Wednesday, May 29, 2013

Travel

Sometimes, after Zachary goes to sleep at night, he travels through time. Space, really. He says "time" but, after hearing him describe it, (and me explain it to you) I think you'll agree that what he's really doing is going through a destination shift.

There's a portal under his bed. The entrance is round, like the top of one of those plastic tunnel slides at the playground. The initial descent into the tunnel is vertical, not horizontal. He vehemently made this declaration as I attempted to create a visual representation of the time tube this afternoon using a few of his thousands of legos.

So, despite the steep incline of the portal, Zachary assures me that the descent is slow and gentle. There's an upstream of air-a cushion-that keeps the explorer from plummeting.

When one arrives at the end of the throughway, they are greeted with a Grand Central Station of choices.

Destination options are waiting, lined up, floating in the air. They are labeled, in pencil, on sticky notes. (Yellow. Not lined.) One boards an air ship-literally, a cruise liner sized barge-to get to their connecting portal of choice.

Zachary says that he generally likes to choose the beach. He explains to me that there are thousands of other options if the sand is not where I'd like to be. His five year old mind has created worlds where one can go to only fly fighter jets. Or perhaps you'd like to float completely ensconced in a bubble. There's a portal for that. Marshmallow world. Trampoline land. You can get there simply by boarding an air ship.

Zachary's willingness to suspend reality to travel to alternate destinations is childlike.

There's an element of it though, that I've worked to take to heart.

I stand right now on the edge of a journey of my own. I'm traveling this weekend, alone, to make some important decisions. Don't worry, the family is ok. But, I need to hop on a plane to take my trip. It can't be done at home. And there's no portal under my bed.

But what I've taken from Zachary is the theme of choice. I get to decide how I want this exploration to proceed. And there's freedom in that.

In her Novel, Gift From the Sea, Anne Morrow Lindbergh writes, "I shall ask into my shell only those friends with whom I can be completely honest". Her shell is a metaphorical representation of her life. She is advising us to only let in to our most personal audience those individuals to whom we can reveal ourselves.

I look to my children for many of my life-lessons. I look to them because they lead with the purest hearts. The most honest intentions.

When I'm lost. Or floundering. I will often sit and listen to my children play. I try to extract from that unencumbered interaction an instruction or two. A string to tie around my finger.

Something to help me remember that how much we let others see of us is up to us.


Saturday, May 25, 2013

Letters to my children


I’ve had one or two major relationships built on the foundation of the written word.

When I put words on paper, I’m forced to think about what I want to say. I am faced with the fact that, in most cases, whatever it is I want to communicate will be out there, forever. And, if it’s out there, that means it can be re-read.

I’ve got a macramé trunk in the attic that my mother nicknamed my dead boyfriend box. It is filled to the brim with every meaningful note I’ve received over the course of every relationship I’ve ever had.

Not just boyfriend notes. (Though they are in there, too.)

Friends.
Family.
Colleagues.

Not every letter, either. Only the musings that are particularly well-written or significant make the cut.

My first love letter is in there. 8th grade. From a boy who asked me to a dance and then, later, gave me my first kiss. 12th grade, an email from the guy who first broke my heart. College, a computer print out from my father telling me how much he loves me. A beautiful embossed postcard from my mother thanking me for organizing her surprise party.

Scrap paper I love you’s from my son.
A scribble from my daughter.
They are all living in the memory box in the attic.

I have given Zachary and Zoe their own memory boxes that sit on the top shelves of their closets. Until they get older, I am assuming responsibility for filling their containers with their firsts and lasts. I’ve wrapped up the outfits they wore when I brought them home from the hospital. I tucked away their first Converse sneakers. There are Ziploc bags containing locks of hair. Wrinkled finger paint pictures. Zoe’s 1st birthday dress. Zachary’s last onesie.

