I get, well ... addicted. As in, look-up-interviews-by-the-main-characters, learn-their-bibliographies, buy-magazines-about-the-show, subscribe-to-said-show's-website, research-show's-author, well, you get the picture. So, when I say I watched General Hospital, I mean I WATCHED General Hospital. I cried when Jax watched Brenda's crazy mother drive the car with Brenda in it off the cliff. I gasped when Jason Quartmaine woke up from his coma with amnesia. I cheered when Jagger and Karen rode off into the sunset on his Harley. And I sobbed when Scotty Baldwin held Dominque in that beautiful garden as she died of cancer. Are you feeling me? I was THAT kind of fan. And then I went and lived overseas and couldn't watch GH anymore, and I discovered that I was just fine. And I haven't really watched it since. But, all of THAT to say, speaking of Scotty Baldwin....
I was in a lounge this weekend with a few friends. There weren't many people there, and I looked over and saw Scotty Baldwin!! Actually, his name's Ken Shriner, but to me, he'll always be Scotty. After the "I can't bother him; that's rude's" and the "What if he's a jerk's?" and the "I'm a total dork to even think of speaking to him's," I gathered my gumption, walked over, apologized for my rudeness in bothering him, and told him simply that I'd grown up with him ... at which point my friend swears his face fell a little. Ooops. Totally didn't mean to make him feel old. Either way, he was very nice, and offered to take a photo with me. Luckily, like any good amateur photographer, I had my camera in my purse.
It's funny; I've met a few other celebrities ... probably more popular than Ken Shriner from General Hospital. But for me, meeting him was a bigger thrill. And I think it's because GH was more than just a soap opera to me; it was a silly, meaningless set of stories I shared with my mom and sisters growing up. It was bonding. All the women in my family would talk about this new character or that doomed wedding, about the fire at the warehouse, or the drug deal on the docks. And we'd giggle and surmise and take bets. I know soap operas are trashy and meaningless, and I know that actually, very little happens on them, and characters come back to life way too often. But, the silliness that transpires between sisters and mothers and girlfriends ... well, that stuff is not so meaningless. That's why, after the picture was snapped, I proceeded to text Mom and Sisters immediately to tell them about my run-in ... not with Ken Shriner, but with Scott Baldwin, and they texted back, totally delighted.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
: a bedtime story :
There once was a girl named Charlotte.
She had good friends, an unabashed love of chocolate, and a doggy named Charlie.
She also had an unabashed love for the sky. It had SO many different outfits!! She loved when it put on its colors, enough colors to make her cry, during sunrises or sunsets. And she was often lulled to sleep at night as a child by that quiet pink it wore just before it was about to open up and shake all the snow out of its clouds. She usually put on music when the sky had a grey day. She felt like she should whisper because maybe it was sleeping. Shhhhh. And she ached to get outside and frolick when the sky decided to grab a glass of lemonade, ready itself for kites, and don its best shade of blue ... the kind of blue that sings and turns just about anyone into Ginger Rogers or Fred Astaire. Yep, it was undeniable. This girl adored the sky.
That's why, when one day, one of those good friends of hers we talked about earlier invited her to a special sky party, (oooh ahhhh) she was thrilled to accept the invitation ... even if it meant she'd have to wake up from deep sleep, put on warm clothes, and go outside. Her friend explained to her that every year, as if the starry night sky wasn't already cool enough, it decided to put on a special show. In it, stars would fly across the sky in glowy wonder ... a great galactic food fight. He described that they weren't actually stars that would be glowing. They were meteors. She knew the difference between stars and meteors. She'd learned it from her dad in one of their many "Why?" conversations. But she didn't really care what they were called. They were beautiful.
So she set her alarm for what some would undeniably call, "an ungodly hour," and she went to sleep. She dreamt about what she might see. And in her dreams, the sky looked like this:
And this:
And, the finale looked like this (now remember, this was a DREAM we're talking about):
So, you can understand, then, why when her alarm rang, up she got during the deep, dark hours of night ... even though her body shouted at her, "What are you thinking?! Don't you realize all things have their time? And this is sleep's time?!" It sounded a little mad even. But she didn't care. Any girl going to a party knows it takes more than a little grumpy to slow her down. And she and her friends gathered their warm clothes, pillows, and blankets, (and Charlie, and chocolate, of course) and headed out to see the show.
