"It's a beautiful thing about youth... they know no obstacles."
-Captain of Stanford Rowing Crew Team
during an episode of MythBusters
-Captain of Stanford Rowing Crew Team
during an episode of MythBusters
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
Friday Sabbath: You had to figure that Cosmo would not be the end of it...
(from www.fitnessfiesta.com)So, here's what this guy went to school for eight years to pass on to us:
1. The Body-Centered Seekers
These are people who express what matters to them physically. The good doctor describes them as the people who view their spirituality through competitive athletics. "The body is just as wise a teacher as the mind or the heart because spirituality is more than an idea, it's an experience," says Ellerby. What I find amusing about his assessment is that he mentions that each type has a challenge in his/her spiritual path and in terms of the Body-Centered, their challenge is that they might miss the point of yoga or tai chi.
This is sort of weird to me. If this is how they express their spirituality, then what "point" have they missed? Maybe pushing themselves in yoga is how they feel closer to Gd or the Divine or their self-governing power. If this is an issue of "type," are there not people who have a different path? Something else they seek? Maybe what they can convince their bodies to do is their Higher Power...
2. The Mind-Centered Seekers
So, this should be obvious, too. These are the people who go to lectures, read every holy text they can get their hands on, and analyze the stuffing out of every little thing. The challenge this author provides them is unclear to me. He says the Mind-Centered are in danger of living too much in their head...
So, again... don't you suppose some people have made a happier spirituality that way? He suggests talking more to others, but some people might find that distracting. I've had both positive and negative experiences talking to other people about spirituality. I think some of us are driven away from the topic more than drawn into it with many groups. I know you occasionally get the sort of Mind-Centered person who enjoys absolutely anyone... the crazy person inviting the Jehovah's Witnesses and Mormons into their living room to grill them about their religion (maybe causing these evangelists to think twice and Spreading the Truth around). But, in general, it still seems to me that, if this is where one feels best living spiritually, then why challenge them by asking them to step out of what works for them?
3. The Heart-Centered Seekers
Okay. This one I understand but cannot think of good, concrete examples of these types of people. According to Ellerby, the Heart-Centered interact spiritually through relationships. They are enriched by having a relationship with people, churches, Gd, what have you. Their challenge is to look within themselves and define their beliefs on their own rather than by the practices of those around them.
The only people I can think of that fall into this category are the Baptists I know. There's this major necessity to have a church, to go to it, to actively listen to your preacher, to only read the one translation of the Bible they prescribe to you, etc. These are the sorts of people whose biggest complication with moving to a new place is finding a church to attend. So, what are you really about in that case? Your soul, your own beliefs, or those that have been dictated to you?
4. The Soul-Centered Seekers
Well, here's the description from the article: You devour stories of saints and mystics, fantasize about traveling through India, and wonder about monastic life. What you want most is to take your spiritual experience to the limit.
Now, that's me, basically... but many people, I would imagine, who possess components of all three of the other types belong in this group. I do a good bit of reading on the mystics, I have wanted to put India on my list of places to see before I die to visit an ashram somewhere, and I have had fantasies of being a hermit or a type of nun making cheese and devoting myself to silence. Now, I'm pretty realistic about this... not all these things are practical... and the challenge Ellerby prescribes is to tone it all down. He suggests things like not fasting the whole 40 days of whatever religious tribe one reads about and instead fast for seven... especially to not push it when you've had some hard experience (he mentions a break up). That bothers me... because for someone who is truly devout to enhancing their spiritual experience this way, maybe the fast is how he or she will actually survive said break up. Maybe that's how this person finds Gd or feels less abandoned and alone. In any spiritual practice, it's important that we only do what feels right... and if you need to fast for 40 days to do it, then as long as you don't operate heavy machinery, what's the problem? If you know you're going to fall over on day 10, don't go that far. Seems like he's crossing basic common sense with a deeper, esoteric need in some people.
As disappointed as I am with the article itself, I do think it's a great question. Are there more than a couple ways to express spirituality? Most of us go straight to thoughts of people yawning through hymns of which they've never questioned the lyrics or monks in a temple in Tibet with bobbing shaved heads chanting in a foreign language... but surely people who don't go to church or even believe in Gd must have some form of spirituality? Maybe they don't have religion or a recognizable path, but something must inform the deepest parts of who we all are.
So, if I were to review the types, here's my revision to the Ph.D. list:
1. The Body Motivated
I think of people like Daddy who work themselves to death. You'll be hard pressed to find a man who works himself into the ground the way he does... and I'm not saying that he couldn't stand to back off a little, but this is how he feels fulfilled. He needs to accomplish things, to promote a comfortable lifestyle for his family taking on all the burdens of his business on himself. I don't think he would be happy without an abundance of physical activity. Besides, his business is security systems... how much more spiritual could a work-a-holic be? He spends all this time protecting others.
Now, I agree that some competitive athletes must have a body-mind connection between what they can do that gets pushed overboard. But, then you're talking about a different problem. I see something outside of their spirituality bleeding into their athletics. I'm willing to bet that the majority of people in my yoga classes, even the "warrior types," probably get the gist in one form or another of what else yoga has to offer. There are some who are only there for the workout, but that's not just a symptom of deficient spirituality... maybe another need is being fed here.
2. The Mind Motivated
The mind is a great place for spiritual practice in all its forms... exploring the benefits of compassion, fellowship, histories, etc. There are some people who work best when given the space to work things out in their minds. I know I have this quality... I have to chew on things, analyze them before, if ever, adopting ideas. I will admit that this prevents me from believing in much of anything. I do think things to a bloody pulp and then have trouble breathing life into a set of beliefs (but then we could discuss the role "beliefs" play in "spirituality," but I won't take you down that headache of a mind tour). Believing in something is my challenge. Faith does not come easily to me in any form be it with people who say they love me or in some supposedly benevolent Gd who has some plan for our lives.
So, if there are others like me who have fallen into the trap of thinking things to death, I guess the challenge is certainly to lend some space for not figuring it all out. If we can do that, then the mind can be a magnificent place to practice our spiritual exercises. I guess openness is necessary to do this, to live both in the mind and in the realm of possibilities.
