just start.

globe

2012-02-01T01:17:00.000-08:00

I found this at the Antique Mall last week, and I am glad about it -- really glad about it because I love it. And I love it because...

1. Every time I look at it (which is often), it makes me smile.

2. It reminds me of my dad (I remember when he brought the same one home when I was a kid. I think he still has it).

3. When Cole asked me if Africa is bigger than Whidbey Island, I could show him.

4. It reminded Maya of my dad, too.

5. It compliments the colors in my little office -- like it has been here all along.

6. It reminds me of where I've been, where I am and where I'm going.

7. I've wanted a globe for twenty-plus years, but never indulged.

8. I didn't even have to indulge.

9. After an hour of flying Lego-guys around it, Cole asked if he could have "one of those ball things" too.

10. I found it on a short, spontaneous and sweet date with myself.

11. I wasn't even going to go on my date, but I decided otherwise.

12. Nearly a week later, I'm up late thinking (and blogging) about it.

13. If it wasn't already after midnight (1 a.m.?!? Oh my), I am certain I could come up with at least 13 more reasons I love it.

14. Well, because I just do. I love it, and I am SO glad about it.

on living

2012-01-24T22:20:00.000-08:00

"To know what you prefer instead of humbly saying Amen

to what the world tells you you ought to prefer,

is to have kept your soul alive."

~Robert Louis Stevenson

and one more thing...

2011-12-31T01:09:00.000-08:00

thank you. thank you. thank you. thank you.

the list 2011

2011-12-30T23:06:00.000-08:00

I've been looking forward to this for nearly a year. Ahem, I give you...

The 19 books I read (and finished) in 2011
1.What the Dog Saw -- M. Gladwell (1/2011)
2. The Tipping Point -- M. Gladwell (1/2011)*
3. Women, Food and God -- G. Roth (2/2011)
4. Into the Wild -- J. Krakauer (2/2011)*
5. The Good Wife -- S. O'Nan (3/13)
6. The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake -- A. Bender (3/22)
7. Me Talk Pretty One Day -- D. Sedaris (3/25)*
8. What I Talk About When I Talk About Running -- H. Murakami
9. The Elegance of the Hedgehog -- M. Barberry (4/15)
10. The Time Traveler's Wife -- A. Niffenegger (5/11)*
11. Her Fearful Symmetry -- A. Niffenegger (5/28)
12. Anatomy of the Spirit -- C. Myss (7/24)*
13. The Happiness Project -- G. Rubin (8/11)
14. The Help -- K. Sockett (9/6)*
15. The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother -- A. Chua (9/24)*
16. A New Earth -- E. Tolle (10/24)
17. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe -- C.S. Lewis (10/31)*
18. The Power of Now -- E. Tolle (11/20)*
19. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory -- R. Dahl (11/22)

I thoroughly enjoyed the books I read this year, and a handful of them, I really loved(*). But I think the one that moved me most -- the book that left me breathless and speechless with book clutched to chest and tears streaming -- the book that revisited my thoughts long after I finished its final page was...

I am grateful to the writers who made me laugh, who made me cry -- who met, occupied, taught, challenged and inspired me in 2011. I look forward to and hope for the good pleasure of many more hours in this blanket with a cup of tea and a good book. I'm always looking for recommendations, so if you have one, please send it my way. Until this time next year...

thirty-five

2011-12-30T22:48:00.000-08:00

I turned thirty-five in November.

My day was cake and ice cream -- ballet, a massage and sushi. But to add frosting to an already exquisite day, Paul and the kids woke up early to decorate the house...

And as if that wasn't enough, I received a special surprise in the mail...

yeah.

haiku for lovey

2011-07-20T16:59:00.000-07:00

To notice, to see

the fabric and threads that bind

Unexpected Gifts

Warmth and light and love

Boundless, endless, eternal

Time to love, to leave

Damp and bitter cold

Shaken, unraveled, undone

And yet, love endures

Missing my sisters
Recalling. Reminiscing.
A warm reminder

Smelly and adored

A filthy maturation

Worn and never washed

A rice-filled pillow

Sunshine amidst gravid gray

Waning at the seams

Open hands release

A new friend enters the scene

donning running shoes

She saw, she noticed

She picked up thread and fabric

Unexpected gifts

Gratitude abounds

Another rice-filled pillow

Lovely. Washable.

music makes me happy

2011-07-14T22:25:00.000-07:00

Tonight I found my summer show, and I'm glad about it. Singing, dancing, Ryan Murphy... it's my cup of intoxicating tea: the glee project. Mmmm.

And when I entered my kids' school earlier this week, I came face-to-face with a pillar from my past: the Grease soundtrack coming from an antiquated stereo. Fond memories of Sandy, Rizzo, Frenchie, Kenickie and Danny Zuko flooded my body and mind. I felt powerless over the overwhelming urge to doo-wop, dance and sing out loud to the horror of my children and their incredulous, prepubescent peers.

Man, I LOVED that movie!

Yesterday morning, Danny and Sandy were my cleaning day companions, and tonight I sampled my future cleaning day soundtrack. My throat is sore from aiming for (and completely missing) high C as I scrubbed toilets and soap scum. But my bathroom is clean, I've been humming all day and I'm heading to bed with a smile on my face.

grass comes from seeds??

2011-07-13T18:50:00.000-07:00

Here in the woods of the Pacific NW, I'm surrounded by fascinating artisans and craftsmen who fish and crab and hunt for gooey ducks (what's that you say? yes, that's what I said also).

Many of my new friends and neighbors blow glass, bake bread and drink coffee like it's water. They built their homes from the trees on their land, they raise and sup from their chickens and their cows, and they wear sweaters to the beach in the summer time. In casual conversation, I often hear the genus and species of each plant, bird and bug that passes by. And nearly two years later, the culture shock remains. I oftentimes feel like a novice and tourist -- a stranger in a strange land.

I grew up in the suburbs of the High Plains. I was nearly twenty before I realized that grass comes from seeds rather than flatbed trucks topped with verdant carpets of sod. Blackberries, cherries and eggs came from the grocery store, sticks and stones came from Target and Michael's, and rainstorms lasted fifteen minutes tops.

Slowly, I am acclimating: learning the culture, talking the talk and walking the walk. This gait is quiet and slow; the movement, organic. I wear dreads and wool sweaters out of necessity, and there's just a whole lot more of me. I've traded my teakettle for a coffee pot, and I actually use a compost bin. At sea level, I really do feel closer and more connected to the Earth and its rhythms.

Shifting. I am shifting.

I'm surrounded by towering trees in this land of ever green, and I have more information -- other perspective. I am unable to be who I was, trying to be who I am without becoming lost in who I hope to become. Facts of the past are no longer so, and I'm still not sure what to do with that. Many things I once did I can no longer do and many things I never considered are common place now.

Yes, little by little, shifting.

I've been talking about it over ten years and writing about it for at least five, but something shifted indeed this Spring. I sowed seed, pulled weeds, let Seattle skies work their magic and voila!

My garden is little and laughable, and I'm unsure whether the peppers, the broccoli, the peas, the carrots, the onions, the beans... or anything else will take. Nevertheless, the spinach in our salad yesterday came from the earth beneath my own two feet. The harvest is slow and small, but it is.

mazama

2011-06-05T23:50:00.000-07:00

perseverance

2011-06-05T23:03:00.000-07:00

And I'm posting this picture of the present...

To forever remind me of the joy I felt on a deck this weekend

and of the overwhelming pride I feel tonight

and to help me to remember that yes,

sometimes the sun also shines in Washington.

nostalgia

2011-05-26T23:21:00.000-07:00

We're back home now, but before we left I took this picture to help me remember...

It even rains in Denver sometimes.

the flu, concluded.

2011-04-10T23:30:00.000-07:00

For twenty days, I moaned, ached and I laid around

I hardly stood to put my feet on the ground.

I just read and I ate and I ate and I read,

and I painted, crocheted, ate, then got back in bed.

The rain started, then stopped, then it started again

And I slept and slept more, and I grew another chin.

But the rain and the aches stopped and then I arose,

Our tin anniversary was a welcome repose.

Spring Break, a conference and spots of sunshine,

Up days and down days, thank God for red wine.

Now the babes and my mate are all nestled in bed

And I'm here in the dark with the thoughts in my head.

Tonight marks an end and then Tomorrow begins,

So I'll head back to bed sans the flu with my chins.

comment vous appelez-vous

2011-03-24T17:08:00.000-07:00

"In order for consciousness to be aroused, it must have a name."

~ Muriel Barbery

the flu, cont'd

2011-03-22T19:50:00.000-07:00

It's been eight days.

I decided to try another approach today. Rather than to carry on as much as possible with life as usual -- to pick up, to drop off, to suck it up and go to that meeting, to teach, to go for a walk or to get to work on that garden since the sun is shining, or simply to make it to my chair in the living room where I spent the greater portion of last week -- I decided instead to stay in bed. Save potty breaks, rice-pillow reheats, two meals (sort of) and a midday shower, I've been here tucked in bed since last night.

From this spot, I've been silent, looking just beyond the door and our back porch, past a grove of swaying alders to a blue sky. Longing. Dreaming. All day, a steady stream of fresh spring air has blown away the stench of sick through the wide open doorway. Cherry blossoms blossom just outside my window, and a single daffodil blooms from a sprawling fern in the lawn. The late afternoon sun shone on my face and warmed my bed just before it set beneath towering pines.

I learned six new words today. I finished a book. And the last scoop of mint chip. And a half-eaten bag of cheddar crunchies. And I've made it three-quarters of the way through a second book. The latter is funny. Laugh-out loud, tear-streaked cheeks funny. F-bombs. Fresh air. A wide-open door. Thankfully.

To their bewilderment, my children returned home from school to find me in the same spot where they left me this morning. For a while this afternoon, they joined me in bed. From this bed, we reviewed spelling lists, our address and highlights from our respective days. The beautiful day eventually beckoned them, and upon their departure I pondered the words Maya misspelled: hospital, H-O-S-P-I-T-L-E. octopus, O-C-T-O-P-O-S.

Octopus. October. From this bed I considered the calendar and its months.

Does it strike anyone else as funny that October is the tenth month of the year? Does anyone else assign an intrinsic gender to each month? January: female. February: male. April, May, June, August: female. September through December, male, with the exception, of course: November. But then there is March and there is July, mostly female, but... hmmm, well?

I've pondered many other thoughts today. I'll spare you.

My stomach growls. My orange beanie is pulled low atop my 'fro. Beneath it, my head is hot and throbbing. My throat is sore, and it aches in my ears and my eyes. My shins hurt. Still. The flu drones on.

Paul and the kids have returned, and they can no longer stand the cold from my wide open door. It is freezing, Paul declared before he proceeded to chop kindling, start a fire and shut my door. The fire burns. My door is closed. My insides and my head ablaze.

Pots and pans and footsteps and voices now clamor and pad in my kitchen. I feel glad for the sounds and smells of their return. And I feel glad for my husband and his humor and his help. And for my dictionary and my library and its books. And for my laptop. And my kiddos and their stories and their homework. And for my door and its hinges and cool breezes. And even, I suppose, for the lasting view from this flu.

the flu

2011-03-16T11:24:00.000-07:00

My life is good.

I love and I am loved. I have faith and health. I'm happily married. My kids are great. I live a simple life. I have a handful of really good friends. I have time and words and a job. I spend minimal energy with folks I don't care for. I can read, and I do. I have a roof over my head and access to clean water, heat, yoga and oatmeal.

So, why do I feel down?

I have been under the weather -- fighting something strong for the last few days; I think it is more than this flu.

Spring is around the corner, and with its imminent return, I've heard early birds sing and uncovered tiny budding blooms. Patches of sunshine and longer days are pushing through gray skies and long nights, yet thick clouds persist. These last few days, the rain has been heavy and hard. Not today though.

Paul is out of town and the kids are at school. I'm over-churched, I miss my sister and my friends. I miss my parents, my passion and my brother. My head is throbbing and my stomach hurts. I'm not teaching much any more -- I'm both glad and sad about it. I'm thirty-four and still unsure what I want to be when I grow up.

I'm settled in my favorite chair with my rice pillow, my laptop and my favorite blanket. My house is still. I feel warm. And tired. The season is changing. The world is shifting. As am I. So when the job goes away, the health fails, the body softens, the sky sobs and those whom I love are elsewhere... then what? When the earth quakes and markets crash and people die and marriages end, what then?

Tomorrow.

Every day can't be sunshine and knowing and being known. Sometimes it rains. Sometimes it fucking rains. And some days -- in spite of all the good -- I feel like crying too. So I do. And it helps.

