Thinking About Stuff.....

 

Well here it is, almost the end of another year. And what have I learned?
I have learned how to make sauerkraut.
I have learned how to take a day off and do absolutely nothing.
I have learned how to admit mistakes.
Well, most of the time.

I have learned how to ride tandem with vertigo, without falling off, or wanting to barf.
I have started to relearn Spanish.
Aprendo espanol. Un poquito.
I have learned what I look like in a photo with thirty more pounds on me than I should, and after those thirty pounds have gone away.
I have learned I still need to lose another thirty pounds.
I have learned yet again that failing does not mean instant death.
Just instant recognition of my fundamental gooberness.
I have learned the perfect time to give unsolicited advice.
That time is never.
I have learned how to master Angry Birds and Fruit Ninja.
But the Moron Test is still master over my teeny brain.

I have learned I take too many photos of my husband and dog.
I have learned that this pleases me, and I do not care.
I have learned that Pokemon can be cool, lame, cool, lame, and then cool again.
Which gives me hope.
I have learned how to fit cowboy boots.
And how to enjoy wearing a fancy-schmancy western belt.
I have learned that my life is pretty ordinary, pretty mundane, and therefore priceless.

Not bad in 365 days.


Merry Christmas, Happy New Year and plenty of seratonin for one and all.

 

 

 

Jury's Still Out On Christmas.

Tis the season.

Hallmark begins the deluge of offerings such as "The Meaning of Christmas" and "The Heart of Christmas" and "The Family That Forgot Christmas Until A Cute Street Waif Appeared on Their Doorstep Holding A Scruffy Puppy And They Both Had Cancer" and of course, my personal favorite, "A Christmas Carol With Kareem Abdul Jabbar."

We have an average of seventeen magazines in our mailbox every day, and they mostly contain farting Santas and Thomas Kincaide treetoppers. They are trying to convince me that I need twelve of them, but I doubt that I need more than three.

Still, somewhere in this next thirty-plus days I am hoping that I can hang onto the - dare I say it? - real meaning of Christmas. I do not want to say that "Jesus is the reason for the season" in any other way except this individual paragraph. However, I am hoping to sidestep the Black Friday bloodlust and circle quietly around the sticky sentiment and excessive use of sleighbells. No doubt we will have a tree, and ornaments and gifts and errant bows escaping under the couch. After all, I do live in the greatest country on earth, and these are essentials in order to affirm patriotism.

What I am looking for is an inner silence. I am looking for the quiet certainty of holiness that rests between the branches of the cedars outside the window. I am listening for the deep silence that falls between the chirrups of the squirrels. I'm standing under maple trees, waiting for the leaves to fall, so I can hear what they have to say just before they come to their final rest. Even the slow breathing of the dog has that elusive peace in it that I am hungry for. Winter is supposed to be a time of regrouping, of slowing down, of listening to the snow fall and finding renewal in just resting and waiting. I am a walking ear, constantly straining to hear that complete and lovely shush.

When I was a kid, I would wait for the Sears Toy Catalog to come in the mail. It was about the size of a local white pages, usually with a red cover, and filled cover to cover with useless plastic objects that I honestly felt I could not live without. Rock tumbling kits. Sponges that turned into dinosaurs when you dropped them in water. Tiny replicas of ovens, washing machines, vacuum cleaners, farmhouses, entire supermarkets. I could not begin to imagine wasting my time looking at anything else other than the contents of that magical catalog, with all its multi-colored, Chinese-origined Barbies, Play-Doh sets, Legos and pogo sticks. It was magic. It was everything that made my heart beat fast. I pitied anyone who was too old and tired to understand the sheer majesty of a toy-encrusted Christmas.

Now, I have turned into someone else entirely. Don't get me wrong, I'm not that crusty old lady who thinks kids are horribly spoiled and everyone should be happy with getting a sock or a baked potato for Christmas. I'm not complaining, and I don't think that everything that comes from WalMart is inherently evil. I mean, last month I was celebrating because the local neighbor kids fell in love with my plastic zombie. I enjoy a good spiritual Twinkie with the best of 'em. But you can only shop and tinsel and wrap and ship via UPS and bake and twinkle for so long before you get lonely.

I think maybe that's a good sign. If I had to take a guess, I would guess that it means that peace is becoming less of a spiritual abstract that I hear about in sermons, and more like an essential. Like caffiene. Without it, I get a headache. You could say I am falling in love with peace. And I am wondering if I can find it this Christmas.

I know its there. I just have to get past farting Santa to touch it.

So that's why the jury is still out. Can I get past the stuff I do because 'tis the season' and find the stuff that lasts until the new leaves start to unfurl? Maybe. Maybe. I'm hopeful. I've also hedged my bets by starting my shopping ridiculously early, in the hopes of finishing before I grow to hate it. Before I find something else in a catalog I can't imagine living without.

Before I forget how to listen.

Ok. It's official. I love Halloween again.

Ok. I stopped loving Halloween about twenty years ago. I know, I know, I sound like an epic party pooper, an old biddy lady who has given up on her childhood and become boring and slightly bitter. But after I turned 30, I gradually stopped embracing the mystery and tingly fear of the night, and starting thinking instead about how expensive candy is, and how noisy twelve-year-olds are and how parents, although cute while doting over their panda toddlers and pumpkin babies, made me feel lonely and childless as they walk away holding those chubby baby hands in their own.

So since I passed thirty, I still handed candy out - well, most years. And I sort of decorated; I bought the pumpkin, and sometimes, I made it into an actual Jack-O-Lantern. I helped my brother pass out candy at his home when I didn't have the "oomph" to do it in my own. I went to an occasional party or two; I didn't exactly turn my back on the holiday - I just lost the magic of it.

Until tonight.

I live in a regular residential area, but since our house was here before the rest of the residential complex, we have a 700-foot long, heavily wooded driveway with gravel instead of asphalt, potholes the size of small lakes, and undergrowth of ferns, bracken and wild grasses that makes the driveway its own ecosystem. And it is dark. Very, very dark.

Which has made it a perfect blank slate for a Halloween Path of Doom.

With a few well-placed plastic spiders, candles, and styrofoam tombstones, the driveway gave itself wholly into the drama of imagination. A rustling leaf became a hidden ghoul. A shadow across the gravel became the shape of a grasping hand. Those branches over there? A skeleton! That rock? A troll's head bursting out from the ground! The driveway took my cue  - "be scary and fun!" -  and effortlessly magnified it into magnificent goosebumpiness.

So, who dared to walk through the 700 feet of danger, thrills, and chills to get to the cotton-webbed house for the sumptous reward of a mini-Kit Kat? A middle-school giant walking taco. A three-foot tall Darth Vader. Cleopatra. A fifth-grader, now the walking dead. A bean-skinny shadow, who remained perfectly silent as he (she?) shook a silk pillowcase in my general direction. Two clowns, a princess, and that kid who always wears a white tee shirt. Balding dads with achingly adorable first graders, so proud of their courage, so greedy for a sweet.