I close my eyes and picture my children as teenagers, as adults, as new parents, opening their boxes and discovering the treasures I have hidden away inside. There aren’t any photographs, though. Over the years I have accumulated thousands of pictures of my family. I have promised myself countless times that I will organize these images in dated albums.

I’ve yet to get to it.

What I have done is written letters. I’ve written letters describing to my children how I feel when they reach certain milestones. When Zachary graduated from nursery school in his blue seersucker pants. When Zoe flew, by herself, on the trapeze.

I sit, often late at night, on the evening of the day these important events have taken place, and I write them down. On paper. With a pen.

The old fashioned way.

I tell my babies how proud they have made their mommy. How I can’t believe how my heart could dance itself right out of my chest and beat on the floor with pride and love. How they are everything. Everything. And how they teach me to breathe.

They show this mommy how to laugh.
To loosen up.
To calm down.

I describe to my children what they were wearing.
How they were feeling.
Who they were with.

But, most importantly, I tell my children that I love them and I make sure to be very clear, at that exact moment in time, to tell them why.

Because even though the love that I have for my children will never go away, the reasons for that love evolve. I know that I love my 6-year-old-Zachary differently than I love my 3-year-old-Zoe. And, I am sure I will love the 17 year old version of my son for different reasons than I love him now. Same is true, of course, for my daughter.

And if, God forbid, I am ever driving anywhere and a truck swerves into my lane; if I am walking and I take a wrong step; if something should ever take me away from my children before I am old and gray and wrinkled:

I want them to have my words frozen in time.

I want to be so clear with my writing that the letters I pen late at night have the power to wrap their arms around the shoulders of my babies, and rock them to sleep.

If you are careful with what you write-and if you give that writing to someone else-you give them eternity.

It is why, when you summarize a novel, you must always summarize in the present tense.

Because, if you open that book, Charlotte is still speaking with Wilbur.
George is still mourning Lennie.

The quiet old lady will always be whispering, “hush”.

Thursday, May 23, 2013

Mommy's Little Secret


In honor of today’s topic, I’m enjoying a freezing cold glass of Chardonnay as I write.

No, indulging in some wine is not this mommy’s little lie. My secret is that I know most mommies (yeah, yeah, dads too) keep things from their children. They do this to stay sane.

I do this because at one point my life, my living room was overrun with annoying plastic toys that chirped things like “dancing is great!” or “can you find the blue circle?” at inopportune times.

Like, at night.
The middle of the night.
In the velvet dark.
When my husband was traveling.

The toys puppeted the aforementioned phrases as if they were possessed by some deranged happy clown Satan.

I keep secrets because I get up at 6 in the morning to make breakfast and lunch and prep dinner (at the same time) as I dress 2 children, wipe 2 little behinds and answer questions like “Where is my pink tutu?” and “What would happen if I fed the cat the raisin box?” (not a raisin, mind you, the freaking box).

I create little opportunities to misbehave because when I finally get the kids dropped off at school in the morning and get back in the car, I may have forgotten to turn off the kiddie station on Pandora and am greeted by The Little Einstein’s shrieking the ABC’s.

It is enough to send any mother over the edge.

Working mother.
Stay at home mother.
Attachment parent.
Parent who loves when their children play with knives and shards of glass.

I don’t care.
It doesn’t matter.
If you have children, you keep secrets.

For example, sometimes I don’t really have to go to the bathroom.

That’s right.

I say I have to go to the bathroom (even though most of the time I am peeing with a child on my lap or a kid helpfully handing me wisps of toilet paper that wouldn’t make a dent in the urine stream of an ant) in the hopes that they won’t follow me. I sprint there. Or sneak there. And close the door carefully, quietly. And sit.

And check Facebook. Or CNN. Or Huffington Post.

But even thirty seconds of sitting are often enough to get me through the next few hours.

Now, do not think for a moment I don’t enjoy being with my children. I do. If you know me then you know for a fact that I would do anything for my babies. You would do the same for yours, right?

But those suckers can be annoying.