And today, even though I'm unsettled and I don't feel well, I know my life is good.

alaska

2011-03-04T15:06:00.000-08:00

"Inhabit the life you have chosen... What if this is exactly what you are supposed to be doing, because it is what you are doing? What if each nitty-gritty task is perfection itself and you keep missing it because you're looking for something else?"

~ Geneen Roth

nemo 1934

2011-03-04T01:04:00.000-08:00

"I have always been unsatisfied with life as most people live it. Always, I want to live more intensely and richly."

~Everett Ruess

tuck your chin

2011-02-10T14:49:00.000-08:00

These were the words of the perfect stranger with whom I soaked in a hot tub.

Keith, which I later discovered was the name of the torpedo in the lane beside me that Friday morning, had also noticed my strokes. He is lean and long, with deeply set dark eyes and salt and pepper hair that is mostly gone. After a few minutes of small talk following our respective workouts, Keith offered a few words of unsolicited advice.

“With swimming,” he explained, “I find it’s best to work out one kink at a time.”

Paul was out of town last weekend, so this morning was my first opportunity to return to the lap pool in nearly two weeks. At the tail end of my workout – seemingly out of nowhere – I remembered my brief exchange with the substitute school teacher in the hot tub. Mid stroke, I heeded Keith’s advice: I tucked my chin. And I proceeded to swim the fastest and smoothest butterfly I’ve swum in 26 years.

Over dishes a few minutes ago, this stranger who was in and out of my life in five minutes, returned to mind. He’s got me thinking and wondering…

What kind of impact could I also make if I had the courage to say something when I see it? And what difference could it make if I just focused on improving one thing at a time instead of everything all at once? And isn’t that what they say so often in Bikram as well: tuck your chin? Maybe there’s something to that.

zumba

2011-01-12T12:03:00.000-08:00

I have been leading Zumba classes at least six times each week for the last four months, after I randomly and reluctantly stumbled into my first class last July.

Sometimes when I'm teaching, I'll catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror -- head held high, dripping hair pulled back in a colorful bandanna, a wide, white grin stretched across my dark, glistening face, studded bling sparkling from my earlobes, ZUMBA splashed in neon across my chest and bright pants hanging from my hips with just one pant leg cinched to my knee. "Who is that in my body and how in the world did she get here?!?" I wonder as I step and sway in a side salsa.

"So, what exactly is Zumba?" I've been asked more than once. Feel the Music; Get Fit, Get Happy our wrist bands and tank tops tout. "It's a Latin-inspired dance fitness program blah, blah, blah..." I reflexively reply. But in my final class of the day yesterday, I saw and felt something happen that my auto-response fails to describe.

When I think back to who and how I was six months ago, it blows my mind that I am doing what I am doing. I reached a bottom so low that the only thing that could get me out of bed for a while was food (ice cream, preferably) which I couldn't stop eating once I began. With a sore belly and a wounded spirit, I called my friend Joy one bleak morning last July. All I could do when Joy said hello was cry. She listened for a second, then confessed that she was heading out the door to the free Zumba class that would take place at her church 20 minutes later. She invited me (again) to come. "There's free childcare too," she added.

I went to Zumba that day, and a few days later, I went back. And I went back again. And again. And without retelling the whole sob story of the early days of last summer, June's clouds eventually lifted, the sun came out in July and something in me began to change. That something didn't happen overnight, and it certainly wasn't pretty. It's been sloppy and slow actually.

I remember the day when I started to notice. I had moved from the back to the front of Allison's Zumba class, and I caught a glimpse of myself -- left arm extended across my body, fingers long and alive. I was abandoned and lost in music and movement. The sadness that threatened to swallow me was gone, and in that moment I felt free. I was dancing.

For the last few months, I have had the good pleasure of coming alongside the persons who have attended my classes to see what this whole "Zumba Thing" is all about. I have been witness once again to beauty being birthed. Insecurities have crumbled as pounds have dropped, hips have loosened and smiles have returned. In this world, belly dancing shimmies have replaced baggy tops and sweat pants, and neon has become the new black. Individuals who were once straight-faced strangers have unabashedly uncovered what was hidden. "Look, Abi," one glowing woman in particular exclaimed as she lifted her shirt after class recently. "I have a WAIST!!"

Yesterday night, I saw 13 women move in sync. Salsa, Samba, Reggaeton, Charleston, Foxtrot, Cumbia... harmony. Although I've taught classes quadruple the size, the energy and enthusiasm in the studio last night could have illuminated the entire state. Again, I felt that shift -- we were no longer thinking through steps and choreography, we were indeed feeling the music and the magic of that moment. This was not just an hour of intense, brightly colored group fitness, and for me it was much more than a job. It was a concert of confidence, commitment, beauty and joy. For 61 minutes we worked and shook and shimmied our asses off. And from start to finish, we were beaming. We were dancing.

bowing out

2010-12-15T07:46:00.000-08:00

"I am never proud to participate in violence, yet, I know that each of us must care enough for ourselves, that we can be ready and able to come to our own defense when and wherever needed."

~ Maya Angelou

friends on facebook

2010-12-03T10:21:00.000-08:00

Cole and I walked into a living room of strangers and settled into a spot between two women I met earlier in the week. I accepted the invitation to the playgroup that morning in a half-hearted effort to make connections in our new town.

After brief introductions and a bit of coercion, Cole eventually left the circle and went to play with the children in another room. I was on my own to take up space and make my place amidst this group of young mothers. So dutifully, I inquired about names, about spouses, about pastimes and children, then leaned back against the couch, settled into my spot atop the cheerio-laden carpet and purposed to do what I do best: to listen and to learn.

The events that followed were unexpected, however. Nothing happened. Conversation ceased once I stopped talking, and save the soundtrack of our children playing in the distance, I sat amidst eight friends-of-one-another for 1 1/2 hours in virtual silence. It was a curious, confounding... and painfully awkward thing.

Every once in a while one woman would briefly speak into the chasm and the others would smile, nod or respond. Then, as quickly as it departed, the heavy hush would return. I began to welcome and to look forward to the frequent interruptions of snot-nosed toddlers with needs for snacks, affection, interjection and Kleenex. In all honesty, I couldn't wait to leave. To my shock, these women had nothing to say. They had already said it -- posted it, rather -- earlier that morning.

I was in the midst of friends on Facebook.

"Facebook is where it's at..." I've heard it countless times before. Now, more than ever. My increasingly conspicuous absence from this book of faces is neither philosophical, nor religious. It hasn't been a choice, really. You see, my life has felt full -- overflowing most days -- without Facebook, so honestly I haven't given it much thought. Until now.

Last night, Paul and I spoke about relationships and connections between people. Inevitably, Facebook made its way into our conversation. Paul loves the chase and making connections. He loves to network and loves Facebook for the access to all these things that it affords. I compartmentalize and over-analyze. I love the distinction between relationships in context and I value presence and quality of connection above all.

Instant access, limitless resource, one more way to fill up free time and more "friends" than one can count are just a few of the compelling reasons to frequent Facebook. For me, however, these are a few of the reasons I've opted out. I'm not on Facebook for the same reason I don't wear a watch, forget my cell phone, infrequent Trader Joe's and Target, abstain from Costco and have not returned to that playgroup: way too much, yet not nearly enough.

I am not a Facebook-hater (neither Costco-, TJ's-, nor Target-). I have never tried it, so I can't in good conscience knock it. I can only speak from my own experience and observation. But it's become harder to see. I have observed haze, fuzz and interference. Hard lines have been crossed and become blurred. Meaning has been obscured.

The things is, Facebook is not friendship. This, I think, bears repeating. In the same way that the Bible is not faith, a calculator is not mathematics, the internet is not knowledge, Christmas gifts are not love, and marriage cannot make perfect strangers a family, Facebook is not friendship.

In my opinion, its lines have been smudged and it is sometimes misused. How can I deny what an amazing resource it has been for so many? But the operative word here is resource. Facebook -- like the bible, a calculator, the internet, a gift and a marriage -- is a tool. It is a means by which to connect, to understand, to end or to begin. To become rapt with the pen and to miss that which was penned is a tragedy.

I don't know the words that were exchanged on Facebook the morning before that playgroup, and I can't judge the quality of the relationships of the mommas I shared that morning with. I can say, however, that something was missing.

For me, the beauty of friendship and of faith is the present, the face-to-face and the conversation that comes from lives intertwined; connection is everything. I live and ache for it. To me, that morning and those women seemed disconnected. In that moment, it was as if creation -- a reflection of something so much bigger, sweeter -- took over and was all there was. It wasn't enough.

I don't have any friends on Facebook, and it's more than enough.

!!!!!

2010-11-22T08:58:00.000-08:00

it's SNOWING!!!!!

com panis

2010-11-17T14:14:00.000-08:00

For several days, I’ve had bread on my mind.

I haven’t been eating much of it lately -- an obvious reason to ponder it, I suppose. But honestly, I think the substance of these thoughts resides in more than just bread’s absence in my life of late. Actually, it’s the choice that’s been on my mind. With bread, I am almost always forced to choose.

This ubiquitous staple, with its varieties and complexities, is so often boiled down to a choice. But clarity, context, character and color can be compromised when I am asked to decide between white and wheat.

For me it’s not that simple.

It’s not that I wish to consider every variety on every occasion. There are far too many options for me (and especially for the poor guy in line behind me) to choose from: oat, corn, multigrain, sourdough, pumpernickel, rye… whole grain, seven grain, sprouted grain… quick breads, slow breads, French breads, German breads… loaves, rolls, biscuits, baguettes, croissants, bagels, matzos, pitas, tortillas, focaccias, challahs, naans, chapattis… some mysterious, foil-clad, holiday loaves bound by fruits, nuts, seeds and spices… still others free of salt, high-fructose corn syrup, flavor… oh, and gluten.

For heaven’s sake, it’s BREAD, right?! And there’s not much to bread, really. It’s just water, flour and energy.

Perhaps.

But as I've been searching my heart this week -- trying to understand and to make sense of some things and some folks -- I've settled my mind at the counter of a proverbial bakery. A particular loaf of bread has commanded my thoughts enough for them to become words this afternoon. I get this bread. Hell, I am this bread.

This bread has heart, texture and depth; it is not easy. It is dark, rich, and it requires time – to chew and to digest. Its substance and sweetness are subtle; its flavor, strong and distinct. In contrast to its smooth, saccharin, carefree and easily-digestible counterparts, it can be overlooked or overpowered. But when the tenderness beneath its crisp crust is experienced and well-paired – with creativity, care and intention – this bread is far more than flour and water.

But is there really a choice?

Let's face it: as long as long as we live in a world with school lunches and Thanksgiving, Wonder Bread and Pillsbury Crescent Rolls will take the enriched-white-flour cake. Further, when faced with a simple choice, kiddos and carnivores worldwide will opt for either of the latter over the earthy alternative twenty times over. My bread will never make the same kind of dinner roll... ever.

So why exhaust any more energy baking hearty, wholesome holiday rolls? Perhaps it's time to let wheat be wheat, to let white be white, and for me to be true to my bread nevertheless. For today, I'll just ponder the wonder of bread.

I think bread is a wonderful thing, indeed. I am consuming it less, valuing it more and discriminating about the company it keeps. This has made a difference.

happy hour

2010-09-13T15:22:00.000-07:00

Do you hear that?

Neither do I.

My belly rumbled; the fridge hummed. A fly buzzed by. The leaves beyond the open doors rustled, and someone -- something -- in the distance was singing a happy song.The keys beneath my fingers went tap, tap, tap, and then it ceased. For a moment, all of it ceased.

SILENCE.

This morning, after THREE MONTHS of summer vacation, my children returned to school. Cole is now in Kindergarten, Maya is in first grade, and I am in heaven. The sun is shining, fall is in the air, and save the rumbles, hums, buzzes and taps, my house is quiet. REALLY quiet.

Any minute, Paul and the kids will return home with stories, lunch pails, jackets and volume. I will welcome them, and I will be mostly glad. But until then, I fully intend to quietly sip this moment from the lap of my chair.

Bright light from outside fills the room and warms my face. I hear nothing but my tapping, and I can feel that I am beaming. There goes that fly again.

Ahhhh.

sophomore

2010-08-06T13:18:00.000-07:00

Today is day 371.

I have no idea how or where to pick up where I left off. Maybe it will happen, but likely it won't. I need to remember, but I also want to forget. It wasn't all bad, but it got damn hard. And then there was grace. Oh, sweet grace.

I'm smiling again. And gum-chewing too.

This morning I ran, and I felt free. It felt so good. Lisa and I spoke on the phone over dishes, and I felt like I was home. Here I sit in this old familiar chair, six days into our second year. I'm missing home and finding it too.

Mostly, I'm glad about it.

on target

2010-06-16T09:03:00.000-07:00

I heard once -- I think in church -- or perhaps I read it somewhere, that one can quickly discern the idols in her life by looking to see where the money goes. For me, for most of my life the money's gone to Target.