I can't tell you what happened to me this evening between six-thirty and eight-thirty. Something tickled my soul and reawakened the giggly kid. Maybe it was the generosity of the exclamations of delight over my small contribution to the magic. Maybe it was my stepdaughter, dressed in nurse's scrubs, with her lovely face painted like a horrific bloodsucking zombie, shouting "HAH!" and laughing as she handed out candy. Maybe it was the parents who told me that when their kids are just a year or two older, they want to come hide in the driveway and shout "boo" to others who dare to come down it. Maybe it was the sweet scary kindness of the wild grass, the ferns, the rabbits and mice who live in this lovely driveway and let me play with them for this one night. Maybe it was the candlelight, shining off the potholes, puddly from this afternoon's rain. Maybe it was the moment that the five year old shouted, "WOW!" I don't know.

But tonight, I got the magic back, in one big flood of joy. And I still don't like Halloween.

I LOVE Halloween.

Anyone else out there envious?

Anyone else out there envious of this face?

This face is not contemplating the anticipated results of the presidential election.

This face is not concerned about global warming, or the Frankenstorm on the east coast.

This face is not registering concern over the suppression of basic human rights in Myanmar or China, or agonizing over the rampant violence in Syria, or twisting itself into a pretzel trying to understand the fall of the Euro.

This face does not care that Disney just bought Lucasfilms and therefore there will someday be a Star Wars Episode Twenty-Four, or that red dye 40 is still alive and well and sitting in your box of Skittles, or that Iran is working on developing its nuclear power or that Afghan teenaged girls are being shot at because they want a book, or that all the bees of the earth are mysteriously disappearing, or that Justin Bieber may release another album and barf on stage again.

This is just a sleepy face.

There are times when I am deeply envious of this face, for what it does not know.

And for what it does know.

Anyone out there agree?

So Are YOU Ready?

Nah. Me neither. Jon and I went to Winthrop, WA for our 5th anniversary. Which is an amazing thing, being both a confirmed lifelong bachelorette and being married to the love of my life for five years now. Just goes to show you - you can't really be prepared for anything.

I find this oddly comforting. I have been raised to be a very responsible adult. Responsible adults are prepared, like Boy Scouts. We make sure we're wearing clean underwear in the event of an accident. We floss. We pay our bills on time, and if we can't pay our bills on time, we pay them in the grace period. We look before we leap. We never fail to plan, because otherwise you are planning to fail. We invest. We have life insurance policies. We dust under the couch. We measure our words, think before we leap and save our pennies for a rainy day. We purchase canned food for the apocalypse when it is on sale, well before the zombies arrive. For heaven's sake, I'm freaking Catholic. I'm a responsible adult with a lovely patina of guilt.

Except that just below the well insured and suitably groomed adult surface lies the completely unprepared mess. At least, that's what's under my groomed surface. Look closely, and you will see some genuine sloth, a smattering of fear, a heaping tablespoon of righteous and completely ignorant indignation, and a gelatinous blob of apathy. And that's just under my right pit.

Confession is good for the soul, they say. Well, I suppose that's true, once you get past the disappointment of realizing that your sins are just as average as your virtues, and the Big Hairy Problems of Your Life are pretty much peach fuzz.

No, I am not prepared for the apocalypse. I am not even prepared for a good long hike. But I took the trek poles along, so I'd look like it. See? Pay no attention to the sweat caking my bangs to my forehead.

Something weird is happening to me. I am slowly becoming prepared to be unprepared. I think this might be why I didn't mind being out of breath and out of shape, yet still heading up a three mile hike with a 2800 ft. gain. In sandals. In the rain. It was hard, I was unprepared, and it was FUN.

I am learning that there is a lot of life I am not prepared for, and probably a whole lot more that I thought I was, but really wasn't. Finding Jon? Nope. Inheriting stepdaughters? Nope. Turning 50? GOD, no. Watching my anatomy slowly succumb to gravity? Nope, not that either.

There's gonna be a lot more I'm not ready for. Parents passing on. Grandkids. Health issues. Presidential elections. Dogs dying of old age. Dreams dying of old age. New dreams popping out like dandilions all over my nicely groomed lawn of expectation. Technological advances. Gas.

So what is the point of this rambling? I want very very very very much to have the honest humility to be completely unprepared for whatever comes next. I know for a fact I'd be terrified to be a huge success at something, much more than I would be to be a complete failure. But I'd like to be okay with being terrified, because it's a sure sign you weren't prepared. I want to let go of the last vestige of thinking I actually know what the heck is going on. Because if I truly believe that God is in charge of my life, then I have to assume that I am not. You can't have it both ways, after all.

I guess you could call it a prayer of surrender. But you could also call it just a reality check. In the end, I want to choose to trust in God and in my own complete lack of ability to fill His shoes. I want to be ok with going barefoot instead of trying to tie His sandals. I want to be a complete and authentic nimrod, going where the trail goes because that's where it goes. I want to do this new every day. Being unprepared like this means being open to surprise, amazement, embarassment, wonder, and awe. Kinda like finding yourself on the trail in sandals, in the rain, with a dopey smile.

I'll be passing on those canned goods for now. When when the zombies come, can I show up at your door? I'll lend you my cool trek poles.

If I remembered to bring them.

Things To Do When You Are Four. Or More.

Stand on your head and your knee simultaneously, and wrap your hands behind your back.



Wear a fake nose and glasses.

Be a rhinocerousaraptor.

Make your tongue go purple.

Huckabuck.

In other words, don't stop. Don't stop being a goober. Don't stop being ridiculous. Don't stop being who you were when you were four. Or forty.

Don't forget the important skills you had. Practice them daily.

It takes dedication to be a kid!

(Much thanks to family and friends for the timely illustrations in this post.)

Dear Dr. Pierce

Dear Dr. Pierce,

I could not help but notice your sign prominently displayed at the Butte Montana "World Museum of Mining" which I was fortunate to experience this summer.

It appears that you are offering a reward in the amount of five hundred United States dollars for women who cannot be cured of female weakness.

I find this intriguing.

Are you interested in offering said reward in order to have the opportunity to study the unfortunate women who cannot be cured of female weakness for the purposes of professional inquiry or scientific exploration? Or are you proposing a clinical study of some new and amazing drug which offers the possibility of a cure for women who, up to this point, have been unable to be cured of said weakness and require a number of study patients in order to begin?

Perhaps you are suggesting that female weakness has some sort of interesting properties in and of itself, which, with further examination and perhaps some moderate adjustment, would be a suitable remedy for another type of affliction? Or an alternate source of energy, as in solar or bioenergy sources currently being explored? Perhaps you are seeking to harvest said weakness as a raw material for some future enterprise?

The illustration connected with your notice seems to suggest that women who cannot be cured of female weakness are demure, rosy cheeked, small waisted, and somewhere between the ages of 14 and 24.

I would like to note at this point that, although I am not demure, rosy cheeked, small waisted or anywhere near the ages of 14 and 24, I might be a suitable candidate for your inquiries.

You see, I am loaded with female weaknesses which, I fear, are irrefutably fused into my psyche and likely intertwined beyond any possibility of extraction. Allow me to enumerate them for your edification:

Female weakness number ONE: If I see a child in danger of falling off a shopping cart, dumping a large quantity of groceries on its head, running into the street, or in general being unsafe or obnoxious, I am most certainly prone to interception. Furthermore, if I am driving a car in which a child between the ages of one and fifty-seven is a passenger, and we are obligated to come to a sudden stop, I will most certainly do the "mom seatbelt maneuver" in which I throw my outstretched right arm over the torso of my passenger, despite knowing that my arm will not keep them from flying through the windshield.

