CURSED with Call It What You Will!
“What is the daydreaming equivalent to flaneur?”
I asked my know-it-all friend Google.
“Flâneur (pronounced: [flɑnœʁ]), from the French noun flâneur, means “stroller”, “lounger”, “saunterer”, or “loafer”.Flânerie refers to the act of strolling, with all of its accompanying associations.”
—Or should I have written equivalent of flaneur instead of to flaneur—Halt! Scratch that! (Grammarian-digressions are not “writerly." They are more excuses to drift away. Write now, fix later . . . )
I guess the idea is to imagine listening while daydreaming about strolling into the blur.
Good old Google directed me first to Flaneur Audio. A fuzzy woodlands image and a playlist of “0 minutes; 0 titles.”
Why do I ask? You ask:
Because “daydreaming” is too passive, to harmless-sounding for this affliction.
The next Google link took me to page 133 of a treatise entitled “A Short Phenomenology of Flanerie” which was, I assure you even as I hyperlink, is no treat to read.
(And no, “Flanerie” it is not a misspelling of “Flannery.”) However, Flannery O’Connor’s Slow, deep, Suthun' drawling style is sort of what I mean in asking the question.
Maybe Flannery's prose read slowly because she didn't have A/C. Was the summer air was so dense it weighed heavily on her hand so she couldn't write fast? Did she go out to the porch to cool off before writing fast-paced scenes?
Why do I ask?
Because “daydreaming” is too passive, too harmless-sounding for this WHAT-DO-YOU-CALL-IT? Affliction . . . nay. CURSE!
A CURSE which most recently led to me being stranded in JFK airport at 6:02 am. It struck like this:
Right on time—albeit night time: 4:00 am—I revved up the Long Island Express Way toward JFK airport. Happy the forecast-ed snow hadn’t hit, I hit the almost empty highway with my mind tuned to nothing.
Then, I started thinking about that snow and like snow, my mind drifted . . .
ZOOMMMMMMMMMing along, thinking fluffy, puffy, snowy ideas . . . ZOOMMMMM . . . Past the exit—
Congratulating myself for coming to in time to catch my mistake, I flipped a U-turn, and circled back to the entrance. No worries.
The radio station was replaying the same set it has been playing for the past week. I knew all the words, so I sang along as I drove. Until somehow, I wasn’t singing, I was thinking. Thinking through my stories…about Vampire Baby . . .
Her poor brother. . . and where his unsuspecting parents would make him take Tootie next . . . and what’s she could bite—
WHAAAA WHOP WHOP WHIRRRRRRRRR Sirens! Flashing lights!
I clutched the wheel, scanned traffic, focused as I rolled passed the 1 ambulance-3 squad car-2-car smash-crash
Which got me thinking about boys . . . how they are born with car noises BUBBBBBBBBBB. . . . Max had been . . . Then I got to thinking about Baby no-teefers-yet Ben, and how pretty quickly he’d have teeth. Will he be a Vampire Baby? Then I got to thinking what Ben might bite. . . . what kind of stories will Ben make up and will I imagine stories for him . . . lah lah lah . . .
Monsters….and trucks….Mickie Knudsen’s brilliant, funny, don't-I-wish-I'd-thought of it Big Mean Mike.
About how it reminded me of Visitor for Bear
And why? Because Mike and Bear are grouches?
I'm a grouch! Could I write about a grouch? What kind of grouch?—
--WIZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
I glimpsed a sign for the Mid-town Tunnel as I zoomed past . . .
I hit the pause button. I didn’t remember signs for the Mid-Town Tunnel on my way to the airport? I didn’t think so, anyway—
I took the next off ramp, which also happened to lead to a gas station, which made me feel more smart than stupid as I was going to have to fill up the rental car anyway, so really, this was a fortuitous overshot (overshoot?) as I could now double-checked the route on Google Maps while fueling--I couldn’t have gone tooooo far past the airport turn off--good thing I’d left so early. . .
