THANKFUL FRIDAY

Karen Walrond’s soon to be released Radiant Rebellion has got me thinking about the language we use in regards to aging and I haven’t even read it yet. She’s been promoting the book for a while now on social media and put out a call recently to sign up to be a part of her launch team, but even though I will drink whatever kool aid Karen is serving, I did not sign up. I have too much going on right now to give it the proper attention it deserves. Today is my exception because all the little quotes and podcast clips she has been posting recently feels like something to be shared in a gratitude posting.

One of the topics that Karen has addressed in a recent podcast is the business of anti-aging. The anti-aging market is estimated to be an over 200 million dollar industry with a target group of women in their twenties and thirties. That target age group is really interesting if you consider that the average life expectancy of ancient Greeks was 20-35 years. Of course now, people live well past twice that age. (Insert spooky ghost voice) Beware…you are going to live past the age of 35….You don’t want to look as if you have. The industry is conditioning us early to maximize the number of years you’re going to throw money in their direction. Every single time I open Instagram or Facebook, I will see as many ads for ‘looking younger’ or ‘losing weight’ as I do of the content that I intentionally follow. Face exercises. Miracle weight loss supplements. Diet plans. Wrinkle serums. Anything that will “make you feel and look years younger.” This industry has done a stand-up job of turning the word ‘old’ into something to be feared and despised. The very act of aging is generally frowned upon and has turned ‘old’ into a negative descriptor.

This has really shined a spotlight on my own language around using the word ‘old’.

I’ve always been a believer that age is relative, but like a sponge I had started adopting old to describe how I am feeling both physically and mentally. In the last few weeks, I have made a conscious effort to change that. Instead of whining that I feel old, I say that I feel tired or my knee aches. Instead of lamenting that I look old, I say my face looks puffy. What I have discovered by changing my language around old is that it is making me honest. I’m just telling the truth and in telling that truth, I am presenting a problem that I can then find a solution to. Make time for rest. Take an aspirin for my achy knee. Use my neti pot and take some allergy medicine for my puffy face.

I don’t know how many times I have seen or heard a story of someone reaching the age of 100, recounting the things they have witnessed and the joy they feel to be alive. Each time I am awed by their tales and can only imagine what a spectacular life they have lived. Am I so different at the age of forty seven? Maybe it hasn’t been spectacular by some standards, but oh, the things I have been a witness too. Sure, I’ve witnessed some tragedies. I’ve seen two space shuttle explosions, the Murrah bombing, 9-11, not to mention personal tragedies. But I have also been a witness to some pretty great things in history like the fall of the Berlin Wall, the start of the Internet, amazing breakthroughs in science that have led to better and more effective treatment for diseases like cancer and HIV. This list could go on and on. I mean, electric cars and robot vacuums?!? We’re practically living a cartoon life. And I’m only forty seven! There is so much more to come.

Old is something to be celebrated.

I know this gratitude post kind of sounds like a birthday posting, but maybe everyday we get out of bed and live our lives is worth celebrating like a birthday. I can’t wait to read Karen’s new book and to be inspired in finding the various ways to celebrate aging. If you haven’t pre-ordered the book and would like to be part of the rebellion, just click on the words Radiant Rebellion in the first paragraph. This will take you straight to Karen Walrond’s book page.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Short weeks are the hardest weeks and we are in the thick of it here in this household. Both Michael and I have full schedules with work and after work appointments. My calendar is so confusing and jumbled, I’m not doing a great job of keeping things straight. I thought for sure I had a bachelorette party to attend on Saturday, but I met Jen (the bachelorette) for lunch this week and she reminded me that the party is on the 30th. I blinked like a deer in headlights because now I have a Saturday of no obligations. Michael will be gone for a leadership conference, which leaves me to my own devices for tonight and tomorrow. The very first thing I thought was “I’m going to clean my house!” I’ve thought of nothing since but clearing out some clutter and unused things, pulling furniture out from the walls and cleaning out the dust and cobwebs.

The thoughts make me giddy.

I understand the necessity for keeping a calendar, but sometimes those calendars can be deceiving. My calendar feels cluttered and clutter stresses me out. It is also making it difficult for me to keep track of the appointments I can’t miss. So I end up scheduling something on top of something else. Then I have to figure out how to be in two places at the same time and this leaves me gasping for air. All of this stuff to do crammed onto the day makes it hard to see the space of time that exist between the things that need to be done.

I’m really grateful that I got to have lunch with Jen this week. First, getting a chance to see my super cool, tough as nails, take no bullshit friend during a week day is better than therapy. Her energy is the boost I needed to get me through the week. Secondly, I’d be showing up for stripper pole dancing class tomorrow wondering why I’m the only one there or who all these other women are and how do they know Jen if I hadn’t met her for lunch. Thankfully I was made aware of open blocks of time and that awareness really helped to deflate this panic bubble in my chest that just seems to get bigger every day. I spent some time today decluttering my calendar so I could visually see the blocks of time that exist between obligations. I have things to do, but I am not obligated to do all of the things.

This weekend, I’m only doing the things I want to do.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Thursday evening, Michael helped me hang my photos in the Starbucks at 16th and Main.

The end.

Okay, not the end, but the hanging part is done. Mostly. We had a 16x20 print spontaneously fall off the wall, breaking the frame. Then this morning, while I was in the shower and Michael was getting ready, he said “I’m second guessing those prices because of the frames.” Tonight I’m making new name/price tags and reframing the other print so I can go in early tomorrow morning to hang and swap tags. There is some relief in having the pictures up, but there’s mixed feelings. I’m excited. I’m embarrassed. I feel exposed and a little naked on a stage. I feel I’ve made an accomplishment, but I’m judging myself real hard. All day yesterday, I felt this bubble of emotion sitting in my chest and I wasn’t sure what would happen if and when that bubble popped. I was either going to start screaming, crying or laughing hysterically, probably all three at the same time. Instead, I ended up eating way too much enchilada at dinner and drinking the queso dip straight out of the bowl.

What’s dumb is this, by far, is not the hardest thing I have ever done.

It’s great sharing my writing and photos the way I do now because I know my audience consists of family and friends. A small handful of those friends are people I have met through blogging and social media, but most everyone else in the audience are friends I’ve known forever. For years, this audience has been supportive and encouraging and mostly kind. I’ve felt safe here, maybe too safe. I’m exposing myself to a bigger audience with this showing. My name and my blog are posted on my ‘about the artist’ page and that’s a little scary. I’m doing the thing that scares me just like the inspirational quote that’s plastered on one my journals tells me to do. This is supposed to be good for me. One day this week, I was in the process of creating a wall map so we’d be organized on hanging day. I decided to hold back some pictures that I had previously planned on and my friend Sarah walked in as I made the decision. I said “I’m NOT hanging these pictures, no matter what anyone else thinks I should do.” Sarah looked at me and said “That’s right Cindy. Because this is your show.” Which is something I really needed to hear.

