Wilco - Shot in the Arm
The ashtray says you were up all night
And you went to bed with your darkest mind
You've changed, oh you've changed
What you once were isn't what you want to be anymore....
Friday, February 26, 2010
Delight
While I continue to claw through my strange morass of self-discovery, J is conversely lost in a world of unending delight.
When informed that school would be delayed by two hours this morning, she was beside herself with excitement. The prospects for crafting over two whole hours was almost more than she could take. What? Why didn't I let her sleep in? Silly you. She was awake at 6:30 when I peaked in - had already used the bathroom, donned her bathrobe (along with a fancy new headband), and was sitting on her bed with the flashlight, making shadow animals on the wall.
It is now 7:55, and she has accomplished the following:
- Eaten a half bagel and gotten dressed
- Opened, learned about, played with and cleaned up all components relating to her new Crayola Glow Board (thanks cousins Rachel and John)
- Played with and cleaned up Bendaroos
- Concocted an elaborate game with her kitchen set, My Little Ponies and the giant plastic ball purchased recently at Target
- Established an 'apartment' in the basement next to the bookshelf and dress-ups cabinet. What goes on in that apartment is a mystery, but it involves hushed narration as far as I can tell.
I now have to hop in the shower to get ready for a meeting downtown, but am longing to sit silently and watch her all morning, to absorb her sunny energy (and, ok, occasionally smooch on her smooth 6-year-old cheeks). She has been my link to the light at the end of the tunnel of late, and in her presence I am happy and calm. Here's to snowy mornings and sunshine indoors.
When informed that school would be delayed by two hours this morning, she was beside herself with excitement. The prospects for crafting over two whole hours was almost more than she could take. What? Why didn't I let her sleep in? Silly you. She was awake at 6:30 when I peaked in - had already used the bathroom, donned her bathrobe (along with a fancy new headband), and was sitting on her bed with the flashlight, making shadow animals on the wall.
It is now 7:55, and she has accomplished the following:
- Eaten a half bagel and gotten dressed
- Opened, learned about, played with and cleaned up all components relating to her new Crayola Glow Board (thanks cousins Rachel and John)
- Played with and cleaned up Bendaroos
- Concocted an elaborate game with her kitchen set, My Little Ponies and the giant plastic ball purchased recently at Target
- Established an 'apartment' in the basement next to the bookshelf and dress-ups cabinet. What goes on in that apartment is a mystery, but it involves hushed narration as far as I can tell.
I now have to hop in the shower to get ready for a meeting downtown, but am longing to sit silently and watch her all morning, to absorb her sunny energy (and, ok, occasionally smooch on her smooth 6-year-old cheeks). She has been my link to the light at the end of the tunnel of late, and in her presence I am happy and calm. Here's to snowy mornings and sunshine indoors.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Kinship with winter
Warmer seasons bolster my spirits, what with their colors and long days and, well, warmth. But truly I feel a kinship with winter. This snowy weather especially tugs at my insides.
As I ride along country roads and into the small towns nearby, the snow highlights for me quiet cemeteries. The graveyard monuments seem more at home in the cold and gray than in the heat of summer. There is no foliage to distract the eye from the harsh reality of their meaning. Plastic flowers obscenely strike a tone of inappropriate gaiety. Dilapidated and decaying Christmas decorations remaining long past the season act as a truer indicator of grief and loss than stones telling nothing of the people left behind. I see you, cemetery. I understand.
There are abandoned farmhouses along my travel routes as well. In the snow, enormous, skeletal oaks and maples stand sentinel around a deteriorating shell of a home. Overgrown azaleas and rhododendrons are exaggerated and haunting, shielding porches and doorways. The black of empty windows call out to me. "I used to be someone's dream," they say. There is no summer ivy now to lend a romantic air to the sense of desertion, to cheer one with the idea of the inevitable triumph of nature. I hear you, abandoned farmhouse. I understand.
The fields are still mostly covered with a thick blanket, smooth and white. From a distance their perfection is lovely and calming. Yet they entice corruption, and not just from me. Crows, hawks and blackbirds swoop, land, burrow, and flee - attempting to unearth something, anything of substance from the cold barrier hiding the land. And I am well aware that underneath the smooth frosting there are murdered plants and wretched, cold mud. I see you, winter fields. I understand.
