Is it just me or does getting older actually come with a deep, dark, delicious secret? . . . because, these days, I kind of feel like a chameleon who is less worried about fitting in than it is with living with its true colors. And I have to say that this contentment feels pretty good.
Maybe it all started with my friend's recent retirement announcement and the inevitable change that it brought to my own life. Suddenly, I see a professional future without journalism in it; a more grown-up future with big budgets and weekly meetings and maybe even new clothes and added responsibilities in it.
Despite those scary things, though, the newness of this chapter feels pretty revitalizing. And that's when I realize that I kind of like being older. More experienced. Less worried about success and failure than I am about showing up, paying attention and keeping it real. I don't know if that means that the hoops have become more difficult to jump through or more freeing. I suppose it depends on one's perspective.
Sometimes, I think we foolishly resist the urge to just jump out of the airplane and enjoy the view. Well, I must say that I am enjoying the view these days. Even from these scary heights that have life-and-death-and-everything-in-between tucked within them.
I say "Bring it!"
Who'da thunk that I would reach the point in my own life where I sort of felt sorry for those friends who are younger than me?!
But that seems to be where I am these days--in a funny, unexpected place where I find the calm that comes with having lived a bit; the joy that comes from recognizing the pleasure of simpler things; the confidence that is fed by stretches of time tinged with failure, and the ability to look those things in the eyes without blinking.
. . . you'll hear no complaints from me. Not today, at least.
Friday, February 6, 2015
Saturday, January 24, 2015
"A Herd of Elephants Walks into the Room. . . "
In 1974, while I was busy trying to look cool in my Birkenstocks and denim vests, Philippe Petit was planning his illegal jaunt between New York's twin towers on a wire with the approximate girth of a closed fist. The 2008 film "Man on Wire" recounts his stunning feat (he spent nearly an hour walking 1,300 feet above traffic). Petit was 25 at the time.
I knew nothing of his feat until I'd watched the documentary and, even then, it took me 4 or 5 years after its release to happen upon the film, putting me even further than usual out of the proverbial "in the know" loop.
While I understand all the hoopla that was focused on Petit at the time, I no longer look at his feat as unrepeatable or even as a particularly impressive act.
Apparently, that's what happens when you turn 53 and find yourself surrounded by people you love who are teetering far more precariously above the comfort of their own solid ground.
From dire prognoses to the deaths of dearly loved ones--and everything in between--a lot of people I am nuts about are, I am sure, growing weary of the balancing act of their own current lives. So you'll forgive me, Phillippe Petit, if I put you and your antics aside and turn my attention elsewhere.
Following the deaths of my dad and brother, I discovered firsthand that there is legitimate comfort to be had in a Hallmark card or a kind word uttered. That is, perhaps, the best lesson I learned from those losses--the value of acknowledging the elephant in the room, even if it's uncomfortable to do. And I am leaning heavily on that lesson these days, hoping that my own acknowledgments of others' hardship--acknowledgments that look quite lame from 1,300 feet above traffic--somehow continue to matter. Otherwise, I'm doomed as a decent friend or family member, impotent, like a spent firecracker on July 5th.
Time and again, it is the act of getting out of bed--that willingness to look things (or people or circumstances) directly in the eyes--that strikes me as the bravest act of all. Surely, then, as the friend, I can reciprocate in my own, small way, hoping that my own eye contact relays the message that I know and I am walking with you.
...not much of a movie pitch, I suppose. But, somehow, enough, I hope.
I knew nothing of his feat until I'd watched the documentary and, even then, it took me 4 or 5 years after its release to happen upon the film, putting me even further than usual out of the proverbial "in the know" loop.
While I understand all the hoopla that was focused on Petit at the time, I no longer look at his feat as unrepeatable or even as a particularly impressive act.
Apparently, that's what happens when you turn 53 and find yourself surrounded by people you love who are teetering far more precariously above the comfort of their own solid ground.
