A few things from this week:
First, nothing makes me happier than putting on a dress, adding a touch more mascara than usual and dashing out the door in high heels on the way to an evening out. I enjoyed myself on Friday AND Saturday nights this week. Double bonus and big smiles all around.
Now on to more serious issues. I watched this movie and it's brilliant. "My Name is Khan" says what I've wanted to say but I don't have the experience or the words. It talks about acceptance and patience. It talks about fear and the true meaning of family. I highly recommend it.
Houston, TX early voting starts TOMORROW! Voting Information
I won't tell you who to vote for (exactly), but I'm voting for Bill White for Governor and also Sheri Cothrun for Judge Family Court Seat #246. I'm voting YES on Prop #1 because I'm sick and tired of my car falling into potholes large enough to swallow...my car!
Johnnie Tuitel was told by U.S. Airways that he was "too disabled to fly alone". He was on his way to give a talk on Self Advocacy. I have a feeling we haven't heard the last of this man. I hope not.
Have you seen the latest issue of W Magazine? It's the Art Issue and it's a stunner. Oh yeah, Kim Kardashian is in it painted silver and nude. Right, she's naked. She's silver. The rest of the magazine is fantastic. And Kim Kardashian is naked and silver.
Finally, I'm saving the biggest news for last (if you leave a silver reality star off the list). Reuters reports that a Florida company has developed red celery. Apparently it tastes exactly like the pale green stuff. This tells me I still won't eat it. There you go.
Have a good week. Hope you get to put on a dress, or extra mascara, or whatever makes you happiest.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Reminiscence
Reminiscence moved over the night,
wound around the room,
and touched us on our shoulders.
She patted us on our backs and kissed our cheeks.
She stopped to listen like the friend
she would have been if we’d met back then.
She sat on the same curbs with us as we waited
for the Ice Cream Man.
She watched the trains move down the tracks
leaving our pennies
flattened with the pressure of their heat,
and us, wishing for exhilaration
but flattened by the pressure of our guilt.
Reminiscence parked her bike in the rack at the library
and moved between your table and mine.
She walked through the stacks and
whispered the names of authors in our ears.
She sat on the banks of a river that was
strong enough to wash away city blocks and
watched it flow by, spring after spring.
As strong as that river was it was
never able to wash away all of the
Imagined Sins Of A Teenager.
She watched our mothers cry over us.
She watched us cry over our mothers.
Reminiscence induced bursts of laughter and sighs.
She set fireflies of memory across the room.
They darted past us, near us, almost in our grasp.
They landed in front of us casting sweet illumination on the past.
She was also content to let our conversations move forward.
She didn't keep us lingering with her for long.
She knew that forward is what makes her existence
Reality.
As she sat quietly and listened to
Today.
She knew that one day this will be
Back Then.
She kissed us on our cheeks, and sat back.
She watched.
©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved October 16, 2010
wound around the room,
and touched us on our shoulders.
She patted us on our backs and kissed our cheeks.
She stopped to listen like the friend
she would have been if we’d met back then.
She sat on the same curbs with us as we waited
for the Ice Cream Man.
She watched the trains move down the tracks
leaving our pennies
flattened with the pressure of their heat,
and us, wishing for exhilaration
but flattened by the pressure of our guilt.
Reminiscence parked her bike in the rack at the library
and moved between your table and mine.
She walked through the stacks and
whispered the names of authors in our ears.
She sat on the banks of a river that was
strong enough to wash away city blocks and
watched it flow by, spring after spring.
As strong as that river was it was
never able to wash away all of the
Imagined Sins Of A Teenager.
She watched our mothers cry over us.
She watched us cry over our mothers.
Reminiscence induced bursts of laughter and sighs.
She set fireflies of memory across the room.
They darted past us, near us, almost in our grasp.
They landed in front of us casting sweet illumination on the past.
She was also content to let our conversations move forward.
She didn't keep us lingering with her for long.
She knew that forward is what makes her existence
Reality.
As she sat quietly and listened to
Today.
She knew that one day this will be
Back Then.
She kissed us on our cheeks, and sat back.
She watched.
©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved October 16, 2010
Saturday, October 9, 2010
At the Center of the Storm-Self Medi(ca)(ta)tion
I've weathered worse.
The opposite of pure light isn't total darkness. It's the twilight that lingers for weeks when the candles have burned below their wicks and wax has spilled onto the tables and no one cares if the newspapers are piled on the porch.
I've walked among the dead and among those who beg to die and my heart holds the scars of both yet it still stirs at the memories of their living.
Mantra.
The tap, tap of the keyboard can start a rhythm that makes me forget - at least for a while - that I need to pull air in, feed my brain, and let the stale air out. It keeps me from getting stuck at some point, guppy breathing and dumbstruck by the outlandish folly of throwing down the gauntlet with myself - yet again.
The thought of howling out of the depths of another self-imposed cyclone is daunting.
tap. tap. tap.
Center of the storm.
Salvation. One key at a time.
©Michelle Scofield, October 9, 2010 All Rights Reserved
The opposite of pure light isn't total darkness. It's the twilight that lingers for weeks when the candles have burned below their wicks and wax has spilled onto the tables and no one cares if the newspapers are piled on the porch.
I've walked among the dead and among those who beg to die and my heart holds the scars of both yet it still stirs at the memories of their living.
Mantra.
The tap, tap of the keyboard can start a rhythm that makes me forget - at least for a while - that I need to pull air in, feed my brain, and let the stale air out. It keeps me from getting stuck at some point, guppy breathing and dumbstruck by the outlandish folly of throwing down the gauntlet with myself - yet again.
The thought of howling out of the depths of another self-imposed cyclone is daunting.
tap. tap. tap.
Center of the storm.
Salvation. One key at a time.
©Michelle Scofield, October 9, 2010 All Rights Reserved
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Cabin Fever - or how a single middle-aged woman talked herself into trying to mix and mingle
I work so hard on my work days that all I want to do is stay home on my off days and vegetate.
I must get out of this apartment.
That's easy enough. I'm off work today. I've already had my run. I'll go to The Galleria. I'll do...what? Find something fabulous to wear in San Diego? What do people wear in San Diego? I'm going to a spa. Should I buy spa clothes? What are spa clothes? Robes? Yoga pants? If I had my way I'd wear gym shorts and my vintage Who t'shirt from 1986.
I won't snag a gazillionaire that way.
I don't want to snag a gazillionaire. I want to snag a guy who might have seen the Who in 1986. I don't really want to "snag" anyone.
Yucky word, "snag".
How can I possibly meet someone shopping? I need to go to a music store, or a lunch counter.
I'd like to meet a man who understands that I went to a shitload of concerts and that the hearing in my left ear isn't that great but I'm too vain to get my hearing checked because I manage and I'm only 50 and I don't want to even consider what a hearing aid would do to my: (1) appearance or (2) career. (How would I manage a stethoscope?)
I'd like to meet a man who won't be freaked out by a woman who says "shitload" once in a blue moon.
I'd like to meet a man who appreciates a woman who says things like "blue moon", but not often.
I'd like to meet a man. There's a start.
I must get out of this apartment.
I must get out of this apartment.
That's easy enough. I'm off work today. I've already had my run. I'll go to The Galleria. I'll do...what? Find something fabulous to wear in San Diego? What do people wear in San Diego? I'm going to a spa. Should I buy spa clothes? What are spa clothes? Robes? Yoga pants? If I had my way I'd wear gym shorts and my vintage Who t'shirt from 1986.
I won't snag a gazillionaire that way.
I don't want to snag a gazillionaire. I want to snag a guy who might have seen the Who in 1986. I don't really want to "snag" anyone.
Yucky word, "snag".
How can I possibly meet someone shopping? I need to go to a music store, or a lunch counter.
I'd like to meet a man who understands that I went to a shitload of concerts and that the hearing in my left ear isn't that great but I'm too vain to get my hearing checked because I manage and I'm only 50 and I don't want to even consider what a hearing aid would do to my: (1) appearance or (2) career. (How would I manage a stethoscope?)
I'd like to meet a man who won't be freaked out by a woman who says "shitload" once in a blue moon.
I'd like to meet a man who appreciates a woman who says things like "blue moon", but not often.
I'd like to meet a man. There's a start.
I must get out of this apartment.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Little Bo-tique
I've been rehabbing a foot injury and am finally out in the neighborhood again only now I'm walking my old running route instead of running it. Oh, I break into a quasi-trot now and again, allowing myself to think I'm running, but at most it's a little jog to get me past an area absent of sidewalk before I'm hit by an oncoming car or across the street before the signal changes to stop me in my tracks.
Walking obviously slows me down. I used to think I didn't function at my best on "slow". What I didn't know is that not all of me was functioning. I wasn't allowed to fully observe my surroundings when I was running because I was too busy making sure I didn't trip on a tree root or a crack in the sidewalk. I was occupied with not being hit by a car. I had no idea of the scenery I was passing. Walking allows me to pay attention in ways I hadn't considered as a runner.
I live in an upscale neighborhood, Upper Kirby. Granted, I'm a renter in said neighborhood but it's upscale all the same. It sits adjacent to an even more upscale neighborhood, River Oaks, one that is almost entirely residential. My neighborhood is sprinkled with high rise apartments and condominiums, individual homes and restaurants.
During my walks I found a few streets buried deep within my neighborhood that hold tiny specialty shops that must certainly cater to the denizens of Upper Kirby and River Oaks who have the time to shop during the week in a leisurely fashion. The hours aren't posted on many of these stores. They (the shops) specialize in antiques, home furnishings, sewing and knitting supplies, and custom designed fashion. They are tucked away, tucked back, hidden from the rest of the city.
One such store is literally across the street from my apartment complex. I'd never noticed it until I slowed down. It is a dress shop, specializing in couture fashion, per the small sign hanging over the door. Apparently it isn't open on the weekends. Dress forms stand in the windows which (yesterday and today - Saturday and Sunday) are obscured from view by bars. I suppose this is to prevent break ins. I also suppose that the owner of the shop takes any cash home at the end of the day and all that is within is a small collection of dresses, size 0 through 8 (maybe).
Here's the deal. The store is hidden from view. The store is locked away. The store may very well have fabulous treasures inside, but who knows?
There's your rhetoric for the day. Do with it what you will.
Walking obviously slows me down. I used to think I didn't function at my best on "slow". What I didn't know is that not all of me was functioning. I wasn't allowed to fully observe my surroundings when I was running because I was too busy making sure I didn't trip on a tree root or a crack in the sidewalk. I was occupied with not being hit by a car. I had no idea of the scenery I was passing. Walking allows me to pay attention in ways I hadn't considered as a runner.
I live in an upscale neighborhood, Upper Kirby. Granted, I'm a renter in said neighborhood but it's upscale all the same. It sits adjacent to an even more upscale neighborhood, River Oaks, one that is almost entirely residential. My neighborhood is sprinkled with high rise apartments and condominiums, individual homes and restaurants.
During my walks I found a few streets buried deep within my neighborhood that hold tiny specialty shops that must certainly cater to the denizens of Upper Kirby and River Oaks who have the time to shop during the week in a leisurely fashion. The hours aren't posted on many of these stores. They (the shops) specialize in antiques, home furnishings, sewing and knitting supplies, and custom designed fashion. They are tucked away, tucked back, hidden from the rest of the city.
One such store is literally across the street from my apartment complex. I'd never noticed it until I slowed down. It is a dress shop, specializing in couture fashion, per the small sign hanging over the door. Apparently it isn't open on the weekends. Dress forms stand in the windows which (yesterday and today - Saturday and Sunday) are obscured from view by bars. I suppose this is to prevent break ins. I also suppose that the owner of the shop takes any cash home at the end of the day and all that is within is a small collection of dresses, size 0 through 8 (maybe).
Here's the deal. The store is hidden from view. The store is locked away. The store may very well have fabulous treasures inside, but who knows?
There's your rhetoric for the day. Do with it what you will.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Return
It was cool - as cool as the end of July in Houston can be. 78 degrees. It was partly sunny. I decided on a visor to shade my face but no sunglasses. I wanted to allow the sun to do its thing on my eyes and give my brain what it needs. Today I needed to be outside. I needed to be back where all this started, this injury. Funny, the very place where I overdid is the place where I will gradually get back to me. I miss running so much. Today I went for a walk.
I took no music, no watch, no phone.
Without the distraction of sound or time:
I saw a plane flying overhead and advertising signs on its sign. I wonder if he sold any.
I noticed workers sawing and hammering in a new restaurant on Richmond. I also paid better attention to several little shops on Ferndale. On my list to check out.
As I kept moving, I became less aware of my manmade surroundings and more aware of that feeling of connection. I was, once again, connecting with the earth. I could sense each footfall. I felt it all the way up my spine. I passed trees and I wanted to touch them. I did. I reached out and felt the bark. I let my fingers hit leaves and palm fronds. I stopped for a moment and stood, letting the breeze hit me.
Moving past the River Oaks Apartments and the fountains I laughed out loud as I found myself wishing for a penny so I could make a wish. Instead I sat on the marble edge and plunged my hand into the water for a moment, closing my eyes. When I stood I was met by a man I guessed to be homeless. He was holding an open can of peaches in one hand and a plastic spoon in the other. We exchanged "good mornings" and I kept walking.
Three miles. I'm glad to be back. I'm rolling a frozen water bottle under my foot as I type this. I'm also thinking a donation of at least a case of canned peaches to the food bank is in order.
I took no music, no watch, no phone.
Without the distraction of sound or time:
I saw a plane flying overhead and advertising signs on its sign. I wonder if he sold any.
I noticed workers sawing and hammering in a new restaurant on Richmond. I also paid better attention to several little shops on Ferndale. On my list to check out.
As I kept moving, I became less aware of my manmade surroundings and more aware of that feeling of connection. I was, once again, connecting with the earth. I could sense each footfall. I felt it all the way up my spine. I passed trees and I wanted to touch them. I did. I reached out and felt the bark. I let my fingers hit leaves and palm fronds. I stopped for a moment and stood, letting the breeze hit me.
Moving past the River Oaks Apartments and the fountains I laughed out loud as I found myself wishing for a penny so I could make a wish. Instead I sat on the marble edge and plunged my hand into the water for a moment, closing my eyes. When I stood I was met by a man I guessed to be homeless. He was holding an open can of peaches in one hand and a plastic spoon in the other. We exchanged "good mornings" and I kept walking.
Three miles. I'm glad to be back. I'm rolling a frozen water bottle under my foot as I type this. I'm also thinking a donation of at least a case of canned peaches to the food bank is in order.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Las Vegas Recap - Single Friends' Getaway
Sometimes it's best not to wait around for that perfect trip with a boyfriend or significant other. Sometimes it's best to go. Now. I've been traveling with other single friends for years. Cruises, Las Vegas (many times), day trips. New Orleans, Austin, Mexico. Thanksgiving, Christmas, whenever! Don't wait or you may find that you've waited your life away.
I went to Las Vegas last week. He'd never been so it was a blast to take him around and show him all the places I love. It was also bittersweet to return to the city I used to use as a meetup spot with my dad. Dad died in January and I hadn't been to our old favorite city since then. Returning with a good friend was the right thing to do.
This trip we had no plans, other than seeing "Zumanity" a Cirque du Soleil show. It was brilliant, funny and sexy. With no set plans we were able to relax and enjoy a few days to do mostly nothing. Fabulous!
Here's what nothing looked like on our tour of Las Vegas Boulevard:
Harrah's, where Oklahoma goes to casino. You heard right. I've designated "casino" to be verbiage. There - I did it again. I'm going to change the English language as I speak because that's what Las Vegas does to me, it changes me as I go along. I'm so overstimulated that I shed bits of myself and take on parts of my surroundings. It's the most unhealthy assimilation on the planet and I love it. At times I'm a high-roller looking for the table that calls to me and my fistful of dollars. At others I might strive to be a relaxed European on holiday lounging by the pool for the afternoon but it's only so I can save my energy and go-go all night with a miniskirt, dark eye makeup and showgirl poofy hair.
