Age is opportunity no less,
Than youth itself, though in another dress,
And as the evening twilight fades away,
The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Morituri Salutamus
My father-in-law turned 60 years old yesterday. We surprised him by gathering a small group of family and friends at Kirkbrae Country Club where he and my mother-in-law have dinner every Friday night. It was a lot of fun and I'll post some pictures soon.
Sitting at the table last night with a group of people age 19 to 81 really got my mind churning. There was lots of wisdom whirring around the table. There was lots of advice being sought and dispensed. There were lots of people just being people. Age disappeared. Age didn't seem to matter. Age was being celebrated and all were celebrated no matter their age.
The other day a man asked me what I thought was the best time of life. "Why," I answered without a thought, "now." - David Grayson
I believe in living in the moment. If you can not find happiness, something positive, in the present moment, you will surely age before your time.
I am not saying this is easy or that I achieve this all the time, but it is something to strive for, something to always attempt to put into practice. Eventually it becomes automatic, I am finding.
When grace is joined with wrinkles, it is adorable. There is an unspeakable dawn in happy old age.
- Victor Hugo
My grandmothers are very different, but equally amazing women. Looking into their faces, it is impossible not to grin, too see their victories, their lives in the lines. They're simply adorable in every way. Adorable: to give homage or worship to someone or something.
My maternal grandmother is the one who has most shown me that "unspeakable dawn in happy old age" with her many travels, endless curiosity, and incurable laughter. She has had her share of medical and other issues, but she keeps going and she makes the most of every day. I still have trouble believing she is so near to 80.
My grandmother-in-law has also shown me the dawn. For her 80th birthday, she took her 2 sons and their spouses on a two week trip to Paris and Rome. Soon she'll be 81 and shows no signs of stopping.
The other day Mr. B&B and I were driving. We stopped to let an elderly couple cross the street. They were walking arm in arm, close together. We looked at each other and smiled. "Yes, Love, we will stroll the sidewalks when we are adorable old people, too." said my husband. "Amen." said my heart.
"Miranda: Whatever happened to aging gracefully? Carrie: It got old.”
- Sex and the City
Our culture's obsession with youth boggles my mind. Tens of billions of dollars per year are spent on cosmetic surgery in the United States alone. A Google search for "anti-aging products" yields 7,460,000 results. Women starve themselves to the point of looking pre-pubescent, even skeletal. It is dangerous.
Give me wrinkles and gray hair and experiences I'll never forget. Give me growth, creativity, and fan the flames of the spirit of my five year old self burning bright inside me. Give me a life well lived. Let me savor every moment while it lasts.
Showing posts with label Sunday Scribblings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sunday Scribblings. Show all posts
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Sunday Scribblings #149 - Art
I have always been an artist. Banging on pots and pans as a toddler. Dancing and playing piano as a little girl. Coloring, drawing, forming playdoh, and making collages. Now, as an adult, sewing, photographing, making collages, painting, singing in the shower, dancing while I make dinner, cooking, writing. I have always been an artist.
At 5 or 6 years old I drew a picture and wrote this accompanying poem on it:
Under the dark is a star.
Under the star is a tree.
Under the tree is a blanket.
Under the blanket is me.
Yesterday I saw slam poetry champions, Sekou and Steven Connell perform. You can see video of them performing here.
Sekou's t-shirt read "Art is Freedom of Expression":
I had never really thought about it that way, but it is true.
Since that is true, why aren't we all artists? We are.
The brick layer building a building or arranging bricks in patterns.
The lawyer making a case on paper and in court, interpreting the law and applying it.
The landscaper mowing, clipping, arranging, digging.
The football player deftly moving around the field, executing formations and plays.
The software engineer writing code, moving around '0' and '1' to communicate.
I challenge you to find a profession or a person who is not in any way an artist.
"Art is Freedom of Expression."
Express yourself. (Did I just turn into Madonna?)
***
I can not talk about art without mentioning my favorite art museum. The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum is located behind and (if you have your back to the back of the MFA) to the left of the M(useum of) F(ine) A(rts) on The Fenway in Boston. It is magnificent. Isabella Stewart Gardner used to live there and built it in the style of an Italian Villa with a breath-taking courtyard. Her house, the museum, has remained virtually unchanged since her death. All of the art is what she personally amassed in her lifetime. Do visit if you are ever in Boston. If your name is Isabella, admission is free! If not, adults $12, seniors $10, students $5, children under 18 FREE.
