Every home should have a nest or two, some place where you can go to feel warm and connected, hugged by familiar things and an easy rhythm. Yesterday, around dusk, that place was the kitchen. With some old mixes providing the soundtrack (how can it be that even a really sad Beck makes me smile?), I set out not to dazzle my family so much as to simply provide a meal for them.
Wanting a little company, I bring in Finn's bed and tuck it underneath the miniature pleather benches of the breakfast nook, where he too could be cozy and content. Settled in, I knew he would have a perfect view of any wayward, kamikaze orts tumbling from the cutting board.
It's hard to beat the 5:30 glow of a cloudy winter afternoon, especially set against the indirect lighting peeking out from under the cupboards. That glow somehow transforms the most mundane things--dicing onions, for instance--into something more admirable and important.
I run my fingers along the tops of the spice containers, slowing at the more exotic choices--Look at that! Garam masala!--but, mostly, it's an exercise in enjoying the order and promise of these mostly alphabetized-by-size options.
Like my fingers, my mind wanders, too, and, for some strange reason, I can't shake ketamine from my thoughts. Twice in the last month, I've heard or read stories about this strong anesthetic and its unexpected side benefits--namely, it's ability to smooth away depression in the matter of hours, not months. I think of friends and acquaintances who have spent years trying to find the perfect magic formula for rewiring a blue brain, often with unsatisfying, slurring results. And now, researchers are talking enthusiastically about the speedy potential of a repurposed drug.
My mind wanders from ketamine to baking soda...something so ordinary that that's the best name they (whoever "they" are) could devise. Utterly ordinary yet surprisingly transforming, remember to add it to batter and your pancakes become light and airy. Forget it and you've started your own communion-bread side business, minus the transubstantiation. And it's got a nice list of side benefits outside of the kitchen, as well--tamer of bug bites, burns and indigestion, for instance.
Aside from being food central, this nest called "the kitchen" seems to encourage the fermenting of ideas, as well. Here, I'm free to draw tenuous threads between anesthetics and leavening agents. Here, I can make something with my hands while my head goes somewhere else, and usually without disastrous results.
Like a safe room, without all the drama.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Friday, December 7, 2012
Something's Afoot...and Happily So
There
is something sacred about shared ground, about knowing that someone you
love has walked this same path, warmed their toes in the same ancient
sands and waters. That’s why I wasn’t even jealous last night while
listening about my friends’ recent adventures in Cancun. Well, maybe I
was a wee bit envious. . .
It’s been almost ten years since my family headed to Mexico, settling along the shores of Isla de Mujeres, a half-hour boat ride from booming Cancun. It was there where the Holts baptized ourselves in turquoise waters, swam among Crayola-colored fish, observed our first topless bather. And it was there where a pudgy, young Eric Holt swam with a nurse shark, despite his fears of drinking the water at the local restaurant.
Last night, it was that nurse shark that bridged yesterday and today. My friend mentioned a side trip to a local island, charming and slow-paced, that was punctuated by the opportunity to swim with a shark. That’s when I knew we had walked the same shores, separated by a thousand high tides, but tied to that very place, nonetheless.
Why is it that we are comforted by knowing our friends have “been there,” too? Maybe, in spite of the Internet’s “shrink wrap” tendencies, the world is still a vast and mysterious place. Maybe, such shared experiences--even when shared at different times--confirm that there is, in fact, such a magical place out there. That the waters really were that color. That it wasn’t just us.
Honestly, when I think about the vastness of outerspace, I am not bothered by the “just us-ness” of it all. But, somehow, I need to know that, here on earth, at least, we are connected to each other, and that those connections are anything but tenuous or discountable. It matters that, last weekend, my friends stood on the very Mexican shore a hundred yards from where my family stayed a decade ago.
Like thumbtacks lovingly pressed into the cork board, our shared footprints are our declarations that, like Kilroy, “I was here.” We anchor each other--and ourselves--when we walk these common paths, no matter how far we are from home.