3. The Heart Motivated
Again, I see Mr. Ph.D's point here... people who require personable contact to express what's important to them (or to find it... some people prefer or need a guide). I guess people just need to be picky about their spiritual confidantes and protect their hearts. There are some great people with whom to dive into spiritual talks... I know a great handful of people with whom I truly enjoy these spiritual discussions... even people whose ideologies differ completely from my own. However, when I was more dependent on others for my information, I think I was injured a few times. I still remember this night when an acquaintance from the church I was attending called me and we got into this terrible discussion. He told me that Jews were going to hell because they had not accepted Jesus as their Lord and Savior... and I started crying so hard that my parents could hear me. I started to hyperventilate to the point that my hands went numb and curled. Daddy came into my room, hung up the phone, picked me up, and sat me down in the living room where he and my mother began the work of calming me down. I was given a bag, encouraged to try deep breathing with my head between my legs, etc. I stopped attending the church and actually dove into a spiritual bitterness for several years. That bad relationship informed my own spirituality for a long time... I hadn't formed my own ideas and that allowed this person's opinion of the truth take me off my own path.
So, interacting with others can be enriching, but obviously it can't be the end-all of your belief structure.
4. The Soul Motivated
What it sounds like to me is that these are people who express their spirituality in more ways than one. They are very aware of the path that they are on and are open to many methods of travel on that path. They are the most well-rounded of the groups. These are the people who... well... didn't really need to read this article. I think of people like this character in a movie called Gd is Great, and I am Not. The lead female tests out several different religious practices, going to several holy houses, and reading dozens of varied spiritual texts... though she originally thinks that she'll find one religion to call home, she eventually sees that she's just forming her own practice by being casting a wide net. I'd like to think this is where I'm headed. I'm largely in my mind still, but I teach and practice yoga which both reaches beyond earth and helps you receive something greater than yourself. I am a Medievalist and have done my share of reading and continue to do so with interest. Then I also, in small doses, and with those I trust, talk to others and allow myself to be inspired (rather than heavily influenced) one way or another.
I can see the atheist question popping up here, but I think they can fall into the same groups. They have something to which they are reaching as well even if it's not Gd... maybe it's becoming a better person, finding meaning in life on earth, learning etc.
So, just like dissecting assessment tests that tell us how children best learn (visually, intellectually, physically, etc), I think it's an interesting exercise to look at the many ways we are all spiritual people, seeking in our own truths...
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Thursday Kitchen: The Fundamentals of Failure 101
So, we would all prefer our recipes to work in such a way that results in something yummy and edible every time... and why not? That's what the silly recipe is for anyway! We follow the recipe so we're not improvising something wretched.
Well, it doesn't always work that way. I'm sure even Julia child couldn't get her first soufflée or two to pop up or that Wolfgang Puck really did burn his crab cakes one day. These failures are significant to our education. They remind us that the recipe is not always right... sometimes, we are challenged to use our brains and think of something else. All the greats started by winging it...
Though my Russian father won't be among them... One of the most fantastic failures I've ever tasted is this lunch he made... holy cow, I've never had anything so bizarre in my life. He was actually trying to educate me on how, sometimes, you just need to make food, and not worry so much about the presentation or the tastiness. You just need to fuel the tank. Well, I still don't need fuel that bad... I think he just pulled cans out of the cabinet... whatever he liked... I think it was tuna, green beans, some other bean, maybe corn, I can't remember it all... but I remember the funky brown color it all turns when thrown in a pot on the heat. We could have put the tuna on bread, warmed it in the oven with some cheese, and made the green beans separate, but I only know this because I lived to tell the tale after eating this... concoction.
I've made a couple of not-terribly-brilliant loafs of bread. Baking is one of those things upon which I desperately cling to a recipe. Chemistry was not my subject, so I can't take a "pinch" or this or a "splash" of that... I need spoons and cups and precise little numbers. Despite this knowledge about myself, if there's an ingredient that I really like going into the bread, I have a bad tendency to dump more of it in. Most classic example is this yummy nutty bread. It's just a wheat loaf with some seeds like sunflower, pumpkin, etc. I really like crunchy, earthy, semi-salty seeds, so I dump more than the 2/3 of a cup or whatever for which the recipe calls. Trust me... there IS such a thing as too much of a good thing...
Where those of us who follow the freaking recipe go wrong is more frustrating than blunders of the brave improvisers. There are a few things to keep in mind when this happens:
1. Not all recipes are tested: I learned recently (how upsetting) that not all the recipes in THE JOY OF COOKING were tested prior to publication. I can only assume that with an icon of the kitchen as large as that cookbook, other recipes you find on the web or in certain minor books quite possibly were made up without a test round, too. These are written by people who have the gist but maybe never put this with that to make a dish that's UGH...
2. Stereo instruction syndrome: One of the best tests I've taken in my life was administered by a biology professor in college. He asked us to read the directions and then sat down grinning. At the time, I went into exam mode (I'm a freakish cram study student, but it works for me) and took his pretty simple multiple choice test. When the tests were handed back the following class period, I got a decent grade, but circled heavily in red were the directions. Underlined were the words: For a guaranteed passing grade, simply fill your name at the top, answer the last question, and leave the rest blank. Otherwise you will be graded accordingly. All we had to do was fill out two things and we could have gotten A's and not wasted an hour or two of our time. My point is, sometimes we get into that mode of "I know what's going on here - I don't need no stinking directions!" Reading through saves us from making that one chemical error that brings a whole recipe to ruin.
3.Stuff happens: Not all of us who cook are chemists and physicists... even if we want to be. Even if you follow the recipe to the letter, even if the recipe has been tested before publication, sometimes things you don't account for whatever fouls it up... you left something cold and soft out too long... the humidity dampened the spirit of your creation... etc.
So with that in mind, I think winging it helps to prevent some of these messes. Screwing up often enough and learning what you have done to render positive or negative results helps when looking at a recipe. Sometimes they ask you to do something at which you've previously failed... so you know either not to do that or proceed with caution. I know this is a little tawdry and obvious, but I think you become better at making really great food most of the time if you allow for some failures.
For all the crazy, perfectionist cooks out there who live for the moment that everyone says, Mmmm how tasty... take it easy on yourself when you fail. You'll be better for having screwed up a few times. (Though, as an update, I think my Russian father has learned squat from his experiences... so I learn from his mistakes!)
Well, it doesn't always work that way. I'm sure even Julia child couldn't get her first soufflée or two to pop up or that Wolfgang Puck really did burn his crab cakes one day. These failures are significant to our education. They remind us that the recipe is not always right... sometimes, we are challenged to use our brains and think of something else. All the greats started by winging it...