I love the MFA, too. I never go there without visiting Degas Dancer sculpture which is in one of my favorite rooms in the museum. So, I leave you with her:
Image via MFA
$2,995.00 and a replica of her can be all yours.
At 5 or 6 years old I drew a picture and wrote this accompanying poem on it:
Under the dark is a star.
Under the star is a tree.
Under the tree is a blanket.
Under the blanket is me.
Yesterday I saw slam poetry champions, Sekou and Steven Connell perform. You can see video of them performing here.
Sekou's t-shirt read "Art is Freedom of Expression":
I had never really thought about it that way, but it is true.
Since that is true, why aren't we all artists? We are.
The brick layer building a building or arranging bricks in patterns.
The lawyer making a case on paper and in court, interpreting the law and applying it.
The landscaper mowing, clipping, arranging, digging.
The football player deftly moving around the field, executing formations and plays.
The software engineer writing code, moving around '0' and '1' to communicate.
I challenge you to find a profession or a person who is not in any way an artist.
"Art is Freedom of Expression."
Express yourself. (Did I just turn into Madonna?)
***
I can not talk about art without mentioning my favorite art museum. The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum is located behind and (if you have your back to the back of the MFA) to the left of the M(useum of) F(ine) A(rts) on The Fenway in Boston. It is magnificent. Isabella Stewart Gardner used to live there and built it in the style of an Italian Villa with a breath-taking courtyard. Her house, the museum, has remained virtually unchanged since her death. All of the art is what she personally amassed in her lifetime. Do visit if you are ever in Boston. If your name is Isabella, admission is free! If not, adults $12, seniors $10, students $5, children under 18 FREE.
I love the MFA, too. I never go there without visiting Degas Dancer sculpture which is in one of my favorite rooms in the museum. So, I leave you with her:
Image via MFA
$2,995.00 and a replica of her can be all yours.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Sunday Scribblings #148 - Regrets
I don't believe in having regrets. If things had not happened the way they did at the time they did I would not have the life I love. But we all have regrets, atleast little ones, don't we? I try to keep mine to a minimum. How do I do that? That is something I have been thinking about for three days.
Last night I was baking some fresh, not frozen, sweet potato rounds in olive oil and marjoram on an edgeless cookie sheet. I have done this before without incident. For some reason, this time I thought twice about using the pan. I thought maybe I should use a cookie sheet with sides, but I talked myself out of it because they come out so much crunchier on the edgeless pan and Mr. B&B loves them crunchy. I stuck them in the oven and busied myself with the other vegetables I was cooking and the clean-up. About 15 minutes in I thought it smelled a little smokey. I turn on the light in the oven, but everything looked fine. 10 minutes later all of the fire alarms in the house, including our neighbors upstairs, were blaring. The kitchen was filled with smoke. Upon closer inspection of the oven, a significant amount of olive oil had spilled on the bottom of the oven and was burning off. We opened windows and doors and got fans running to blow the smoke out. All turned out fine in the end, but the sweet potato rounds were not as crunchy as I would have liked.
Then I realized how to prevent regrets. Listen to your inner alarm.
Had I listened and obeyed my inner alarm that made me stop and think about which pan to use, the olive oil never would have spilled and the fire alarm never would have sounded and the neighbors would not have been disturbed and the sweet potatoes still would have turned out fine.
Do I regret not listening to my inner alarm last night? A little, but not really because it served as a reminder. I learned from it and that I don't regret.
Last night I was baking some fresh, not frozen, sweet potato rounds in olive oil and marjoram on an edgeless cookie sheet. I have done this before without incident. For some reason, this time I thought twice about using the pan. I thought maybe I should use a cookie sheet with sides, but I talked myself out of it because they come out so much crunchier on the edgeless pan and Mr. B&B loves them crunchy. I stuck them in the oven and busied myself with the other vegetables I was cooking and the clean-up. About 15 minutes in I thought it smelled a little smokey. I turn on the light in the oven, but everything looked fine. 10 minutes later all of the fire alarms in the house, including our neighbors upstairs, were blaring. The kitchen was filled with smoke. Upon closer inspection of the oven, a significant amount of olive oil had spilled on the bottom of the oven and was burning off. We opened windows and doors and got fans running to blow the smoke out. All turned out fine in the end, but the sweet potato rounds were not as crunchy as I would have liked.
