Bounty day, January 7, 2012

Follow, follow, follow your heart, like a bloodhound on the scent.  I mostly don't ever know where the smells will take me.  Although, that might just be untrue.  I might completely KNOW but dwell within the unknowing.  I sometimes feel trapped within the unknowing that all the pieces and parts and people in my life have given me to construct;  trapped within my own prison walls but with tiny windows, so all hope is not lost.  If I can be looking out when the next clue comes by, I can sometimes catch it.  I mostly feel focused on the walls instead of the windows.  But today felt more like the opposite.  It felt like I was sticking my head out the window this morning at the horse farm.  I didn't feel trapped.  I felt some freedom, some wiggle room, as if perhaps prison walls can be torn down, and there can be some new ways of being in your own world.

It's always beginning...

I was lying in bed last night feeling let down, or at least, anticipating feeling that way.  Wow, I thought.  Through all of these holidays, facing potentially sad-making scenarios like my son being away on Christmas day and some others, I haven't felt that Christmas melancholy this year.  But last night, I wondered if in the next few days and weeks, it would set in.  Maybe it was the thought of going back to the routine of school and work.  But no, I've been "working" all along, and have gotten myself convinced that every day is just that....a day.  Every day is the first day because every day is its own.  No, it was more a little sadness creeping in about the loss of a collective, communal experience for which the holidays allow.  Whether it's time off from a job or school, or the collective notion that it is a season of giving and reaching out, it is something that we are in together.  Blame hallmark or retail, but for all in their "winter" the days do get shorter and the darkness increases.  And being the hopeful mammals that we are, and having promises made to us one way or another that we believe, we celebrate together the coming of the Light.  All I could imagine last night as I lay in my anticipatory sadness, was a flash mob scene.  Did you see the one from the Carlson School of Management:  

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uH8FvERQHtM

There we "all" are!  Being "corny" and dropping our bags to either join in or watch.  We let ourselves dive into all of it -  the fun, the relief, the connections.  For a moment, we forget the bills (just for a moment), the pressure, the fears, the aging process, the college loans, the exams, the performance reviews.  But what got me in my mind's eye last night, was what happens after the glorious flash mob completes its offering:  "we" pick up our bags, put on our game faces, and keep walking along our often well-worn paths.  Oh, that is my fear.  That I will be one to pick up my bag, and get back into a rut.  That even for all the fantastic purging that went on in my home (and baby, it did!), the organization, the letting go of that cursed reactivity reflex to emails, phone calls, and even anticipated demands, I will pick up the same old bag.  Even more, I fear and feel sad, that we will all disperse.  That we came together sharing the hopefulness of Light, celebrating our commonalities, and now we will leave each other to our ruts.  We will all walk away from our flash mob.

So the obvious question is how do we keep our flash mob alive!?  How DO they plan those things anyway? It would be worth looking into eh?  Do those flash mobbers have to plan and connect with each other for the coming together and harmonizing?  Do they thus "plan" for spontaneity?  I want to stay open to looking for flash mobs and I also want to be a part of some flash mob mentality this year.  Now I for one, shy away from the resolution making i.e., crazy making process.  Why would I want to set myself up that way!?  What I am doing, in my unplanned but planned, blood-hound-esque sniffing way, is to clear my plate.  I think that is why I cleaned out closets, drawers, and folders;  got rid of clothes and the 5 vases that I never used.  I want to be prepared for spontaneity.  I don't want to be weighted down by "stuff" whether it be external or internal.  If I have too much stuff in my "bag" I'll never make it to the flash mob anyway!  I want to see flash mob potential in every story that I am privy to hear this year, and every connection that I can be part of between child to teacher, alumni and alumni, student to student, student to alumni, dog or horse to human.   

Maybe my sadness is a testimony to the importance and poignancy of the holidays, the solstice time.  Maybe grieving for it says that we indeed did experience a coming together and a letting go.  Hope says it will come again, and maybe if we pay attention, it will be some part of everyday too.  

What I love?  I love sitting in Starbucks and listening (eavesdropping?!) to the men (yep, they are mostly men) who gather here each day, not in a rush, savoring their coffee, recanting stories about ice storms and rescues, children and weather, fishing rods, engines, politics and violins.  They chit chat with strangers, making kind small talk and, just like magic,  instantly creating community.  Magic.  I feel like a part of this group, though I'm on the perimeter.  It satisfies the yearning to be part of a tribe, and one that makes me believe that folks are kind and not fearful or suspicious.  I love this.  Stories are powerful and sharing them is what keeps us connected even in times of such great disconnection.  Are we over connected, and under storied?

Five. Two. Fifty-two. 52. Five decades and two years.

