Write Hard

"Write hard and clear about what hurts."  - Earnest Hemmingway.

OK

I'm taking that advice; well, we shall see about the clear part.

I met a man a little over a year ago.  He was like all other men to me at that time.  A cursory assessment of him left me with the impression that he was uninterestingly self absorbed, not particularly attractive, followed by a troupe of admiring women, and all other males had a story about how he was kind of a douchebag.  To be honest, I didn't even notice him the first time we coincidentally were at the same local hangout on the "island" of lost boys.  In a very literal sense, I didn't see him coming.

I can recall, and could recount, every moment we spent together.  But I will not, those banal details are not interesting to you, and keeping them secret is my way of marking their importance to me.

The story here is so much more about the journey I am on through life and the lessons this "beautiful, tragic love affair" (thanks t-swizzle) has taught me. By nature, I am a guarded, closed off person.  For practical reasons.  I know that relationships almost always end.  If they are going to end, I don't want to get my heart involved.  It is small and fragile, breaks easily and heals slowly, so I give it away stingily, and pray that the recipient wants to keep it forever when I do give it.  I over-analyze situations that I find myself in, what possible end can this particular path have and what are the odds that it will be at least 51% favorable for me.

I felt a sweetness about him from the very start.  Not cloyingly sweet or surface sweet and then bitter underneath. It was a deep and easy sweetness that may not sound like a big deal, but is unique in my life.  I still feel it.  Not that it has been very long.  But music and dance and moments fill my mind and heart with the sweet feeling and a hope to see him again that will not be fulfilled. And my heart breaks again.

Looking back over those first few months where we barely interacted for only moments at a time during my infrequent visits, I can see the frisson filled anticipation with which I looked forward to the possibility of catching a glimpse of him and exchanging a few words and sharing a furtive glance or ten.  I didn't mean to be deceitful, I really didn't think of him that way out loud...but the brain is sometimes slow in catching up with the heart...especially when the two of them have developed a mutual distrust for each other such as mine have.  With a touch, a look, a sentence, he secretly tethered himself to me.  He placed strings on and through my heart and held them in his hand.  So slight were these silken threads that he sewed through my heart that I didn't even notice them there.  They were thin and ethereal so that in the end the sinew that would properly hold my heart together had been most certainly completely replaced by them.  My heart was no longer encased by its own watery membrane, but a blanket that he had woven and thrown over it, likely without knowing or intending to do just that.  Maybe just out of curiosity to see what would happen.

And then one night, as Johnny Rzeznik would sing, "Like a lightning bolt to the heart, you woke me up."  He shocked my heart with a jolt so that it now beat with a rhythm that was entirely his own.  Nearly a year later, when he removed the pacemaker, I felt the pain of complete cardiac arrest as my heart temporarily stopped beating at all. It wasn't exactly love at first sight, but it was love at first real sight, like the light came on and I saw him, and not the him I had pretended I thought he was so I could hide from what was fomenting underneath my feigned disdain.  Maybe it was the full moon, maybe it was all those mosquitos, or the firelight, or the way he willingly let us take care of him instead of acting like the big man who doesn't need any help.  It was probably the music that filled the night air, and the way he looked at me like he could see my soul, and the way he shared his fears and stories and pain and thanked me for all of it.  It was certainly the way he held my hand in his bigger,stronger hand, and the way he held me in his arms tight against his chest like he never wanted to let me go.

My heart woke up from its decade long winter of unfeeling and my brain sat straight up, took notice, shook itself "no" in its cranium and told heart, "Run, Baby, Run."  My heart, aware that this "sliding doors" affair had 99.9% chance of ending in disaster, decided to sit and stay and bask in the warmth of the sun that beamed from his eyes and enjoy the cool breeze that he whispered across me.  The perfect beauty of the summer that I was now enjoying was worth the guarantee that one of these summer days would bring my heart a category 5 hurricane that made any winter chill feel like child's play.  Instead of carefully removing the strings I was now aware were binding us together, and packing up my heart, and slowly backing to a distance where I knew I would be safe, I stayed and let him continue to establish his ties to me..."apprivoise-moi.  Mais si tu m'apprivoises, ma vie sera comme ensoleillée."  So I gave him my wild heart and asked him to tame it, because I wanted to. That was the choice I made.  The heart choice, over the smart choice.  (Where were the christians from "shoot christians say" to remind me to bounce my eyes and guard my heart?)

I've always loved The Little Prince by Antoine de St-Exupery, and my favorite character has always been le renard (the fox).  The interactions between le petit prince and le renard were to me the libretto of our little relationship.

“S’il te plaît… apprivoise-moi!” dit-il.

“Je veux bien,” répondit le petit prince, “mais je n’ai pas beaucoup de temps. J’ai des amis à découvrir et beaucoup de choses à connaitre.”

“On ne connaît que les choses que l’on apprivoise,” dit le renard. “Les hommes n’ont plus le temps de rien connaître. Ils achètent des choses toutes faites chez les marchands. Mais comme il n’existe point de marchands d’amis, les hommes n’ont plus d’amis. Si tu veux un ami, apprivoise-moi!”