They drove to a wiiiide open field, where one can see the sky quite well. They laid out their blankets, put down their pillows, and got supine. And they waited.
And waited.
And then, they saw this:
And they said, "OOHHH," and "AHHHH."
And they waited again.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited a little more.
And then, they begin to laugh. Because there they were...bundled up, staring up at the sky, laying out on a golf course they'd illegally entered (this is not a children's story), and all they saw was this:
Now, on a normal night, Charlotte was completely enthralled with that. But it's just that when one goes to a party... well, you know.
And so, after a looooong time, and lots of giggles, they decided to leave. They drove to another location, thinking maybe they just needed to get to a place where it was darker, so the glowy streaming sequins would be that much brighter. But a few of them got scared when they got there, for they were in a place where other creatures live: bobcats, and coyotes, and maybe even the occasional crazy, psycopathic, axe-wielding murderer.
So they left.
And they went to IHOP.
Because who doesn't love pancakes at 4am?
But they were very, very tired.
So, they ate their pancakes, went home, crawled back into their warm beds, and drifted off to sleep.
And Charlotte decided that even though the party wasn't quite as grand as she'd expected, any night one gets to see melting meteors, with good friends, and finish off with pancakes ... well, that's a good night.
-THE END-
Disclaimer and credit due: Charlotte didn't take any of the starry photos she posted. She got them off the internet. Other peeps get the credit. She doesn't know those peeps, or she'd list them by name.
She had good friends, an unabashed love of chocolate, and a doggy named Charlie.
She also had an unabashed love for the sky. It had SO many different outfits!! She loved when it put on its colors, enough colors to make her cry, during sunrises or sunsets. And she was often lulled to sleep at night as a child by that quiet pink it wore just before it was about to open up and shake all the snow out of its clouds. She usually put on music when the sky had a grey day. She felt like she should whisper because maybe it was sleeping. Shhhhh. And she ached to get outside and frolick when the sky decided to grab a glass of lemonade, ready itself for kites, and don its best shade of blue ... the kind of blue that sings and turns just about anyone into Ginger Rogers or Fred Astaire. Yep, it was undeniable. This girl adored the sky.
That's why, when one day, one of those good friends of hers we talked about earlier invited her to a special sky party, (oooh ahhhh) she was thrilled to accept the invitation ... even if it meant she'd have to wake up from deep sleep, put on warm clothes, and go outside. Her friend explained to her that every year, as if the starry night sky wasn't already cool enough, it decided to put on a special show. In it, stars would fly across the sky in glowy wonder ... a great galactic food fight. He described that they weren't actually stars that would be glowing. They were meteors. She knew the difference between stars and meteors. She'd learned it from her dad in one of their many "Why?" conversations. But she didn't really care what they were called. They were beautiful.
So she set her alarm for what some would undeniably call, "an ungodly hour," and she went to sleep. She dreamt about what she might see. And in her dreams, the sky looked like this:
And this:
And, the finale looked like this (now remember, this was a DREAM we're talking about):
So, you can understand, then, why when her alarm rang, up she got during the deep, dark hours of night ... even though her body shouted at her, "What are you thinking?! Don't you realize all things have their time? And this is sleep's time?!" It sounded a little mad even. But she didn't care. Any girl going to a party knows it takes more than a little grumpy to slow her down. And she and her friends gathered their warm clothes, pillows, and blankets, (and Charlie, and chocolate, of course) and headed out to see the show.
They drove to a wiiiide open field, where one can see the sky quite well. They laid out their blankets, put down their pillows, and got supine. And they waited.
And waited.
And then, they saw this:
And they said, "OOHHH," and "AHHHH."
And they waited again.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited a little more.
And then, they begin to laugh. Because there they were...bundled up, staring up at the sky, laying out on a golf course they'd illegally entered (this is not a children's story), and all they saw was this:
Now, on a normal night, Charlotte was completely enthralled with that. But it's just that when one goes to a party... well, you know.
And so, after a looooong time, and lots of giggles, they decided to leave. They drove to another location, thinking maybe they just needed to get to a place where it was darker, so the glowy streaming sequins would be that much brighter. But a few of them got scared when they got there, for they were in a place where other creatures live: bobcats, and coyotes, and maybe even the occasional crazy, psycopathic, axe-wielding murderer.
So they left.
And they went to IHOP.
Because who doesn't love pancakes at 4am?
But they were very, very tired.