Though my Russian father won't be among them... One of the most fantastic failures I've ever tasted is this lunch he made... holy cow, I've never had anything so bizarre in my life. He was actually trying to educate me on how, sometimes, you just need to make food, and not worry so much about the presentation or the tastiness. You just need to fuel the tank. Well, I still don't need fuel that bad... I think he just pulled cans out of the cabinet... whatever he liked... I think it was tuna, green beans, some other bean, maybe corn, I can't remember it all... but I remember the funky brown color it all turns when thrown in a pot on the heat. We could have put the tuna on bread, warmed it in the oven with some cheese, and made the green beans separate, but I only know this because I lived to tell the tale after eating this... concoction.
I've made a couple of not-terribly-brilliant loafs of bread. Baking is one of those things upon which I desperately cling to a recipe. Chemistry was not my subject, so I can't take a "pinch" or this or a "splash" of that... I need spoons and cups and precise little numbers. Despite this knowledge about myself, if there's an ingredient that I really like going into the bread, I have a bad tendency to dump more of it in. Most classic example is this yummy nutty bread. It's just a wheat loaf with some seeds like sunflower, pumpkin, etc. I really like crunchy, earthy, semi-salty seeds, so I dump more than the 2/3 of a cup or whatever for which the recipe calls. Trust me... there IS such a thing as too much of a good thing...
Where those of us who follow the freaking recipe go wrong is more frustrating than blunders of the brave improvisers. There are a few things to keep in mind when this happens:
1. Not all recipes are tested: I learned recently (how upsetting) that not all the recipes in THE JOY OF COOKING were tested prior to publication. I can only assume that with an icon of the kitchen as large as that cookbook, other recipes you find on the web or in certain minor books quite possibly were made up without a test round, too. These are written by people who have the gist but maybe never put this with that to make a dish that's UGH...
2. Stereo instruction syndrome: One of the best tests I've taken in my life was administered by a biology professor in college. He asked us to read the directions and then sat down grinning. At the time, I went into exam mode (I'm a freakish cram study student, but it works for me) and took his pretty simple multiple choice test. When the tests were handed back the following class period, I got a decent grade, but circled heavily in red were the directions. Underlined were the words: For a guaranteed passing grade, simply fill your name at the top, answer the last question, and leave the rest blank. Otherwise you will be graded accordingly. All we had to do was fill out two things and we could have gotten A's and not wasted an hour or two of our time. My point is, sometimes we get into that mode of "I know what's going on here - I don't need no stinking directions!" Reading through saves us from making that one chemical error that brings a whole recipe to ruin.
3.Stuff happens: Not all of us who cook are chemists and physicists... even if we want to be. Even if you follow the recipe to the letter, even if the recipe has been tested before publication, sometimes things you don't account for whatever fouls it up... you left something cold and soft out too long... the humidity dampened the spirit of your creation... etc.
So with that in mind, I think winging it helps to prevent some of these messes. Screwing up often enough and learning what you have done to render positive or negative results helps when looking at a recipe. Sometimes they ask you to do something at which you've previously failed... so you know either not to do that or proceed with caution. I know this is a little tawdry and obvious, but I think you become better at making really great food most of the time if you allow for some failures.
For all the crazy, perfectionist cooks out there who live for the moment that everyone says, Mmmm how tasty... take it easy on yourself when you fail. You'll be better for having screwed up a few times. (Though, as an update, I think my Russian father has learned squat from his experiences... so I learn from his mistakes!)
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Wednesday Valuables: Our furry friends
Last night I glanced back over that photo reel that I made for my parents' renewal ceremony. I made a similar one for Fathers' Day... and while it's fun to look over the faces of our family, maybe tear up at the sight of those who have gone before us, laugh at the times you remember goofing off together, what sticks with me this morning are our pets.
All together, I've had four dogs and a cat. When I was born, my mother had this beautiful, calm, very Nana from Peter Pan sort of dog. Her name was Rainbow... I regret how little I remember of her, but I know my mom has Rainbow's lifetime stored in her memory. I've seen pictures of me running around in a diaper outside and hugging her around the pretty rose-gold fur at her neck. I'm pretty sure she was an outdoor dog and took shelter in the garage (now it's been converted to a den, bathroom, laundry area, and bedroom).
I do remember that she died when I was about 7 years old... I remember this because in school I had drawn a picture that sort of symbolized my feelings on the matter. In the same year, my paternal grandmother died (this was a traumatic experience for me... I won't go into the whole story, but I'm the one, accompanied by my little sister, who found her after she had died in her sleep). I drew a picture of a girl with long stringy hair... I think she held one thing in one hand and something else in the other. I can only remember the sign she held in her right hand... it had the number 7 on it as if to remind me what I lost in my seventh year. The girl had a big head and several tears falling from her eyes.
I also remember one afternoon. I think I had come home from school or whatever and Rainbow was inside. Obviously, since she was an outdoor dog, I was surprised to see her. I was even more shocked at the way she was walking. It really was so pitiful. She died of bone disease, so she was limping and then collapsing to the floor. I still feel the floor slightly shift under the weight of a helpless fall under my feet...
I remember even less about Sam. He was Daddy's beagle that he had adopted before we moved in. From what I've been told, Sam had been treated poorly by other children before Daddy came along, so he was a little temperamental. Mom always kept an eye on me when I would interact with Sam in fear that, one of these days, he might snap at me. This could have caused some long term fear of animals and she definitely didn't want that. I'm happy to announce that Sam never tried biting me that I can recall and, in the footsteps of my vet tech mom, I am very comfortable with animals. I can't remember anything about how Sammy died, but I'm sure he took his curmudgeon-y, grumpy self to Doggie Heaven with some relief.
The dog that probably burns the deepest hole in my family's heart is Luke. I still can't really think about it without tearing up. It's so strange that way... Luke has been gone for... 3 or 4 years now, but it doesn't get any easier at all to accept.
We rescued Luke as a family from the SPCA (before the rules got stricter and weirder... We were able to take him home that day). It was love at first sight. There was no way I was letting my folks walk out without this beautiful, quiet, long black-haired puppy. He had the best personality... my brothers were about 8 or 9 I think when we picked up our new puppy and Mom paid close attention to how he interacted with my still hyper little brothers. Luke just gazed with interest until something that cured the impending boredom came along. He never seemed agitated by people one way or the other. That's one of the major things I've tried to learn from him... to accept people around you like a rock in the stream...
...unless you fear there's danger for your loved ones. Despite his calm nature, Luke did not take threats to his family lightly. There was this pesky "bully" kid in the neighborhood. He never did anything truly terrible, but he picked on my brothers a little. Luke would always stand at the storm door and growl at the sight of this kid... til one day, Luke decided enough was enough. He waited for a moment when we wouldn't expect him to run through the slightly open door, but as someone came into the house, Luke sprung out the door and bit that kid on the ear. I'm sure that was just a warning, since he was capable of much more damage than that. While there was some smoothing over to do with the neighbors, I distinctly remember my parents smiling with approval when interacting with Luke that evening.
