trinitron

It arrived in a moving truck nearly five years ago. Although it often rested quietly behind closed doors, it took up space and commanded attention. It unified and divided, entertained and anesthetized. It afforded opportunity to lose ourselves, and in some ways, it helped us to find ourselves. It ran its course and served its purpose. It was heavy and huge. Freaking huge. 38.75" x 30.5" x 24.9" and 216.5 lbs, to be exact. It was our television, a SONY TRINITRON, and now It's gone.

E is for elimination. It has been our mantra of late. On the heels of winter, warm winds of change have begun to forcefully blow. They have shifted and transformed. They have scattered seeds and blown open doors. They have resurrected and restored. They have lifted dense fog and helped us to see.

They have revealed the paradox of beautiful and abundant simplicity, but they have also opened our eyes to notice all sorts of other stuff. Stuff, it is such a bland and non-descript word, but save a four letter expletive, there is no better description for the boxes and files and bins and piles, above us, below us, within us, without us, in cupboards, in drawers, around and about us. The burdens, the weights, the policies. The plans. The noise... The stuff. Where did it all come from? How did we get from there to here?

As we have looked and seen with focus and clearer eyes, an urge to purge, to toss, to release and to give away has overwhelmed. In the weeks of late, piles have been pillaged. Policies have been canceled. The noise has been silenced. And in the spaces between we've rediscovered long-buried treasures. It has been good. Very good.

36" SONY TRINITRON - $90, Westminster, CO.

Paul and I hoisted the hoss from its hutch and lugged it to our garage amidst the other discards. What do they say? One man's refuse is another man's refuge... or something. I posted our TV with a photo and its dimensions on Craigslist, and within minutes, I began to receive calls.

An eager and interested, Lisa was among the first to inquire and to commit. She called from work around 8:30 a.m. Perhaps it was a coffee break. Perhaps. She would plan to come by with her boyfriend on her way home. Would I hold it for her? Would it fit in a standard sedan?

Yes, I guess and I'm not sure.

They arrived at my door just after four - at the tail end of a clamorous afternoon of cleaning out, clearing out and eventually stressing out. My crazed, cabin-fevered kiddos, who had just been sent to their rooms to simmer, were upstairs bouncing off the walls, a frustrated Paul had departed with a truckload of treasures for the good folks at Goodwill, and I had just begun to find short-lived solace in my pantry.

Lisa's eyes were soft, dark and framed by ebony rims. Her shoulder length hair was also dark, inconspicuous and straight. She was small-framed and hugged in shades of blue - aqua on top and navy below. He (I can no longer recall his name, but for the story's sake, I'll call him Marcus) stood just behind her. A man of average height and build, Marcus had salt and pepper curls, five o'clock shadow, jeans and a just-tight-enough t-shirt. We exchanged our hellos and agreed to reconvene in the garage a few moments later. Somewhat down and distracted, I failed to notice the matchbox car in which they arrived.

It wasn't until I opened the garage that I even notice the neon writing on the wall. It quickly became clear that the Trinitron was much larger than they expected. Nevertheless, the three of us spent the next hour trying to squeeze a 200+ pound watermelon into a Dixie cup. We lifted (with the legs... at first) and attempted the back seat. Rrrrrrright.

With a furrowed brow, Marcus stood back, sized up, measured and rallied his troops (us) to try again. We attempted the back seat a few more times from a few more angles before we proceeded to the front seat. Uh huh, not so much. Marcus continued his wishful calculating and strategizing, and he offered idea after idea. 1-2-3... lift, he coached. Turn it this way... what if we tried... How about... Do you have twine?...

Twine?!?! Is he KIDDING?!?!

It went like that for nearly an hour: he instructed, we obeyed. I suppose both Lisa and I felt the need to give the guy credit for his optimism. So we lifted and lugged with little to show for our work an hour later. Lisa was done before we began, and Marcus eventually capitulated too. They would not go home with a TV that afternoon, and I would park on the street another day with empty pockets, a late start to dinner and a sore back.

In a desperate attempt to reclaim my parking spot, I followed up with Maurice, the astute and arrogant voice from mid-morning. He had also inquired about the Trinitron - shortly after Lisa - and drilled me with a long series of specific, well-crafted questions. Does it cut off the ticker at the bottom of the screen? Will there be someone there to help me? May I test it? Can I take it off your hands for $80. Is 9:30 tonight too late?

In a reaction and a momentary lapse of judgement, I sold out my soul, my husband and my sleep far below their value with my hasty responses: I'm sorry, what? Yes, my husband. I guess so. I suppose so, and no, that's just fine.

In the hours that followed, I emptied and lost and filled myself. Anxious and obsessed, my thoughts became fixed on my stuff. I took on the least becoming qualities of my things: I felt heavy and weary and out of control. I gave in, I wallowed and I checked out - way out - before I finally attempted to check back in. At some point, it started to rain, and right on cue, in walks Maurice.