So, they ate their pancakes, went home, crawled back into their warm beds, and drifted off to sleep.
And Charlotte decided that even though the party wasn't quite as grand as she'd expected, any night one gets to see melting meteors, with good friends, and finish off with pancakes ... well, that's a good night.
-THE END-
Disclaimer and credit due: Charlotte didn't take any of the starry photos she posted. She got them off the internet. Other peeps get the credit. She doesn't know those peeps, or she'd list them by name.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
A little extra protein, I suppose....
Nothing profound to share tonight. In fact, it's just the opposite.
I think I swallowed a spider today.
A dear friend gave me biscotti this morning, and I ate it with my caramel steamer (yum), and inevitably, a few chunks fell in the milk. I didn't think anything of them as I drank it, assuming them all to be sweet almond-ey bread.
BUT-
Then I filled that same mug with cold water and drank it during my next class. I tracked with my professor as he discussed life cycle developmental milestones. And I think he was right about at the part where parents of young children become parents of adolescents when I looked into my water and saw what appeared to be ... a spider leg.
I don't like spider legs, even when they are attached to spider bodies. It has something to do with the hair on them, and the way they bend in like 3 or 4 different places, and the way they stop cold -- like a statue -- when they see you coming. But I especially don't like spider legs when they are unattached and in my cup o' water. And then I really don't like them when they float around, taunting me, with their not so subtle reminder that a body is missing, and chances are, that I've consumed it.
So, I debated as to whether or not I wanted to isolate said leg and verify its identity, and then decided that seeing it even closer would only creep me out more. What was done was done. My classmate, Emily, looked at it, though, and concurred with me that it was most likely what I'd suspected.
And by that point, it was break time. We'd finished parents of adolescents and were going to head into parents launching children from the home after the break. I took my cup and dumped it out in the bushes outside class.
If it really was a spider leg, poor little spider.
I suppose it's safe to say that his day was far worse than mine.
I think I swallowed a spider today.
A dear friend gave me biscotti this morning, and I ate it with my caramel steamer (yum), and inevitably, a few chunks fell in the milk. I didn't think anything of them as I drank it, assuming them all to be sweet almond-ey bread.
BUT-
Then I filled that same mug with cold water and drank it during my next class. I tracked with my professor as he discussed life cycle developmental milestones. And I think he was right about at the part where parents of young children become parents of adolescents when I looked into my water and saw what appeared to be ... a spider leg.
I don't like spider legs, even when they are attached to spider bodies. It has something to do with the hair on them, and the way they bend in like 3 or 4 different places, and the way they stop cold -- like a statue -- when they see you coming. But I especially don't like spider legs when they are unattached and in my cup o' water. And then I really don't like them when they float around, taunting me, with their not so subtle reminder that a body is missing, and chances are, that I've consumed it.
So, I debated as to whether or not I wanted to isolate said leg and verify its identity, and then decided that seeing it even closer would only creep me out more. What was done was done. My classmate, Emily, looked at it, though, and concurred with me that it was most likely what I'd suspected.
And by that point, it was break time. We'd finished parents of adolescents and were going to head into parents launching children from the home after the break. I took my cup and dumped it out in the bushes outside class.
If it really was a spider leg, poor little spider.
I suppose it's safe to say that his day was far worse than mine.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
A Study in Sedentary Studying
Remember Tuesday's blog about being glad that this blog is verbal and not visual?
Forget that.
I am studying. Well, I am GOING to study. After this. Uh-oh; I just heard my mom's voice in my head ("'GOING TO' never got anyone anywhere"). I digress.
Anyway, suffice it to say that Photo booth + Final exams = A study in finals week sedentary Susan
This is me happy that I am not yet studying....
Because this is how my brain's been feeling when I do study:
And here's my studying view: (the fire isn't going yet today)
And here's how my pup's been passing the time:
I am glad for a faithful companion! :)
OK, I'm off to turn the "going to" into a "did."
much love to you!
Forget that.
I am studying. Well, I am GOING to study. After this. Uh-oh; I just heard my mom's voice in my head ("'GOING TO' never got anyone anywhere"). I digress.
Anyway, suffice it to say that Photo booth + Final exams = A study in finals week sedentary Susan
This is me happy that I am not yet studying....
Because this is how my brain's been feeling when I do study:
And here's my studying view: (the fire isn't going yet today)
And here's how my pup's been passing the time:
I am glad for a faithful companion! :)
OK, I'm off to turn the "going to" into a "did."
much love to you!
