Polar Opposites

Dateline: Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Time: 4:20 p.m.

Place: Airport parking, Detroit Metropolitan Airport

I’m standing ankle deep in charcoal grey frozen slush, a mixture of freezing rain and snow falling on my (once perfect) new haircut,  shivering convulsively in my apricot colored raincoat, peering anxiously toward the road hoping against hope to see the blue shuttle bus that will take us to the terminal for our flight to Phoenix, which is scheduled to leave in one hour.

Dateline: Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Time: 4:40 p.m.

Place: The patio, Canyon Villas, Scottsdale

I’m sitting at the umbrella table, bare feet propped on the chair in front of me, legs stretched out in the sun, sipping cold white wine, gazing in awe at the mountainous vista arrayed in all it’s lavendar glory in front of me, reading my book.

Which is the better day?
Hmm.

Sunny Sunday

There is much that needs doing this afternoon – laundry and vacuuming, some small work projects brought home from the office, packing my suitcase (more about that later!) -but here I sit at my kitchen table, the remnants of dessert (vanilla yogurt topped with fresh strawberries) next to me, tapping away at the keyboard and watching “that brilliant orb” settle into the western sky.

 Lord yes, believe it or not, it was sunny here in southeastern Michigan -all day.  And all day yesterday.  And all day the day before.

Only those who have lived in the midwest in winter know how rare an occurence that is.  Three days of solid sunshine, no wind, moderate temperatures – surely a gift from God.

So I let some indoor things slide, and took the doggies for several walks.  Imagine their ectasy on feeling dry pavement beneath their padded paws!  Magic went flying down the street, plumed tail high in the air, a definite manly swagger in his shoulders.   Even Molly, usually sedate and ladylike, broke into a run just to catch up, and they trotted happily shoulder to shoulder, occasionally bumping hips like the two best friends that they are.  I tried hard to ignore their dirty paws and mud spattered undercarriages and allow them their moments of glory.

But now that the sun has dipped below the horizon, an amber glow waning behind the rooftops, I’ve got to accomplish a few things.  Like laundry and vacuuming, some small work projects from the office, packing my suitcase…

Oh, I promised to tell you about that…

Well, (lucky me!) our good friends have invited us to spend some time in with them next week at their timeshare in Scottsdale, Arizona.  Needless to say, I’m really excited.  But I have to pack a suitcase for this trip – I’m so accustomed to going to our house in Florida where I have everything I need already there, that I think I’ve forgotten how to pack! 

So tell me, do you have any good packing tips for me?

Birthday Boy

I could get very sloppily sentimental about the birthday of my only son. 

I won’t.
But I will say how proud I am to be his mom, how I consider him my greatest achievement in life, how his happiness is (and always will be) the most important thing in the world to me…

I’d better stop because I’m drifting into sloppy sentimentality.

So I’ll just say…

Happy Birthday, Brian!

Tagged~Six Things About Me

Marcy has tagged me to share six non-important things/habits/quirks about myself.

Here goes:

1. Hot beverages and soups have to be really hot~I can’t abide lukewarm; 

2.  I always leave a small amount of coffee or tea in the bottom of my cup, usually because it’s lukewarm by then (refer to #1);

3. I love being near large bodies of water – but I can’t swim;

4. Also love being near mountains-but I’m afraid of heights;

5. I can’t stand to leave the house with my bed unmade.  The rest of the place can be a disaster, but the bed must be made!

6. I’m terribly claustraphobic.  I can handle elevators ok, but being stuck in traffic jams nearly drives me over the edge.

And now, according to the rules* (and you all know I always play by the rules), I must tag six others…

Bella Rum

Firefly Nights

Greenish Lady

Public Musings of a Mama 

Sage and Thyme

Spatter

*Rules:

Link to the person that tagged you.

Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself.

Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.

Let each person know you’ve tagged them by leaving a comment on their blog.