Back to Harrah's. I've found that my personality changes a bit depending on which, um, resort I'm walking through. At the more upscale sites (the Venetian, Bellagio) I tend to talk in a quiet voice and tip bigger and drink more sophisticated libations. When I'm in a place known for entertainment (NewYorkNewYork, MGM Grand) I become boisterous and flirty. Harrah's seems to cater to a different crowd all together. It has a "Toby Keith's I Love this Bar and Grill". Country music plays overhead and there seems to be an abundance of nickel and penny slots. When I'm in Harrah's...
...I get the hell out as soon as I can.
My recommendation for accommodations: Stay somewhere adult. We were at the MGM Grand which has great pools and even better restaurants. Check out Aria. It's new. it's beautiful. It's expensive. I'm leaning toward Bellagio next time. Very adult. Again, expensive. This showgirl is worth it.
I went to Las Vegas last week. He'd never been so it was a blast to take him around and show him all the places I love. It was also bittersweet to return to the city I used to use as a meetup spot with my dad. Dad died in January and I hadn't been to our old favorite city since then. Returning with a good friend was the right thing to do.
This trip we had no plans, other than seeing "Zumanity" a Cirque du Soleil show. It was brilliant, funny and sexy. With no set plans we were able to relax and enjoy a few days to do mostly nothing. Fabulous!
Here's what nothing looked like on our tour of Las Vegas Boulevard:
Harrah's, where Oklahoma goes to casino. You heard right. I've designated "casino" to be verbiage. There - I did it again. I'm going to change the English language as I speak because that's what Las Vegas does to me, it changes me as I go along. I'm so overstimulated that I shed bits of myself and take on parts of my surroundings. It's the most unhealthy assimilation on the planet and I love it. At times I'm a high-roller looking for the table that calls to me and my fistful of dollars. At others I might strive to be a relaxed European on holiday lounging by the pool for the afternoon but it's only so I can save my energy and go-go all night with a miniskirt, dark eye makeup and showgirl poofy hair.
Back to Harrah's. I've found that my personality changes a bit depending on which, um, resort I'm walking through. At the more upscale sites (the Venetian, Bellagio) I tend to talk in a quiet voice and tip bigger and drink more sophisticated libations. When I'm in a place known for entertainment (NewYorkNewYork, MGM Grand) I become boisterous and flirty. Harrah's seems to cater to a different crowd all together. It has a "Toby Keith's I Love this Bar and Grill". Country music plays overhead and there seems to be an abundance of nickel and penny slots. When I'm in Harrah's...
...I get the hell out as soon as I can.
My recommendation for accommodations: Stay somewhere adult. We were at the MGM Grand which has great pools and even better restaurants. Check out Aria. It's new. it's beautiful. It's expensive. I'm leaning toward Bellagio next time. Very adult. Again, expensive. This showgirl is worth it.
Friday, July 16, 2010
This Journey
If you let go of my hand-
I won't.
Blinking cursor beats three/four time
and I imagine the time
when I'll dance at your wedding
or you'll dance at mine.
Fan whirs and cools the brain
of this machine as I make
a lame attempt at recording
the words that can't be put to words.
Fingers pause over keys as I
let left fall over right,
remembering the first time
you reached out and took hold and we walked.
Past this line
and past the next
the story waits.
We'll laugh as it unfolds.
Such fortune to have
found a fellow traveler
eager for unknown
fortune.
©Michelle Scofield, July 16, 2010 All Rights Reserved
I won't.
Blinking cursor beats three/four time
and I imagine the time
when I'll dance at your wedding
or you'll dance at mine.
Fan whirs and cools the brain
of this machine as I make
a lame attempt at recording
the words that can't be put to words.
Fingers pause over keys as I
let left fall over right,
remembering the first time
you reached out and took hold and we walked.
Past this line
and past the next
the story waits.
We'll laugh as it unfolds.
Such fortune to have
found a fellow traveler
eager for unknown
fortune.
©Michelle Scofield, July 16, 2010 All Rights Reserved
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Enough
Today I'm 50 years and 4 months old. No special milestone, but for some reason, I felt like noting it. I feel a little wiser today, as if I've learned something. What I did today was let go just a little bit more.
I was given an assignment at 6:42 AM. I was to report to my post at 7:00 AM. No way was I going to make it. I didn't make it and the world didn't end. I didn't run traffic lights, I didn't break a sweat. I did what I could and it was enough.
I watched as a cap was placed on a deep-water gusher. It might work and it might not. I hope it does. That's enough for now.
I got word that a major piece of legislation passed, split almost entirely down party lines. No surprises there. I live in the reddest of red states. Nothing I could have done to change votes here. I can (and did) work a little on a campaign event that I think will make a difference locally.
I didn't hear from one friend, but I heard from many others. I've done all I can as far as this friendship goes. Rifts occur and some things are out of my hands. I have a rich, full social life that goes beyond dinners and movies. I can count on those who count.
I came home from work and kicked off my shoes and for just a moment imagined that I was standing on a beach with cool water rushing around my ankles. I felt free, more free than I've felt in weeks. Perhaps a vacation to a beach is in order soon. Nothing rushed, nothing planned. That would be enough.
I was given an assignment at 6:42 AM. I was to report to my post at 7:00 AM. No way was I going to make it. I didn't make it and the world didn't end. I didn't run traffic lights, I didn't break a sweat. I did what I could and it was enough.
I watched as a cap was placed on a deep-water gusher. It might work and it might not. I hope it does. That's enough for now.
I got word that a major piece of legislation passed, split almost entirely down party lines. No surprises there. I live in the reddest of red states. Nothing I could have done to change votes here. I can (and did) work a little on a campaign event that I think will make a difference locally.
I didn't hear from one friend, but I heard from many others. I've done all I can as far as this friendship goes. Rifts occur and some things are out of my hands. I have a rich, full social life that goes beyond dinners and movies. I can count on those who count.
I came home from work and kicked off my shoes and for just a moment imagined that I was standing on a beach with cool water rushing around my ankles. I felt free, more free than I've felt in weeks. Perhaps a vacation to a beach is in order soon. Nothing rushed, nothing planned. That would be enough.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
How Would Jesus Dance?
Ah, found piece from November, '08. I'm gonna miss that place.)
You can't miss Sky Bar. It's the only mid-rise on Montrose with the top floor wrapped in pink and blue neon. It glows like a beacon, calling dancers from across Houston. At eleven p.m. on Thursday nights, salseros, salseras, wannabes and a variety of those who simply want to be in attendance stand in a line that winds around the building waiting for the elevator to take them up to the tenth floor. There always seems to more of a crowd wanting in than the building can accommodate and the bouncers are kept busy holding the line, letting in only a few at a time.
It's a dress-to-be-seen scene. High heels reign, as long as they're dance-worthy and there are more skirts than not. Real salsa, serious salsa, makes for great legs and they are shown at Sky Bar. It's an exotic blend of shoulders, hoop earrings and ruffles. The men can get in wearing jeans, if the jeans are without tatters, chains and aren't sagging. There's a no tennis shoes rule, but I doubt that anyone would wear them if they could. How could you spin in tennis shoes, anyway? The spins and turns are important in salsa dancing, almost as important as being caught to turn again. Salsa is sexy, hot, primitive. I think it's the dancer's dance.
Last Thursday the drink special was a goldfish bowl-sized mojito. For five dollars. Yummy! And too much booze to make salsa dancing workable, enjoyable or anything close to recognizable. I ordered one, had a few sips, recognized the high octane level and decided it was worth the five dollars to let the glass globe of peril serve as a signal to others that our table was occupied.
I danced a bit, watched people a bit more. After a particularly fast-paced merengue, I was standing in front of one of the massive fans, cooling down, when my friend nudged me in the ribs.
"Oh, My God! Look who's here!"
Those words are never good at a club, as far as I'm concerned. I mean, there are about half a dozen old boyfriend/stalker types that could be "here". The elevator at Sky Bar doesn't provide a quick enough escape. I know. I've tried and failed. I started to scan the room as inconspicuously as possible. Then I saw him.
It was Jesus. You know, Jesus. The guy in the paintings. The one that looks up into the light. Brown hair, brown beard, beatific. That Jesus.
He was on the dance floor. He was good. The guy could lead with strength and confidence. He was putting his partner through triple spins. He even threw in a slide. Who knew Jesus could dance?
Now before you go all fire and brimstone on me, please understand that I understand that it wasn't really Jesus, but he really did look like the guy who hung over Mrs. Brandon's piano in my choir room at the First United Methodist Church. I got in trouble at that church for asking how he could possibly be that white. I always pictured him with much darker skin. That's a whole other story, I guess.
At the end of the night, I said my goodbyes and left, just a little disappointed. I didn't dance with Jesus Thursday night. He had so many partners lined up that I didn't get a chance. I descended out of Sky Bar and onto the streets of Houston, left to wonder what the real Jesus would think about dancing.
There is another place I know, the Big Easy. They play the blues. It's grimy, dark and also sexy. It's about the lindy and west-coast swing. I may go there next week. I can say I'm looking for Jesus.
©Michelle Scofield, July 14, 2010 All Rights Reserved
You can't miss Sky Bar. It's the only mid-rise on Montrose with the top floor wrapped in pink and blue neon. It glows like a beacon, calling dancers from across Houston. At eleven p.m. on Thursday nights, salseros, salseras, wannabes and a variety of those who simply want to be in attendance stand in a line that winds around the building waiting for the elevator to take them up to the tenth floor. There always seems to more of a crowd wanting in than the building can accommodate and the bouncers are kept busy holding the line, letting in only a few at a time.
It's a dress-to-be-seen scene. High heels reign, as long as they're dance-worthy and there are more skirts than not. Real salsa, serious salsa, makes for great legs and they are shown at Sky Bar. It's an exotic blend of shoulders, hoop earrings and ruffles. The men can get in wearing jeans, if the jeans are without tatters, chains and aren't sagging. There's a no tennis shoes rule, but I doubt that anyone would wear them if they could. How could you spin in tennis shoes, anyway? The spins and turns are important in salsa dancing, almost as important as being caught to turn again. Salsa is sexy, hot, primitive. I think it's the dancer's dance.
Last Thursday the drink special was a goldfish bowl-sized mojito. For five dollars. Yummy! And too much booze to make salsa dancing workable, enjoyable or anything close to recognizable. I ordered one, had a few sips, recognized the high octane level and decided it was worth the five dollars to let the glass globe of peril serve as a signal to others that our table was occupied.
I danced a bit, watched people a bit more. After a particularly fast-paced merengue, I was standing in front of one of the massive fans, cooling down, when my friend nudged me in the ribs.
"Oh, My God! Look who's here!"
Those words are never good at a club, as far as I'm concerned. I mean, there are about half a dozen old boyfriend/stalker types that could be "here". The elevator at Sky Bar doesn't provide a quick enough escape. I know. I've tried and failed. I started to scan the room as inconspicuously as possible. Then I saw him.
It was Jesus. You know, Jesus. The guy in the paintings. The one that looks up into the light. Brown hair, brown beard, beatific. That Jesus.
He was on the dance floor. He was good. The guy could lead with strength and confidence. He was putting his partner through triple spins. He even threw in a slide. Who knew Jesus could dance?
Now before you go all fire and brimstone on me, please understand that I understand that it wasn't really Jesus, but he really did look like the guy who hung over Mrs. Brandon's piano in my choir room at the First United Methodist Church. I got in trouble at that church for asking how he could possibly be that white. I always pictured him with much darker skin. That's a whole other story, I guess.
At the end of the night, I said my goodbyes and left, just a little disappointed. I didn't dance with Jesus Thursday night. He had so many partners lined up that I didn't get a chance. I descended out of Sky Bar and onto the streets of Houston, left to wonder what the real Jesus would think about dancing.
There is another place I know, the Big Easy. They play the blues. It's grimy, dark and also sexy. It's about the lindy and west-coast swing. I may go there next week. I can say I'm looking for Jesus.
©Michelle Scofield, July 14, 2010 All Rights Reserved
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Stop Play-Acting
Thank God it’s over. Spain won the FIFA World Cup? I guess so. I stopped watching when the United States was defeated. Oh, I admit to my own brand of jingoism when it comes to worldwide sporting events. I’ll often follow a sport I enjoy (like gymnastics) to the gold medal bout of the Olympics, but you won’t catch me catching fever for the Tour de France and noting who’s yellow just because everyone else does. I’m not prone to picking up those particular bugs.
So how does this apply to date-coaching? Only that I’ve been watching and listening to otherwise non-sportsfans suddenly acting all breathless or silly or interested about soccer. I’ve seen them turn their heads in bars and restaurants and “cheer” when a goal is scored. The thing is, it’s always a little too little, too late. What, do they think no one notices? Do they think they’re even beginning to come off as genuine? This same thing happens during American football season to women when they put on a jersey and a pair of Converse hi-tops and suddenly it’s Halloween, only it isn’t. There’s a fine line between taking an interest and acting interested.
I propose to anyone who may recognize themselves above and hasn’t huffed off the page: A man who can read through your manipulations will not want you. You do not want a man who isn’t smart enough to read through manipulations. Perhaps it is time to stop with the manipulating and just be yourself. It doesn’t matter if you don’t like all the same things. So what if it seems like the entire world is watching soccer or some other sport. Do you really want to pretend? I didn’t think so.
©Michelle Scofield, May 22, 2010 All Rights Reserved
So how does this apply to date-coaching? Only that I’ve been watching and listening to otherwise non-sportsfans suddenly acting all breathless or silly or interested about soccer. I’ve seen them turn their heads in bars and restaurants and “cheer” when a goal is scored. The thing is, it’s always a little too little, too late. What, do they think no one notices? Do they think they’re even beginning to come off as genuine? This same thing happens during American football season to women when they put on a jersey and a pair of Converse hi-tops and suddenly it’s Halloween, only it isn’t. There’s a fine line between taking an interest and acting interested.
I propose to anyone who may recognize themselves above and hasn’t huffed off the page: A man who can read through your manipulations will not want you. You do not want a man who isn’t smart enough to read through manipulations. Perhaps it is time to stop with the manipulating and just be yourself. It doesn’t matter if you don’t like all the same things. So what if it seems like the entire world is watching soccer or some other sport. Do you really want to pretend? I didn’t think so.
©Michelle Scofield, May 22, 2010 All Rights Reserved
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Grounded
Give me too much time and I will spend it thinking. I've got a lot of time on my hands now. I can't run, but I can remember running. I can remember specific days, specific routes. I spent the last part of last year increasing my mileage so I could run a half marathon. It led to pain in my right foot and now I'm trying to manage that pain and - more importantly - recover. My mind is circling around those months, those runs. Give me too much time and I will spend it thinking.
In the world of pain management, there are traditionally thought to be three types of pain: neuropathic (the deranged, confused signals sent to the brain by nerves that feels like electricity/numbness/sparks), somatic pain (muscle, bone or deep tissue pain), and visceral pain (such as happens when an internal organ is stretched or injured). I'll get back to this.
Several weeks ago I was driving home from the park, having finished my run. I was listening to the radio. (How many times have I started a story like this?) I had less than an hour to shower, have breakfast, and dress before I was to be in clinic and start seeing patients. I listened to a story about books related to worklife, books not to be missed, like "Revolutionary Road" and "Bartleby, The Scrivener". I was struck by the discussion of Melville's character, Bartleby, and how questions begin to come up in an office when someone says, "I'd prefer not to."