He had a rose, because there's always a rose. If there's a fox, there's always a rose. A rose who must be returned to because she needs his sunlight and water and protection and her importance is preeminent because of the time he has already spent on her.

“C’est le temps que tu as perdu pour ta rose qui fait ta rose si importante.”

So he said he had to leave this planet and return to his. And I cried. "Don't cry over me" ... "It hurts me too" ...He said, and a million other things that couldn't make it better. How could he look at me, touch me, say those things to me that way and not really care. "I do care" ...not enough... "I just need to do what's best for me"... which was evidently not me... "You always knew this day was coming"  And with that he obliterated my heart.  He tugged on all those strings and tore chunks of cardiac muscle right out of my chest. While, admittedly, this is hyperbolic figurative language, it is also completely true.  My heart physically hurts.  It is crazy and true and largely the reason why my brain doesn't like to allow the heart to make the decisions.  

 

Ainsi le petit prince apprivoisa le renard. Et quand l’heure du départ fut proche:
—Ah! dit le renard… Je pleurerai.
—C’est ta faute, dit le petit prince, je ne te souhaitais point de mal, mais tu as voulu que je t’apprivoise…
—Bien sûr, dit le renard.
—Mais tu vas pleurer ! dit le petit prince.
—Bien sûr, dit le renard.
—Alors tu n’y gagnes rien !
—J’y gagne, dit le renard, à cause de la couleur du blé.

I can't be angry with him. Even in my heartbreak there is no bitterness, and I think eventually I will be able to look back and smile at our moments our secrets our closeness our shared joy. I will remember the way a huge uncontainable grin would break across his face when he saw me, you can't fake nor can you fetter emotion like that, and it's how I know it was real for him too. I will remember the slow, heavy, bass drum kick of his heart inside his chest...steady regardless of the situation...I could just have leaned against him and listened to it reassuring me for hours. When your mom has open heart surgery to replace her mitral valve when you are young, you develop a habit of listening for and memorizing the sound of people's hearts in their chests. Some of them have a sound that resonates into your life and harmonizes with your own. His was just right to my ears. I will look back and laugh at all the faux pas like calling my eyes gray and my hair brunette (because it wasn't the summer just yet and honey blonde isn't legit bleach blonde) and basically calling me fat (which he certainly didn't mean, but mumbles had a way of sticking his foot straight in it). One day it won't hurt, the words won't feel like daggers. Eventually I will be able to be glad for being able to let go and love and be grateful to him for being the object of that affection. Eventually I will be able to appreciate the "color of the wheat" even though he was not the one. After a time I will stop wishing that he would come back and choose me.

But I have learned that this is the condition of being human, we need dark to contrast the light, we will have pain and you can't avoid pain so you might as well risk a certain kind of pain and have something sweet along the way...because who knows, it might just work out...and what's the worst that could happen?  Heartbreak.  And then mend...and maybe even love again.

One last word from that crazy, wise, French pilot: "Bien sûr je te ferai mal. Bien sûr tu me feras mal. Bien sûr nous aurons mal. Mais ça, c’est la condition de l’existence. Se faire printemps, c’est prendre le risque de l’hiver. Se faire présent, c’est prendre le risque de l’absence… C’est à mon risque de peine que je connais ma joie."

For now, if everyone could stop parking those idiotic dinosaurs in the parking lots at Publix and Starbucks and Tacolu...I'd really appreciate it.

Never the same Love twice

As one of my literary loves, F. Scott Fitzgerald, said, "There are all kinds of love, but never the same love twice."  And oh how right he was.  So many kinds of love, and each one is wonderful, amazing, revealing something new in its own unique and unimagined way.

I was 26 and I had been in love a few times.  I loved my mother madly, and my father insanely (literally), and my siblings to differing degrees at different times and always most loved my little brother Ben.  Teenage me had fallen briefly in an intellectually conceived love born on a wave of an imagined intimacy fabricated by sharing untold hours of near nudity in the small space of the practice swim pool.  In Colorado, I fell into an ill advised love, the wild love you only feel in college when hormones are at their peak, alcohol is flowing freely, and you do things you were never even allowed to think about a few years earlier. And finally I fell in love with the idea of a family.

Sebastien Michael Hall came into this world a quarter of an hour after nine at night on May 14th, amidst my own screams of pain due to a wide open pit drip and a not at all open epidural drip.  The doctor was out to lunch, quite literally, when I decided I wanted, needed, HAD TO push.  The nurses told me I was not allowed to and they would go fetch the doc for me.  Finally, he arrived putting on his booties and shower cap and robe, just in time to help catch my firstborn.  As I held that nearly eight pound baby in my arms, I laughed, and cried, and what felt like Grucci's fireworks went off in my heart. All the walls that had been inadvertently built over the years of compensating for false loves were shattered and oceans and eons of unbridled love rushed out of every pore, I couldn't have contained if I had wanted to, and I certainly didn't want to.