Determined not to make any more mistakes, I flipped a U-Turn. This time, paying strict attention to each Google Map lady instruction, I drove straight back to the airport, to the rental car return where a robot recording told me to go inside. So I did, and waited for the attendant to stop kvetching with her colleague and pay attention to me, which she eventually did, and after a quick comfort stop clomped purposefully to the Air Train station where I responsibily checked the directory, found Jet Blue’s location and boarded the next train .
Maybe it was the chug-chugging that got to thinking about trains, and train books, and what if my story—the story I didn’t know how to fix—what if I put a train in it—lah-lah-lah . . .
. . . I came to in front of the Caribbean Airlines desks with nary a Jet Blue desk in sight. Why? Because I was in Terminal 4, not 5—
I wasn't phases. (OK, I was, but just a little bit.) The swirling ideas had infused me with wonderment and possibility even this detour couldn’t dispel.
All the way on walk back to the Air Train and the ride back to Terminal 5 and the longer walk to the check-in counters I held tight to the feeling and the ideas--a mind stuffed with BRILLIANT MUST-DO ideas!
In hearing this account, some—not my family—might applaud this . . . this. . . Imaginitis. A gift! They might call it. This kind of dream thinking is vital! Imperative! It’s what makes writers WRITERS. It’s the path to going deeper to our best stories!
That's certainly what I was thinking: “What a gift!” as I waited in the correct queue at the correct terminal, “What a gift!” as I made my way to the check-in desk, “What a gift!” even as upon hearing my destination the airline rep checked her watch. If she had smiled and said “welcome” I might still be thinking "What a gift!"
But she didn’t.
Now, instead of a head-full of insights, solutions to my story problems, brilliant ideas, what I have to show for this latest bout of whatever the correct term for this daydreaming equivalent to flaneur is is a bill for another flight, a day-long wait in the airport, another flight to Miami followed by another wait, and a sore tailbone.
This is NO gift . . . .
So I ask again, WHAT IS IT?
Is it OCD/ADD? Is it a writer-itis? Is it that hormonal stuff? Or that aging thing that can be cured with heavy doses of Sudoku and crossword puzzles?
Whatever it is, help! Help! Cure me from this daydreaming equivilent-call-it-what-you . . .
. . . Wait!
I just thought of something . . .
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LESSONS from YOGA BABY ...CAN WE can CAN'T ?
Yoga Baby doesn't even have teeth yet.
No Teefers inside that happy grin. No swollen gums. No white ridges. Just buckets of drool
Danger Will Robinson! Ben's mobile . . .
Yoga Baby's father didn't try pulling himself up to standing until he was 11 months. It wasn't a matter of "can" or "can't" . . . He didn't even want to try.
He just recently--at 7 months-- learned to crawl.
Now, not 3 weeks later YOGA BABY pulled himself up to standing all by himself.
Look Ma!
At 8 months, Yoga Baby's Aunt Lexi could stand, holding on. But she needed help to get up there.
Then, why Yoga Baby? HOW?
One day last week, when no one was watching, so no one was there to tell him "be careful" "no no Baby" "You might fall, Yoga Baby grabbed hold of the laundry basket and pulled himself up to standing.
The Laundry Basket is there. I'm here. The folks aren't here to tell me "no", so I say 'YES!"
"Come on, Legs! Don't fail me now. Straighten up! Be strong! Give me some lift off!
Tah Dah! The View from Up Here is soooo much nicer!
Now--"No Prob, Bob!"--YOGA BABY pulls himself up all the time.
“But, how did you know you could do it, Yoga Baby?”
That's the thing. It's not about knowing you CAN. . . . It's about not thinking "I CAN'T"
It's about starting from a place of "CAN!" Then asking yourself "HOW?"
But . . . but: Are we born with that niggling voice that tells us "Can't." "No." "Don't Even Try?" "You're Gonna Fail"?
What do you think? Is that "Can't" there, talking to Yoga Baby even while he's pulling himself up? But because he can't talk yet, he doesn't understand what it's saying? Is that why Yoga Baby dares the impossible? Or does "can't" have to be taught?
Is "Can" in our nature and "Can't" from our nurture?
If "Can't" is learned, can it be unlearned?