Now I'm 52.  A new number!  Bright and shiny.  Barely blemished it is so brand new.  So far, 52 has been waking up at 7 in a ball of dog fur.  It has been coffee at the 'Bean with Mer.  It has been Weatherspoon Art Gallery with the FYE class and Maia, lunch with Maia and writing time here at the 'bux.  It has already been happy birthday singing from my son, my friend, well wishes from Olivia in NJ, and loads of Facebook messages.  One of the FYE students asked "how does it feel?" to which I replied, "it feels like a big number."  But you know, I wish I'd said "it feels great"  because it does.  It feels great.  It feels like being afloat on a raft between the christening splash in the water (as I think today about my Mom becoming a Mom, and my grandmother becoming a grandmother...) and whatever waterfalls are ahead.  It's okay.  I'm grateful for this place where I can see.  Yes, I'm here on the shaky impermanence of a raft, but for now it's holding me up and moving me along.  That raft is giving me a pretty good vantage point.  I could get all caught up in guessing how big the waterfalls are going to be, but I have a feeling that would only cause this little raft to rock and roll so much I just might slip into the drink too soon!  I could also wrench my neck around to look back and see where I've been.  Why not around THAT tree?  Why not ride that rapid?    I'm pretty sure all that neck wrenching would toss me off that raft.  Nope, the idea here might be to stay on the raft.  Maybe I could even enjoy the raft and the ride.  I can groove it!  Feel it!  Ride it!  It'll be okay!  I've got to go where the river leads but I can also paddle or not, turn or not, stop or not, look around or not.  It's my raft.  Not bad for five decades.

Fire Sunday writing folders dogs I like Sunday

Warm Wilmington

It was warm alright.  But not just in the "I can take my shoes off and put my feet in the ocean" way.  It was "warm" in so many other ways.  First of all, how can a weekend playing in the state tennis tourney be anything but warm, and I mean on the inside of your ever-lovin' tennis heart?  Secondly, how can a weekend in a town where your best friend is also who can't wait to see you play tennis be less than super warm?  Third, how can it be sub-warm if you have man friends who are also there and also want to see you play (and who are dying for you to watch them play?).  But finally and most of all, how can your weekend be anything but toasty warm your heart kind of warm if you are there with the people you love spending time with the most in the world...your children.  My children.  I will never, ever stop relishing our moments in the sun last weekend.  Arm in arm, walking along the streets of Wilmington, my beloveds made me laugh, interested me with their stories and conversations, delighted me with their own beautiful relationship and gifted me with their full attention.  I snuggled in between them as we walked along, soaking in the sheer joy of it all.   I tried to soak it all in through my very through my very roots, consciously trying to absorb the moment.    At the same time, I could almost see us from afar, like a picture frame or movie we were in my mind.  I watched with immense gratitude and thanksgiving.   These two are more than my children.  They are the people who I want to be with, who challenge me, who interest me, who entertain me, and who love me.  

There was even more warmth.  I know, it is almost too much.  The weather was perfectly beautiful. Crisp but not cold.  Sunny.  I could do what I do best....bake on warm surfaces like a lizard.  I got to lay on the beach with my daughter, watching my son, tall and lanky in his wet suit, venture out into the surf.  I got to see his sheer enjoyment of those moments in the ocean, catching some of his first legitimate rides on a board.  I got to see his maturity and sticktoitiveness.  I got to see his enormous feet waving in the air as he paddled his board, my daughter and I cracking up at the sight of those two white "flags" in the sea.  I got to see how tall he looked as he unfolded from his board pop up moment to full height as he rode the wave in (insert his gigantic smile here).

Do you value moments more when you know they are fleeting?  Do you value them more when you eek out your pennies to make them happen, hoping you can make it to the next pay check?  Do you understand your life better when you know you are a "have" even though, compared to your past, you know you are viewed as a "have not?"  All the answers, for me, seem to be a resounding yes.

Mammals in airports

(This has been sitting in draft since late September!)

KCI, Kansas City International, is homegrown and small enough for me to be sitting, right now, at the end of the security check in area.  You know, the place where men and women put their shoes, belts and jackets back on, and where they put all those little 4 oz. vials of personal care products back into their suitcases, hoping that no one sees their toe fungus meds, rogaine or hormone replacement pills (are they pills?  I'm just too young to know yet!).  This is a great vantage point for me.  I'm am utterly fascinated by what happens to us at airports.  I mean, where else does all our mammal-ness come out both flamboyantly and sadly?  We trudge up to prove that we are who our little plastic ID cards say we are.  Last time I checked in, I had my glasses on.  I did not have those spectacles on in my photo ID picture.  The man eyed me up and down so I had to reassure him - "same gray hairs sir."  He nodded and allowed me to pass.  Then the de-robing begins.  I don't know about you, but I always feel sort of foolish when I start stripping my belt and shoes (and today I didn't even have socks on - my pedicure needs an overhaul, was anyone looking?), and start unloading my pockets.  I am certain that someone somewhere is keeping video footage of all this and is going to make the most hilarious and telling documentary about us to show to the people of the next century, or to folks on another planet.  (Side note - the most beautiful two priests are just putting themselves back together - white haired, collared gents who, if I was the security guard, I'd wave through and ask them simply to pray for me).  So I proceed, feeling like someone who is being duped by some big sister in the sky - "ha ha ha" she says.  "Do you really just do everything that you are told to do?"