This brings me to now.
Sweet Baby Jesus, I'd prefer not to.
The litany of tasks I'd prefer not to includes; reading reports about histologic derangement of cellular patterns over the phone instead of face-to-face because people doctor shop and have appointments all over the country in one week (not understanding that it may not be the best for their outcomes), dealing with insurers who are literally trying to save a buck, and functioning as a biller/coder.
Dear Healing Jesus with palms outstretched, I'd prefer not to.
Back to my discussion on pain. I don't feel pain this morning, but what I feel is most certainly visceral.
I'd prefer not to.
It's there at every turn. I have become Bartleby. It's part of my makeup. It's visceral.
In the world of pain management, there are traditionally thought to be three types of pain: neuropathic (the deranged, confused signals sent to the brain by nerves that feels like electricity/numbness/sparks), somatic pain (muscle, bone or deep tissue pain), and visceral pain (such as happens when an internal organ is stretched or injured). I'll get back to this.
Several weeks ago I was driving home from the park, having finished my run. I was listening to the radio. (How many times have I started a story like this?) I had less than an hour to shower, have breakfast, and dress before I was to be in clinic and start seeing patients. I listened to a story about books related to worklife, books not to be missed, like "Revolutionary Road" and "Bartleby, The Scrivener". I was struck by the discussion of Melville's character, Bartleby, and how questions begin to come up in an office when someone says, "I'd prefer not to."
This brings me to now.
Sweet Baby Jesus, I'd prefer not to.
The litany of tasks I'd prefer not to includes; reading reports about histologic derangement of cellular patterns over the phone instead of face-to-face because people doctor shop and have appointments all over the country in one week (not understanding that it may not be the best for their outcomes), dealing with insurers who are literally trying to save a buck, and functioning as a biller/coder.
Dear Healing Jesus with palms outstretched, I'd prefer not to.
Back to my discussion on pain. I don't feel pain this morning, but what I feel is most certainly visceral.
I'd prefer not to.
It's there at every turn. I have become Bartleby. It's part of my makeup. It's visceral.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
How is Your Tenacity?
How is your tenacity? Do you hang on, or will you be shaken? I suggest you be shaken.
This morning I spent the better part of fifteen minutes pulling tiny burrs out of a picnic blanket. A group of us attended an outdoors performance of Puccini’s “Tosca” last night and when we arrived at the large grassy hill and claimed our spot I quickly realized that I’d carried with me several hundred hitchhikers from the Art Car Parade a couple weeks ago. After a quick glance at the little offenders, it became evident that they were dug in and wouldn’t budge with a shake of the blanket. The sweet grade-schooler in our party said they were only “bumpy” and didn’t really cause a bother. She was correct.
We enjoyed a beautiful late spring night in the park and I tossed the blanket in the laundry room when I arrived home, not thinking much about it until this morning when I realized I’d have to remove as many of the burrs by hand as possible before I washed it or it would end up a matted mess when it came out of the machine.
Removing them wasn’t unpleasant. They weren’t the big, pointy kind that pricks your fingers. It was just something that had to be done unless I wanted to throw the blanket out. I didn’t. Too many memories or fun times are wrapped up in that blanket. I keep it in my car for events just like last night. Houston is full of opportunities to share a meal outside with friends, or gaze at the stars while an orchestra plays, or just sit and talk. We live in a wonderful city for such things.
While I was picking those little burrs off the blanket I thought back to my own days in grade school when I learned how organisms and plants develop survival methods. Whatever seed was inside those heavily armored and pointy burrs had worked very hard to survive. Maybe I’d helped it along the way, carrying it from Allen Parkway and dropping one of its progeny along my route. Maybe it’s a noxious weed. Probably. One thing is for certain. It holds on.
Which brings me to Tosca, and me, and maybe you.
The character Floria Tosca (for those of you who aren’t familiar) carried herself as a strong woman. She was a prominent singer, even famous in her community. She fought off the advances of the Chief of Police and through the entire opera argued with her true love over her own jealousy which was oddly misplaced because the object of her affection was not cheating on Tosca. He was working on a religious painting, and if Tosca was anything, she was a church-going gal. She was one tenacious (read: “clingy”) woman. She held onto an idea and clutched it for all it was worth. She just kept going…and going. I won’t ruin the story for you, but I will tell you that if you want a classic opera experience, go see this one by Puccini.
Tosca, the singer, would annoy the hell out of me if she was my friend. I’d probably tell her to snap out of it. That kind of tenacity doesn’t get you very far. It doesn’t allow for optimal growth. If you’re lucky enough to fall into some random soil, great! Grow for all you’re worth but I think you may be in for being stuck, for being carried along on someone else’s blanket.
Today:
Letting go. Softening. Lying ON the blanket instead of being stuck to it – or worse yet, under it. That, my friend, is suffocation.
©Michelle Scofield, May 22, 2010 All Rights Reserved
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Reason Number 463: "You're Intimidating"
Ask any smart woman and she'll tell you she's been let down, let go, let off the dating hook by an otherwise great guy until he said these words, "You're intimidating". Huh?
Things were probably going along swimmingly for a date or two. They'd engaged in conversation over a meal or a walk. They might have taken in the latest movie at the Indie cinema and she was fascinated that he was fascinated by her opinions. Then he wasn't so fascinated anymore. He stopped calling. He didn't text her anymore. What happened? He was such a nice guy.
Being the intelligent, empowered, independent woman that she is, she called him and asked. He stammered a bit, said something about being busy and finally blurted out a five syllable word - usually quite a turn-on for her, but not in this case.
Intimidating.
It's a cop out guys. It's right up there with standing someone up. Well, maybe not quite as bad, but it's not honest.
What's honest? You could say...
"I feel intimidated."
or
You could talk about insecurity around brains, or money, or just about anything. You could talk about how you're feeling compared to someone else.
That would be asking a lot, wouldn't it? I know, I know.
But putting it on the other person. Saying they are "intimidating". Yeah, probably not exactly accurate, is it?
So here's the exercise portion of this Date Coach post: Stretch those subjectivity muscles and consider what you can learn about yourself if someone you've dated isn't right for you. Seriously, maybe it's not about the other person, maybe it's about you. Why would someone else make you feel intimidated?
Is it about brains? Money? Something else? Who is doing the comparing and why?
This is rhetorical to me and potentially life-changing to you. That's all.
©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved
Things were probably going along swimmingly for a date or two. They'd engaged in conversation over a meal or a walk. They might have taken in the latest movie at the Indie cinema and she was fascinated that he was fascinated by her opinions. Then he wasn't so fascinated anymore. He stopped calling. He didn't text her anymore. What happened? He was such a nice guy.
Being the intelligent, empowered, independent woman that she is, she called him and asked. He stammered a bit, said something about being busy and finally blurted out a five syllable word - usually quite a turn-on for her, but not in this case.
Intimidating.
It's a cop out guys. It's right up there with standing someone up. Well, maybe not quite as bad, but it's not honest.
What's honest? You could say...
"I feel intimidated."
or
You could talk about insecurity around brains, or money, or just about anything. You could talk about how you're feeling compared to someone else.
That would be asking a lot, wouldn't it? I know, I know.
But putting it on the other person. Saying they are "intimidating". Yeah, probably not exactly accurate, is it?
So here's the exercise portion of this Date Coach post: Stretch those subjectivity muscles and consider what you can learn about yourself if someone you've dated isn't right for you. Seriously, maybe it's not about the other person, maybe it's about you. Why would someone else make you feel intimidated?
Is it about brains? Money? Something else? Who is doing the comparing and why?
This is rhetorical to me and potentially life-changing to you. That's all.
©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Cellular Purge - No Replay
The reappearance of a past love can cause one to stop short and pause. So let's do that, for a moment. Please note the word, "past". There is a reason for the tense that causes one to become, well...tense.
Just last week a yo yo bounced back to me. Team, I wouldn't tell you to do anything I wouldn't do myself. Repeat after me: Cut. The. String. This can be a dangerous game for fragile hearts on both sides of the field. No reason to engage in such nonsense. Returns are for Macy's on the day after Christmas, not for dating.
Here's a little something for your consideration. I wrote it a long time ago, inspired by a sweet man who couldn't make up his mind between Houston and Moscow. I chose to make it a little easier (on myself). Harsh? Perhaps, but I've not regretted my decision, and I love the poem - even if I do say so myself.
Deleted (Cellular Purge)
Intersection break.
The NPR newsman
says the market's up
but housing's in slump.
Next car over a
gangster shouts a warning
to his backseat toddler
while his bass rocks the road.
Two train cycles
keep me sitting
through the light.
I think of leMetro.
I think of caviar and vodka.
I think of ICE and am suddenly cold.
Reaching for my phone I find the
entry and confirm that I want to
Delete?
1.Yes
The green arrow points my way west.
I follow the path homeward bound,
wrapped in the warmth of the sable sun.
Do svidania.
©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved
Just last week a yo yo bounced back to me. Team, I wouldn't tell you to do anything I wouldn't do myself. Repeat after me: Cut. The. String. This can be a dangerous game for fragile hearts on both sides of the field. No reason to engage in such nonsense. Returns are for Macy's on the day after Christmas, not for dating.
Here's a little something for your consideration. I wrote it a long time ago, inspired by a sweet man who couldn't make up his mind between Houston and Moscow. I chose to make it a little easier (on myself). Harsh? Perhaps, but I've not regretted my decision, and I love the poem - even if I do say so myself.
Deleted (Cellular Purge)
Intersection break.
The NPR newsman
says the market's up
but housing's in slump.
Next car over a
gangster shouts a warning
to his backseat toddler
while his bass rocks the road.
Two train cycles
keep me sitting
through the light.
I think of leMetro.
I think of caviar and vodka.
I think of ICE and am suddenly cold.
Reaching for my phone I find the
entry and confirm that I want to
Delete?
1.Yes
The green arrow points my way west.
I follow the path homeward bound,
wrapped in the warmth of the sable sun.
Do svidania.
©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved
Friday, June 11, 2010
Sorority Girls
Mom was a sorority girl, a bonafied sweater girl in pink and pearls, plus a pencil skirt. She was a member of Alpha Chi Omega where she learned many life lessons that she attempted to pass on to me as her legacy. She knew how to distinguish an authentic china teacup from the dime-store stuff. (Hold it up to the light, Missy). She learned how to half-smile so as not to appear overly eager. I never quite got that one; it’s all or nothing for me. She learned to say “fantastic” when she was thinking “bullshit”. Again, a lesson I’m still working on.
She was also a young mother. I came along when she was only 19 years old and her college career was cut short. Things were a little different in the early 60’s and there was no money and I never knew the story but she didn’t finish college. She did, however, keep going to sorority meetings. When I was a little girl she was always serving on some board or another and I can remember her coming home at night looking quite pissed off and throwing her purse on the table, sinking into the couch, and telling me, “Missy, I just don’t make a good sorority girl. I can’t stand being in a room full of women. They talk and talk and they say nothing at all.”
Which brings me to last night. I took myself out for dinner to a place I know I can have a cocktail, chat with the bartender and get a delicious meal. As a bonus there are often single people around to share a few minutes of benign conversation. If not, a television is there with ESPN turned to mute and something to watch while I unwind from the day. Yesterday was a day that needed unwinding.
I ordered my drink and waited for my dinner. Two members of the TripleH (dressed for Happy Hour in Houston) sat to my left and a man and his date sat to my right. The couple to my right was obviously quite involved with each other, having a quiet evening. That’s nice to see once in awhile. The women to my left? All I can say is I’m glad they found each other.
I’m not an eavesdropper. It’s difficult to ignore the equivalent of some tropical bird screeching on the barstool next to me. Volume control is possible with human voice. I know. I’ve studied anatomy and physiology.
Last night I heard about: how to clean an oven, fourth grade soccer shoes, and a funeral in Arkansas (complete with makeup, hair, and clothing descriptions - of the dearly departed).
Really? Really? Is that all you’ve got to talk about in public, LOUDLY? Forgive me, I forgot. At one point, early in the single hour I managed to sit through (trying to eat my dinner in peace), I heard BP (British Petroleum) mentioned. I perked up, thinking perhaps there was a political leaning, an inkling of social interest about to be batted about. No… I heard, “I’m so tired of all that news stuff.”
I paid my tab and started to leave. I felt a hand on my arm. TripleH Tropical Bird Number One was trying to get my attention. “Not too many to choose from, are there?”
I smiled and told her I was only out for dinner. I pointed to the seat I’d vacated next to her and said, “You never know.”
My point: If a woman sitting at the bar next to you thinks your conversation is vapid, what might a man think? Even if you’re all dressed up and looking fine, as soon as you open your mouth the game is over. Unless, of course, he’s just too dumb to notice, then I suppose you get what you play for. Point to ponder.
Of course, if you’ve read this far, you’re probably not that woman anyway, are you?
©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved
She was also a young mother. I came along when she was only 19 years old and her college career was cut short. Things were a little different in the early 60’s and there was no money and I never knew the story but she didn’t finish college. She did, however, keep going to sorority meetings. When I was a little girl she was always serving on some board or another and I can remember her coming home at night looking quite pissed off and throwing her purse on the table, sinking into the couch, and telling me, “Missy, I just don’t make a good sorority girl. I can’t stand being in a room full of women. They talk and talk and they say nothing at all.”
Which brings me to last night. I took myself out for dinner to a place I know I can have a cocktail, chat with the bartender and get a delicious meal. As a bonus there are often single people around to share a few minutes of benign conversation. If not, a television is there with ESPN turned to mute and something to watch while I unwind from the day. Yesterday was a day that needed unwinding.
I ordered my drink and waited for my dinner. Two members of the TripleH (dressed for Happy Hour in Houston) sat to my left and a man and his date sat to my right. The couple to my right was obviously quite involved with each other, having a quiet evening. That’s nice to see once in awhile. The women to my left? All I can say is I’m glad they found each other.
I’m not an eavesdropper. It’s difficult to ignore the equivalent of some tropical bird screeching on the barstool next to me. Volume control is possible with human voice. I know. I’ve studied anatomy and physiology.
Last night I heard about: how to clean an oven, fourth grade soccer shoes, and a funeral in Arkansas (complete with makeup, hair, and clothing descriptions - of the dearly departed).
Really? Really? Is that all you’ve got to talk about in public, LOUDLY? Forgive me, I forgot. At one point, early in the single hour I managed to sit through (trying to eat my dinner in peace), I heard BP (British Petroleum) mentioned. I perked up, thinking perhaps there was a political leaning, an inkling of social interest about to be batted about. No… I heard, “I’m so tired of all that news stuff.”
I paid my tab and started to leave. I felt a hand on my arm. TripleH Tropical Bird Number One was trying to get my attention. “Not too many to choose from, are there?”
I smiled and told her I was only out for dinner. I pointed to the seat I’d vacated next to her and said, “You never know.”
My point: If a woman sitting at the bar next to you thinks your conversation is vapid, what might a man think? Even if you’re all dressed up and looking fine, as soon as you open your mouth the game is over. Unless, of course, he’s just too dumb to notice, then I suppose you get what you play for. Point to ponder.
Of course, if you’ve read this far, you’re probably not that woman anyway, are you?
©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Because It's Worth Saying At Least Twice (Reposted from Inner Canthus)
This is a repost of a repost of a repost. The world is making me sad today. I don't need sad. I'm about to see my family for the first time in months and I need something other than sad.
A Plea For Human Kind(ness)
Please, please stand up. It's not that hard, really. Just plant your feet firmly on the floor of this bus, engage your quadriceps, and push. You will rise from that seat and you will redeem your punk ass in my eyes. I don't care that you are wearing a white coat. I don't care that you have a new Littman Master Cardiology stethoscope hanging around your neck, I have one too. I see that you are studying. Your nose is practically buried in that text but you see her. You must. Her pregnant, full belly is right in front of you, at your eye level. I don't care that she is a tech, or a nurse, or an assistant. She is pregnant. Stand up and be a man.