None of us can put our finger on it, but Luke was a major part of our family during the peak of its development. It was that snapshot of our family's history when we were all still growing, developing, and bonding together as people. Luke, like most dogs, made it worth it for us all to come home. He was always very excited that you finally came home and then just went back to his spot... on a vent, at the door waiting for the rest of the family, under Daddy's seat at the table, or against the hutch along the hallway. We all have clear memories of his place in our lives.
So watching him die was... one of the worst experiences of my life. He had gone into the vet because he was acting weird and they found a needle in his stomach. During the operation to remove it, they discovered a tumor on his spleen that ruptured. They were able to clean it up a bit while they were with him... and told us that if they hadn't been there, and if that tumor had ruptured while he was at home, it would have killed him. That needle gave us one more month with Luke. We proceeded to chemo and whatnot, but Luke was so weaked from the experience that it was obvious that he would be leaving us.
The day we decided we needed to take him out of his misery (he had begun to seriously hemorrhage) was such a nightmare. I still remember I came home, went to my room, and put things down or away... like you do. I heard a small thump. I went out into the hallway and Luke was sitting there, as though he couldn't go any further, but wanted to see me. Trying to keep my tears to myself, I grabbed hold of him gently and stroked his head and ears. He licked me once on the mouth... something he hadn't done since he was a puppy. It was a terrible day. When we left the vet, everyone, Daddy included, was sobbing... completely losing it. While I know we're all very happy that we were present as an entire family to be there with Luke (I was holding him, Daddy was smiling straight into his eyes, John and Clif gently rubbed his belly, and Mom stroked his back), I don't think any of us have been more devastated altogether.
Mom has this picture of him in the hallway (the same one I have on my desk)... it's taken her years to put it up and I still can't quite look at it without crying. It's one of the last pictures taken of him... I'm pretty sure I took the picture... the matting has wording on the side... Something along the lines of, "If I could, I walk right up to heaven and bring you home again..."
My apologies... I'm seeing now how sad this entry is. We moved on, but not out from the home we built in our hearts with Luke.
A little while later, we found another dog. Wendy. She's a sweet and totally neurotic golden retreiver. I trained her the first few months before I went to France and I haven't lived at home since then. But, she seems to have a special place in her heart for me. I won't explain how I know this... but I can see my Mom sighing and pulling out the Resolve for the carpet as I enter the house...
As everyone knows, the animal that's truly my own, and my pride and joy, is my cat Minerva. She is also a rescued animal... my ex-roommate and I found her and another cat at the Heritage Humane Society here in Williamsburg. I chose Minerva because when I saw her, she was demonstrating a perfect downward dog pose in her cage. She clearly was spiritually advanced and deserved to be free. We have a bond that I can't quite explain... we're really very close for a human and an animal. She's more like a dog than a cat. She follows me everywhere, no matter what I'm doing, to be close to me. She prefers to sit with me than on her own... and when she does sit on her own, she prefers to at least be in the same room as me.
She and I have the sort of bond I think Daddy had with Luke. Everyday without fail, Daddy would take Luke for a walk. It was their time together. We suspect Daddy told Luke all the things he didn't feel like he could tell us. All the work woes, worries, feelings... and Luke took them all with him. Minerva hears all my concerns, complaints, outbursts, secrets... and she keeps them all to herself while purring, rubbing against me, or licking my face.
That might seem like an uneven exchange. Do we think of our pets as perfect friends just because they listen to our problems and say nothing to bother us in return? I'd like to think, when you care enough about your animal, what makes it unique, and then respect those qualities, you give something back to your perfect confidante. You know what food she likes, what time he likes to play, what toys are their favorite, where they like to be scratched, when they want to be alone, etc.
To all our furry friends who inspire us to be better friends, loving caregivers, and more humbled to the cycles of life...
(Anya's pets Belle and Penny)
(In memory of Johanna's dog, Skelaki)
Feel free to share your stories and pictures with me...
I discovered later today that my boss just lost her dog of sixteen years very early this morning... to our wordless friends, rest in blissful, squirrel chasing peace...
All together, I've had four dogs and a cat. When I was born, my mother had this beautiful, calm, very Nana from Peter Pan sort of dog. Her name was Rainbow... I regret how little I remember of her, but I know my mom has Rainbow's lifetime stored in her memory. I've seen pictures of me running around in a diaper outside and hugging her around the pretty rose-gold fur at her neck. I'm pretty sure she was an outdoor dog and took shelter in the garage (now it's been converted to a den, bathroom, laundry area, and bedroom).
I do remember that she died when I was about 7 years old... I remember this because in school I had drawn a picture that sort of symbolized my feelings on the matter. In the same year, my paternal grandmother died (this was a traumatic experience for me... I won't go into the whole story, but I'm the one, accompanied by my little sister, who found her after she had died in her sleep). I drew a picture of a girl with long stringy hair... I think she held one thing in one hand and something else in the other. I can only remember the sign she held in her right hand... it had the number 7 on it as if to remind me what I lost in my seventh year. The girl had a big head and several tears falling from her eyes.
I also remember one afternoon. I think I had come home from school or whatever and Rainbow was inside. Obviously, since she was an outdoor dog, I was surprised to see her. I was even more shocked at the way she was walking. It really was so pitiful. She died of bone disease, so she was limping and then collapsing to the floor. I still feel the floor slightly shift under the weight of a helpless fall under my feet...
I remember even less about Sam. He was Daddy's beagle that he had adopted before we moved in. From what I've been told, Sam had been treated poorly by other children before Daddy came along, so he was a little temperamental. Mom always kept an eye on me when I would interact with Sam in fear that, one of these days, he might snap at me. This could have caused some long term fear of animals and she definitely didn't want that. I'm happy to announce that Sam never tried biting me that I can recall and, in the footsteps of my vet tech mom, I am very comfortable with animals. I can't remember anything about how Sammy died, but I'm sure he took his curmudgeon-y, grumpy self to Doggie Heaven with some relief.
The dog that probably burns the deepest hole in my family's heart is Luke. I still can't really think about it without tearing up. It's so strange that way... Luke has been gone for... 3 or 4 years now, but it doesn't get any easier at all to accept.