It’s been almost ten years since my family headed to Mexico, settling along the shores of Isla de Mujeres, a half-hour boat ride from booming Cancun. It was there where the Holts baptized ourselves in turquoise waters, swam among Crayola-colored fish, observed our first topless bather. And it was there where a pudgy, young Eric Holt swam with a nurse shark, despite his fears of drinking the water at the local restaurant.
Last night, it was that nurse shark that bridged yesterday and today. My friend mentioned a side trip to a local island, charming and slow-paced, that was punctuated by the opportunity to swim with a shark. That’s when I knew we had walked the same shores, separated by a thousand high tides, but tied to that very place, nonetheless.
Why is it that we are comforted by knowing our friends have “been there,” too? Maybe, in spite of the Internet’s “shrink wrap” tendencies, the world is still a vast and mysterious place. Maybe, such shared experiences--even when shared at different times--confirm that there is, in fact, such a magical place out there. That the waters really were that color. That it wasn’t just us.
Honestly, when I think about the vastness of outerspace, I am not bothered by the “just us-ness” of it all. But, somehow, I need to know that, here on earth, at least, we are connected to each other, and that those connections are anything but tenuous or discountable. It matters that, last weekend, my friends stood on the very Mexican shore a hundred yards from where my family stayed a decade ago.
Like thumbtacks lovingly pressed into the cork board, our shared footprints are our declarations that, like Kilroy, “I was here.” We anchor each other--and ourselves--when we walk these common paths, no matter how far we are from home.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
7:30 on a Quiet Saturday Morn
My hand languishes atop the seat of Eric's bike,
unfamiliar dewdrops collecting on my fingertips.
I will not wipe them away,
these rare, soft diamonds.
Instead, they shall sit undisturbed, until their cool weightiness
leads them to each other,
where, eventually, they do a slow swan dive,
landing quietly atop the parched earth.
How many days have I squandered?
More than I can count.
This, however, is not one of them,
the quiet fog having none of it.
I wend my way through the park,
its features softened and hugged by condensation,
and I am content to be silent,
hearing only the crackle of curled Oak leaves,
floating to the dewy earth.
This is my walking prayer, whispered on a foggy Saturday morn,
my quiet words taken in by the soft air that wraps around me.
unfamiliar dewdrops collecting on my fingertips.
I will not wipe them away,
these rare, soft diamonds.
Instead, they shall sit undisturbed, until their cool weightiness
leads them to each other,
where, eventually, they do a slow swan dive,
landing quietly atop the parched earth.
How many days have I squandered?
More than I can count.
This, however, is not one of them,
the quiet fog having none of it.
I wend my way through the park,
its features softened and hugged by condensation,
and I am content to be silent,
hearing only the crackle of curled Oak leaves,
floating to the dewy earth.
This is my walking prayer, whispered on a foggy Saturday morn,
my quiet words taken in by the soft air that wraps around me.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Time is on My Side
Some days unfold slowly, taking their time to reveal themselves. Today was one of those days, certain in its quiet unraveling, and I was content to be patient with it, gently running my fingers across each crease of change.
I woke from ambling dreams filled with a hundred familiar rooms, warm under the weight of my blankets. As I lay there, I held my breath, listening for the rhythmic signs of a family surrounding me. A mumbled word, escaped from a dream. The contented release of breath. A shuffle of blankets to chase away the early-morning chill.
I took my time getting up. And, in return, the day delighted in pulling its chapters, end to end, like warm taffy.
A Sunday morning almost always is magical. Born first of chasing away the monsters--thanks to Finn's property-trolling diligence and a comfy chair--Sunday morning greets me like a good friend, not so much with words but with quiet opportunities--pillows and newspaper, a soft conversation over the radio, the delight of two crosswords from which to choose.
This particular morning is punctuated with the pleasure of Mark's rare appearance (thank you, vacation days!) and two puzzles that are surprisingly supple for being Sunday's children (thank you, Will Shortz, for not making me feel like a complete idiot!). And then there is church, another treat to enjoy with Mark, whose weekend work schedules leave little time for religious rituals.