Female weakness number TWO: Puppies. Strays. Also babies, kittens, baby guinea pigs, ducklings, chicks, rabbits, lambs, ponies, fawns, kits, and baby humpbacks. Orphans. And, oddly enough, baby bok choy.

Female weakness number THREE: Chocolate. Please do not assume that my placid behavior would prevent my ripping off your arm should you try to remove a milk chocolate bar from my grasp.

Female weakness number FOUR: A kind man holding flowers. Or chocolates, which he is about to hand over to me. Or a vaccuum cleaner, which he is not going to hand over to me. Or a mop. Or a spatula.

Female weakness number FIVE: Sex. Preferably with the honest and monogamous object of female weakness number four.

Female weakness number SIX: A bargain. Or a pair of jeans that do not make my butt look big.

Female weakness number SEVEN: A good cry. Not the kind that you have to do by yourself in the bathroom because you are embarrassed or angry or know that you really don't have a good reason but you want to anyway so there. No, I am talking about the good cry at the last five minutes of "When Harry Met Sally" or "Field of Dreams" or the time when you finally got a glimpse of tenderness from that one person that you know has always loved you but been too much of a schmuck to let it out.

Female weakness number EIGHT: Hope. For peace on earth, an end to poverty, justice for everyone, a fair shake, clean air, green gardens, and a pair of panty hose that don't make you sweat down there like a horse.

Female weakness number NINE: Candor. Don't try to pass any cowpies by me. All females, sooner or later, can smell it coming, and will tell you so.

Female weakness number TEN: An uncanny ability to love, despite. Despite evidence to the contrary, despite unrequited affection, despite flaws looming larger than Mount Everest. This is why Beauty loves the Beast, Jane Eyre loves Mr. Rochester, Fiona loves Shrek. We do love. We do it very well.

So now that I have innumerated the ten most glaring examples of my female weakness, and that of women in general, I hope that you are a wealthy man, Dr. Pierce.

Because if there were justice in this world, every woman would be lining up at your establishment for their just reward - $500 for being pretty much fabulous.

I eagerly await your reply, demonstrating female weakness number ELEVEN: Patience with men.

Yours Very Truly,

Karen Nelson

Olympic Gold

I'm watching the 2012 Olympic opening ceremonies and I can't help but make a correlation between it and heaven.

Why? Simple.

Everybody's invited.

I am watching all these young athletes from countries all over the world. The nations may be ticked off at each other, with sanctions and embargos and broken treaties and murmurings of war, yet here they come anyway. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, some with shaved heads, men, women, slim, hefty, built for speed, built for strength, tiny, huge, wearing hats, wearing turbans, bareheaded, some with scarves covering their heads; whites, blacks, Asian, European, Arabic, islanders and desert dwellers, every tribe and nation is here. And they all are doing the same thing - marching in, smiling, waving at the crowd, hugging each other, laughing, taking pictures of each other, eyes wide to catch every magic moment.

I know there are a lot of politics associated with the games. I am not that naive to think that there isn't a lot of complicated stuff just off the screen. But I think we are all glued to the televisions tonight not just because of national pride, or love of sports. I think when we watch things like this, or for the few of us lucky enough, attend them in person, we are remembering something that hasn't happened yet, but is familiar nonetheless, because its in our blood, our bones, our souls.

I think, for all the sin and shame with which we've covered ourselves on this little world, we are still hopefully remembering the place we were made for, where nobody is like anybody else, and all of us are exactly the same.

Maybe we all fantasize being Olympians a little bit because we all somehow remember what heaven is about. At least I do. I want a shot at that parade. I will be waving my little flag and smiling.

Hold Any Snakes Lately?

Mark 16:18
Today's New International Version (TNIV)
"...they will pick up snakes with their hands; and when they drink deadly poison, it will not hurt them at all; they will place their hands on sick people, and they will get well.”



This passage in the New Testament has been quoted many, many times to point out the protection that Jesus gives his followers. "Look," people say, "this says you can even pick up a nasty old snake and not get hurt! You can drink poison and not die! Jesus is Lord!"

But what about the responsibility of the hand holding the snake? Or the lips about to take the poison?

I know from years of being in the company of domestic animals that the one thing we humans are not particularly good at is being gentle. We move fast, we demand obedience, we put leashes on our dogs and briskly lead them exactly where we want to go. We declaw cats and debeak birds. When we hike, we don't walk softly as the deer; we crunch along the gravel or the beds of leaves with industriousness, because we have somewhere to go -- we are headed towards the top of the mountain, the bend in the river, the peak that must be conquered. We are the only animal from which all other animals know to run away. And why is that?

Because we are not gentle. We don't take time to wait, to listen, to sit with and to be observed ourselves. We are too busy making tracks, making points, making waves.

I'm not saying that our creativity and industry is wrong; I just believe its not everything.

Think about it. How gently would you have to approach a snake to not alarm it? How tenderly would you have to hold it to not generate fear? How long would you have to be still in order for it to relax into the warmth of your hand? How quietly would you have to breathe in order to sit with such a silent creature, which only has a hiss with which to warn or cry?

I am a Christian. I do believe that Jesus is my Lord and I don't take lightly the privilege of being able to say that. But I also don't take lightly the privilege of not being the center of attention, of having to wait, to listen, to be quiet instead of being right. Holding the snake is almost certainly scarier for the snake than it is for me. I have a responsibility to be the type of person who can hold the snake - or the enemy, the sinner, the reprobate, the angry "other", the one who is not like me (or at least I don't see the resemblance)- in my hands as gently as I would hold a young and precious child. You know why? Because no matter how uncomfortable that snake makes me, it is a creation of God, as precious and irreplaceable in its originality as myself. Whether I like it or not, the "snakes" of my life still belong to God, and as such, are holy in their essence, even in this fallen world.

And as for that poison?

We worry so much that the world will stain us. That our rights will be taken away, that our values will be undermined, that our lives will be relegated to second class. That we will be poisoned by this world. It's ready to eat us alive, from the inside out. Doom, doom, doom.

Perhaps. But I doubt it.

It's not what goes in our mouths -- or our ears or eyes -- that poisons us in the end. It's not what others say to us, or even about us. It's what WE say, what injuries WE will not forgive, the flaws WE choose to point out in others because that's what WE are looking at. It's the lens we focus that determines whether we see deeply, or darkly, or turn the lens the wrong way round and burn the vision clean up, like an ant in the sun under a magnifying glass. I wonder how many people I have unknowingly burnt under my gaze. I am sorry for that.

Don't even ask me how many people have gotten better because my life touched them. I fear the number so small it may fall into negative digits.

And so, this is not a passage as a reassurance of protection. At least, not for me.

It's a commandment - hold the snake, and hold it with respect. Don't let the poison become part of your blood. When given the choice to heal or hurt, heal.

Be gentle. Let your hands be warm, and your heart be safe haven. It's a start.