Monday, August 25, 2008
So I Almost Died....
or atleast I had a moment where I realized that I could....
--or maybe there is a hint of melodrama in my blog title--
Either way....
Due to the gracious generosity of three friends -- who all, incidentally, have a great compassion for the financial woes of grad school and the way it has a tendency to reduce you to stealing napkins from local dining establishments -- I was able to take a weekend trip to Lake Tahoe a little over a week ago.
I had never been to Lake Tahoe, and when I first heard about it, I thought, "Neat, another lake. Sounds pretty."
But then I got there.
And here's the thing. It's not just another lake. It's this pristine little corner of wilderness in the world, with high cliffs, thick, regal forests, and a big scoop of the earth has been removed and filled up with the most crystal clear, pure blue water right smack dab in the middle of it all. That's Lake Tahoe. And there are hiking trails, and gondola rides up to impossibly high lookout points, and a "lazy" river (the only river that flows out of the lake, actually). There are beaches edged by turquoise water, and zip lines that fly down down down and make your hair all wild and modelesque, and in the winter, there's skiing and fireplaces, and quiet. And when you swim, you can see your feet, so you're never afraid that some unexpected sensation will wrap itself around your legs and you won't be able to see what it is.
I liked Lake Tahoe. I loved Lake Tahoe.
So, anyway, there we were in the majestic mural of forest and water and sky, and we decided, the four of us, to raft down the "lazy" river. There's a reason that I keep putting "lazy" in quotation marks, just fyi. We were told that the river just wound it's way, were given a big raft, three paddles (not sure what the wisdom in three paddles for four people is, but whatever), four life vests and told: "We're required to give you life vests, but you don't have to wear them. You can jump in and out of the boat as you go along. There's a lot of great sections where you can just jump out and float along." Fantastic, we thought. It was hot; the water was cold; it would be a great combination.
So, we embarked on our journey on the "lazy" river, and sure enough, the meandering current carried us smoothly along, with a need to paddle a few strokes every now and again. And being part-fish myself, I was the first to jump in.
Ahh ... this is the life, I thought. I floated along, supported by my life vest, which I sat on like a mini-raft, and then decided it was time to get back into the boat a few minutes later. But, when I tried to lift myself back into the raft, I couldn't. Simply put: when it comes to upper body strength, I am a wimp. I threw my life vest back into the boat and tried again. No dice. Oh well, I thought, I'll just float a bit longer. And then my friend, Julie, jumped in. Company! All the better.
Well, a few minutes later, Julie and I began to float faster. I wasn't nervous about it. I just noticed it. And then, when we decided to swim back to the boat, we realized that we couldn't. The current was too strong and wouldn't let us. Still fairly calm (because the river was still calm), we just sort of looked at each other.
"I don't like this as much, anymore," I said to her. "Me either," she responded.
Our friends in the boat were now about 30-40 feet behind us and they were looking at us as if to say, "You water hogs, why don't you come back to the boat and give us a turn to float??" (Our friends are quite nice, by the way, and would never actually call us "water hogs." That part was inserted for the sake of mental imagery:). But I think they realized that we actually couldn't swim back to the boat when they saw us reach out to hang on to the posts of a bridge we passed under, only to be swept past them. I didn't see their faces, but Julie did. And she said their faces changed from, "What are you doing?" to "Ruh-roh."
Well, by this point, Julie and I had looked ahead to see white-tipped rapids. Now, I don't want to overdramatize. They were by no means class V type rapids. They were more like "oooh, fun"-when-you-are-in-a-boat-with-a-life-vest type rapids. But we weren't in a boat. And I didn't have a lifevest. Because I'd thrown it back in when I tried to get back into the boat earlier. And not only that, but the current had swept me around such that I was literally headed toward the boulders over which the rapids washed head first, backwards. And even though Julie, and our fellow boating companions began to frantically scream for me to go "feet first," I couldn't turn myself around.
Important point to insert here about my coping tendencies under stress:
I laugh hysterically.
Like can't stop laughing. Even if I wanted to.
So, here we are, quickly approaching a stretch of rapids -- head first, backwards, with no life vest, and I am laughing. Uncontrollably. And I'm thinking to myself, "Self: stop laughing. Get a grip. Seriously. Stop it. You have to breathe. You need to think. Go limp. Don't get rigid. Rigid could break something. Rigid is bad. Go ragdoll. And stop laughing. And why is everyone yelling at me to go feet-first? Do they think I am enjoying heading into rapids without a life vest, backwards?" And then, after those thoughts, I'm thinking, "you could smack your head against a rock. you could go unconscious. you are actually in real danger."