We rescued Luke as a family from the SPCA (before the rules got stricter and weirder... We were able to take him home that day). It was love at first sight. There was no way I was letting my folks walk out without this beautiful, quiet, long black-haired puppy. He had the best personality... my brothers were about 8 or 9 I think when we picked up our new puppy and Mom paid close attention to how he interacted with my still hyper little brothers. Luke just gazed with interest until something that cured the impending boredom came along. He never seemed agitated by people one way or the other. That's one of the major things I've tried to learn from him... to accept people around you like a rock in the stream...
...unless you fear there's danger for your loved ones. Despite his calm nature, Luke did not take threats to his family lightly. There was this pesky "bully" kid in the neighborhood. He never did anything truly terrible, but he picked on my brothers a little. Luke would always stand at the storm door and growl at the sight of this kid... til one day, Luke decided enough was enough. He waited for a moment when we wouldn't expect him to run through the slightly open door, but as someone came into the house, Luke sprung out the door and bit that kid on the ear. I'm sure that was just a warning, since he was capable of much more damage than that. While there was some smoothing over to do with the neighbors, I distinctly remember my parents smiling with approval when interacting with Luke that evening.
None of us can put our finger on it, but Luke was a major part of our family during the peak of its development. It was that snapshot of our family's history when we were all still growing, developing, and bonding together as people. Luke, like most dogs, made it worth it for us all to come home. He was always very excited that you finally came home and then just went back to his spot... on a vent, at the door waiting for the rest of the family, under Daddy's seat at the table, or against the hutch along the hallway. We all have clear memories of his place in our lives.
So watching him die was... one of the worst experiences of my life. He had gone into the vet because he was acting weird and they found a needle in his stomach. During the operation to remove it, they discovered a tumor on his spleen that ruptured. They were able to clean it up a bit while they were with him... and told us that if they hadn't been there, and if that tumor had ruptured while he was at home, it would have killed him. That needle gave us one more month with Luke. We proceeded to chemo and whatnot, but Luke was so weaked from the experience that it was obvious that he would be leaving us.
The day we decided we needed to take him out of his misery (he had begun to seriously hemorrhage) was such a nightmare. I still remember I came home, went to my room, and put things down or away... like you do. I heard a small thump. I went out into the hallway and Luke was sitting there, as though he couldn't go any further, but wanted to see me. Trying to keep my tears to myself, I grabbed hold of him gently and stroked his head and ears. He licked me once on the mouth... something he hadn't done since he was a puppy. It was a terrible day. When we left the vet, everyone, Daddy included, was sobbing... completely losing it. While I know we're all very happy that we were present as an entire family to be there with Luke (I was holding him, Daddy was smiling straight into his eyes, John and Clif gently rubbed his belly, and Mom stroked his back), I don't think any of us have been more devastated altogether.
Mom has this picture of him in the hallway (the same one I have on my desk)... it's taken her years to put it up and I still can't quite look at it without crying. It's one of the last pictures taken of him... I'm pretty sure I took the picture... the matting has wording on the side... Something along the lines of, "If I could, I walk right up to heaven and bring you home again..."
My apologies... I'm seeing now how sad this entry is. We moved on, but not out from the home we built in our hearts with Luke.
A little while later, we found another dog. Wendy. She's a sweet and totally neurotic golden retreiver. I trained her the first few months before I went to France and I haven't lived at home since then. But, she seems to have a special place in her heart for me. I won't explain how I know this... but I can see my Mom sighing and pulling out the Resolve for the carpet as I enter the house...
As everyone knows, the animal that's truly my own, and my pride and joy, is my cat Minerva. She is also a rescued animal... my ex-roommate and I found her and another cat at the Heritage Humane Society here in Williamsburg. I chose Minerva because when I saw her, she was demonstrating a perfect downward dog pose in her cage. She clearly was spiritually advanced and deserved to be free. We have a bond that I can't quite explain... we're really very close for a human and an animal. She's more like a dog than a cat. She follows me everywhere, no matter what I'm doing, to be close to me. She prefers to sit with me than on her own... and when she does sit on her own, she prefers to at least be in the same room as me.
She and I have the sort of bond I think Daddy had with Luke. Everyday without fail, Daddy would take Luke for a walk. It was their time together. We suspect Daddy told Luke all the things he didn't feel like he could tell us. All the work woes, worries, feelings... and Luke took them all with him. Minerva hears all my concerns, complaints, outbursts, secrets... and she keeps them all to herself while purring, rubbing against me, or licking my face.
That might seem like an uneven exchange. Do we think of our pets as perfect friends just because they listen to our problems and say nothing to bother us in return? I'd like to think, when you care enough about your animal, what makes it unique, and then respect those qualities, you give something back to your perfect confidante. You know what food she likes, what time he likes to play, what toys are their favorite, where they like to be scratched, when they want to be alone, etc.
To all our furry friends who inspire us to be better friends, loving caregivers, and more humbled to the cycles of life...
(Anya's pets Belle and Penny)
(In memory of Johanna's dog, Skelaki)Feel free to share your stories and pictures with me...
I discovered later today that my boss just lost her dog of sixteen years very early this morning... to our wordless friends, rest in blissful, squirrel chasing peace...
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Tuesday Hobbies: The catharsis of knitting
Gd bless the ladies at The Knitting Sisters in Williamsburg, Virginia.
So, I've been knitting since a friend taught me how... well, she demonstrated the basic knit stitch and I was expected to learn by example (it was a very quiet lesson). Learning to knit reminds me of the Jay O'Callahan story about the WWII gals who took up the work in the herring shed... "Thumb in the gill, open the mouth, stick it on the rod in the herring shed..." because knitting is very similar. The needle goes into the opening, like an open mouth, you wrap the yarn around the needle, and keep it on the rod/needle as you move on to the next stitch... And all the stitches hang there like fishes on the rod. This manipulation of one really long string creates function art... scarves, hats, socks, sweaters, and, in this day and age, the world of Debbie Stoller brings us patterns for cell phone pockets, tea pot cozies, and even bikini tops. It's actually from Debbie Stoller's STITCH N' BITCH book that I learned to purl, cable, Yarn Over, etc...
(from www. angusrobertson.com.au)
But the ladies who helped me when no book could explain what was going on in some goofy diagram are right here in Williamsburg. This shop is so very special... you can just walk in with your project and ask for help. I've learned better stitching skills as well as how to crochet a border or complete an awkward pattern with these women. I feel so odd... I don't acutally know anyone's name, but, like my grandmother once was, I know they are there, down the street, and willing to lend a hand...