You'd think we would have behaved better, for how little time we spend in church together. Ah, but this Sunday service was punctuated with the joy of sitting among friends--funny friends--which isn't the best formula for salvation. And yet, as we quietly piled up hymnals and pamphlets, kleenex and prayer cards atop our friend Susan's purse (she was foolish enough to sit in the pew in front of us), I felt tickled by a playful God, warmed by his silly sense of humor.
Even the woman sitting next to us--astute enough to notice the vanishing hymnals and quiet disarray--was quick with a smile, a relief to me, considering what could have been her reaction. "I teach 8th graders," she explained. My 13-year-old self smiled at her forgiveness.
And all day was like that--simple, unexpected, slow, forgiving. Even the homework I continued to ignore wasn't so bad when I finally tackled it. It was a day of comfort--from chilly walks exploring Lincoln's newest sculptures and murals to making soup with the remnants of a Thanksgiving feast, I felt glad to be alive.
All day, the fireplace whispered its warmth towards us, keeping the Holts together. Even when we were doing our own things--Allison putting up Christmas lights in her newly organized room, Eric chipping away at college homework, Mark mastering puzzle number two or me, both hungry for and resisting the last few pages of "The Book Thief"--even in our separateness, we could sense the gentle tie that binds.
That is the magic of a day that strolls-, somehow creating more time by opening up the spaces in between.
I woke from ambling dreams filled with a hundred familiar rooms, warm under the weight of my blankets. As I lay there, I held my breath, listening for the rhythmic signs of a family surrounding me. A mumbled word, escaped from a dream. The contented release of breath. A shuffle of blankets to chase away the early-morning chill.
I took my time getting up. And, in return, the day delighted in pulling its chapters, end to end, like warm taffy.
A Sunday morning almost always is magical. Born first of chasing away the monsters--thanks to Finn's property-trolling diligence and a comfy chair--Sunday morning greets me like a good friend, not so much with words but with quiet opportunities--pillows and newspaper, a soft conversation over the radio, the delight of two crosswords from which to choose.
This particular morning is punctuated with the pleasure of Mark's rare appearance (thank you, vacation days!) and two puzzles that are surprisingly supple for being Sunday's children (thank you, Will Shortz, for not making me feel like a complete idiot!). And then there is church, another treat to enjoy with Mark, whose weekend work schedules leave little time for religious rituals.
You'd think we would have behaved better, for how little time we spend in church together. Ah, but this Sunday service was punctuated with the joy of sitting among friends--funny friends--which isn't the best formula for salvation. And yet, as we quietly piled up hymnals and pamphlets, kleenex and prayer cards atop our friend Susan's purse (she was foolish enough to sit in the pew in front of us), I felt tickled by a playful God, warmed by his silly sense of humor.
Even the woman sitting next to us--astute enough to notice the vanishing hymnals and quiet disarray--was quick with a smile, a relief to me, considering what could have been her reaction. "I teach 8th graders," she explained. My 13-year-old self smiled at her forgiveness.
And all day was like that--simple, unexpected, slow, forgiving. Even the homework I continued to ignore wasn't so bad when I finally tackled it. It was a day of comfort--from chilly walks exploring Lincoln's newest sculptures and murals to making soup with the remnants of a Thanksgiving feast, I felt glad to be alive.
All day, the fireplace whispered its warmth towards us, keeping the Holts together. Even when we were doing our own things--Allison putting up Christmas lights in her newly organized room, Eric chipping away at college homework, Mark mastering puzzle number two or me, both hungry for and resisting the last few pages of "The Book Thief"--even in our separateness, we could sense the gentle tie that binds.
That is the magic of a day that strolls-, somehow creating more time by opening up the spaces in between.
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Tighten Up!
Almost 51 years old and I'm just now learning how to carry myself. Nothing like an aching back to bring these things to light. But I've got to give it to the physical therapist. He's right. How we carry ourselves pretty much decides how we're going to feel.