With a forecast of additional snow tonight into Friday, and the calendar's promise of another full month of winter, I will hunker down and wrap the season around me for a time. We are kindred spirits, after all.
As I ride along country roads and into the small towns nearby, the snow highlights for me quiet cemeteries. The graveyard monuments seem more at home in the cold and gray than in the heat of summer. There is no foliage to distract the eye from the harsh reality of their meaning. Plastic flowers obscenely strike a tone of inappropriate gaiety. Dilapidated and decaying Christmas decorations remaining long past the season act as a truer indicator of grief and loss than stones telling nothing of the people left behind. I see you, cemetery. I understand.
There are abandoned farmhouses along my travel routes as well. In the snow, enormous, skeletal oaks and maples stand sentinel around a deteriorating shell of a home. Overgrown azaleas and rhododendrons are exaggerated and haunting, shielding porches and doorways. The black of empty windows call out to me. "I used to be someone's dream," they say. There is no summer ivy now to lend a romantic air to the sense of desertion, to cheer one with the idea of the inevitable triumph of nature. I hear you, abandoned farmhouse. I understand.
The fields are still mostly covered with a thick blanket, smooth and white. From a distance their perfection is lovely and calming. Yet they entice corruption, and not just from me. Crows, hawks and blackbirds swoop, land, burrow, and flee - attempting to unearth something, anything of substance from the cold barrier hiding the land. And I am well aware that underneath the smooth frosting there are murdered plants and wretched, cold mud. I see you, winter fields. I understand.
With a forecast of additional snow tonight into Friday, and the calendar's promise of another full month of winter, I will hunker down and wrap the season around me for a time. We are kindred spirits, after all.
Monday, February 22, 2010
MHRS
Today's Most Helpful Running Song - it was a tie:
Casual Affair - my GOD, what happened to Tonic? This album rocked from start to finish.
Run - Kathleen Edwards doing her alt-country-Canadian thing including a loose running theme, depending on how you interpret it.
Casual Affair - my GOD, what happened to Tonic? This album rocked from start to finish.
Run - Kathleen Edwards doing her alt-country-Canadian thing including a loose running theme, depending on how you interpret it.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
All bets are off
I am not increasing my mileage much these days, but have instead chosen to focus on my pace. Today's 10 encompassed a dual challenge - I promised myself that I would stick with all the hills on my preset course (max incline 5), and would maintain an 8:20 pace after a half-mile warm-up.
Flicking the back of my ears like an annoying little brother was the knowledge that I would likely have bathroom breaks, but I hoped to keep them to a minimum. Music, as always, would serve as a mental diversion. But what game this time? Mind bets.
I have had the same 64 or so songs on my iPod's running playlist for the last 2 years. If I estimate an hour and half run, how many songs would that be? I guess 23, with 15 being at the one hour mark. Starting off, I even wondered if I could average two songs per mile. My thoughts begin to wander....
Counting down. By mile 8 I am on song 4. Pace is good but tough. I strangely and accurately predict White Stripes will follow the Beastie Boys. A-ha! Ok, let's see if I can predict what will be playing at the one-hour mark. Damn - 7.30 is my first run to the bathroom. Keep it short, get it done. I hate my stomach.
Mile 6, and the incline hovers near 5 for what seems like the whole mile. I start eying the incline dubiously. Could I stop the virtual course and restart flat and keep the pace? No! No! Suck it up. Lean into the hill.
Perk up at mile 5 - Super Bon Bon. Move up the side and let the man go through. Wait - don't lose track. What number is this? Song 12. GodDAMNit I need the bathroom again. I just have to make it to mile 3.5 where I have some downhill waiting. How did I get here? How can I continue to push my pace when each run still feels like a challenge instead of a triumph? Think of each run as a building block. A brick with mortar.
Or is it a building block like J used to play with? I see her chubby hand, swinging drunkenly toward a stack with blue and red letters, knocking them down more often than building them up. Her wrists still have rolls like indentations of tight rubber bands. The image fades.