But I didn't stop laughing. I laughed the whole way as my body was tossed up and over rocks and then down and under water, and then spit back up again, wash, rinse, repeat. And in the moments where I did get spit back up, I saw a raft about 5 feet away, full of a family with young children trying to negotiate their way around me. Poor family. They had to paddle their way through rapids trying to avoid literally floating over a girl without a life vest who is hysterically laughing. I will offer their children free therapy.
Well, needless to say, we survived. Julie a bit better than I, because like the smart cookie that she is, she had her life vest. Eventually, the water calmed and flushed us into a still patch of river, and Julie and I just sat there for a while, like two sponges needing to dry out. Our poor friends frantically paddled up to us, thankful to discover we were both intact and unbroken. I think they thought I was a crazy woman for laughing my way through it -- perhaps were even a bit peeved at me for it -- until I explained that my laughter actually meant I was really scared.
Eventually, we all piled back into the boat and finished a lovely river ride. We did encounter one more set of rapids, this time IN the boat. And they were much more fun. :)
It's a good story to tell, now that were are all safe and dry. You'd hardly know it even happened, apart from the fact that my body currently looks like an electoral voting map, with a 50/50 split between democratic and republican states.
But I take full responsibility for that. And I'll wear my life vest next time. :)
--or maybe there is a hint of melodrama in my blog title--
Either way....
Due to the gracious generosity of three friends -- who all, incidentally, have a great compassion for the financial woes of grad school and the way it has a tendency to reduce you to stealing napkins from local dining establishments -- I was able to take a weekend trip to Lake Tahoe a little over a week ago.
I had never been to Lake Tahoe, and when I first heard about it, I thought, "Neat, another lake. Sounds pretty."
But then I got there.
And here's the thing. It's not just another lake. It's this pristine little corner of wilderness in the world, with high cliffs, thick, regal forests, and a big scoop of the earth has been removed and filled up with the most crystal clear, pure blue water right smack dab in the middle of it all. That's Lake Tahoe. And there are hiking trails, and gondola rides up to impossibly high lookout points, and a "lazy" river (the only river that flows out of the lake, actually). There are beaches edged by turquoise water, and zip lines that fly down down down and make your hair all wild and modelesque, and in the winter, there's skiing and fireplaces, and quiet. And when you swim, you can see your feet, so you're never afraid that some unexpected sensation will wrap itself around your legs and you won't be able to see what it is.
I liked Lake Tahoe. I loved Lake Tahoe.
So, anyway, there we were in the majestic mural of forest and water and sky, and we decided, the four of us, to raft down the "lazy" river. There's a reason that I keep putting "lazy" in quotation marks, just fyi. We were told that the river just wound it's way, were given a big raft, three paddles (not sure what the wisdom in three paddles for four people is, but whatever), four life vests and told: "We're required to give you life vests, but you don't have to wear them. You can jump in and out of the boat as you go along. There's a lot of great sections where you can just jump out and float along." Fantastic, we thought. It was hot; the water was cold; it would be a great combination.
So, we embarked on our journey on the "lazy" river, and sure enough, the meandering current carried us smoothly along, with a need to paddle a few strokes every now and again. And being part-fish myself, I was the first to jump in.
Ahh ... this is the life, I thought. I floated along, supported by my life vest, which I sat on like a mini-raft, and then decided it was time to get back into the boat a few minutes later. But, when I tried to lift myself back into the raft, I couldn't. Simply put: when it comes to upper body strength, I am a wimp. I threw my life vest back into the boat and tried again. No dice. Oh well, I thought, I'll just float a bit longer. And then my friend, Julie, jumped in. Company! All the better.
Well, a few minutes later, Julie and I began to float faster. I wasn't nervous about it. I just noticed it. And then, when we decided to swim back to the boat, we realized that we couldn't. The current was too strong and wouldn't let us. Still fairly calm (because the river was still calm), we just sort of looked at each other.
"I don't like this as much, anymore," I said to her. "Me either," she responded.