So, I hide in the bathroom like a teenager in high school.
Be thankful I don’t crack the window and sneak a cigarette.

Another confession: I drink coffee in the shower. I do this because most of the time my children won’t bother me in there. Zoe is afraid of the water on her head and Zach is afraid of my girl-body.

Therefore, the shower is a safe zone.
Consequently, I am veryveryvery clean and veryveryvery caffeinated.

Finally, errands take on a disproportionate level of importance and immediacy (if my husband is home):

“I must go get sponges immediately. We are out of them. I can not start tomorrow without a tool to properly wipe my counters!”

I get in the car, alone, and play some Bruno Mars The Other Side so loud that my ears fall off and on to the floor next to the Princess sippy cup of old milk.

And, you know what? After I finish these little secrets, I’m happier to be home.

Because this mommy needs her time.
This mommy needs her time so that she can be rockstar mommy when it’s not her time.

Any secrets you want to share?
I promise not to judge.

But just one second, ok? I have to go to the bathroom.

Wednesday, May 22, 2013

Berries

 




There was a Holly bush to the right of the front door of the house where I grew up in Connecticut.


On fall days after I got home from school, I would ask my mother to use a basket and I would gather the squishy red berries that grew on the bush. I promised her that I wouldn’t eat them. They were round-almost bursting-and satiny shiny smooth in my hands.

They had holes in the top where I would try to fit my pinky.
I wanted to wear them like Lee-Press-On-Nails.

I would pick a pile of them and store them in my little container. Then, I would take my hoard and a brown flannel blanket (also given to me by my mother) and go around to a hidden area to the left of our house. My grassy hide-out was sloped at about 45 degrees and hidden from the eyes of our neighbors, the street and my mother. It was small-probably about the size of three ping pong tables-and narrow. I would spread out my blanket and put the basket of berries next to my legs. Then, I would pretend:

I was trapped on a desert island,
hiking a mountain and stopping for a snack, or
by myself in a meadow.

Maybe you are picturing me in 1st grade. Perhaps 3rd.
I was in 6th.
10 or 11 years old.

Now that I’m a mother, even though it hurts me to think about it still, I think that this naïveté and innocence is why I was bullied. My mom and dad were pretty awesome about teaching me about tradition and different cultures. They provided me with stacks of books to read. (I think I would finish two or three novels a week.) And, as you’ve learned in my previous posts, they opened my eyes to all sorts of music.

What they didn’t care about was making sure I had the coolest clothes. Or that my hair was cut in just the right style. Those types of things shouldn’t matter. Those things should not be what are important.

Except, as I know you know too, they sometimes are.

I went to a gorgeous private school through the end of 6th grade. It had a sprawling campus and, up until I was in 4th grade, wasn’t co-ed. I wore a uniform. Either a greenish plaid skirt or a grey flannel one. Maroon or navy wool vest. Starched white button down shirt. Docksiders.

I played field hockey. We had assembly. There was a headmistress. Flag ceremonies. Art classes where each child had access to a pottery wheel. A music program taught by the wife of a Broadway producer (she’s the one who helped me to learn that I love to sing) who would put on shows that should have been in black-box theaters in The City.

I grew up in a very wealthy town. My parents worked hard-both have advanced degrees. But, despite all of that, to send me to this private school, our family needed to make “sacrifices”. I place the word sacrifices in quotation marks because now that I am older (it’s amazing what becomes clear with time) I know that they weren’t. Sacrifices, I mean.

My friends flew to Aspen for winter break. Bermuda. The Keys.
We went camping.
I couldn’t believe my bad luck.

Now, I want to take my 6th grade self by the shoulders and give a good hard shake. It’s a joke. I had everything. My parents were (and are) incredible.

That said, I was really happy at that private school.
Until 6th grade.

