"This life is just as it should be."
12 November 2014
05 November 2014
is this seat taken?
Fifteen minutes prior to showtime, the overflow lot was nearly full. The theater was atwitter with anticipation.
"Is this seat taken?" I asked. It was.
I scanned the room, noted a spattering of marginally familiar faces, then located an empty seat. Over and around a course of legs and bags, I settled in. I stuck out like a palm tree in a desert of white faces with fifty shades of grey hair. Undoubtedly, I was the youngest person in the room -- by decades.
This morning, the Friends of Langley Library presented librarian and author, Nancy Pearl.
Two weeks ago, I invited a beloved girlfriend -- an in-pencil friend -- to join me, and she accepted. I invited her knowing that she has a big heart, she makes big plans fueled by good intentions, but follow-through isn't her forte. My friend worries incessantly, bears the weight of the world on her shoulders and often feels unwell. I never use ink to mark down our dates, and I only assume I will see her when I actually do. I have a handful of friends such as this. And another handful otherwise.
So 45 minutes prior to showtime, on the heels of a forseeable cancellation, I sighed with a mixture of disappointment and relief and decided to go solo.
Another friend and I spoke earlier this week about loneliness. She described a dull heartache and longing for her person. Although I tried to empathize, she explained that my brand of lonely is not the same as hers. "You ALWAYS have someone around in your world," she said. "If you ever feel lonely, you can roll over in bed and have someone to talk to." True, but crammed in the theater this morning -- a nameless book lost in a library -- I was reminded of our conversation.
Yes, I am currently writing this post during the pauses in a conversation with Maya about Greek Mythology, while Cole happily crunches on his afternoon snack and interjects the details of his day. Yes, I have shared my bed with Paul for 13+ years, and felt secure that if I ever need to roll over and talk, I almost always can. Nevertheless, I too have cried hot, sloppy, achy tears. Some of the loneliest times in my life have been in the company of both family and friends.
Silently, I sat in the hum and hullabaloo of conversation around and about me this morning. The librarians with front row seats whispered in one another's ears. A woman cackled, the man beside me leaned across my lap to make small talk, two women waved and called out to their tardy companions, and the taken seats in front of me were filled. A lonely situation, indeed, however I felt anything but. With notepad in hand, I took note.
An empty stage. An area rug. A vase with fall flowers atop a tall black table. A microphone in its stand...
I thought of my friends -- my persons of present and of old -- and I sighed. Oh, how our friendships have changed. The connections -- most fewer and farther between -- they are quiet and different. Such is this time and this season.
I giggled when I looked around this room full of mature strangers, each of us gathered mid-morning with something important in common: a love of books. My people. And as the over head lights dimmed and a soft spotlight warmed the microphone, I thought of my closest friend of late, whose company I covet and quite enjoy -- the sore thumb sitting in my seat.
"The books I recommend rarely have anything in common," Nancy began. "But in this year's list, I would say there is a common thread. It is connections."
"Is this seat taken?" I asked. It was.
I scanned the room, noted a spattering of marginally familiar faces, then located an empty seat. Over and around a course of legs and bags, I settled in. I stuck out like a palm tree in a desert of white faces with fifty shades of grey hair. Undoubtedly, I was the youngest person in the room -- by decades.
This morning, the Friends of Langley Library presented librarian and author, Nancy Pearl.
I've been looking forward to her visit for weeks.
Two weeks ago, I invited a beloved girlfriend -- an in-pencil friend -- to join me, and she accepted. I invited her knowing that she has a big heart, she makes big plans fueled by good intentions, but follow-through isn't her forte. My friend worries incessantly, bears the weight of the world on her shoulders and often feels unwell. I never use ink to mark down our dates, and I only assume I will see her when I actually do. I have a handful of friends such as this. And another handful otherwise.
So 45 minutes prior to showtime, on the heels of a forseeable cancellation, I sighed with a mixture of disappointment and relief and decided to go solo.
Another friend and I spoke earlier this week about loneliness. She described a dull heartache and longing for her person. Although I tried to empathize, she explained that my brand of lonely is not the same as hers. "You ALWAYS have someone around in your world," she said. "If you ever feel lonely, you can roll over in bed and have someone to talk to." True, but crammed in the theater this morning -- a nameless book lost in a library -- I was reminded of our conversation.