I am running in the desert. Behind my swishing turquoise running skirt and Bowerman series Nikes drops red and blue blocks, tumbling and falling still on the roadside in the red dirt. Blazing sunlight. There is no ambient noise or moving air of any kind (as in my basement).
Dirty Vegas, song 13, and I am coming out of the desert. I crest the hill and can see Vegas at night - a big bowl of lights beckoning to me. It's the only city I have visited where I was handed a brochure with a selection of prostitutes. Do I look like a likely patron? I would have thought not.
I top the hour ahead, at song 14. With my accurate predictions earlier, I was thinking I would hear Joan Osborne. Instead, mile 8 was welcomed by the Jayhawks. Hmph. Maybe my last song will be Ray LaMontagne. Ray - you look like Jesus, but you can bring it on home to me any day of the week.
Mile 8 was almost all hill again. I found myself gripping the rails a few times. By mile 9, suddenly everything became irritating. The headphones were whipped off. I pulled a Mia Hamm with my shirt. I don't even remember what song number I left off on. I just wanted off that belt.
My last bet? I bet I would finish at 1:24. With distractions gone and a downhill trek for the last quarter mile, I was able to finish without tremendous acrimony. Yes! I yanked the safety plug at 1:23. Done.
Flicking the back of my ears like an annoying little brother was the knowledge that I would likely have bathroom breaks, but I hoped to keep them to a minimum. Music, as always, would serve as a mental diversion. But what game this time? Mind bets.
I have had the same 64 or so songs on my iPod's running playlist for the last 2 years. If I estimate an hour and half run, how many songs would that be? I guess 23, with 15 being at the one hour mark. Starting off, I even wondered if I could average two songs per mile. My thoughts begin to wander....
Counting down. By mile 8 I am on song 4. Pace is good but tough. I strangely and accurately predict White Stripes will follow the Beastie Boys. A-ha! Ok, let's see if I can predict what will be playing at the one-hour mark. Damn - 7.30 is my first run to the bathroom. Keep it short, get it done. I hate my stomach.
Mile 6, and the incline hovers near 5 for what seems like the whole mile. I start eying the incline dubiously. Could I stop the virtual course and restart flat and keep the pace? No! No! Suck it up. Lean into the hill.
Perk up at mile 5 - Super Bon Bon. Move up the side and let the man go through. Wait - don't lose track. What number is this? Song 12. GodDAMNit I need the bathroom again. I just have to make it to mile 3.5 where I have some downhill waiting. How did I get here? How can I continue to push my pace when each run still feels like a challenge instead of a triumph? Think of each run as a building block. A brick with mortar.
Or is it a building block like J used to play with? I see her chubby hand, swinging drunkenly toward a stack with blue and red letters, knocking them down more often than building them up. Her wrists still have rolls like indentations of tight rubber bands. The image fades.
I am running in the desert. Behind my swishing turquoise running skirt and Bowerman series Nikes drops red and blue blocks, tumbling and falling still on the roadside in the red dirt. Blazing sunlight. There is no ambient noise or moving air of any kind (as in my basement).
Dirty Vegas, song 13, and I am coming out of the desert. I crest the hill and can see Vegas at night - a big bowl of lights beckoning to me. It's the only city I have visited where I was handed a brochure with a selection of prostitutes. Do I look like a likely patron? I would have thought not.
I top the hour ahead, at song 14. With my accurate predictions earlier, I was thinking I would hear Joan Osborne. Instead, mile 8 was welcomed by the Jayhawks. Hmph. Maybe my last song will be Ray LaMontagne. Ray - you look like Jesus, but you can bring it on home to me any day of the week.
Mile 8 was almost all hill again. I found myself gripping the rails a few times. By mile 9, suddenly everything became irritating. The headphones were whipped off. I pulled a Mia Hamm with my shirt. I don't even remember what song number I left off on. I just wanted off that belt.
My last bet? I bet I would finish at 1:24. With distractions gone and a downhill trek for the last quarter mile, I was able to finish without tremendous acrimony. Yes! I yanked the safety plug at 1:23. Done.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Taking control, finally
I have been re-reading a book that JBL gave me many years ago - a collection of poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay. Many of the words strike me at my current time of turmoil, but this particular verse without a name gave me both pause and encouragement:
I will put Chaos into fourteen lines
And keep him there; and let him thence escape
If he be lucky; let him twist, and ape
Flood, fire, and demon - his adroit designs
Will strain to nothing in the strict confines
Of this sweet Order, where, in pious rape,
I hold his essence and amorphous shape,
Till he with Order mingles and combines.