I am writing this story. I am controlling this narrative. This is my show.

Today, I am grateful for Michael’s help in hanging all of the pictures. I am also grateful to this audience for your support and kindness.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Sometime back in the Spring, Misti made me download the Red Cross emergency app. Part of it came out of a text conversation we were having where she had texted me to see if we were okay and I was all shrug-your-shoulders and replied with “yeah, why wouldn’t we be?” Apparently there had been a tornado somewhere around me but we were oblivious. In fact we’d slept through the whole storm situation. This is where I confess that I am willfully oblivious to numbers and weather. I don’t pay attention to how much something costs (unless it’s unreasonable) and I don’t pay attention to the weather. My method of determining the weather is to stick my head outside and look up at the sky. If the sky is clear when I do this in the morning, then the weather must be okay for the scooter. You should know that I have been caught in the rain on the scooter more times when consulting Michael and his weather app than I have with my usual method.

I still don’t really know what the temperature or rain percentage is going to be on any given day, but the emergency app does send me an alert when I need to take shelter. I am sure this is a relief to those people who love me and know that I like to live dangerously. Every day this week, I have been alerted multiples times a day of excessive heat. That is because Kansas City has exceeded previous record temperatures with heat indices in the 120s. Summers in Oklahoma are legendary for months of 100 degree temperatures and consecutive days without rain. So for years, I’ve rolled my eyes at the people of Kansas City complaining about the heat. “Its not the heat.” They’d protest. “Its the humidity.” They’d moan.

This is the first summer where I am not rolling my eyes at the complaints. I can’t understand how there can be so much moisture in the air without rain. I drove to work with the windshield wipers on twice this week because there was so much condensation on the window, but there was not any rain. Yes, I drove my car because it is too hot to ride the scooter. TOO HOT TO RIDE THE SCOOTER! Half the doors in our house are swollen and stick. I basically body slammed my way through the front door Wednesday evening. Air handlers at work have been struggling and there was even talk of delaying experiments this week. Josephine and I still do our morning walks, but even at 5:30 in the morning the air is oppressive. Josephine comes in from the walk and belly flops onto the cool floor. The Weatherman I was listening to at the beginning of the week said “If you have activities planned for outside…just don’t.”

Just don’t.

A cold front is moving in this evening that promises to drop our temperatures into the high seventies and low eighties. I predict that all surrounding states will be able to hear the collective sigh of relief from the people here. The woeful question of “why is it sooooooo hoooooottttttttt?!?!” will be replaced with exclamations of gratitude. It reminds me of that time in grad-school when we’d had forty something days without rain. Then one evening it started raining and everyone in our apartment complex opened their doors and we all just stood in our doorways staring at the rain. Occasionally we’d converse back and forth and laugh over this and that, but most of us were just watching the rain. That’s what’s going to happen around 9:00 PM here tonight.

We have such great capacities for gratitude but some times, a little discomfort is required for us to be aware just how great that capacity can be.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

In the summer of 96, I went to Hawaii with my parents. It was my third time to visit and for this time we chose to stay on the island of Maui. I don’t think we every would have gone to Hawaii at all if Dad had had a different job. We were very fortunate that American Airlines, at least at that time, treated it’s employees very well. Traveling to exotic places was always a little complicated with Dad. He was so tight with a dollar. We could go and stay in nice resort hotels because all of his discount options, but we were not allowed to spend any money. I got brave on this trip and told Dad that he had to let Mom and I rent snorkel gear. While we were at the activity hut getting our gear, we convinced Dad to not just get us the gear, but to book a full snorkel excursion. The attendant sweetened the deal by throwing in tickets to a luau if my parents agreed to go to timeshare seminar.

And Dad went for it. I think he even considered buying into the time share.

This turned out to be the best family vacation that I had ever experienced with both parents. Mom and I snorkeled and saw sea turtles while Dad chatted with the guys running the boat (his favorite thing). We drove all over the island exploring all of the things. There was a fish taco shack we stopped in for lunch one day and I am still laughing at my Dad’s reaction to a young pregnant woman who walked up to the shack. She was wearing a sarong that left her huge pregnant belly exposed. I thought Dad’s eyes were going to bug out of his head. I stood and posed with Mom under one of the many branches of the 150-year old banyan tree in Lahaina. The last night of our stay, we went to the Old Lahaina Luau where we ate wonderful traditional dishes and watched in amazement at the dancers. There were few moments of bickering and I can remember my mom having a genuine smile on her face most of our time there. It was truly a wonderful and magical vacation and I hold tight to those memories. Maui, hands down, was the best of the Hawaiian islands I have visited.

That 150-year old banyan tree (miraculously) is the only thing from our memories that is left standing in the town of Lahaina. I am grateful to have all of those memories and to the hospitality of the people of Hawaii.

Ways to help:

• Maui Strong Fund

• American Red Cross of Hawaii

• Aloha United Way

• The Maui Food Bank

• Maui Humane Society

If you have ever been to Hawaii or even if you haven’t but it’s on your bucket list, consider making a donation.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

My coworker/friend who is in charge of our fitness facility gave birth to her first child this week. We all received photos of proof of life. One photo was a family group shot showing that all was well and the second photo was a solo shot of the newborn. All you can see are the two hands of a nurse holding up a red, angry faced baby. The look on her face is not one of fear. She’s not crying because she’s hurt. Her face is a perfect representation of rage.

And that is my favorite picture of the week.

Michael sent me a video this week of Kriya Yogi talking about how the financial web of constraints we have built for ourselves will be the thing that keeps us from following Jesus when he comes back to this planet. I argued that money would not entirely be the thing that makes people reject Jesus, but that it will be their mistrust and fear that will keep them from following. I also argued that Jesus currently already walks among us in various forms. It just doesn’t create the sensational click-bait style of headlines that the Nazis and Trump create. We are a society riled and united by our hate and fear of things that go against our ideas of societal normatives and there are people who have learned to manipulate this trait to their advantage. This hate that is fueled by those fears is the thing that keeps us blind from the true teachings of Jesus and the possibility that he’s walking around us right now.

So what does this have to do with pictures of red, angry babies?