Please, please stop honking your horn. He is old, he has Louisiana plates on his car. He is stopped on Fannin and he is lost. He is driving through the largest medical center in the United States, in the fourth largest city in the country. He is your brother, my father, someones son. He is a grandfather, a husband. He is a man with dignity. Is he not deserving of just ten seconds of latitude, ten seconds of patience?
Please, please accept your own truth. I heard you discount your intuition today in favor of anothers desires. I am watching you sacrifice your happiness and security yet again in order to satisfy the needs of another. Determining your own rank with yourself - and defending it - is permitted and I encourage you to do so. It is the ultimate act of kindness to oneself.
©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved
A Plea For Human Kind(ness)
Please, please stand up. It's not that hard, really. Just plant your feet firmly on the floor of this bus, engage your quadriceps, and push. You will rise from that seat and you will redeem your punk ass in my eyes. I don't care that you are wearing a white coat. I don't care that you have a new Littman Master Cardiology stethoscope hanging around your neck, I have one too. I see that you are studying. Your nose is practically buried in that text but you see her. You must. Her pregnant, full belly is right in front of you, at your eye level. I don't care that she is a tech, or a nurse, or an assistant. She is pregnant. Stand up and be a man.
Please, please stop honking your horn. He is old, he has Louisiana plates on his car. He is stopped on Fannin and he is lost. He is driving through the largest medical center in the United States, in the fourth largest city in the country. He is your brother, my father, someones son. He is a grandfather, a husband. He is a man with dignity. Is he not deserving of just ten seconds of latitude, ten seconds of patience?
Please, please accept your own truth. I heard you discount your intuition today in favor of anothers desires. I am watching you sacrifice your happiness and security yet again in order to satisfy the needs of another. Determining your own rank with yourself - and defending it - is permitted and I encourage you to do so. It is the ultimate act of kindness to oneself.
©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Put Me In, Coach!
But...but...you're not ready to play. Sorry, you're really nowhere near ready to play. Sit down, grab a towel, warm that bench, and listen.
You think you want to date. You think because you've dated, you're good at it. You think you've done it before, so you can do it again. You think you can practice until you get it right. It's not like riding a bike. It's not like throwing free throws - or a Frisbee. It's not like hitting a sled. This isn't about muscle memory.
Stop it.
You dated before you were married. Then you married someone and that didn't really go so well. Now you're e-winking, having coffee, having dinner, having sex, having regrets. Might we call a time-out?
Why do you want to date? What? You're lonely? Shut the hell up. Deal with it. Sit on that bench by yourself for awhile. I want you to watch something. It's called Instant Replay. Come on, it's not all that bad. I know, seeing the hits, over and over again is kind of brutal, but I know you can take it. Why are you slammed so hard? Because you keep making the same moves, for God's sake. Oh, and get this, you're playing against the same team over and over again. Do you recognize them? Sometimes they change uniforms, but watch their moves, they don't change. You know these teams, they are called The Abusers, The Weaklings, The Whiners, or The Users.
Wait! I know you think you've learned a new game plan by watching the films, but you're not getting up off that bench yet. Sit down. I want you to get to know some of your teammates now. Play is suspended, so you have as much time as it takes. Get to know them. Talk, but more importantly, listen. These people are wonderful. Forget about the game (it's suspended, remember?) and just get to know them as people. You'll be better for it.
Where the hell are you going? Don't set one foot on that field! You are such a rookie. You need balance. You're in such a rush to get in there and tackle, that all your finesse has gone out the window. For you, I'm assigning yoga AND meditation. I want you to sit. I want you to sit - alone. Sit alone in a room with no television, no music, no computer, no noise. Sit alone in a room with you, with your emotions and...feel.
Next season, maybe. Maybe you'll be ready to play. You tell me. You tell me if you recognize why you're in the game. You tell me if you're enough of a solo athlete to be a team player.
Now hit the showers. The colder the better.
©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved
You think you want to date. You think because you've dated, you're good at it. You think you've done it before, so you can do it again. You think you can practice until you get it right. It's not like riding a bike. It's not like throwing free throws - or a Frisbee. It's not like hitting a sled. This isn't about muscle memory.
Stop it.
You dated before you were married. Then you married someone and that didn't really go so well. Now you're e-winking, having coffee, having dinner, having sex, having regrets. Might we call a time-out?
Why do you want to date? What? You're lonely? Shut the hell up. Deal with it. Sit on that bench by yourself for awhile. I want you to watch something. It's called Instant Replay. Come on, it's not all that bad. I know, seeing the hits, over and over again is kind of brutal, but I know you can take it. Why are you slammed so hard? Because you keep making the same moves, for God's sake. Oh, and get this, you're playing against the same team over and over again. Do you recognize them? Sometimes they change uniforms, but watch their moves, they don't change. You know these teams, they are called The Abusers, The Weaklings, The Whiners, or The Users.
Wait! I know you think you've learned a new game plan by watching the films, but you're not getting up off that bench yet. Sit down. I want you to get to know some of your teammates now. Play is suspended, so you have as much time as it takes. Get to know them. Talk, but more importantly, listen. These people are wonderful. Forget about the game (it's suspended, remember?) and just get to know them as people. You'll be better for it.
Where the hell are you going? Don't set one foot on that field! You are such a rookie. You need balance. You're in such a rush to get in there and tackle, that all your finesse has gone out the window. For you, I'm assigning yoga AND meditation. I want you to sit. I want you to sit - alone. Sit alone in a room with no television, no music, no computer, no noise. Sit alone in a room with you, with your emotions and...feel.
Next season, maybe. Maybe you'll be ready to play. You tell me. You tell me if you recognize why you're in the game. You tell me if you're enough of a solo athlete to be a team player.
Now hit the showers. The colder the better.
©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
How to Handle a Houdini
"He pulled a Houdini."
It's a phrase that's batted about dating circles with disdain and disgust. Everyone seems to hate The Houdini. He's the man who shows fairly intense interest, perhaps takes a woman out on several dates and then, poof! He's gone leaving her behind in a cloud of bewilderment and confusion. There is no white dove, no rabbit, no Siberian tiger on a platform to wow his audience. He leaves behind an empty stage and a theater so silent you can almost hear the digits change on her cell phone LCD time display as she checks it once again from the third row back. The soft green glow lights her face as she hits "messages"...just in case. Nothing.
Harry Houdini (3/24/1874 - 10/31/1926) was a master illusionist. He was an escape artist. He didn't really disappear, although some wondered if he might have had the power to do so, given the sheer audacity and difficulty of his illusions and stunts. His profession required incredible physical and mental training, practice and precise timing. The Dating Houdini doesn't really deserve the title, because disappearing from a dating situation isn't nearly as grand when compared to what Houdini accomplished. Houdini had to work at what he did. He had to struggle, sweat, and at times risk his life. Most dating escape artists simply stop showing up. That's pretty easy in comparison.
The offender (the escape artist) can also be female. Nothing is to say that a Houdini has to be a male. There are two basic ways to handle being Houdini'd. I promise the first option is the most attractive to future suitors who might be paying attention to your behavior, but feel free to attempt option two. My guess is that if you're reading this and you have any inkling that option two has merit, my words won't hold much weight, but I have to try.
Option One: Move on after taking a quick personal inventory. How's your grooming, mood, manners, general presentation? I want this inventory to be ultra-brief. This is most likely, almost certainly, I can almost promise you, not about you! There, there, isn't that better? Forget about it. Take a walk, ride your bike, go to the movie, call a friend. Oh, and leave the booze and ice cream out of this. They have no part in it.
Option Two (Remember, not the recommended option): Call him or her. Texting is good, too. Email? Why not? Perhaps write a poem, odes are nice. Do you know any of his friends? Where does she work? You getting my drift? You can investigate, make sure, make really, really, really sure that nothing happened to him. He COULD be in a ditch somewhere, bleeding a steady, marching stream of blood cells out of a gash in his groin. Oh my God! If only he could. just. reach. his. cell. phone!!!
Now that you've considered your options, I'd like to cover one more point, the followup. There may be a time when you encounter your Houdini out in public. I suggest you smile, nod and keep on walking. That's what you would do with any stranger, is it not? Your date coach wants you to resist the urge to take up with the escape artist again.
I'm going to let you in on a little bit of personal history here. I rarely give out my own dating dirt, because I think it can be tacky, but this little resurrection of my own personal Houdini happened on Halloween, the anniversary of the Great One's death, so I think it's fitting. I hadn't heard from Mr. Man since he disappeared seven months earlier. Suddenly he's standing next to me at a party. He's talking to me and he seems quite interested. This was all quite surreal. I nodded, smiled and told him it was nice to see him. I couldn't very well have NOT talked at that point. I didn't hook up with him. I truly believe all that was attracting him was my handcuffs. Remember, it was Halloween, and he is an escape artist, after all.
©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved
It's a phrase that's batted about dating circles with disdain and disgust. Everyone seems to hate The Houdini. He's the man who shows fairly intense interest, perhaps takes a woman out on several dates and then, poof! He's gone leaving her behind in a cloud of bewilderment and confusion. There is no white dove, no rabbit, no Siberian tiger on a platform to wow his audience. He leaves behind an empty stage and a theater so silent you can almost hear the digits change on her cell phone LCD time display as she checks it once again from the third row back. The soft green glow lights her face as she hits "messages"...just in case. Nothing.
Harry Houdini (3/24/1874 - 10/31/1926) was a master illusionist. He was an escape artist. He didn't really disappear, although some wondered if he might have had the power to do so, given the sheer audacity and difficulty of his illusions and stunts. His profession required incredible physical and mental training, practice and precise timing. The Dating Houdini doesn't really deserve the title, because disappearing from a dating situation isn't nearly as grand when compared to what Houdini accomplished. Houdini had to work at what he did. He had to struggle, sweat, and at times risk his life. Most dating escape artists simply stop showing up. That's pretty easy in comparison.
The offender (the escape artist) can also be female. Nothing is to say that a Houdini has to be a male. There are two basic ways to handle being Houdini'd. I promise the first option is the most attractive to future suitors who might be paying attention to your behavior, but feel free to attempt option two. My guess is that if you're reading this and you have any inkling that option two has merit, my words won't hold much weight, but I have to try.
Option One: Move on after taking a quick personal inventory. How's your grooming, mood, manners, general presentation? I want this inventory to be ultra-brief. This is most likely, almost certainly, I can almost promise you, not about you! There, there, isn't that better? Forget about it. Take a walk, ride your bike, go to the movie, call a friend. Oh, and leave the booze and ice cream out of this. They have no part in it.
Option Two (Remember, not the recommended option): Call him or her. Texting is good, too. Email? Why not? Perhaps write a poem, odes are nice. Do you know any of his friends? Where does she work? You getting my drift? You can investigate, make sure, make really, really, really sure that nothing happened to him. He COULD be in a ditch somewhere, bleeding a steady, marching stream of blood cells out of a gash in his groin. Oh my God! If only he could. just. reach. his. cell. phone!!!
Now that you've considered your options, I'd like to cover one more point, the followup. There may be a time when you encounter your Houdini out in public. I suggest you smile, nod and keep on walking. That's what you would do with any stranger, is it not? Your date coach wants you to resist the urge to take up with the escape artist again.
I'm going to let you in on a little bit of personal history here. I rarely give out my own dating dirt, because I think it can be tacky, but this little resurrection of my own personal Houdini happened on Halloween, the anniversary of the Great One's death, so I think it's fitting. I hadn't heard from Mr. Man since he disappeared seven months earlier. Suddenly he's standing next to me at a party. He's talking to me and he seems quite interested. This was all quite surreal. I nodded, smiled and told him it was nice to see him. I couldn't very well have NOT talked at that point. I didn't hook up with him. I truly believe all that was attracting him was my handcuffs. Remember, it was Halloween, and he is an escape artist, after all.
©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Sharing Our Talents
I am more than my smile, my legs, and my career. I am a writer. Now, when on a date, I can talk about why I want to write and how I’ve learned to do so. It’s more entertaining to both of us than batting around flirty comments about high heeled boots. Finally!
My point?
What would your friends say about you if they were asked to write about one of your best talents? Take that thought and run with it. Hold on! I bet you’d look cute in an apron and heels, but that’s not the direction I want you to go. Give me something with a little more substance.
Your assignment (should you choose to accept it) is to pitch one of your shining talents to me. Go ahead; tell me what’s so wonderful about you. In the process, maybe you’ll start to believe it and then you’ll be able to talk to someone about something tangible.
Not long ago I was asked to do a friend a favor. She wanted me to write about her baking abilities. She’d grown weary of updating her online dating profile with new photographs and deep quotes from even deeper authors. She knew that where she did some of her best work was in the kitchen. She also knew that cooking for a partner would make her very happy, indeed. In the process, I learned a little more about myself. Here's what I wrote about my friend:
“An Introduction to ‘L’, Baker of Pies”
The woman is an accomplished cook. She is accomplished at many things. It seems that she puts her mind to something and she achieves that goal. She is bright, pretty, and I count her among my small circle of friends. She has a saucy sense of humor that is a pleasure to witness in action. This isn't about the overall package that is Laurel, though. This is about her pie-baking abilities.
I'd ask you to close your eyes and use your imagination, but you wouldn't be able to read my words. Why should you close your eyes? If your eyes were closed you'd be able to dedicate your senses - your imagination - to the textures, the tastes, the aromas of one of her creations. If your eyes were closed, I think you might get a better experience out of this little essay.
She starts with her great-grandmother's crust recipe. She tried to share it with me once, but I admit that my pie-making abilities are limited by my patience and my tendency to eyeball measurements. She is a stickler for ingredients and exact quantities. She is a self-described Kitchen Whore (yes, we need capitals) and she even has measuring spoons for dashes and pinches. I know her recipe is similar to that of my own great-grandmother, I would simply rather let her do the baking.
She chooses the right filling for the right occasion. I've had her pear tart in the fall and her pumpkin pie at Christmas. She makes a beautiful peach pie in summertime. You want a lattice top? Leaves or fluted edges? She can handle it with ease.
Now that I've given you the basics, let's get down to the real reason her pies are so good. She has the timing down to a science. She knows - she senses - when they should come out of the oven. Because of this innate knowledge, her guests can count on...
...a perfect slice with filling that yields with just the right amount of tenderness to the fork as the tines make their way to the golden crust that is at the same time, tender and flaky. This is a marriage of science and art in a Pyrex plate. Layers of crust melt in your mouth, with just a hint of saltiness, their crispness playing off of the sweetness of the filling. (This would be a great place to close your eyes.)
She comes complete with her own marble rolling pin, mixing bowls and I've seen her fill out an apron in the most fetching manner. She also insists on whipping her own cream for the pumpkin and if this doesn't convince you, imagine one more thing. Imagine sitting at the kitchen table and seeing her smiling face as she opens the freezer door and asks, "Would you like vanilla ice cream with that peach pie?"
Yummy! Aren’t you hungry now? Get busy, would you? Start working on your self-descriptors. I’m anxious to hear from you. I have a feeling you’ll find that once you start thinking about how terrific you are you’ll have the start of something to talk about over dinner. Just make sure to order coffee and take time to enjoy the dessert.
We’ll talk a little about listening later.
Contact me at:
askthedatecoach@live.com
©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved
My point?
What would your friends say about you if they were asked to write about one of your best talents? Take that thought and run with it. Hold on! I bet you’d look cute in an apron and heels, but that’s not the direction I want you to go. Give me something with a little more substance.