Sure my money has also gone to family and friends, to church, to charity, to the government, to lenders, to utilities, to grocers and to department stores, but the payee that has most frequently appeared in my check register and on my bank statements over the years is good ole' Big Red. For me, Target has been a pillar.

That reminds me of the dad in My Big Fat Greek Wedding who solved all problems with Windex. And of my own father: he was and remains a proponent of peanuts, bananas and Tylenol. And in my memories, my mother prescribed antibiotics (which I never finished) to cure all things. Take two of these, and call me in the morning.

I was about ten, when construction began in the lot at the corner of Buckley and Quincy Rd. Biking-distance from my childhood home, a monument, which changed the face of my neighborhood and the course of my life, was erected; Target moved to town. And ever since, it has been my own panacea and the recipient of my tithes and offerings.

I found everything I was looking for, save produce, at Target. In fact, I found everything I wasn't looking for there too. I remember joking with friends in college about how impossible it seemed to leave Target less than $100 lighter. That was in the 90s. And then, in the genesis of the 21st century, came Super Target.

When I eventually returned to Colorado, a few things had changed: I was a little older, a little wider. I still lived in a suburb of Denver, but this time, on the other side of town. I was homeowner, rather than tenant; parent, rather than the child. And over 20 years, I had been to California, to Europe and back. But history often repeats itself and some things remain unchanged.

In 2005, at the corner of Church Ranch and Hwy 36, construction began on yet another monument -- a super monument just biking distance from my new home. I'll take two of these and two of these, and how about three of those... Problems solved.

And then came Whidbey.

The ubiquitous red temple and its affordable, expedient convenience is now a ferry ride away. These days, it takes time, planning and cold, hard cash just to get to Target's parking lot. It is no longer possible for me to "run to Target" or to "just stop by" on my way home. Real life has ransomed that I learn to let go, to hang in there, to look elsewhere and to live without.

Yesterday, the kids and I shopped at Target for the first time since early December. We left home at 8:16 a.m. (a minor miracle), walked through the crimson trimmed, sliding glass doors just before 10, and headed straight for the loo. Just like old times.

"It looks like the Target in Colorado," Cole noticed. "It smells the same too."

(Note: this is one of those things about Target that I can take to the bank. They always have clean, sweet smelling public restrooms. I SO appreciate this).

For two hours, the kids and I got lost in this strangely familiar Target store. Returning to Target was like meeting up with an old acquaintance after a long while. It looked the same as I remembered, but something was different. We picked up where we left off, sort of. So much and not much had changed.

As we strolled, the kids and I found things, misplaced things and found more things -- ALL things. We grabbed things and eventually, we put some things back. In the end, we left Target as one tends to leave a Thanksgiving feast: more than satisfied and exhausted.

Fortunately, I stuck to my budget... and my list... at Target (potentially a first). Unfortunately, however, I neglected to include the primary item I went to Target to retrieve on my list. It got lost in the periphery, so we returned home without it. Yeah. It wasn't until we'd traveled over the river (ocean), through the woods and back down to my house that I realized the oversight. ARGH.

At 2:22 p.m., after stressing and obsessing, I consulted the Board (aka Maya and Cole) and made the executive decision, to pile back in the car, to travel eight miles down to the ferry dock, to catch the 3:00 boat (thankfully there was no line) back over to America, and to drive eight more miles once we disembarked. Mmm hmm. For the second time since December, we visited Everett's one-stop shop.

(Note: This is another one of those things about Target: Somewhere between the parking lot and my drive way, I invariably remember at least one thing I forgot to grab while I was there. I'm faced with a decision: do I do without, or do I run back?)

On this occasion, I chose the latter.

The kids and I high-tailed it through aisle upon aisle of anything and everything in less than ten minutes (another first). Miraculously, we made the 4:30 ferry, and we pulled into my drive way at a quarter past five. Ever since, I've been thinking about Target.

Yes, Target is a little like a Thanksgiving feast: it boasts larger than life platters of every variety. On Whidbey, there are two choices, really: expensive and more expensive. At Target, on the other hand, all things are affordable and choices abound. Colorful displays of strategically-placed products entice and beckon me to liberally and hastily partake. If I don't pace myself, I run the risk of leaving the feast spent and stuffed.

Recently, I read that withdrawal increases sensitivity. I've also heard that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Tried and true. After seven months away, I appreciate Target more than I ever did when it was a biweekly habit. That said, however, I returned home yesterday over-stimulated and absolutely fried. By 8:30 p.m., I was in bed.

The thing is, infinite possibilities aren't necessarily a great thing for me. I often feel overwhelmed and paralyzed when faced with too many choices. Moderation has become a panacea. It has become a plausible, probable option as I have slowed down and eliminated possibilities.

Everything costs more and takes more time now. I can't “stop by” anywhere anymore, and very little feels "convenient." Yet on the whole, I have more time, and I spend far less.

Nevertheless, Target remains a good thing (and Super Target, a grand one) in my mind. I imagine I will remain a devoted fan for the rest of my days. But as I think about our trip(s) yesterday -- while they were well-worth the wait and the effort -- I suppose Target's absence in my present is a good thing as well. In the space and time and resource afforded by its absence, my life is being lived more intentionally -- more peaceably. I may not be back for a while.

page one

2010-06-07T10:00:00.000-07:00

I began writing my book today.
It's been thirty-three years.
I feel weepy.

a crossroads

2010-06-02T08:45:00.000-07:00

"At any rate, that's how I started running. Thirty-three -- that's how old I was then. Still young enough, though no longer a young man. The age that Jesus Christ died. The age that Scott Fitzgerald started to go downhill. That age may be a kind of crossroads in life. That was the age when I began my life as a runner, and it was my belated, but real, starting point as a novelist."

~ Haruki Murakami

ctrl + alt + del

2010-05-26T14:14:00.001-07:00

Let's be honest. I don't love change, and I am a good five to ten years behind the times.

I am a girl who prefers to write with pencils on paper, to borrow and browse books from the library, to shop inside stores, to listen to CDs and yes, I still rely upon my land-line, fold-out maps and the US Postal Service.

I am marginally -- at best -- connected to a social network, and since "America" (as Islanders affectionately refer to the mainland) is now a ferry ride away, it's only gotten worse (or better, depending on who you ask). I washed and have not yet replaced my cell phone, I lost my watch nine months ago, and I stopped watching the news and reading headlines altogether.

Nevertheless, my laptop remains a centerpiece in my life and in my home. For years, we have met on this chair over a cup of tea at least twice each week. Here, I have confided many of my innermost thoughts and entrusted the only evidence of many memories. My computer serves as a means by which to make sense of -- and a conduit of connection to -- people I love, to myself and to the world. It provides entertainment, distraction and background noise for my family. It DJs our dance parties and leads my biweekly Pilates class.

In spite of my emerging independence, I depend on this machine for its many hats and roles. It's like family or a classic black pant or this chair I've settled into. It is comfortable, appreciated, but too often overlooked. It's beloved and still useful after all these years -- mostly functional, but sometimes misunderstood. I engage a fraction of my computer's capacities and capabilities, but beyond its surface lies a world I will neither master nor fully comprehend. I am growing more and more OK with this fact.

Not often, but from time to time, my computer freaks out. For reasons I don't understand, it bogs down, slows down or completely checks out. I'm left guessing about what went wrong -- a glitch? a bug? processing too much information at once? I'm unsure how to proceed. This can feel frustrating, confusing and sometimes debilitating. I suppose that's the blessing and the curse of knowledge, relationship and dependence.

A little time and space can help. If I can let my expectations go, close down a few programs and step away for a while, things often work themselves out. At minimum, I gain some perspective. But this computer is complex. When I return to a comatose computer, I sometimes start freaking out too. I just start pushing random buttons: Power. Space Bar. ESC. Q,W,E,R,T,Y; I call upon the holy trinity: CTRL+ALT+DEL.

And then there are those days -- the few and far between that seem to be a little more frequent lately -- when nothing seems to work. My computer is frozen in time and either unwilling or unable to budge. To the savvy, the trendy, the cosmopolitan, the techie and the preteen, my computer confirms evidence that suggests it is a dispensable dinosaur.

When all else fails, I unplug my computer, remove its battery and look the other way. Naive? Detrimental? Prolonging the inevitable? Perhaps. But, extreme measures have always worked for me. When I eventually plug in and power my computer back on, things settle back to normal.

I touched (and was captivated) by my first Ipad while we were in "America" over the weekend. I don't think it even has CTRL, ALT or DEL. I got the hard sell on the countless reasons why a Mac will serve me better in life. Probably.

Whether I wish to face the music or not, times and people are changing. Connection is instantaneous, and it matters. Computers are no longer computers, and in some cases, neither are people. Newer, faster, smaller, sleeker models are ever-present. Upgrades are always available. Space and time are shrinking. And in the absence of effort, insight and intention, little remains sacred.

I'm sorting through what it means to retain, to regain and to relinquish control. I'm considering and reconsidering realistic, practical, sustainable and communal alternatives. I'm contemplating what (or who) to delete. And I'm still trying to discern when it's appropriate to escape and when it's time to restart, to plug-in, to upgrade or to move on.

I learned a thing or two from my computer this week. I was spinning, and honestly, it felt good and necessary for me to freak out, to unplug and to reboot.

Sometimes, in order to restore optimal functioning, you just need to disengage completely and to begin again, right? Sometimes you sell your stuff, move to an island, hack off all your hair with kitchen shears and start over. And over. And over.

For me and for now, this big 'ole laptop works. The Ipad is pretty amazing though.

something old. something new.

2010-05-26T11:54:00.001-07:00

Last week, I salvaged my sewing machine, a few yards of old fabric and my craft bin from storage. Since then, I've moved some things around and made room for them in my creative space at home.

Yesterday, I hemmed (I hem!!!) some hand-me-downs for Maya, and the day before, I made a bag.

This morning, I'm feeling glad about it.

amazingly graced

2010-05-20T21:25:00.000-07:00

thank you.

.5

2010-05-20T14:30:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while I'll read something that sticks, grabs hold or stands out. Words that not only bear repeating, but ache to be unpacked or recorded on my blackboard or written indelibly in a journal, a notebook or eventually on my mind. These were words I read yesterday:

"The best way out is always through." So, SO true, Mr. Frost.

I am halfway through my 34th year and three-quarters of the way through this year on Whidbey. I am at rest on the other side of the haze of the last five days (marked by my presence, but mostly my absence, a Farmer's Market, a 2 a.m. living room dance party with a bunch of moms I just met, anxiety and worry about next weekend, and mindless consumption of baked goods, a boatload of Cliff Bars and consequential flatulence).

Today, the 12th of May, is my half birthday, and I am pleased to report that I am back. My stomach and spirit are settled and the stinky fog has lifted. I do believe this is just the occasion to write and to do as I do.

On Sunday, Mother's Day, I slept in and awoke to sunshine and handmade gifts: hand prints and a paper-clip-secured drawing in permanent black ink. I called all of my moms, read stories to my kids even though we were still in our jammies, took an extra long shower, sat on our deck in midday sun and enjoyed lunch for breakfast.

And then came the question, "What do you want to DO for Mother's Day?" Haven't we been through this before?

By the time the question was posed, we were already halfway through Mother's Day, and memories of who and where I was this time last year returned. I believe I spent most of that day alone on my throne, royally pissed off. This year, with no big plans, no pedicure, no massage, no housekeeper, no job and in the absence of world peace, it appeared to be more of the same.

Eventually, my family and I made it to the park. Together, we enjoyed soft serve ice cream cones on a blanket atop lush green grass. I was surrounded by books beneath blue skies and bright sun. At my side, my sweltering, fair-skinned prince endured a cloudless sky in my honor. Rather than retiring to the shade, he remained with me on my blanket in my bliss. Atop the hill, my children giggled and climbed and made-believe with that day's new friends. They stopped in for periodic water breaks, and eventually retired with Paul and me on our blanket to laugh aloud and hear stories of hiccups and space and a little princess.

Basking in the glory of more of the same, I was home. This space has become my home, and perhaps more than anything, I love to be here. I am confident, content and secure when I am in my element. My environment. My routine. And when I am away, I ache to return.

The red canvas tote, which accompanies me up and down the stairs of my house numerous times each day is my home. The contents beneath my neatly folded, beloved blanket of muted browns -- a dictionary, a bible, a book of crosswords and another of Sudoku, spiral bound journals of the artist, gratitude and morning-page variety, a gratitude rock, a lavender sachet, my rice pillow, a mechanical pencil, two Pilot EasyTouch Fine point pens in blue and black, and books -- memoirs, fiction, non-fiction, humor, education, inspiration -- these contents fuel and ignite me. Paul refers to this beast as my Kindle. Mine is an early model. It is bulky, cumbersome, old-fashioned and heavy laden. But happily, comfortably -- gratefully -- I bear it, because it is my peace and my joy. It brings me back. It brings me home.