“Can we fire Can’t? —Can we Can it? ”
We Can!
Start with Can! Then, take a lesson from Yoga Baby, and ask yourself: How?
HOW? STARTS NOW!
For a Paper Moon on April Fool's Day
“Words words words I’m so sick of words . . . Is that all you blighters can do?”
These may like odd words , especially coming from a writer. But it's what's stuck in my head just now. Frankly, I am sick of the of pages and piles of unwanted printed material--catalogs, magazines, outdated text books, playbills, obsolete manuals--heaped and mounded, fanned, basketed, lined-up and otherwise cluttering up my spaces...words, words, words. Do I toss them into the recycles? Donate them to the nearest library bin so they can try to sell them and or toss them into the recycles? Burn them on the balcony? Or . . .
My friend Alicia, a former bookseller now happily ensconced in the children's section of Conroe Central Library, reminded me that one art form can feed another by bringing my attention to exhibit, Rebound, at The Halsey Institute of Contemporary Art at the College of Charleston in South Carolina, "featuring five contemporary artists: Guy Laramee, Long Bin Chen, Francesca Pastine, Doug Beube, and Brian Dettmer, who create sculptures and installations using various books and printed materials." Here's info about the exhibit and museum: Rebound.
Rebound-9
Which reminded me of the Mysterious Paper Sculptures created and deposited anonymously in stores, book festivals,etc. that captured my fancy a while back. I wrote about them in my blog posting: Word Sculptors Inspire Paper Sculptures.
Here's the link to more: Mysterious Paper Sculptures link:
Which brought to mind the charming "word nests" my writer, friend, fellow UN, Sharry Wright, co-blogger on Kissing the Earth, created and wrote about in a spring post titled "Building a Nest"
Sharry Wright's Word Nests
Dealing with outdated reading material is a "Third-World" issue, and historically-speaking, a recent one. Prior to the invention of toilet paper any unwanted paper was put to good use. (Aww come on, surely you've heard stories of olden-day outhouses stocked with Sears Catalogs?)
In less developed places there's no such thing as "unwanted paper." When we moved to Jakarta in 2005, my housekeeper, Rusnati, painstakingly smoothed out packing paper and used it to line all the cupboards and closets in our house.
Back in the day, outdated phonebooks, Sears Catalogues, and the big thick Yellow Pages was a problem my mom turned into an annual Christmas tradition, and "how to keep the kids busy over the long holiday" solution. Her friends and our friends gathered around the table making Christmas tree table decorations from telephone books. Clump by clump we'd fold back the pages while the grown-ups chattered and Dean, Bob, Johnny, Mitch Miller's Singers, Elvis, and Don Ho "Live from Honolulu" seranaded us. Being a Multi-tasking Queen, Mom usually had us cookie baking at the same time. A little peanut butter cookie grease never hurt anything. Maybe even made the page creases neater . . . Anyway, when the folding was over, gold spray paint and enough glitter and sequins made every tree merry and bright.
Martha Stewart's mom or friend's mom must have done the same thing. Her updated version uses outdated magazines--even her own! Telephone Book Christmas Trees.
Martha showed how to make them on her show. Here's the video
All of which reminded me that I have scissors and glue and imagination that I could use to refashion those unwanted volumes of words words words . . .
. . . Which would make room for so many more . . .
"Show Me" from the musical, My Fair Lady, lyrics by Jay Lerner.) Have a listen on U-Tube
A Whimsical Reminder on an Icy Day
Sometimes, especially when it's hard going, we wonder why we do it. And then, on a ordinary morning comes a whimsical reminder . . .
. . . Or See the Marks of Tiny Feet . . .
“In a In a great big wood in a great big tree, there’s the nicest little house that could possibly be.
There’s a tiny little knocker on the tiny little door, and a tiny little carpet on the tiny little floor.
There’s a tiny little table, and a tiny little bed, and a tiny little pillow for a tiny weeny head;
A tiny little blanket, and a tiny little sheet, and a tiny water bottle (hot) for tiny little feet.
