Becoming Real

I bought a couch (a pink couch, it was maroon) for $200.00. I was 19 years old. It was my first real purchase (besides beer, gas and mini market food stuffs). My Dad carried it up four flights of stairs into my first apartment (he had some help, I think). He set it down inside the four walls, let out a big sigh and then promptly sat down upon it. I yelled some expletive. He looked puzzled. I finally got him to get up. He was too dirty of course to sit on my brand new couch. He had been helping me move all morning and of course was not in any shape to sit down.

The same feelings crossed my mind when the furnace guy began writing up an estimate for a new furnace (now 27 years old you would have thought I had learned something). He asked for a pen and then sat at my expensive dining room table and began to write. The hardness in which he wrote out his numbers caused me great alarm and I quickly jumped to hand him a magazine so that the indentation would not make a permanent mark on my glossy table. He looked puzzled.

Now 30 years old, my kitchen was being remodeled. The newly finished hardwood floors in our kitchen had yet to be fully installed when the cabinet man came to hang the brand new cabinets and hook up the refrigerator. My Love told the man that if he scratched the floor a divorce would probably follow shortly. The man looked puzzled.

A few weeks later I attempted to reach too far up to remove a silver platter from atop the refrigerator and it fell. It crashed into the newly finished wood floor and made a huge indentation. I was sick. This was only the beginning.

Six years later I watched as my oh-so-not-little bundle of joy (who by the way is going to be 3 next month!) sat at the dining room table and scribbled with a pen (that I had given her) onto a piece of paper. This of course made an indentation into my dining room table. I didn't hand her a magazine to put under her drawing. I was indifferent to the harm she was causing.

Over the last couple of years there have been many, upon many mishaps. Things that I have treasured have been ruined or simply redecorated. Items that I hold close and even my relationships with friends (for that matter my relationship with my Love) have been rearranged. They have taken a beating.

Tonight my almost three year old wanted to read the Velveteen Rabbit before going to bed. I hadn't read it in years. As I finished the book tears came to my eyes. Is this how it feels to be real, I wondered? Bruised, battered, flattened, scribbled upon, scratched, dirtied, emptied, used, loved? No one had ever sat down upon that pink couch before my Dad (with his dirty jeans) sat on it. Yes, it was beautiful, but it was stiff and too clean. My wood floors were perfect, my table immaculate. Me, I was put together neatly. But none of these things were truly cared for, truly loved. Couches should be sat upon. Wood floors should be walked upon. Tables should be eaten upon and used for any type of requirement. Relationships should have depth. The wear and tear of everyday life should show. I am not a perfectly put together person. I am loved. I, in turn love others. Bumps and bruises are bound to happen.

Stopping Time.

I sat in my car at a gas station today. Both kids off to school. Both kids tucked neatly away. I blanked out. I quickly gazed up at the price of gas, cheerful that it was under $4.00. I remembered reading something that the price had been falling lately...I heard two men chatting casually regarding building big things...And then I saw her. The Mom.

From across the street I spotted her.

Her long brown hair cascading around her. In one arm she held an almost 3 year old. Her four year old had already bolted down the porch steps and into the yard collecting leaves and throwing them up into the air, everywhere. She walked with purpose. In her other arm she held two (no three) bags full of blankets, toys, food, a wallet, medicine and anything else she might have thought prudent to stick in, in those last moments of goodbye. She walked down her porch stairs to her white SUV, walked into the street and around the car and tried to open the backseat. It was locked. My gaze settled. I was no longer sitting in a gas station. I was a part of her life.