-----

A week has passed since I began this post. My sister has officially become an M.D., and I have officially done Kansas City. My trip was inspired and an honor, yet it also felt difficult to be away. Home was far too large and liquid-laden to carry-on, so I left it -- with my husband, my children, my composure and my comforts -- behind.

It is written that perfect love casts out all fear. Perfect love scares the hell out of me sometimes. No, it has never forsaken me, but it has often called me forth to step out in my skivvies for a while into the nondescript and the unknown. For me, this space between is a scary place.

In the time that has passed since this post's genesis and its revelation, Grace drew me away, transcended and took me along a scenic route. I have departed, laid over, checked out, checked back in, and I've once again been moved and unfurled by this perfect love. Oddly, it hardly resembled perfection. Rather, this love was awkward and simple. Comfortable and uncomfortable simultaneously. Neither black nor white; Nigerian, nor American. It was both-and. It lingered with neither pomp nor circumstance. It was rainy and gray. Bulky. Cumbersome. Familiar. Beautiful. I would choose it again.

On my last morning in Kansas City, I walked in the drab day's spittle along State Line Road. For days and miles I lingered in the space between Kansas and Missouri -- a curious thing. I am back home now and just over halfway through, right? Still, I miss home. My hair is shorter, the days are longer, the clouds have parted, but little has really changed.

What do I do? What have I done? Nothing and everything.

Yes, Mr. Frost was correct; I am pushing through. But the longer I linger, the less I want out. I'm in, and I'm alive. I am in-progress, unsettled, old-fashioned, dehydrated and feeling ten steps behind where I was when I left. I'm hovering. Recovering. Tingling. Inching ahead and settling back in -- slowly, sloppily.

My keyboard is on my lap. My Kindle is at my feet, and thankfully, Grace has brought me home. I'm neither out nor through, but I'm here, and I'm in.

OMG

2010-05-10T10:19:00.001-07:00

There are no words...

#11 ISLAND CONTEMPORARY.

(Steel Cut Irish Oats, Mango, Avocado, FROZEN Blueberries, Lime, Cilantro, Coconut Oil, Pistachios, Toasted Coconut, Cinnamon, Salt. Serve with or without milk).

found it!

2010-05-05T18:59:00.001-07:00

6,7,8,9, watercress and 10.

2010-05-05T17:15:00.000-07:00

16. Watercress, check.

I didn't get a picture of my watercress before it wilted, but may I just tell you how much I enjoyed watching these Upland Cress greens stand at attention for days atop their roots each time I opened the fridge a few weeks back? Watercress, it is a lovely and light green -- like spinach, but sexier. Say it with me... Watercressssssss.

I primarily pampered wraps, salads and sandwiches with watercress in the stead of spinach, sprouts and green leaf, but also in their company. Sadly, since my fridge was simultaneously occupied by three of these four, my cress (grrrrrrrr) didn't make it into a Roxanne-style stir fry before it began to droop. Mmm, but it was good, and now I know. It will definitely assume pole position in my fridge once again.

And though I haven't posted for a couple of weeks, beloved breakfasts also continue...

#6 Banana Berry (4/18)

(rolled oats with bananas, blueberries, dates, roasted pepitas, cinnamon, sea salt and hemp milk)

It was silk. The bananas were over the top. Yum-meee!

~~~~~~~~~~~

#7 The Promised Land (4/20)

(eight grain cereal with milk and honey, cinnamon,
butter and a dash of sea salt)

Simple. Sweet. Two thumbs up from my kiddos.

~~~~~~~~~~~

#9 Blueberry Mango (4/27)

(eight grain w/ blueberries, sliced mango, cinnamon and sea salt, topped w/ flax oil and hemp milk)