Our friends in the boat were now about 30-40 feet behind us and they were looking at us as if to say, "You water hogs, why don't you come back to the boat and give us a turn to float??" (Our friends are quite nice, by the way, and would never actually call us "water hogs." That part was inserted for the sake of mental imagery:). But I think they realized that we actually couldn't swim back to the boat when they saw us reach out to hang on to the posts of a bridge we passed under, only to be swept past them. I didn't see their faces, but Julie did. And she said their faces changed from, "What are you doing?" to "Ruh-roh."
Well, by this point, Julie and I had looked ahead to see white-tipped rapids. Now, I don't want to overdramatize. They were by no means class V type rapids. They were more like "oooh, fun"-when-you-are-in-a-boat-with-a-life-vest type rapids. But we weren't in a boat. And I didn't have a lifevest. Because I'd thrown it back in when I tried to get back into the boat earlier. And not only that, but the current had swept me around such that I was literally headed toward the boulders over which the rapids washed head first, backwards. And even though Julie, and our fellow boating companions began to frantically scream for me to go "feet first," I couldn't turn myself around.
Important point to insert here about my coping tendencies under stress:
I laugh hysterically.
Like can't stop laughing. Even if I wanted to.
So, here we are, quickly approaching a stretch of rapids -- head first, backwards, with no life vest, and I am laughing. Uncontrollably. And I'm thinking to myself, "Self: stop laughing. Get a grip. Seriously. Stop it. You have to breathe. You need to think. Go limp. Don't get rigid. Rigid could break something. Rigid is bad. Go ragdoll. And stop laughing. And why is everyone yelling at me to go feet-first? Do they think I am enjoying heading into rapids without a life vest, backwards?" And then, after those thoughts, I'm thinking, "you could smack your head against a rock. you could go unconscious. you are actually in real danger."
But I didn't stop laughing. I laughed the whole way as my body was tossed up and over rocks and then down and under water, and then spit back up again, wash, rinse, repeat. And in the moments where I did get spit back up, I saw a raft about 5 feet away, full of a family with young children trying to negotiate their way around me. Poor family. They had to paddle their way through rapids trying to avoid literally floating over a girl without a life vest who is hysterically laughing. I will offer their children free therapy.
Well, needless to say, we survived. Julie a bit better than I, because like the smart cookie that she is, she had her life vest. Eventually, the water calmed and flushed us into a still patch of river, and Julie and I just sat there for a while, like two sponges needing to dry out. Our poor friends frantically paddled up to us, thankful to discover we were both intact and unbroken. I think they thought I was a crazy woman for laughing my way through it -- perhaps were even a bit peeved at me for it -- until I explained that my laughter actually meant I was really scared.
Eventually, we all piled back into the boat and finished a lovely river ride. We did encounter one more set of rapids, this time IN the boat. And they were much more fun. :)
It's a good story to tell, now that were are all safe and dry. You'd hardly know it even happened, apart from the fact that my body currently looks like an electoral voting map, with a 50/50 split between democratic and republican states.
But I take full responsibility for that. And I'll wear my life vest next time. :)
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
The Post I've Been "Post"poning.... (bad pun acknowledged)
Because it's about a date I went on with a barefoot bassist from Jerusalem. And the date was one of those sparkly moments in life. The kind that you know is real because your senses tell you so. You can taste the wine as it hits your lips, feel the band of your shoe pressed against toes, trace the texture of tablecloth with your fingertips. But, it's so darn sparkly that you're sort of in your head, watching it all, taken in by the shiny, and so you might think it never happened if your senses hadn't told you otherwise. It was that kind of moment. And trying to translate the sparkliness to you all seems, well, daunting.
But, nevertheless....
Well, there's good news and bad news. Generally, when someone offers me both, I pick the bad news first. Good news is too hard to enjoy while anticipating bad.
So, the bad news:
It was one date. He's back in Jerusalem. We probably won't ever see each other again. Probably.
There. Now, the good news:
the date.
I have become friends with this fabulous gal recently. And she invited my roomie and I to a concert in downtown LA. Well, actually, she came over to my house to shoot photos of me, pregnant. Sidenote: I am not pregnant. Breathe out. I had a beach ball belly. It's a whole other story that involves a new photography business she is starting, geared toward pregnant women who want exotic, Middle Eastern type photos. I posed for some pamphlet pics. I do have to say, however, that even having a deflated beach ball taped to my belly brought out these strong maternal instincts I never knew I had. I walked carefully, guarding my belly from objects that might injure it. Strange. Anyway, I digress....