It takes a very special adult human to remember their own birth, but I want you to imagine it for it moment. You’ve just spent the better part of a year (normally…I spent less time than most) cocooned inside a warm safe space. Actually, for the most part, it’s pretty great in there. Plenty of food and napping. It’s probably one of the few times in our lives when we are truly well rested. Then we are forced to leave this safe wonderful space in a traumatic and painful way. Suddenly we find ourselves in this space where the light is too bright for our little eyes and it is cold and terrifying. Now some babies take it all in mildly with a little suspicion. They might cry a little bit but nothing too loud and expressive. They cry more out of fear of the unknown than anything. Then you have those babies that tremble with rage over this new environment. These babies…these are babies that get it. They know they have just been forced into a world filled with trash both literally and figuratively. I don’t know what kind of baby I was when I entered this world other than in hurry to be here, but I like to think I was also boiling with rage at what I found when I did enter this world.

I see each and every rage filled baby as a potential ally because my secret fuel for a constant practice in kindness and fighting against the hate and racist people of this country is rage. Every story I hear about white privileged males harming and or killing a person of color and or a person of the LBGTQ+ community, my rage sends money to that person in need. My rage makes me get to the polls. My rage is the thing that forces me to stop and pick up the bit of garbage I just crossed paths with on the sidewalk. I know it sounds crazy, but being so angry at the way things are makes me want to just be better, and I see each rage filled newborn as a being that has the potential to learn to use their rage for good. I want to say to them that its okay to be angry about the way things are, but what do you want to do about it? Use that rage to for the greater good. Also, there is quite a bit of joy is showing these little angry babies that while yes they have entered a garbage society, there are so many beautiful things to be found in the garbage.

I am grateful for new allies.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

My offering for grief camp was to teach a couple of yoga classes related to grief and loss. My plan was to talk about poses that can be soothing during times of immense grief and sequencing of movement to help distract the brain from its constant chatter. While teaching the first class, I shared my story of how grief has defined the yoga practice I have today. That story begins with J and a complete derailment of my yoga practice. There was a large chunk of time when I couldn’t even look at my yoga mat, let alone stand on it and be present in a practice. I have told this story a number of times and I never get through it without choking down tears, not even after eighteen years.

A few months ago, I was feeling extra squishy and unhealthy. I could feel my fat cells marching like ants from my limbs and settling into my gut and I was frustrated. I was frustrated because I was doing the work, walking the steps, mindfully eating. I was doing all of these things even though I really just wanted to be napping. I just kept forcing myself to move. I fell for the advertisements for perimenopause supplements and a twenty eight day wall pilates app. I started stressing about food and water intake. Am I eating enough protein? What happens if I’m a calorie over whatever the app recommends? How can I find time to do all of this and get on my yoga mat? When can I just rest? Why do I weigh 176.8 lbs with all my clothes on and 173.0 lbs with no clothes on? Do my clothes really weigh 3.8 lbs? Why am I freaking out over being the same weight I have always been give or take a pound? How do people have time to do ALL the exercising we are being fed to believe we have to do?!? All of this has taken time away from yoga.

It was Chris who reminded me that J would feel terrible knowing that he was the reason I stopped doing something I loved. There are still times when I am on my yoga mat when memories of that day when J died will bubble up from its storage locker in my brain. Those are nudges to be more careful and methodical in my practice, maybe avoid a pose or two. I have built a practice for myself that adapts to my grief feelings. This practice has sustained me through multiple tragedies for sure, but it never ceases to give me confidence in my current body. Tuesday evening during my second aerial yoga class with Roze, I came into a strength challenging pose and when she cued us into the pose, I popped right into it without hesitation. Once there I was shocked and wide-eyed. How did my body do that?!?!

This body is much stronger than I give it credit for.

I sometimes think about what my body would look and feel like today if I had allowed that day eighteen years ago to end my yoga practice. Maybe I’d be into running or biking now. Though, I know myself and I can’t see that I’d ever be into running, but who knows. I used to be really into kickboxing and step aerobics. Alternate timelines and universes exist, but I can’t imagine it. Really, it is not that I can’t imagine it. I’d just rather not imagine it. My physical confidence is always sitting on shaky ground. The only place I’ve been able to feel truly confident and relaxed with this body is when I’m on my yoga mat. I know I have said this often here and I know I have many gratitude posts about my yoga.

This is not a gratitude post about yoga. Instead, it is a gratitude post about making time to do the things we love that nourish our bodies. I am also grateful for Chris’s reminder all those years ago. You do not honor the loved ones we have lost by living for them. We honor them by living our own lives the best we can and continuing to do the things that bring us joy.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Last Friday, Michael convinced me to go on a long bike ride out to eat tacos. Most of the ride was on a nice paved trail that wound through a wooded area. We passed a pond where I saw a beaver hut and a deer. We rode under overpasses filled with wonderful graffiti. I saw so many things I wanted to stop and photograph, but I didn’t because this was a bike a ride. If I’d been alone, I would have stopped a thousand times. Eventually we ran out of trail and had to take to the street, but the street wasn’t busy. The ride was easy and the tacos were delicious.

We hadn’t made it too far into our return trip, still on the street part of the journey. Michael was the leader; he has the gps and I didn’t really know this area. Every thing was fine until BAM! it wasn’t. Michael’s back tire exploded. It sounded like a gunshot. I had never witnessed such a thing. It was kind of spectacular. We stood on the side of the road debating about what to do next. Michael asked if I thought I could find my way home to get the truck and I was hesitant with my yes. I probably could have found my way home, but I wasn’t certain that would not happen without some wrong turns. We had stopped across from a small neighborhood and woman and her daughter came out to check on us. They had thought it was a gunshot and came out to make sure we were not hurt. Then the woman offered to drive me home and my first instinct was to say no because I don’t want to be bother. We were not close to home, but for once I set aside my internal ‘I don’t want to be a bother’ woman and took her up on the offer.

In our small talk during the drive, we discovered that both of us are from Oklahoma. She grew up in Miami and when I told her that I grew up in Collinsville, she said “Oh! I know people there!” Then we spent some time trying to figure out if we knew the same people. We shared life stories about cancer and catastrophes and at one point the woman said “I think I was destined to meet you.” When she pulled into my driveway, I offered her gas money and she flat out refused. I thanked her profusely as I hopped out of her car. Michael loaded the bicycles into his truck when I showed up to rescue him. As we started to drive off, we saw the woman again. I rolled down my window and waved so that she could see we were alright.

The inner tuber for Michael’s tire was replaced the next day and then exploded again while we were on a pre-dinner bike ride. This time we were right behind a shopping center that contained a sports bar and only three miles by street to our house (we’d travelled about seven via trails). Michael rode my bicycle home (like a bear on a bicycle) and left me at the sports bar. We dropped the bike off for repairs the next day and his whole back wheel has now been replaced. We went to lunch after dropping the bike off at a place that we’d never been to before. The food was not great and waiter was so weird and awkward. I met all of his strangeness with a smile and a nod and patience. Afterwards, Michael made a joke about about how kind I was to our weird waiter. I said “Kindness costs me nothing.”