A tiny little eiderdown; a tiny little chair; and a tiny little kettle for the owner (when he’s there.)
In a tiny little larder there’s a tiny thermos bottle for a tiny little greedy man who knows the Woods Of Pottle
There’s a tiny little peg for a tiny little hat and a tiny little dog and a tiny little cat.
If you’ve got a little house and you keep it spic and span,
Perhaps there’ll come to live in it a tiny little man You may not ever see him, he is extremely shy;
But if you find a crumpled sheet -
Or pins upon the window seat -
Or see the marks of tiny feet -
You’ll know the reason why.”
I never wanted that "tiny little man" to come live in my "little house" (that felt a little creepy . . . ) But I so wanted to find a little house like his.
One of the Fairy Houses created during Barb's workshop.
Snaps of the Fairy Houses created during Author, Bee Keeper, Fairy House Creator, Barb Crispin's Bees Knees Workshop brought that poem--
and those feelings of wonderment and delight that that tiny house might actually be--flooding back.
The Power of Words
To see more of Barb's whimsical, wonderful Fairy Houses, click over to Crispin Apiary's Facebook page.
The Argus 2014: Capetown, S.A.
The wind howled throughout Argus Eve night. I know I slept because each time a mighty wind rattled the windows it woke me. Why am I doing this ride?
At 5:00, when the alarm went off, I asked myself again.
And again when I rubbed the pain/inflammation compound on my knee, sun screened, pulled on biking pants, shirts—2 because it was chilly—biking socks, shoes, gloves, adjusted my helmet, clipped the race chip on the bike wheel, checked that my race number was in place on my back, that my green medical ID sticker with allergy info was properly placed, stuffed my pockets with my shuffle, camera, lip balm & Advil, I asked: Why are Curtis and I doing this ride?
Part of the Mason/Voysey Group-Chris, Luke, Dave, Ed, Robert, Darrel, Kelly, Curts- in Official Team Shirts, at Fountain Circle waiting for the rest of the group.
Everyone else in the Mason/Voysey family group had trained. We’d arranged to meet at Fountain Circle in Downtown Capetown, so we could all start together:
o Uncle John (80 and the inspiration for this ride)
o 4 Mason Brothers (Andrew, Robert, Charles, David)
o 3 Voysey Brothers (Donald, John, Peter John)
o Harriet (Robert Voysey’s wife and tandem partner)
o Caelia (Donald Voysey’s daughter and at 18 the youngest rider)
o Cousin Robert
o Cousin Darrel Voysey
o Mason side Cousins: Luke, Chris Mason
o Mason/Voysey’s “To Be”: Ed & Luke (who proposed to cousin Eve at the top of Table Mountain)
Caelia, the youngest in our group, and her dad Donald-ready to ride!
Even after we’d saddled up and were coasting downhill from Shona and Charles apartment toward the starting place, I asked myself: Can I back out now? Should I?
Through the sleepy, pre-dawn streets, the announcer bellowed and music thumped as thousands of riders, like ants converged into a solid clump thousands—35,000ish—thick.
Argus Riders--DD Group--Surging toward the Starting Line
Curtis was ready
Harriett & Robert: Tandem Ready!
Corralling 34,500 riders, sorting them into groups of 500 riders (some more or less), herding them through the streets and across the finish line at 5 minute intervals, seems a herculean task. With 36 years of experience the Argus organizers manage it handily and cheerfully.
At sunrise, 6:19 am, The Argus 2014 was on!
The first group set off with dollar sign race numbers on their backs. Then came groups with other symbols, then A group-through to z, then double AA group and so on. (The Voysey/Mason Family group is DD). As each group was announced and set off with a blast of the start horn, the rest of us moved closer to the finish line. The sun rose. I stopped asking why? I started asking: Can I?
The DD at the Start LIne--see the bridge in the distance? That's the start.
The announcer called out tidbits about each group as its members waiting in next off “pen”. The DD group included:
· The oldest Argus rider, at 91
· 3 or 5 participants who have ridden in every Argus Ride—this being their 37th
· 5 riders in their 80s, including the oldest female and Uncle John (we gave a huge shout out as his name was announced).