Past are the hours, the years, of our duress,
His arrogance, our awful servitude:
I have him. He is nothing more nor less
Than something simple not yet understood;
I shall not even force him to confess;
Or answer. I will only make him good.
I don't yet posses the confidence in these lines, but I am willing to try it on like a hat. I have worn many others - why not this one? And it may still be cold outside, but look at this - actual grass showing:
Hope in the afternoon sunlight.
I will put Chaos into fourteen lines
And keep him there; and let him thence escape
If he be lucky; let him twist, and ape
Flood, fire, and demon - his adroit designs
Will strain to nothing in the strict confines
Of this sweet Order, where, in pious rape,
I hold his essence and amorphous shape,
Till he with Order mingles and combines.
Past are the hours, the years, of our duress,
His arrogance, our awful servitude:
I have him. He is nothing more nor less
Than something simple not yet understood;
I shall not even force him to confess;
Or answer. I will only make him good.
I don't yet posses the confidence in these lines, but I am willing to try it on like a hat. I have worn many others - why not this one? And it may still be cold outside, but look at this - actual grass showing:
Hope in the afternoon sunlight.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Long season
It was Friday after the storm.
I climbed the hill to see if the plows were running, but found myself distracted. Looking along the culverts, I noticed patterns made by the wind. The sparkling snow was sculpted like sand. Lines danced across its surface, perfect in its imperfection. I thought of pressing my mitten deep into the drift to show a solidarity with the wind and it's destructive ways when a call came from overhead.
Among the barren sassafras and oak branches, a tufted titmouse and red-bellied woodpecker called out to each other. I watched them for a time, the former making little headway moving up a gray wrinkled trunk before moving slowly back down. The latter, oddly named given his bright red cap and snowy white belly, swooped across the road and disappeared into the woods to the north.
The sunlight was bright against the snow, electrifying the blue sky. I turned west to shield my eyes, looking downhill towards my house. It seemed to huddle on the hill under its cap of thick snow. The wind whipped up along the snow banks and howled in the trees. I found it difficult to imagine this same location in summer - always a welcome shaded break with a cooling breeze, whether returning from a long run or a bike ride down to the stream at the front of the neighborhood. Everything about it now was harsh.
I settled my hat more snugly over my ears, gave one last glance over my shoulder at the roads as yet undisturbed by a plow, and headed back downhill toward home. The wind pressed against my chest and plastered my pants against my legs. I was grateful for the warm socks and hiking boots as I followed the tire tracks from a truck that had ventured uphill earlier in the morning (only to return immediately on viewing the four-foot drifts blocking the exit to the state road).
I realize there is a lot more winter to come. It is possible, even likely, that we will experience more noteworthy snow events before the season winds down. But the remnants of this storm will be with us for some time, with its cold self-insulating. I can take down the Valentine's decorations, but there is no denying there is a long and cold road to travel before I can even deign to feel deserving of the sun's warmth on my soul.
I climbed the hill to see if the plows were running, but found myself distracted. Looking along the culverts, I noticed patterns made by the wind. The sparkling snow was sculpted like sand. Lines danced across its surface, perfect in its imperfection. I thought of pressing my mitten deep into the drift to show a solidarity with the wind and it's destructive ways when a call came from overhead.
Among the barren sassafras and oak branches, a tufted titmouse and red-bellied woodpecker called out to each other. I watched them for a time, the former making little headway moving up a gray wrinkled trunk before moving slowly back down. The latter, oddly named given his bright red cap and snowy white belly, swooped across the road and disappeared into the woods to the north.
The sunlight was bright against the snow, electrifying the blue sky. I turned west to shield my eyes, looking downhill towards my house. It seemed to huddle on the hill under its cap of thick snow. The wind whipped up along the snow banks and howled in the trees. I found it difficult to imagine this same location in summer - always a welcome shaded break with a cooling breeze, whether returning from a long run or a bike ride down to the stream at the front of the neighborhood. Everything about it now was harsh.