I said this flippantly and when I really think about it, it is not entirely true. Kindness is a muscle that we must exercise. The more we use it, the easier it is to be kind until eventually you don’t even realize you’re making effort. The stranger who rescued us has trained so well that she didn’t ask “Can I give you a ride?” She said “I can give you a ride.” I want this level of kindness strength. I am not just grateful for the kindness of strangers, but for the reminder that kindness must be a daily practice.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

The month of July is a subscription renewal month for me. My Yoga Alliance membership is due, along with teacher insurance. I have to renew my rights to my old domain name and also my current Square Space account. Every year, when I get those reminder emails about this or that automatically renewing and billing my card, I think about not renewing any of it. It is a moment of pondering about gain. What do I gain from all of these subscriptions?

Of course if I want to teach yoga, I have to stay up to date with all of the yoga stuff. There was a time I was maintaining all of that while not teaching because I felt that I would probably eventually go back to teaching. Which I did. I’m not teaching much, one class a week, subbing a class here and there, but it is enough. I feel content. I have been considering the idea of approaching a studio about doing a yoga enhancer workshop (incorporating yoga props into a practice), but this is something I don’t want to take on until after October. Keeping the domain and Square Space account feels a little splurgy. There is zero financial gain here. Maybe I’m helping someone. Maybe I’m teaching someone something new. I have no idea. But I do it. I blog because I love it. I teach yoga because I love teaching yoga. The answer to that question about gain that I ask myself every year is that I gain mental health and joy in inspiring others either in their own yoga practice or through my writing.

I am thankful to have both of these outlets.

That being said, it is nice to take a break every now and then. There is a lot of giving of myself when I teach yoga and when I share I my thoughts here. Sometimes it is good to step away and recharge that giving battery. So that’s what I’m doing. I’m stepping away for two weeks, hopefully filled with with fresh thoughts and pretty pictures.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

I missed the Kansas City Pride Parade this year because it was happening while I was flying back from Massachusetts. I keep seeing Insta reels from friends who walked in the parade and I get a little sad that I missed it. We did manage to take the Cabbage to Pride Fest the next day, but I didn’t really say anything about it. In fact, I didn’t post anything about June Pride and instead I’ve been over silently collecting Pride stickers to put on the scooter and bicycle.

So can I call myself an advocate?

I’ve been thinking a lot about this. I have made an attempt to write something regarding trans rights and this garbage dumpster that is Missouri Government many different times this month. I watched a beautiful story on CBS Sunday Morning about a family with a child that started second grade identifying as female. In response to the ban on gender care in their state, the mom said “I guess we just have to live in fear for a little while.” And my heart broke for this family. Once again we have a group of individuals who know and understand nothing about the science and medicine around the topic of the thing they are creating laws for. I could dive in real deep into the science of gender dysphoria and how there are five (only FIVE) mRNA transcripts associated with gender, but I don’t think I need to do that for my audience. The bottom line is that it’s your body, your gender identity, your sexual orientation and that is nobody’s fucking business unless you choose otherwise. And none of these things require governing.

Now, me sitting here typing all of that out does not make me an advocate. Voting. Respectful use of pronouns. Plain old just being respectful. These are things that make me an advocate. While there is a part of me that is experiencing some left behind feelings for not being in the group walking in the parade, the better part of me knows that walking in parades doesn’t make me an advocate. Instead of filling up space in social media with stories of advocacy, I was quite and left space for my friends and loved ones in the LGBTQ+ community to tell their stories. The common themes in every story I have heard or seen are bravery, love, and hope. It takes real bravery to be open about who you are in a world filled with people who hate you. It takes real love to be your true self and infallible hope for a world without the constant fear of those people who hate you. In every story, I have seen faces filled with joy and love because events like PRIDE month with parades and festivals provides safe environments for this community to be their true selves. Their joy is contagious and bolstering.

So as we wrap up Pride Month, I’d like to say thank you to each of you for your bravery in sharing your stories and filling my world with color and light. These stories are the things that I think of every time I think about skipping out on an election day. Those happy, joyful faces are my reminders that I am not too lazy and tired to write and contact my senators and representatives.

Your bravery is a contagion the keeps me fighting against hate every day.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

The longest day of the year happened on Wednesday and we have official entered the time of year when all I want to eat is some kind of a salad. I’ve spent my free time this week collecting salad recipes into my NY Times Cooking app. Most of them are just variations of tomatoes and mozzarella tossed in a bowl with olive oil and salt. I plucked a red cherry tomato off of the plant in the garden this week and handed it to Michael. He promptly popped it into his mouth and exclaimed “Holy crap! That’s so much better than the flavorless cherry tomatoes I bought from the store!” The plant is loaded with tomatoes. The problem is they are ripening slowly, one at a time. I shouldn’t complain. Last year, I planted two tomato plants. They grew tall and leafy and green, but they did not produce a single piece of fruit. This year, I have a plethora of green tomatoes.

And I’m going to eat them. With mozzarella.

I’m normally not the type that pays much attention to solstices, but this year I couldn’t help but notice that the longest day of the year happened in the middle of the week, a short week for some. Short weeks are tricky because they always feel like extra long weeks. Maybe it’s because I try to cram in all the work I didn’t do on Monday into the rest of the week. Wednesday is that day of the week that is generally harder to get through on it’s own without making it the longest day of the year. It is a rough place in the week for that amount of daylight.

I have ridden my bicycle to work every day this week with the exception of today. Fridays are for scooters. By the time I made it home on Wednesday, I had decided that I was done with the bicycle for the week. I was tired. It was hot. My bicycle was still making a rattling sound like it was about to fall apart. Michael had already tighten up all of the things and determined that the sound was coming from the battery being a little loose in the housing. Nothing a piece of tape or velcro couldn’t fix. We just hadn’t gotten around to doing it and once I knew my bike wasn’t going to fall to pieces while I was riding, I didn’t care about the rattle. But Wednesday felt different. For some reason, probably because I was tired and hot, that rattle was the worst. Plus, I just wanted to be home. That night, without any prompting, Michael went out and fixed the rattle. It turned out to be more than a loose battery situation. A screw fell out of the battery house when Micheal took the battery out to check things over. The rattle was indeed, my bike falling apart.