From dire prognoses to the deaths of dearly loved ones--and everything in between--a lot of people I am nuts about are, I am sure, growing weary of the balancing act of their own current lives. So you'll forgive me, Phillippe Petit, if I put you and your antics aside and turn my attention elsewhere.
Following the deaths of my dad and brother, I discovered firsthand that there is legitimate comfort to be had in a Hallmark card or a kind word uttered. That is, perhaps, the best lesson I learned from those losses--the value of acknowledging the elephant in the room, even if it's uncomfortable to do. And I am leaning heavily on that lesson these days, hoping that my own acknowledgments of others' hardship--acknowledgments that look quite lame from 1,300 feet above traffic--somehow continue to matter. Otherwise, I'm doomed as a decent friend or family member, impotent, like a spent firecracker on July 5th.
Time and again, it is the act of getting out of bed--that willingness to look things (or people or circumstances) directly in the eyes--that strikes me as the bravest act of all. Surely, then, as the friend, I can reciprocate in my own, small way, hoping that my own eye contact relays the message that I know and I am walking with you.
...not much of a movie pitch, I suppose. But, somehow, enough, I hope.
Saturday, January 17, 2015
Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes
If I were to write a book about my life (perhaps "pamphlet" is a better description of the product), I suspect that I would structure it in the traditional ways, utilizing chapters and some sort of pervading theme to hold it all together.
Even if I never take on the challenge of putting it all to paper, I can't deny that there have been certain times in my life when I have sensed the turning of the proverbial page. Take this week, for instance, when I could practically hear the sound of a cosmic finger running across the top of my life's current page and flipping it over to see what's next.
"What's Next" is what I suspect will be the final chapter of my current "I work in a school" trajectory. This May, I will wrap up my rather long chapter as part-time journalism teacher/part-time librarian and turn, instead, to the task of becoming a full-time school librarian.
A lifelong fencewalker ("Jane Fencewalker" could've been a minor, no doubt forgettable, character in the "Star Wars" saga), this move is a surprising leap for me, despite the fact that I've spent the last 12 or so years happily dangling my toes in the library life. Let's be clear. I already know that I love being a librarian. I work with awesome, fun, talented people, which makes it an easy job to love. It's closing the other door that has proved to be a transition.
Yesterday, I told my Newspaper and Yearbook staffs that this would be my last year as their adviser. Given that I had awakened for the day at 2 a.m. with these thoughts swirling in my mind, it would be fair to say that I was a bit nervous about the announcement. Certainly, I didn't think that the world would cease spinning or that there would be old-timey gnashing of teeth or beating of breasts. No, I figured that the discomfort would mostly be mine, considering that I'd spent the last 29 (!) years carrying the "journalism" label with me to school each day.
My post-announcement transition was made vastly easier when one student--after digesting the news for maybe one or two seconds--immediately (and, frankly, a bit too enthusiastically) hollered out the name of a person she considered to be the perfect teacher to take my place. Oh, the hoopla and cheering that ensued!
It's true that the pop-culture bridges spanning between me and my students have become worn and weathered. It's also true that I have been a little slow and clunky in transitioning my students' storytelling to the world of social media ("tweet" will forever be a bird word, if you ask me). But I cannot tell you--in any accurate way, at least--how much I have enjoyed spending my work days with this group of enthusiastic, funny, curious students over the past 29 years. And, frankly, while it might be downright delusional to still consider myself youthful and relevant, it is a bit sobering to realize that, beginning next August, I will be writing what I am certain is the last chapter of my life as an educator.
Here's hoping I write it well.
Even if I never take on the challenge of putting it all to paper, I can't deny that there have been certain times in my life when I have sensed the turning of the proverbial page. Take this week, for instance, when I could practically hear the sound of a cosmic finger running across the top of my life's current page and flipping it over to see what's next.
