Summertime, and the Livin's Easy

The first day of summer is a potent beast, wrapped up in a mix of nostalgia, expectation, and languorous pauses.  This day is as much about the past as it is about the near future and I wake feeling some pressure to successfully bridge the two.

Some pressure, but not too much.

And so, I dillydally in bed, letting 5 a.m. become 5:30 until I can't stand the thought of the day unfolding without me.  Finn hops atop the bed when he realizes I'm making "awake" sounds and we share a minute or two of quiet chatter.  Soon, I've slipped on a pair of shorts and some sandals, brushed my teeth, run a hand through my hair and am heading downstairs to greet the two out of three Holts who happened to have beaten me there.

It is an awesome morning, unusually calm with an awakening sky that is punctuated by cotton batting.  Mark is reading the paper in the library, the door half cocked and a wayward moth seeking refuge under the shade of our lamp.  Outside, two robins are exchanging the Dozens, their insults delighting and appalling the more staid Cardinals, aptly named and appropriately forgiving.

And me?  Well, I'm not even sure what day it is, my brain having been swept clean in the middle of the night.  Even the time of day escapes me as Mark and I head out on our first summer bike ride, my body and bike finding their old rhythm.

This first day of summer, punctuated with quiet and smiles, outdoor time and family, is not one for the books.  There is nothing Tweet-worthy or perhaps even blog-worthy about it.  Which tells me that I am doing it just fine, thank you.

For not everything that matters in life is a clanging bell wrapped up in neon lights.

Playing Nice

Snarkiness is the kudzu of the digital age, an invasive species we claim we never saw coming, even though it was our own puffed-up cheeks that scattered its seeds to the wind.

So, what if we cut each other a little slack today?  I mean, what would it really cost us to just play nice?

I understand how good a little snarkiness can feel as it rolls off the tongue, that temporary, sweet taste of superiority as it steamily seeps from our perfectly pursed lips.  Frankly, it would be helpful if cynicism had the calorie count of, say, a slice of carrot cake.  I think people would live differently if meanness came with a caloric price that ended up pooling on our hips or puffing up our muffin tops.

"Straight from the lips to the hips" wouldn't be such a bad thing, in this case. Heck, I would even consider doing some planks or sit ups, if I thought it would help.

About a decade ago, the Pike Place Fish Market made waves in the business and education worlds, offering an employee model that focused on four simple tenets:  Be there, play, make their day and choose your attitude.  My awesome sister in law Tatiana even helped businesses learn about and practice these tenets, ideas that eventually found their way into the local teacher-workshop scene.

(I can practically hear the sneering now, cynical lips curling up at their edges at the quaintness of such a message.  And yet. . . . )

While I'm pretty sure I'll never master tossing a 40-pound salmon across a room,  I do know that my life has been more enjoyable and more engaging because of my belief in and practice of those four tenets.  At the end of the day, I hope I will choose the afterglow that comes from practicing corny, back-to-basics decency over the tarry goo that comes from snarkiness.

Snarkiness, after all, is a non-contact sport, an attitude that can only be perfected from the sidelines.  Sloppy as it may be, I'd prefer to live in the thick of my small life, erring on the side of mostly playing nice. 

Turns Out, I'm NOT Stuck on Bandaids!

My heart is full and my thumbs are free of Bandaids.

Who can explain the relaxed, warm thrum that sometimes moves through us, without consultation?  And so, here I sit, alongside Finn on this green and sunny May Saturday, having fallen in love with my children, my friends, my family, my life all over again.

I think these newest seeds were planted Thursday evening, when we headed to Shoemaker's Marsh, where I'd seen a fine bison bone hugging the banks of Little Salt Creek earlier in the week.   I cannot tell you how much it means to me that my family loves the life that lives outside of computer screens and man-made walls.  Nor can I tell you how lucky I felt Thursday evening, as we trekked together through trail-less tall-grass prairie, wending our way along the eroded edges where land and water meet.

Along the way, we stopped to study an animal track, to enjoy a beaver or deer sighting, to listen to the crowing of a horny pheasant, to gather courage for a leap across a saline-eroded sink hole.

I am pretty sure that, if I ever do end up at heaven's gates, it will be times like this one--quiet moments with good people who care not a whit what time it is or who has updated her status--that I will savor.  I do not doubt that these moments are the measures that matter most.

And maybe that's why I'm not wearing any Bandaids, despite it being early May.  You see, it is a rugged time of year to be a school teacher.  Everyone in that building is on the verge of a nervous breakdown, so the adults come home exhausted, having put on a good face for all those hours.  Throw in the stress of selling, completing and distributing a student-made yearbook--especially in these snarky, you-suck times--and you can see why my thumbs are usually chewed up and bandaged.

For some reason, though, I can't recall the last time I have donned a Bandaid.  My thumbs, while still not hand-model handsome, aren't ragged and bloody, either.  In fact, I am calm and happy these day, unhampered by doomsday scenarios or monkey mind.  I feel steady, unconcerned and relaxed.

I suppose it's possible I'm just losing my mind in a different way this spring, but I'm not asking questions.  No, I'm just enjoying the view--the people-watching, bone-collecting, family-filled times that punctuate and soften all the hardness we like to impose upon ourselves.  Apparently, I've been given a little gift this year, one that says I am not required to repeat the fretfulness of past springs, despite everything.  And I plan to unwrap that gift as slowly as humanly possible.

Yes, it is a time to savor.  Who am I to question the warm fuzzies?