OK, so she came over to shoot some photos. And after we'd finished, she invited us both to join her at a concert by a Jewish band, their first time in LA. She knew one of the band members.
I fought my homebody instinct (which pretty much always encourages me to stay home, do laundry, watch a movie, and walk my dog -- all of which are wonderful, important things to do, but may keep me single till I'm 40 if I'm not careful), and I went. :)
The concert was fabulous, different, a blend of Liturgy sung to rock, some in Hebrew, some in English. It was a whole new world being at that club. A new world full of people of devout faith, a faith I feel connected to, but don't know too much about. There were lots of men in yamakas, women in dresses, and prayer shawls hanging out from under t-shirts. These little tangible expressions of faith were lovely to me.
After the concert, I sat by myself waiting while my friends chatted and restroomed. And as I peered backstage, I saw the bassist's head, poking out from around the corner and made out his hand, index finger motioning in my direction, the "come here" motion. No ... he couldn't be talking to me. I looked away, searching out who he might be motioning to. Hmm. I stayed planted. A few minutes later, again, I peered backstage. Again. That head, that hand, "come here." I wondered who he's motioning to? Hmm. I stayed planted. Well, finally, after a good while had passed, I began to wonder what had become of my friend, who had gone backstage to visit with her friend from the band. And, fearing that perhaps I was supposed to meet her out back, I decided just to peer backstage to see if she was still there (almost everyone was now gone). Sure enough, she was backstage still, visiting. And that same man who had been motioning was now standing in the doorway.
"Hello."
"Hi."
"Did you enjoy the concert?" he asks,
"Yes. Very much."
Pause.
Smile.
"I know this might sound surprising," he says, "but I was thinking maybe we could get together and talk. I saw you, and there was something about your spirit. You look like a woman I could talk to. Does it seem OK to you that I would ask you out?"
And thus began our conversation, because how can you NOT talk to a man who is so bold and yet respectful at the same time?
And that's how I ended up the very next night on a date with a man named Jonathan -- a barefoot bassist from Jerusalem,(he was not barefoot on the date, by the way, only on the stage). That's how I ended up in the home of a Jewish family, listening to an Orthodox rabbi talk about the history of music -- from Tchaicovsky to Bob Dylan -- and the Torah. It's the reason I foolishly stuck out my hand to shake the hand of the father of the house -- a standard ritual of introduction in my book -- only to realize that in conservative Judaism, unmarried/unrelated men and women don't touch. That's how I ended up waiting for Jonathan, eating Kosher salmon, and talking pediatrics with a woman while my date went into the kitchen for evening prayer with the other men. It's the reason I drove around downtown LA for half an hour in search of a nice Kosher restaurant at 9:30 on a Sunday night. And it's why I ended up going instead to the home of a Hollywood movie producer (because that's where the band was staying) and eating leftovers from Saturday's Sabbath meal because we couldn't find a Kosher restaurant. It pretty much explains why I melted when my date tasted the wine before pouring a glass for me, saying, "Yes, this is good. I can serve this to you." And why I melted even more when he whispered a quick prayer in Hebrew before raising the glass to his lips. And why, when I asked him what he said, he repeated it slowly ... for me to follow, "Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha-alam, ha-motzi lehem min ha-aretz,” why I went home and Wikipedia-ed the phrase and found out that it says simply, "Blessed are you, Lord, our God, King of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.” Yep. That's why.
It was a good date. A great date, actually. A date with a tealight on a tablecloth, with thoughts exchanged, and silence permitted.
And after all was said and done, when I lay in my bed that night, pondering the new world I'd lived in (if even for a night), the new eyes I'd met, the new ways of thinking, I felt alive. And I thought back to a moment from earlier that evening, at the table, in the silence. He was just smiling at me, saying nothing. And then, a new word slipped from his lips, a word unfamiliar to my ears,
"L'Chaim," he said.
"What does that mean?" I asked.
A long pause, and then his answer,
"To life."
But, nevertheless....
Well, there's good news and bad news. Generally, when someone offers me both, I pick the bad news first. Good news is too hard to enjoy while anticipating bad.
So, the bad news:
It was one date. He's back in Jerusalem. We probably won't ever see each other again. Probably.
There. Now, the good news:
the date.