There is a peculiar love that comes along with the first born; marked by a deep desire to do everything right-read all the books, follow all the sage advice, document every second of it-and a crippling fear that you are doing everything wrong.  Your first gets your undivided attention.  He also gets all your rigidity and trial and erroring (real words for real talk).  Really no more than a child, myself, in so many ways, I grew up in raising Sebastien.  I learned about deep abiding love, verb love, love that starts out as a chemical imperative and blossoms into an arduous ardor proven through day in and day out choices to get up and try again no matter how many times you fall on your not-so-Mary-Poppins face. I have made my fair share of mistakes - many of them doozies - sometimes I even so resemble my parents in the missteps that they took and I judged them so harshly for, that I can't stand myself.  But rearing children and loving them despite yourself (and eventually their selves) helps you grow out of the naivete and hubris that caused you to once think you could parent perfectly.  Grace begins to worm her way into your life, and you learn to extend her embrace to the kids and even a little to yourself.

Over the years Sebastien has made it easy for me to make the choice to love him.  He has always been ahead of the curve which appeals to my competitive nature: learning to walk around 10 months, being in the 90+ percentile in height for most of his life (you doubt this is important, but it is), having an adorable head of golden blond curls and a sweet, devoted, whole-hearted love for his mom. He is smart.  He works hard. This year he decided he wasn't going to go to the local middle school next year and completely on his own applied to, and got into, the Gifted Science, Math and Technology program at the nearby Magnet school. He is a super fast swimmer, even though he isn't on the swim team- thanks to my lack of enthusiasm for the swim team mom life -  the swimmer in me likes to see someone swim with correct form and decent speed.  This year he has become a pretty righteous defender on the soccer "pitch" (as they'd say in the British Isles).  He is even learning the guitar (which has, btw, forced me to try my hands on the six strings, and he is doing a quite a bit better than I).

He will turn eleven on Wednesday.  ELEVEN!? It seems ages ago that he was a baby, and only yesterday at the same time.  Sebastien forged the way for me to love each and every one of my four sons uniquely and 100%.  I can honestly say that I do not have a favorite son, because being a mom has taught me, through experience, that there are many loves, enough loves for all the loves of my life, and each one is unlike anything else...Never the same love twice.

You kick some ass, Sea-bass.

(yep)

Short. and sweet. Like Spring Break

After an entire week without my kids, I prefer spring break with my kids.  Road trips, beach stays, shell finding, family visits, that's how I want to do spring break, because that's how it's done best.  After all, I'm not 21 anymore and I'm not yet 60.

But, guess what? Every other year for the next 14 years, I won't be with my kids on their spring break.  So what then?  I suppose there will be a biennial trip like, or perhaps quite unlike, this one.

A weekend in Charleston.  Two days of business at home that needed to be taken care of and 4 days and 3 nights in south florida, a great night in Orlando, and just enough of Sunday at home to feel like attacking whatever comes next.  A big change is on the horizon of my life. The biggest part of the change is that I have no idea in which direction it will take me.  It is most literally a leap of faith.  That's a big deal for me.  I love the illusion of control.  I love for things to go my way.  If I have no idea which way that actually is, oh how great the trepidation for the out of control nature of it all.  It's exhilarating at this very moment.  It may be debilitating tomorrow, but right now, the possibility and impossibility of it is pretty exciting.

I relaxed on the beach, floated on the waves, met some old folks, ate and drank at new places, had a lovely evening with a beautiful man I will never see again, saw the sunset and sunrise, made new friends and saw ones I hadn't seen in a while (unfortunately, I missed a couple of them I really would have loved to have reconnected with...but there's always time) and indulged in some "girl talk" and "me time" (two of my least favorite terms).

I'm learning some things this year: patience (this is a lifelong lesson), flexibility, allowing both the trouble and pleasure of the day to suffice for the day-allowing myself to be in the moment rather than dwelling on the past (which I don't do often but we all can get caught pulling a Lot's wife from time to time) or trying to figure out the myriad of potential futures that lie ahead of me behind each and every possible dizzying choice I could make anxiously attempting to map out every one of  the endlessly countless iterations of what if's, as if I can think my way out of every situation that is currently not the most comfortable for myself.

And on this Lord's day, Lord, hear the cry of my heart:

"Spirit of the living God, fall afresh on me;
Spirit of the living God, fall afresh on me.
Melt me, mold me, fill me, use me.
Spirit of the living God, fall afresh on me. 

Spirit of the living God, move among us all;
make us one in heart and mind, make us one in love:
humble, caring, selfless, sharing.
Spirit of the living God, fill our lives with love."

A Saint Patty's Day Vignette About the Luck of the Damsels Who Aren't Necessarily in Distress

Yesterday afternoon, my friend Julie and I were driving home from an absolutely marvelous weekend in Charleston, SC.  I don't ever have a bad time in the Holy City, but this particular weekend was as perfectly blissful as it was necessary to my own sanity at this precise moment in time.  Two nights and three days of thinking as little about the negatives in my life as is actually possible for my mind.