"Exquisite," I actually observed three times aloud, before it was over.

~~~~~~~~~~~

#10 Olde WADS (5/2 and 5/5)

(Walnuts, Apples, Dates and Soy milk atop rolled oats, cinnamon, vanilla, sea salt and flax oil)

I dreamed it up on a run, rushed home to shower, to create it, and then I happily partook. I was halfway through before I remembered about the picture, so this morning I decided to recreate it. Once again, about halfway into construction, I remembered that I used the last of my dates on Sunday. I was forced to improvise: Olde WARS. Hmmm. 'Twas also good with raisins, but not quite the same. The dates afforded unmatched subtlety. I think I'll stick to the original.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Some time between 4/20 and 4/27, I think, came #8: Maple Barley (barley with butter, sea salt, cinnamon, hemp milk and a touch of maple). This was the bless-ed love child of #7 and leftover cooked barley from a soup I made the night before. I didn't get a photo of #8 either, but I know I liked it. A lot. I distinctly remember celebrating the potential of leftover barley and looking forward to the day when I have more.

There was also another we're-low-on-groceries dud in the mix somewhere. I guess I blocked it out. It was the first oatmeal I've made so far that was just blah. Good thing I don't remember.

Finally, after a brainstorming session with Cole, the buttery delight of #6 and my growing list of still-to-be-experienced veggies, I have visions of incorporating avocado and branching beyond sweet into savory breakfast porridges (somebody, stop me!!). I admit, this departure is radical -- uncharted territory -- so I promise to pace myself and to tread lightly. In the meantime, I plan to play with a few of Cole's ideas... apple blueberry (intriguing) and peanut butter surprise (ok, son. I'm listening. Dis moi).

More to come.

oh, captain

2010-05-05T13:23:00.000-07:00

In a brief exchange, as Paul got out of the shower this morning, and I got in, our thoughts intersected with words...

PAUL: What was the name of that Michael Jackson thing at Epcot Center.

ME: Hmm?

PAUL: Captain Nemo? Neo?

ME: Uh... Captain E-O

PAUL: EO? Oh, I thought it had an N.

ME: No, I'm pretty sure it was EO. I don't imagine it's still there.

PAUL: Why not?

ME: Well, I don't know. Hmm...

And then our exchange was over, and I shared my shower and my thoughts with a man I have not considered in a long, LONG time: Captain EO.

What was that whole thing ABOUT? I wonder if it is still at Epcot Center. Does anyone still go to Epcot Center? Or was it Disneyland? And Michael Jackson, I wonder how that guy is... Er, was. Where is he? Does he still have thoughts wherever he is? Does he ever wonder about Captain EO? "What was I thinking," he might still be thinking. I hope he's not. I hope his soul is at ease and his mind is at rest.

To the contrary, my mind was racing as I massaged shampoo into tight curls and swayed in and out of lukewarm water considering this captain. EO was born around the same time as my vivid, sequential memories -- in or around 1983. '84? Those were good years.

Naturally, I was left guessing about my water heater... and about the early morning train that departed Paul's dream and stopped at an amusement park in Florida... and about exactly when it happened that I became someone who wistfully says things like "those were the good ole' days..."

Captain EO... hmmm...

Paul is re-reading 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea... Captain Nemo... ah hah. In another post-shower exchange, he (Paul) confirmed my suspicion (obsessing). Mmm hmmm. So why am I not only still thinking about our conversation, but recounting it in great detail?

Well, I don't know. I suppose it struck me as... well, funny. Rich. This is the stuff that mornings and marriage are made of. And I suppose to me, it mattered. It matters.

Captain EO started a train of warm thoughts that traveled through Washington to Florida to Germany to California to Colorado and back to Washington. It trekked the terrain of 30 years of my history (Michael had an album called that, right? HIStory. Clever) and back to the present.

This morning I remembered the Michael Jackson poster my dad brought home for me from London. The one where his eyes (Michael's, not my dad's) are lined in mysterious kohl, he is wearing white pants, a canary yellow vest and a matching bow tie. I loved that poster. I used to kiss that poster. And now I kiss Paul. And I feel thankful for him (and for my dad... and for Michael).

I wondered what he (Paul, not Michael... nor my dad) was like the first time he read 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. Did he actually read it or was he of the Cliff's Notes variety? I haven't read this book, and although Paul is rapt in it, I have little to no desire (definitely leaning toward no desire) to pick it up. I am intrigued, however, that he did... again.

Paul is enamored with the water. He lives near the sea once again and smiles a lot more. A few weeks ago, he went sailing... perhaps this is the journey that led him back under the sea. I wonder what he (Paul) was like when he first encountered Captain EO. Did he ever have a Michael Jackson poster on his wall? If he did, I am pretty certain he never kissed it, but I also wonder if he had a poster that he did kiss in the early 80's. Madonna perhaps?

Paul is reading 20,000 Leagues and countless other books on his Kindle -- another mysterious thing -- another difference between my husband and me. This past Christmas, when the Kindle passed through my hands and landed in his, he began reading again. Voraciously. Incessantly. I too love books and most things classic, but I prefer to experience life with pen and ink, on paper and in pages. I always have, and reckon I always will. This perplexes him.

Books and this man who reconsidered Captain EO this morning -- he who is re-reading stories of Captain Nemo and who may or may not have kissed a poster of Madonna, but most assuredly kisses me -- these are the things I think and thank about. They have shaped me.

I've spent fourteen years of my life with this man (you know the one), and for reasons still unknown, our random exchange this morning reminded me that I still love him, I still learn from him, and I still wonder about him. And I wonder about Michael Jackson. And I wonder about that poster. I loved that poster.

past a simmering pot

2010-04-14T09:50:00.001-07:00

#5 - Banana Walnut* (inspired by Juli).

I ran my oatmeal challenge idea by the kiddos over the weekend, and they dug it. They even agreed to participate by way of research, idea-conception, and periodic taste testing. We decided that in the interest of their willing participation, and of moderation, balance and good digestion, all whole grains would be welcomed to the challenge with open minds, arms and hearts (mmm, whole grains, they are SO good for our hearts!).

Further, I've come up with a few ground rules for myself:

1. I welcome and will graciously receive suggestions.
2. I will try at least one new hot breakfast cereal variety each week.
3. I will limit my oatmeal consumptions to 2-3 days/week.
4. I will compliment each breakfast with a fruit, a veggie and good protein, and thus, plan portions accordingly.

Part of the fun will be the issue of use. How can I use what I already have in this little challenge? What will I do if key ingredients run out? What else might I use?

These are seemingly simple questions, but the latter in particular has great power. Variations of this question are keys that have unlocked doors to stairways we've ascended to the highest of heights. This question not only has the power to bring joy into a kitchen -- my kitchen -- but it has the power to open eyes, to transform lives and to change the world. At minimum, it affords the possibility for good oatmeal, yes?

Indeed.

Monday morning, I discovered that in a weekend Grape Nuts feeding frenzy -- namely two straight days, at least four square meals and one late night cocktail -- Paul consumed the last of our (my stash of) raisins. In a momentary panic (ok, I'm exaggerating), with no plans of shopping until some time next week, I was forced to begin my project with a look beyond oatmeal's most obvious companion.

In mornings and day times and evenings of late, I've been reminded that 1.) any time I am in harmony with perfect love, everything I need, I already have, and 2.) anything I need, but do not have will come my way in perfect time by way of this melodic love. These realizations have disarmed many past, present and even future disappointments, and gently placed them on a back burner to simmer.

And then what?

What would happen if rather than immediately reacting with, or stewing in disappointment when grace runs out, we trusted that grace is what stirred the unexplained craving for Grape Nuts in the first place? What if we stopped stashing and instead made use of and freely shared what we have until it is gone? What if we trusted that once it was gone, this same grace would relentlessly replenish, recharge, refill or lead us elsewhere -- to the fridge or the freezer or within -- to provide something as good or better than what we once had? What then would become of that simmering pot of disappointment? Might its contents eventually burn off under a low, constant flame to nothingness. Might we eventually be empowered to turn off the flame from this empty pot and appropriate our valuable energy and resource elsewhere?

Mid-Monday morning, with the leftover pumpkin puree on the top shelf of my fridge in mind, I went to baskets in my pantry looking for raisins and oats. I found plentiful oats, but only a handful of dried cherries and a small baggie with shredded coconut. I paused (a minor victory) before I retraced old steps to that simmering pot. On the way back to the stove, I considered (a second victory), I reconsidered (another victory), and then I trusted (a monumental victory!!). I listen to the small, sweet voice calling me toward the freezer, and there, I uncovered and rediscovered a bag full of dates.

Bob's Date Crumbles have been sitting neatly in my freezer since some time last fall. I've used them a handful of times since then in muffins and tossed them in a salad or a trail mix from time to time, but I have never thought to add dates to oatmeal. You see, I almost always have raisins. Unexpectedly, thankfully, this week I did not.

Those crumbles led me to the maple syrup in the door of my refrigerator. I love the marriage of these two key ingredients in corn muffins, why not in oatmeal? Why not in my oatmeal?

Well, it's Wednesday morning, and I've already had oatmeal twice this week. I just finished a steamy, creamy bowl that evoked audible "Mmmms," "Ahhhs," and many other sighs of unadulterated delight. It was so delicious, in fact, that I skipped the breakfast dishes and came straight to my computer.

Already, I'm having fun. I'm LOVING this project, and by God's grace, the pot on the stove is nearly empty, and we still don't have raisins.

#4 Pumpkin Spice Oatmeal (inspired by Lauren)

(with pumpkin, crumbled dates, toasted walnuts, cinnamon,
all spice, sea salt, hemp milk and dark amber maple syrup)

-----

RECIPE NOTES:

*For breakfast this morning (#5 - Banana Walnut Oatmeal), I cooked my standard base - 1/3 c. rolled oats, 1/8 t. sea salt and lots of cinnamon, then added slices of half a small banana, about 1 tbsp. toasted raw walnuts, about 1/2 tbsp. brown flax seeds and a five-fingered pinch (aka "a paunch") of date crumbles. Finally, I doused it with 1/2 cup of hemp milk and drizzled in 1/4 tsp of maple syrup. WOW. Thank you, Juli.

**Neither my belly nor I are fans of cow's milk, so I've turned elsewhere. A friend suggested I try unsweetened hemp milk, which I tasted this week, and I LOVE. It is a light, creamy milk alternative worth considering. I plan to use it interchangeably with soy milk, but if cows (or goats or almonds or rice or butter...) are your thing, do your thing!

*** I used leftover canned pumpkin in #4 (thank you, Lauren). A little, a heaping tablespoon (not the measuring kind, but the eating kind), goes a long way . I loved the way when blended in, it tinted my cereal a rich, autumn creamsicle color. It swept me away to a crisp morning with falling leaves and the balm from a wood burning stove in the air. I intend to frequent this variation when cool nights linger long into morning and fresh pumpkins come back into season.

**** In excess, I find maple syrup can be overbearing, can drown out other flavors and can quickly turn breakfast into a saccharine soprano. If you are like me, and you prefer more tenor to your oatmeal, consider drizzling with rather than pouring maple syrup into these two breakfast bowls. I used 1/2 tsp in #4 and 1/4 tsp in #5. Mmmm, good!!

church

2010-04-12T11:01:00.000-07:00

Went up to Oak Harbor to worship yesterday morning...

thank you.

outside the box

2010-04-09T22:37:00.000-07:00

Spring Break is nearing its end, and I'm not only still standing (well, sitting) at 10:39 p.m. on a Friday night, I'm writing... and smiling.

There has been great joy, and there has been grand peace in my home this week. A few hours into Monday morning, I noticed. Willingness. Energy. Color. Creation. Consideration. Grander, greater joy and peace. It has been SUCH a good week.

Although we've enjoyed good time with family, with friends and with one another, we've done little out of the ordinary, and nothing in particular. Nevertheless, this week has been extraordinary in the ordinary. How can this be? I suppose any break from the norm is a good thing. But the thing is, we stayed home this week. We have been here.

Herein lies the key, I think: We have been here.

During our break, I have been mostly present with my children, and they have been present with me. And as I have been present -- come wholly and fully -- they have responded with more presence, more peace, and with love, which has drawn out even more of my me, which has drawn out even more of their them.

My presence. I'm realizing it is my peace. It precedes and is conceived in love. It is the best gift I can give to my children and to myself. I think it may be the best gift I can give, period.

When I am present, I see and think and love more clearly.

This week, I have seen in 3D that my children are creative and curious. I love that about them. They are constantly searching, inquiring, exploring, concocting and their minds are expanding exponentially. They are a collective, creative force. Sponges soaking in and wringing out experience and possibility. They are playful and profound in their prematurity.

When they are present, they ask questions, and they consider. As I've spent more time with them, I've also been asking many more questions, and I have been learning, observing, creating and considering.

I've loved this week. I've loved my kids. And today, as they posed questions and they dined on cold cereal -- their breakfast of choice -- I took a temporary leave of absence to considered and to pondered...

Cereal, again?! Really? How can they eat cereal EVERY day? How many days and ways can two kids eat cereal? It's cereal. They need a break. What about some variety. Something else... like... like oatmeal (you knew it was coming). Yes. How about some oatmeal... Man, I love oatmeal... For me, it all comes back to oatmeal, doesn't it. Is this normal? I mean this is the real deal. I love oatmeal. Am I obsessed? I don't eat it everyday...anymore. But once I do... Oh, whenever and however I do... I delight! It's just that I am so... so... present when I eat oatmeal. I'd like to try Juli's oatmeal... I love oatmeal. I love my kids. I really love my kids... They love cold cereal; they tolerate oatmeal. Maybe they just need to get outside the proverbial cereal box. Hmmm... Cereal. Oatmeal.... How many ways can two kids eat cereal? They just need some variety. Hmmm.... Variety. How about oatmeal? Variety. Oatmeal... Variety... Oatmeal... I love breakfast. I love variety. I love oatmeal. How many days could I eat oatmeal? How many ways could I MAKE oatmeal...

And there it was: A CHALLENGE.

And then I was back, and we had a great day.

And now I'm thinking about my joy and my children and Spring Break... and oatmeal. And I'm wondering how on Earth this post about these two little people whom I love so intensely ended up in the steaming breakfast bowl where my posts often do. I must be on to something.

#3. Spring Break Oatmeal. (Inspired way back when by Leah)

(serves 1 in less than 10 min)

1/3 c. Rolled Oats
2/3 c. Water
1/8 t. Salt
Cinnamon to taste
~ 1 T coconut oil
~1T unsweetened, shredded coconut
~1 T pepitas
~1/2 T Raisins
~1/2 T Goji Berries
1/4 c. fresh or frozen blueberries

Combine first four ingredients, and heat in microwave (~2.5 min) or simmer on the stove (~5 minutes). Meanwhile toast coconut (~1 min), then roast pepitas (~1.5 min) under 450 degree broiler until golden brown. Once oatmeal is cooked, stir in coconut oil, and top with remaining ingredients. Enjoy with the warm milk of your choice and a splash of vanilla, if desired (my favorite is ~1/2 c. unsweetened soy milk. You can also add more water to achieve your desired consistency).