I settled my hat more snugly over my ears, gave one last glance over my shoulder at the roads as yet undisturbed by a plow, and headed back downhill toward home. The wind pressed against my chest and plastered my pants against my legs. I was grateful for the warm socks and hiking boots as I followed the tire tracks from a truck that had ventured uphill earlier in the morning (only to return immediately on viewing the four-foot drifts blocking the exit to the state road).
I realize there is a lot more winter to come. It is possible, even likely, that we will experience more noteworthy snow events before the season winds down. But the remnants of this storm will be with us for some time, with its cold self-insulating. I can take down the Valentine's decorations, but there is no denying there is a long and cold road to travel before I can even deign to feel deserving of the sun's warmth on my soul.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Dichotomy
I was empty and full.
I was lost and at home.
I was sure with no intuition.
I longed for unconsciousness in heavy stimulation.
I was lazy and frenetic.
I donated blood and carved out hearts.
I was drowning and completely unaware.
I cried and I am now happy.
I am a monster angel.
I was lost and at home.
I was sure with no intuition.
I longed for unconsciousness in heavy stimulation.
I was lazy and frenetic.
I donated blood and carved out hearts.
I was drowning and completely unaware.
I cried and I am now happy.
I am a monster angel.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Wine Notes - February 7th
Over this past week, we here in CBF Maryland have experienced two epic snowstorms. Luckily both have come with plenty of warning, so I had time to plan menus to compliment the atmosphere.
We've enjoyed hamburgers, nachos, and Mom-Mom's meat sauce with shells (I'll put that recipe out there another time). But on Super Bowl Sunday we dug into roast chicken with pancetta and olives, along with homemade fries and salad, and MAN was it a happy meal - and not just because both girls enjoyed what is really a grown-up dinner. The best part (not for the girls, obviously) was the amazing Merlot JBL unearthed - Chateau Ste. Michelle Columbia Valley Indian Wells 2007. "This is what Merlot should taste like," he said. And he was right.
What does Merlot mean to me? Obviously there is fruit. There is a hint of tannin, but just a hint. Unlike his heavy-handed, over-the-top friend Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot is a more subtle offering. He is the quiet intellectual friend of the flashy frat boy, though not quite the sensitive artist (Pinot Noir). He is the one you discover is secretly way more attractive than the rest. He has warm vanilla overtones and remarkable spice. He is round and creamy, wears the best sweaters and the coolest jeans. He is the one you really want to snuggle with next to a fire on a cold winter's night. He'll bring you roses and write you poetry - but HOT poetry. He has enough acid to bite through any fat offered in the chicken dish, but will buttress mild but complex flavors like the best wing man. He can be enjoyed either with or without food. If you know what I mean. Other than Syrah, he is the ideal red. I'm duplicitous like that.
So search out this fine offering and serve it with poultry or pasta with a complex sauce, with a cheese course or with nothing at all in front of a roaring fire with someone you want to make out with. If nothing else you need to experience a Merlot this good once in your life. Go ahead and indulge...
We've enjoyed hamburgers, nachos, and Mom-Mom's meat sauce with shells (I'll put that recipe out there another time). But on Super Bowl Sunday we dug into roast chicken with pancetta and olives, along with homemade fries and salad, and MAN was it a happy meal - and not just because both girls enjoyed what is really a grown-up dinner. The best part (not for the girls, obviously) was the amazing Merlot JBL unearthed - Chateau Ste. Michelle Columbia Valley Indian Wells 2007. "This is what Merlot should taste like," he said. And he was right.
What does Merlot mean to me? Obviously there is fruit. There is a hint of tannin, but just a hint. Unlike his heavy-handed, over-the-top friend Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot is a more subtle offering. He is the quiet intellectual friend of the flashy frat boy, though not quite the sensitive artist (Pinot Noir). He is the one you discover is secretly way more attractive than the rest. He has warm vanilla overtones and remarkable spice. He is round and creamy, wears the best sweaters and the coolest jeans. He is the one you really want to snuggle with next to a fire on a cold winter's night. He'll bring you roses and write you poetry - but HOT poetry. He has enough acid to bite through any fat offered in the chicken dish, but will buttress mild but complex flavors like the best wing man. He can be enjoyed either with or without food. If you know what I mean. Other than Syrah, he is the ideal red. I'm duplicitous like that.