I sort of look at people who knit the same way as I look at people who smoke. Smokers seem to know one another and have this mutual respect for one another... and in any country. Around here, you see people brazen enough to "bum a smoke" from a total stranger... I very rarely see a smoker refuse to share his/her cigarettes (I'm sure it has happened, but I've never seen it). Even in France, I saw a woman call over to a stranger... it was as though she hand-picked him from the others walking on the road... and she asked for a light, which he readily, as if he knew her pain, crossed the road and lit her cigarette. Just like that, I've seen knitters of all ages, sizes, and levels of enthusiasm seem to simply understand one another.
I came in once with a different baby blanket than the one on which I'm currently working... I was just struggling with binding off this mammoth and needed a place to sit where I would be left quietly to my task. Two other women were in there discussing life, frustrating relatives, and their harder projects. It was a good time eavesdropping... there was nothing they said to which I could not relate, and though we had not really talked when I was there, they smiled a knowing smile at me as I gathered my many knitting tools, stuffed them in my bag, and walked out.
My current project is a stubborn thing... I like having my own special thing with people... so I am determined to make a blanket for all of Anya's children. Lilia's was knit from the colors Anya had picked for her (dark pinks, purples, etc). I tried not making it... "cutesy". Same with the one for Jude which is white and then on the other side multi-colored with shades of blue, green, and gold. All I need to do now is the border... so, of course, I've been slacking off lately. I hate finishing projects because I always let them go. The joy of giving is a plus, don't get me wrong, but I rarely keep any of my work for myself and then I don't always see much of what I've worked on for someone else after the fact.
Which is a shame, because I put so much into the knitting. I think specific thoughts for the person, dream up good dreams, create settings which remind me of the person... I mentally infuse good things into my work.
The constant motion of weaving the thread in and out of itself is also just so cathartic... it's so calming, comforting, and an awesome lesson... it takes time to knit something, but when it's finished, you have some functional art at your fingertips that you can wear or use to warm a loved one. So, at least I get the cheap therapy out of the activity...
I spent some ridiculous time last holiday season hurriedly knitting things for some people. I don't want to do that this year. I missed much of the fun of lounging, of sipping the cocoa... I'm trying to plan things out right now so that I can enjoy the holidays this year. I try to think of that as I reluctantly complete this current baby blanket so that I might convine myself to move on to a holiday project (I have at least 4 ideas for the holidays).
I love the sound of ticking needles... the excuse to watch a silly movie... the reward at the end of a piece of work... Thinking that someone won't have to be cold once I give them this project...
So, I've been knitting since a friend taught me how... well, she demonstrated the basic knit stitch and I was expected to learn by example (it was a very quiet lesson). Learning to knit reminds me of the Jay O'Callahan story about the WWII gals who took up the work in the herring shed... "Thumb in the gill, open the mouth, stick it on the rod in the herring shed..." because knitting is very similar. The needle goes into the opening, like an open mouth, you wrap the yarn around the needle, and keep it on the rod/needle as you move on to the next stitch... And all the stitches hang there like fishes on the rod. This manipulation of one really long string creates function art... scarves, hats, socks, sweaters, and, in this day and age, the world of Debbie Stoller brings us patterns for cell phone pockets, tea pot cozies, and even bikini tops. It's actually from Debbie Stoller's STITCH N' BITCH book that I learned to purl, cable, Yarn Over, etc...
(from www. angusrobertson.com.au)But the ladies who helped me when no book could explain what was going on in some goofy diagram are right here in Williamsburg. This shop is so very special... you can just walk in with your project and ask for help. I've learned better stitching skills as well as how to crochet a border or complete an awkward pattern with these women. I feel so odd... I don't acutally know anyone's name, but, like my grandmother once was, I know they are there, down the street, and willing to lend a hand...
I sort of look at people who knit the same way as I look at people who smoke. Smokers seem to know one another and have this mutual respect for one another... and in any country. Around here, you see people brazen enough to "bum a smoke" from a total stranger... I very rarely see a smoker refuse to share his/her cigarettes (I'm sure it has happened, but I've never seen it). Even in France, I saw a woman call over to a stranger... it was as though she hand-picked him from the others walking on the road... and she asked for a light, which he readily, as if he knew her pain, crossed the road and lit her cigarette. Just like that, I've seen knitters of all ages, sizes, and levels of enthusiasm seem to simply understand one another.
I came in once with a different baby blanket than the one on which I'm currently working... I was just struggling with binding off this mammoth and needed a place to sit where I would be left quietly to my task. Two other women were in there discussing life, frustrating relatives, and their harder projects. It was a good time eavesdropping... there was nothing they said to which I could not relate, and though we had not really talked when I was there, they smiled a knowing smile at me as I gathered my many knitting tools, stuffed them in my bag, and walked out.
My current project is a stubborn thing... I like having my own special thing with people... so I am determined to make a blanket for all of Anya's children. Lilia's was knit from the colors Anya had picked for her (dark pinks, purples, etc). I tried not making it... "cutesy". Same with the one for Jude which is white and then on the other side multi-colored with shades of blue, green, and gold. All I need to do now is the border... so, of course, I've been slacking off lately. I hate finishing projects because I always let them go. The joy of giving is a plus, don't get me wrong, but I rarely keep any of my work for myself and then I don't always see much of what I've worked on for someone else after the fact.
Which is a shame, because I put so much into the knitting. I think specific thoughts for the person, dream up good dreams, create settings which remind me of the person... I mentally infuse good things into my work.
The constant motion of weaving the thread in and out of itself is also just so cathartic... it's so calming, comforting, and an awesome lesson... it takes time to knit something, but when it's finished, you have some functional art at your fingertips that you can wear or use to warm a loved one. So, at least I get the cheap therapy out of the activity...
I spent some ridiculous time last holiday season hurriedly knitting things for some people. I don't want to do that this year. I missed much of the fun of lounging, of sipping the cocoa... I'm trying to plan things out right now so that I can enjoy the holidays this year. I try to think of that as I reluctantly complete this current baby blanket so that I might convine myself to move on to a holiday project (I have at least 4 ideas for the holidays).
I love the sound of ticking needles... the excuse to watch a silly movie... the reward at the end of a piece of work... Thinking that someone won't have to be cold once I give them this project...
Monday, August 17, 2009
Monday Review: A French Invasion
In honor of two occurrences this afternoon which gave me more peace than I've had in days, I'm reviewing a movie Anya passed along to me a while ago: Hors de Prix (Priceless).