It's only the second time in my life that a stranger has talked to me about my pelvis. The first time was 19 years ago, when Mark and I took a few months of yoga. For people who could put their legs over their heads--WHILE STANDING!--they were a surprisingly inflexible bunch, far too serious for me. I know I've mentioned the "Voluminous Farting Incident at Yoga" before, but, doggone it, farts are funny! And when a roomful of stretchers can't appreciate or even acknowledge the malodorous elephant in the room, well, they are NOT my people!
Anyway, the yoga instructor would say all kinds of things that, if Mark and I had been better students, probably were very useful. As it were, though, they mostly just cracked us up. Like that fart. That no one else "heard." Several times during each yoga session, the instructor would utter things like "unfurl your pelvis to the world" and, despite her best intentions, I never could make out what it was I was supposed to do.
It's only the second time in my life that a stranger has talked to me about my pelvis. The first time was 19 years ago, when Mark and I took a few months of yoga. For people who could put their legs over their heads--WHILE STANDING!--they were a surprisingly inflexible bunch, far too serious for me. I know I've mentioned the "Voluminous Farting Incident at Yoga" before, but, doggone it, farts are funny! And when a roomful of stretchers can't appreciate or even acknowledge the malodorous elephant in the room, well, they are NOT my people!
Anyway, the yoga instructor would say all kinds of things that, if Mark and I had been better students, probably were very useful. As it were, though, they mostly just cracked us up. Like that fart. That no one else "heard." Several times during each yoga session, the instructor would utter things like "unfurl your pelvis to the world" and, despite her best intentions, I never could make out what it was I was supposed to do.
Now, almost 20 years later, another stranger (who I happen to believe might think a public fart is funny) tells me that I thrust my pelvis forward when I walk. Like some lower-level evolutionary figure.
For the past three weeks, I've been doing my darnedest to push back my pelvis. Down, boy! I've also been stretching, lifting my arms into funny positions, blowing up acrid-tasting balloons and pinching them closed with my teeth and tongue. And I'm actually starting to feel better. Maybe even starting to carry myself better, too.
I'm not saying the second half of my life (yes, I'm an optimist, if not a tired and slightly apprehensive one) will be upstanding or that I will start to carry myself better when facing a public fart. But I do think I'll be a bit more comfortable in my own skin, slowly edging my way up the evolutionary scale towards full-blown homo erectus.
Homo. Erectus. Heh, heh, heh. That's funny!
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Divine Forgiveness
I woke up this morning intending to go on a spoken-word diet, hung over from the aftereffects of breaking my word to someone I love. Actually, I first woke around 2 this morning, my stomach in knots over my screw up.
Let's just say I would rather wake to a bleak medical prognosis than to a mess I've made, especially when it's on someone else's turf.
Up too early with no newspaper to read, I picked up The Book Thief, a book I'd meant to start a long time ago. Immediately, I was swept up by its language, pulled in by the mystery of its narrator (Death itself). And, for a while, I lost myself to this compelling tale, although its bleak landscape managed to seep from the pages and frame my own less-than-shiny world.
In need of fresh air, I put the book down and walked Finn, the north wind cutting into us as we made our way home. I could have taken a shorter route, I suppose, but I wanted to feel the elements against my skin. To suffer, I suppose. And, anyway, the monkey mind that raced in my head wasn't done talking. It threw me a dozen scenarios, some ending in heartache, others lightened by the generosity of the person I'd hurt. I had my favorite script, to be sure, but I wasn't sure this person would buy it.
By midmorning, I had my answer--forgiveness. Just. Like. That. Well, it did cost me a bit. But mostly, it saved me. Saved me from my loud-mouthed, know-it-all, damn-the-consequences self. Saved me from all those scenarios I'd written in my head, the ones in which I'm alone on an island, separated from those I love the most.