So search out this fine offering and serve it with poultry or pasta with a complex sauce, with a cheese course or with nothing at all in front of a roaring fire with someone you want to make out with. If nothing else you need to experience a Merlot this good once in your life. Go ahead and indulge...
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Notes on 6
Six years ago today, I had no clue what I was getting myself into. We were still hours away from greeting our girl, and hadn't yet decided on her name. We were on the way to the hospital when we settled on Juliet Rose.
I blinked and it is her sixth birthday, and she has come to define her name with joy and exuberance. Delight and curiosity. Humor and love. And I am so thankful. She crawled into bed with us this morning, ready to request her birthday breakfast (crepes*). She was so into the snuggling, it didn't occur to her that presents were waiting for her downstairs. When I asked if she was interested in presents, she almost fell off the bed with excitement. And she said 'Thank you!' looking directly in my eyes after opening each gift, with a face shining with genuine gratitude. Where does this sweetness come from?
Other notes on 6:
- As always, if she's thinking it, she's saying it. However, now in the in-between times our house is filled with song. It might be humming or actual singing. It might be Taylor Swift, show tunes, or Christmas carols. But there is always music in her mind, and it showers out of her like a rainbow.
- Also not new but still delightful - there is no walking. There is skipping and running and hopping and loping. There is crawling and dragging and sliding. But walking is unheard of.
- There are intelligent questions and suggestions. She will stop to read the directions before playing with a new toy. She will tell me when something looks unsafe.
- She is more adventurous than ever. With the first blizzard last week (actually, that one was just a vanilla snow storm - today is an actual blizzard), she hopped right on a snow saucer and flew down our enormous hill. I can count on one hand the number of times she has sledded by herself previously in her entire life. I was amazed.
- She can focus for long stretches now - and not just in front of the TV. She will build elaborate structures with Lincoln Logs and vignettes with her pocket-sized toys. She will produce walls full of art for hours at a time.
- She wants to chew life up and spit it out from the moment she wakes up til the moment she falls unconscious at a still-early hour. (We let her stay up til 8pm for Super Bowl (half time anyway), and she was in the fetal position on the sofa, almost weeping with exhaustion.)
- She feels more comfortable in her own skin. She feels pride that she's a popular member of her class at school, and will actively try to assert her equality with K, saying things like, "Don't you think we need a dog like that?" or something else she is certain K will agree to. She'll respond with a smile and a polite, "Thank you!" to adults who compliment her.
-Testing her boundaries goes only as far as using the word 'fart' with a devilish smile.
This is just a perfect, easy, sweet age. Happy Birthday, big girl!
*Crepes - from Alton Brown
1C AP flour
2 Eggs
1/2 C Milk
1/2 C Water
1/4 tsp Salt
2 TBSP Unsalted butter, melted
In a blender, mix eggs and flour. Gradually add in the milk and water while the blender is running. Add the salt and melted butter.
Heat a non-stick or lightly oiled frying pan on medium-high. Pour/scoop batter into skillet, a scant 1/4C per crepe, and swirl in a circular motion to spread the batter thinly and evenly. Cook 2 minutes and flip. Cook the second side for 15-30 seconds more. Serve hot with jelly and powdered sugar. They freeze well - store in gallon freezer bags with wax paper in between.
I blinked and it is her sixth birthday, and she has come to define her name with joy and exuberance. Delight and curiosity. Humor and love. And I am so thankful. She crawled into bed with us this morning, ready to request her birthday breakfast (crepes*). She was so into the snuggling, it didn't occur to her that presents were waiting for her downstairs. When I asked if she was interested in presents, she almost fell off the bed with excitement. And she said 'Thank you!' looking directly in my eyes after opening each gift, with a face shining with genuine gratitude. Where does this sweetness come from?
Other notes on 6:
- As always, if she's thinking it, she's saying it. However, now in the in-between times our house is filled with song. It might be humming or actual singing. It might be Taylor Swift, show tunes, or Christmas carols. But there is always music in her mind, and it showers out of her like a rainbow.