· Amputees & folks with MS and other diseases riding recumbent bikes they pedaled with their hands.
Curtis and me--a couple of "posers" at the start of the ride
I had been secretly feeling a little proud of myself that Curtis and I, oldsters that we are, were riding, until hearing this list. . .
The bullhorn blasted. The announcer shouted “And their off!”
And we stood.
A pack of 500 people on bikes does not surge forward in a wave. It oozes forward like goo in the bottom of a squeeze tube. Even slower upon hearing “Mind the wind under the bridge!” “Hold Steady!”
Head down as the wind blasted us, knocking forward riders sideways. I gripped the bike (not my bike! I already hated this fat wheeled, thick-framed, stocky mule of a mountain bike), and inched my way across the starting line.
The Argus route starts with a long, slow uphill. Even though I was pedaling as hard as I could, it felt as though I was sliding backwards as everyone else in the Mason/Voysey group, including Curtis and every other DD, then EEs and FFs, JJs, KKs rolled passed.
Uncle John has our team shirts designed with everyone's names and country flags on the front and back.
If I had ever thought about trying to keep up, I quit trying then. The best I could do was keep pedaling, and make the best of it.
Spectators lining the route, waving, cheering, carrying signs, some in costume, some holding out beers or hands for “high five” made it better.
The scenery: breathtaking vistas, aquamarine seas, buff shimmering sand, quaint and varied building & villages, attention grabbing, I-could-hop-off-and-go-in-for-a-look shops, ostrich farms, eucalyptus groves, hills and mountains and down hills gave me plenty to look at as I pedal-crept past.
I didn’t have a speedometer or odometer on my bike, or a watch, so I had no way of knowing how long I’d gone or how far—felt like hours and a million miles—until I spotted a bright yellow sign: ONLY 98 KM TO GO!
When everyone—Curtis included—left me in the dust at the starting line, I abondoned the thought of ever see any of them again. Of maybe crossing the finishing line as a group, the way they had discussed at the "Strategy Meeting" the night before. It was freeing to know I didn’t have to even try to keep up. All I had to do was keep going.
Shona, leader of the official Mason cheer squad said she’d be watching us from the railroad track in Cork Bay, but I’d sort of forgotten that until I heard her calling my name. I looked up, around, and there she was waving and screaming wildly with a bunch of other non-riding family members. Their whoops buoyed me for a few more kilometers.
Then again, down the road from their home, Aunt Marie (Uncle John’s wife) leading a Voysey cheer squad, shouted encouragement. How happy I was that their watching post was at a slight downhill spot and not one of the ugly, sweaty, hard-fought uphills.
At one Reward Stop, my reward was a glimpse of yellow shirt in the distance. Could it be Mr. B?
Hours and Kilometers clicked by. Parts began protesting: my back, knee, chin where the strap rubbed, my seat, my seat, the bottom of my left foot, bottom of the right, knee, bottom . . . The aches, or my attention, migrated, giving me something to think about as I pedaled—it passed the time.
Stopping after a long uphill was a bargain I made. A reward. I’d look up and forward to a point, telling myself “When you reach that spot, you can stop and take photos.” (Taking photos sounds way cooler than "resting."
Random Riders fighting up yet another long hill
At one such photo/rest stop, I glimpsed a familiar yellow shirt pedaling toward me. It was Curtis! He’d stopped somewhere to wait for me, then stopped again (and maybe again) until I’d wound up in front of him. Neither of us had even pulled a Daniel Day Lewis Last of the Mohicans and nevertheless, we’d found each other in that sea of 36,000. After that, we decided we’d finish together.
Chapman Hill is what riders veterans talk about. “Chappie” they call it, as if having pedaled up, up, up, up, up it, the road winding up and over the mountains, it becomes a friend.
Chapman Hill never will be “Chappie” to me. It’s a miserable climb. Incredible riding under the cliff edge, though
Curtis battling his way up "Chappie"
See the road carved into the side of Chapman Hill? And the teeny tiny ant-riders winding up that hill?