I still wasn’t convinced that I would ride the bicycle on Thursday though. I sat slumped on the couch and told Michael that I wasn’t going to ride the bicycle for the rest of the week. He asked me why and I said “Because I’m tired.” He told me that was a valid reason, but even though I was moving a little slower than usual the next morning, it was the bicycle that I pulled out of the garage. I did for a micro second almost change my mind when I had to turn around a block later because I’d forgotten my helmet. I spent most of my ride peddling away while lost in my own thoughts. The morning weather was pleasant. I was exercising without really exercising and I wasn’t mad about any of it. I’d just finished mentally scanning the grocery list and reminding myself to add ‘coarse ground coffee’ to the list when I looked up to see that I was only a few blocks from work. I felt really proud of myself because I had made a goal at the beginning of the year to ride my bicycle at least three to four times a week to work. Michael even purchased the things my bike needed to install a basket and bought me the case that fits on the back of my bike so I have something to carry my lunch box. He did that so I could ride to work. This is week four of consistent bike riding meaning at least three days a week I have ridden my bike to work and this is the first week I’ve been on my bicycle four days in a row.

This makes me want to high-five myself with gratitude.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

My cabin at Woods Hole was about a mile and a half from the MBL. They have a shuttle that runs between cabins and the main campus, but I was always off schedule in the morning. I either had just missed the shuttle at the stop or I was too impatient to wait for the shuttle. So instead of waiting, I’d walk a trail through the woods that lead to a paved bike path and then walk the bike path all the way into Woods Hole. The path conveniently ends right across the street from Pie in The Sky, a coffee shop and bakery with delicious popover breakfast sandwiches. It is an easy and pleasant walk and then there’s breakfast right there at the end.

The bike path is called the Shining Sea Bikeway and stretches from Woods Hole to the neighboring town of Falmouth. A long stretch of the path runs along the ocean, though from where I would start every morning, the view was more forest than ocean. The path sort of combines with a parking lot for overflow ferry parking as you get into town. An old church and cemetery sits on one side of the parking lot/path and every morning I saw the same deer grazing around the headstones. Once you pass the cemetery, there is a highly graffitied bridge to pass through. The graffiti art is not commissioned, but much of it is so well done that it should be commissioned. The last bit of graffiti appears as you exit the tunnel simply read: You will die. Make art.

I read this every morning as I walked into town.

I remember when my niece-in-law announced her intention to remarry. At the time, I said to Chris “It seems fast.” His response was “We’ve all learned, in a very horrible way, that life is short. Why wait?” And he was/is right, of course. After J’s death, Chris and I worked really hard at living our lives differently. There was less talk of things we wanted to do and more actual doing of the things. I have tried to maintain this approach to life even after Chris’s death. I met Michael one year and five months after Chris died. There are people out there who would gasp, clutch their pearls and remark on the suddenness of my relationship. There is a misconception that we must leave time to grieve as if grief is similar to a broken bone and heals within a given time frame. The reality is that grieving is endless. If I left time to grieve, I would still be spending my evenings alone on the couch with a bottle of wine and a sleeve of saltine crackers. Eleven years later. I have learned to leave space in my every day life for grief while continuing to live my life.

Lately my talk of things I want to do sounds more like a chore list than things that I actually want to do. That’s why I finally booked an appointment for that tattoo I have been wanting for the last eight years. I bought a really good backpack for my camera so I feel more comfortable carting it around and using it. I was determined to start riding my bicycle to work and I’ve ridden three time to work this week. Just recently I said to a friend “Life is short. Get a puppy.” I never once thought about turning this philosophy of life is short/ do the thing around onto my art. When’s the last time I told myself “Life is short. Write the book.” or when’s the last time I printed out a batch of pictures just for myself? I used to do this seasonally. A collage of photos of Josephine in various sleeping positions has been hanging over my bed for two years now.

You will die.

Make art.

So, thank you to this mysterious graffiti artist for this nudge to snap out of this creative funk I have wrapped around my shoulders. It’s summer and too hot for wraps.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

For the last few weeks, my Instagram and Facebook feeds have been filled with pictures of graduations. I have scrolled through pictures of old high school friends celebrating their child’s graduation from high school, some even from college. There is a woman in the blogging community who I have followed since her oldest was a baby and she just this week posted pictures of that baby graduating high school. My heart swelled up for the young man and if I could do so without making it weird, I’d reach out and tell that woman she’s doing an amazing job at parenting.

The Saturday after Quinn’s graduation, Traci and I were floating in the pool conversing on how hard it is to encourage young people to do anything right now. This was not a complaint about young people today or rant of “in my time…” We both agreed that it is so hard to encourage young people because of the dumpster fire of a world we’re sending them into. We’re telling them to go to college so they can get a good job when so many of those jobs require so much more than a college degree. We’re sending them out there with our visions of the American dream of having a good job with health benefits and home ownership when the average cost of a home is unaffordable. Between the effects that climate change is having on food sources and human displacement, plagues, hate crimes and book bans, this world looks a little bit more like the dystopian fantasy worlds of Octavia Butler every day. It’s real difficult to tell a kid to be true to themselves when governments are making it illegal for them to do that.

People really struggle with the concept of inclusion and keep confusing it with indoctrination.

I recently finished watching A Small Light, which tells the story of Miep Gies and the role she played in helping to hide the Frank’s from the Nazis during the occupation of Amsterdam. Miep and her husband Jan played vital roles in not only hiding the Franks, but in smuggling Jewish children out of the city and into safe foster homes. We all know what happens to the Franks in this story. Otto Frank was the only survivor. One of the things that truly spoke to me in this story was how Miep continuously under played her role in saving the people she saved. In her mind, all she did was a keep a secret, but the reality is she kept a secret and managed to procure food for eight people with rations all while avoiding the gestapo. Years later, when she would speak to groups of her experience and the Franks, she would end her talk with this:

But even an ordinary secretary or a housewife or a teenager can, within their own small ways, turn on a small light in a dark room. -Miep Gies

In spite of how sad and depressing it was to watch this series, it gave me hope. The rise in hate crimes and government bans on anyone not cis-white is evidence that history tends to repeat itself. If and when the time comes, I am prepared to hide and keep people safe, but in the meantime, I am grateful for the sea of new graduates that I see in my social media feeds. Because in each one of them, I see their potential. I can see them thriving and succeeding. I can see them doing more than turning on a small light. I can see them turning on so many lights, making a room so bright we all have to squint at the magnificence of it. Now, this is not to say that we should just dump all the work onto theses young people. Far from it. What I am saying is that it is nice to have a new wave of help in flipping on some light switches.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

First, I’d like to start off with a list of some accomplishments or sort of accomplishments for this week:

• I rode my bike on Monday. My intention was to ride at least three times this week. On the way home it sounded like it was rattling apart. Michael asked me about the ride because he knew I was hesitant about my ability to ride a bicycle. I told him that it was great except the rattle. He told me to not ride again until he could look over it this weekend. Even though I only rode once, I feel like this is still an accomplishment.