Your assignment (should you choose to accept it) is to pitch one of your shining talents to me. Go ahead; tell me what’s so wonderful about you. In the process, maybe you’ll start to believe it and then you’ll be able to talk to someone about something tangible.
Not long ago I was asked to do a friend a favor. She wanted me to write about her baking abilities. She’d grown weary of updating her online dating profile with new photographs and deep quotes from even deeper authors. She knew that where she did some of her best work was in the kitchen. She also knew that cooking for a partner would make her very happy, indeed. In the process, I learned a little more about myself. Here's what I wrote about my friend:
“An Introduction to ‘L’, Baker of Pies”
The woman is an accomplished cook. She is accomplished at many things. It seems that she puts her mind to something and she achieves that goal. She is bright, pretty, and I count her among my small circle of friends. She has a saucy sense of humor that is a pleasure to witness in action. This isn't about the overall package that is Laurel, though. This is about her pie-baking abilities.
I'd ask you to close your eyes and use your imagination, but you wouldn't be able to read my words. Why should you close your eyes? If your eyes were closed you'd be able to dedicate your senses - your imagination - to the textures, the tastes, the aromas of one of her creations. If your eyes were closed, I think you might get a better experience out of this little essay.
She starts with her great-grandmother's crust recipe. She tried to share it with me once, but I admit that my pie-making abilities are limited by my patience and my tendency to eyeball measurements. She is a stickler for ingredients and exact quantities. She is a self-described Kitchen Whore (yes, we need capitals) and she even has measuring spoons for dashes and pinches. I know her recipe is similar to that of my own great-grandmother, I would simply rather let her do the baking.
She chooses the right filling for the right occasion. I've had her pear tart in the fall and her pumpkin pie at Christmas. She makes a beautiful peach pie in summertime. You want a lattice top? Leaves or fluted edges? She can handle it with ease.
Now that I've given you the basics, let's get down to the real reason her pies are so good. She has the timing down to a science. She knows - she senses - when they should come out of the oven. Because of this innate knowledge, her guests can count on...
...a perfect slice with filling that yields with just the right amount of tenderness to the fork as the tines make their way to the golden crust that is at the same time, tender and flaky. This is a marriage of science and art in a Pyrex plate. Layers of crust melt in your mouth, with just a hint of saltiness, their crispness playing off of the sweetness of the filling. (This would be a great place to close your eyes.)
She comes complete with her own marble rolling pin, mixing bowls and I've seen her fill out an apron in the most fetching manner. She also insists on whipping her own cream for the pumpkin and if this doesn't convince you, imagine one more thing. Imagine sitting at the kitchen table and seeing her smiling face as she opens the freezer door and asks, "Would you like vanilla ice cream with that peach pie?"
Yummy! Aren’t you hungry now? Get busy, would you? Start working on your self-descriptors. I’m anxious to hear from you. I have a feeling you’ll find that once you start thinking about how terrific you are you’ll have the start of something to talk about over dinner. Just make sure to order coffee and take time to enjoy the dessert.
We’ll talk a little about listening later.
Contact me at:
askthedatecoach@live.com
©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved
Saturday, May 22, 2010
How Is Your Tenacity?
How is your tenacity? Do you hang on, or will you be shaken? I suggest you be shaken.
This morning I spent the better part of fifteen minutes pulling tiny burrs out of a picnic blanket. A group of us attended an outdoors performance of Puccini’s “Tosca” last night and when we arrived at the large grassy hill and claimed our spot I quickly realized that I’d carried with me several hundred hitchhikers from the Art Car Parade a couple weeks ago. After a quick glance at the little offenders, it became evident that they were dug in and wouldn’t budge with a shake of the blanket. The sweet grade-schooler in our party said they were only “bumpy” and didn’t really cause a bother. She was correct.
We enjoyed a beautiful late spring night in the park and I tossed the blanket in the laundry room when I arrived home, not thinking much about it until this morning when I realized I’d have to remove as many of the burrs by hand as possible before I washed it or it would end up a matted mess when it came out of the machine.
Removing them wasn’t unpleasant. They weren’t the big, pointy kind that pricks your fingers. It was just something that had to be done unless I wanted to throw the blanket out. I didn’t. Too many memories or fun times are wrapped up in that blanket. I keep it in my car for events just like last night. Houston is full of opportunities to share a meal outside with friends, or gaze at the stars while an orchestra plays, or just sit and talk. We live in a wonderful city for such things.
While I was picking those little burrs off the blanket I thought back to my own days in grade school when I learned how organisms and plants develop survival methods. Whatever seed was inside those heavily armored and pointy burrs had worked very hard to survive. Maybe I’d helped it along the way, carrying it from Allen Parkway and dropping one of its progeny along my route. Maybe it’s a noxious weed. Probably. One thing is for certain. It holds on.
Which brings me to Tosca, and me, and maybe you.
The character Floria Tosca (for those of you who aren’t familiar) carried herself as a strong woman. She was a prominent singer, even famous in her community. She fought off the advances of the Chief of Police and through the entire opera argued with her true love over her own jealousy which was oddly misplaced because the object of her affection was not cheating on Tosca. He was working on a religious painting, and if Tosca was anything, she was a church-going gal. She was one tenacious (read: “clingy”) woman. She held onto an idea and clutched it for all it was worth. She just kept going…and going. I won’t ruin the story for you, but I will tell you that if you want a classic opera experience, go see this one by Puccini.
Tosca, the singer, would annoy the hell out of me if she was my friend. I’d probably tell her to snap out of it. That kind of tenacity doesn’t get you very far. It doesn’t allow for optimal growth. If you’re lucky enough to fall into some random soil, great! Grow for all you’re worth but I think you may be in for being stuck, for being carried along on someone else’s blanket.
Today:
Letting go. Softening. Lying ON the blanket instead of being stuck to it – or worse yet, under it. That, my friend, is suffocation.
©Michelle Scofield, May 22, 2010 All Rights Reserved
Monday, May 17, 2010
A New/Old Project
Here I go!
I'm knee deep in thoughts, ideas, enthusiasm, you-name-it! The DateCoach is off and running again. I'm revising previous articles and collecting subjects for interview. Hopefully I'll have six or seven pieces to submit on spec and someone will think my idea is as great as I think it is.
In the meantime:
MyDateCoach@live.com
I'm taking questions, suggestions, comments, concerns.
Thanks to my fellow writers for all the encouragement.
M
I'm knee deep in thoughts, ideas, enthusiasm, you-name-it! The DateCoach is off and running again. I'm revising previous articles and collecting subjects for interview. Hopefully I'll have six or seven pieces to submit on spec and someone will think my idea is as great as I think it is.
In the meantime:
MyDateCoach@live.com
I'm taking questions, suggestions, comments, concerns.
Thanks to my fellow writers for all the encouragement.
M
Sunday, May 2, 2010
No Masks
It's been a busy weekend. Friday night started at the Houston Grand Opera. It was a work by Handel, Xerxes. I went with friends and we gathered here, at my apartment, for a late-late recap of the evening, filled with laughter and some serious talk, as well. I woke up three hours later to walk in a cancer fundraiser with office-mates and came home to fall into bed for a few hours. It was then off to a gallery tour.
I purchased a painting yesterday. It's by Houston artist, Patrick Palmer. The title is "Tribal Mask and Spirits, II". I've admired Mr. Palmer's works for some time, visiting his studio space, not thinking I could/would make the leap from visitor to collector. I'd never taken the initiative to speak with him before, although I'd walked through his space at least a half dozen times. Yesterday I felt a strong pull toward one of his paintings and decided I wanted to have it for my own. He told me what it means to him, and I'm so happy to have it.
Winding down at dinner last night, I was able to tell two of my best friends just how tired and confused I remain about relationships between men and women that go beyond friendship. It's fitting because the painting is really all about that, per Mr. Palmer. He included what he calls his "Latin" in it. It's a made-up language, barely visible, that represents the words we say to each other that aren't heard. He told me the painting is about balance between men and women, but he felt women had a better grasp on that (balance), in general. I'm not so sure.
Anyway...it's nice not to wear a mask, not to have false language, to be myself - and I love the painting. During times when I'm fatigued by enjoyable activities with people I love, I sleep better and I feel a sense that I'm wrapped in a blanket of caring. This is a protection - not a defense. There is such a difference between the two.
I purchased a painting yesterday. It's by Houston artist, Patrick Palmer. The title is "Tribal Mask and Spirits, II". I've admired Mr. Palmer's works for some time, visiting his studio space, not thinking I could/would make the leap from visitor to collector. I'd never taken the initiative to speak with him before, although I'd walked through his space at least a half dozen times. Yesterday I felt a strong pull toward one of his paintings and decided I wanted to have it for my own. He told me what it means to him, and I'm so happy to have it.
Winding down at dinner last night, I was able to tell two of my best friends just how tired and confused I remain about relationships between men and women that go beyond friendship. It's fitting because the painting is really all about that, per Mr. Palmer. He included what he calls his "Latin" in it. It's a made-up language, barely visible, that represents the words we say to each other that aren't heard. He told me the painting is about balance between men and women, but he felt women had a better grasp on that (balance), in general. I'm not so sure.
Anyway...it's nice not to wear a mask, not to have false language, to be myself - and I love the painting. During times when I'm fatigued by enjoyable activities with people I love, I sleep better and I feel a sense that I'm wrapped in a blanket of caring. This is a protection - not a defense. There is such a difference between the two.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Consent for Continuum
<---------------------------------------------->
Expecting A and receiving R, sending L and understanding that it was perceived as D. Do we stay stuck at our point on the line or adjust toward that where we actually landed? Events happen that are beyond our wants, our controls, our expectations. We are not firmly planted on any singly point. We may attempt to shore up a foundation around us and pile anything that may anchor us to our claimed positon, but the winds may blow, the waters may rise, or if we're lucky, we may spot something interesting on the horizon that lures us to venture further down the road and take a look, leaving behind that which held us firm.
The new point of landing can be unfamiliar and uncomfortable for a time. Nothing seems to fit, the temperature isn't right. I choose to examine my place on the continuum and learn from my new position. I give consent to move along the continuum, knowing that there are hazards and risks, but the benefits exceed the complications of such.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Great Words
I've been trying to wrap up the financial aspect of my father's life. Most of the pieces are falling into place. The taxes are done. I've figured out that there will never be enough to pay the bills. So that's how that goes. I spoke (again) today with the woman who works in the Benefits Office at his former employer. I asked her (again) to give me an update on one of his policies. She hemmed and hawed (again) and finally told me that she'd lost his death certificate.
Silence from me. I could hear her clear her throat on the other end of the line. I finally told her that I was flabbergasted.
Isn't that a great word? Flabbergasted just about said it all. I could have said flummoxed, but flummoxed doesn't roll off the tongue as easily. It kind of gets stuck in there behind what could be an impending pucker and then comes out as a guttural something or other that doesn't pack that much punch. No, flabbergasted was perfect.
She told me she'd fix this mistake as soon as I get another copy to her. I will - tomorrow.
After I hung up the phone, I decided to come up with a few more words that I like today. They are, in no particular order:
slink,
ashram,
hullaballoo,
fizzle,
and
clobber.
Silence from me. I could hear her clear her throat on the other end of the line. I finally told her that I was flabbergasted.
Isn't that a great word? Flabbergasted just about said it all. I could have said flummoxed, but flummoxed doesn't roll off the tongue as easily. It kind of gets stuck in there behind what could be an impending pucker and then comes out as a guttural something or other that doesn't pack that much punch. No, flabbergasted was perfect.
She told me she'd fix this mistake as soon as I get another copy to her. I will - tomorrow.
After I hung up the phone, I decided to come up with a few more words that I like today. They are, in no particular order:
slink,
ashram,
hullaballoo,
fizzle,
and
clobber.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Risk Beats Fear (grown up paper/rock/scissors)
“Loving can cost a lot but not loving always costs more, and those who fear to love often find that want of love is an emptiness that robs the joy from life.” Merle Shain
This morning I am aware of pockets of emptiness. I suppose that is better than the gaping hole, a seeming unfillable void, I've felt in the remote past. I wonder, as I type this if I'm even feeling "empty" so much as "ready". I'm thinking of the measuring cups in my cabinets. There is a feeling I get when I reach to pull one out and know that I will fill it with something - flour, or cocoa - some ingredient that will combine with the others to create a rich product after I've stirred it properly and allowed it to bake long enough. I have potential to fill these places in me, I'm not empty. Not really.
I took a risk last week and allowed myself to admit that I was attracted to someone and I went on one of those things that seemed to be a real date. You know what I'm talking about: wine, dinner, conversation over a couple of hours. A proper hug ended the evening and there was talk of seeing a movie the next week. This was no stranger. This was someone who was part of my circle of friends and we'd been slowly getting to know one another. Our other friends seemed to think we'd be right for each other and were watching from the periphery to see if any sparks would fly whenever the gang got together. I thought they did. I guess I was wrong.
Despite texts the day after the dinner, even meeting up to look at art the very next day...last night's movie didn't happen. At least it didn't happen between him and me. It happened with another friend and me. I feel bad about our other friends. I feel like they're going to feel awkward. I feel bad about my thinking there was more. I felt bad about wanting more.
But then I read the quote by Merle Shain (above). I DO want more. I can't apologize for wanting a life with someone who is a great guy. (He is, after all - a great guy.) I can't feel bad about wanting to be happy. That would really be silly in my books. The thing is, if I don't try, I'll never succeed. If I settle for less than what works for both of us, I'll end up in my remote past right here in my present. That is void and that is impossible. I move on and I live in gratitude for the friend who understands me and spent Friday evening with me. I had a wonderful time at dinner with someone who, like me, couldn't figure out why the girl who took our orders couldn't make eye contact. I was able to tell him (before the movie started) that I was disappointed, but not despondent, and that getting older and being alone is one of my biggest fears. I watched the movie with a quirky person like me, who leaned over and whispered to me at the times when the dialogue was the very funniest. I have a well of strength to draw from in my small group of friends that is deeper than I can even begin to imagine. They know that they can expect the same from me. I am fully aware that not everyone can say that. I have the ingredients for a successful and happy life all around me, in fact I am living it. I cannot dwell on those little pockets of emptiness for they are simply places of potential that lie in wait. Patience, Michelle. Patience and recognition of the grace that has already filled the void.
This morning I am aware of pockets of emptiness. I suppose that is better than the gaping hole, a seeming unfillable void, I've felt in the remote past. I wonder, as I type this if I'm even feeling "empty" so much as "ready". I'm thinking of the measuring cups in my cabinets. There is a feeling I get when I reach to pull one out and know that I will fill it with something - flour, or cocoa - some ingredient that will combine with the others to create a rich product after I've stirred it properly and allowed it to bake long enough. I have potential to fill these places in me, I'm not empty. Not really.
I took a risk last week and allowed myself to admit that I was attracted to someone and I went on one of those things that seemed to be a real date. You know what I'm talking about: wine, dinner, conversation over a couple of hours. A proper hug ended the evening and there was talk of seeing a movie the next week. This was no stranger. This was someone who was part of my circle of friends and we'd been slowly getting to know one another. Our other friends seemed to think we'd be right for each other and were watching from the periphery to see if any sparks would fly whenever the gang got together. I thought they did. I guess I was wrong.
Despite texts the day after the dinner, even meeting up to look at art the very next day...last night's movie didn't happen. At least it didn't happen between him and me. It happened with another friend and me. I feel bad about our other friends. I feel like they're going to feel awkward. I feel bad about my thinking there was more. I felt bad about wanting more.