Friday, I received some excruciatingly bad news, the details of which I am not ready to share aloud, yet. The news was delivered swaddled in the thick blanketing of kind words and hoping the best for me, while their actual meaning cut to the very quick and simultaneously sliced my feet off at their ankles and tore my still beating heart out of her chest, the messenger hugged me and sent me on my zombie way.

I immediately left the scene of the crime, heart in hands, crawling back to my home as my feet refused to carry me, packed myself a weekend bag and waited for Julie to pick me up.  We ate sushi and hit the road. We got to Erin's house on an island in Charleston, and things began to right themselves.  Our hostess is a marvelous tour guide, always knowledgeable about the best places to see, things to do, restaurants to eat. Plus, she is the queen of making fast friends of all she encounters, so there isn't a person she doesn't know, it seems, and of those people they all love her without exception.  Friday night, we ate at an Italian restaurant downtown with big wooden tables that lent themselves to the family style surprise menu the chef created for us.  The food, the ambience, the experience, the waitstaff, were the exact panacea to what ailed me (figuratively of course, as my health is not the real issue here) at that point.  A little late night entertainment and then we went back home for a relatively early bedtime, because we had a ferry to catch at zero dark.

The next morning we packed beach cruisers on the backs of cars and headed to the dock where Capt Will, another who was happy to see Erin return with friends in tow, was waiting to navigate our crew through the class 1 wilderness of the South Carolina intracoastal.  He was adorable in a way that reminded me of a debearded, slightly older, hippy leprechaun.  And it certainly didn't hurt that he was quite knowledgeable about Biology, especially as it related to the local ecosystem. The water was pristine and the air was fresh in a way that cleared the head, but only long enough to allow a new tide of thoughts regarding my recent misfortune to rush back in.  Half an hour later we were on Bulls Island and ready to ride around the entire island in search of sand dollars and sea shells.  After nearly eight hours of bike riding and shell hauling, wind and sun burn, isolation from civilization and the fresh ocean fragrance had rendered me exhausted to the point where I almost had a silent clarity in my mind.  While my ischia are still recovering from the first bike ride I've been on since my tragic triathlon accident of 2002, my heart and brain and soul are so grateful for the release and relief that this excursion brought.  Plus, we scored some pretty sweet souvenirs from our search efforts.

Casual dinner at a taco truck turned sit down restaurant and an introduction to the series House of Cards finished saturday off. That night I slept like a baby.

After a Lazy Sunday, we headed back to Jacksonville.  The low tire pressure signal came on in Julie's car. We stopped, she added air, there was a bit of a bubble on the tire, but we pressed on, mindful to keep an eye on it.  About an hour and a half later we stopped and repeated the process.  Less than a mile later we heard the loud flappety report that the tire had gone completely flat.  Julie expertly crossed the three lanes to the right shoulder and called roadside assistance as it was raining, and we didn't necessarily want to mess with the tire change when it was covered by insurance.

Then we got the text from the tow truck driver: he wouldn't arrive for another hour.  The girls sprang into action.  Wearing skinny jeans and light billowy cream colored shirts, she in high wedged sandals and me in flats that may as well have been bare feet, we set to work.  We moved everything out of the trunk to the back seat, opened the well and lowered the full size spare.  It has been nearly a decade since I changed a wheel solo, and probably 3 or 4 years since with my ex doing only a nominal amount of work, I changed a wheel with help. I feel fairly confident in doing what must be done even without recent experience in the arena.  But Julie fortunately had recently changed this tire and was not only familiar with the process but is an expert about her car.

We propped the car up with the jack no problem and had all the tools we would need for this quick change. The only difficulty we really encountered was the fact that neither of us had on thick soled shoes-boots or even sneakers would have really been better footwear for this scenario.  Neither one of us are hulking brutes, although we are both pretty strong in our own right.  We both gave a turn at the wrench, but these arms were falling short of the task of loosening the lugs nuts.  Each one of us then took a turn at standing on the wrench, I guess the fact that the lugs still didn't want to budge was a testament to our fitness? (Sure, why not, silver lining, half full, rainbows and unicorns.)  With sneakers on we would have just kicked the wrench and that would have loosened it no problem. The car's owner was determined that she was not going to let five tiny lug nuts defeat her, so she repeatedly jumped on the wrench until she finally achieved victory in the form of a little budge in the first lug nut.  She had loosened three or four of the them when two young gentleman pulled over and offered their help.

They, with their thickly (though not particularly cut) muscled arms made quick work of the tire change, and Julie (with minimal assistance from me) strapped the flat tired but up under the car.  In the waning moments of the tire change, another car stopped.  Out floated a tiny leprechaun of Asian descent, wearing a tweed jacket over a green crew neck tee shirt and bearing a small black umbrella.  He glided up to us and said, "I noticed you didn't have an umbrella."  The four of us who had been out there for less than ten minutes had not noticed, as the rain was barely heavier than a mist at that point. In fact Julie replied with a laugh, "Actually we have two, but we were so busy we didn't even think of it!" He stood above the young man who was tightening the lug nuts on the newly installed wheel, as he rightly wanted to protect the person doing the yeoman's work from the elements.  I looked over at him and could read a portion of the caption on his saint patrick's day themed shirt as it was revealed by the opening in the top of his elbow patched smoking jacket; it read "Keep Calm..."  and no doubt obscured by the buttoned lower portion of the jacket were the words "...and Carry an Umbrella."  The wheel was on and we began to clean up the tools and lower the car.  Our parasol provider looked around and said "seems as if you've got it under wraps."