Besides feeling dumb, something else happens to me when I'm baring the soles of my feet to strangers - the strangers suddenly feel like friends.  I often imagine bubbles above our heads with thoughts like "WHAT are we doing?"  and "let's go rogue!" and  "I'll make sure you don't leave your phone or your belt in this plastic container-I've got your back" and "please don't look closely at my personal hygiene items," or "wow, we all brush our teeth and we all know to put the toothbrush and paste in  the clear plastic bag."   Oh, you could go on and on wondering what we are all collectively thinking.  It feels sort of intimate doesn't it?  I mean, it's kind of interesting when a handsome man is next to you, taking off his belt, and is in his sock feet - makes you wonder things. Ok, it makes me wonder things.

I think of the elderly folks who are going through this rigamarole.  Really?  You are going to make that 90 year old, dignified woman take her shoes off and dismantle all of her bags?  Do you know how long it must've taken her to pack and organize those bags perfectly for this journey?  Ok, maybe I'm wishing they would consider that when I come through!  Maybe, just maybe, I'm identifying more intently these days with older women.  I digress.

After we strip ourselves bare, proving to be worthy of going to the next step...there is the NEXT STEP looming in front of us:  the passage way to the giant, metal tube that leaves the ground.  I tell you, if that doesn't bring some mammals together I don't know what does.  We've all made it through security, and are experiencing a sort of "ahhhh" moment, celebrating the fact that we passed.  And then, like lambs to the slaughter, we realize we made it through to ....this????   Again, I feel duped.  I jumped through hoops and followed the rules, but my reward is that I get to put my mammal self on this crazy ass large metal thing that someone is going to fly in the air?  I look around at my fellow mammals.  I kind of feel sorry for all of us.  I don't care what anyone says, this is scary stuff.  We have relinquished all of our control.  We have no idea who is driving this bus.  Did they just have a fight with their significant other?  Are they gasping for air from a broken heart?  (Neither of those two comments have anything to do with me by the way.)  Did he or she party all night?  We all ask these questions in the deep recesses of our minds - they are too scary for the forefront.  So, we all are standing there - it doesn't matter if we are doctors, lawyers, or Indian chiefs - we are all in the same boat literally,  at that moment.  Sweet and sad are these airport moments.

One by one er trudge forward, cattle- like in our movement through the gate.  I can almost hear the mooing sometimes.  Once on, the battle for space, comfort and pure perseverance begins.  This part of the trek is about posturing and decisions.  Will I be able to coordinate my overhead storage moment with my carry on bag that I keep at my seat?  Will I knock someone unconscious as I sling my bag up over my head?  Will I luck out and be the first one on my row, or will I have to do the aisle dance with my row mates?  The big decision for me is about small talk.  Am I going to engage the person next to me or not?  You'd think I would take advantage of these opportunities to have an encounter with fellow traveler, after all we've just been through together in the terminal.  Also, in my line of work (as if I have one) which is discovering stories, you'd think I'd go after the one right next to me - the one practically, but hopefully not literally,  in my lap.  But most of the time in these situations, my introvert wins.  She wants to hunker down deep into the pages of book or magazine.  Beyond that, my defense mechanism of narcoleptic- like ability to pass out on planes kicks in most of the time.  I can be in a deep sleep in no time on a plane.  It is a nice buffer to my phobic separation anxiety that I started experiencing once I became a mother.  It usually kicks in before we're off the ground, for which I'm grateful.  I get to miss all that trauma about leaving the earth and all.  Don't get me wrong, I can do the meet and greet and make nice with my seat mates, but it is short lived most of the time.  I did meet Harold from California years ago.  He was an older gent and we talked for hours on a plane from somewhere to Denver.  He was a gift at a terribly confusing time in my life.  So, I don't want to look opportunity in the face and write it off.

...Over a month has passed.  I made it from sky to ground, one more time.  I am so grateful.  I am always grateful to get home to North Carolina.  I love North Carolina.  I love my home.  I love my momentary home of the Dripolator coffee shop in Black Mountain.  I'm on a trip to play connector person with beloved friends.  Now, I've been inside too long an a perfect November day writing..  Gotta get out there before it gets dark.  Today's mission:  absorb beauty.