Then I realized how to prevent regrets. Listen to your inner alarm.
Had I listened and obeyed my inner alarm that made me stop and think about which pan to use, the olive oil never would have spilled and the fire alarm never would have sounded and the neighbors would not have been disturbed and the sweet potatoes still would have turned out fine.
Do I regret not listening to my inner alarm last night? A little, but not really because it served as a reminder. I learned from it and that I don't regret.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Sunday Scribblings #147 - Phantoms & Shadows
This week: things & people, times, places, events and how your memory has treated them.
When I saw the prompt this week I thought of a poem I wrote on September 18, 2002. Kind of a cop out, but I have decided to use it as my scribbling for the week.
12:01 A.M.
So many things that I've forgotten
Bits and pieces come back to me
Slowly I regain my memory
Everything is so murky and vague
Blurs and swirls of memories made
Speak to me from the grave
yard of my soul
So many things that I've forgotten
Bits and pieces come back to me
Slowly I regain my memory
School, misery, the way that boy used to
kiss me
my mother, our unhealthy relationship,
Monday night, out knock down blowout fight
Friday morning, my final flight
400 North Street, feelings of
walking in shoes made of concrete
Making donuts, cups of change
Yes, some of the memories still remain
Parts of me where they're hidden
Places that are forbidden
So hard to unchain
So many things that I've forgotten
Bits and pieces come back to me
Slowly I regain my memory
There are so many gaps
So much feels so far beyond my grasp
Memories I can't remember some
where just beyond
Discontentment, disillusion, confusion, & disbelief
Inability to communicate clearly, preoccupation
with a cheating thief
Shutting down emotion
A reevaluation
Still a lack of communication
So many things that I've forgotten
Bits and pieces come back to me
Slowly I regain my memory
Triggers bring flashes
Images & sounds
They're still with me
They flutter & disappear almost instantly
Maybe its all safer there
I can only handle so much
All at once
So many things that I've forgotten
Bits and pieces come back to me
Slowly I regain my memory
When I saw the prompt this week I thought of a poem I wrote on September 18, 2002. Kind of a cop out, but I have decided to use it as my scribbling for the week.
12:01 A.M.
So many things that I've forgotten
Bits and pieces come back to me
Slowly I regain my memory
Everything is so murky and vague
Blurs and swirls of memories made
Speak to me from the grave
yard of my soul
So many things that I've forgotten
Bits and pieces come back to me
Slowly I regain my memory
School, misery, the way that boy used to
kiss me
my mother, our unhealthy relationship,
Monday night, out knock down blowout fight
Friday morning, my final flight
400 North Street, feelings of
walking in shoes made of concrete
Making donuts, cups of change
Yes, some of the memories still remain
Parts of me where they're hidden
Places that are forbidden
So hard to unchain
So many things that I've forgotten
Bits and pieces come back to me
Slowly I regain my memory
There are so many gaps
So much feels so far beyond my grasp
Memories I can't remember some
where just beyond
Discontentment, disillusion, confusion, & disbelief
Inability to communicate clearly, preoccupation
with a cheating thief
Shutting down emotion
A reevaluation
Still a lack of communication
So many things that I've forgotten
Bits and pieces come back to me
Slowly I regain my memory
Triggers bring flashes
Images & sounds
They're still with me
They flutter & disappear almost instantly
Maybe its all safer there
I can only handle so much
All at once
So many things that I've forgotten
Bits and pieces come back to me
Slowly I regain my memory
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Sunday Scribblings #146 - Pilgrimage
Sunday Scribblings asks, "Is there something you'd like, in your lifetime, to go far to see?"