I have become friends with this fabulous gal recently. And she invited my roomie and I to a concert in downtown LA. Well, actually, she came over to my house to shoot photos of me, pregnant. Sidenote: I am not pregnant. Breathe out. I had a beach ball belly. It's a whole other story that involves a new photography business she is starting, geared toward pregnant women who want exotic, Middle Eastern type photos. I posed for some pamphlet pics. I do have to say, however, that even having a deflated beach ball taped to my belly brought out these strong maternal instincts I never knew I had. I walked carefully, guarding my belly from objects that might injure it. Strange. Anyway, I digress....
OK, so she came over to shoot some photos. And after we'd finished, she invited us both to join her at a concert by a Jewish band, their first time in LA. She knew one of the band members.
I fought my homebody instinct (which pretty much always encourages me to stay home, do laundry, watch a movie, and walk my dog -- all of which are wonderful, important things to do, but may keep me single till I'm 40 if I'm not careful), and I went. :)
The concert was fabulous, different, a blend of Liturgy sung to rock, some in Hebrew, some in English. It was a whole new world being at that club. A new world full of people of devout faith, a faith I feel connected to, but don't know too much about. There were lots of men in yamakas, women in dresses, and prayer shawls hanging out from under t-shirts. These little tangible expressions of faith were lovely to me.
After the concert, I sat by myself waiting while my friends chatted and restroomed. And as I peered backstage, I saw the bassist's head, poking out from around the corner and made out his hand, index finger motioning in my direction, the "come here" motion. No ... he couldn't be talking to me. I looked away, searching out who he might be motioning to. Hmm. I stayed planted. A few minutes later, again, I peered backstage. Again. That head, that hand, "come here." I wondered who he's motioning to? Hmm. I stayed planted. Well, finally, after a good while had passed, I began to wonder what had become of my friend, who had gone backstage to visit with her friend from the band. And, fearing that perhaps I was supposed to meet her out back, I decided just to peer backstage to see if she was still there (almost everyone was now gone). Sure enough, she was backstage still, visiting. And that same man who had been motioning was now standing in the doorway.
"Hello."
"Hi."
"Did you enjoy the concert?" he asks,
"Yes. Very much."
Pause.
Smile.
"I know this might sound surprising," he says, "but I was thinking maybe we could get together and talk. I saw you, and there was something about your spirit. You look like a woman I could talk to. Does it seem OK to you that I would ask you out?"
And thus began our conversation, because how can you NOT talk to a man who is so bold and yet respectful at the same time?
And that's how I ended up the very next night on a date with a man named Jonathan -- a barefoot bassist from Jerusalem,(he was not barefoot on the date, by the way, only on the stage). That's how I ended up in the home of a Jewish family, listening to an Orthodox rabbi talk about the history of music -- from Tchaicovsky to Bob Dylan -- and the Torah. It's the reason I foolishly stuck out my hand to shake the hand of the father of the house -- a standard ritual of introduction in my book -- only to realize that in conservative Judaism, unmarried/unrelated men and women don't touch. That's how I ended up waiting for Jonathan, eating Kosher salmon, and talking pediatrics with a woman while my date went into the kitchen for evening prayer with the other men. It's the reason I drove around downtown LA for half an hour in search of a nice Kosher restaurant at 9:30 on a Sunday night. And it's why I ended up going instead to the home of a Hollywood movie producer (because that's where the band was staying) and eating leftovers from Saturday's Sabbath meal because we couldn't find a Kosher restaurant. It pretty much explains why I melted when my date tasted the wine before pouring a glass for me, saying, "Yes, this is good. I can serve this to you." And why I melted even more when he whispered a quick prayer in Hebrew before raising the glass to his lips. And why, when I asked him what he said, he repeated it slowly ... for me to follow, "Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha-alam, ha-motzi lehem min ha-aretz,” why I went home and Wikipedia-ed the phrase and found out that it says simply, "Blessed are you, Lord, our God, King of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.” Yep. That's why.
It was a good date. A great date, actually. A date with a tealight on a tablecloth, with thoughts exchanged, and silence permitted.
And after all was said and done, when I lay in my bed that night, pondering the new world I'd lived in (if even for a night), the new eyes I'd met, the new ways of thinking, I felt alive. And I thought back to a moment from earlier that evening, at the table, in the silence. He was just smiling at me, saying nothing. And then, a new word slipped from his lips, a word unfamiliar to my ears,
"L'Chaim," he said.
"What does that mean?" I asked.
A long pause, and then his answer,
"To life."
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