When Beauty Is Defense (Against the Dark Arts)

Sometimes, like today, I feel overwhelmed by the enormous sadness in the world. I saw an article about someone who intentionally set a dog on fire. It died. I listened to the news about Syria. It's not getting any better over there; people are still being shot, the government is still lying to everyone. My niece posts pictures of children in Russia who are waiting in orphanages for someone to adopt them. I know I will not be the one to do that.

I feel very small and very helpless. If I were a really faithful Christian I would read my Bible and get some comfort from it. But even that doesn't seem to be of any help today.

The only thing that seems to help is finding some small beauty to remember. In this case, some wild flowers Rusty and I found on a walk some weeks ago.

The beauty of these flowers reminds me that we are not all there is in this world, our sin and cruelty and lost opportunities of grace. In fact, we are mostly not all there is in this world. Even though we spend most of our time thinking about what we do and what we want and who we are, there is a lot more to this world that us and our interests. It comforts me that the flowers don't know how to fix this world any more than I do, yet they still have their place in it. They are incapable of fighting off the evil that exists, but they are indominable in their ability to bloom in spite of it.

Today, on the drive home, I wept and apologized to the Lord for my lack of faith, and for the terrible things that happened today. For Syria. For the dog. For my own weakness and fearfulness when it makes itself known.

I didn't get an answer. But I did get this image, this memory of these flowers. And for all it's worth, it helped.

So I guess my thought for the moment is this - I am helpless and of little worth in the world, but so are the flowers on the side of the trail. Still they raise their heads, they do what they can. It's not enough.

And it is.

Exploding Yellow Elephants!

This morning, I was driving into work when I was treated to a lovely sight - a school bus, waving its stop signs like elephant ears, slowly coming to a stop, and then -- oh my!

Kids exploded out the doors like fireworks going off - boom! bam! whizz! - their arms wildly whirling, backpacks catapulted, shouts and cheers and thundering sneakers pounding the asphalt as they burst into the endless sky of their first day of freedom - summer vacation has arrived!

They flew out and scattered like pigeons, and the bus, now alone in the street, started its engine again. I watched the bus pull in its stop signs, slowly rumble down the street another 300 yards, then wave the signs again and coast to a stop. Another explosion, more shouts, more hilarity.

This continued for two more stops before I had to turn off and go my way. I might have been irritated to have to stop every thousand feet, were it not for the undiluted primal joy of watching freshly liberated humans exulting in their newfound paradise. With so much happiness spilling out of the yellow elephant bus, how could I do anything but laugh?

It's a good reminder.

Being freed takes time. You have to ride the bus of your old life for awhile, watch the others take their turns. Three more stops before you get to your stop. Or maybe twenty. You think about all the homework you've been doing. And now, it's done. But you're still here, on this bus. You begin to wonder sometimes if you'll ever get off. Maybe it'll turn around and take you back -- oh, perish the thought! And that thing that sits on your shoulders like a giant backpack, that weight of responsibility or guilt or shame or whatever - it hasn't moved all that much in a while. It has worn grooves into your shoulders. You have been sitting slouched in the same place with the same goofy and annoying others around you and your butt is sore and you're beginning to wonder if your feet will ever take you anywhere again.

Don't worry. Sooner or later, your turn is coming. Your turn to stand up, take those first wobbly steps down to solid ground, turn around, see where you were, take another step, take a deep breath, and then, with all the energy you have in you, throw that backpack up and away with a rebel yell. Watch it arc high up into the sky and then plummet back down, but not on you. You can throw it in the weeds and leave it be, to be grown over by grass until it's long forgotten. Maybe someone else will pick it up, but not as a burden, and certainly not as yours.

Summer is coming. No matter if you have to sit on the bus through your fall and your winter and even your spring, there is a summer.

There is always a summer. I have seen the yellow elephants testify the truth, and I know that it is so.

YEEHAW!

If You're Waiting

In the movies, at a critical plot moment the music swells, the cinamatographer pans dramatically across the skyline, and the protagonist gets The Sign, a message from the universe that moves him in the benevolent direction that the fates planned for him. In a novel, the hero gets in a serious pickle but by chapter twenty-two there has been some sort of revelation or cosmic twist that sets him off on a new path, not knowing where it will lead, but certainly knowing it is taking him somewhere of note, and by the end he will be wiser, funnier, more seasoned and much fuller of a human being than he was on page ten.

In music, someone steps into a bar, walks into a coffee shop, bumps into someone on the street, or looks over at the stoplight and finds the love of their life. Someone walks on the street where you live, or sings in the rain, or boogies on the dance floor and the whole world shifts.

But on a Monday in June in Seattle, it rains. No great shaft of light piercing the clouds, no thunderous proclamation from on high, no flower suddenly springing up at your feet with petals that fall and spell out "conquer the future".

Looking for a sign? Looking for the next Big Thing in your life? Looking for that Certain Something that gives you permission, clears the field, scans the horizon of your dreams and gives you the green light? Looking for the blessing of your aspirations and haven't found it yet? Think God isn't paying attention? He is.

Maybe this is it. Your sign. The one that says, take the risk of kindness, step out on faith, challenge yourself to a new way of welcoming goodness into your daily routine. The Thing that says you are loved, it's gonna be ok, and yes, there really is a reason you showed up and kept breathing today.

Maybe this is your sign.

So - get moving!

Are We Off Target Here?

Ok, it may just be me, but I think we're off target here a mite.

The mainstream Christian churches of Western Washington seem very intent on focusing on a few issues of note: the marriage referendum and.....well, now that I think of it, that's pretty much it.

There are sidenotes of course. The Vatican vs. Leadership Conference of Women Religious. Planned Parenthood. Obamacare. The ordination of women in the Catholic church and women as bishops in the Anglican church. The Gay Agenda. Rampant atheists running amok, making funny cartoons ("What atheists shout out during sex" springs to mind.) People who want to take "In God We Trust" off the money we issue. Or stop prayer in the Pentagon. (Do they actually pray in the Pentagon?)

And yet. And yet.

Not much coming from the loudspeakers about a Christian response to the economic crisis. No leaflets on ecological choices. Not much preached about how it is that we have gotten complacent being a nation at war, when we are followers of a God who blessed the peacemakers. Our fourth graders have never known a nation not at war with someone. Silence about those who are sitting in our pews struggling with PTSD, mental health issues, or just plain loneliness. Nothing about how we spend our spare money on technology, shoes, toys, clothes made in substandard working conditions by people who barely make a living wage. Nothing about the groceries picked by migrant workers. We don't ask. We don't tell. Nothing, and I do mean nothing, about Syria. Or, for that matter, the divisions between us here at home. Muslims who are afraid of Christians who are afraid of Muslims. The looks we give to those standing on street corners, and the looks they give back to us. The neighbors we don't know, even as we have lived in the same houses for years. Houses we spent too much to buy, and now we live in debt. The yawning in the pew on Sunday. The love of capitalism. Or of socialism. Or any --ism of your personal choice. Take your pick. Lately, they all seem to be a little more leaning towards cannibalism.

Who do we love now? Who do we hang on to with our last breath? And who, God forgive us, have we let go of? Maybe Jesus? Maybe ourselves?

It seems to me we have lost our way. Convinced that we are the faithful somehow being viciously attacked from the outside, we have lost our courage to face our own failings, which, between you and me, are usually a lot more dangerous. What was that thing about splinters in others' eyes and logs in our own? Oh right, something Jesus said. To someone else. Surely not to me.