In 1999, as a senior in high school, I went on a Foreign Language Department trip to Greece and Southern Italy. Being Italian/Sicilian, Greece was just a stop-over on the way to my true destination. Something happened, though, when my feet touched the ground in Athens, Greece. The winding roads, Botanical Gardens, the modern city built around the ruins, and the Acropolis looking over the city captivated me. Before we left Athens, we took a day trip to three Greek islands where I truly fell in love. So much in love that when I returned home I told everyone that when I retired it would be to the Greek islands. Then we rode through the mountains visiting different places along the way, The Oracle at Delphi among them. Italy was lovely, too. We stopped in a town with houses built of stone that were reminiscent of igloos. We went to the island of Capri and ventured into the Blue Grotto. We spent hours in the perfectly preserved ruins of Pompeii. Then Rome, the Vatican, the Pope's window and the piazzas when I had my portrait drawn for $7. A dream.
In 2006, Mr. B&B and I were planning our wedding which meant planning our honeymoon. We thought of Monaco and the Italian Riviera. We entertained the idea of Ireland (we both have a bit of Irish in us) and England. We talked about Spain or Venice. There really weren't any places we didn't consider except for the poles.
In the end Mr. B&B had a burning desire to go to Istanbul. I said that would be great as long as we stopped in Greece first.
In 2007, we honeymooned. First stop, Santorini. Second, Mykonos. Third, Athens. Finally, Istanbul before heading home. Unbelievable. Now we both like the idea of retiring to Greece, specifically Santorini.
I am a wanderluster. It is difficult to pick one place and expound on why.
Having lived in New England my whole life, I'd like to explore more of the United States. I've lived in Massachusetts and Rhode Island. I've seen Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, D.C., Florida, Nevada (Hoover Dam, Las Vegas), and Arizona (Joshua Tree Forest, Grand Canyon). Yet there is so much I have not seen.
I'd like to be a citizen of the world.
Places I'd most like to visit:
U.S.: California
Canada: Prince Edward Island
Europe: Ireland, Sicily, Spain
Central America: Costa Rica
South America: Ecuador
Africa: Morocco, Egypt, South Africa
Asia: India, Indonesia (Bali), Japan
Australia: Queensland (Great Barrier Reef), Kangaroo Island
Phew! Long list. Wanna know why I picked a specific place? Just comment or email and I'll write a post about it.
In 1999, as a senior in high school, I went on a Foreign Language Department trip to Greece and Southern Italy. Being Italian/Sicilian, Greece was just a stop-over on the way to my true destination. Something happened, though, when my feet touched the ground in Athens, Greece. The winding roads, Botanical Gardens, the modern city built around the ruins, and the Acropolis looking over the city captivated me. Before we left Athens, we took a day trip to three Greek islands where I truly fell in love. So much in love that when I returned home I told everyone that when I retired it would be to the Greek islands. Then we rode through the mountains visiting different places along the way, The Oracle at Delphi among them. Italy was lovely, too. We stopped in a town with houses built of stone that were reminiscent of igloos. We went to the island of Capri and ventured into the Blue Grotto. We spent hours in the perfectly preserved ruins of Pompeii. Then Rome, the Vatican, the Pope's window and the piazzas when I had my portrait drawn for $7. A dream.
In 2006, Mr. B&B and I were planning our wedding which meant planning our honeymoon. We thought of Monaco and the Italian Riviera. We entertained the idea of Ireland (we both have a bit of Irish in us) and England. We talked about Spain or Venice. There really weren't any places we didn't consider except for the poles.
In the end Mr. B&B had a burning desire to go to Istanbul. I said that would be great as long as we stopped in Greece first.
In 2007, we honeymooned. First stop, Santorini. Second, Mykonos. Third, Athens. Finally, Istanbul before heading home. Unbelievable. Now we both like the idea of retiring to Greece, specifically Santorini.
I am a wanderluster. It is difficult to pick one place and expound on why.
Having lived in New England my whole life, I'd like to explore more of the United States. I've lived in Massachusetts and Rhode Island. I've seen Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, D.C., Florida, Nevada (Hoover Dam, Las Vegas), and Arizona (Joshua Tree Forest, Grand Canyon). Yet there is so much I have not seen.
I'd like to be a citizen of the world.
Places I'd most like to visit:
U.S.: California
Canada: Prince Edward Island
Europe: Ireland, Sicily, Spain
Central America: Costa Rica
South America: Ecuador
Africa: Morocco, Egypt, South Africa
Asia: India, Indonesia (Bali), Japan
Australia: Queensland (Great Barrier Reef), Kangaroo Island
Phew! Long list. Wanna know why I picked a specific place? Just comment or email and I'll write a post about it.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Sunday Scribblings #144 - For Richer, For Poorer
"He is rich or poor according to what he is, not according to what he has." - Henry Ward Beecher
December 1991. I was ten years and six months old. I was living in the third house I'd known. My father was running his own construction company and building custom homes. My mother was at-home caring for me, my brother, my dad, the dog, and all the responsibilities running a household brings. Little did I know, before we welcomed January 1992, my world would change forever.