"What's Next" is what I suspect will be the final chapter of my current "I work in a school" trajectory. This May, I will wrap up my rather long chapter as part-time journalism teacher/part-time librarian and turn, instead, to the task of becoming a full-time school librarian.
A lifelong fencewalker ("Jane Fencewalker" could've been a minor, no doubt forgettable, character in the "Star Wars" saga), this move is a surprising leap for me, despite the fact that I've spent the last 12 or so years happily dangling my toes in the library life. Let's be clear. I already know that I love being a librarian. I work with awesome, fun, talented people, which makes it an easy job to love. It's closing the other door that has proved to be a transition.
Yesterday, I told my Newspaper and Yearbook staffs that this would be my last year as their adviser. Given that I had awakened for the day at 2 a.m. with these thoughts swirling in my mind, it would be fair to say that I was a bit nervous about the announcement. Certainly, I didn't think that the world would cease spinning or that there would be old-timey gnashing of teeth or beating of breasts. No, I figured that the discomfort would mostly be mine, considering that I'd spent the last 29 (!) years carrying the "journalism" label with me to school each day.
My post-announcement transition was made vastly easier when one student--after digesting the news for maybe one or two seconds--immediately (and, frankly, a bit too enthusiastically) hollered out the name of a person she considered to be the perfect teacher to take my place. Oh, the hoopla and cheering that ensued!
It's true that the pop-culture bridges spanning between me and my students have become worn and weathered. It's also true that I have been a little slow and clunky in transitioning my students' storytelling to the world of social media ("tweet" will forever be a bird word, if you ask me). But I cannot tell you--in any accurate way, at least--how much I have enjoyed spending my work days with this group of enthusiastic, funny, curious students over the past 29 years. And, frankly, while it might be downright delusional to still consider myself youthful and relevant, it is a bit sobering to realize that, beginning next August, I will be writing what I am certain is the last chapter of my life as an educator.
Here's hoping I write it well.
Saturday, January 3, 2015
Love Potion No. 9
Then again, I'm nuts about Finn, who is everything a dog shouldn't be, at least according to my pre-Finn self, and these feelings aren't particularly practical either.
This just goes to show you how much we are willing to fool ourselves in the middle of heartache, when all we really want is an exact replica of the dog we just buried, only alive. Hobbes, for all his quirkiness, made me fall in love with Wheaten Terriers. He was soft. He didn't shed. He was handsome and kind. And so, when he died three years ago, I began my search for Hobbes, Part 2.
After a few near misses and a couple of "ain't even closes," and just when I was starting to think I might have to try a cat or a gerbil or maybe even a poodle or something, there was Finn staring at me from his temporary home in Holt, Missouri (yeah, you heard right. Kind of...miraculous, eh?). They called him a Wheaten and I called them to put my dibs on him.
By the time we got him home, though, it was obvious that we'd been had.
1. First of all, he most certainly wasn't--and isn't--a Wheaten. I mean, his hair kind of looks like Shredded Wheat (and feels like it, too), but he most certainly isn't a Wheaten.
2. Pet a Wheaten and you'll never think "hay bale." Such is not the case with Finn.
3 Finn sheds. Wheatens don't.
4. When we first got him, Finn had the size-zero waist of a super model, complete with visible ribs. Our family's first anorexic. Wheatens aren't scrawny. Ever.
5. Wheatens, when full grown, will not fit on your lap. Or fit in neatly next to you at the breakfast bar. Finn can do both, and in fact is doing so, as I type this.
So, why is it that this dog, who was everything I was not looking for in a canine, has so claimed my heart? And when did he magically--miraculously--become so dadgummed cute? This is where those bible stories come in.
Maybe, just maybe, love really does transform us. Maybe Finn--who still looks about the same as when we got him--became beautiful to us because we fell in love with him. Maybe all that love made his fur softer and his face more sparkly and his intelligence even more...intelligenter.
Or whatever.