I don't know. It all seems like a great distraction. Wielding the shield of truth, carrying the sword of justice, so we protect ourselves from this big bad world, and if we're lucky, we can whack off someone else's ears and prove how much we are willing to....well, whack off someone's ears. Peter tried that once, Jesus wasn't too impressed. I suspect he's not any more impressed with us.

Got priorities? Are you sure? Are you really sure?

I'm not so much anymore.

The Miraculous Poetry Machine

This is the miraculous poetry machine. I found it today on Front Street in Issaquah.

What you do, is this: you take a piece of paper, you write five random words on it, you slip the piece of paper in the slot on the side, you wait, and presently out pops another piece of paper on the other side. The new piece of paper has a poem freshly penned, using all five of your words.

TaDA!

Miraculous enough in itself, but there is more. Let me start at the beginning.

I have been in the dumps for a week or so now, and realized that, with this Friday off from work and free from family obligations, I had the opportunity to take my sorry self out for a me-date, and perhaps refresh the old amygdala.

This is the first Friday of the month, and that means it's the night of the Issaquah Art Walk. All the shops on Front Street open their doors and invite local artists to show their wares, either on display in the shop itself, or just outside the door.

I arrived just as the artists were getting in place. I settled down on a bench in front of the old Shell station that is actually an arts shop, housing a number of photographers' wares. There was a three-man band set up in front, calling themselves the Trainwrecks and doing pretty good covers of the Eagles and assorted new country singers. I watched them for a good half hour, enjoying the music and their ease with eachother. Which was fortuitous, because for at least twenty minutes of that half hour I was pretty much their only audience. They didn't seem to care all that much about how big the audience was, or wasn't - they simply were laughing and singing and playing and generally having a great time. It reminded me of the truth of art - you don't wait for an audience to make art, you make art and share it if anyone shows up.

Then I wandered off to the chainsaw carver and checked out the pine gnomes. Next to him was the guy who makes garden stakes with flowers on top, the petals made out of spoons. Across from him, the woman who makes purses out of old clothes and the other woman who makes hats out of old men's slacks.

I wandered into an art gallery and checked out the pottery, the paintings, the mixed media offerings of cats on couches, dogs on beaches, birds flying across landscapes, city scenes, still lifes, portraits. I cradled a clay sparrow in my hand and enjoyed the heft of it, so unlike its real counterpart.

I people watched for awhile; a grandfather with his granddaughter and their very old, very much loved dog. A woman with pink highlights. A man with a grizzled beard and a fedora. Ten year old boys in a small herd, grazing down the street. An Indian man with his young daughter in a stroller, her hair all touseled from napping, the curls across her forehead tangling through her fingers as she wiped her eyes.

And then I came across the Poetry Machine. It looked more like a voting booth, red, white and blue folded panels with plastic bunting taped on the top, and peacock feathers for good measure. A chalkboard sign on the front, with stick on letters that said, "I love writing. I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions: James Michener"

It was pretty easy to see the two women inside, sitting on stools and writing on small notepads. Even though an MP3 player tapped out the sound of an old typewriter, the pieces of paper that came out with finished poems on them were all handwritten.

Nobody cared. Kids hovered around the front of it, clutching notepads and chewing pencils, trying to come up with five good words to feed into the machine, so that a poem would be ejected back to them. Mothers giggled as the kids asked for advice. Some of the parents took up notepads of their own.

I took a notepad and wrote five words on it: Paleological. Laughter. Resurrected. Squirrelly. Victory. I passed it through the slot and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Poems popped out the other side. A poem for Matt. For Angela. Tony. Chris. But not mine.

I waited.

And as I waited, leaning against a telephone pole, a woman approached me and told me I looked like an angel. Which is weird, unless you think of angels as being 60 pounds overweight and dressed in jeans and tee shirts from the Museum of Jurassic Technology.

I smiled, leaning against the pole further and extending my arms out in front of me, striking what I hoped was a beatific pose. She said I reminded her of someone she knew who was gone. And then she complimented me in ways I don't even remember. I thanked her and added, "And all of it, of course, covered in milk chocolate."

And that's when she burst into tears.

"I knew that's what you would say, " she said. "It's exactly what she would say."

And she fell weeping into my arms.

Sometimes you go someplace because you have a random idea, or because you are bummed out and need distraction, or because you're bored, or because if you stay home you'll eat ice cream and blow your diet. That's usually the times when God decides to make something really interesting happen.

I started to think maybe I understood why I had gotten in the car and schlepped down to Issaquah from Maple Valley, on a whim. I got a better idea of why my poem, of all the poems, was so tardy. I got an inkling as to the importance of this particular telephone pole. I was meant to be here when she came by. Sometimes they shoot the messenger; today, the messenger was hugged. I hugged her back and told her that her friend loved her very very much, and that I was sure that's why I had been sent there, to wait for her and tell her just that. I felt her cry and shake against me and hung on tight, rubbing her back, pressing my palm in her shoulder blades, feeling the ridges of her spine. She thanked me for being there. I told her I couldn't take the credit, I only did as I had been told. We both laughed. "Yes," she said, "she would be bossy, wouldn't she?"

My poem popped out. We read it together, and it was yet another affirmation for her. This is what it said:

Victory
I hear my own laughter
ring in my own ears;
a squirrelly sound;
a good sound.
I hear my triumph
resurrected from my fall
and I feel paleological as
I am of the oldest times.

She gasped, laughed, then cried some more. I held her hands. I kissed her cheek. More laughing. She told me she loved me, and I said I loved her, too. I know that she was talking to the woman who had died, and I allowed my voice to say what I knew that woman would have said. It was the most natural moment in the world. What I was saying was true. I told her it was time for me to go, but that she would know she was being watched over, taken care of, and always loved. I turned around and walked away. We lost sight of each other in the crowd, just as it was meant to be. Amygdala refreshed, mission accomplished.

Sometimes I think my words don't count for much. Sometimes I feel restless, uninspired, invisible. But in that moment, I did not feel invisible. I felt transparent, free, with someone else's light was shining through, the both of us feeling its warmth, and that was certainly visible, on both sides of the veil. I felt lucky to be chosen, grateful and humble.

A gift all the way around. A paleological resurrection. A miracle in front of a poetry machine, as delicious as milk chocolate. A very, very good day.

I Resemble This Remark

Bill Watterson's comic "Calvin & Hobbes" has been a favorite of mine since it came out in 1985. Before then, I was a huge Peanuts fan from a very early age. Among my most precious possessions are about 70 pocket-sized paperbacks from the mid-60s into the 90s, all comic books of Charlie Brown and Snoopy and Linus and Lucy and the rest of the gang.

I like these comics because they are funny. But I think they are funny because they are true.

I wish I could be like this comic strip more often. I manage to jump back up on my feet and say "TaDA!" sometimes, but not often enough. I am pretty famous for making dumb mistakes, for landing on my ample keester, for choosing just the wrong moment to hike up my underwear, or let go a rolling burp, or saying that one perfectly inappropriate thing.

So far, my all time best was telling a man that he looked great after having lost a lot of weight, only to have him tell me that he was dying of AIDS.

Oh.