You see, much like now, in 1991 our country was in a recession. People weren't buying houses. Businesses were there one day, gone the next. The situation could best be described as tenuous. My parents were holding on by a thread and the thread broke. No house. No money. One car. Each other.
We moved forty-five minutes away from the life my parents had made and the community of people we knew and loved. We lived in my grandparents' basement. We went to church. My dad worked his way up in retail from sandwich man at the Texaco gas station to selling pools to pretty high up the totem pole at the local Home Depot before going back to running his own business again. My mom worked at Toys 'R' Us for 5 years before getting a teaching job. I watched my middle-aged parents work together to build a new life from nothing. Talk about setting an example.
April 21, 2007. I married a man who, among his other incredibly desirable attributes, is stable, steady, thinks ahead, and was born and bred by two accountants.
Today. I am a saver. I buy primarily based on need, not want. I am crafty, shaping items I already have into items I am desiring. I have a change jar and roll my coins and deposit them in the bank on a fairly regular basis. I rely on my creativity and imagination to entertain me. I borrow books from the library. I enjoy leisurely sifting through the bargain bins and going straight to the sale racks. I adore long walks in the woods or on the beach.
I may not be rich in paper money and coins, but I am rich in love and spirit and energy.
I most value the people in my life, my faith, creativity, dreams, memories, finding the good in the every day... the "little things" some might say.
As Benjamin Franklin once said, "Content makes poor men rich; discontent makes rich men poor."
December 1991. I was ten years and six months old. I was living in the third house I'd known. My father was running his own construction company and building custom homes. My mother was at-home caring for me, my brother, my dad, the dog, and all the responsibilities running a household brings. Little did I know, before we welcomed January 1992, my world would change forever.
You see, much like now, in 1991 our country was in a recession. People weren't buying houses. Businesses were there one day, gone the next. The situation could best be described as tenuous. My parents were holding on by a thread and the thread broke. No house. No money. One car. Each other.
We moved forty-five minutes away from the life my parents had made and the community of people we knew and loved. We lived in my grandparents' basement. We went to church. My dad worked his way up in retail from sandwich man at the Texaco gas station to selling pools to pretty high up the totem pole at the local Home Depot before going back to running his own business again. My mom worked at Toys 'R' Us for 5 years before getting a teaching job. I watched my middle-aged parents work together to build a new life from nothing. Talk about setting an example.
April 21, 2007. I married a man who, among his other incredibly desirable attributes, is stable, steady, thinks ahead, and was born and bred by two accountants.
Today. I am a saver. I buy primarily based on need, not want. I am crafty, shaping items I already have into items I am desiring. I have a change jar and roll my coins and deposit them in the bank on a fairly regular basis. I rely on my creativity and imagination to entertain me. I borrow books from the library. I enjoy leisurely sifting through the bargain bins and going straight to the sale racks. I adore long walks in the woods or on the beach.
I may not be rich in paper money and coins, but I am rich in love and spirit and energy.
I most value the people in my life, my faith, creativity, dreams, memories, finding the good in the every day... the "little things" some might say.
As Benjamin Franklin once said, "Content makes poor men rich; discontent makes rich men poor."
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Sunday Scribblings #143 - I believe...
When I saw this prompt I immediately thought of my sister-in-law who's one word motto is "Believe" and who's room is plastered with said motto AND I thought of the song Belief by Gavin DeGraw.
My sister-in-law believes, says what she believes, lives what she believes, and so much good comes into her life as a result.
Stating your beliefs is brave. You make yourself vulnerable. People have died due to their beliefs or in the name of their beliefs.
Here goes my act of bravery for the day...