I still might go on a spoken-word diet. I definitely could benefit from switching to a "lite" version of myself, one that knows when to speak and when to sit silently, honoring the trust that lets another's stories escape from within and fall gently upon my blessed ears.
After all, God gave us just one mouth but two ears. I should start to pay more attention to that important fact.
“I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded; not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night.”
― Khaled Hosseini, The Kite Runner
Let's just say I would rather wake to a bleak medical prognosis than to a mess I've made, especially when it's on someone else's turf.
Up too early with no newspaper to read, I picked up The Book Thief, a book I'd meant to start a long time ago. Immediately, I was swept up by its language, pulled in by the mystery of its narrator (Death itself). And, for a while, I lost myself to this compelling tale, although its bleak landscape managed to seep from the pages and frame my own less-than-shiny world.
In need of fresh air, I put the book down and walked Finn, the north wind cutting into us as we made our way home. I could have taken a shorter route, I suppose, but I wanted to feel the elements against my skin. To suffer, I suppose. And, anyway, the monkey mind that raced in my head wasn't done talking. It threw me a dozen scenarios, some ending in heartache, others lightened by the generosity of the person I'd hurt. I had my favorite script, to be sure, but I wasn't sure this person would buy it.
By midmorning, I had my answer--forgiveness. Just. Like. That. Well, it did cost me a bit. But mostly, it saved me. Saved me from my loud-mouthed, know-it-all, damn-the-consequences self. Saved me from all those scenarios I'd written in my head, the ones in which I'm alone on an island, separated from those I love the most.
I still might go on a spoken-word diet. I definitely could benefit from switching to a "lite" version of myself, one that knows when to speak and when to sit silently, honoring the trust that lets another's stories escape from within and fall gently upon my blessed ears.
After all, God gave us just one mouth but two ears. I should start to pay more attention to that important fact.
“I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded; not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night.”
― Khaled Hosseini, The Kite Runner
Sunday, November 4, 2012
The Long Slog
Time is a weird creature, sometimes stretching itself out across the couch like a slinky cat; other times, uncoiling like a jack-in-the-box, surprising us with its speed and agility.
With three days left before elections, I'd say time has been all cat and no jack, of late.
And, yet, now that we stand at the doorstep of The Big Day, I can't imagine life without cat fights and robocalls. How on earth will we "make nice" and put the partisan past behind us? I don't know the answer to that, but I do know that, when time has bent my mind in the past, I still managed to wake up and and get out of bed the next day. And there is something to be said for that.
November 1995. In my last month of pregnancy, my belly button but a faint, flat outline of the past, there were many days when I thought the pages of the calendar turned much too slowly. Tired of stretch-paneled jeans and pulsating nether regions, I was impatient for the next phase, pain and mess be damned. By mid morning on November 24, though, itchy from the dregs of morphine moving through my body, I reconsidered my impatience, wondering what the heck I was thinking, bringing another infant into the world. Time, it seems, had compressed on me, and I fretted that I might not be able to keep up with its demands.
Allison Shepard Holt turns 17 in 3 weeks. Miraculously, she seems to have suffered little from all these years under her mother's care. Time has been good to her, thank God.
May 2010 Mark and I are sitting in folding chairs on the Lincoln High gym floor, along with hundreds of other parents. The place is packed. The entire school has turned out for this morning's event, one in which every LHS senior is acknowledged, their scholarships and achievements providing the exclamation points to the final days of high school for these 400 seniors.
Time is playing games in my head, yo-yoing between its molasses and hummingbird bookends. I spy Eric, and light up, as though I hadn't seen him in years. All morning, it's like that--an accordion of memories, squeezing and releasing, and me just trying to find my balance.
November 2008 The last time we'd put yard signs out front was in 2000, when we were battling Amigo's Restaurant, hoping to keep it away from the Sunken Gardens. "Adios, Amigos!" our sign announced. It was one of many failed campaigns I've backed in my life. But it was a campaign well worth supporting. That same belief led my family downtown one night four years ago, where hundreds of others had gathered to utter that still-strange name "O-BA-MA!"