He was mousy - a big voice for such a little man - and he donned pegged jeans and a black jacket. He had a spring in his step, a VCR in tow and he arrived in a van (thank the LORD... or so I thought). We exchanged brief hellos and agreed to reconvene moments later in my garage. While Paul was warm and cozy inside, I had to face the rain and the cold and the mini-monster of my own making.

In the garage, Maurice bypassed the niceties altogether and barked orders for power and an extension cord. He plugged in the TV and the VCR, and like a scene from a bad (really bad) movie, he pulled a VHS tape and a remote control from an inside pocket of his jacket. Copiously rewinding and fast-forwarding through scene after scene of news footage and sports footage, he inspected and tested without a word. CNN, Fox News, ESPN... he had it all.

Sometimes it improves, he broke ten minutes of silence and spoke aloud to no one in particular. He continued to examine, and then explained, You see, there's an arc in the display... and it cuts off the feed at the bottom of the screen... and the pictures isn't clear... and...

AND, IT'S A TV, MAURICE!!!!! I screamed in my head.

For twenty more agonizing and freezing minutes, Maurice worked. He decided to pass on the Trinitron and for the second time that day, I shut the garage with a-tenth-of-a-ton television still in my possession. At least I didn't have to lift it.

The following morning, the cloud had lifted, the sky sparkled and the sun shone bright. It was a glorious Tuesday morning and I determined before I got out of bed that I would delight in my day... and I did. In the peace and quiet of the morning, I wrote and wrote some more and the words flowed. I worked out, I showered, I made breakfast, and I enjoyed. I was fully engaged, fully alive and fully present, and it was good. Very good.

Just as I made plans to go for a walk, my little red phone rang out. It was Daniel calling to inquire about the 36" Sony Trinitron I had advertised on Craigslist.

Yes, it's still available... Yes, I'll be around in an hour... Yes, there is an ATM machine just down the street...

Daniel, a huge kid dressed in baggy black, with shaggy hair and a baby face arrived at my door with two friends - a girl and a guy - 45 minutes later. I'm not sure how old they were, but their spirits were young and light and hopeful. Their expectation and anticipation were contagious. We exchanged brief hellos and agreed to reconvene a few moments later in my garage.

OHHHHHHH!! They erupted in laughter, disbelief and excited high-fives as I opened the garage and the Trinitron came into full view. They were beaming as they approached the enormous electronic with ebullience and jubilation. Before I could opened my mouth to explain that it would likely take the four of us to lift it, Daniel and one friend effortlessly hoisted the TV into the back of the black SUV (phew!) that was parked in my driveway.

It's $90, right? Daniel asked with a glowing, rosy smile.

He reached into his deep, chain-clad pocket and handed me five crisp $20 bills. This is AWESOME, he exclaimed. Keep the change. And as quickly and as simply as Daniel and his friends had arrived, they were gone. They left me 217 lbs lighter.

I stood in the sun for a long while and soaked it all in. Incredulously, I looked at the empty space in my garage, and I felt warm. With a smile on my face, the sun in my spirit and $100 in my pocket, I left my truck outside, shut the garage and headed for the trail.

found

The kiddos were in the backyard in their helmets with their bikes. They'd been at it for at least an hour, riding in the sunshine and splendor of yesterday late morning through grass and through time. I was inside finishing thoughts on a page, when Maya cried out.

It wasn't an I've-hurt-myself-and-I'm-in-pain sort of wail, nor was it the Momma-Cole-hit-me manner either. This was exasperation. It was drama seasoned with despair. My red-faced five-year old materialized in moments with fresh tears streaming and something tiny in tow.

"What's wrong, My," I asked.

"I (sniff) lost (sniff) my (sniffle) earring (sobbbbbb)."

Just a few minutes earlier, while my children delighted in our yard's simple pleasures, Maya hopped off her bike and took off her helmet. In the process, a loose strap grabbed hold of the sparkly, five-petaled daisy in her ear, pulled the post from her lobe and sent it flying... somewhere.

As I listened to my daughter despondently described the events of recent past, my mind temporarily left the room. It traveled down a short flight of stairs through our toy-strewn family room, out the sliding glass door to the patio, with its teak furnishings. There were benches, tables, chairs and stairs up to a deck, with a grill beneath its cover. There was flagstone and concrete with levels, cracks and sinews. There were pots and plants and trees and weeds, which I fully intend to get to soon. There was dirt, rock borders and grass, LOTS of grass.