And with that he was gone, with a tip of his umbrella.

A minute later after a brief inspection of their handiwork, our gentlemen helpers were also on their way.

Less than fifteen minutes after stopping, we were back on the road.

The moral of the story is twofold:  b!tches do be doing it for themselves, but it doesn't hurt to have a few extra man hands in the mix to make light work of a messy situation.  And if you don't have the presence of mind to get the umbrella you DO have in your car out whilst performing a tire change in the rain, "Keep Calm and Call a Leprechaun."

Pine Boxes

I'm lying in a pine box of sorts.  It is a lovely, soft, knotty pine.  There are carefully carved, honed and sanded sleigh sides.  There's a headboard with finials and scrolls, one with a particularly large, dark knot with a space in it where you could put a finger or a penny or a small toy.  There is a pillow under my head, and I stretch my feet out to tuck my toes between the mattress and the footboard.  There's a warm breath in my back, and I roll over to find it's source.

Staring back at me, and strangely I am not surprised by this or disturbed in any way, is my long deceased brother, Ben.  In his eyes, those deep dark pools of blue with rings of black, so full of love and innocence, I see my reflection and his eyes seem to drink me in.  He is six, as always, and he has the Cat in the Hat in his hand...for the seventy millionth time.

"The sun did not shine, it was too wet to play, so we sat in the house, all that cold, cold, wet, day.  So I sat there with Sally, we sat there, we two, and I said, 'how I wish we had something to do.'"

My mother and my sister read that book to me, and I read it to all my younger siblings, but it was reading it to Ben, over and over, that has emblazoned its rhymes on my memory.

I am lying in a pine box, whispering sweet nothings into my little brother's ear, my neck enveloped by his too short arms on his stubby little body, him pretty much drooling in my ear as he told me he loved me the best right back. We are lying there underneath a woolen Hudson Bay blanket that we may have ordered earlier that year, or purchased years later from the L.L. Bean outlet in Maine.  I am strangely not suffocated and overly hot as I usually am under any bed coverings, especially such a heavy, insulating one.  But that is only because we are actually under the ethereally light lace coverlet from that dead artist woman's store...the one who painted our refrigerator, and whose cute art with hearts and doves and swirls and flowers has always influenced my doodles...what's her name, it's on the tip of my tongue...I even see her off in the distance through the eyelets..Lil? No, that's It's Only Natural's owner, Jill, Jen...And she's gone and her name escapes me.

I am lying there with Dr. Seuss  too, on his and dad's birthday, and speaking of dad, he's there too, and fits?  No he never fit in those little sleigh beds that were actually closer to the size of a trundle bed than even a true twin.  Perhaps death has made dad smaller.  No, even on his deathbed dad was remarkably large and strong and weighty and willful.  Maybe this is the king size bed down in mom and dad's bedroom and this is a childhood pileup revisited. Maybe he just fits because he's stacked three deep in a pine box-o-torium better known as Calverton National Cemetery.   That is it.  I look up, there's mom in her pine box, and yet a few feet higher is dad in his pine box.  Of course now that I look, again, Ben's is a furry faux funny rabbit box, mom's is a shoddily made walnut missing one of its handles  yanked off by Dave or Phil in the wrestling match that was getting it down the half spiral staircase of the Kittery Baptist Church.  And dad is chagrined at his finery as it was his express written will to be interred inside a simple pine box.

I wake up suddenly.  And it is the morning of dad's birthday...the one he shares with good ol' Dr. Seuss.  So there's a reason for the bizarre setting to the dream I was in the middle of having before some child kicked me awake with a Bump, and how that bump made me jump, jump, jump!  I'm in a deep tailspin, now.  I feel bummed, and missing all those dead people, especially Dr. Seuss; I have a tendency to feel deeper sadness over unrelated losses than those that affect more closely.  That's also a total lie, but, there's an element of truth.

My Aunt died a couple of days prior to this dream, and I'm sure the passing of my father's sister, and the sadness that death brings to the children of any mother regardless of her age and the thought of that for my cousins, I'm sure that this had some part to play in the maudlin torrential downpour I was lying in the midst of right at that moment. I can't even find the right way to communicate my sympathy and empathy and condolences to my relatives. So I don't.  And i regret it.  But i'm dug in now.