one sweet day

2010-04-08T22:52:00.001-07:00

thank you.

rutabaga

2010-04-06T00:15:00.000-07:00

11. Rutabaga (check).

I learned that it's a member of the root vegetable family -- sort of like potato's cousin and turnip's fraternal twin. From the picture, it looks a bit like an egg, but in person it looks more like a... root. It tastes and smells quite good. Radish-like. Radish light.

A blustery last Thursday evening, I had my rutabaga and visions of stew. I used half of it with assorted contents from my refrigerator and to my delight, my stew* manifested.

On day two, I chopped more rutabaga onto a salad with sunflower seeds, blue cheese, raisins and a host of fresh, crunchy veggies. Ahhh, another great salad! I think I'll use what's left in a stir fry some time this week.

Yes, rutabaga added texture to my stew and spicy crunch to my salad. I like it's radishy flavor. I like that it can be used like a potato without taking up so much room in my belly. I like it's staying power. One rutabaga. One dollar. Three meals. A little goes a long way; that's good stuff. I'll definitely buy another. And now you know what I know. Enjoy.

*AT's Vegetable Barley Stew (mmm).
serves 4-6

1 c. Rutubaga (cut into matchsticks)
1 c. Carrot (cut into match sticks).
1 c. Sliced Cremini Mushrooms
1/4 c. Onion (chopped)
1 c. Frozen Peas
1 stalk Celery (chopped)
1 c. Cooked Barley
1/4 Apple (grated)
1/2 c. Red Kidney Beans
2 cloves Garlic
~3 oz. Firm Tofu (cubed)
1/2 t. Thyme
1/4 t. Marjoram
2 t. Beef Better Than Bouillon and 2 1/2 - 3 c. Water
1/4 c. Red Wine
Salt and Pepper, to taste.
~1 T Olive Oil

Saute onions in olive oil until they turn tender and light brown. Add garlic, then carrots, rutabaga, celery, mushrooms and tofu (I don't recall the exact timing or order -- I don't imagine it matters too much), saute a few more minutes until veggies are tender. Stir in apples and spices for another minute or two, then add water and bouillon (veggie or beef broth will also work), wine and beans. Simmer 20-30 minutes to let flavors blend. A few minutes prior to serving, add barley and peas, and simmer until heated thoroughly. Serve and savor!

nine years

2010-04-01T09:40:00.000-07:00

thank you.

finished.

2010-03-31T21:10:00.000-07:00

thank you.

vitamin d

2010-03-25T20:45:00.001-07:00

I just got off the phone with my sister, Deola. She found out that she received her residency placement in Emergency Medicine at her first choice.

In less than two months, she will complete her fourth year of medical school, and she will graduate.

Tonight, she is working on a paper and a bowl of Breyers, and she is in my thoughts. I'm still feeling weepy and so, SO proud.

knowledge

2010-03-25T17:27:00.000-07:00

"To know that we know what we know and that we do not know what we do not know, that is true knowledge." - Confucius.

To know and to be known. It has been my anthem, my cry.

And how will I know when I know? And what if I don't know? Or what if I used to know and now I'm not so sure?

Nine days ago, sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the floor with my kiddos, I identified 16 fruits and vegetables that 1.) I had never heard of prior to that day, 2.) I had never tried before that day, or 3.) I had heard of and/or tried before that day, but determined to try again.

Did you know bell peppers are actually considered fruits?!

What else I didn't know nine days ago...

1. Currant (fresh)
2. Endive
3. Gooseberry
4. Huckleberry
5. Indian Corn
6. Kumquat
7. Okra
8. Papaya Seeds
9. Parsnip
10. Radicchio
11. Rutabaga
12. Quince
13. Starfruit
14. Uglifruit
15. Vegetable Marrow
16. Watercress

What I've since learned...

9. PARSNIP (check).

I've learned that when you cut into a parsnip, it smells delicate and sweet. If a carrot were a flower, it would smell like a parsnip.

I've learned that parsnips taste great roasted with carrots, garlic, olive oil and thyme. I've learned that a great way to introduce something new (i.e. parsnips to two curly topped kiddos) is to ease in and pair the unknown with the known.

I've learned that roasted parsnips and carrots taste amazing, look pretty and smell heavenly in a salad -- even on the second day.

And over the weekend, I learned that I care for papaya seeds a little less than I care for papaya. I don't. Neither papayas nor their seeds appeal to me or to my senses. These little, woodsy, caviar-looking seeds don't photograph well, and although they are edible, I would rather leave them off my blog and in the produce section (or the delivery truck or the papaya tree... er, uh, plant...) with the papaya from which they originated... and by which they originate... and... And now I know.

And I still don't.

mothers and daughters

2010-03-25T16:21:00.001-07:00

thank you.

laundered

2010-03-08T20:02:00.000-08:00

Well, I've got some good news.

I found my cell phone!!

(In the washing machine).

So, rather than focusing on that which I've lost with my found phone, I've set a timer, and I plan to devote the next seven minutes to basking on the bright side (five... four... three... two... go!)

1. My cell phone is clean.
2. Now, I have an excuse for why I don't answer my phone.
3. I can switch to a local number.
4. I can save $50/mo and spearhead a payphone revolution.
5. Um, I don't even get cell reception on this island.
6. In case you were wondering, I can confirm (for the second time), that this Motorola is not water resistant.
7. One less thing to do while driving.
8. I can stop looking for my phone.
9. Maybe I'll finally start checking pockets before washing. And maybe I won't.

Five... four... three... two... one.

Now, THAT was fun.

joy's gift

2010-03-03T15:07:00.001-08:00

I just finished reading the book I thought perhaps I came to this island to write.

It came into my life the day before last as a gift from a gift -- from Joy. Her path and my own intersected the day before that -- just one week after she and her family arrived here. She knew and I knew without a word, that the hushed melodies that called each of us to this time and this place were harmonious. Her story and my story, her song and my song -- although different -- are uncannily similar. The rhythm and tone and resonance of her heart, which has also leaned like the head of Spring's tulips toward the light of love, grace, simplicity and freedom, beats in concert with my own.

In this Lenten season, which for me began with a decision to stand hard and fast on the bedrock of Love, I have received gift after gift after gift. I thank You. As I have stripped, surrendered, let go and lost pieces of myself, I have retrieved, renewed, rediscovered and newly uncovered pieces of me.

Thank you.

You have filled me once again with hot cereal, granted me courage and serenity to shed the shell I have outgrown, to stand in the rain and to make room for something new. You have looked into my eyes, reached into my heart and in the midst of confusion and doubt, You have not only assured me that I am okay, but I am loved. From ashes, You have indeed called forth beauty. You have helped me to see a steadfast sun. On the heels of despair, You have brought forth Joy.

And Joy, she lent me the book I read today -- a simple book that articulated the story of the last year in my life with refreshing succinctness and breathtaking clarity. It infused words where I had few and attached meaning to that which I could not fully grasp on my own.

As I've listened to the rhythm of my heart, it has nudged me toward abstruse silence and solitude... to an island. Yet in my heart's recesses, I have sensed companionship. I have sensed the presence of seen and unseen partners in this pas de deux. Troi. Quatre. Cinq... dans ce pas de beaucoup et un peu (pardon my French, s'il vous plait).

Over fifty years ago, a woman sat and reflected on a beach much like the one right outside my window. She collected the shells I have collected these last 215 days. She listened to them, looked to them, and wrote down a movement in their symphony. In her song. In my song. In Joy's song. And I imagine, in yours too.

Like all good things, I know the gift I received earlier this week was not just for me. Today, I partook. And I was rapt. And I wept. And I was blessed (thank you). And now, with the open hands and heart with which I received this gift, I release it to you.

Anne Morrow Lindberg's, Gift from the Sea.

If it is time, and you have not yet been met or been moved by this book, I pray you will pick it up, pour it over and then pass it on. And if it found you some time in your past and its season has returned, I pray you will scour your shelves, refresh your spirit, and let it speak to you again.

It is written. I'm relieved.

A love story was penned in the ancient of days. It has been told, and shared, and retold, and it will continue to be. I feel peace in today's assurance that although I am often -- gratefully -- in solitude on this island, I am not alone. With grace and good pleasure, I may rest and I may dance in this melodious sea of the known and unknown with partners seen and unseen. And in so doing, I may receive and release its boundless gifts.

The tide is rising, and it feels good.

four

2010-02-28T21:07:00.000-08:00

Late this afternoon, a little boy whom I've never met stopped

me at the grocery deli case to give me a gift...

thank you.

q & Q

2010-02-26T22:02:00.000-08:00

Maya and I had an interesting exchange over lunch today.

It stemmed from a portion of an exercise in Michael Gelb's book, How to Think Like Leonardo DaVinci. In it, Gelb proposes a simple twist on the question each of my children have heard countless times before. The conversation that ensued the posing of said question has gotten me thinking. And thinking. It went something like this:

ME: How was school today, Love?

MAYA: Good.

ME: What questions did you ask?

MAYA: Wait, huh? Wait... um, wait... what questions?

ME: Yes. What questions did you ask at school today?

MAYA: Wait, pardon? Wait... I don't understand. What QUESTIONS?

ME: Yes, Love. What questions did you ask at school today?

MAYA: I didn't ask any questions at school today.

ME: Hmmm (pregnant -- nine months pregnant -- pause). Well...

MAYA: (heavy sigh)

ME: How do you learn at school if you don't ask questions?

MAYA: Well (heavier sigh, eye-roll and incredulous stare), Mrs. B just asks US questions, and we tell her the right answers...

I was shocked into cold, wet, sloppy silence by the ice-water bath of her response. It ruffled my feathers, stirred my pot and raised more questions I opted to keep to myself.

1. Why didn't my kindergartner ask questions at school today?
2. What is kindergarten, anyway? The garden of children, right?
3. Since when did gardening become about the answers, especially the "right" ones?
4. What exactly are the "right" answers?
5. What are the questions?
6. When did kindergarten shift from children asking questions to children answering them?
7. What if the questions they're answering aren't "right?"
8. Can the "wrong" questions ever yield the "right" answers?
9. What happens if my children have different questions than the ones being asked?
10. If my daughter went to school to learn today, but after she returned home, she couldn't recall asking a single question all day, what am I teaching her?

I've often heard and recited the adage if you don't like the answers you are getting, perhaps you should consider asking different questions.

Questions.

I invested most of my formal education, and I've spent much of my life thus far trying to figure out answers to questions. Yet tonight, most of my questions remain. I have scarcely found courage to rest in these questions. But as I search my heart, my spirit and my soul and consider the monuments in my personal history -- the times when I learned and trusted the most -- when I was most enthused, most alive, most inspired, most inspiring, most confident, most connected and most at peace -- I was not answering questions; I was asking them.

What if the power, the pleasure and the peace of this journey -- our journey -- primarily reside in the questions? What if the questions are the means and the end? What do I do with that? What do we do with that? What can we do with that? What would happen if I redirected my oft-depleted parental energy from answering the daily onslaught of kid-questions to cultivating greater curiosity and courage of my own? What would happen if I shifted my home curriculum from rewarding the "right" answers to nurturing the quest for more questions? What would happen if I arrested my own search for answers altogether and focused on finding more questions instead? What if...

MAYA: I don't want to talk about this anymore, Mom. May I please be excused?

ME: Hmmm? Um... Pardon? Uh... I'm not sure, Love. I guess.... Um, yes. Yes you may.

nine thousand words

2010-02-24T22:39:00.000-08:00

contents of my inbox

2010-02-24T14:21:00.000-08:00

I do this sometimes when I sit down to write. I stall.

I've been thinking about this post on and off since about this time last week. I sat down and opened up Blogger about six minutes ago, and I've been looking at a blank screen since -- trying to figure out where to begin. I have so much I want to write about. I have a lot to say. Instead, I spent the last two hours catching up on the hundreds and hundreds (okay, I'm exaggerated) of emails in my in box.

I know what you are thinking. I imagine it goes something like, Duh, Abi.You JUST posted about this last week. Begin at the beginning... (breathy sigh)

Yes, I KNOW Ms/Mr-know-it-all. Yes, yes, I GOT it Ms-just-wrote-a-post-about-it-but-first-appropriately-named-her-blog-Just-Start-to-give-me-an-ever-present-reminder-each-and-every-time-I-sit-down-to-write. If only it were that simple.

It is, just chimed that voice in my head and my heart.

Indeed.

So, I got this email from my sister and then from my mom some time in the last week. It was the 2010 edition of "Getting to Know Your Friends and Family." I, like you, delete most forwarded email (take note), but every time I get this one, I savor it. It never ceases to amaze me how much I still don't know about people I've known all my life. I can count at least five or six or ten things I just learned about two women with whom I share blood. Hmm.

So, after reading and smiling and giggling and marveling at my sister and my mom's responses, I passed over the ARCHIVE and DELETE tabs, and hit REPLY instead.

I think the last time I responded to one of these was sometime in 2008. I think. I'll go back and check someday. Anyway, I was struck today by how much hasn't changed (see response #4). But more -- much more -- I was struck by how much HAS changed (see response #... well... most of the rest). I am me, but I am monumentally different from the last time I hit REPLY.

After a 27- and 33-yr relationship with my sister and my mom respectively, I am still learning more about these women, because that's life. The players and the settings and sometimes even the rules of this game are ever-changing and moving and flowing. Like a flower or a river or a toddler.

"Understanding" of said game, comes when we stop trying to understand it, and we just play. We open our ears and our eyes and our minds and our hearts, and we move with these changes. It is not only more fun to play this game with others, but also NECESSARY.

Our friends on the field or our family on the sidelines -- they are often the ones to help us to see that we are (okay, I am... was) that sweet little girl in red with the paunch and all the pigtails running the wrong way down the soccer field about to shoot on her own goal. They are the ones that give us hugs and kisses and high-fives after we've scored against our team. They are the ones that then look into our tear-streaked faces and exclaim, "NICE SHOT!!" They are the ones that keep sending that damn email every year.

Sometimes we must answer the same old questions, again and again and again, just so we can realize, that each day we are answering old questions for the first time. Sometimes we have to stop and regroup and assess, and write it all down, so we can see what has changed and what has remained constant. Sometimes we need to put it all -- or at least some of it -- out there so that we can continue to know, to grow and to be known.

The coach might pull us out for a while for water and some words. Or perhaps we may need to sit out for a season to gain perspective, to find our footing and ourselves, but then... Then, we jump back in. Yeah.

So, in honor of family, friends and blessed procrastination...

Welcome to the first 2010 edition of getting to know your friends and family.