I have inquired on whether or not the baby has yet kicked when, yes, you see this coming, the woman is not pregnant. I have congratulated parents on their well behaved son, only to find out they have a girl. I have called a skull tattoo "cute" and much as I hate to admit it, I have actually said that "some of my best friends are black/gay/men/women/Mexicans/Republicans/Jews/your sensitivity-point-inserted-here."

On my very first date ever (I was 17), I took a bite of pizza four minutes in, then wore a chunk of black olive in my front incisor tooth for the remainder of the evening. Shouldn't have worried too much, turns out the guy wasn't looking for a boyfriend, just a beard.

But that's another story.

I once served a homeless dinner, which was nice. But in the process of walking the freshly baked cornbread to the table, I said, "Come and get it!" and promptly dumped the entire tray on the floor.

In college, I once responded badly to a handsome young man I had admired from afar. He had decided to get my attention by tickling me in the ribs from behind. Without thinking, I elbowed him in the stomach then turned around and immediately kicked him in the nuts and dropped him to the floor.

He did not ask me out, as I had hoped he might.

And neither did his friends.

But again, that's another story.

But this comic gives me hope. It reminds me that the falling over part is inevitable, but the "TaDA" is optional.

Today, I am still a little down, but I can imagine myself getting up soon. I hope that I will have the presence of mind to make it look like a triumph. Or at least give it the old college try.

But if I don't, I'm sure I will have many, many, many more times to practice in the near future.
Clunk.
TaDA!

Ok, So Here's a Story.

It's a short story.

It's me at my in-laws' party, a couple winters ago. I am there with my ever faithful, ever patient husband Jon and daughters Stacy and Janae and the rest of the Nelson gang at his brother's house, and I am watching the cat.

I am watching the cat because there is a lot going on. A lot of people are mingling and talking and reminiscing over stuff I know nothing about. They are talking about places in Montana that I have not been to, and they are asking about the health and well being of folks I do not yet know. They are really nice people and I like them, but I don't have a whole lot to contribute to the conversation, and so I am watching the cat.

The cat is supposed to be upstairs, but he is not. He is on the stairs, half-way up to where he should be, half-way down to where he wants to be, near the plate of crackers and salmon.

And between him and the crackers and salmon is six steps, and a bowl of almonds.

I watch him sniff the almonds, then gingerly stick his rough tongue out to scrape off a bit of the salt on them. He likes them, and so he licks, licks, licks the salt. The almonds barely move, he is so delicate. And no one notices him but me.

Someone asks me if I want something to drink, and I say yes, mostly because I can't think of anything else to say at the moment, and I want to keep watching the cat.

A very nice man goes over to the almonds and scoops up a handful and pops them in his mouth. He has not noticed the cat, who has bolted upstairs so that he is where he should be.

The cat returns. Lick, lick, lick. Then bolts. The man returns, too. Scoop, munch, munch, munch.

I should not be pleased at this, but I am. I like the man. I like the cat. And I like the idea of the two navigating around each other and this bowl of nuts.

I start thinking about all the bowls of M&Ms I have nibbled at during parties. Dishes of Chex Mix. Peanuts. Trail mix. Crackers. Chocolate covered raisins. And I can't help but wonder who tasted them before I did. What unseen dog, cat, kid has been there before me? I should be disgusted, but again, I am pleased. The peanuts become opportunities, the almonds become experiences, the Chex Mix - well, that's just Chex Mix. The metaphor only goes so far.

That's my story, short and sweet and salty and crunchy. And I think it may actually have a moral, such as it is. I think the moral of the story is this: Whatever it is, someone's been there before you. Whatever it is, someone will be there after you. So go ahead and get some but don't forget to leave enough for the next one who comes along. And in the meantime, don't get too bent about how it tastes. It's good. You'll live.

Sometimes It Just Is.

Some days are like this. There is nothing wrong; in fact, its been a quiet, lovely no-pressure day.

And I am in the dumps anyway.

Nothing to see here.

No great trial, no horrible tragedy, no impossible twist of fate to throw me off my feet and render me faceplanted to the earth.

I just feel....small. Of no consequence, of no great merit. Dumpy. Boring. Wormish. Poor Jon, I explain to him the dumpiness of Dumpdom, but how do you explain sticking a metaphorical box over your head and standing in a metaphorical empty room? It doesn't make sense.

There are some great sayings out there about this. "Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar" is one of them. "Much ado about nothing" is another. There was a great one that showed up in Peanuts once: "Shut up and leave me alone."

That's probably the best one for today.

It does not make sense for me to feel like this. Nonetheless, I do. And if I were more mature or enlightened, I might take the time and effort to decode it, to defuse it, to deconstruct it and rebuild it into some lovely glitering bauble of self-awareness. Failing that, I would at least take the effort to pull the stinger out, put some ice on it and move on.

But I am not.

So for today, it will just Be. I will try not to let it spill out over the rest of the folks around me, but I will embrace my inner Dumper and keep the stupid little trollwoman inside me company until she picks up her sorry ass and toddles along. She will sit there under the box with messy hair, unwashed face and unbrushed teeth. Maybe she will be picking her nose. Don't care. Don't give a crap. Shut up and leave me alone.

Not every day has to be wonderful or instructional. So there. Nothing to see here.

Let it be.

Wobbly, Wobbly, Wobbly Down a New Path

Today, the package of weight loss materials arrived.

Tomorrow, my husband and I go on the "Together Diet."

Will we become svelt and sexy? Or will we attack each other and the winner eats the loser?

The drama is about to unfold! The wheels on the tricyle go "wobbly wobbly wobbly wobble" and we begin our trek down a new path.

Success? Doom? Only the future can say!

Stay tuned - but don't stay too close.

Just in case I get really really hungry.

A New Affirmation!

I am very excited by this woman. She is Elaine Morgan. She is 92 and she is shocking, offensive, stubborn, curious, obstinant, and brilliant. She may also be completely wrong, and I don't even care.

Born in 1920, Elaine started out as a writer, then became a playwright, then a journalist, then a scientific writer, then a nuisance.

Elaine believes that humans evolved from apes. A lot of people do, so that's not earth shaking, although it is contentious to a lot of folks, some in my own household.

But Elaine also believes humans evolved from AQUATIC APES. She is driving her fellow scientists absolutely nuts. This woman will not shut up.

This is why she believes it (in her own words):

1. All other non-human mammals which have lost all or most of their fur are either swimmers like whales and dolphins and walruses and manatees, or wallowers like hippopotamuses and pigs and tapirs. One general conclusion seems undeniable from an overall survey of mammalian species: that while a coat of fur provides the best insulation for land mammals the best insulation in water is not fur, but a layer of fat.

2. Humans are by far the fattest primates; we have ten times as many fat cells in our bodies as would be expected in an animal of our size. In land mammals fat tends to be stored internally, especially around the kidneys and intestines; in aquatic mammals and in humans a higher proportion is deposited under the skin. When an anatomist skins a cat or rabbit or chimpanzee, any superficial fat deposits remain attached to the underlying tissues. In the case of humans, the fat comes away with the skin, just as it does in aquatic species like dolphins, seals, hippos and manatees.