Tear Jerking

It’s late, and I’m blog surfing… you know how that goes, don’t you?  A long day at the office, tired from carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders, worries about innumerable things swirling around inside your mind.  You fall into your favorite chair and pull your computer onto your lap…and start surfing.  Checking in with old friends that have been silent for a while….remembering blogs that inspired you way back when you first embarked on this writing journey…

And you read words like this…

But knowing who I want to be and knowing when I’m not living from that place can at times crack my heart.  And that crack in my heart is often where my words come from…as well as my tears.  What cracks my heart are the things that are important to me, the things I’m passionate about, and often our passion can bring our tears because there’s so much emotion and energy behind the passion.  When was the last time you cried?

Oh, I used to cry a lot.  At movies and commericals and concerts and dance recitals.  At books and paintings and small children playing and birds singing and even flowers growing. 

But I was so much younger then.  I’m so much older now – and the tears hardly ever come. 

I miss crying.  That sounds ridiculous, I suppose – why should anyone miss the red eyes and stuffy nose that inevitably follows a good crying jag.  But there’s something cathartic about crying- it cleanses the emotional system, like shaking the rugs in our senses, airing out the linens.  After a good cry, you can pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again.

Those italicized words up there nearly made me cry, and that’s no small feat these days.  Fact is, the writer of those words probed a very sensitive nerve with me…”what cracks my heart are the things that are important to me, the things I’m passionate about, and often our passion can bring our tears.

Sitting here in my little study, curled up in my favorite chair, two small dogs sleeping contentedly at my feet, I reach over to the table beside me to pick up my teacup…suddenly, warm tears fill my eyes. 

On that table is a photograph of a little boy dressed in a red sweater and denim overalls,  a blue baseball cap on his head, an expression of joyful wonder on his face.  A photo I snapped 26 years ago of my son, taking his first independent steps on the fresh spring grass in our backyard.

“These are the things that are important to me, the things I’m passionate about…”

If you have children, you know there is nothing more important than that, nothing that brings a greater sense of fulfillment, nothing that evokes more passion. 

No writing, no music, no traveling, no nothing.

Children grow up much too quickly, and I think mine more than most (which is both a blessing and a curse).  Thinking about my son as a child, thinking about him now as a grown man -well, that makes me cry when nothing else can.

“Our passion can bring our tears.”

Michelle, thanks for reminding me.  It’s good to know.

Three Word Wednesday

punch

 t-shirt

unravel

A punch of color, Tanya thought staring at her pale reflection, that’s what I desperately need.   She picked up her mother’s scarf, and fingered the fuschia silk between her fingers, releasing the scent of Joy perfume, it’s aroma swirling around her head like a ghostly presence.    She inhaled deeply, hoping to channel her mother’s energy and strength.

For life had begun to unravel for Tanya, her relationship with Tony coming undone at the seams and disintegrating before her eyes.  She could feel the growing distance between them, but she had no idea how to bridge the gap.

Perhaps a vacation, she thought, a long trip just the two of us, walking along the beach and sipping champage.  Or something more adverturous – an Alaskan cruise or even a safari.

Who was she kidding?  She draped the scarf around her neck, letting it hang loosely down the front of her black t-shirt.  She had none of her mother’s adventurous spirit, none of the signature style had that made Jocylen Ventura so widely admired.  Why, she couldn’t even wear a scarf the right way. 

She pulled the soft fabric from her neck and tossed it carelessly onto the bed. 

“What’s up, doll?” she heard her stepfather’s laconic voice from the doorway behind her. 

Startled, Tanya turned, her eyes taking in Tony’s olive colored skin, his warm dark eyes, his tall, lean frame dressed in charcoal gray slacks and form fitting sweater.  Color rushed to her cheeks, and she looked quickly away. 

“Nothing,” she mumbled, plucking the scarf up from the bed and twisting it nervously around her fingers. 

Tony stepped closer to her and lifted one end of the silk scarf to his face, burying his nose in its scented folds.  “God,” he murmured, “this smells just like her, doesn’t it?”