There were 18 students in my grade. 9 boys. 9 girls.
Of the girls, 3 weren’t cool and didn’t care. They had each other.
Then, there were the 5 queens of the class.
They wore their kilts rolled an extra inch. Their legs were smooth and brown. They had the right lip-balm from Woolworth.

And then, there was me.
I wanted to be one of Them; one of The Five.
Except, I wasn’t.

Before sixth grade I was outgoing and outspoken and vivacious. Spicy. My own me.
Then, as my Psychotherapist mother has subsequently taught me that middle school girls often do, I went underground. I wanted to blend.

And The Five could smell my desire to be one of them. To make The Five, The Six.

They stole my homework and ran it under water in the sink.
They took my uniform gym shorts and replaced them with a pair two sizes too small.
(I didn’t tell). 
I wore the shorts and had a stomach ache from where the waist band ate into my belly. They called me thunder thighs. It had never before occurred to me that weight was an issue to be discussed or measured.

They wouldn’t let me sit at their table at lunch until I begged.
I’m still ashamed to say, I begged.

They made fun of my glasses. My hair. My ankles.

I let them. I believed them.
I. Didn’t. Tell.

My parents continued to pay tens of thousands of dollars to send me to a school where I was being abused. But, how could they have known?

I’m a master at masking.

It is in my nature to want to please. Up until very recently, I was so completely terrified of conflict that I would avoid it no matter the cost. I just stored it inside. Bottled it up until it exploded in either blinding white rage or hot tears that wouldn’t stop.

I don’t keep it in any more.

And, by the way, that’s why I picked Holly berries that year; sat on my blanket.

I was thinking.
Or healing.
Maybe, pretending.

I was figuring out who I wanted to be.
Some days, I still am.

But at least my non-sixth grade self knows that it’s important to speak my mind and my heart.

My non-sixth grade self knows that there are sacrifices to be made to support my children and my family. But, I will not allow those compromises to force me into hiding. No man, no woman, should have to stuff it all away. It’s excruciating.

And, even my sixth grade self knew that no one should be bullied.
We all know that, really.

But bullies are out there. They are. And sometimes they are in disguise.
You just have to be too strong for them.

That’s the lesson my mother taught me.
The one I teach my daughter. My son.
It’s the sign I have hanging over my front door:

Be brave.

I promise you, it works every time.

Tuesday, May 21, 2013

Captain Dan McSweeney

 
I saw a whale once. Two whales, actually. A mother and her child.

It happened during my Honeymoon in Hawaii while spending time on the Island of Kauai.

Kauai is lush in a way that doesn’t seem real to a New England girl like me. Green and full and rich. Humid. Flamingos stroll through the lobbies of the hotels. There are fresh orchids on the pillows. Fire dancers clamber up rock walls with torches.

I can see whales breaching from the veranda of the room. Their tales poke out of the chop of the turquoise. Sprinklers soar into the sky. Arched backs cut through the waves.

I had become SCUBA certified through Atlantic Divers in Rockport, Massachusetts a while before the trip and am excited to dive in warm water again. I like some of the diving that I do in New England, but even with a dry suit on, I always feel cold.

I don’t remember much of my first dive that day, probably because I was distracted by the sound of the whales under water. Our dive master told us that the Humpbacks were just arriving from Alaska. Hawaii was their warm weather destination, too. The dive master told us lots of stuff, actually, but I don’t remember any of it.

I just remember the whales singing.

We toodle along to the next dive site. As I warm up and stretch out on the deck of the boat, the dive master points out whales breaching and flipping all around us. It is spectacular. I can’t comprehend how huge their bodies must be. I can’t get a sense of their size from just a fin. From the bow of their tails.

The water feels warm when I jump back in and once I reach depth, I lazy-kick around in the current looking at the bright coral. The angelfish. Anemones from another planet.

I am distracted and looking down. Then, everything gets dark.

I am not being dramatic or hyperbolic.
Picture a cloud suddenly blocking the sun on a day of only blue sky.