- Also not new but still delightful - there is no walking. There is skipping and running and hopping and loping. There is crawling and dragging and sliding. But walking is unheard of.
- There are intelligent questions and suggestions. She will stop to read the directions before playing with a new toy. She will tell me when something looks unsafe.
- She is more adventurous than ever. With the first blizzard last week (actually, that one was just a vanilla snow storm - today is an actual blizzard), she hopped right on a snow saucer and flew down our enormous hill. I can count on one hand the number of times she has sledded by herself previously in her entire life. I was amazed.
- She can focus for long stretches now - and not just in front of the TV. She will build elaborate structures with Lincoln Logs and vignettes with her pocket-sized toys. She will produce walls full of art for hours at a time.
- She wants to chew life up and spit it out from the moment she wakes up til the moment she falls unconscious at a still-early hour. (We let her stay up til 8pm for Super Bowl (half time anyway), and she was in the fetal position on the sofa, almost weeping with exhaustion.)
- She feels more comfortable in her own skin. She feels pride that she's a popular member of her class at school, and will actively try to assert her equality with K, saying things like, "Don't you think we need a dog like that?" or something else she is certain K will agree to. She'll respond with a smile and a polite, "Thank you!" to adults who compliment her.
-Testing her boundaries goes only as far as using the word 'fart' with a devilish smile.
This is just a perfect, easy, sweet age. Happy Birthday, big girl!
*Crepes - from Alton Brown
1C AP flour
2 Eggs
1/2 C Milk
1/2 C Water
1/4 tsp Salt
2 TBSP Unsalted butter, melted
In a blender, mix eggs and flour. Gradually add in the milk and water while the blender is running. Add the salt and melted butter.
Heat a non-stick or lightly oiled frying pan on medium-high. Pour/scoop batter into skillet, a scant 1/4C per crepe, and swirl in a circular motion to spread the batter thinly and evenly. Cook 2 minutes and flip. Cook the second side for 15-30 seconds more. Serve hot with jelly and powdered sugar. They freeze well - store in gallon freezer bags with wax paper in between.
Monday, February 8, 2010
WWYD
Hypothetically speaking, say you had 15 minutes to do nothing. You are in your house alone, near a window that faces nothing but trees. It is a sunny day. You are standing in the sunlight and you are naked. What do you do?
Would you stand there and get a dose of vitamin D? Would you take the time to close your eyes and feel the warmth of the sun on your skin? Would you take the opportunity to look more closely for flaws on your person given the added light? Would you not even consider being naked in the sun even if guaranteed seclusion?
Ok, the naked part is hard. But would you ever even just take 15 minutes when alone and do absolutely nothing?
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Blizzard
What is there to say about a heavy snow that hasn't already been said? Yeah, the kids were happy to be home from school yesterday. Yes, there is delight in precipitation measured in feet rather than inches. Yes, there will be more sledding this afternoon. But what else is happening? Some thoughts:
I love standing still and letting individual flakes collect on my black mittens. I try to see if I can catch a completely perfect one - unattached to others, with all six arms unmarred. Such flakes are rare.
As with many circumstances, I enjoy watching others' experiences while I stand on the sidelines. J goes down the hill on her blue plastic toboggan, while JBL clomps down behind her, ready to help her back up. Once she makes the trek up the hill, she is cooked. Almost 3 feet of snow is tough enough to navigate when you are 5, let alone on a 45 degree incline. I stand at the top of the hill and cheer as JBL then attempts a couple runs by himself. He is too heavy, the snow too fluffy. He sinks more than he slides. I have zero desire to do any more than watch. The only thing that occurs to me is to attempt to get the mail. Why is that?
Blizzards are tough to measure. The wind causes great drifts of snow in some areas, and deep valleys in others. Still, we are compelled to try to describe the impact of such an event. How does saying we got 30+ inches mean anything? It is the volume - spread out over many miles in all directions - that gives us pause. Such a huge event occurring over just one day is hard to grasp.
There is something immensely comforting in the idea that I cannot actually go anywhere or do anything meaningful, other than being with my family. It is expected at a time like this that we will all stay close to home and do nothing much more than enjoy each other. What a gift of time this is.