So, what if all those crazy bible stories didn't really happen? Who cares? Maybe they are just supposed to represent the transformative power of loving someone or something. I think that we can all agree that we are changed when we love or are loved deeply. I know I felt like I could walk on water when Mark Holt finally noticed me standing there, with my jaw on the ground. And it goes both ways--we change those we love back, somehow making them even cuter or softer or smarter.
It's true, even with my own kids, who I'm crazy about. When Eric was born, for instance, he had a little dip on the top of his head, a place where he could collect rain water, assuming I was holding him upright and he was keeping his head steady. Sure, that little divot was a bit discombobulating at first, but I found that, the more comfortable I became as a parent, and the more time that I spent with my young son, the more beautiful he became until, suddenly, one day, the human rain barrel was gone. Poof! Like that!
Like all good bible stories, my story has a lesson, as well:
I sayeth to you--Go and find yourself someone or something to love. It matters not how scrawny or strange-looking or Republican he or she or it is. Thou shalt simply set thy sights upon him/her/it and start loving. And ye shalt find yourself and the one that you have loved transformed, and slightly surprised at just how good-looking thou hast become, both inside and out.
Amen.
Thursday, January 1, 2015
Turn the Page
One of my year-end rituals (really, "ritual" seems too big a word for this secretarial exercise) is to line up my weekly calendars--one year abutting the next--and nudge birthdays and anniversaries onto the fresh pages of the newest. One bonus is that, as I turn the pages of last year, I am reminded of otherwise forgotten moments--Oh! A church workshop next Saturday! The dentist at 11:30! My period started! I also love seeing all those beautiful photos of the great big world outside--purple sea stars tickling each other on a beach in California, or a painted bunting sitting atop some bristle grass in North Dakota.
As I wended my way through calendars yesterday, though, what struck me most was the absence of my own handwriting. Entire months were passed over, aside from the occasional name of a college acquaintance scratched into the corner of a particular date. Otherwise, just great swaths of nature and whiteness, as though I had not been here at all. Even big things--our trip to England and Scotland, Allison's move-in date for the dorm--brought no ink to paper. This absence of a hand-written bread-crumb trail makes me fear I have lost last year entirely.
Is it no wonder that I walk purposefully into a room and suddenly can't remember why?
And so, I have resolved a few things on this first morning of 2015. Three things, to be exact. 1. I will read more poetry. 2. I will try to savor whatever is before me. 3. I will write down one thing on every single day of my Audubon 2015 engagement calendar, even if it seems like something insignificant.
Why the poetry? Because a 53-year-old woman doesn't need all those restaurant-sized servings to thrive anymore. Yes, I will continue to read fiction--plenty, I hope--but I will also treat myself to the refreshing tidbits that can come only from poetry. Intellectual tapas, if you will--savory bites of life as I know it. Easily consumed in one sitting.
And the savoring? Well, I am not a dieter, even if I should be one. And I have always favored short, memorable instructions over a lengthy lecture. Give me three good words or less and I will do my best to follow them. "Savor" is only one, and I think it'll serve me in all parts of my life--from the dinner plate (one cannot savor nachos and inhale them at the same time, you see) to the early-morning song of a screech owl, I will do my best to pay attention to what is in front of me.
Finally, the daily recording. . . this is both a practical and a selfish resolution. Frankly, I can't bear to repeat yesterday's shockingly hollow secretarial exercise, so this resolution will guarantee that my weekly engagement calendar will be more engaging to review next December. By the time I line up the calendars and pull out my pen next year, I want to be reminded of the moments that made up this year that is before me, the people and places and things that shaped and filled me. Those moments are the stuff of a decent, quiet life and a pretty good poem, to boot.
As I wended my way through calendars yesterday, though, what struck me most was the absence of my own handwriting. Entire months were passed over, aside from the occasional name of a college acquaintance scratched into the corner of a particular date. Otherwise, just great swaths of nature and whiteness, as though I had not been here at all. Even big things--our trip to England and Scotland, Allison's move-in date for the dorm--brought no ink to paper. This absence of a hand-written bread-crumb trail makes me fear I have lost last year entirely.