Yes, I am currently writing this post during the pauses in a conversation with Maya about Greek Mythology, while Cole happily crunches on his afternoon snack and interjects the details of his day. Yes, I have shared my bed with Paul for 13+ years, and felt secure that if I ever need to roll over and talk, I almost always can. Nevertheless, I too have cried hot, sloppy, achy tears. Some of the loneliest times in my life have been in the company of both family and friends.
Silently, I sat in the hum and hullabaloo of conversation around and about me this morning. The librarians with front row seats whispered in one another's ears. A woman cackled, the man beside me leaned across my lap to make small talk, two women waved and called out to their tardy companions, and the taken seats in front of me were filled. A lonely situation, indeed, however I felt anything but. With notepad in hand, I took note.
An empty stage. An area rug. A vase with fall flowers atop a tall black table. A microphone in its stand...
I thought of my friends -- my persons of present and of old -- and I sighed. Oh, how our friendships have changed. The connections -- most fewer and farther between -- they are quiet and different. Such is this time and this season.
I giggled when I looked around this room full of mature strangers, each of us gathered mid-morning with something important in common: a love of books. My people. And as the over head lights dimmed and a soft spotlight warmed the microphone, I thought of my closest friend of late, whose company I covet and quite enjoy -- the sore thumb sitting in my seat.
"The books I recommend rarely have anything in common," Nancy began. "But in this year's list, I would say there is a common thread. It is connections."
22 October 2014
15 October 2014
autumn
It begins.
A magnificent maple tree towers in the expanse of our backyard. Mighty arms stretch skyward, and offer fists full of chestnut, gold, green and tangerine to the clouds. A raging gale blows, leaves pirouette from above and fall to the ground below. A bountiful harvest of hand prints scatter green grass until it is no longer so. Soon we will rake, and we will rake, and still the leaves will fall.
A storm returns. A flame is kindled. A bittersweet glow from the hearth, breathes warmth inside while heavy rain thunders upon the roof. The cleats, socks and shoes that once littered the front porch -- now soaked through -- rest beneath the wood stove. A cornucopia of laces, canvas and leather patiently wait to be warm and dry once more.
Night falls midday upon this sleepy Wednesday afternoon. The rain abates, tall trees sway, the windows rattle, the doors wiggle, a distant siren wails, and I'm reminded how kept and surrounded we are. With a rustle, a shimmy, a twinkle, a glow and then a shift, this day most certainly declares, autumn indeed has returned.
A magnificent maple tree towers in the expanse of our backyard. Mighty arms stretch skyward, and offer fists full of chestnut, gold, green and tangerine to the clouds. A raging gale blows, leaves pirouette from above and fall to the ground below. A bountiful harvest of hand prints scatter green grass until it is no longer so. Soon we will rake, and we will rake, and still the leaves will fall.
A storm returns. A flame is kindled. A bittersweet glow from the hearth, breathes warmth inside while heavy rain thunders upon the roof. The cleats, socks and shoes that once littered the front porch -- now soaked through -- rest beneath the wood stove. A cornucopia of laces, canvas and leather patiently wait to be warm and dry once more.
Night falls midday upon this sleepy Wednesday afternoon. The rain abates, tall trees sway, the windows rattle, the doors wiggle, a distant siren wails, and I'm reminded how kept and surrounded we are. With a rustle, a shimmy, a twinkle, a glow and then a shift, this day most certainly declares, autumn indeed has returned.
08 October 2014
Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.
It was Spring. And I was in fifth grade. Or maybe it was sixth.
Early in the week, my friend Allison invited me to go to her house to play Friday after school. I pleaded with my parents to let me go, and they said yes(!!).
All week long, I looked ahead to Friday with expectation and great anticipation; it couldn't come quickly enough. And once Friday finally came, I was ready. I picked out the perfect outfit for the occasion. I suffered through the school day, then hastily set about the kid-sized hallways of my elementary school to find my friend.
Allison greeted me with a smile as I approached, then she explained that plans had changed. She had invited our friend Michelle to come over instead. I saved face, said it was no big deal and walked home alone.