3. The only animal which has ever evolved a pelvis like ours, suitable for bipedalism, was the long-extinct _Oreopithecus_, known as the swamp ape. Only two other primates when on the ground stand and walk erect more readily than most other species. One, the proboscis monkey, lives in the mangrove swamps of Borneo. The other is the bonobo or pygmy chimpanzee; its habitat includes a large tract of seasonally flooded forest.

4. We have conscious control of our breathing. In land mammals these actions are involuntary, like the heart beat or the processes of digestion.Voluntary breath control appears to be an aquatic adaptation because, apart from ourselves, it is found only in aquatic mammals like seals and dolphins.

5. We have millions of sebaceous glands which exude oil over head, face and torso, and in young adults often causes acne. The chimpanzee's sebaceous glands are described as "vestigial" whereas ours are described as "enormous". Their purpose is obscure. In other animals the only known function of sebum is that of waterproofing the skin or the fur.

6. We have the largest brains of all the apes. The building of brain tissue, unlike other body tissues, is dependent on an adequate supply of Omega-3 fatty acids, which are abundant in the marine food chain but relatively scarce in the land food chain.

7. The oldest pre-human fossils (including the best known one, "Lucy") are called australopithecus afarensis because their bones were discovered in the afar triangle, an area of low lying land near the Red Sea, which was completely flooded about 7 million years ago. The ape population living there at the time would have found themselves living in a radically changed habitat. Some may have been marooned on off-shore islands - the present day Danakil Alps were once surrounded by water. Others may have lived in flooded forests, salt marshes, mangrove swamps, lagoons or on the shores of the new sea, and they would all have had to adapt or die. The first and most famous austrilopithicus discovery, an individual dubbed "Lucy" was found lying among crocodile and turtle eggs and crab claws at the edge of a flood plain near what would then have been the coast of Africa.

I don't know if she's right. Neither does she, although she's getting enough flak from the scientific community to suggest that she's on to something. Nobody likes change, not even scientists.

And this is why I love thinking about her, and her theory, and her persistence. I love it because it is what I value so much - an inquisitive and interested mind, ready to take on the established and turn it on its head. I love that she was a writer, then a playwright, then a journalist, then a scientist. It makes me wonder what she will be next.

And it makes me wonder what I will be next. Can I keep that crisp and brave mindset that hungers to learn, learn, learn? Can I risk the joy and disappointment of redesigning myself as the years go by? Can I be heroic enough to not be finished, to be ever in process, to be perhaps at time irritatingly right, or ridiculously wrong? Can I keep going?

I want that. Not just for myself, but for the ripples my life will make. I want the stones I throw to be wave-makers. I won't throw them at others, but I want to keep throwing them again and again into the well of my own self, to see how the ripples and splashes will intersect, will make new and ever changing patterns on the surface, and ultimately keep the waters of my life ever fresh, ever moving, ever disturbed.

People hike to find waterfalls. People rush to the ocean's edge. People throw inner tubes into rivers and ride them, to see where the river will take them.

It's important that the water moves.

It's important that the water of my life keeps moving, even if I'm the one who has to break the surface again and again. Please Lord, let me never shut up.

I want to be aquatic, whether or not I came from an aquatic ape.

Stop. Look. Listen.

When I was a little kid, my mom taught me to be very careful when crossing the street. I was supposed to remember three things: Stop, look, listen. It meant that I was supposed to get out of my own head, come to a complete and total stop, then take a really good look around and then, as a final precaution, listen as well as I can to make sure there are no invisible cars about to sneak up behind me and run me over. It was good advice. Now that I am an adult, I still stop at the red light, look around, and listen carefully before running the risk of jaywalking, which I am sure my mother would not approve of, even though I did the S-L-L routine. This morning, I was in church during the semi-annual "Worship Through Music" in which the choir and orchestra get together and present a really impressive piece of music, that, hopefully, people get a chance to really hear, if they are willing to stop, look, and then finally listen. Some people did. I know this because of the ones who came up to me afterwards and remarked about how extraordinary the experience was, and how much they loved the music. And that's good. But sitting out in the narthex (lobby to you unchurch-ey folks) I was amazed to see how many people simply do not have the skills to master that which was given to me at the tender age of five; namely, the ability to stop, look, and listen. I sat on the lowest stairs and watched people milling around with cups of coffee and children and big purses and, in one case, a magazine. They sat for a while in the chairs in the narthex, and drank their coffee. Then they got up, walked into the community center to check out the music in there, and shortly, returned to the narthex. Within five minutes, they'd be going to the restroom, or getting a refill, or headed to the main office area, or going up the stairs. Pretty soon I'd see them wander back to a different chair, sit for a while, then get up and mill about again. A few of them couldn't handle even that, and they walked out to the parking lot; perhaps there is something of interest to see there. The point was, they could not possibly see anything of interest, or hear anything that would hold them still, because they cannot stop. They have the attention span of children. No, on second thought, I suspect they have less than that. I have seen a child carefully attending to a butterfly or a beetle, stopping in their tracks to look at it, and listen for the sound of its wings. (For those who have really listened, you can in fact hear the sound of a butterfly's wings, but you have to be really still.) I went back and forth between being angry and being sad. They were like ants milling over a patch of asphalt, when three inches away an entire meadow is singing in the sunlight. They were so busy, so very busy with absolutely nothing at all. And as I watched them, I realized that I, too, was getting sucked into the busyness, watching them, forgetting the music. I had let my soul start wandering around with them, seeing only coffee cups, hearing only the patter of restless feet. Hence, the dandelion. I took this picture in my backyard yesterday, when the dog was happily digging up a rock to bark at. This dandelion is a good reminder of what we should be doing: STOP. Quit fidgeting. Stand still. Better yet, flop down on your belly in the grass. LOOK. The perfect symmetry of this dandelion puff is easily as complex as our best architecture, our finest sculptures, our most impressive skyscrapers. We have done nothing to eclipse that beauty which lies in our own backyard. That beauty we are about to spray with Roundup. LISTEN. You are bound to hear music. It might be in the wind, or in the rustle of leaves, or some distant birdcall, or the flutter of a moth. They are all part of the symphony, and it is playing all the time. Your heartbeat has a part, too, a quiet but insistent beat that must move in time with the rest of the orchestra. When you stop being part of the music, you die. We heard some wonderful music today. Well, some of us. Some of us just had coffee. Some have filled their souls; others have given themselves a lovely caffeine buzz. I'm not against the buzz, I just don't want to live in it 24/7. Sometimes, you just have to get back to what's real, what's rooted, what truly lasts. Stop. Look. And for God's sake: LISTEN.

I Want a Disclaimer, Too

I want one of these for my life. "This vehicle not responsible for flying debris."

That pretty much sums it up. But I think I would need a larger sticker:

"This vehicle not responsible for flying emotional debris, jumped conclusions or dropped f-bombs; not culpable for injured feelings, rocked boats, inappropriate behavior, offhand comments, unreasonable requests, unreliable information and intermittent cracks, wise or other; not accountable for occasional gas leakage or other unintended emissions; damage caused by popped buttons, split seams or burst bra straps is not covered by this institution or its subsidiaries; individuals spending time in the company of said vehicle do so at their own risk. The statements, appearance or any other aspect of said vehicle do not represent the views of management and are not admissible in a court of law."

Yep. That'd be a good start.