But then I read the quote by Merle Shain (above). I DO want more. I can't apologize for wanting a life with someone who is a great guy. (He is, after all - a great guy.) I can't feel bad about wanting to be happy. That would really be silly in my books. The thing is, if I don't try, I'll never succeed. If I settle for less than what works for both of us, I'll end up in my remote past right here in my present. That is void and that is impossible. I move on and I live in gratitude for the friend who understands me and spent Friday evening with me. I had a wonderful time at dinner with someone who, like me, couldn't figure out why the girl who took our orders couldn't make eye contact. I was able to tell him (before the movie started) that I was disappointed, but not despondent, and that getting older and being alone is one of my biggest fears. I watched the movie with a quirky person like me, who leaned over and whispered to me at the times when the dialogue was the very funniest. I have a well of strength to draw from in my small group of friends that is deeper than I can even begin to imagine. They know that they can expect the same from me. I am fully aware that not everyone can say that. I have the ingredients for a successful and happy life all around me, in fact I am living it. I cannot dwell on those little pockets of emptiness for they are simply places of potential that lie in wait. Patience, Michelle. Patience and recognition of the grace that has already filled the void.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Finding Words
I've written so little since my father died. Recently, as I gowned and gloved for a big surgical case, a surgeon asked me why I haven't sent him any of my work. He's interested in the pieces I write that bring my morbid fascination with body parts and near death and the beauty of surgery all into a tidy poetic package. I told him that since Dad's death I'm just not motivated, that I can't seem to find my muse. Truth is that I've been so tired. I've been going home after work and falling onto my couch, then into my bed. I've had no energy for words.
Slowly this is changing. I've been sleeping better. I'm running again. I've been out with friends - often. They tell me I'm much more like my old self, and have been for weeks. Yesterday the words flowed from me in a happy, familiar way. I turned the stereo off and enjoyed the tap-tap of my keyboard as I filled the screen in front of me with line after line of what may be good. I think it's good. At the very least, it felt good.
Slowly this is changing. I've been sleeping better. I'm running again. I've been out with friends - often. They tell me I'm much more like my old self, and have been for weeks. Yesterday the words flowed from me in a happy, familiar way. I turned the stereo off and enjoyed the tap-tap of my keyboard as I filled the screen in front of me with line after line of what may be good. I think it's good. At the very least, it felt good.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Emergence
As spring makes itself known again on the Gulfcoast, pollen scatters over the city and declares that the most popular automobile color will be yellow for the next few weeks. I find myself stretching toward the sun with the determination of a lily - or an iris - that's waited quietly for the right moment to show my true self to the world.
I am once again alive - purple, red, blue, piercing white. I flutter in the breeze that turns me toward each next wonder. Mockingbirds chatter across the branches of magnolias, sounding certain in their call to each other, no hesitation in their communication. A boy and his father hold hands as they walk down the street. The boy is careful to jump over the cracks and the father lifts him slightly with each little hop. A heron stands on one leg in the bayou. Water swirls around him in tiny eddies. I think, "How long he will be there?" He lifts his wings and swoops away, under the bridge and out of my sight.
Leaning against a birch I feel my own contrast with the bark, the earth, and the sky. Inhaling, the bright blue of the early afternoon fills me with a swirling of life that has waited for me patiently for months. The crescent daylight moon catches my eye and welcomes me home.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Creepshow
Waiting for another friend to arrive at the Art Festival, L and I watched the crowd move through the entrance. It's an artsy crowd. It's not unusual to see all kinds, but this guy...this guy stood out. Not only was he approaching (I'm guessing) six and a half feet in height, he was wearing a straw fedora, a linen jacket with the sleeves rolled up, no shirt, Bermuda shorts and flip-flops. He had that pumped-up look, all brawn and no brain. What? Do I judge? Well, yes! He was a walking cartoon. He was also every bit of fifty years old. Ridiculous. L and I are perfectly capable of discreetly noticing the outrageous and pointing it out to each other. We did. We watched him as he wandered about the artists' booths, chest puffed up and eventually he disappeared into the crowd. Wow.
We mentioned him to our other friend, V, after she arrived. As we walked among the crowd, the topic turned to hats. The teenage son of V wanted to know what exactly was a fedora. After we went through that description, the conversation quickly turned to other topics and the Cock of the Walk was forgotten for the next three hours. I wish it had stayed that way.
We decided we'd had enough fresh air, sunshine, and art and we made our way back to the main gate. I asked V's son to snap a quick picture of the three of us next to a signpost for the festival. We moved close together and started to flash the requisite smiles. That's when Mr. Fedora showed up, standing behind our photographer, just standing there - smiling at us. Very, very creepy. Just as suddenly as he appeared, he took off walking down a path. I turned to V and said, "Did you see him? That's that guy?"
He gets about 100 yards away, turns around and heads back towards us. The guy headed right at us, nearly brushing into us.
I have no idea what his deal was.
I'm pretty sure I don't want to know.
I'm hoping he was some sort of plant for a social experiment and we failed. If he wasn't, I'm seriously creeped.
We mentioned him to our other friend, V, after she arrived. As we walked among the crowd, the topic turned to hats. The teenage son of V wanted to know what exactly was a fedora. After we went through that description, the conversation quickly turned to other topics and the Cock of the Walk was forgotten for the next three hours. I wish it had stayed that way.
We decided we'd had enough fresh air, sunshine, and art and we made our way back to the main gate. I asked V's son to snap a quick picture of the three of us next to a signpost for the festival. We moved close together and started to flash the requisite smiles. That's when Mr. Fedora showed up, standing behind our photographer, just standing there - smiling at us. Very, very creepy. Just as suddenly as he appeared, he took off walking down a path. I turned to V and said, "Did you see him? That's that guy?"
He gets about 100 yards away, turns around and heads back towards us. The guy headed right at us, nearly brushing into us.
I have no idea what his deal was.
I'm pretty sure I don't want to know.
I'm hoping he was some sort of plant for a social experiment and we failed. If he wasn't, I'm seriously creeped.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Rain and Light
It's raining and the wind is moving through the canyons of Midtown, letting us know that spring isn't summer and we shouldn't get so carried away as to wear sundresses and sandals just yet. I've been inside all day, catching up on this and that. Mostly I've been enjoying listening to the sound of the fat raindrops as they hit my windows. I've got the shades open enough to let what sunlight can filter into my apartment without me exchanging full-on glances with my neighbors across the courtyard. It's not that I want to be antisocial, I just don't feel like sharing all that much today. It's a quiet day. Nice.
I realized that I haven't written here for a while. I've been in New Orleans, visiting my son and his sweetheart. We ate in charming restaurants, off the beaten path. We tried to watch the St. Patrick's parade, but it was on New Orleans time (ran four hours late). We were so beat from walking a couple miles and consuming green beer that we gave up and went home. The people-watching was excellent along the route. I did a little shopping for Mother-of-the-Groom dresses. Didn't buy anything. The wedding is many months away. I have time and I need to be in the right frame of mind to purchase something so important. I consider it of extreme import. I'm very happy about this wedding.
I have no photographs to document my vacation. I forgot my camera.
Taking eight days off work was just what I needed. I should have done it last month, but should've never did anything - that's what my mom used to say. I'm just glad I took time time away. My outlook feels much brighter, even as I look out my window onto a gray sky, it's not bleak. Not one bit.
I've been thinking about the canvas and paints I have stored away. There's more than one way to record memories and there's more than one way to bring light into a room. It may be time to bring them out again.
I realized that I haven't written here for a while. I've been in New Orleans, visiting my son and his sweetheart. We ate in charming restaurants, off the beaten path. We tried to watch the St. Patrick's parade, but it was on New Orleans time (ran four hours late). We were so beat from walking a couple miles and consuming green beer that we gave up and went home. The people-watching was excellent along the route. I did a little shopping for Mother-of-the-Groom dresses. Didn't buy anything. The wedding is many months away. I have time and I need to be in the right frame of mind to purchase something so important. I consider it of extreme import. I'm very happy about this wedding.
I have no photographs to document my vacation. I forgot my camera.
Taking eight days off work was just what I needed. I should have done it last month, but should've never did anything - that's what my mom used to say. I'm just glad I took time time away. My outlook feels much brighter, even as I look out my window onto a gray sky, it's not bleak. Not one bit.
I've been thinking about the canvas and paints I have stored away. There's more than one way to record memories and there's more than one way to bring light into a room. It may be time to bring them out again.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Mas Masa
How many people does it take to make a tortilla?
Define "make".
We gathered in the kitchen and looked at the newest purchase, a tortilla press. It was a worthy idea. We would come together and cook a meal as we'd done many times before. This time we'd take it one step further and prepare the most basic ingredients ourselves, the tortillas. Our host had taken the effort to purchase the corn and the flour. He had a press and he told us it would be easy. "Just add water until the dough forms a ball."
Bueno.
Almost an hour later we were still without a single success. We were lubricated with vodka tonics and there was guacamole to sate our building appetites. Laughter filled the kitchen and there was talk of walking to the grocery store on the next block to buy some packaged tortillas.
"No! We can do this!"
We added more masa. We got our hands dirty. We tried again. And...
Success!
We started cranking out one after the other of perfect round discs of corn, passing them to the cooks who heated them on the griddle. The smoky aroma started to fill the room. We toasted our success and laughed as the stack started building, waiting for the grilled fish, chicken and beef.
Our host beamed as we all sat down to a fajita dinner that night. We'd come together to make it happen. His latest gadget was a hit. There was talk among the crowd of some of us even buying one of our own.
Sometimes it takes a village.
Define "make".
We gathered in the kitchen and looked at the newest purchase, a tortilla press. It was a worthy idea. We would come together and cook a meal as we'd done many times before. This time we'd take it one step further and prepare the most basic ingredients ourselves, the tortillas. Our host had taken the effort to purchase the corn and the flour. He had a press and he told us it would be easy. "Just add water until the dough forms a ball."
Bueno.
Almost an hour later we were still without a single success. We were lubricated with vodka tonics and there was guacamole to sate our building appetites. Laughter filled the kitchen and there was talk of walking to the grocery store on the next block to buy some packaged tortillas.
"No! We can do this!"
We added more masa. We got our hands dirty. We tried again. And...
Success!
We started cranking out one after the other of perfect round discs of corn, passing them to the cooks who heated them on the griddle. The smoky aroma started to fill the room. We toasted our success and laughed as the stack started building, waiting for the grilled fish, chicken and beef.
Our host beamed as we all sat down to a fajita dinner that night. We'd come together to make it happen. His latest gadget was a hit. There was talk among the crowd of some of us even buying one of our own.
Sometimes it takes a village.
Monday, March 1, 2010
In My Little Black Book
I haven't done much creative writing lately, because...
...I visited with a counselor to help me get a handle on this sadness.
She suggested I write in a journal instead.
Why?
I don't sleep so great. I have a headache. I've been concerned that my muse might have taken flight.
That's not it - my muse is probably sitting in some corner of my apartment, waiting for me to finish what I need to finish. I'm in mourning. Rather, I should be in mourning, but I haven't allowed myself the time to go there. I've been working at my paid job and the need to mourn has manifested in teeth-gnashing, sleepless nights that leave me gulping coffee during long days occupied by dull headaches that keep me from having a single creative thought, let alone the energy to compose a clever sentence or phrase.
So I'm putting a few words in a lined notebook I picked up from the clearance rack at Target. It's got a pretty black cover, all swirly, velvety and black. I'm writing to my Dad, about my Dad, for my Dad. It doesn't make much sense. I guess it doesn't have to.
I look forward to meeting with my muse again. Maybe we'll sit down for a cup of herbal tea and catch up on old times.
...I visited with a counselor to help me get a handle on this sadness.
She suggested I write in a journal instead.
Why?
I don't sleep so great. I have a headache. I've been concerned that my muse might have taken flight.
That's not it - my muse is probably sitting in some corner of my apartment, waiting for me to finish what I need to finish. I'm in mourning. Rather, I should be in mourning, but I haven't allowed myself the time to go there. I've been working at my paid job and the need to mourn has manifested in teeth-gnashing, sleepless nights that leave me gulping coffee during long days occupied by dull headaches that keep me from having a single creative thought, let alone the energy to compose a clever sentence or phrase.
So I'm putting a few words in a lined notebook I picked up from the clearance rack at Target. It's got a pretty black cover, all swirly, velvety and black. I'm writing to my Dad, about my Dad, for my Dad. It doesn't make much sense. I guess it doesn't have to.
I look forward to meeting with my muse again. Maybe we'll sit down for a cup of herbal tea and catch up on old times.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
"Listen to Me"
I sat in the chair opposite and asked how he was doing. It was obvious he wasn't doing that great. The side of his face was swollen, showing the signs of what we'd done the previous week. We'd taken a section of his jaw, placed it in a metal basin. We left him in a room with another team who fabricated a replacement part for him from a small piece of his lower leg and a plate that resembled something from my brother's erector set - all slots and screws. Not only was he swollen, he was bruised and his eyes had that dull look of someone who has had just enough narcotic to lower the boil to a simmer, but not enough to be able to describe pain as "gone".
He called me by my name but only after making the effort to look at the plastic-shielded tag hanging from the lapel of my lab coat. He pulled a piece of paper from his left shirt pocket, unfolded it, and started to read what was written on that pale green, lined sheet of paper.
"I want you to listen to me. For the last three years, I get up every morning and decide what I will eat that day. Almost everything goes into my blender, or I eat grits, or eggs. I love milk, so I drink a lot of milk. Oh, coffee. I have to have my coffee. The only way I can eat in a restaurant is to order grits and eggs. I want a steak so bad and I'll never eat another one. I bought an expensive blender. I make soup out of everything. I know what my body needs to be healthy. I put vegetables in there, and fruit. I never drink alcohol. My weight is stable. I haven't smoked for years. I want someone to listen to me and to understand what I've been going through. Everything I eat, I eat out of that blender."
He looked at me. I couldn't remember if his eyes were brown before, but they seemed black at that moment.
"I hear you. Do you need to tell me anything else?"
He folded the paper and put it back in his pocket, shaking his head. "No, that's all."
I've been asked what I gain from my work. Sometimes I don't know at a particular moment, I only know much later. The moment in time I described seemed very special, though. I felt as if I gained insight into what it felt like to be in someone else's skin. I'm pretty sure that was the point. I'm almost certain of it.
He called me by my name but only after making the effort to look at the plastic-shielded tag hanging from the lapel of my lab coat. He pulled a piece of paper from his left shirt pocket, unfolded it, and started to read what was written on that pale green, lined sheet of paper.
"I want you to listen to me. For the last three years, I get up every morning and decide what I will eat that day. Almost everything goes into my blender, or I eat grits, or eggs. I love milk, so I drink a lot of milk. Oh, coffee. I have to have my coffee. The only way I can eat in a restaurant is to order grits and eggs. I want a steak so bad and I'll never eat another one. I bought an expensive blender. I make soup out of everything. I know what my body needs to be healthy. I put vegetables in there, and fruit. I never drink alcohol. My weight is stable. I haven't smoked for years. I want someone to listen to me and to understand what I've been going through. Everything I eat, I eat out of that blender."
He looked at me. I couldn't remember if his eyes were brown before, but they seemed black at that moment.
"I hear you. Do you need to tell me anything else?"
He folded the paper and put it back in his pocket, shaking his head. "No, that's all."
I've been asked what I gain from my work. Sometimes I don't know at a particular moment, I only know much later. The moment in time I described seemed very special, though. I felt as if I gained insight into what it felt like to be in someone else's skin. I'm pretty sure that was the point. I'm almost certain of it.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Letting myself run, letting myself write...
With no real plan and beautiful weather calling me, I let my feet take me where they wanted. I ran through River Oaks, winding through the manicured, mansioned-lined streets for an hour. It was just me and the gardeners and an occasional bee-stung woman in a Porsche - or some other car I'd never drive. I'm just not that good at the car thing.