I believe...
love of all kinds matters most.
animals deserve respect, are not for eating, and should not be exploited for the entertainment of humans.
in holding hands, especially when your angry, because it reminds you of your bond.
little things and gestures go a long way.
formal education does not equal intelligence.
in dancing to your own drummer.
in following your own path even if it is a long and winding road.
change is the only constant so work on being flexible and adaptable.
in finding the magic in every day.
in finding the good in even the gravest situation.
when you get down to it, at our base, we are all the same.
you get the most by giving.
forgiving is good for the forgiven, but best for the forgiver.
we should listen more and talk less.
the child inside never leaves you no matter how much you may have neglected it.
in being spontaneous.
in always seeking balance.
tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it...yet. (Anne of Green Gables)
mistakes are a means of learning.
sometimes a good book and a cup of tea solve everything.
in giving people the benefit of the doubt.
in always being open to possibility.
in believing.
My sister-in-law believes, says what she believes, lives what she believes, and so much good comes into her life as a result.
"Belief makes things real, makes things feel, feel alright. Belief makes things true." - Gavin DeGraw
Stating your beliefs is brave. You make yourself vulnerable. People have died due to their beliefs or in the name of their beliefs.
Here goes my act of bravery for the day...
I believe...
love of all kinds matters most.
animals deserve respect, are not for eating, and should not be exploited for the entertainment of humans.
in holding hands, especially when your angry, because it reminds you of your bond.
little things and gestures go a long way.
formal education does not equal intelligence.
in dancing to your own drummer.
in following your own path even if it is a long and winding road.
change is the only constant so work on being flexible and adaptable.
in finding the magic in every day.
in finding the good in even the gravest situation.
when you get down to it, at our base, we are all the same.
you get the most by giving.
forgiving is good for the forgiven, but best for the forgiver.
we should listen more and talk less.
the child inside never leaves you no matter how much you may have neglected it.
in being spontaneous.
in always seeking balance.
tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it...yet. (Anne of Green Gables)
mistakes are a means of learning.
sometimes a good book and a cup of tea solve everything.
in giving people the benefit of the doubt.
in always being open to possibility.
in believing.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Sunday Scribblings #142 - Late
"Sunday Scribblings was set up to provide inspiration and motivation for anyone who enjoys writing and would like a weekly challenge." This weeks prompt is "Late".
"Late" was not allowed when I was growing up. My mother always had us up and ready to go with plenty of time to spare before we had to get to where we were going. Often we were 15 minutes early, never less than 10 minutes early. I understand early. I know how to wait patiently. I know how to occupy myself when I am waiting. Even now I rarely go anywhere without a book to read and never go anywhere with a notebook & pen for writing. My mother taught me that being early or, at the very least, on time, shows respect for the person(s) you are meeting and demonstrates your reliability and sense of responsibility. Oh, and if something unforeseen happens you call, explain, and let those waiting for you know you are getting there as fast as you can. These "unforeseen circumstances" should happen very rarely because you should be giving yourself more than enough time (i.e. be accounting for unforeseen circumstances) to get your destination on time at the very least. "Late" was not allowed.
Fast forward to now. I am married to someone who grew up much differently. He is much more "loose" about time. He assumes wherever he is going people will forgive him for being 10, 15, even 30 (perhaps more) minutes late. He runs on the belief that everyone will understand. He does not view being late as even a small indiscretion. We have had to come to an understanding about time. If we are going to see my family or going to and event we have been invited to due to my activities, we leave when I want to leave. When we go to see his family or go to an event we were invited to due to his activities, we leave when he wants to leave. It works most of the time, but can sometimes get a bit complicated if we are going to visit joint-friends. Our joint-friends know that if I am coming alone I will be on time, but if my husband and I are coming together they can expect tardiness of some sort.
While I appreciate the lessons my mother taught me, I also appreciate having the husband I do. Being with my husband has helped me to loosen up a little bit about time. Instead of leaving a 30 or forty-five minute "cushion" of time when I go some where, I tend to leave a 15 minute cushion (unless we are going somewhere new). I have learned to be more in the moment which helps me enjoy and appreciate every minute more. I believe I am beginning to find a healthy balance when it comes to time.
I leave you with an interesting tidbit: While I can become crazy over being late to every day appointments, I am very relaxed about how long it takes to accomplish certain goals and milestones along my life path. Case in point: I am twenty-seven and still working toward my bachelor's degree. What does this say about me?