But the long, gradual downhill after was thrilling, freeing, glorious! Especially as Chapman comes toward the end of the ride.
Having ridden the Argus before, as though through muscle memory, I recalled well the easy, relatively flat cruise from there back into Capetown and the finish. As we rode along, I mentioned to Curtis how Chapman hadn’t seemed as hard going as I recalled. How I’d remembered a stretch where we seemed to be riding almost straight up, with lots of wobbling, pedaling almost to a standstill, and spectators giving riders pushes to help them up. “That wasn’t Chappie,” Curtis said. “That hill you're remembering is the hill that comes after Chappie . . . ”
“After???? There’s another bad hill?” I asked.
“Two more,” Curtis replied.
No one offered to push me up those next two hills. (I would have paid dearly for the service.) There was a group of red winged “Angels” pushing people up hill at one point, but they were on the far right side of the road and I was on the left, too weary and slow to try to cut across the crowd to the other side.
A bit farther on, a man was cooling people down with spray from his garden hose. I recalled laughing when he sprayed me the first time. But that had been a sunny, windless ride, and I'd been hot and powerful. (Fortunately, his territory was at a relatively slight uphill so I could veer out of range—his good fortune, for I think I would have punched him if he’d squirted me.)
Recumbent bike riders pedal with their hands and arms.
As promised, Curtis and I crossed the finish line, together. We looked around hoping Shona & the gang had witnessed our crossing, as they had the first time we'd ridden the Argus. But no familiar voices shouted and whooped as they had in 2011. (Some strangers did. And congratulated us as they handed us our Argus Medals, and herded up past.)
There were 34,500 confirmed riders who started the Argus 2014. Winds at the starting line were clocked at about 35 mph.
The Argus winner, Nolan Hoffman, rode it in 2 hours and 37 minutes, 1 second.
The best Mason/Voysey race time was Ed’s at 4:37
Uncle John, at 80, crossed the finish line together with his sons in 4:45
The exact time it took Curtis and I to ride the 109 km is unknown as our names do not show up on the official Argus website. Charles said they stop tracking chips after 7 hours.
So, according to official records, we may not have finished the Argus 2014. . . .
It wasn’t pretty. Or handily. Or strong. But we know we finished.
Here's proof (recieved via email 3-12-2014):
“Kelly,
Your result won’t be displayed on our website as you took longer than 7hrs to complete the race. You needed to complete the race in 7hrs from your group start time.
Your group started at 07:44:00, you finished at 15:15:45. That gives you a time of 7 hours, 31 minutes and 45 seconds.
Regards,”
Now that it's done, and I've slathered my knee with pain-killer, anti-inflammatory salve, I can answer that question of why? Why we rode it?
Why do any of us challenge ourselves to tackle difficult, seemingly impossible, maybe foolhardy tasks?
It's not about whether or not anyone sees you cross the finish. Rewards, the medals, recognition, that's not it.
Why do we do it? To know we can.
Onward Don Quixote!
PHOTO AT THE FINISH TO COME--MAYBE . . . maybe not.
Yoga Baby Wants MORE!
At six months, Baby Ben is a yoga savant!
Resting Baby pose is a cinch.
So is Cobra. And Corpse pose, too.
Corpse Pose? Shoot, I can do that in my sleep!
Upward Facing Dog-no prob!
YOGA BABY is tenacious! When he wants--really really wants--he goes after it!
Do not be deceived by this seemingly "I love Mimi" behavior. Ben is after that cell phone and he'll climb any mountain to get it!
Army Crawl works. But Yoga Baby wants "More!"
Yoga Baby wants to CRAWL!
I watch as Yoga Baby rises up out of Downward Facing Dog and flows into Standing Dog. He looks down, then forward, thinking so hard, you can almost see the gears turning. “If only I had one more hand to lean on, I could so do it.”
I know exactly how he feels.
The other week, my yoga instructor had us on all fours. Not in any dog position. Instead, we were on our bottoms with our knees bent, arms looped through our legs, to the outside of our feet working toward some Harry-Houdini-Got-Nothing-on-You pose. Erica was urging me to put my head down and lift my bottom up off the ground. And I was thinking about it.