For the next week I am tired, and achey, and over reactive to everything.  And I feel a heaviness and it feels like a pine sleigh bed is tied to my back.  Because it is; two of them are.  In the midst of all this sadness, there is a string tied to those beds, and they are slipping away because they've been willed to someone who is not a member of the family, and never knew Ben, and they are pulling chunks of withered, dessicated, deteriorated, defunct heart out with them.  I have trudged through the week between dad's birthday to mom's birthday/deathday, lugging these heavy solid wooden relics with me and smashed everyone with them as I encounter people throughout my day.

I'm afraid to go to sleep.  I'm not interested in what this excessively emotional week in convergence with the always sneakily significant day has to bring me in dreams.  To make matters worse, Ray Lamontagne, Carly Simon, Carole King (with her recent songstress partner Sarah Bareilles) Gungor and Great Big World have been my mental minstrels and I can't convince them to stop singing their sad warbles to me.  My phantoms are strong ones, and they are my precious; I love that they are strong and will not quit me.  So, I'm going with the least negative of my current playlist songs, one that at least in addition to speaking of mortality points to eternity and maybe even a temporary hope here on earth as well: I am mountain, by Gungor. Happy day mom.  Happy weird week entire family.  And I'm truly sorry for your loss, cousins (couthins as another cousin Lindsay used to say).



I am mountain, I am dust
Constellations made of us
There’s glory in the dirt
The universe within the sand
Eternity within a man

We are ocean, we are mist
Brilliant fools who ruled and kiss
There’s beauty in the dirt
Wandering in skin and soul
Searching, longing for a whole

As the light, light, light of the skies, of the skies
We will fight, fight, fight for our lives, for our lives

I am mountain, I am dust
Constellations made of us
There’s mystery in the dirt
The metaphors are breaking down
We taste the wind inside a sound

As the light, light, lights of the skies, of the skies
We will fight, fight, fight for our lives, for our lives
As the light, light, lights of the skies, of the skies
We will fight, fight, fight for our lives, for our lives

Momentary carbon stories
From the ashes, filled with Holy Ghost
Life is here now, breathe it all in
Let it all go, you are earth and wind

A Pure Spectator's Look Back at Les Jeux Olympiques d'Hiver

I love the winter, but only in theory these days.  Having lived in winterless climes for the past umteen years, I realize that my tropicalization is nearly complete and I would probably hate the winter if I had to experience it for more than a day or two.  Full disclosure: I can't even feel my fingers and toes when the A/C is on full blast at work.  But, I grew up with winter, albeit a fairly mild version of winter of Long Island tempered by proximity to the Atlantic's warm waters.  It was winter nonetheless. The bay would freeze over and we would go ice skating.  The snow would fall and snowmen would arise in the yard.  Untold hours were spent outside making and throwing (and hopefully pegging someone else in the face with) snowballs, wearing too large snowpants and too small duck boots and knit mittens that within minutes were not only soaked but frozen stiff the wear of which seemed preferable to making snowballs with no barrier between fingers and snow.  No one wanted to come back inside until all the fun that was possible was soaked out of the day, because once you went in the warm crackle of the fire burning inside the lapis blue enamel coated cast iron fireplace guarded by the two stern hessian soldiers drew you in with its warm arms and wouldn't let you go.

There was that memorable childhood ski trip  to Vermont.  Velamints from the vending machine that accepted pennies and free hot cocoa at the lodge, lessons for the older girls from a (as legend has it) fantastically handsome college student named Rob who was equally and uniquely in love with each girl who remembers the story, lessons from some lesser human for the youngsters.  Thermal long johns, James Taylor, Carly Simon, and the Everly brothers as accompanied by John and sung in three part harmony by the ladies, with (loudest and longest) countermelody by dad and conducted by the perfect pitch having, knower of all harmonies, muth.

I even went to College in Colorado and had more than my fair share of ski trips to the various resorts of the region.  I just never got very good at the snow sports.  I think I was always scared of breaking something and thereby losing my place on the swim team, which was basically unimaginable as it was pretty much the only thing that kept me sane during my tenure at the Colorado Drinking College of the Rockies.  (If Yiotula is reading this: I remember when we went ice skating at the hockey rink...I thought I was so cool because a: seniors were hanging out with my lowly freshman butt, and b: I'm pretty sure that adorable blond firstie with the tats on his leg helped me up one time when I fell.)

So the Winter Olympics have a special whimsy to them in my sight.  I have memories, mostly good (although ask me about that snowstorm the night before my graduation, sometime, it's a doozy), of my times in snowy places to which I am always taken back whenever I see these games.  I was never a winter athlete so I have no delusions that make me want to become the oldest ski jumper at the next Olympics.  Just the right mix of memory, magic, fantasy, and snow to make them seem ethereal and otherworldly.  But these are sporting events, and there's no containing my rabid fan status of all things athletic, and there is no quelling my enthusiasm for #Murica.  So, here I have sat for the past 16 evenings, watching and screaming at the TV, hoping for these events to place the red white and blue at the top of the podium.

First of all.  Russia.  Not a huge fan.  Especially because I was constantly creeped out by Putin creepily popping up here and there with his creepy old man lurker face.  Plus, the venues with the ubiquitous "Hot. Cool. Yours." What are they Belks? "Modern. Southern. Style."  Free word non-association.  Words that don't go together in anyway whatsoever?