(from www.moviecritic.com.au)
This film stars the darling-est coquette actress, Audrey Tautou and the charmingly awkward Gad Elmaleh. Yes, it's another one of those love stories where the man who seemingly has no shot in hell to win a dazzling girl wears away her standards and finally steals her heart. Still, what's so much fun about this one is that they definitely become friends, laughing at circumstances to which only they are totally privvy, trading tricks, etc.
Tautou plays the part of Irène... a typical dark French vixen who gets by in life by dating very wealthy men. While traveling with one of these men, she meets Jean (Elmaleh), the bar tender in a fancy hotel. She doesn't realize that he's a barman since she finds him passed out on a couch in the lounge. He pretends he is exactly her type... another well-to-do man (but much younger and better looking than the one she was dating at the time) staying at the hotel and brazen enough to jump behind the bar and make her a birthday cocktail. Naturally, one thing leads to another... but she's gone by morning and he doesn't see her again for another year. When he does, his cover is blown and Irène's boyfriend figures out that she cheated on him. This forces her to go out and find a new beau... all the while, Jean follows her trying to get closer to her. He decides to play her game and takes up with an older wealthy woman. Cleverly, he uses this lucky arrangement to get closer to Irène, who schools him on the ways to get what he wants from his girlfriend... and, of course, this friendship leads to love...
The humor is both silly and very, very French. Jean is the classic, buffoonish, unwitting hero stumbling over things, mixing up his behavior between being a waiter and pretending to be a rich man, surprising Irène causing her to choke on her coffee or champagne, etc. The fact that they bond throughout the movie over how to manipulate their older, wealthy companions, though, is typical French absurdism. To our innocent American ears, that can sound rather unworthy, but I think it's hilarious! It's not like everyone involved is not aware that there's using going on in all directions.
Irène is an interesting character to me. Here's a girl who has decided she wants to live a certain kind of lifestyle. She won't wear less than Gucci and Chanel or carry less than Vuitton. She wants to eat luxuriously... eating meals dripping with caviar (which she doesn't even like, but, tells poor Jean she forces herself to eat it so she'll get used to it) and lobster. At first, she has no interest in Jean other than sexual entertainment (a change from her older companion). Once she sees he's just a worker bee, she ditches him to call some of her old stand-bys. After hours of making phone calls, she finally comes across the grandson of one of her previous conquests. They make a date, which Jean crashes, so to teach him a lesson, Irène agrees to go out with him... but only in accordance with the lifestyle she has chosen. He pulls his savings together, but she maxes him out. She seems convinced that this lifestyle makes her someone... maybe even that it makes her happy... even though her cheating could have signalled to her that she wanted something more. Tautou's portrayal of a shallow girl evolving to a woman in love is pretty gradual, very smooth, quite convincing. You watch the actress evaluate every situation with her facial expressions, the change in her body language... she goes from loose but aloof to intense and deliberate.
Dear Jean... so in love with this mysterious girl and so hopeless. He should remind most girls of some nerd in elementary school that was so into you that he... pulled your hair? Gave you a frog? Pushed you down the slide on the playground? You know who I'm talking about... Anyway, you can't help but love that kid, can you? He tried so hard... in all the wrong ways, but it's all he knew how to do to express his passion. So, Jean stalks Irène, cleans out his account for her, sleeps with an older woman for her, cheats on his wealthy lady to seduce a younger one that claimed the older man Irène used to date, and so on. What a lucky girl to find a guy who is good-looking, broke, and willing to do just about anything for her happiness.
I'm not big on love stories, but I like to watch people change or make a grand gesture to prove their love. Jean has absolutely nothing to offer the designer collecting Irène, but he goes after her anyway. While she was thinking this poor moron didn't have a clue (maybe he would admit he didn't), Jean followed her, made things work to be with her, until he finally found a way to win her trust, her heart. Irène's second beau dumps her when he sees her kissing Jean on a balcony across from their hotel room. He takes everything he bought her... clothing, shoes, handbags, etc... locks her out of the room, and leaves her with the bill. Jean sells the Jager watch his companion bought him to get her back a room in the hotel and a beautiful Chanel dress he was unable to buy her earlier in the film. Then he puts his feelings and security on the line to seduce Irène's original boyfriend's new young lady so Irène can attempt to get him back. This gesture finally gets through to Irène that she already has something... priceless...
Just sweet, light fun...
And if nothing else, it's a more interesting movie to watch to look at the clothes! For those who loved The Devil Wears Prada (ugh), Eat Your Heart Out! I adore Audrey Tautou but I definitely hate her a little for being able to wear these sorts of dresses:
(from www.moviecritic.com.au) Tautou plays the part of Irène... a typical dark French vixen who gets by in life by dating very wealthy men. While traveling with one of these men, she meets Jean (Elmaleh), the bar tender in a fancy hotel. She doesn't realize that he's a barman since she finds him passed out on a couch in the lounge. He pretends he is exactly her type... another well-to-do man (but much younger and better looking than the one she was dating at the time) staying at the hotel and brazen enough to jump behind the bar and make her a birthday cocktail. Naturally, one thing leads to another... but she's gone by morning and he doesn't see her again for another year. When he does, his cover is blown and Irène's boyfriend figures out that she cheated on him. This forces her to go out and find a new beau... all the while, Jean follows her trying to get closer to her. He decides to play her game and takes up with an older wealthy woman. Cleverly, he uses this lucky arrangement to get closer to Irène, who schools him on the ways to get what he wants from his girlfriend... and, of course, this friendship leads to love...
The humor is both silly and very, very French. Jean is the classic, buffoonish, unwitting hero stumbling over things, mixing up his behavior between being a waiter and pretending to be a rich man, surprising Irène causing her to choke on her coffee or champagne, etc. The fact that they bond throughout the movie over how to manipulate their older, wealthy companions, though, is typical French absurdism. To our innocent American ears, that can sound rather unworthy, but I think it's hilarious! It's not like everyone involved is not aware that there's using going on in all directions.
Irène is an interesting character to me. Here's a girl who has decided she wants to live a certain kind of lifestyle. She won't wear less than Gucci and Chanel or carry less than Vuitton. She wants to eat luxuriously... eating meals dripping with caviar (which she doesn't even like, but, tells poor Jean she forces herself to eat it so she'll get used to it) and lobster. At first, she has no interest in Jean other than sexual entertainment (a change from her older companion). Once she sees he's just a worker bee, she ditches him to call some of her old stand-bys. After hours of making phone calls, she finally comes across the grandson of one of her previous conquests. They make a date, which Jean crashes, so to teach him a lesson, Irène agrees to go out with him... but only in accordance with the lifestyle she has chosen. He pulls his savings together, but she maxes him out. She seems convinced that this lifestyle makes her someone... maybe even that it makes her happy... even though her cheating could have signalled to her that she wanted something more. Tautou's portrayal of a shallow girl evolving to a woman in love is pretty gradual, very smooth, quite convincing. You watch the actress evaluate every situation with her facial expressions, the change in her body language... she goes from loose but aloof to intense and deliberate.