Tanya’s eyes focused intently on him, pure fury burning through the irises directly onto Tony’s bent head.  How could he be so oblivious? she wondered.  Hadn’t he realized her mother didn’t really love him?  She simply used him for “arm candy,” a ridiculous expression but particularly appropriate for the situation.  He deserved so much better, Tanya thought, suddenly overcome with a desire to cup his cheek in the palm of her hand. 

At that moment, Tony looked up, his eyes meeting her own, so full of pleading and expectation.  She could feel him recoil slightly, even as he took a step back, placing a good distance between himself and her body. 

“May I keep this?” he asked, deftly pulling the silk scarf away from her grasp.  “It reminds me so much of Jocelyn…”

Tanya shrugged.  “It’s yours,” she replied, pulling back into her shell and closing the dresser drawer behind her.  “Enjoy it.”

She shrugged past him, careful not to let any part of her body touch him as she walked out of the room.

Hopeless, she thought, the image of Tony’s face buried in his dead wife’s favorite silk scarf, inhaling her scent as if it were a magical elixir. 

Too bad he doesn’t know, she thought to herself, remembering the way she had wound the length of silky fabric around her mother’s slender neck. 

Too bad for him.

Writer’s Island-Time Travel

Too fast.  That’s what I think about time.  It travels much too fast.

Remember how the days once crept by, every minute larger than life and filled with opportunities~for play, for laughter, for being with friends, for having fun.   Did you ever once give a thought to time running out, to not having enough of it?

When was the moment you first noticed the swift passage of time?  For me, it as my 16th birthday -and I need a calculator to determine exactly how long ago that was.  There’s a Polaroid picture of me in an old photo album somewhere, leaning in to blow out the candles on my cake,  dressed in the plaid skirt of my school uniform, my long hair in two brown braids draped over my shoulders.  Truthfully, I look more like 6 than 16 in that picture- yet I recall looking in the mirror that day and thinking, “Someday you’ll be old.”   Old like my mother – who was all of 45 at the time.  Old like my grandmother, who was 63. 

Looking back on all the years since then, who could have believed they would travel by so swiftly, a blur of college, and marriage, and motherhood.  Like fast motion photography, it sped past me-my life-leaving me standing here in the chill wind of ghostly memories.  I brace myself each day, digging my heels into the earth to keep myself grounded firmly in this moment, whatever it might be.

Oh, I know I’m one of the lucky ones.  I’m healthy, and strong, I’ve never faced mortal illness or danger, my family is rife with long lived women, and, thanks to advances in modern science, I could conceivably count more years than any of them. 

Yet those years fly by so swiftly, and there is still so much left to do.

There’s a poem by A.E. Houseman, set to music by Ralph Vaughn Williams…Lovliest of Trees, it’s called.  It’s a beautiful, lyric song, which many of the high school girls choose to sing as a festival piece.  It goes like this…

 Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride,
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

If you do the math, the narrator of this poem is 20 years old, lamenting the thought of “only fifty more” springs.  It makes me smile to hear teenage girls sing this song, trying to grasp this idea of a finite amount of time in which to savor the cherry blossoms. 

Well, I’ve had fifty springs, and more besides.  And they seem to roll around more quickly every year, those cherry blossom months.  Soon, another long Michigan winter will be past, the robins will return, and the sun will warm my skin.  I’m grateful for that, although it reminds me again of this swift network of time I’m traveling through.

So excuse me while I go wander the woodlands…there are cherry trees to savor.

written for the writer’s island 

Sighing Times Seven-Cafe Writing

Cafe Writing, Option Two: Give me seven things that make you sigh… 

1) Seeing my puppies curled up together sleeping – the perfect canine companions;

2) Hearing my son talk about things he’s passionate and knowledgeable about;

3) Tasting a fresh cup of rich, dark roasted coffee first thing in the morning;

4) Feeling the touch of my husband’s fingers wrapped around mine;

5) Talking, laughing, and sharing stories with my girlfriends;

6) Playing music that I love on the piano, like Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat and Debussy’s Arabesque Number 1;

7) Losing myself in the pages of a wonderful book.