Sidewalk repair forced me to be ginger at times, tip-toeing and stretching my stride, taking care not to trip on stray bricks as a xylophone played some tune I don't know through my MP3 player. The song showed up on my playlist one day after I moved some music around, trying to learn how the device works. That was months ago. I've heard that song dozens of times and it sounds new each time. I still don't really know how the player works, either.
Today the sun won the match fought with the winter chill. Although it was only 48 degrees, it felt closer to 60 and it seemed as if spring was pulling at me to stay outside just a little longer. I kept moving, not wanting to end my run. I saw a robin, but she was laying dead on the sidewalk. She looked colder than I felt.
Fatigue continues to be my running partner. It's not overbearing, or overwhelming. It runs next to me and when I kick off my shoes, it sits on the couch with me, asking if we can take a nap even before we take a shower.
It feels as if this shroud will lift if I don't wrap it around me. If I don't pull it close, it won't gain purchase. I'll allow myself rest, but I won't allow myself complete surrender. Yesterday I had a feeling that each day brings something extraordinary. It was more of an enlightenment. I think I'll go with that.
Sidewalk repair forced me to be ginger at times, tip-toeing and stretching my stride, taking care not to trip on stray bricks as a xylophone played some tune I don't know through my MP3 player. The song showed up on my playlist one day after I moved some music around, trying to learn how the device works. That was months ago. I've heard that song dozens of times and it sounds new each time. I still don't really know how the player works, either.
Today the sun won the match fought with the winter chill. Although it was only 48 degrees, it felt closer to 60 and it seemed as if spring was pulling at me to stay outside just a little longer. I kept moving, not wanting to end my run. I saw a robin, but she was laying dead on the sidewalk. She looked colder than I felt.
Fatigue continues to be my running partner. It's not overbearing, or overwhelming. It runs next to me and when I kick off my shoes, it sits on the couch with me, asking if we can take a nap even before we take a shower.
It feels as if this shroud will lift if I don't wrap it around me. If I don't pull it close, it won't gain purchase. I'll allow myself rest, but I won't allow myself complete surrender. Yesterday I had a feeling that each day brings something extraordinary. It was more of an enlightenment. I think I'll go with that.
Friday, February 12, 2010
A Recent Discussion: Amid Pizza, Beer and That Trusting Feeling of Being Able to Say What Matters
What to write about? What topic is most on my mind at this time? I'll delve into the most recent political discussion I had because it really gets to the heart of what matters to me.
I think many of us were schooled in the Guns or Butter Debate at some point in our academic careers. I remember Mrs. Fark (really, Mrs. Fark) talking to us about it in the fourth grade. She was stern, tall, buttoned-up, and I think I still have scars on my right wrist where her fingernails dug into me one day. I'm not sure why she made an impression on my scholarly life, but I can remember that when she wasn't terrifying me, she taught me a thing or two. I don't know if she came down on one side or the other of the debate about arming a nation or feeding its people, but she gave us the basics. At the time, I believed that war was evil. I was afraid that my brothers would be drafted and I didn't want anyone to go hungry. My little heart was already beginning to bleed.
Today, we've warped to a time when it seems almost impossible to choose between guns or butter. We are a military nation, expanding our might globally while people starve within our borders and worldwide. I have accepted that I can only fight as far as my arms or my personal resources will reach. I am able to donate funds to local and global charities to help feed those who are without, but I am simply not able to stop the war machine, as much as I might desire to do so.
There is a new debate/choice waging now that I think holds similarities, yet can be looked at on an even more finite ethical level.
Us –vs.- Them.
Well, that sounds a little vague, doesn’t it? Consider the issue of health care. I’ve heard the argument that our elected officials should solve the unemployment crisis before tackling health care accessibility for all Americans. I’ve also heard it said that taxes should be lowered before health care is addressed.
I’ve heard myriad “issues” proposed as more important than health care.
My opinion, my inkling, is that perhaps, PERHAPS, it’s an us –vs.- them issue. Is not the ability to obtain quality health care in a timely manner something that we should expect our citizens to be able to do? I understand the difference between a “right” and a “privilege”. I’m just saying that when I look at my fellow humans, I see no reason why they shouldn’t have access to health care: basic, timely, efficient health care unless it's about taking care of "us" before we take care of "them".
I don’t need my taxes addressed before that happens. I understand that I could lose my job tomorrow. I’ve lost my job before.
I’m talking about the way we treat other human beings. I’m talking about my guns and butter.
I think many of us were schooled in the Guns or Butter Debate at some point in our academic careers. I remember Mrs. Fark (really, Mrs. Fark) talking to us about it in the fourth grade. She was stern, tall, buttoned-up, and I think I still have scars on my right wrist where her fingernails dug into me one day. I'm not sure why she made an impression on my scholarly life, but I can remember that when she wasn't terrifying me, she taught me a thing or two. I don't know if she came down on one side or the other of the debate about arming a nation or feeding its people, but she gave us the basics. At the time, I believed that war was evil. I was afraid that my brothers would be drafted and I didn't want anyone to go hungry. My little heart was already beginning to bleed.
Today, we've warped to a time when it seems almost impossible to choose between guns or butter. We are a military nation, expanding our might globally while people starve within our borders and worldwide. I have accepted that I can only fight as far as my arms or my personal resources will reach. I am able to donate funds to local and global charities to help feed those who are without, but I am simply not able to stop the war machine, as much as I might desire to do so.
There is a new debate/choice waging now that I think holds similarities, yet can be looked at on an even more finite ethical level.
Us –vs.- Them.
Well, that sounds a little vague, doesn’t it? Consider the issue of health care. I’ve heard the argument that our elected officials should solve the unemployment crisis before tackling health care accessibility for all Americans. I’ve also heard it said that taxes should be lowered before health care is addressed.
I’ve heard myriad “issues” proposed as more important than health care.
My opinion, my inkling, is that perhaps, PERHAPS, it’s an us –vs.- them issue. Is not the ability to obtain quality health care in a timely manner something that we should expect our citizens to be able to do? I understand the difference between a “right” and a “privilege”. I’m just saying that when I look at my fellow humans, I see no reason why they shouldn’t have access to health care: basic, timely, efficient health care unless it's about taking care of "us" before we take care of "them".
I don’t need my taxes addressed before that happens. I understand that I could lose my job tomorrow. I’ve lost my job before.
I’m talking about the way we treat other human beings. I’m talking about my guns and butter.
Monday, February 8, 2010
One foot...
...in front of the other.
This is what running gives me. It gives me a simple action to take after I set my feet upon the pavement and put my worries down knowing they will be there when I return in forty-five minutes or an hour.
I can let things go.
It seems that I am lacking answers to questions yet to be determined and running is so simple, so undemanding. It asks nothing of me.
Someone told me I should consider the MS-150 next. That would involve equipment, and training for a new sport. That would be complicated. I like simple.
I want to continue to run.
One foot in front of the other.
This is what running gives me. It gives me a simple action to take after I set my feet upon the pavement and put my worries down knowing they will be there when I return in forty-five minutes or an hour.
I can let things go.
It seems that I am lacking answers to questions yet to be determined and running is so simple, so undemanding. It asks nothing of me.
Someone told me I should consider the MS-150 next. That would involve equipment, and training for a new sport. That would be complicated. I like simple.
I want to continue to run.
One foot in front of the other.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Sacramento Airport Writing Opportunity
I had almost 2 hours before my flight out of Sacramento yesterday and I wanted to sit, rest, and attempt a collection of myself - if not my thoughts. The last week was nonstop tasks and tears, then more tears followed by more tasks. We said goodbye to my Dad. Such a shock.
I found the little wine bar that I'd previously frequented and claimed a table in the corner. The family enjoyed some fabulous wines the last few days. Dad would have wanted it that way. Yesterday I chose a moderate South American glass of red to go with my penne and cheese. The pasta came with smoked gouda and truffle oil. Not typical macaroni and cheese, but certainly comfort food. I rounded it out with a small green salad. I know music played above. I remember hearing Willie Nelson at one point, but mostly I heard/felt/thought nothing...until I started looking deeper into that glass and so many of the dinners, the trip to Napa, the glasses we shared came back. I had no more tears left (at least not at that point yesterday morning). They would resurface later in the day. I pulled out a notepad and wrote.
Blackberry and Leather
Purple swirls and my thoughts
pull down the sides of the glass.
I wonder if I will ever enjoy
this again
without thinking of you.
The notes you taught me
sing on crystal edge.
Cherry.
Lavender.
Earth.
Mocha.
Time? No meaning.
I am standing in
row upon row of
brilliant yellow.
The mustard plants compete with
piercing blue of Napa sky
and I know there must be more
to this than that.
M. Scofield 02/02/10
I found the little wine bar that I'd previously frequented and claimed a table in the corner. The family enjoyed some fabulous wines the last few days. Dad would have wanted it that way. Yesterday I chose a moderate South American glass of red to go with my penne and cheese. The pasta came with smoked gouda and truffle oil. Not typical macaroni and cheese, but certainly comfort food. I rounded it out with a small green salad. I know music played above. I remember hearing Willie Nelson at one point, but mostly I heard/felt/thought nothing...until I started looking deeper into that glass and so many of the dinners, the trip to Napa, the glasses we shared came back. I had no more tears left (at least not at that point yesterday morning). They would resurface later in the day. I pulled out a notepad and wrote.
Blackberry and Leather
Purple swirls and my thoughts
pull down the sides of the glass.
I wonder if I will ever enjoy
this again
without thinking of you.
The notes you taught me
sing on crystal edge.
Cherry.
Lavender.
Earth.
Mocha.
Time? No meaning.
I am standing in
row upon row of
brilliant yellow.
The mustard plants compete with
piercing blue of Napa sky
and I know there must be more
to this than that.
M. Scofield 02/02/10
Monday, January 18, 2010
Connections
I've heard from no less than forty of my friends and family today. I'm in awe of the outpouring of support that I've had in my quest to complete the goal of running the distance of thirteen miles. I haven't experienced any of the letdown I expected. I'm basking in the glow of the love and caring shown to me by those who have reached out to me to let me know that they are here for me.
I am one lucky woman.
There is one thing, though. At the corner of Westheimer and Montrose, a man called out to me. "Michelle! You look great! Keep going!"
I have to admit that I don't know who it was. I turned and told him thanks as I continued to run, but I was wearing my contacts and I don't have any idea who recognized me and cheered me on. (My bib didn't have my first name printed on it, so it wasn't just a random spectator. He knew me.) Whoever he was, he did a lot toward getting me through that mile.
I'm lifting up gratitude for all my connections. I feel as if I turned a corner yesterday and am moving on toward something new. I'm not sure what it is, but I look forward to discovery.
I am one lucky woman.
There is one thing, though. At the corner of Westheimer and Montrose, a man called out to me. "Michelle! You look great! Keep going!"
I have to admit that I don't know who it was. I turned and told him thanks as I continued to run, but I was wearing my contacts and I don't have any idea who recognized me and cheered me on. (My bib didn't have my first name printed on it, so it wasn't just a random spectator. He knew me.) Whoever he was, he did a lot toward getting me through that mile.
I'm lifting up gratitude for all my connections. I feel as if I turned a corner yesterday and am moving on toward something new. I'm not sure what it is, but I look forward to discovery.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Top Ten List
Distance: 13.1 miles
Start time: 7:18 am
Run Duration: 150 minutes
Average Pace: 11.5 minutes/mile
Temperature: 51 degrees
Humidity: 59%
Location: Houston, TX
Today was the day. Just over 250 miles of training led me to the starting line of the Aramco Half-Marathon. I wasn't nervous. I felt ready. It took 8 minutes to get from my position among thousands of runners across the starting line. I glanced at my watch, 7:18. I could remember that. I wished I'd started running when I was 18 years old. Remembering the time would prove very important to me. Here are the 10 things that stand out most about today's run. Oh, and thanks again to those readers who've left comments here or emailed me personally. Much, much appreciated.
10. Sleep counts, but not as much as I might think it does. I set my alarm for 4:30 and I woke up at 4 instead. I'm glad I got up and had a breakfast of scrambled eggs and half a bagel instead of trying to rush around. I managed to score a great parking spot downtown and didn't feel rushed. I came home after everything was over today and slept 2 blissful, deep hours. I haven't appreciated sleep and slept so well until I started running regularly.
9. I have to ask for help when I need it. Odd that my left knee started hurting (HURTING!!!) at mile 4. This was a new pain, a different pain and it had me worried that I wouldn't finish the race. I tried to run through it, passing a medic station. At mile 9, I stopped and asked if they had anything that might help. They had Icy Hot topical cream. I quickly applied it - liberally - to my left knee and leg and kept running, reminding myself not to touch my eyes with my left hand. I don't think I would have been able to finish without that bit of help. It still hurts. Ice is applied now. Hopefully tomorrow will find some relief, if not...I'll ask for more help.
8. When you gotta go you gotta go. I stopped at a port-a-john at mile 5. I got a big kick out of seeing the men bypass the facilities to, um, water the trees along White Oak Bayou. Oh, to have a camera. It was a missed photo opportunity, for sure.
7. Experience has its benefits. I overheard a very old man, I mean very old man, ask some of the volunteers for a lift to the starting line of the marathon. He was wearing a "Veteran Runners" Bib. He'd run in over 20 marathons. Wow.
6. Contacts may not be good for driving, ordering off a menu, or operating on a neck, but they are great for running. I wish I had realized it sooner.
5. Even when I read directions, I can make mistakes. I attached the directions portion of my timing chip to my shoe. There is no electronic record of me crossing the start, finish, or any other line during the course of the race. The timing chip portion was neatly attached to my belongings bag the entire time, safely on a shelf in the convention center. I'm laughing even as I type this. At least I had the presence of mind to wear my watch and notice what time I finished the race. I'm glad I don't do this to compete with others.
4. Clothes make this woman. We had two "coupons" attached to our bibs - one for a hot meal and one for a finisher's shirt. I couldn't have cared less about the biscuit and sausage. I wanted that shirt. It's a nice one, too. I will absolutely wear it with pride.
3. I need new shoes. Oh yeah, I've decided I'm still going to run. But I don't know if it will be for distance. I know my shoes have enough miles on them now to justify a new pair. I also like what the running has done to my body. Vain one, I am.
2. Friends matter.Seeing a friend standing along the route, where he said he'd be meant the world to me. Thank you, Matt.
1. Tears happen. Hardened soul that I am, when the finisher's medal was placed around my neck, I actually teared up. I was surprised at myself. Really? Really. Tears happen.
Start time: 7:18 am
Run Duration: 150 minutes
Average Pace: 11.5 minutes/mile
Temperature: 51 degrees
Humidity: 59%
Location: Houston, TX
Today was the day. Just over 250 miles of training led me to the starting line of the Aramco Half-Marathon. I wasn't nervous. I felt ready. It took 8 minutes to get from my position among thousands of runners across the starting line. I glanced at my watch, 7:18. I could remember that. I wished I'd started running when I was 18 years old. Remembering the time would prove very important to me. Here are the 10 things that stand out most about today's run. Oh, and thanks again to those readers who've left comments here or emailed me personally. Much, much appreciated.
10. Sleep counts, but not as much as I might think it does. I set my alarm for 4:30 and I woke up at 4 instead. I'm glad I got up and had a breakfast of scrambled eggs and half a bagel instead of trying to rush around. I managed to score a great parking spot downtown and didn't feel rushed. I came home after everything was over today and slept 2 blissful, deep hours. I haven't appreciated sleep and slept so well until I started running regularly.