I look up to see Tim swimming frantically towards me. I’m suddenly terrified that something is wrong. Tim can live under water. He stays down longer than any diver I’ve ever seen. And he’s calm. Always.

So, to see him swimming at me raises every alarm in my body. He grabs my dive suit and points up to the surface. I raise my head and look towards the sky.

There. Right there. Not 50 feet from me. A mother Humpback and her baby.

They travel above me for, maybe, 10 seconds. And then, with one single swish of their tails, they are gone.

I’m sure you can imagine what went on in the boat after I surfaced. I am ecstatic. I have just seen God. How else can I possibly explain to you the largeness of that gorgeous animal?

It is a steam engine floating in the middle of the air.
It is impossible.

For something of that size to simply vanish with such speed? With just one tail stroke? To share space with me?

It is grace.
It is love.

I can see it right now. As I sit at my desk writing and looking out the window at a blowing New Hampshire spring, I can see the whale and her child.

And knowing they are out there reminds me that there is magic.

Sunday, May 19, 2013

I Scream, You Scream.


It’s spring and we live within walking distance of a park that serves ice cream.Also, last week Zachary had his tonsils and adenoids removed.

Therefore, I am sure you understand that my children and I have been taking advantage of that close farm-stand proximity and helping ourselves to lots of mid-afternoon and post-dinner cones (ok, ok, some morning treats, too).

All that dessert got me thinking about how ice cream can be a big-old metaphor for existence (and carving out a better space). 

I’ve come up with 5 things that ice cream can teach us about living a better life. Apply the observations wherever you wish. To your home-life. Work environment. Marriage. Friendships. 

I hope that you’ll appreciate their universality.

1. Ask for what you want

You can’t saunter up to the ice cream counter and hope whatever cynical teenager working that day knows your order. So, ask for what you want. Don’t make unnecessary demands, be polite and respectful, but do abandon martyrdom.

It’s not going to get you anywhere.

It’s really that simple. No one is gonna’ know the flavor you prefer if you don’t open your mouth and make it clear. You might love a fresh scoop of Strawberry in a sugar cone, but if you don’t tell anyone, you’re probably going to end up with Moose Tracks.

2. Don’t go too fast

For goodness sake, enjoy it! Eat it while watching a baseball game. While talking to a friend. Your spouse.

If you rush it, it will be over before you’ve even tasted the sprinkles (and you’ll have no memory of how spectacular it actually was).

Plus, if you belt it down in huge gulps, you’ll get a headache.

3. Don’t go too slow

Predictable, I know, but I’m sure you can see the truth.

I’m all for savoring, but if you don’t take advantage of what is sitting right in front of you, it’s going to turn into a soupy mess. Or lose its flavor.

Attract bees.
Stick to the table. 

4. Take a risk

Periodically, walk up to the counter as if you and dessert have never been introduced. Don’t worry if people stare and sigh. Grant yourself asylum and order. If you don’t like it, try something else.

5. Get the real stuff

Be able to spot the imitation; don’t let yourself be fooled. Sure, there are really good frozen yogurts out there. 

But the real version is always better.


Friday, May 17, 2013

Mix Tape


In a recent post, I alluded to the fact that I had joined a band. Historically, I left the live music side of music to my brother, Josh (a Berklee grad and hugely talented saxophone player). My niche was theater.

But, last summer, during a vacation with my brother-in-law (also a musician) he and I spent some time kicking around songs together. He suggested that one night, when we were out, we should play with a local band he knew. I agreed.

It was an awesome little southern bar in Raleigh, NC and I was so happy singing that I couldn’t stop thinking about it after the night had ended.

When I got back home, I searched Craigslist for any local bands that might be looking for a singer. After a few auditions, I found a good fit and I was welcomed into a great band of people who are rapidly becoming my family.

Today, I was thinking about what songs I would have on my mix-tape (what’s up 90’s kids!) if I were to make one of my life.

Want to know what I came up with?
Come with me.

I’ll tell you a story.