In the safety of my house, I dropped my backpack and crumbled to the floor in tears. I felt heartbroken, devastated and so, so sad. I cried and cried and couldn't stop. I gasped for air, then cried some more.
My dad returned home shortly after I did and found me in a puddle of tears.
"What's wrong?" he asked, and I sobbed in response.
Eventually, I choked out words to explain what transacted in the space between the school bell and our stairwell. My friend -- I thought she was my friend -- chose someone else instead of me. My dad hugged me awkwardly, wiped away my tears and told me not to cry.
"It's okay," he said, and he wiped away the tears that followed.
It's Fall, and somehow, I'm 37.
In the dark of this morning, I stir from sleep. My nose and toes are cold, and I hesitate to pull the covers off of my head. Should I or shouldn't I, I consider, then peel my comforter back just a bit.
Four fifty-five, I read in fuzzy red numbers through bleary eyes. Paul is on his way out the door; he's up early. Me too, I guess.
I find my paper and pen, push up pillows and rest against the headboard of my bed. I turn on my light, and I write down sloppy, jumbled thoughts that weave in and out of this and that.
Nightshades... a dull headache... a workout... my to-do list... my reunion -- it's this weekend, and I've decided not to go. "I'll definitely be there for the 30-year," I write. "My kids will be in college. Holy shit."
And then, out of nowhere, my stream of consciousness and random train of thoughts stop at rejection. Julie. Emily. Joy. Lynn. She chose someone else instead of me... and then I'm on to the next topic.
But the dull ache of this early morning remains in the low clouds of this afternoon. And in the warm and cozy of my blanket and my life, tears prick. I'm reminded of the heartache I endured one Spring afternoon nearly 30 years ago. And in the years that have followed, I have been both chosen, and I have been passed by.
I went to the gym this morning.
I've gone 3-4 days each week for the last month-plus, and doing so has brought me great pleasure and joy. This morning, I ran and jumped and pressed in and pushed through. I heaved and sweat and worked some things out. I left the gym with a smile on my face, with a little self-love and with expectation and great anticipation of my return on Friday.
And the funny thing is, although my family and I have been members of this club and swam at the pool for the last several summers, it's only been in the last month that it even occurred to me to workout in the gym.
I visited this gym one fall morning four years ago and left in frustration. It felt dark and old, the hours were all wrong and... I'm not even sure. But that morning, I cut my workout short and immediately looked for an alternative. I paid for a subsequent membership to another club and then another, because at the time, this one wasn't quite right. But this morning, and for 3-4 mornings each week over the last month-plus, it has been exactly right.
I read a meditation in bed this morning that could have been written just for me. "Leave when it's time to go," its author, Melody Beattie, writes. "Trust the rhythms and cycles life," she implores. "You don't have to hold onto messengers after they've taken you where you were trying to go. You don't have to stay in a classroom after you've learned the lessons and finished that course... Say goodbye with love and gratitude in your heart. And go on down the road."
This life is ever-changing, ever-expanding. It breathes, it grows, it dies, and it returns to life with new vitality, creativity and gusto. Seasons come and go. Friends do also. We inhale. We exhale. We repeat. Things that once fit, won't always, and things that didn't fit, may someday. We may not know it all, but we do know this, and we can take it to the bank. And perhaps in so doing, we can trust a little more, let go, choose love and surrender.
One Spring morning just over 10 years ago Maya and I were back in Denver to see my dad. We went with him to visit a church he had never attended before. My dad and I sat side-by-side with Maya sleeping in her car seat beside me. We sang, read, prayed and listened through the service. And when the time came to turn and greet your neighbors, the two women in the pew before us, turned around to say hello.
"ABI?!" the younger woman inquired incredulously. She beamed, bear-hugged me, and when she finally let go, she explained...
"It's Allison!"
Early in the week, my friend Allison invited me to go to her house to play Friday after school. I pleaded with my parents to let me go, and they said yes(!!).
All week long, I looked ahead to Friday with expectation and great anticipation; it couldn't come quickly enough. And once Friday finally came, I was ready. I picked out the perfect outfit for the occasion. I suffered through the school day, then hastily set about the kid-sized hallways of my elementary school to find my friend.