9. I have to ask for help when I need it. Odd that my left knee started hurting (HURTING!!!) at mile 4. This was a new pain, a different pain and it had me worried that I wouldn't finish the race. I tried to run through it, passing a medic station. At mile 9, I stopped and asked if they had anything that might help. They had Icy Hot topical cream. I quickly applied it - liberally - to my left knee and leg and kept running, reminding myself not to touch my eyes with my left hand. I don't think I would have been able to finish without that bit of help. It still hurts. Ice is applied now. Hopefully tomorrow will find some relief, if not...I'll ask for more help.
8. When you gotta go you gotta go. I stopped at a port-a-john at mile 5. I got a big kick out of seeing the men bypass the facilities to, um, water the trees along White Oak Bayou. Oh, to have a camera. It was a missed photo opportunity, for sure.
7. Experience has its benefits. I overheard a very old man, I mean very old man, ask some of the volunteers for a lift to the starting line of the marathon. He was wearing a "Veteran Runners" Bib. He'd run in over 20 marathons. Wow.
6. Contacts may not be good for driving, ordering off a menu, or operating on a neck, but they are great for running. I wish I had realized it sooner.
5. Even when I read directions, I can make mistakes. I attached the directions portion of my timing chip to my shoe. There is no electronic record of me crossing the start, finish, or any other line during the course of the race. The timing chip portion was neatly attached to my belongings bag the entire time, safely on a shelf in the convention center. I'm laughing even as I type this. At least I had the presence of mind to wear my watch and notice what time I finished the race. I'm glad I don't do this to compete with others.
4. Clothes make this woman. We had two "coupons" attached to our bibs - one for a hot meal and one for a finisher's shirt. I couldn't have cared less about the biscuit and sausage. I wanted that shirt. It's a nice one, too. I will absolutely wear it with pride.
3. I need new shoes. Oh yeah, I've decided I'm still going to run. But I don't know if it will be for distance. I know my shoes have enough miles on them now to justify a new pair. I also like what the running has done to my body. Vain one, I am.
2. Friends matter.Seeing a friend standing along the route, where he said he'd be meant the world to me. Thank you, Matt.
1. Tears happen. Hardened soul that I am, when the finisher's medal was placed around my neck, I actually teared up. I was surprised at myself. Really? Really. Tears happen.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Tomorrow
The Aramco Houston Half-Marathon is tomorrow. I still have a cold. Yup, I do. I'm a little better. I can move air through my nose. That's a definite improvement. I'm running tomorrow, no question about that. I haven't run all week. I didn't do the tapered runs of 4, 3, and 2 miles on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. Instead, I elected to let my body use the calories to heal. I didn't think I had a choice.
I haven't been hungry. I've had soup, scrambled eggs, lots of orange juice. I admit that I made a hot toddy Tuesday (not as good as the one made at my favorite watering hole) and I also chased my Robitussin with a shot of scotch last night in an effort to send myself off to slumber. I went to sleep at 7:30 only to be awakened at midnight by a party in the apartment directly below mine. They were loud and rowdy until 3am. It's ok, this is the first time I've even heard my neighbors. I'll certainly nap off and on today.
I feel such a sense of uncertainty, and really a little anger. I haven't been sick for the longest time, months...maybe a year. Why now? Anyway. It is what it is. I'll get up early tomorrow and do this. As they say, wild horses couldn't stop me.
I've said I wouldn't run after tomorrow, that I'd switch to yoga. I'm not believing myself now. I went to the Expo yesterday to pick up my bib and race instructions. I passed by a booth advertising a race in Sacramento. My dad lives in Sacramento. I wonder...
Lifting up gratitude for tenacity.
I'll let y'all know how it went. I appreciate your comments and your words of encouragement. They mean a lot to me. M
I haven't been hungry. I've had soup, scrambled eggs, lots of orange juice. I admit that I made a hot toddy Tuesday (not as good as the one made at my favorite watering hole) and I also chased my Robitussin with a shot of scotch last night in an effort to send myself off to slumber. I went to sleep at 7:30 only to be awakened at midnight by a party in the apartment directly below mine. They were loud and rowdy until 3am. It's ok, this is the first time I've even heard my neighbors. I'll certainly nap off and on today.
I feel such a sense of uncertainty, and really a little anger. I haven't been sick for the longest time, months...maybe a year. Why now? Anyway. It is what it is. I'll get up early tomorrow and do this. As they say, wild horses couldn't stop me.
I've said I wouldn't run after tomorrow, that I'd switch to yoga. I'm not believing myself now. I went to the Expo yesterday to pick up my bib and race instructions. I passed by a booth advertising a race in Sacramento. My dad lives in Sacramento. I wonder...
Lifting up gratitude for tenacity.
I'll let y'all know how it went. I appreciate your comments and your words of encouragement. They mean a lot to me. M
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Gotta Smile
I have to, smile that is. I have no option, at least not in my mind. I have a cold and the half-marathon is only 3 days away. I've souped and juiced, I've tea'd and coffee'd. I've slept and rested. I've couched and I've movie'd. Now it's up to my body to just get over it.
Just get over it.
Just get over it.
That's all I can hope for.
No point in being upset, or angry, or bitter.
I've gotta smile.
Just get over it.
Just get over it.
That's all I can hope for.
No point in being upset, or angry, or bitter.
I've gotta smile.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
My First Ten!
Distance: 10 miles
Start time: 10:30 am
Run Duration: 107 minutes
Average Pace: 10.7 minutes/mile
Temperature: 35 degrees
Humidity: 53%
Location: Houston, TX
I waited until the temperature creeped over freezing, put on some light layers, my sunglasses, my tunes and hit the route I'd decided on last week. I knew it was 4.5 miles to the park from my place and then I'd have to run a half mile into the park, turn around and come home. I was a little worried about the things that might happen. I might hurt myself and be stuck "out there" without my car. I might have to go to the bathroom and be stuck "out there". My asthma might flare up and I'd be stuck "out there". Note I said I was a little worried, not enough to keep me from putting in this run - not enough to make me circle Memorial Park 3 times plus another little bit to make 10 miles. The thought of doing that multi-loop workout again makes me not want to run at all. I wanted to be out in the city, out on the street. I wanted to experience the reason I moved to the InnerLoop.
Yes!
What a great run! The sun was pouring down this morning. I took off my gloves at about mile 4 and took off my jacket and tied it around my waist at the half-way turn. I was comfortable and I feel good about next week. My schedule calls for a 4-, a 3-, and a 2-mile run. That's it! Next Sunday brings the Half-Marathon. I'm so glad I stuck with this program. Even though my right knee is making me aware of its existence, I think I'll make it through just fine. Today's run was a far cry from those first weeks of pain and discomfort.
Happy. That's the word of the day.
Start time: 10:30 am
Run Duration: 107 minutes
Average Pace: 10.7 minutes/mile
Temperature: 35 degrees
Humidity: 53%
Location: Houston, TX
I waited until the temperature creeped over freezing, put on some light layers, my sunglasses, my tunes and hit the route I'd decided on last week. I knew it was 4.5 miles to the park from my place and then I'd have to run a half mile into the park, turn around and come home. I was a little worried about the things that might happen. I might hurt myself and be stuck "out there" without my car. I might have to go to the bathroom and be stuck "out there". My asthma might flare up and I'd be stuck "out there". Note I said I was a little worried, not enough to keep me from putting in this run - not enough to make me circle Memorial Park 3 times plus another little bit to make 10 miles. The thought of doing that multi-loop workout again makes me not want to run at all. I wanted to be out in the city, out on the street. I wanted to experience the reason I moved to the InnerLoop.
Yes!
What a great run! The sun was pouring down this morning. I took off my gloves at about mile 4 and took off my jacket and tied it around my waist at the half-way turn. I was comfortable and I feel good about next week. My schedule calls for a 4-, a 3-, and a 2-mile run. That's it! Next Sunday brings the Half-Marathon. I'm so glad I stuck with this program. Even though my right knee is making me aware of its existence, I think I'll make it through just fine. Today's run was a far cry from those first weeks of pain and discomfort.
Happy. That's the word of the day.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Wednesday 5
Distance: 5 miles
Start time: 8:30 am
Run Duration: 60 minutes
Average Pace: 12 minutes/mile
Temperature: climate controlled
Humidity: climate controlled
Location: Houston, TX
I took it slow this morning. I have a little nagging at my right medial knee. Just a touch but I don't want to aggravate it. I'm tempted to forgo my 5 miles Thursday or Friday and just do the long run Sunday. I'm so close to the big day that I don't want to blow it.
I wonder, too, if it has something to do with the treadmill. Hmmm...
Anyway.
I have a fairly busy day planned. Coffee with an old family friend. I haven't seen her in over a year and I'm excited to catch up. I've also joined a meetup group for InnerLoopers (people who live inside a major freeway that circles Houston). I'm going to my first function tonight. Hopefully I'll expand my social circle a little. I love, Love, LOVE my friends but as some of them make noises about moving away I realize that I've got to think about making new connections. It's time.
Lifting up gratitude today for the freedom to move through my days when I want, how I want, where I want. May I never take it for granted.
Start time: 8:30 am
Run Duration: 60 minutes
Average Pace: 12 minutes/mile
Temperature: climate controlled
Humidity: climate controlled
Location: Houston, TX
I took it slow this morning. I have a little nagging at my right medial knee. Just a touch but I don't want to aggravate it. I'm tempted to forgo my 5 miles Thursday or Friday and just do the long run Sunday. I'm so close to the big day that I don't want to blow it.
I wonder, too, if it has something to do with the treadmill. Hmmm...
Anyway.
I have a fairly busy day planned. Coffee with an old family friend. I haven't seen her in over a year and I'm excited to catch up. I've also joined a meetup group for InnerLoopers (people who live inside a major freeway that circles Houston). I'm going to my first function tonight. Hopefully I'll expand my social circle a little. I love, Love, LOVE my friends but as some of them make noises about moving away I realize that I've got to think about making new connections. It's time.
Lifting up gratitude today for the freedom to move through my days when I want, how I want, where I want. May I never take it for granted.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Waiting
Cold has settled upon our part of Texas and we don't know quite what to do with it. We've pulled out sweaters and scarves, gloves and coats. We remark on the weather, we rub our arms and huddle together while waiting to cross the streets. We know the weather will change and we will have warmth again. For now things are gray and colorless. We wait for spring to return and wake us from this dreariness. All we can do is wait.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Homestretch
Distance: 3 miles
Start time: 4:15 pm
Run Duration: 33 minutes
Average Pace: 11 minutes/mile
Temperature: climate controlled
Humidity: climate controlled
Location: Houston, TX
I'm into the last 2 weeks of training for the Aramco Half-Marathon! I'm to run a total of 23 miles this week. I put in 3 today. The weather has turned pretty cool and I have a lot of work scheduled so it's going to be a challenge. I'll get it done.
I wasn't all that sore after my 9 mile run yesterday. I was surprised at that.
Lifting up gratitude for the ability to stick with a plan. I'm actually starting to feel a little self-pride around this, but not in a haughty way. I realize that this has been tough and leaving raceday out of it, just getting through the training is an accomplishment. I'm happy with myself. There is a much bigger lesson here than the running.
Start time: 4:15 pm
Run Duration: 33 minutes
Average Pace: 11 minutes/mile
Temperature: climate controlled
Humidity: climate controlled
Location: Houston, TX
I'm into the last 2 weeks of training for the Aramco Half-Marathon! I'm to run a total of 23 miles this week. I put in 3 today. The weather has turned pretty cool and I have a lot of work scheduled so it's going to be a challenge. I'll get it done.
I wasn't all that sore after my 9 mile run yesterday. I was surprised at that.
Lifting up gratitude for the ability to stick with a plan. I'm actually starting to feel a little self-pride around this, but not in a haughty way. I realize that this has been tough and leaving raceday out of it, just getting through the training is an accomplishment. I'm happy with myself. There is a much bigger lesson here than the running.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
What I Know
Distance: 9 miles
Start time: 10:50 am
Run Duration: 54 minutes
Average Pace: 10.67 minutes/mile
Temperature: 44 degrees
Humidity: 71%
Location: Memorial Park, Houston, TX
I know that coming out of mile 4 I knew I could do 9.
I know that coming out of mile 9 I was doubting that I'll be able to do 13.
I know that the scrambled eggs and cranberry juice I just finished were pretty tasty.
I know that I've started the new year surrounded by love and by friends who listened when I told them that I fear depression is standing around the corner, waiting for the letdown that can happen after big projects are accomplished. My friends are willing to keep me from hanging out alone with that bastard (depression) in my apartment for more than a few hours. They understand that if I spend too much time with someone I may give him more of myself than he deserves. I know that he (depression) will tire of me soon because I will have more projects in the works and I'll get distracted again. I'll stop paying attention to him. This is how my life goes.
The running thing may or may not help my mood. This I don't know. I think I'll switch over to yoga after the half-marathon - give my joints a break.
I know that I am ready for the race to be here and for it to be behind me. It is a project I'm ready to be finished with.
Ah...
Lifting up gratitude today for insight.
I know I am ready to be finished.
Start time: 10:50 am
Run Duration: 54 minutes
Average Pace: 10.67 minutes/mile
Temperature: 44 degrees
Humidity: 71%
Location: Memorial Park, Houston, TX
I know that coming out of mile 4 I knew I could do 9.
I know that coming out of mile 9 I was doubting that I'll be able to do 13.
I know that the scrambled eggs and cranberry juice I just finished were pretty tasty.
I know that I've started the new year surrounded by love and by friends who listened when I told them that I fear depression is standing around the corner, waiting for the letdown that can happen after big projects are accomplished. My friends are willing to keep me from hanging out alone with that bastard (depression) in my apartment for more than a few hours. They understand that if I spend too much time with someone I may give him more of myself than he deserves. I know that he (depression) will tire of me soon because I will have more projects in the works and I'll get distracted again. I'll stop paying attention to him. This is how my life goes.
The running thing may or may not help my mood. This I don't know. I think I'll switch over to yoga after the half-marathon - give my joints a break.
I know that I am ready for the race to be here and for it to be behind me. It is a project I'm ready to be finished with.
Ah...
Lifting up gratitude today for insight.
I know I am ready to be finished.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Resolve
When met with silence
or worse -
generic greetings for
prosperity,
health,
and
happiness (?),
the New Year
hastens in a resolve
to wrap the heart
in all the trappings
left over from the
previous season.
It could be
bundled,
packaged -
even swaddled
and placed in
storage until coaxed
from its hiding place
by twinkle lights
and promises
of hot chocolate
or ice skating.
Perhaps it would come out
for window shopping.
There will be seasonal sales
and one might find
a suitable replacement
for the one who bruised it
when he pushed it aside in
his haste to exit this
particular holiday scene.
or worse -
generic greetings for
prosperity,
health,
and
happiness (?),
the New Year
hastens in a resolve
to wrap the heart
in all the trappings
left over from the
previous season.
It could be
bundled,
packaged -
even swaddled
and placed in
storage until coaxed
from its hiding place
by twinkle lights
and promises
of hot chocolate
or ice skating.
Perhaps it would come out
for window shopping.
There will be seasonal sales
and one might find
a suitable replacement
for the one who bruised it
when he pushed it aside in
his haste to exit this
particular holiday scene.
First Run of the Year
Distance: 5 miles
Start time: 4:54 pm
Run Duration: 54 minutes
Average Pace: 10.8 minutes/mile
Temperature: 53 degrees
Humidity: 39%
Location: Memorial Park, Houston, TX
5 miles. Got it in. Made sure I did it in under 55 minutes. That's about all I have to say about that.
Happy New Year!
Start time: 4:54 pm
Run Duration: 54 minutes
Average Pace: 10.8 minutes/mile
Temperature: 53 degrees
Humidity: 39%
Location: Memorial Park, Houston, TX
5 miles. Got it in. Made sure I did it in under 55 minutes. That's about all I have to say about that.
Happy New Year!
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