She looked immediately around for her almost four year old and spotted him too close to the street (following her of course).She yelled something at him. He smiled and ran off. She tried the driver's door, locked too. Where were her keys? I wanted to find them for her. Run to her with them. Scoop up her kids. Give her a smile. She backed off the street. Put her two year old down and started digging through her numerous bags. Her two year old ran off. Picked up a stick. Started swinging at the older one. She look furiously up at them.Warning them with her body language, unable to budge from her bags. Needing keys to move forward. I wanted to go to her. Stroke her hair. Magically find the keys. Buckle her kids into her car. Bring her a latte. Sit with her. Laugh with her. Cry with her. Now she looked mad. Keys had been found. Two year old was being picked up. The four year old though would not listen to her. I saw her count. He starred her down. She finally turned away. Walked back into the street. Buckled the two year old into his carseat and then ran after her four year old. Finally he was in the car. She was in the car. I hoped (more than ANYTHING) during this ordeal that she had kept her keys in her pocket. And then she drove away, gone. I was mesmerized. I couldn't move. There was something so real about what I had just witnessed. I felt embarrassed for watching her. I felt ashamed. I felt as if I had just observed something wrong, a crime.

No crime had been committed. It was just a mother doing her job to the best of her ability at the time in which life decided to throw her a curve ball. How many times had this happened to me? Stressed to the max. Unable to see through my own lenses. Unable to enjoy the humor. Needing to get somewhere. Weighted down. Tired. Sore. Tense. Angry. Wronged. And then the keys go missing.

I sat at the gas station and cried. I cried for her, I cried for her boys, I cried for me, I cried for my own children. So easy to give advice from across the street. "Give up!" I thought.  "Who cares about the keys. Run with your boys. Throw leaves into the air. Enlist their help. Play a game. Or go back inside and turn on the TV, " I had wanted to scream all of this to her. At the same time I knew there was a clock ticking, numbers counting down, kids to deploy, people to impress, another day to fullfill. I knew it. I felt her. I felt the clock. I felt the time.

I wanted to tuck her kids safely away for her. Pull her into my car. Smile at her. Enjoy the quiet with her. Then she was gone. The gas meter clicked at me and I was on my way. Off to figure out my day. There was a time to keep. Kids to pick up. Groceries to be bought. A house to be cleaned. A dinner to be made. Homework to be had. Teeth to be brushed.

The next time I spotted my kids I tried not to hurry. I tried to forget about time. I tried to enjoy the little pleasures. I tried being a friend, instead of a Mom. It felt good. I smiled. I drank some coffee and sat back to watch my little spirits flirting this way and that. Stopping time felt nice. I was relaxed. I cried a bit. I wished for the company of that other Mom.

My only tip to all mothers out there - ALWAYS know where your keys are...Or....decide to give up, and join your kids in a joyous moment of laughter and movement. No matter what though, just remember we are building big things and the foundation is by far the most important.

Footprints

The other day, I was struck by a photograph, taken by a friend of mine. It was an immaculate photo. Immediately I had to write something. This is what came out....Thank you to my talented friend for inspiring me to write this.

Where is the true beauty in the moment of life? Is it found in perfection? Can it be found in the mimicry of life through art? Can it be bottled up? Stored away for another day, another time? Does it offend us? Make us laugh? Make us cry? Where does true beauty come from, where does it go?

The footprints lead to nowhere and to somewhere all at the same time. The prints left are soon washed by the salt water, washed clean away. The sun beams down making slits through the clouds, lighting up the water with diamonds. Our earth is warmed by its presence. There is a moment where the earth meets the sky and they meld together to form another kingdom. The stillness of the world crashes against the laughter of the people...The force of the water breaks the sand. Then the camera clicks. The story has been preserved, safely tucked away, unable to be harmed. Stopped. My dreams live in this world. There is a never ending supply of allurement.

My true (unaltered) story carries on. I am not able to tuck my life safely away. It ticks by second, by second. Each moment, washing over the next. I have strata. Pre-marriage, showing up at my Love's his coffee shop randomly just to sit and watch him work, sunsets on Alki Beach, furniture shopping, a sleeping infant in my arms, my son's nasty (thankfully gone) habit of waking at 4:30am each morning, my daughter's near death experience in the delivery room, fighting over vegetables, pulled teeth, fighting over discipline, laughing at the newly discovered words of a toddler, walking to the park, races and birthday cakes are a few of my moments. I do not mimic the perfection of the still life. My moments cannot be photoshopped. My moments are sometimes ugly, sometimes fleeting and sometimes too complicated.