Change all the answers so they apply to you, and then send this to your friends including the person who sent it to you. The idea is that you will learn a lot of little things about your friends that you might not have known! Just press the 'forward' button then you can erase my answers and add yours.

01. High heels, boots or sneakers? - hmmm. is it raining?

02. What time did you get up this morning? - about 5:30, I think.

03. Diamonds or pearls? - Definitely.

04. What was the last film you saw at the cinema? The Bucket List. Yup.

05. What is your favorite TV show? We're about halfway through season 2 of LOST. Wow.

06. What do you usually have for breakfast? - I'm diversifying. Today, a smoked salmon breakfast burrito with yogurt and fruit.

07. What is your middle name? - Olubunmi.

08. What food do you dislike? - Last week I would have definitively declared, TOMATOES. But I had a bit of a Roma with basil and avocado on cheese toast last week, and I LIKED IT?!?!? Nothing is certain any longer. SO... Beefsteak tomatoes, milk and lima beans, I think.

09. What is your favorite CD at the moment? - A stranger at the Library gifted me with a mix of Chuck Berry and Sam Cooke yesterday. It is good.

10. What characteristic do you despise? - Hatred.

11. Favorite Clothing? - I've got three pairs of jeans, and I like 'em a lot.

12. Anywhere in the world on vacation, where would you go? - These days, Florence is back on my mind.

13. Are you an organized person? - Yes.

14. Where would you retire to? - Bed.

15. What was your most memorable birthday? - 20th. 33rd.

16. What are you going to do when you finish this? - Enjoy lunch.

17. Furthest place you are sending this? - Not sure yet.

18. Person you expect to send it back first? - Not sure yet.

19. When is your birthday? - Nov 12.

20. Are you a morning person or a night person? I'm learning to love both.

21. What is your shoe size? - 8.5 when I got married; 9 after I had Maya, 9.5 after I had Cole. I'm 5'4... and serious.

22. Do you own any animals? - No.

23. Any news you'd like to share? - I cut my hair off... myself. It felt good.

24. What did you want to be when you were little? an astronaut, a fashion designer, a lawyer, an actress, a writer, a singer...

25. What is your favorite flower? - The red ones. And the yellow ones. Orange and pink and purple are nice too.

26. What is a day on the calendar you are looking forward to? - Today's pretty darn spectacular.

27. Do you wish upon stars? - No, not really.

29. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? - Red. Where's 28?

30. How is the weather right now? - GORGEOUS. Blue skies, bright sun, big puffy clouds, still sea... THANK YOU!

31. Last person you spoke to on the phone? - My dad.

32. Favorite soft drink? - Water.

33. Favorite Restaurant? - Japon on Pearl Street in Boulder.

34. Hair color? - Dark Brown.

35. What was your favorite toy as a child? - Sadly, I don't recall... yet.

36. Summer or Winter? - Summer.

37. Chocolate or vanilla? - Yes.

38. Coffee or tea: - Tea. MMmmm.

39. Boy, do I wish I was still? Not going there much anymore.

40. Do you want your friends to email you back? - Yes, please.

41. When was the last time you cried? - Probably yesterday.

42. What is under your bed? - an empty storage bin.

43. What did you do last night? – I collaged with my kiddos.

44. What are you afraid of? - Today, I pass and choose love instead.

45. Salty or sweet? - Both are so good. ESPECIALLY together!

46. Favorite day of the week? Thursdays. Wait, 47-49?

50. How many people will you send this to? Not sure yet.

51. How many will respond? - See above.

52. Do you like finding out all this stuff about your friends? - Definitely. I'd love to hear from you.

this i know

2010-02-17T16:04:00.000-08:00

Wow. I have a lot to tell you about.

I have been mostly silent and somewhat cryptic about the last six months, let alone about the last twenty-four hours. It has been necessary. Healing. I'm not sure if I have all the words yet, but I'm finding that this simply isn't the point, is it? I am finally beginning to trust that the words will come when it is time to put them down. In time. In the present moment, I hope you are well.

Yesterday, I experienced something I MUST share before I get to today.

The day began with gray. It was not "oh-bummer-oh-well" gray, nor was it "oh-it-will-blow-over-soon" gray. This gray was thick. And heavy. And lonely. And dark. It took all of my strength and strength beyond myself to get out of bed yesterday morning. Before I did it, I had no clue how I would. I've lived a handful of days like that so far.

A few thing I've learned -- and even preached (oy) -- are that when things seem so complicated and complex and impossibly difficult, you go back to the basics. Go back to what you know. When you just don't know anymore, sometimes the only place to go is back to what you DO know. When you are lost, you go back to the last place you were before you were lost. You stop trying to figure it out and then you get found or you find yourself... right?!

So rewind to yesterday morning. Naturally, the question was bound to come up: What do you know, Abi? What DO I know? And the answer amidst the other questions stirring and spinning was unexpected, yet apropos.

It was simple. It was Oatmeal.

I know oatmeal. I love oatmeal. Yes, I've written this before, but frankly, it bears repeating. I LOVE OATMEAL.

What makes me happy? Oatmeal.

How do I get from here to there? Oatmeal.

And so with that, the strength came, and I got out of bed. I made breakfast for my kids and in the mix of the morning I discovered that thing I didn't know I was looking for. That thing I was telling you about that now I must share.

I found a recipe that I clipped and pasted in a binder over a year ago. YESTERDAY, after a year of being overlooked, it called to me, and I answered.

With pot to fire, I began at the beginning. Before I knew it, there was rhythm, and there was joy. I began to change things around and I made that mess my own in that way I often do when the juices are flowing. And the result? Oh the RESULT. It was... well... it wasn't just good. It was CRAZY good.

So if you are still my friend or my sister or you are still checking in on me after six months of silence and this ridiculously verbose build-up to oatmeal, hello again, and thank you. THANK YOU. Here is my gift to you. Please, PLEASE will you trust me on this and treat yourself some time in the next seven days with it?

Be forewarned, these are Irish Oats (fitting, coming from a Nigerian). Breakfast will take a bit of time, preparation and patience. But it's got fiber and texture and crunch and flavor and personality. It is absolutely POETIC and it is absolutely worth it. YOU are worth it. If you don't have the time tomorrow or the next day, good on you! Just unwrap this gift on Saturday (...and then again on SUNDAY). Yes, it's that good.

With no further ado, I give you...

CRAZY GOOD OATMEAL (serves 1 generously)

INGREDIENTS*
1/4 c. Steel Cut Irish Oats
1 c. Water
~1/4 medium Apple, grated
~1T Shredded Coconut
~1/4 t Vanilla Extract - the real stuff
Cinnamon, to taste (I like a whole lot)
~1/8 t Salt
Soy Milk (or whatever kind of milk you like... I like a lot)
~1 T chopped and toasted walnuts
1-2 T Raisins

DIRECTIONS
Boil water, and pour in the oats. Stir for a few minutes while the oatmeal gets thick over medium heat, then turn heat down to low. Add apples, coconut, vanilla, cinnamon and salt to the pot and simmer for 20-25 minutes. Stir occasionally, and add water if the oats seem too thick. (I know 30 minutes may sound like a long time to prepare breakfast, but it can go quickly if you let it. The aroma of this delectable dish can wisk you away to a happy place with flowers and music and munchkins.... I digress, back to the recipe). When the oats are cooked to your liking, dish them into a pretty bowl. Sprinkle nuts and raisins over the top, and douse your oatmeal in the milk of your choice.

(*This lovely little breakfast is forgiving. Feel free NOT to stick to the measurements or even to the ingredients. If you like the taste of apple, by all means, add more. If you like your oatmeal sweet, drizzle it with maple syrup or honey. If walnuts aren't your thing, leave them out or roast pumpkin seeds instead. Have fun with it. Double it. Triple it. ENJOY it.)

So the last thing (I'm almost done, I promise), while we're on the topic of oats and good and good for you, I stumbled upon another recipe, a vegan cookie recipe, a few weeks ago in my quest to make peace with cookies (more on this later). The kiddos and I tried the recipe last week, and OH MY GOODNESS.

I know what you are thinking... VEGAN cookies?!?! But PLEASE trust me once more. Your family, your friends, your co-workers, your inner-children, your heart... they will all thank you. I won't be making these for a while (they were that good too), but perhaps you can try this recipe on Monday.

My best to you.

home sweet home

2010-02-12T03:39:00.001-08:00

thank you.

pleasure to meet you.

2010-02-12T02:35:00.000-08:00

i've been cutting, pasting and staying up late with my new friend.
not sure how i've lived this long without her.

thank you.

thank you!

today

2010-01-19T17:11:00.000-08:00

Cheers, Grandpa.

1.22.27 - 1.19.10

ah... a new year

2010-01-06T12:38:00.000-08:00

I stretched from the warmth of my bed into the chill of early morning with vivid dreams lingering. The sun would still sleep for nearly two hours, so I received its gift, fumbled into gear, tiptoed into my shoes, and ran out the door. I've been running just because these days.

I returned to the unfinished business of my dreams as I ran down a long, winding road. Along the frontage of a still sea I pondered the meaning, the beauty and potential of life and this year. Beneath towering trees and a veiled moon, I questioned and contemplated and considered connections. I ran and ran and ran in the dark, lost in my thoughts.

In the middle of the road, the run and the instant between two thoughts and two breaths, I looked up. I noticed the black silhouettes of evergreens erect against a now sapphire sky. Although my cheeks, my nose and my fingertips felt cold, my body was warm. Those things at rest were becoming. Nonetheless.

I stilled my mind, dropped my shoulders, settled into my stride and rested my eyes on a small tree up the road and to my right. I ran. I focused. I noticed. The tree was growing... and moving... toward me.

A torrent of tension and apprehension threatened as this shrouded shadow rose and rapidly approached. Then, in a delicious, hilarious and utterly delightful moment, in the quiet of early morning, in the middle of a dark road between tall trees, deep thoughts and bated breath, the "tree" said a most unexpected thing:

"Good morning!"

And with that, a hooded stranger passed me by... on his unicycle.

last letter

2009-12-31T17:32:00.000-08:00

You crept toward the glow of an open door. You called to me, and I let you in. You met me where I was. You always have.

For Auld Lang Syne.

Once, you were enough. You loomed in winter’s shadows, filled empty spaces and found strength in my fear. But this year, I faced you and called you by name. Now I see you.

I see you.

But you are not the ugly monster I once imagined you to be. I was surprised to find traces of beauty and meaning in your countenance.

Let it be said, that you once were my teacher and my friend. Indeed you were my comfort and my companion. Many days, you were my security, my truth and my North. You served me. You helped to shape me, and you wove threads of depth, dimension and compassion into my character.

I see you.

I now see that you mattered. I see value in who you have been and what you have done. And today, on this New Year’s Eve, I thank you. I thank you for meeting me and holding me the best way you could. Sometimes you did.

But in the flicker of tonight’s candlelight, I also see that you paralyze, command and consume. You always have. You always will. So as the Light of a New Year beckons, I choose love. I am letting you go.

Although, you will remain a part of me and my story, I no longer need you for sustenance and strength. I will always remember the lessons you have taught, and I will behold these scars with a full heart. But tonight, I am ready to stand on my own feet. It is time for me to live – to run the race I was born to run. It is time for me to breathe and to laugh once again. It is time, and I am ready.

So with love, gratitude and a soulful embrace, I bid you adieu. Thank you, but no thank you. No longer.

~Abimbola

the point

2009-12-31T17:01:00.000-08:00

"Beyond the very extreme of fatigue and distress, we may find amounts of ease and power we never dreamed ourselves to own; sources of strength never taxed at all because we never push through the obstruction." ~William James

in between

2009-12-02T16:09:00.001-08:00

In a few minutes, with tousled hair, an untucked tee, and a backpack and lunch pail in tow, Maya will step down from her pencil-yellow chariot to the stop where I kissed her goodbye, and we parted eight hours ago. Dressed in the ensemble she picked out herself, she will return to my care. I will solicit answers to questions and although she will eventually fill me in on scattered details from her day, others will slip away through the cracks when I'm not looking, like her first tooth.

I'm still getting used to these growing spaces between us.

I seized the opportunity to hold onto my little girl and to keep her close in the name of tradition this Thanksgiving. She reluctantly agreed to leave the family festivities early so we could go to our third Nutcracker in Seattle Friday night. It was magical.

We slumber partied, pedicured and painted our way through Saturday before Paul and Cole returned home. By Monday morning, after a week-long, fun-filled break from our routine, the spaces in our togetherness seemed small. Obsolete.

But under our roof last night, with our backs momentarily turned, Maya slipped from our grasp like one of the dishes I was washing. In a mad dash to cram as much as possible in the last ten minutes of wake before bed, Maya missed a step and tumbled head first and backwards down an entire flight of hardwood steps. Time moved aside, and my heart stood still.

"Mommy, I really hurt myself," she sobbed.

I was frozen, panicked and paralyzed, while Mommy scrambled down the stairs after her fallen daughter. She stepped in, and she knew what to do. She made sure my baby was okay and rocked her tenderly. She let Maya cry her tears of pain, fear and shock. She remained calm in the storm. She nurtured me too once the tears subsided and assured me that my daughter would be okay.

This morning, somewhere between upward and downward dog, Mommy let her guard down and the gravity of those stairs and the spaces in between hit my heart. I ached beneath the weight of my love for this child. The torrent of my own tears finally came.

This morning I wept both tears of gratitude and bitter tears of pain. I wept for yesterday and for tomorrow. I wept for my daughters, my mothers and my sisters. I also wept for every misunderstanding, misstep and mistake. I wept over beginnings, ends and the spaces in between, and I wept for the weight and the ache of this love. Oh, it is beautiful. It hurts, and it is hard.

Just a few days ago, while Maya and I roused from sweet dreams graced by Sugar Plum fairies, four Seattle officers were mercilessly gunned down. They kissed their families goodbye then slipped through the cracks when no one was looking.

This morning, as I wept in the space between my child and I, I wanted to hold her and keep her and never let her go. But then, through the ache and the sting of my tears, I watched my daughter ascend the stairs she had fallen down the night before. She donned a smart outfit of her own design, with disheveled hair she had already styled. In that space, she had also made her bed, packed her bag, and she was poised to face another day.

So we ran down the hill to the bus stop, my sugar plum princess and I. We heartily laughed our way down the hill as her chariot approached. I held Maya tight, kissed her goodbye and then let go. Just before the bus rounded the corner and pulled away, I saw her once more. She was still breathless and beaming.

thirty-three

2009-11-14T16:53:00.000-08:00

11.12.09

I choose life

2009-10-09T03:08:00.000-07:00

I live on an island.

I came to this island to write.

I came to this island to die.

In the back of my mind, I've wondered when the terminal illness I have not yet discovered will reveal itself. Did You bring me here to die?

Why else would You give me the keys to the kingdom with outstretched arms when I asked for them? Why else would You swing these doors wide open and invite me to come? Why else would our journey south take this miraculous and unexpected turn northwest and within, then bring us back to Whidbey?

Back, "...bring us back." I sense I have lived here once before.

Perhaps, but I haven't written, and I'm still alive.

Sort of.