As I came back to myself, to my daughter and to her desperation, our backyard seemed vast and infinite in its pockets and possibilities. In contrast to the missing, tiny stud our backyard was Eden. Looking in, one might conclude that the situation was hopeless. How could we possibly find what we were looking for? In that moment I could have given Maya a sympathetic hug and a dose of the grim reality. She would have cried for a while and eventually gone back out to play. I would then return to my pad and my unfinished thoughts, and eventually, I would have showered. We would have cut our losses and moved on. But we didn't. She didn't, and neither did I.

Instead, I reached out to the little girl clutching all that remained of something precious, and I gently held her shoulders, kneeled down and looked into her moist eyes. I paused, spoke out and said something unexpected. It changed the course of that moment forever.

"Maya, we will find it. I always find what I am looking for. Always."

I reminded her of the many things that have made their way back to her posession and to mine -- the little: a yellow barrette, a sippy cup, and a workout shirt -- the tiny: the screw that holds my sunglasses together (in shag carpet after nearly a week) -- and the big: a wallet and a dream.

"I always find what I am looking for. I always find what I am looking for," I told her and myself. "That which is rightfully mine invariably find its way back to me, and it will find its way back to you."

In that moment, I wasn't sure about the how or the where or the when. All I knew is that I knew, and all that mattered is that Maya knew it too. The revelation and reality we have each begun to see and to experience gave us contagious confidence that I can't entirely describe. The more I have noticed it, the more I have begun to believe it. The more I have believed it, the more I have begun to see it. And in that moment, as I stopped, acknowledged, and spoke it aloud, the tears stopped, our focus shifted and it was true.

In the sunshine and splendor of yesterday morning, we retraced Maya's steps and approached her bike, which rested near the fence. This, she explained, was the spot where she removed her helmet and last felt her earring. We dropped to the ground with its cracks and its sinew and began a hopeful search.

Where is it, Lord? Where is it? Show us the way. Help us to find it.

What if it fell into the rocks, the thought flashed into my mind as a worried Maya simultaneously inquired. "Momma, what if we don't find it? May I wear one of your earrings instead?"

I always find what I am looking for. I always find what I'm looking for... there is no way I will find it if it fell into these rocks, so there is no way it is in these rocks. Did it fall into the grass or the collar of her dress? Where is it? It could be anywhere. Which way?

"Maya, we are going to find it" I responded to her worry and to my doubt.

LEFT...

We walked to the left (and to the right) up and down the length of the fence several times with our noses to the ground to no avail. We each took potty breaks, retraced her steps inside to the couch, and then we headed back outside. After ten or fifteen minutes of looking, I asked again and I knew -- it was time for us to stop.

"Maya, I'm going to go take a shower, and I want you and Cole to play."

"But what if it gets dark, and we don't find it?" she pleaded.

"Maya, I promise you (oh my), we are going to find it. Remember your barrette or my itty bitty screw? Just picture your earring. Really try to see it and visualize yourself finding it. Maya, we will find it. You will find it, or else..."

In that moment, in the splendor and sunshine of a glorious morning, my gaze fell past my daughter to the flagstone patio behind her. Nearly ten feet to the left of the path we had grazed, the background faded away with my words. Time and space and sound stood still for an instant, and that was when only one thing came clearly into focus: a tiny silver post perched atop red stone.

"...or else, it will find you."

"Whether you believe you can or you believe you can't,
either way, you are right."
~Henry Ford

ludic

Yesterday's word of the day was ludic.

Lucid, I read it at first glance. I know that one. It means clear; easy to understand. Not in this case, actually. Not at all. This is not a typo. This is not a word I've come across before. The word indeed is LUDIC.

ludic \LOO-dik\, adjective: Of or relating to play; characterized by play; playful.

Apropos.

The kids and I walked to a particular park on a particularly pleasant morning a few weeks back. I'm not sure what came over me, but I did something I've never done in my five-plus years as a parent: I played. I mean I slid down the slide, climbed up nets and poles, scaled ropes and swung from the monkey bars with my belly button showing. I played. My kiddos were flabbergasted. They weren't sure what to make of it. Neither was I.

You see, I have spent so much time soul-searching, digging deep and pressing in - dealing and healing, seeking and searching over the last few years. It has been good, VERY good. But somewhere along the way I lost my ability to play.

I have cultivated efficiency. I am effective. I am the master multi-tasker. I am peaceful and profound in thought, action and deed. I am content to learn, to grow, to create and to clean. I love to run and to rollerblade, to hike and to sit in the sun. I love to read and to write and to spend time with the people whom I love. I love pedicures, sipping tea and sitting in silence. I am thrilled to experiment with good food in my kitchen and even more, I like to eat it. I appreciate quality and depth and color and flavor. I delight in these things. I get these things, but sit me down with some action figures, and I am at a loss. Where are the crafts and learning toys? I silently wonder.