Bob Costas threatened to derail (said darryl) these games right from the start.  I guess, in his defense, perhaps he had never had that good Russian Vodka straight from the source before these games.  And maybe a few of the local Russian extras on set were daring him to go shot for shot, or sip for sip as they would think of it, with them.  Bob, note for next time: never get in a land war in asia, never go in against a sicilian when death is on the line...oh and only slightly less well known than those two - never try to drink Vodka (Russian slang for water) at the same rate as the fellas from Sochi. The drunkenness, aka Bob's eye infection (wink) made Bob even less interesting and more annoying than usual.  And believe me when I say Bob is nigh unto my least favorite TV personality.  They hilariously put him on the fast track detox program and we got a more than slightly mockish Matt Lauer as his replacement for a few days.  Talk about your travelling mercies!

The agony of defeat was really the theme for me, personally, as I watched USA set me up with Gold Medal hopes and then BOOM!  The flying tomato posts a score that would have won the gold by quite an impressive margin during the qualifying rounds and then doesn't even medal for trying so hard to put the most epic halfpipe run of all time down.  Bode Miller, my Winter Olympic love of my life, fellow old person, wearer of scruffily handsome facial hair, has the most impressive training runs, far outperforming the field, and doesn't land on the podium once the actual event arrives. Oh! Canada! Dealing our hockey boys and girls defeat after defeat.  Those two days were excruciating: all the effort of live streaming those games straight into my classroom in an attempt to educate these children of the south about a little cold weather culture, all the struggling not to screech at the players things that at are unseemly to say in front of ninth graders at a Christian school, all of the breath holding and high hoping.

In the midst of my disappointment at these games I was struck by the different kind of attitude the Winter athlete brings to sport.  I suppose it would be called the "slacker" mentality, but you see i've put that in quotes, because the sheer level of work and effort and hours these people put into their sports is decidedly UN-slacker-ish.  Oh yeah that is a real word.  I was amazed at the way that the contestants were all truly thrilled for the winners.  Instead of the downcast, dejected spirit you would expect to see from a first loser, or 10th placer, or DNFer, each participant in these games seemed to truly thrill and glow at the best performance of anyone, even if it wasn't their own, or even someone's from their own country.  Hugs were held, tackles were made, real genuine smiles were plastered all over all the faces at the bottom of mountains.  Perhaps the winter sports elite are such a small tight knit community that they all really and truly love one another.  Perhaps the fact that they spend their days in the cold causes their hearts to be so warm.  Or maybe these people are just terrific sports.  Whatever it is, it was a sight to behold. It didn't lessen my own disappointment, but it did bring a nice other perspective to the party and it encouraged me to be a little bit less of a negative nellie.

As ever, there was Mary Carillo, who is Bob Costas' antithesis, she is everything he isn't.  You love her for all the reasons you don't love Bob.  She is perhaps the nicest human being on earth.  I love all the spots that she did.  I love the enthusiastic way she embraces every experience.  I love the way she loves each person she encounters and presents the behind the scenes stories of the home country to us every time we watch these games.  She inspires me to be a better person and to get out there and do something new.

There were wins, to be sure: Ladies' snowboarding of all kinds, slopestyle skiing, awesome dogpile celebration, Bode getting that bronze (despite an epic interview fail on the part of the reporter, which he was both heartbreakingly sweet during and remarkably gentlemanly about after), Ligety getting his gold, TJ Oshie taking it to all of Russia, that baby girl Mikaela Shiffrin bringin' it in the slalom, the silence and chills inducing twizzle perfection of Davis and White.  We had a fashion wins as well, those sweaters in the opening ceremonies were almost enough to redeem the relative let down you felt watching these ceremonies in comparison to the London ones and the sad fifth ring refusing to open.  The Hollie Hobby throwback patchwork snowboard American uniforms that were almost entirely obscured by those gaudy Shochi bibs.

I love walking in the Winter Wonderland of the Olympics.  It reminds me of being young and freezing, in an awesome way.  It humbles (but in the actual sense of the word humble) me as I know I have no talent for any of these things, not even remotely.  It thrills and exults me as I watch victories, both expected and surprise.  It depresses me and sends me into hibernation because every time I fall in love with these strangers who represent this country and I cannot take it when I invest an abnormal amount of emotion in them and they suffer defeat.

But as for me (and my house), I am ready for summer.  I am ready to do a few extra squats and sit-ups, don a bikini, get my kids to the beach, build some sandcastles and body surf the ocean waves.  Because winter and I only get along for so long, then I need to get right back to my endless summer that is life in Florida.

PS...The Star Spangled Banner is the shizz as far as national anthems go.  Having heard a lot of the others, I miss even a bad rendition of our own.

Standing Joke of the Year-

There's a song by my old love David Gray that has at various times over the past several years reminded me of the ill advised marriage I bound myself in and the ridiculous human being that occupied the other half of that bondage for nearly a decade.  I love that welshman, the soft wail in his voice, and the sad way he can't seem to find a real love, at least according to his songs.