I didn't think it through. It all happened so quickly. There was no time to analyze, to examine, to obsess, to weigh, to measure and to count all the costs. I think it was by design.

Now, I am beginning to see and to understand that in order to grasp a thing, to truly master and perfect it, we must poke and prod, unglue and undo at the expense of life. Absolution, completion, knowledge and rebirth are only possible by way of death.

"This year, 2009, is the year of the Lord's favor for my family and for me. It marks a turning point, a new beginning... "

I had no idea what it would mean for me to write these words down and to speak them aloud. How could I have known how much it would cost to take these keys from You?

With the great reward of freedom and change comes a great price.

I asked to go deeper. I asked for more. I purged and pruned, and the path became clear. As it unfolded, I followed you to this peaceful place, where the air is gravid and grey. I am home in a way like no where before. I am where I've been aching to be. It is overwhelming.

Yet in the shadows has come terrifying darkness. In the black of early morning, I can no longer see the road beneath my feet or my hand before my face. As fires that raged have burned out, I have grown cold and unsure. The sharp tools I once used have grown dull and obsolete. The clothes I donned are incongruous and ill-fitting, and yesterday's order wears the mask of a stranger.

With my words and my request, with the light from my lamp, with the shuffle of my steps, with the jingle of these keys, with the creak of this door and the timbre of my "Yes," I have roused a resting giant and stirred this sleeping cancer. She bears the name Fear. She bears the name Obsession. She bears the name Compulsion. She bears the name Deception. She also bears my name.

I came to this island to die.

In the thick of these clouds, You have helped me to see what I couldn't and wouldn't day after day in perpetual sunshine. My eyes are adjusting, and the walls of this prison I've erected have come into focus. Brick by rigid brick, I have fortified myself in this shell that no longer suits me.

Abimbola. Abi, come.

In the shade of tall trees, you have wiped my brow, rubbed my back, and given me time and space to rest. You've revealed the salve of Sudoku and crossword puzzles, and You have strengthened me with bread, wine, and fresh oil for my lamp. With neither fanfare nor guarantees, You have called me by name and bid me once again to come.

I only see the doorway in the faint flicker from my lamp, but that which lies on the other side of this wall is dim. I have tasted the wine you turned, then shed, and I know You have traveled this road before. I needn't walk it alone.

This week, through my mother, my father, my soul sister, my children, a medicine woman, my pen pal and my partner, You have opened my eyes. You have restored my hope and graced me with courage to face my own death.

So tonight, in the earliest hours of my 70th day on this island, I lay myself to rest. With gratitude, I reclaim my joy, my hope and my name, and I sprinkle these ashes atop the rubble at the trail head of this less-traveled road. I look forward to the day when words will rise as the dust from these ashes.

And with the morning sun, I too will rise again.

Abi: a Yoruba prefix meaning birthed; born

sweet dreams

2009-08-10T14:35:00.001-07:00

GRANDMA VIOLET OLSON
10.17.18 - 8.8.09

blackberries

2009-08-06T23:58:00.000-07:00

It's late. It's been a week. I live in Washington.

Paul's grandma is passing, and coincidentally... amazingly... thankfully, we are here.

We saw her today. Her mouth was open, her breathing was labored and her room smelled strong and familiar - like childbirth. She was a shell of the woman we saw just a few weeks ago. Today, she was there, but she wasn't, but she was. I get that. She was beautiful. I wonder if she is still here.

I'm on a hill, on an island, in Washington. Now I live on this island. I live up on this hill.

Yesterday after dinner, we went down to the beach. There were smooth stones and empty shells - remnants of lives once lived - everywhere. This is nothing like I've ever known or seen before. It's hard to describe what it feels like to be 32 years old and to experience the wonders and treasures of the sea for the first time.

Along the road and our beach and our town are bushes and bushes of blackberries. When we arrived last week, they were crimson and firm. Yet by yesterday, many had turned. They were plump and juicy and rich with color -- tart and so very sweet. Paul, the kids and I picked blackberries for nearly an hour. We reached past prickly bushes and collected three quarts of fresh fruit. I've never experienced this either.

Tonight we danced and cried and ate lasagna and blackberries with cousins and siblings. It's all new and beautiful and difficult and wonderful at once. I'm still marveling at the magical journey that brought us to this place and this moment.

I miss my family and my friends.

Just a few weeks ago, my kiddos visited and snuggled with their great grandma for the first time in four years. They, nor we, had no idea what this day would bring. Tonight, Violet is laboring out, surrounded by her children. She is wrapped in a quilt her mother made. The empty shells of mussels, clams, crabs and all sorts of other creatures rest on the beach down the hill from my new home.

The blackberries are turning. Transitioning. We will collect a few of the thousands and thousands and savor in their sweetness as long as we can... blackberry jam, blackberry dressing, blackberry smoothies, blackberries and yogurt, blackberry muffins... Many will fall to the ground. They will leave beautifully rich marks -- violet -- and then they will be gone. But today, Today, they are here. I am here - in Washington. And at least for today, I savored.

sunday run

2009-07-19T08:49:00.000-07:00

I just returned from my run.

It's the Sunday morning route I've run hundreds of times: down my street, across 108th, up through the office park, up and back down the killer hill, down to the trailhead, winding through the golf course, back across 108th, and a sprint back home.

I rose with the sun as I got out of bed this morning and realized that this old familiar run would be different. Today is my last Sunday in this house.

With strong, fast steps, as I ascended the killer Simms hill, quietly chanting my mantra of late - hills are my strength, hills are my strength, hills are my strength - I recalled the mid morning walks from my first summer here. Breathlessly, I once pushed the jog stroller in which my baby girl slept. There was a time when I could barely walk up this hill.

From its apex, I was warmed by the amber and gold cast by the rising sun. I saw, and I remembered. I see, and I remember.

I see the city, the mountains, the lake and my neighborhood. I see my home. I have logged many miles, laughed and cried many tears. I have dreamed dreams and prayed fervent prayers along this long, scenic route. I have lost myself and found myself again and again. My thirst has been quenched. My questions have been answered, and I have found peace in this place, with its valleys and its hills, its green grass, sprawling oak trees and colorful wildflowers. I am swifter and stronger than I once was. I am changed. I am thankful.

And now, I am back home. I sit in my old familiar chair - fortified and hidden by shrink-wrapped furniture and boxes. The walls are bare in this house that has become my home. It is familiar and unfamiliar at once. I think this is what they refer to as the beginning of the end. But it is no longer sadness that I feel. Rather, it is peace and pleasure and awe. It is time, and finally... finally, I feel ready.

to notice

2009-05-30T14:49:00.000-07:00

Lauren, Lisa and Juli,

You are three of the unexpected gifts I was telling you about yesterday. I am blessed and humbled to have you in my life, and I am grateful for the fabric and thread that bind us in friendship. Thank you for sharing life and dinner and tea (and perhaps someday, cookies, paint and wine) with me. My life is warmer because of you. I thank you.

I wrote this back in January. I wasn't sure what it was for back then, but now I see that it was for the three of you and for today. Happy Birthday, Sister...

To Notice.

Cutting wind blows just outside my window. Although bricks and glass and drywall and paint stand between us – although I can’t see it – I am certain it is there. It needs and wants to be known, to be heard. It interrupts. It howls. It unearths groans and creaks. Even from the warmth of inside, I can feel it. Outside, a lone tree stripped of its leaves, its life and its color shutters in its wake and speaks of its presence. A distant chime sings of its existence. Just outside my window, the air is frigid and cold.

I just returned from its grip in a bitter, face-to-face exchange. I left the warmth of within and ventured outside on a trek from chair to mailbox back to chair. The wind pierced me, and quickly cut to my core - deeper and still deeper, with each step. Ordinarily, I would have been undone by now. But I am not.

I am back inside, and I feel warm.

Last week, my friend, Lisa made me a pillow. It is simple and lovely - covered in floral fabric and neatly stitched. I love this pillow. I really love it. I love it because my friend made it for me. She thought of me, and as far as I can tell, for no reason in particular, she made it for me.

My pillow is covered in flowers and filled with rice. It holds heat. Lisa instructed me to put my pillow in the microwave, to heat it for a few minutes and then to bring it with me to bed. “It will keep you warm,” she explained.

Like most people with whom I have spent more than a few minutes, Lisa knows that I often feel cold. Fair enough; Lisa has noted the obvious about me. But the truth is, she doesn’t know me all that well. We have only been friends for a short time. Nonetheless, Lisa made me a lovely pillow filled with rice. She made me a microwavable pillow that holds heat and smells good – like home-cookin’ and sweet spices. Lisa noted, and she notice. She noticed that I wear sweaters in the summer time. She noticed that sometimes I wear gloves inside. She noticed that I come alive when I am wrapped in a blanket or I am parked in front of a fire or a space heater, or when I am sipping a cup of tea. So she stitched two pieces of fabric together, filled the pocket with rice and the contents of a Good Earth teabag, she sealed it shut and for no reason in particular, she gave it to me. In the simplest of gestures, she moved me and schooled me on the substance of love.

To see. To notice. To care, and then to act; that is love.

What Lisa doesn’t know is that sometimes the cold is debilitating. There have been days in the last year – especially at this time of year – that I am unable to function or even to move because I feel so damn cold. I go to bed cold, and I wake up cold, but I have learned to adjust – I wear socks and sweaters. I take extra showers and sleep with extra blankets. I sip soup, and I sip tea. I cope.

Lisa couldn’t have known of the cold I would face last night and today, when she acted in love on the thought of me that came to her mind. She gave me more than she will ever realize in a simple, intentional act of kindness. She gave me my first night of absolutely contented sleep in the last year, last night. She brought sweetness to my sleep in the faint aroma of Good Earth tea – my absolute favorite – that emanates from my pillow. The warmth and beauty and peace of the pause that comes in sipping a cup of hot tea – the precious respite from the worry and noise and stress and chaos of life that comes with a cup of tea – she unknowingly brought that peace into my sleep last night.

And now, as I sit here – sweater-less and sockless – secure from the unforgiving wind that howls just outside my window, I feel warm. The pillow that now rests at my feet radiates warmth that penetrates every fiber in the fabric of my soul. It smells hearty and sweet. I am utterly and totally moved by fabric, rice, tea and thread.

My friend noticed, and I feel loved.

enough

2009-05-28T22:05:00.000-07:00

That's it. I'm done.

My attitude has sucked for nearly a month, and I apologize. I have been spinning, spiraling, griping, nagging, whining, and frankly, I'm getting tired of myself. I've chosen to focus on that which is missing and in the process, I've failed to see and to appreciate the beauty in absence. Sometimes NOT knowing is the best gift there is, because it forces one (ahem, me) to loosen up and to let go.

Go ahead, Ab. Lose control. GOOD ON YOU!

Life is belly laughter. It is meant to be lived out loud. I need to let go and laugh a little. A lot. I need to LIGHTEN UP. I need to give myself and everyone else a freaking break! Where is the grace. Where is the joy? As the Black-eyed Peas ask, Where is the love?

It's here. It's there. It's everywhere. I love and I am loved. What else matters?

Yes. Indeed, I am done. I am ready to move on. I am ready (or at least willing) to loosen my death grip. I want to learn. I want to trust. I want to let my hair down, roll in the mud and play until it gets dark. OK, who am I kidding? I can't stand being dirty, and this staying up late is just not my thing. But I'm willing to try!

Help me. Teach me. Tell me... how do I let go?

I suppose asking isn't really the point, is it?

OK, so I won't ask. I'll just be, and I'll let you know how it goes.

---

P.S. Happy Birthday, little sister!!

love. honor. memory.

2009-05-27T10:13:00.001-07:00

Twenty-five years ago, we moved in next door.

I have countless fond memories of Jimbo, Kerry, Bobby and you.

You were the older brother I never had.

SEAN PATRICK HEALY

12/19/73 - 5/13/09

breaking up

2009-05-26T23:56:00.000-07:00

You are sultry. Saccharin.
You've romanced and enticed.

You've sweet-talked your way back into my life.
You've sought me. You've found me.
You are sweet, really. But the thing is...

I don't really like you that way any more.

Can we just be friends?

faster. bolder.

2009-05-26T23:13:00.000-07:00

a way

2009-05-26T22:43:00.000-07:00

I do that sometimes.

I still haven't figured out how to put all my thoughts -- particularly the sloppy and awkward ones -- on the page with and without a filter. So sometimes I paint those broad, polished, black and white brush strokes, when one must fill in the blanks in the absence of gradation. That's how details get lost.

I'm unsure how to paint the picture of the last twelve days. They've been full. Overflowing. I'm trying to see in technicolor, but mostly - honestly - I just see black and I see white. Perhaps another time.

Melissa and Joel and their kiddos spent the weekend with us. That was sweet. Earlier this evening, upon their departure, a high-browed, white-gloved realtor stopped by unannounced in the wake of clutter and chaos. That was not.

And tonight, my right eye won't stop twitching and I'm chewing gum. Tonight, my mouth and my mind and my eyelid are working over time, perhaps so my heart and my soul won't have to. It's nearly 11, and I am copiously pounding away at my gum and my keyboard. After twelve full days, it feels difficult - virtually impossible - to deal with the empty spaces, the unknowns and the silence any longer. So instead, I am tapping and twitching and chomping away.

Not tonight. Perhaps tomorrow.

There is that word again... sigh. And then there was yesterday.

Yesterday, I was scheduled to start my race at 7:16 a.m. That was impossible, however because at 8:30 yesterday morning, I was still at a hospital in downtown Denver, where I had arrived eight hours earlier to attend my last birth.

Somehow -- I'm still not sure how -- less than two hours later, I crossed a finish line 30 miles away.I ran my race in 52.07. I ran my fourth Bolder Boulder six minutes faster than my last and more than seventeen minutes faster than my first. I still can't believe I was there.

He will make a way where there is no way. Yet, tonight, I'm still here. I can't believe I'm here. I'm miles away from where I began, yet somehow, I'm still here. I'm full. I'm empty. I'm done. I'm undone. I'm ending. I'm beginning. I'm there, and yet I am still here.

There is always a way. Please, help me to remember. Please help me to find my way.

too much

2009-05-14T23:51:00.000-07:00

We are supposed to leave for a road trip to Omaha in seven hours. Omaha. Eight hours in the car with Paul and my kiddos. I haven't packed. Nothing is certain. One birth to go. I've been running around all day, and tonight, we had to vacate our house -- my home -- so it could be scrutinized by a prospective buyer. We sold our couch. I can't deal. I couldn't sleep last night, and this is just the beginning. I feel panicky and paralyzed and sleepy. My stomach hurts. It's not that big of a deal - to most - but... but, I don't want to go. I'm losing control. I'm barely standing. I'm freaked out. I can't breathe. I'm tired, and this is just the beginning. I want to cry.