happy hour

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

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

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

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

a crossroads

"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

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.