Is it no wonder that I walk purposefully into a room and suddenly can't remember why?
And so, I have resolved a few things on this first morning of 2015. Three things, to be exact. 1. I will read more poetry. 2. I will try to savor whatever is before me. 3. I will write down one thing on every single day of my Audubon 2015 engagement calendar, even if it seems like something insignificant.
Why the poetry? Because a 53-year-old woman doesn't need all those restaurant-sized servings to thrive anymore. Yes, I will continue to read fiction--plenty, I hope--but I will also treat myself to the refreshing tidbits that can come only from poetry. Intellectual tapas, if you will--savory bites of life as I know it. Easily consumed in one sitting.
And the savoring? Well, I am not a dieter, even if I should be one. And I have always favored short, memorable instructions over a lengthy lecture. Give me three good words or less and I will do my best to follow them. "Savor" is only one, and I think it'll serve me in all parts of my life--from the dinner plate (one cannot savor nachos and inhale them at the same time, you see) to the early-morning song of a screech owl, I will do my best to pay attention to what is in front of me.
Finally, the daily recording. . . this is both a practical and a selfish resolution. Frankly, I can't bear to repeat yesterday's shockingly hollow secretarial exercise, so this resolution will guarantee that my weekly engagement calendar will be more engaging to review next December. By the time I line up the calendars and pull out my pen next year, I want to be reminded of the moments that made up this year that is before me, the people and places and things that shaped and filled me. Those moments are the stuff of a decent, quiet life and a pretty good poem, to boot.
Monday, December 22, 2014
Making Space for Time
I just finished reading a Smithsonian article about time and how there are scientists (Einstein included) who have questioned its existence. Or at least its existence in an if a, then b sort of way. The article read like a truffle, small but dense--almost too much for one sitting. And, while I'm not sure I "get" the concept of a four-dimensional universe--one in which things coexist side by side rather than front to back--I can acknowledge that time and space are odd, evolving creatures.It's why life sometimes feels bigger, as though someone polished all the atoms so they could shine a bit more. That's how the last day has felt to me--not flashy, really, but expansive, in tiny ways. And slightly slowed down, so that I can take more of it in.
Whatever the reason for these thick, stretchy moments, I am glad for them and have volunteered to sign up for more, even if they don't register on anyone else's scale.
So much went into my yesterday that listing the things seems like an injustice, as though a reader could never possibly understand how nice all those tiny moments were. How much I enjoyed languishing over the Sunday paper, or sitting with friends at church. How much I savored catching up with neighbors, chopping onions for soup, watching Finn chase squirrels in the park. Obviously, commas are no help here, because they only cheapen those experiences, stacking them side by side like firewood waiting to be consumed.
And I have yet to figure out what kind of punctuation to use when considering my children.
Exclamation points popped up just before dinner when Allison shared her Calc grade with me. And rightly so! But, despite all their showy enthusiasm, exclamation points always fall short in explaining the deep, thrumming love I feel for Allison. I simply don't know how to properly punctuate that particular aquifer of feelings. Instead, last night, I just found myself staring at her, with a dumb smile on my face. Imperfect, but a solution, nonetheless.
I suspect it will be an amped-up cousin of that smile that shows up tomorrow night, when Eric Carlson Holt moves his tired body through airport security. That smile, too, will fall far short of my requirements, only hinting at the deeper rivers running under my surface. And I'm sure that time will do that funny thing it sometimes does, bending itself just so, lassoing the earth's rotation just long enough so that the moment will stretch itself out a bit more, making room for everything. Absolutely everything.
And I will gasp, having seen all four dimensions laid out before me, the secrets of the universe momentarily uncovered in the lanky body of a 22-year-old man who has come home again.
How on earth does a person punctuate something like that?