As I drove away from the Duval County Courthouse I heard the song quietly singing behind the loud cries of Jacksonville's new Black Panthers admonishing black men to stop rapping in a disrespectful manner about black women and treating them instead like the queens that they are, which was all oddly tangential of a completely necessary demonstration regarding the absolutely unconscionable murder of a black teen by a middle aged white man: because the boy's music was too loud.  The topic of that trial is so much more salient than what I actually am writing about, but I can't see past my own rage at my situation to give it more careful thought.  I too am a completely egotistical human, it's an inescapable sentence of these 46 chromosomes in collusion with a bent nature.

There it was, playing underneath the TV news tents as they set up to bring you whatever glimpses of the lawyers who would emerge in two or so hours when the courthouse closed down, no doubt both proclaiming a victory on the day:

It was a kind of so-so love and I'm gonna make sure it doesn't happen again,
You and I had to be the standing joke of the year,
You were a run around, a lost and found, and not for me I feel

Take your hands off me, hey,
I don't belong to you, you see,
And take a look in my face, for the last time,
I never knew you, you never knew me,
Say hello goodbye,
Say hello and wave goodbye


As I cursed my ex husband in my heart for his lack of employment, his current decision to devote his every waking moment to graduate school (how very nice for him, wouldn't we all love to have that particular luxury) for the next two years and the court's assent that this was somehow NOT CRIMINAL, I sang along, remarking to myself that the lyrics were oh so comically on point. It was at best a kind of so-so love, no real fire-he was short and not my type, which could best be described as uber alpha and ultra ripped and pretty darn handsome. There wasn't much of an intellectual equality either, but I allowed myself to believe his kitschy ability with music somehow brought him to a near rival to my own genius status-a non truth to which our marriage counselor once subtly tried to alert me. And he NEVER laughed at me, and as Taylor Swift knows I am seriously hilarious.


And I'm gonna make sure it doesn't happen again. In so many ways. So many ways. Every interaction with that (man?) reminds me that I will never marry again. Taunts me that I am incapable of love. Wards me off of any potential emotions I would ever dream of allowing myself to have at all. Ever...again.


The line in this song, that has for much of my marriage, and certainly post-marriage, gotten me where it hurts is, "You and I had to be the standing joke of the year." I look back on the early days of our relationship and there were those who knew better. "They won't last, she won't put up with that." "If I wanted to I could break them up today." "Don't get involved with someone crazier than yourself." Just juxtaposed to the men that I had always been attracted to, one had to wonder, why is she being so ironic. It wasn't irony i was going for. I just thought the opposite of my sinful, carnal, vile ways had to be the right way to go. I didn't know that there was a possibility that I was who I was on purpose. That there could have been constraints under which the satisfaction of my wants and needs were part of God's will for me. I could feel it when we went out, the quizzical stares as yin and yang went out to dinner and he would seem totally disinterested in me. But I buried it. I turned away from my perception of reality to try to be someone I wasn't. I knew my friends must secretly be saying that this relationship has to be a joke, but I told myself that if that was true it was simply because they could not possibly understand. I could hear the thoughts of strangers who were frantically trying to do the math, and it never added up, it never did for me either.


Nothing would give me any greater pleasure in life that for him to have taken a look in my face for the last time in that time at the courthouse, I never knew him, he NEVER knew me. Oh the ways in which he never knew, never understood me.


Say hello, wave goodbye. He couldn't' even muster the cajones to say hello to me. He couldn't even find the Richard to answer my questions in court. I cannot imagine that I was married to him. I cannot contemplate that I made four children with him. The insanity of it all makes me question myself at my core.


I hear him even now singing this line, "We tried to make it work, you in a cocktail skirt and me in a suit but it just wasn't me." Can't you? I mean honestly, I dressed up, I was as nice as any woman. I threw parties. I cultivated relationships, for myself and for him. I tried to make it work. He wore a suit, he tried working. That just was not him. Now he is who he wanted to be. The unemployed 38 year old psychology student. Physician heal thy FU(#!N% self.



You're used to wearing less, and now your life's a mess, so insecure you see


How does a graduate of the United States Air Force Academy justify not working AT ALL, and not SUPPORTING his FOUR children (who were his PLEASURE to bring into this world) at all? His life is most certainly a mess.


I had decided earlier in this evening not to be "that girl." I have gone back on that, and I am that girl. I hate him. And I don't care who knows it. I apologize for being this petty girl. There are secrets that I keep, so many of them, and this is not one. I want to scream, and shout, and let it all out (yes this is a quote from bit bit). I want to curse at the top of my lungs, but there are four young children present, and there are employees of the providence school who may read this. I can visualize cutting tendons and sawing through ligaments to flay his arms off his body and then beat the ever loving tar out of him with his own limbs. But I won't, because it is illegal, and because the release would only be temporary and I would then feel guilty.


Say hello. And wave Goodbye.


If only this was actually goodbye.