There is famine, war, unpredictable natural disasters, debt and homelessness. There are moments, and lifetimes, of hopelessness. In my own life there is doubt, anger and selfishness.

The footprints lead to nowhere and to somewhere all at the same time. The prints left are soon washed by the blood of the innocent. The sun beams down making slits through the clouds, it lights up the metal machinery with diamonds. Our earth is hot with anguish. There is a moment where the earth meets the sky and they meld together to form another kingdom, but no one is paying attention. The stillness of the world crashes against the cries of the people...The force of a bomb explodes a neighborhood...The water keeps rising...children scour a garbage dump in hopes of finding their next meal...Then the camera clicks. The story has been exposed. The suffering has been cataloged. My dreams sometimes live in this world too. There is a never ending supply of offensiveness.

Beauty does not come from perfection. It comes from living in each moment and taking care to do and be the best in each moment. Beauty comes out of forgiveness and sacrifice. Beauty comes from attending to the suffering. Beauty is in the rebuilding. Beauty can be discovered between each moment, when no one is paying attention. Beauty is the story of me. Beauty is the story of you. Our history. Our future. Melded together. Mixed up footprints.

Rain, rain go away.

Make sure you take a deep, deep breath.
We are going under water folks and won't resurface for a very long time.

The Puget Sound rain can drive us all to put our PJs on early. It has a cozy feel when the fire is lit and a book has been opened. The foggy skies envelop us. It is our blanket. I long for a sweater with just the right amount of warmth and softness. There is peace.

I come to grips with the Puget Sound rain every February. The cherry blossoms start to bud and there is a touch of warmth behind the nastiness. The grass is lush and green and the sunsets can take you by surprise. There is a brief opening prior to the plunge back into the wetness. Sometimes this interlude lasts several hours or it can last several weeks. The crispness has faded. My hands are no longer cold. I am able to fast forward through the windy storms of March, right on to July.

There is a time however, between October and January that the Puget Sound is brutish, nasty and downright wet. It rips our summer from us. We long to hang on. Our grip loosens a bit more every day through the last week of September.

We glimpse a bit of sun and we adorn our short-sleeve t-shirts with scarves and wear boots with our shorts.  It is a cold time. Our children unceasingly ask us if it is still raining. Our parks are deserted. The walk from our car to the grocery store is a desolate one. Our neighbors hibernate. Our dogs refuse to go outside. The furnace roars to life again.  We eat fatty foods. Gone are our salads. Our cars take on a musty smell. Everyone hurries to get out of the wet.

Our lazy, just got started, Summer of beach walks, too hot bedrooms, birds chirping at 4:00am, BBQs, sandals, water fights and camp outs comes crashing to a halt. And all we are left with is a closet full of the wrong type of clothes and fleeting memories, almost dream like, of the way it used to be.

Break out the sweaters. Break out the PJs.  Hold on (to a book, a hobby, your lover, your house or your work) until February. Make sure you take a deep, deep breath. We are going under water folks and won't resurface for a very long time.

After time you learn to spot the Februarys. They are our life preservers, our saviors. As your lift the July page in your calendar this all will be a fleeting memory.

My Love

I don't want my journey to be forgettable. I want it to be meaningful, exciting, fresh and lovely. Being comfortable on a journey is always a good thing, but laziness on the journey should never be tolerated, especially when I am so lucky to be with such a great man.

The stillness of a nap hour is a magical gift. Not to be taken advantage of. The possibilities are endless. For me, today, the magic is the quiet lull. Tomorrow the magic may be a clean house. The next day the magic might come in the form of a work out. Right now, though I am fully content to sit and ponder what means most to me; the journey I am on with my Love.. Sometimes this life long journey feels like a car accident that never (thankfully) happened. Sometimes the journey feels like a joyous jubilant party. There are times that it feels like an exciting, daring adventure! Other times it feels wildly tragic. Most of the time though it feels comfortable. During these comfortable times I seem forget that the journey moves us still, through life. I sometimes fail to be a witness to all that our lives have to offer.