The rally was electrifying...and time slowed down that night to let me take in the minutest details of the experience. When my family finally decided to head home, a car pulled up, the driver popping open its trunk, and he encouraged us all to take a yard sign. I was downright gleeful when we got home, plunking that sign deep into the ground, my intentions now a pronouncement.
November 2012 Time slinks along these days, bogged down by bitterness, divisiveness, fatigue. Nothing is fresh in this campaign. Inspiration has been replaced by expiration, and I am ready to call "uncle." Oddly, this divisiveness is a sure sign that the pundits have been successful. Our failure to communicate? Further proof that the lines have been clearly drawn, even if they are not honest lines. I am ready for the long slog to be over.
God help those who win on Tuesday. It will not be an easy job, especially since so many have made it their job to turn a deaf ear to the "other," proud in their stubbornness to revile common ground. And I wonder--what if the "other" turns out to be themselves?
Time has a funny way of clarifying things. I just hope we're up to the task of tackling them, head on.
With three days left before elections, I'd say time has been all cat and no jack, of late.
And, yet, now that we stand at the doorstep of The Big Day, I can't imagine life without cat fights and robocalls. How on earth will we "make nice" and put the partisan past behind us? I don't know the answer to that, but I do know that, when time has bent my mind in the past, I still managed to wake up and and get out of bed the next day. And there is something to be said for that.
November 1995. In my last month of pregnancy, my belly button but a faint, flat outline of the past, there were many days when I thought the pages of the calendar turned much too slowly. Tired of stretch-paneled jeans and pulsating nether regions, I was impatient for the next phase, pain and mess be damned. By mid morning on November 24, though, itchy from the dregs of morphine moving through my body, I reconsidered my impatience, wondering what the heck I was thinking, bringing another infant into the world. Time, it seems, had compressed on me, and I fretted that I might not be able to keep up with its demands.
Allison Shepard Holt turns 17 in 3 weeks. Miraculously, she seems to have suffered little from all these years under her mother's care. Time has been good to her, thank God.
May 2010 Mark and I are sitting in folding chairs on the Lincoln High gym floor, along with hundreds of other parents. The place is packed. The entire school has turned out for this morning's event, one in which every LHS senior is acknowledged, their scholarships and achievements providing the exclamation points to the final days of high school for these 400 seniors.
Time is playing games in my head, yo-yoing between its molasses and hummingbird bookends. I spy Eric, and light up, as though I hadn't seen him in years. All morning, it's like that--an accordion of memories, squeezing and releasing, and me just trying to find my balance.
November 2008 The last time we'd put yard signs out front was in 2000, when we were battling Amigo's Restaurant, hoping to keep it away from the Sunken Gardens. "Adios, Amigos!" our sign announced. It was one of many failed campaigns I've backed in my life. But it was a campaign well worth supporting. That same belief led my family downtown one night four years ago, where hundreds of others had gathered to utter that still-strange name "O-BA-MA!"
The rally was electrifying...and time slowed down that night to let me take in the minutest details of the experience. When my family finally decided to head home, a car pulled up, the driver popping open its trunk, and he encouraged us all to take a yard sign. I was downright gleeful when we got home, plunking that sign deep into the ground, my intentions now a pronouncement.
November 2012 Time slinks along these days, bogged down by bitterness, divisiveness, fatigue. Nothing is fresh in this campaign. Inspiration has been replaced by expiration, and I am ready to call "uncle." Oddly, this divisiveness is a sure sign that the pundits have been successful. Our failure to communicate? Further proof that the lines have been clearly drawn, even if they are not honest lines. I am ready for the long slog to be over.
God help those who win on Tuesday. It will not be an easy job, especially since so many have made it their job to turn a deaf ear to the "other," proud in their stubbornness to revile common ground. And I wonder--what if the "other" turns out to be themselves?
Time has a funny way of clarifying things. I just hope we're up to the task of tackling them, head on.
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