Dear Jean... so in love with this mysterious girl and so hopeless. He should remind most girls of some nerd in elementary school that was so into you that he... pulled your hair? Gave you a frog? Pushed you down the slide on the playground? You know who I'm talking about... Anyway, you can't help but love that kid, can you? He tried so hard... in all the wrong ways, but it's all he knew how to do to express his passion. So, Jean stalks Irène, cleans out his account for her, sleeps with an older woman for her, cheats on his wealthy lady to seduce a younger one that claimed the older man Irène used to date, and so on. What a lucky girl to find a guy who is good-looking, broke, and willing to do just about anything for her happiness.
I'm not big on love stories, but I like to watch people change or make a grand gesture to prove their love. Jean has absolutely nothing to offer the designer collecting Irène, but he goes after her anyway. While she was thinking this poor moron didn't have a clue (maybe he would admit he didn't), Jean followed her, made things work to be with her, until he finally found a way to win her trust, her heart. Irène's second beau dumps her when he sees her kissing Jean on a balcony across from their hotel room. He takes everything he bought her... clothing, shoes, handbags, etc... locks her out of the room, and leaves her with the bill. Jean sells the Jager watch his companion bought him to get her back a room in the hotel and a beautiful Chanel dress he was unable to buy her earlier in the film. Then he puts his feelings and security on the line to seduce Irène's original boyfriend's new young lady so Irène can attempt to get him back. This gesture finally gets through to Irène that she already has something... priceless...Just sweet, light fun...
And if nothing else, it's a more interesting movie to watch to look at the clothes! For those who loved The Devil Wears Prada (ugh), Eat Your Heart Out! I adore Audrey Tautou but I definitely hate her a little for being able to wear these sorts of dresses:
(Images from www.allocine.fr, dorablahblah.blogspot.com, http://pixhost.ws/avaxhome/,http://moodboard.typepad.com )
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Sunday Reflections: Conjuring Stranger Stories
I saw two scenes along the road today that made me wonder about the lives of people I do not know. It also caused me to chuckle as I attempted to fill in the blanks...
On my way to work, I was driving down Jefferson Avenue and trying to make the turn onto Oyster Point. Along that turn lane are several openings allowing cars to visit and depart the shops. In the middle of one of these drives, I saw an abandoned backpack, hat, and something wrapped in a bundle. I thought to myself that that was strange and then I saw a young boy running, a woman running after him, and a man lagging behind but following their course. As I drove past them, I saw the boy pick up the things in the road in the rear view mirror.
My mind began to conjure these strangers' story. What must have happened that this boy found his things tossed in the driveway? Did Dad get angry at someone and toss them out causing the boy to scream until the man pulled over so he could run and get his stuff? Were Mom and Dad arguing causing the boy to toss the crap out himself forcing them to focus their energy on him? Or, could they simply have packed the top of their vacation car poorly (which I didn't get a chance to see) and the things slipped off?
Then on the way back from work, I decided to take the Colonial Parkway. It takes longer, but it's certainly a lovelier road than the Interstate. There are several little pockets on the Parkway where people can park, get out, look around, picnic, etc. I saw several groups of people... I saw friends fishing, families scurrying after kids and animals, two old men hanging over lawn chairs shrinking in the sun or fatigue... but one scene intrigued me most...
I saw a young dark-haired guy sitting next to a motorcycle. He was in one of the rare coves unoccupied by other groups of people. He was completely alone and looked a little sad. A third of me wanted to be him while another third considered pulling over to ask him if he felt like I do today... and the last third of me knew that, if I were him and saw a gal pull over and walk towards me, I'd probably hop on my bike and haul out of there!
Still, I tried to fill in his story, too. Was it a romantic problem? Was he running away from work? Was he frustrated with his family? Or, had he simply biking a while and wanted a place in the shade to rest before heading home again?
I sort of hope that I'm wrong about the dramatics. I hope that my ideas are so far from the truth that, whatever awkwardness or mishap that transpired to provide strangers with such circumstances, they'd laugh if they heard what I was thinking.
May we all learn to laugh when we hold up our lives against the horrors of the human imagination. I suppose that, often enough, it could always be worse...
On my way to work, I was driving down Jefferson Avenue and trying to make the turn onto Oyster Point. Along that turn lane are several openings allowing cars to visit and depart the shops. In the middle of one of these drives, I saw an abandoned backpack, hat, and something wrapped in a bundle. I thought to myself that that was strange and then I saw a young boy running, a woman running after him, and a man lagging behind but following their course. As I drove past them, I saw the boy pick up the things in the road in the rear view mirror.
My mind began to conjure these strangers' story. What must have happened that this boy found his things tossed in the driveway? Did Dad get angry at someone and toss them out causing the boy to scream until the man pulled over so he could run and get his stuff? Were Mom and Dad arguing causing the boy to toss the crap out himself forcing them to focus their energy on him? Or, could they simply have packed the top of their vacation car poorly (which I didn't get a chance to see) and the things slipped off?
Then on the way back from work, I decided to take the Colonial Parkway. It takes longer, but it's certainly a lovelier road than the Interstate. There are several little pockets on the Parkway where people can park, get out, look around, picnic, etc. I saw several groups of people... I saw friends fishing, families scurrying after kids and animals, two old men hanging over lawn chairs shrinking in the sun or fatigue... but one scene intrigued me most...
I saw a young dark-haired guy sitting next to a motorcycle. He was in one of the rare coves unoccupied by other groups of people. He was completely alone and looked a little sad. A third of me wanted to be him while another third considered pulling over to ask him if he felt like I do today... and the last third of me knew that, if I were him and saw a gal pull over and walk towards me, I'd probably hop on my bike and haul out of there!
Still, I tried to fill in his story, too. Was it a romantic problem? Was he running away from work? Was he frustrated with his family? Or, had he simply biking a while and wanted a place in the shade to rest before heading home again?
I sort of hope that I'm wrong about the dramatics. I hope that my ideas are so far from the truth that, whatever awkwardness or mishap that transpired to provide strangers with such circumstances, they'd laugh if they heard what I was thinking.
May we all learn to laugh when we hold up our lives against the horrors of the human imagination. I suppose that, often enough, it could always be worse...
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