My Love is extremely loyal, patient, self sacrificing, scientific, hopeful, confident, passionate, cultured, intelligent, and faithful. What an awesome life partner! During theses comfortable times however I tend to forget to look for these qualities. My comfortableness tends to slide into laziness and my laziness tends to lead us into dark and stormy areas that I would prefer not to be. I forget to be a witness to all the greatness that is passing me (us) by.

I dont want my journey to be forgettable. I want it to be meaningful, exciting, fresh and lovely. Being comfortable on a journey is always a good thing, but laziness on the journey should never be tolerated, especially when I am so lucky to be with such a great man! ...And that is where the magic can be found. It can be found when we take enough time to meditate upon our circumstances, to course correct when needed and to pay a compliment when it is long overdue.

My fight.

I have never been punched in the face by a human fist. My nose has never bled, my body has never been thrown down to the ground by another. There was one time however that I woke up, dust in my eyes, facing second base, on my stomach, with the taste of blood in my mouth. I have always wanted to know if I got up right away. Did I lay there for some time? How long was it before I decided to find my spirit again? Did my team run to me? Was I alone?

It was the second pitch of the game. I was the allstar fastpitch pitcher. I had it all figured out. Fastball, curveball, slowball, riseball, you get the gist. Most importantly I had it all figured out in my head. I could stare down anyone. Play mind games. The funny thing about this story is that I was only sixteen years old. ----Where is my gumption now----

Tournament weekend. I had just been moved from the  reliefer to the starter. I was pumped. and then it happened. I was on my belly, staring at second base. I try to meditate on the exact moment. The moment when I was hit. I cannot feel or see anything. My ears only work. As the ball rolled off the bat all I can hear is an earsplitting crack, not from the bat, it happened inside my head and then I wake up. I can see second base. I watched the video later (much later). I pulled my glove up to catch the ball, but at only 32 feet away there is always room for error. The ball missed my glove and smashed into my jaw with such force that it knocked me down and around. The video cut out. All I want to know now is how long did I lay there? Who helped me up? Did I stand on my own? How do we find the strength to get back up when we have been beaten?

Believe me, I had been beaten. 6 innings later I was rushed to the ER and I spent the next week in the ICU. There were concerns about my well being, to say the least. But in the moment, the very moment of defeat all I can remember is longing to push through, to keep going. I pitched the next 6 innings. My mouth was so bloody from my braces and my jaw so sore that my sister chewed bubble gum for me to get it soft enough for me to gnaw on.  But yes, I pitched the next 6 innings. We lost. I lost. In the sixth inning, I began to feel like I could not breath. My neck had developed a large hemotoma that was blocking some of my airway. I have been told I passed out. There was an ambulance. There are stories of my Dad wanting to perform a tracheotomy with a slurpee straw. I spent the next 24 hours throwing up while the doctors started to realize I may be allergic to morphine. 7 days later, after a few seizures, tests and more tests, I found myself at the oral surgeon's office getting my mouth wired shut. I was lucky enough to have been given wire cutters to carry around in the case that I vomitted. They didn't want me to suffocate.

I had been beaten. They say after a significant head trauma a person can experience minor personality shifts. Really? Who can differentiate this syndrome with a 16 year old turning 17 or even 18. Who's to say?

I don't relate this story so that you can feel bad for me. No, not today. I simply want to know where my kickass self has hid herself....I do not give up easy. Lately however, I have felt my world tumble and groan. How long did I lay in the dirt? Why did I decide to get up? These are questions that I am pondering tonight. It's okay to be hit. It's okay to be hurt. That's part of the game. It's what you decide to do after that hit that really matters. Tonight I am facing another second base. My lovely kids are proofing my undoing. I need to get up. I WILL  get up. I am looking up for a hand up.  The bigger question though, once I find my way up, will I fight?

Within the love of the game we find the strength. The strength to stand back up and the strength to keep fighting. I will stand up tomorrow and I will fight tomorrow because I love my kids. I love them more than what I think love stands for. So it goes, my fight. For me, it is only the fight that matters. I have lost before. I have won before. Pushing through to the other side, now that is truly what it is all about.  Scorekeepers, please put down your pencils. I play for the love of the game. This is what I now must remember.