• Dog walks every morning.

• Mammogram

• Completing safety training for my visit to MBL in a couple of weeks

• Refraining from murder

• Quality yoga mat time every day this week (probably helped with whole not murdering thing)

This is Michael and The Cabbage’s last day of school, which means we start our summer schedule next week. I’ve already made an Excel spreadsheet of all the chores I do, organized by weekly, bi-weekly, every other week, number of times a day. I’m ready to hand this spreadsheet over to the two of them and relinquish the majority of my chores. I’ve been anticipating this moment for weeks and thinking about how it feels like a freedom. Michael asked me what I was going to do with my Saturdays if I don’t have to go grocery shopping and I said that I might find a morning yoga class. There’s a vegan bakeshop in Brookside that doesn’t open until 10:00 AM on Saturday’s. I’ve been dying to get brunch here, but the timing is always wrong. Now, I could go to yoga and then to the bake shop afterward. Or I could beg Sarah to take me kayaking and then the two of us could get brunch after. Or I could go roller skating at the outdoor roller skating park. Or I could grab my big camera, hop on my scooter and zip around the city taking pictures with the morning light. Or I could print out every thing I have ever written in regards to a book, find a cafe and sit down with these pages and a red marker and start to put something real together.

All of these options sound like a vacation to me.

I think I’m making this my song for the summer. I don’t need the whole year, but I need these next three months. I need three months of making as few decisions for other people as I possible can get away with and focusing less on other people’s needs. I need three months of not being so dang considerate. I need three months of not my usual chores so I have time for the chore of cleaning out my closet and the rest of the house. I need these three months because I can’t tell you the last time I lounged in my hammock in the backyard.

And the next three months are something to be grateful for.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

By the time you read this, I will be driving through Kansas on my way to OKC for Quinn’s high school graduation.

That’s a heavy sentence to type.

It is surprising to me that Mental Health Awareness month has been so mentally difficult. There is nothing special about the month of May, no birthdays or anniversaries. Yet it has contained difficult losses and bittersweet memories and there’s still basically week left. All along the way, a voice has been whispering “Chris should be here.”

First of all, don’t feel bad that I’m gone. While I will miss spending time with each of you, I’m sure it will be an interesting time for me and I look forward to seeing all of you when you come over. To each of you I send my love. If on this side of life I’m able to watch over and help you out, know that I will. If I can’t, I’m sure I can at least be waiting for you when you come over. This all may sound silly to you guys, but what the hell, I’m gone—and who can argue with me?

Life is meant to be fun, and joyous, and fulfilling. May each of yours be that—having each of you as a child of mine has certainly been one of the good things in my life. Know that I’ve always loved each of you with an eternal, bottomless love. A love that has nothing to do with each other, for I feel my love for each of you is total and all-encompassing. Please watch out for each other and love and forgive everybody. It’s a good life, enjoy it.

Jim Henson
Letter to his children, to be opened after his death

There is a generation of us who grew up watching Sesame Street and The Muppets, a generation who were molded and shaped by the creative works of Jim Henson. As I drove to work on Tuesday, the radio DJ went through a list of events that happened on May 16th. One event is that it has been twenty five years since the release of Torn by Natalie Imbruglia. Ouch. The other event he mentioned was Jim Henson’s passing in 1990. He passed away on May 16th from streptococcal pneumonia at age fifty three. I remember being in the checkout line at Walmart and seeing the cover of a magazine with Kermit the frog sitting next to an empty director’s chair bearing Jim Henson’s name. Tears streamed down my face whileI handed the cashier my money for my purchases. It was soon after the DJ’s announcement that I noticed various Jim Henson related stuff on social media and the above letter to his children caught my eye.

Years and years ago, Chris and I made our only just the two of us drive to my grandparents home in Mississippi. All previous trips had been with my parents, but this was the first time Chris and I had to make the trip on our own. My Pepaw had passed away and my parents had rushed out of town to get to my mother’s home. This would end up being the last trip I would ever make to Mississippi other than to drive through to get to someplace else. The first town we came to after crossing into the state was Greenville, the birth pace of Jim Henson and Kermit the Frog. They have a tiny little Jim Henson museum and though I had driven through this place countless of times with my parents, we had never stopped. I can remember mentioning this to Chris as we came in to town and he immediately pulled over and into the parking lot for the museum. The museum is so small; we only spent ten or fifteen minutes in the space. Most of our time was spent reading over the hand drawn Christmas cards he would send to the museum every year.

Life is meant to be fun, and joyous, and fulfilling.

These are words that Chris would be telling Quinn today as we celebrate his move into new adventures and I have a feeling that Quinn knows these words to be true already. I would not be surprised if these are words that Chris has whispered into Quinn’s ear while he’s sleeping. So, to that voice that keeps whispering to me that Chris should be here, there is no need for you to whisper them.

He’s already here and in some ways has never left.

I am so grateful for the timing of this trip because I need some time away from my current responsibilities. More than anything I am grateful to be part of the celebration for this boy/man. He used to have the most violent sneezes and a disproportionate amount of snot would come out of his tiny nose to cover the lower part of his face. It was traumatizing to him and everyone else involved in the clean up process. There were times I was concerned that actual brain matter was coming out of his nose. So to see him succeeding and have legitimate life/career plans fills me up with joy. Traci and her Chris have raised a successful human. This does not amaze me, the idea that these two would in fact raise a successful human, but they are just as deserving of celebration as the graduate.

I raise my glass to them for doing the work while continuing to live a life that is fun, joyous and fulfilling.

WE WERE BLOGGERS

A month ago, I started writing a blog post where I waxed nostalgic about the old days of BlogHer. I had been thinking about how nice it had been to be in the room with these women I follow online and meeting new people, hearing their stories and reasons for blogging. I would walk away inspired to do more with my blog, be a better writer, take better pictures. That conference was something I never expected to be drawn to attend, but I never really expected to be a blogger. When Chris built my first blog in 2000, I looked at him with a raised eyebrow and said “What am I supposed to do with this?” He told me that this was a space where I could keep our friends who had scattered themselves across the state and country up to date on what was going on with me. I did not think that the blog would ever be anything more than that.