Monday, December 15, 2014
A Simple Antidote
Wouldn't it be nice if there was a plumber we could call to stave the flow of all this rotten news? And all that was required of us was to find that dog-eared corner of the Yellow Pages that leads us to Onslaught Sewer and Drain, Open 24 Hours a Day?
Onslaught, indeed, ironically punctuated by Christmas lights strung from the thirsty branches of the tree out front.
. . . but maybe those lights aren't so ironic after all. Maybe they are the secret antidote, the flickering oasis that feeds and fills us. That's what I've been telling myself these days. Those lights are the reason I head downstairs in the pitch dark each morning, making a beeline for the Christmas tree. Like some sort of extension-cord Yenta, I clumsily introduce male and female plugs and cords as they gather underneath our Christmas tree with all of their untapped potential.
"Let there be light."
The bigger the bad news, the more important the little things. I know this. We all do. But it bears repeating.
Here, then, is my recipe for a good, quiet life, despite everything. Please forward to 20 friends, sending it to the first name at the top of the page. Actually, they don't have to be friends. In fact, maybe it would be better if some of them were people you don't even like. Anyway, if you could just do this in the next 48 hours, you will be amazed what arrives on your doorstep within the week. Please don't break the chain!
Good-Life Stew. . . The perfect antidote for a cold, hard day
1. One Dog (any brand will do)
Note: if you don't have a dog, you can pet someone else's. And, while I've never tried a cat, I've been told that they make a fair substitute, although I'd remove the nails first.
2. One Good Friend (again, any brand, as long as it's good)
Note: Some people like to add several, but you really don't have to. I find that if there is good marbling, one friend packs plenty of flavor.
3. Four Cups of Fresh Air
Note: It's really important that you get fresh air. Check the expiration date, if you're not sure.
4. One Roof, preferably over your head
5. A Handful of Songs
Note: There are all kinds of songs out there. Make sure you choose a few that you like, ones that won't come back to haunt you in the middle of the night.
Mix and warm over the stove, until stew begins to bubble. Turn to Low and let simmer. Feel free to add spices liberally (or conservatively), according to your preferences. Enjoy!
Onslaught, indeed, ironically punctuated by Christmas lights strung from the thirsty branches of the tree out front.
. . . but maybe those lights aren't so ironic after all. Maybe they are the secret antidote, the flickering oasis that feeds and fills us. That's what I've been telling myself these days. Those lights are the reason I head downstairs in the pitch dark each morning, making a beeline for the Christmas tree. Like some sort of extension-cord Yenta, I clumsily introduce male and female plugs and cords as they gather underneath our Christmas tree with all of their untapped potential.
"Let there be light."
The bigger the bad news, the more important the little things. I know this. We all do. But it bears repeating.
Here, then, is my recipe for a good, quiet life, despite everything. Please forward to 20 friends, sending it to the first name at the top of the page. Actually, they don't have to be friends. In fact, maybe it would be better if some of them were people you don't even like. Anyway, if you could just do this in the next 48 hours, you will be amazed what arrives on your doorstep within the week. Please don't break the chain!
Good-Life Stew. . . The perfect antidote for a cold, hard day
1. One Dog (any brand will do)
Note: if you don't have a dog, you can pet someone else's. And, while I've never tried a cat, I've been told that they make a fair substitute, although I'd remove the nails first.
2. One Good Friend (again, any brand, as long as it's good)
Note: Some people like to add several, but you really don't have to. I find that if there is good marbling, one friend packs plenty of flavor.
3. Four Cups of Fresh Air
Note: It's really important that you get fresh air. Check the expiration date, if you're not sure.
4. One Roof, preferably over your head
5. A Handful of Songs
Note: There are all kinds of songs out there. Make sure you choose a few that you like, ones that won't come back to haunt you in the middle of the night.
Mix and warm over the stove, until stew begins to bubble. Turn to Low and let simmer. Feel free to add spices liberally (or conservatively), according to your preferences. Enjoy!
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