Ten Things I Can't Explain.

1. Vladimir Putin's back.

2. Anything associated with this address.

3. The Kim Kardashians of the world. You think they'd get tired of being this after awhile.

4. This. Although I once spent an entire summer reading nothing but Einstein's Theory of General Relativity. And then my head exploded.

5. Not this, either. String theory. Still wrestling with it. Still putting cotton in my ears so my melting brain doesn't ooze out onto my clothes. Cotton made of tiny, tiny vibrating strings.

6. The words to Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody."

7. Size Zero.

8. How these things stay in. What's on the side you can't see? Speaking of belly buttons...

9. Why do Adam and Eve have them? And lastly...

10. How the God of the Universe still has time to spend listening to me. A.Ma.Zing.

Twenty-Six-Point-Nine!

This is Wonder Woman. I do not look anything like her. But I feel like her today. I rode 26.9 miles with Jon on the tandem yesterday. I rock.

Ok, I don't rock. On Friday, I was bemoaning my old-ladyness. On Saturday I was leaving self-respect behind as I loaded my substantial behind into spandex. Again, I remind the reader how much I do not look like Wonder Woman.

But I have to admit to a certain level of self pride that I sincerely hope is not self aggrandizement or worse, self delusion. I can twirl the Lasso of Truth and say in all honesty I have accomplished a Small Something. Last week, I did nineteen miles after not having ridden for a very very very long time. Yesterday, I was able to do seven more miles than the week before; up to twenty-six with a little left over. And only one dose of Advil. Not bad.

Yes, I am still a tubbybubblebutt. Yes, my legs are about as fit as a set of Oscar Meyer weiners. Yes, it will be quite some time before spandex is my fashion statement of choice. Wonder Woman could still kick my tushie with her little finger and not mess up her perfectly touseled hair. And yes, I have a very very very VERY long way to go.

But hey, I've covered the first thirty-eight-odd miles!

Your Average Old Lady

On days like today, when I need to pay bills and do laundry and I really should take the dog for a walk and probably get the oil changed and then when I go number two it takes me more than ten minutes I get to feeling just a tad old.
Not this kind of old. This kind of old is countercultural and pissy and full of vinegar and knows more about cuban cigars than Castro. This kind will break her hip kicking your ass.

And not this kind, either, who clearly would give anyone a massive guilt trip for breathing too much air or taking too big of bites at the table. This one will have an apoplectic fit and wind up in emergency because you squeeze your ketchup packet from the bottom instead of the top.

And much as I love this kind, the ones who are sweet and celebratory and know how to make "I love you" signs with their gnarled little fingers, I'm not feeling this either. Sorry, sweet old lady, cuddlier than a koala.

No, today I feel old in a completely unremarkable way. Like the hangers that have been in the closet for the past twelve years, quietly tangling and holding shirts and slacks. Like the floor, needing waxing but still keeping the rest of everything from dropping down into the basement. Like the deck railings, sturdy enough but cosmetically less than Restoration-Hardware-Catalog worthy. I feel old in the manner of invisible things that continue to serve their purpose, but by and large, are just not that exciting to think about.

I'm not too worried about this, though. The day itself is an old day. It started out that way and is likely to continue into the evening. It is cold but not bracingly so; it is rainy, but not stormy or passionate; it is cloudy but once in a while a sunbreak makes you think the weather will change, and then it doesn't. It is the type of day in which one is pretty sure not much of anything noteworthy is going to occur, but the important little things will soldier on, and the flowers not yet in bloom will work their quiet magic. We just won't see it today.

Today is a day in which the toilet paper roll is half full. Today is a day in which the bills are almost due. Today is a day in which the dog naps after having chewed his bone for exactly seventeen chews. Today is so ordinary, it's almost stereotypical.

And I am feeling exactly the same way. Far from my youth, but not of an age to be revered for my wisdom. Kinda like that toilet paper roll. Right in the middle of Average.

I colored my hair today. Nice. Not quite blonde, not really brunette anymore, and the gray is gone for now. I like this. I don't love it, but I like it. It's average, too.

Old lady inside me, get comfortable today. Tomorrow, it's possible the internal five-year-old will be in charge again, and we will be rolling.

Maybe. For now, we will take a nap.

The Secret!

Ok, no real secret here. We do not need the Hardy Boys to investigate why my legs are sore. My legs are sore because Jon and I took the tandem out today and logged in a little over 19 miles. Which for him is a little blip on the radar but for me, it's climbing K2.

Why not 20 miles? Well, because he is a good teacher and because uses the Disney Technique.

What, you ask, is the Disney Technique? The Disney Technique is that strategy by which you break a length of time over smaller installments and assure someone that they are Almost There and it's Just Around the Corner. It's how for over fifty years they've been able to get large groups of people to stand in line for an hour and a half for a ride that takes two minutes.

We went our usual route on Cedar River Trail, starting from our house and rolling down the residential street til we hit the gravel road, then walk across that to the trail, then a pretty-much-straight-shot for the next four miles or so.

Except this time, we did a little over 9 miles before turning back. Each time I thought we'd turn around, Jon would say, "Let's go to such-and-such, it's just a few hundred yards ahead." Which it was, more or less a mile. Then he'd do it again. And again.

And the best part was, I knew exactly what he was doing, and I was game. Yeah, I have discovered joints and muscles I have been unacquainted with, and yes, the undercarriage of my anatomy is a bit squeaky (which is why I will use the fabulously named "Butt Butter" next time) and yes, I will no doubt walk like an 80 year old tomorrow, but it was soooooooo totally worth it.

The Secret of the Sore Legs is this - they make your heart happy!

Miracle!

This is a tandem bicycle. The purpose of a tandem bike is for two or more people to ride together. It is a simple enough apparatus, and if both people actually know how to ride a bicycle, it's pretty easy.

When it's me and Jon, though, it's something else.

He rides a bike like its part of his body. I ride a bike like it's made of jello. He pedals and shifts gears with the efficiency of a swiss watch. I am tapdancing furiously, flappedyflappedy-ing my feet towards the pedals as they swirl by. His back is a perfect curvilineal bow, strong as a Roman arch. Mine is convex, then concave, then straight, then leaning to the left, then something like a trapezoid. His breathing is smooth and even. Mine is full of squeaks and grunts, sharp intakes and strangled gasps, stifled screams and the occasional death rattle. I'm practicing, just in case.

We take the driveway out, bumping along the ruts of the gravel, then pumping hard together up the tiny incline to reach the street. Then its a death-defying right turn at 1.2 mph, then a dash down the street - then another right omigod then we start going downhill whoopwhoopwhoop then a left, then we stop for a moment. I catch my breath, reacquaint myself with my rubbery legs, we walk the short way to the Cedar River Trail, then its back on the bike again to accomplish the utterly impossible.

I am learning to ride a tandem bike.

I am LEARNING TO RIDE A TANDEM BIKE.

The universe explodes out another galaxy, a scientist somewhere in the world discovers the Higgs Boson particle, a man falls twelve stories out of a high rise and walks away, but it is all nothing compared to the miracle unfolding as the trees go whizzing by. The breeze is caressing my face, the road is whirring beneath our wheels,I am laughing like an idiot and -- holy of holies -- I AM RIDING A BIKE.