Over the years, this space has been my soapbox, my navel gazer, my practice in creative writing and my therapist. When Chris built that blog, he opened up a world of other voices and I found a community of women who awed me, inspired me, made me feel hopeful, and made me feel like I was a part of something. Many of those women I never spoke to in person, only on the rare occasion when I would be brave enough to leave a comment and maybe a word of hello at BlogHer. I never failed to fan girl geek out whenever I was face to face with some of these bloggers who I considered to be celebrities. I knew I would never be as cool or popular as these women, but I could cheer them on from the sidelines and buy their books. Even though I didn’t know these women in real life, a number of them reached out to me when Chris was sick, sending cards of support and care packages. I’m not sure I ever really expressed my gratitude for their thoughtfulness. Then things changed. Most of the women I followed in the blogging community have stopped blogging and have moved on to other things.

Except me. I’m still plunking down words full of navel lint as if anyone else might still be paying attention. 

When I saw the news of Heather Armstrong’s passing this week, I immediately reached for my phone to text Chris. Then I was just standing there at my desk, my phone in my hand, blinking at the screen. I felt untethered and between worlds. The one person I knew who would understand what I was feeling was no longer available. Heather Armstrong of dooce.com was one of the first women in the community of bloggers I followed and it was through her blog that I found other women like Maggie Mason, Alice Bradley and Karen Walrond. I wanted to meet women like her, women who bravely shared their ups and downs with us on the internet. Without even knowing she was doing it, she challenged me to be a better photographer and her words inspired me to keep writing. I have her books prominently displayed on my bookshelf along with the books by the other women bloggers I follow. Her words gave us all permission to be honest and open about our flaws, but she was also hilarious. I mean life can be a real shit show. We are better off finding the humor in it all and Heather Armstrong was pretty good at doing this. I never met her in person. I only very rarely left a comment on her blog. There is a small subset of women in the blogging community who did know her personally and seeing them sharing their memories of their time spent with her has been beautiful and sad. While Heather Armstrong could be a magnet for internet trolls and haters and she sometimes said things that we disagreed with, we can’t deny the impact she had on the internet and communities that were formed from her influence. I mean, dooce became a term we used for someone who got fired for their blog. It was a Jeopardy! answer. She opened up space for talking about uncomfortable things.

In the beginning, I remember having to make explanations about what a blog is or why someone might blog. People outside the blogging world thought we were crazy and often met the word ‘blog’ with some disdain. “Oh…you blog.” they’d say as if they had something sour in their mouths. There were people who just couldn’t understand why or how we could write about personal things and share it for the world, THE WORLD, to possibly read it. Whatever. Blogging is not for everyone, but I will say that we were the beginning wave of a mental health revolution. Women read about other women struggling with parenthood, jobs, sexuality, anxiety, depression and so much more and they could see that they were not alone. Many of those women bloggers normalized talking about mental health. We normalized talking about our bodies and all the weird things they start doing with age. We normalized talking about the hard adult things. I count myself as one of the smallest voices in this revolution. I’m grateful to the women like Heather Armstrong who were some of the biggest voices in this revolution, even if she was messy and flawed. And while it may seem odd to mourn the loss of a woman I never met, never really knew, I find that my grief over her loss encompasses the way things used to be. She was a part of that.

It is a more than unfortunate loss and I can imagine how unfathomably difficult this is for her family. 

988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline

We can all help prevent suicide. The Lifeline provides 24/7, free and confidential support for people in distress, prevention and crisis resources for you or your loved ones, and best practices for professionals in the United States. 988lifeline.org

THANKFUL FRIDAY

A long time ago, at a blogging conference, I went to a panel discussion on bullying and the internet. I was not being bullied online or receiving ugly comments with every post. I went to this discussion because I followed the women who were on the panel and I thought, still feel, they are the bees knees. I wanted to hear what they had to say about dealing with a constant barrage of hatefulness. There was one woman on the panel that I didn’t know, someone I now follow on instagram. Shauna Ahern is “a writer, teacher, inciter of joy.” Those are her words, but they’re true. This woman is devoted to kindness. During the panel discussion she shared stories of the hate mail/comments she received on a regular basis and the things people would write to her shocked me. I was absolutely floored by the amount of hatefulness.

Michael and I were watching a re-run of Saturday Night Live recently. The musical guest was Coldplay, a band I happen to love. Michael said something about it and I told him this: Snow Patrol and Coldplay started around the same time. They have similar sounds and I love them both. Snow Patrol tends to be heavier, with lyrics that stab me in the heart. Coldplay is light and more spiritual. Coldplay feels like the good parts of church. So Michael sat with me and listened and then he said “Oh…oh…I think I get it.” Then he asked why was it that so many people hated on Coldplay. It’s true. It’s not just a criticism of the music, there’s people that put out some serious hatefulness to all that is this band.

My answer for Michael was simple. It is because it is something good. The same reason why people send out hatefulness to bloggers who spread kindness and light. I don’t know what makes a person inherently hateful. It could be a thousand reasons, but I suspect all of the reasons lead back their own self. Seeing other’s joy and light makes a hater feel inadequate because they can’t see their own goodness. They lack joy in their own lives. They lack the ability to find comfort in their own true selves and they lash out at those who are brave enough to be true to themselves. It is a human trait that has been with us since the beginning of societal groups.

The choice to remain a person that continues to look for the light and share joy can at times be exhausting. Sometimes it feels like you are the underdog in this fight, that there is no way you are ever going to win.

Gratitude is what makes optimism sustainable. - Michael J. Fox

Everyone loves an underdog story.

I know that Shauna Ahern has a gratitude practice and I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that the members of Coldplay also have their own gratitude practice. In every interview I’ve seen of Chris Martin, he has shown genuine gratitude to his fans. Gratitude really does seem to be the key to maintaining optimism. I am grateful for those who inspire me to keep up this fight against hatefulness. I am grateful for those who remind to look for the light, seek out the joy, and be brave enough to be my true self. This gratitude gives me the strength to see straight through the bullshit for the good that is on the other side.

There is always going to be this war but every time I find myself on the other side of that bullshit, I am winning.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Josephine and I have made it out for our morning walks every day this week with the exception of Monday. During our walks, we have seen rabbits, opossums, one fox, two deer, and one raccoon. We heard one owl. The raccoon almost doesn’t count as a walk sighting because he was in our backyard. Josephine treed him in our big walnut tree in the back. Now all of our pet doors smell like fox urine because I have sprayed all of the entry ways with it to discourage another raccoon kitchen party.

I have made a personal connection with my yoga mat every day this week. Meaning, I have gotten my yoga mat out for other reasons besides when I am teaching in some time. My personal yoga practice has been trash for weeks. On the few times I’ve been on my mat, when I lay down for final relaxation, I last five minutes before I’m up and turning the timer off. Thursday, I stayed a full fifteen minutes without fidgeting or falling asleep. My body is pleasantly sore from planks and lunges.