Somewhere down the road, I misplaced my ability to watch a movie without folding laundry concurrently. Come to think of it, I can't actually recall the last time I saw a movie. But my kiddos - my avatars - are clearing the path, lifting my veil and helping me to see. And as I have searched myself and seen myself, as I have considered my worth and my place and my desires, as I have pursued peace, simplicity, creativity and the kingdom without clarity and with abandon, a funny thing has happened. Modeling clay, board games, Kung Fu Panda and paper airplanes have pushed their way into my days, and I have rediscovered the joys of a soccer ball.

In my free time of late, I have test ridden and subsequently dreamed about a road bike, sketched at a coffee shop, lost myself in an art museum and walked to the park without plans, reading material or packed lunches. I have played, and it has been good. Damn good.

Now 25 years after I became a grown up, I am learning to appreciate the art of ludic living, and what do you know? Lucidity. The kingdom is becoming clearer.

accord

Every once in a while, you hike up your knickers and take a leap.

You dive in, you hit a high note, you step into the unknown, and it resonates. It just feels right. With little but your heart to fall back on, you make another move, and somewhere down deep... a song. Just to be sure you take another step. Harmony. You strike a chord.

The sweetest song. I love that. Thank you.

This morning I had a revelation: I love socks. I've never really given them much thought before. But today, I do declare, I love socks.

After 10 years in California, they eventually eluded me. There was that year and a half after I got married that I literally didn't wear shoes - just flip flops. Not sure why, I just didn't. But as I've moved on and grown up, slowly, surely, socks have made their way back into my life. This morning, I stepped into one of my favorite pairs, and I swear I heard wind chimes and birds.

Socks are awesome. They are all snuggly and cozy and soft and warm. They cradle and keep my weathered feet. You've seen the best and the worst of my feet. Regardless of their state or my own, they hold me and hug me and love me and make me smile.

I love them.

And I love springtime and sunshine and sisters and sushi and soup... and all manner of things that happen to start with S.

There go those birds again.

printed in pink

It arrived yesterday - my name and address in pink print on an otherwise unmarked envelope. Pink.

A simple, silent, random act of kindness. Of thoughtfulness. Utterly perfect and profound. You know me and I, you. Ah, to know and to be known, it is sweet. You have blessed me. You have blessed me, and I thank you. Your gift arrived at just the right time on just the right day for just the right place, wrapped in just the right color. To know and to be known... ah, so sweet.

You listened. You heard. You gave, and I thank you. I thank you.

You surprised me and moved me and warmed my insides and my face with wet, wonderful tears. You fortified my faith and my family, you nourished my soul and inspired me to give as you have given. You have incited my heart to push forward and to press in - to give to another and then to another and then to another. I thank you.

Oh, if we all stilled ourselves and listened and loved as you have loved. What a wonderful, warm and bright world this would be. It will be. I promise I will not let your gift stop here. I will work and till and sow this seed in rich soil. And it will bear fruit, bushels and bushels of sweet, splendid fruit. And you, my sister, will reap a bountiful harvest. Ten times tenfold, my mysterious and magical sister.

You have blessed me, and I thank you. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.

in her eyes

I heard a sweet ballad a few years back called “In My Daughter’s Eyes.” Martina McBride, maybe? No, I think her name had a K in it… Anyway, I don’t recall what this momma saw in her daughter’s eyes, but I imagine it is much of the same that I see in my own daughter’s eyes or my mom sees in my eyes or the same things her mom saw.

I look in Maya’s eyes and I see beauty and brown and love. I see creativity and curiosity. I see promise and potential. I see my mom, my in-laws… myself. Every once in a while, I’ll catch a glimpse of my husband or my granddaughter, and my heart will flutter. I feel love and at the same time I feel loss. I feel sweetness and sadness at once. Sometimes, I feel responsible, overwhelmed, ill-equipped and insufficient. She has questions, and I’m not sure if I have the answers.

The truth is that I also have questions. I have a lot of questions. I needn’t look any further than my own reflection or the pictures of my sleep to see that they are there. I hear faint whispers calling my name. “Abimbola, come. Maya Grace, come. Come.”

Martina, or Katrina, or whatever her name is, and so many others have gotten me thinking. I look around and within and I want to know.

I heard recently that the only way to get answers in life is to start asking the right questions. I’m not sure what those questions are, but I am willing to ask. I want to know… Do you?

I am embarking on a journey, and I’d like you to come with me. I’m not exactly sure where it will take me – or you – but I am certain that this is one race neither of us can run alone. Will you join me? I’d love your company, as well as your thoughts, your insight, your feedback and your perspective along the way. Perhaps together we will unearth the questions.

If you will help me or you would like to accompany me or you are at least curious, please email me at ourjourneyin@gmail.com , and I will fill you in on the details. Feel free to invite others – your mother, your daughter, your grandmother, your granddaughter, your sister or your friends – to join us. Who knows what we will find.