I was thinking: Yeah, right. How exactly am I supposed to hoist my big ole self up onto my trembling arms. . . I was thinking about how stupid I looked. Thinking about how, any second I might pitch face forward.
Baby B does not think he knows. He is going to crawl.
He isn't worried he might fall on his face. He doesn't care how he’ll look tumbled forward. About how he’ll feel when he lands face down. Or what people might think of him. He doesn't have time for doubt.
He is working on HOW!
Any time now, he’s going to do it, too!
In yoga, in life, in our work, I'm thinking I need to reconnect with my inner Yoga Baby. Stop spending energy on all that other stuff and work on HOW!
HOW ABOUT YOU?
Disclaimer: Yoga Pose names are intended to be descriptive, not correct.
DO OVERS
So I just spent 3 hours on a Friday night writing a blog post--Hours I could have been liming (which in Trinidad speak means socializing with friends aka "partying");
hours I could have spent packing my suitcases for my upcoming trip; doing the ironing--which is piling up; eating; sipping; whining (Trini speak for dancing, what Miley calls "twerking"):
or languidly lounging on the balcony watching pelicans swoop into the glistening Gulf of Paria.
The view from the comfy chair on my patio calls "lounge, lizard! Watch for flying fish! Feel the breeze!
Even with all those things, and more, I could have been doing, I don't begrudge spending one moment writing that post. Because it was brilliant.
It was a post on Do OVERS and how, in the course of doing over our house, I've come to realize the clarity and freedom that comes from throwing in the town and starting over can bring. "I call Do Overs!" The post took me especially long to write because I included lots of photos illustrating problems my contractor George uncovered which led to us having to gut the whole first floor of our house, including maybe rat gnawed wires, leaks, shoddy workmanship, and hidden surprises. (Be glad, maybe, that you don't have to see that...)
The post began like this (I know because I save this bit earlier.):
Hopscotch players have to be able to jump far and accurately--sometimes 4 or 5 squares at a time. But the real secret is in the hopscotch charm. It has to be heavy enough to stick in a square and not roll. Mine was a key chain with a key.
When I was a kid, playing a game with friends--hopscotch, marbles, putt-putt golf and the like. Whenever one of us made a really lousy play—marble shot, we called “do overs.”
“Do Overs is an opportunity to try or perform something a second time.”
So what the heck? Now that we’re adults…..professionals…DO OVERS aren’t permitted?
Is it because we are scared to chuck it all and go back to the beginning? Take another shot at it? Try another approach?
Or is it because we are too lazy, broke, cocky, afraid of what we'll be left with, of losing what we've got--regardless how flawed that might be?
A fresh coat of paint, new throw pillows, the right lighting mask a multitude of mistakes
I concluded with the realization that with houses, as with our lives, and our stories, often we allow, knowingly and not, frippery--paint and frills, holidays and laughs, flowery passages and pithy prose--to mask fundamental flaws. And how, if instead of messing around trying to make it look all right, we should call out "DO OVER," strip it down to the bare bones. Clear the Slate. Wind up and give it another go.
How calling "Do Over" is like a Get Out Of Jail Card.
So, this amazing, brilliant, and I am sooooooo convinced, inspiring blog post was finished. I'd clicked to tags, add categories. I'd uploaded a cover picture and even pushed "publish."
I was half out of my seat, ready to get up, walk away, be done. But no, Ms. Clever-McSmarty Pants wouldn't let me quit there, so I decided the post would be even more brilliant if I added a photo of the Do Over game (Because it made me laugh and I was having such fun being clever.)
Oh, yeah, and a pithy little quote about "Rites and Rituals", too.
“The do-over was one of childhood’s most powerful rites, for it exerted our dominion over the laws of space and time. The clock was rolled back, the game was restored to its exact status as before before the contested event and play was resumed.”
But then, the picture wasn't positioned quite right, so I decided to delete it and try again. Instead, I deleted the entire blog post.