Allison greeted me with a smile as I approached, then she explained that plans had changed. She had invited our friend Michelle to come over instead. I saved face, said it was no big deal and walked home alone.
In the safety of my house, I dropped my backpack and crumbled to the floor in tears. I felt heartbroken, devastated and so, so sad. I cried and cried and couldn't stop. I gasped for air, then cried some more.
My dad returned home shortly after I did and found me in a puddle of tears.
"What's wrong?" he asked, and I sobbed in response.
Eventually, I choked out words to explain what transacted in the space between the school bell and our stairwell. My friend -- I thought she was my friend -- chose someone else instead of me. My dad hugged me awkwardly, wiped away my tears and told me not to cry.
"It's okay," he said, and he wiped away the tears that followed.
-----
It's Fall, and somehow, I'm 37.
In the dark of this morning, I stir from sleep. My nose and toes are cold, and I hesitate to pull the covers off of my head. Should I or shouldn't I, I consider, then peel my comforter back just a bit.
Four fifty-five, I read in fuzzy red numbers through bleary eyes. Paul is on his way out the door; he's up early. Me too, I guess.
I find my paper and pen, push up pillows and rest against the headboard of my bed. I turn on my light, and I write down sloppy, jumbled thoughts that weave in and out of this and that.
Nightshades... a dull headache... a workout... my to-do list... my reunion -- it's this weekend, and I've decided not to go. "I'll definitely be there for the 30-year," I write. "My kids will be in college. Holy shit."
And then, out of nowhere, my stream of consciousness and random train of thoughts stop at rejection. Julie. Emily. Joy. Lynn. She chose someone else instead of me... and then I'm on to the next topic.
But the dull ache of this early morning remains in the low clouds of this afternoon. And in the warm and cozy of my blanket and my life, tears prick. I'm reminded of the heartache I endured one Spring afternoon nearly 30 years ago. And in the years that have followed, I have been both chosen, and I have been passed by.
-----
I went to the gym this morning.
I've gone 3-4 days each week for the last month-plus, and doing so has brought me great pleasure and joy. This morning, I ran and jumped and pressed in and pushed through. I heaved and sweat and worked some things out. I left the gym with a smile on my face, with a little self-love and with expectation and great anticipation of my return on Friday.
And the funny thing is, although my family and I have been members of this club and swam at the pool for the last several summers, it's only been in the last month that it even occurred to me to workout in the gym.
I visited this gym one fall morning four years ago and left in frustration. It felt dark and old, the hours were all wrong and... I'm not even sure. But that morning, I cut my workout short and immediately looked for an alternative. I paid for a subsequent membership to another club and then another, because at the time, this one wasn't quite right. But this morning, and for 3-4 mornings each week over the last month-plus, it has been exactly right.
I read a meditation in bed this morning that could have been written just for me. "Leave when it's time to go," its author, Melody Beattie, writes. "Trust the rhythms and cycles life," she implores. "You don't have to hold onto messengers after they've taken you where you were trying to go. You don't have to stay in a classroom after you've learned the lessons and finished that course... Say goodbye with love and gratitude in your heart. And go on down the road."
This life is ever-changing, ever-expanding. It breathes, it grows, it dies, and it returns to life with new vitality, creativity and gusto. Seasons come and go. Friends do also. We inhale. We exhale. We repeat. Things that once fit, won't always, and things that didn't fit, may someday. We may not know it all, but we do know this, and we can take it to the bank. And perhaps in so doing, we can trust a little more, let go, choose love and surrender.
One Spring morning just over 10 years ago Maya and I were back in Denver to see my dad. We went with him to visit a church he had never attended before. My dad and I sat side-by-side with Maya sleeping in her car seat beside me. We sang, read, prayed and listened through the service. And when the time came to turn and greet your neighbors, the two women in the pew before us, turned around to say hello.
"ABI?!" the younger woman inquired incredulously. She beamed, bear-hugged me, and when she finally let go, she explained...
"It's Allison!"
24 September 2014
chop wood, carry water
Three weeks ago, I was dirty, sweaty, smelly and beside myself with joy.
Right now feels like that too.
My kids are at school, my belly is full, my dishwasher runs, the heater at my feet is almost too hot and this sleepy, sloppy chair couldn't be any more uncomfortable.