My physical health has seen better days. I’ve allowed myself to fall out of some good habits I created a while back and the result is that in addition to feeling mentally blah, I’m feeling unpleasantly pudgy. It is time to roll my body out of stationary mode. To help me do this, I have created a whole new color coded calendar I call Healthy Body and it’s devoted to everything from walk schedules to doctors’ appointments. I feel really smart for doing this, so smart that I am going to create another calendar for just writing and maybe for photography. I’m going to give myself some deadlines because I am deadline motivated.

I kind of marinated for longer than usual in a state of blahs knowing full well that I’d feel better if I’d just move my body. It was a trap. This state of the blahs. The longer I marinated, the harder it was to motivate myself into motion. I’m not saying a week of movement has brought me out of the blahs, but I will say that I am seeing more in color and feeling a little more than nothing. May is Mental Health Awareness month and I just realized that May is here in two days (depending on when you’re reading this). I told you that I am highly motivated by deadlines. I’m kicking things off a week early.

Today I have deep gratitude for my morning walks with Josephine and my yoga mat.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

I have written and deleted three different versions of today’s Thankful Friday post. This either means I found an abundance of gratitude this week or I’m reaching to find much of any thing. I suspect the later. Michael is working with his school drama department as the assistant director for the Spring play. Recently, he received a certification to teach drama and debate and would like to eventually transition into teaching more drama and less math. Right now, he’s content with helping out as an assistant. The kids are performing Rumors by Neil Simon starting next Friday and so Michael has had many late nights as they work on being ready for opening night. Every evening, he’s sent me texts telling me when he was going to be home and each time he includes his gratitude for me being so supportive of this new venture he’s taken on.

While I appreciate his gratitude, I am a little surprised. My feelings are that of course I would support this. This is what people do in relationships. Unless it is racist, homophobic, trans-phobic, or general hate for those who do not look or talk like you, you support your partner. This also reminds me of just how different our past relationship(s) have been from each other. There are a number of things I learned from my parents marriage that discouraged me from wanting to be married. Then Chris came along and things changed. This also opened my eyes to the things in my parent’s marriage that were good. I saw how they often worked together as a team. When Mom worked late, Dad made sure I made it home safely from school and took charge of dinner. Dad worked early hours and Mom took over morning duties with making sure I had breakfast and was at school on time. While it didn’t always look like they lovingly supported each other, they were still doing the work together.

I am grateful for the lessons I have had in supporting the ones you love. Those lessons in return, I believe, have made me a better person, a better partner. It is important for me in my daily practice to have and find gratitude for things/people in my life. It is rare and somewhat difficult to accept gratitude from others. My instinct is to brush the gratitude aside and make less of the effort I have made to support or help that person. Deep down, I think I do not deserve the gratitude because my actions seem simple, like something anyone would do for another human. Everyday the news and general interactions with society reminds me that simple acts of kindness are not everyone’s normal. Self-help books and gurus all tell us that we are all deserving of love, but how often do we hear that we are deserving of gratitude? We are all deserving of gratitude for our conscious and unconscious acts of kindness.

The next time someone thanks you, don’t brush it aside. Simply say “You are welcome.”

THANKFUL FRIDAY

It is time for my annual Oh My God, It’s Spring post. Except I don’t feel as excited about Spring as I usually have in previous years. I mean, yes I love all the color and the warmer temperatures. My Instagram feed is filling up with pictures of tulips of all shapes and colors. I can’t help myself. I cannot pass by a tulip with taking it’s picture. I have ridden my scooter almost every day this week and it has been glorious. Josephine and I have not quite made it back to our regular walking routine. We are not walking every day, but we are walking on some days.

Which is enough for now.

I don’t think I’m tromping around this year saying “Finally! Winter’s over!” with a heavy sigh because Winter wasn’t really that bad. I feel a little guilty for saying it, but it’s true. Sure it was cold, miserably cold, but I only had to shovel the driveway once. I have friends in Utah who had to shovel so much snow that their shovel broke. People are still dealing with Winter weather even though the calendar has declared it to be Spring. I’m also a little hesitant because I have been fooled a number of times by April/May snow showers, an event absolutely unheard of during my years in Oklahoma. My collection of frozen tulip photos is my reminder that Winter doesn’t move on easily.

But for now, I’ll bask in this Spring light.

I find myself struggling to write these days. My focus has been on the mundane tasks of being an adult. Paying my taxes. Reminding myself to print out the form to renew my passport. Making up the weekly menu. Last week I was buried under a pile of slides that I had to batch image and process. This week I’ve been planning my trip to the Marine Biology Lab in June, a month and half away. Then I remember that I also need to make plans to go to Oklahoma for Quinn’s graduation. I haven’t even mentioned this to Michael. There hasn’t been time.

We are both busy.

My tether of thoughts and mental lists seem to only break apart when I step outside for a walking loop around the building. The moment the sun hits my face, my focus shifts to photographic possibilities. I know that rays of light are leading to me something and I keep my eyes open, my senses sharpened. Like an easter egg hunt. Often, my hands itch for my bigger camera which I hardly ever take with me to work, but maybe that needs to change. Sunday, Michael bribed me into riding my scooter with him all the way across the river to where he works. He’d left something in his office that he needed for a paper he had to write for his CE class. Except when we got there, he couldn’t get into the building. So we ended up riding all that way for my bribe which was ice cream (always and forever). I hadn’t been prepared to leave the house on Sunday and didn’t really want to go on this ride, but as I was flying across the MO river, I desperately wished for my big camera. These are feelings that hibernate during the winter, this desperate urge to get the camera out and fill the memory card with pictures.

Right now my world is shifting from words to pictures. Right now, I see my world in vibrant colors and I’d rather capture it on a camera than with words.

Side note: Events have happened since writing this entry. Josephine was mauled by a dog last night as we walked to meet Michael. The owners of the dog were fast in collecting their mut and concerned for us, gave me their number, all the things. Josephine’s ear was bleeding and ears bleed like crazy. I had blood all over my hands. She had it all on her head. We stopped at Terry’s to get cleaned up and take breath from trauma. We cleaned Josephine’s ear and I washed my murder scene hands. Terry recently purchased some singing bowls and played the singing bowls to calm us. Then we went on our way. I am so grateful that Terry lives in my neighborhood and I’m just grateful for Terry. He always seems to know how to sooth. Josephine got a bath. Her wound was just a small puncture and she’s fine. This could have been so much worse for everyone involved.

Gratitude all around.