And even after searching all over my blog site and the Internet for ways to recover it, I can't. So now as brilliant as it was, you will never ever get to read that post on the deepest truth of DO OVERS. Unless, of course, I get up the energy to redo it. And despite the convictions of my lost post, I'm not sure I can.
Not even Marilyn could convince me. (And I listened several times.) So, in closing, I'll let Marilyn speak for herself on the subject. Since you can't read it from me, LISTEN TO MARILYN.
A Valentine Flaneur & Random Kindness
One day it happens, you begin to make Valentine's and slide into a story, "Once, back when we had gas rationing..."
Back in my day gasoline was 20 cents a gallon... and I used to have to walk 7 miles uphill to get to school...
And then realize the people you are telling the story to weren't alive to remember gas rationing. Your memories--in this case mine--are now officially "HISTORICAL" (fiction or memoir depending).
It's Valentine's Day, one of my favorite holiday/workdays. So rather than clicking away as I ought, I'm playing. Last night I wrote out valentines, first thing this morning I sent them, and then made valentines using kindergarten scissors.
(The kind with rubber grips and rounded ends.)
While valentine-ing, I let myself flaneur (sounds so much less aged than my mind wandered).
Remember back when you were in school? How exciting Valentine's Day was? During art, we'd make our Valentine holders.
Which was fun, but not easy...cutting all those straight lines, making sure the lobes of the hearts were the same size.
This made me think of Ramona trying so hard to cut out her paperbag owl.
So I had to pull out my copy and reread a bit...
After-school sessions spent selecting the best valentine for each classmate.
These are the Valentine's we gave in my day. They came in boxes of 24. Which posed huge problems in classes of 27
These are Norman's Favorite Valentines-- And a downloadable kit to make them.
Painstakingly deciding who would get which? Then signing them. . . Do I sign with love? Or your friend? Or just my name?
How, at the designated time we'd scurry around slipping our favors into each others bag or box.
Did you ever not get a valentine?
Or receive a surprise valentine?
Lexi prefers hers to be goldfish. (If you've eaten too many this photo will appear blurry.)
The first gift my hubby, then boyfriend, ever gave me was earrings for Valentine's Day--a risky move considering we hadn't been dating very long. (They are still my favorites--just for that reason.)
He was quite a bit older when we started dating that he is in this photo!
Fittingly, this Valentine week our yoga intention is Kindness. Catherine passed around these Kindness Cards to commemorate it.
Click on the ReThink Happiness Movement link below to get a card and see what kindnesses others have experienced.
It's part of the ReThink Happiness Movement.
“The idea is to do a random act of kindness and leave a card saying so. Each card has a number and the recipient can click on the website and register the kindness—then take a turn at doing a kindness and passing on the card and so on and so on... into a hopefully happier, definitely more interesting world. ”
It was the KINDNESS CARD that started me down this road. I bought my first car during gas rationing. On one of my days to fill up (I was an even).
Mine was way cooler with a racing stripe and luggage rack.
After idling my way to the gas pump, I filled up my car and joined the queue to pay up.
Back then the gas pumps didn't have credit card machines built right in.
How long ago was "back then"? It was soooo long ago, our T.V was black and white, programs only showed on 2 channels and every midnight an Indian in full regalia cried while the Star Spangled Banner played and the flag waved.
When I finally reached the payment window, the clerk said: "No Charge"
"What do you mean, No Charge?"
Seems some guy had paid for my gas. A Random Act of Kindness.
And even though, sometime later I discovered that "guy" had been my grandfather. That feeling of unexpected kindness stayed--a sparkle.
A heart full of Valentines ready to be passed out!
That sparkle flickered and popped during my Valentine making session. I stuffed my purse with valentines and willy-nilly passed them around. Made me as happy as Mr. Hatch.
Remember Mr. Hatch?
If you don't, take 11.5 minutes, cozy up, click over to hear Hector Elizondo read this oh-how-I-wish-I-had-written-it picture book. If you do, give yourself a Valentine treat and listen again. Just click on the title
Treat someone--and yourself, too---kindly!
Happy Valentines Day!