It starts with Raffi. And foggy memories of my mother and father. Orchestra seats for a concert. Bananaphone. Baby Beluga. I was probably 5.

Then we move to Peter and the Wolf. Josh and I downstairs in our house in Connecticut. Old plaid couches. Wood paneled walls. Listening to the movements.

Imagining Peter.
Crying about the wolf.

My dad would always have Moody Blues on the stereo during the weekends. I would sometimes sit in the living room and close my eyes and imagine the different seasons. I loved “Spring” especially, and would bounce around on the furniture pretending to be a ballerina. I was maybe 7 or 8.

Next, is an up-beat, synthesizer-ey CD called Deep Breakfast that my mom bought one day at the mall while we were shopping in a cool store called The Nature Company. We had just had A&W root beer floats and curly fries. We wore that CD out. There was one song where you could hear whales talking to one another. I can still see the song list on the CD insert.

Of course, there were a few artists in constant rotation. Those artists are so finely connected with my memories that I feel that they shaped my childhood. They are so important to me that I play them now when cooking dinner or hanging out with the kids in hopes that my babies will better understand me and the music.

Billy Joel. James Taylor. Pink Floyd.

I was 10 years old. 13 years old. 14 years old.

And now, 27 years old.

30 years old.

34.

When I was a Freshman in high school I had a crush on a senior who, of course, barely knew I existed. One day after chorus practice, he drove me home in his Jeep. He played Nirvana’s Polly Wants a Cracker. I was shocked at the first two lines, “Polly wants a cracker. I think I should get off her first.

I memorized the song in case he ever drove me home again.
He didn’t.

I pretended to like Nirvana for a while because everyone else did. Especially my best friend, Kerry (who was light years cooler than me). I remember watching her skinny fingers pick out the notes on her guitar in her room.

She’s still cool, by the way.
And plays a mean guitar.

Natural Woman will always remind me of my mother. There is a strength to that song. A softness.

When I was about 17, I went through a weird Bette Midler phase. Even today, I think it’s Gonna Rain  takes my breath away.

Freshman year in college, while dating a runner who taught me how to laugh, I listened to Ben Folds Five until the CD was scratched to bits.

At my wedding, I danced with my father to Paul Simon’s Father and Daughter.
With my mother to Fleetwood Mac’s Landslide.

I made a CD for Zachary’s open heart surgery for the surgeons to play while he was on bypass in hopes he would be able to feel me in the room. I can’t even type that line without crying, my memory of my desire for him to know I was with him was so strong. The first song was James Taylor’s Carolina.

See?
My childhood given to him wrapped sweetly in a few notes of an important song.

I rocked Zach to Cat Stevens’ Father and Son.
I still sing Zoe Somewhere over the Rainbow and Baby Mine (another Bette Midler classic) as I scratch her back and help her to sleep.

Very recently, I haven’t been able to get enough of Sara Barreillis’ Gravity.

It’s the mix-tape of my childhood.
It’s the CD compilation of my present.

I guess now it would be a playlist, right?

It’s music folks; it’s all good.

The end.

Thursday, May 16, 2013

Mardi Gras


I would like to let you in on yet another secret: My daughter is a boobie ninja.

She’s fascinated with my anatomy.
Not hers.
Mine.

And, try as I might (or, might not, actually) to keep things under wraps, she always finds me. Them. My breasts.

Today, we are home spending the evening together, so it is no big deal. She starts with a question of confirmation, “Dose awe yohwr boobies, Mommy?” She touches them.

I answer as I always do, “Yes, Zoe, these are mommy’s boobies”.

She follows predictably with her normal exclamation of glee, “Wooooooow, Mommy, dose awe some big boobies.”

I assure her that they are not, in reality, that big as boobies go. And, in general, that’s the end of it.

Though, sometimes it’s not. Sometimes she tries to climb into my top by way of my collar. She leads this approach with both little chubby hands and a head full of black curls. Picture diving into a pool. That’s how Zoe gets into my shirt.