Seven lovely things, and reading over them I see how reflective they are of all the things most important to me…my family, my animals, music, books – and yes, coffee too.  Sensible, I suppose, that the things which make you sigh with delight would be those things with which you wish to fill your life.  And how fortunate I am to be able to sigh in pleasure and not in pain, to revel in simple moments, to feel such satisfaction arise from tiny miracles like sleeping puupies, a young man’s conversation, a hand to hold in the dark, a confidence shared among friends.   For life in general is filled with moments like these – and mine in particular are very fine indeed.

Sigh.

Sunday Scribblings-Sleep

“hush-a-bye, don’t you cry, go to sleepy little baby…”

Sleep is my nemesis.  Just ask my mother – the stories of my sleeping -or non sleeping- habits as an infant are notorious in our family.

“There I’d be,” my mother will say, “lying in bed with you there beside me, and I’d finally doze off because I was just so tired, but then I’d wake up and you’d be staring at me with those big dark eyes, wide awake and looking all excited.”

Yep, that’s me. 

There’s always so many more interesting things to do besides sleep.  Books to read, music to listen to and to play, stories to write, friends to visit, movies to see, walks and bike rides to take, food to cook…the possibilities in life are endless.  Why waste time sleeping, when all the world lies before you?

Most children defy bedtime, and my parents wisely never forced me to bed early.  They trusted me to get the sleep I needed, and apparently I did, for I grew to be a normal, healthy young woman.  Now my mother claims I didn’t like sleeping because I was “bright” and “didn’t want to miss a minute of anything going on.”

Actually, she’s probably right – at least the part about not wanting to miss things.  Because the older I get, the less I like to sleep.  After all, there’s only so much time in this one wonderful life, and now that I’m into the second half of my century, who knows how much of it I have left. 

So why waste it sleeping?

click here for more thoughts about sleeping

 

The Honeymoon’s Over

Over at Bookstack, I occasionally participate in a meme called Booking Through Thursday where each week a bookish type question is posted.  This week we were asked whether we had ever “fallen out of love” with a favorite author.   While writing my response, I started thinking about “falling out of love” with other things – foods, music, activities, hobbies – a train of thought that was prompted by my experiece last night.

The Valentine’s Day concert at the high school…each year our girl’s choir hosts a Valentine’s Day cabaret style concert, complete with romantic little tables for two strewn with rosebuds, pink punch, and lots of cookies and chocolate desserts.  While people sit and munch, the girls perform some songs.  Now, it’s all very cute and girly, and they dress up in their best sparkly dresses.  But in the 15 years I’ve been accompanying for the choirs, I have to admit it’s my least favorite of anything I do.  I think I almost prefer playing in the orchestra pit for musical (and unless you’ve done that, you can’t know how horrible it is.)

Last night was certainly no exception.

The singing was abysmal (sorry to sound like Simon, but I did feel as if I were listening to the auditions of American Idol all over again).  The punch was sickeningly sweet (what it really needed was a healthy shot of champagne).  The girls were dressed most inappropriately (a young woman standing 5 feet tall and weighing 200 pounds should never wear a v-neck, sleevless, red sequined dress). 

I am so over this, I kept thinking last night, as I endured an hour’s worth of this, and then had to repeat the entire performace for a “second sitting” at eight o’clock.

I think I’ve finally fallen out of love with high school music.

Sometimes it can be good to fall out of love with something.  I’ve been agonizing for quite some time about whether to keep this high school job.  But the more experiences like last night just serve to convince me it’s time to move on. 

It seems to be a pattern with me – I have to “do something to death” before I’m able to call it quits, become so heartily sick of it that I can no longer bear it for an instant.   Only then can I give it up, toss it aside gratefully as one would an albatross around the neck, breathing a huge sigh of relief. 

And then the relinquishing is not so painful,  is it? 

How about you?  Have you fallen out of love with something in your life?  How do you handle it?