And in the way I often do, I've sunken into this chair in search of the little red, common threads that hold these things together.
Chelan.
I went for a walk one morning while we were camping.
Halfway through the walk, I stopped at a dock to do sun salutations overlooking the lake. I remember thinking thank you with my arms held high, drinking in the utter bliss of that single moment in my life. I felt it over and over again that week -- sitting around the campfire, washing my feet in the lake, systematizing my little camp kitchen, watching my kids play cards with new friends, scrubbing dishes in the dark, and waking up to the sunrise.
While we were in Chelan my life was simple. There was nothing to do, but to feel my dirty feet on the earth beneath me and to be there. My daily chores made me happy, and to breathe fresh air all day and all night, was heaven. I feel weepy just thinking about it.
Today.
I woke up early to pounding rain, an hour before my alarm and just shy of sufficient sleep. While it was still dark outside, I scratched out my morning pages. No rhyme, no reason, no structure, no syntax, just words on loose-leaf pages. I read for a while, then went to work out. My kids were ready and dressed when I returned home, and we traveled together to school.
My friend, Tohnia and I walked and talked and even cried a little in the rain. We hiked up hills, breathed fresh air and moved our legs. I stopped to pee in a port-a-potty (gross), and then we walked more. Tohnia gave me a book and a hug before we parted, then I returned home to a hot shower, a warm lunch and my space heater.
This week, I've had meetings, met with clients, packed lunches, scrubbed toilets, folded laundry, made dinner, chauffeured children and on and on and on. And right now, I'm sitting here -- still. I've sunken into my chair in the midst of a crazy busy week with so much before and so much to come. Right now, it's just me and my laptop, and I have that feeling once more. So content and connected I could cry.
Chop wood, carry water, my friend Elly often says.
Elly speaks of the daily chores and the simple, constant things we do as we move about our days and our lives. We chop wood, we carry water, and we stay connected. I love that. And as I think about that lake and about that walk and about this day, I can almost feel the common thread between the tips of my fingers. I feel connected, awake and alive.
Right now feels like that too.
My kids are at school, my belly is full, my dishwasher runs, the heater at my feet is almost too hot and this sleepy, sloppy chair couldn't be any more uncomfortable.
And in the way I often do, I've sunken into this chair in search of the little red, common threads that hold these things together.
Chelan.
I went for a walk one morning while we were camping.
Halfway through the walk, I stopped at a dock to do sun salutations overlooking the lake. I remember thinking thank you with my arms held high, drinking in the utter bliss of that single moment in my life. I felt it over and over again that week -- sitting around the campfire, washing my feet in the lake, systematizing my little camp kitchen, watching my kids play cards with new friends, scrubbing dishes in the dark, and waking up to the sunrise.
While we were in Chelan my life was simple. There was nothing to do, but to feel my dirty feet on the earth beneath me and to be there. My daily chores made me happy, and to breathe fresh air all day and all night, was heaven. I feel weepy just thinking about it.
Today.
I woke up early to pounding rain, an hour before my alarm and just shy of sufficient sleep. While it was still dark outside, I scratched out my morning pages. No rhyme, no reason, no structure, no syntax, just words on loose-leaf pages. I read for a while, then went to work out. My kids were ready and dressed when I returned home, and we traveled together to school.
My friend, Tohnia and I walked and talked and even cried a little in the rain. We hiked up hills, breathed fresh air and moved our legs. I stopped to pee in a port-a-potty (gross), and then we walked more. Tohnia gave me a book and a hug before we parted, then I returned home to a hot shower, a warm lunch and my space heater.
This week, I've had meetings, met with clients, packed lunches, scrubbed toilets, folded laundry, made dinner, chauffeured children and on and on and on. And right now, I'm sitting here -- still. I've sunken into my chair in the midst of a crazy busy week with so much before and so much to come. Right now, it's just me and my laptop, and I have that feeling once more. So content and connected I could cry.
Chop wood, carry water, my friend Elly often says.
Elly speaks of the daily chores and the simple, constant things we do as we move about our days and our lives. We chop wood, we carry water, and we stay connected. I love that. And as I think about that lake and about that walk and about this day, I can almost feel the common thread between the tips of my fingers. I feel connected, awake and alive.
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