Imagine this happening in line at Trader Joes as I balance her on my hip and watch the bagger load my groceries. If it’s a mom behind me, she usually laughs. If it’s a man however, it’s a different story. He gets a free show as I  buy green tea and avocados.

Lately, she has expanded her horizons. She gives my breasts nicknames.

She awards these nicknames loudly.
Like, howler monkey throwin' down in a jungle fight, loud.

In line at the doctor’s office: “Dose awe yohwr PRINCESS boobies, mommy!” (I was wearing a pink shirt).

Or, remarks with desperation “Yohwr boobies awe hiiiiiiidin’ mommeee!” (I’m still in a sports bra from a recent walk or run).

Those lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time get to have their boobies compared to my boobies. Even if that person is, for example, a cranky man in a cheap business suit and really bad shoes.

“You not have boobies yike my Mommeeee, you have NIPPLES!”.

The man is not amused. He buys his tube socks and old man underwear and vacates the Target line immediately.

I’m amused though. Because, if Zoe thinks it, she says it. 

And, I like that quality in my daughter. 
In anyone, really.

She’s spicy. And strong. And beautiful. And funny.

She’s my girl.
She’s the boobie ninja.

Wednesday, May 15, 2013

The Convertible

I’ve never ridden in a convertible before. But, I have been to a planetarium. Don’t see the connection? Let me explain.
My parents took me to a planetarium once where the ceiling itself seemed to peel back and reveal so many tiny points of light. I remember feeling small in the big gray seats and unsure of the steepness of the aisles. The theater itself seemed to rotate as a canned voice narrated the story of the Big Dipper. Of a meteor shower.  A comet. The moon.
I liked the reveal. That moment of clarity when I understood what I was about to see.
That’s why I think I might like to ride in a convertible. Because sometimes I think that my actual head might be able to open up and show me the answers. Show me what to chose.
So, there’s the speed factor, right? That image of racing down some quiet road, wrapped in a black interior and, with the press of a button, the roof opens and displays the sky. It’s sexy.
I get that feeling when I go for a good run or a long walk. I’ll find myself staring at the ground and letting my mind wander when I realize: I’m out! I’m alone!
And I will look around. I will look up.
And when I raise my head and take a breath I can most often count on a few moments of clarity when I realize that I am steering the ship. That I am at the helm.
In the chaos that is my life-that is all of our lives, really-sometimes I need to remember to look up and take a breath.
Back to the convertible.
So, I’m riding along and my hair is everywhere and I feel clean and free and I am racing under a sky and I look up and I see how I compare to the largeness of it all.
And that clicks it in to place for me. It gives me permission to take a risk. Or take some time to retreat. Or to read. Or to think.
In my convertible moments, when my mind clears and I can look forward, I make decisions. I make them quickly. And I try not to look back and wonder what would have happened had I chosen another road.
Because, you see, there are more choices ahead and I get to make them. I get to shape my life.
I took a little break from blogging because I have been exploring other things in my life that I love to do. I’ve made some new friends with whom I love to play music. I’ve worked on some initiatives in my community. And, it has lit my fire again. But, sometimes, for me, that fire feels uncomfortable. I get so driven-so focused-that I want everything to happen right now.
Right. NOW.
I want to go back to work. I want to write. I want to do a few other things that I think I need to do to feel full. (You have one of those lists, right? Maybe not written out, but in your head. A bucket list. Some goals. That’s what I’m talking about here).
I had a birthday recently and though I’m certainly not old, I’m also no longer starting out in anything. I know what’s going on.
I know how to mother.
To be a friend.
To be a professional.
My birthday made me very aware of time. I’m not going to waste it anymore; instead, I’m going to take it. I’m going to get in the convertible and press the button and look at the sky.
I am not being reckless.
But, I am looking up. Looking ahead.
I’ll let you know what I see.