Although we face digging out the car and driveway, I try to ignore the pain that will come with otherwise getting back to reality after this small break. Hiding always has that flip side of increased effort during re-entry, doesn't it?
So for now I sit and watch the fire, look at the amazing roses JBL bought to help me smile again, and hope the snow will continue to swirl and fall for the rest of the afternoon. Maybe I will figure out how to take the edge off the pain to come.
I love standing still and letting individual flakes collect on my black mittens. I try to see if I can catch a completely perfect one - unattached to others, with all six arms unmarred. Such flakes are rare.
As with many circumstances, I enjoy watching others' experiences while I stand on the sidelines. J goes down the hill on her blue plastic toboggan, while JBL clomps down behind her, ready to help her back up. Once she makes the trek up the hill, she is cooked. Almost 3 feet of snow is tough enough to navigate when you are 5, let alone on a 45 degree incline. I stand at the top of the hill and cheer as JBL then attempts a couple runs by himself. He is too heavy, the snow too fluffy. He sinks more than he slides. I have zero desire to do any more than watch. The only thing that occurs to me is to attempt to get the mail. Why is that?
Blizzards are tough to measure. The wind causes great drifts of snow in some areas, and deep valleys in others. Still, we are compelled to try to describe the impact of such an event. How does saying we got 30+ inches mean anything? It is the volume - spread out over many miles in all directions - that gives us pause. Such a huge event occurring over just one day is hard to grasp.
There is something immensely comforting in the idea that I cannot actually go anywhere or do anything meaningful, other than being with my family. It is expected at a time like this that we will all stay close to home and do nothing much more than enjoy each other. What a gift of time this is.
Although we face digging out the car and driveway, I try to ignore the pain that will come with otherwise getting back to reality after this small break. Hiding always has that flip side of increased effort during re-entry, doesn't it?
So for now I sit and watch the fire, look at the amazing roses JBL bought to help me smile again, and hope the snow will continue to swirl and fall for the rest of the afternoon. Maybe I will figure out how to take the edge off the pain to come.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
When all your fears come home to roost
I would die a thousand deaths to eliminate 10pm, every day for the rest of our lives.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Gifts
What is beauty? Beauty is subjective, anyone will tell you. Take, for instance, a five-year-old in mismatched pajamas:
Heart-stoppingly beautiful to me. Potentially less so to you. But there are sights that many of us agree are lovely, and I want to know why. Here on this morning after a thick snowfall, here in the early part of February when I have every right to be longing for spring, I find beauty in this:
And I am sure most any Moe you yanked off the street would agree. Why? Why does God make us stop and sigh when faced with a simple act of physics and chemistry? What biological purpose does this serve? I think it must just be a little gift. The note attached might say something like, "Take time to notice the magic around you," or "Man-made things are also my work,"
or, "Don't be afraid. There can be beauty even when it seems like there is nothing but death."
And sometimes I am afraid. But I look for hope where I can find it. I look for messages whether or not they were intended for me. I look for gifts that might have my name on the tag when I know I don't deserve any. And when I am filled with pleasure by allowing myself to enjoy such a gift, I feel like I am getting a hug from God.
Heart-stoppingly beautiful to me. Potentially less so to you. But there are sights that many of us agree are lovely, and I want to know why. Here on this morning after a thick snowfall, here in the early part of February when I have every right to be longing for spring, I find beauty in this:
And I am sure most any Moe you yanked off the street would agree. Why? Why does God make us stop and sigh when faced with a simple act of physics and chemistry? What biological purpose does this serve? I think it must just be a little gift. The note attached might say something like, "Take time to notice the magic around you," or "Man-made things are also my work,"
or, "Don't be afraid. There can be beauty even when it seems like there is nothing but death."
And sometimes I am afraid. But I look for hope where I can find it. I look for messages whether or not they were intended for me. I look for gifts that might have my name on the tag when I know I don't deserve any. And when I am filled with pleasure by allowing myself to enjoy such a gift, I feel like I am getting a hug from God.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
I'm sorry, but...
...there's something about this that just delights me to no end. I mean, are they having a conversation? Are they yelling at you? Is that a blue bush or a small tornado on the right? Who knows. I love it, I love it, I love it.
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