"Late" was not allowed when I was growing up. My mother always had us up and ready to go with plenty of time to spare before we had to get to where we were going. Often we were 15 minutes early, never less than 10 minutes early. I understand early. I know how to wait patiently. I know how to occupy myself when I am waiting. Even now I rarely go anywhere without a book to read and never go anywhere with a notebook & pen for writing. My mother taught me that being early or, at the very least, on time, shows respect for the person(s) you are meeting and demonstrates your reliability and sense of responsibility. Oh, and if something unforeseen happens you call, explain, and let those waiting for you know you are getting there as fast as you can. These "unforeseen circumstances" should happen very rarely because you should be giving yourself more than enough time (i.e. be accounting for unforeseen circumstances) to get your destination on time at the very least. "Late" was not allowed.
Fast forward to now. I am married to someone who grew up much differently. He is much more "loose" about time. He assumes wherever he is going people will forgive him for being 10, 15, even 30 (perhaps more) minutes late. He runs on the belief that everyone will understand. He does not view being late as even a small indiscretion. We have had to come to an understanding about time. If we are going to see my family or going to and event we have been invited to due to my activities, we leave when I want to leave. When we go to see his family or go to an event we were invited to due to his activities, we leave when he wants to leave. It works most of the time, but can sometimes get a bit complicated if we are going to visit joint-friends. Our joint-friends know that if I am coming alone I will be on time, but if my husband and I are coming together they can expect tardiness of some sort.
While I appreciate the lessons my mother taught me, I also appreciate having the husband I do. Being with my husband has helped me to loosen up a little bit about time. Instead of leaving a 30 or forty-five minute "cushion" of time when I go some where, I tend to leave a 15 minute cushion (unless we are going somewhere new). I have learned to be more in the moment which helps me enjoy and appreciate every minute more. I believe I am beginning to find a healthy balance when it comes to time.
I leave you with an interesting tidbit: While I can become crazy over being late to every day appointments, I am very relaxed about how long it takes to accomplish certain goals and milestones along my life path. Case in point: I am twenty-seven and still working toward my bachelor's degree. What does this say about me?
Monday, September 8, 2008
Sunday Scribblings #127 - Miracle
The Sunday Scribbling this week is timely. I pray for one for Nie and Christian and CJane and their family and friends. I must participate in Sunday Scribblings this week.
_____________
The origin of the word miracle is Middle English. It originates from Old French, from the Latin word miraculum 'object of wonder,' from mirari 'to wonder,' from mirus 'wonderful.' Miracle may be defined in this way - a marvelous event manifesting a supernatural act of a divine agent. I think I prefer this definition - any amazing or wonderful occurrence. Then I look at these two definitions again and think "Aren't they one in the same? Doesn't "any amazing or wonderful occurrence" stem from "a supernatural act of a divine agent" in one way or another? I suppose if one does not believe in "a divine agent" one prefers a definition that leaves that "divine agent" out. Now, I guess I prefer the first definition, for me.
I think that too often we are rushing around from task to task, embroiled in our daily lives. As a result, we don't take the time to notice the small miracles happening around us and in our own lives each day. I think it might do us all some good if we made a conscious effort to look out for and recognize these every day miracles. I believe that we would be happier and that happiness would beget more happiness.
I am halfway through my day and already there are miracles. I woke up this morning with a new day ahead of me with, as Lucy Maud Montgomery wrote in Anne of Green Gables, "no mistakes in it yet." My husband called me to say good morning and I, who needs to set five alarms every night before going to sleep in order to insure waking up on time, heard the phone and answered it. The cat freaked out and decided to sink her teeth pretty deeply into my arm, but caused zero bleeding. I received my financial aid award letter from school telling me I was awarded aid for the 2008-2009 school year. The two bills received in the mail have already been paid. My husband's parents have been married 29 years today. My nephew, Jake, rings in his 18th year today. And the day is only a little more than half over.
Perhaps as we recognize the small miracles more and more, the big miracles will arise. As my mother always says, Thank God for small miracles!
_____________
The origin of the word miracle is Middle English. It originates from Old French, from the Latin word miraculum 'object of wonder,' from mirari 'to wonder,' from mirus 'wonderful.' Miracle may be defined in this way - a marvelous event manifesting a supernatural act of a divine agent. I think I prefer this definition - any amazing or wonderful occurrence. Then I look at these two definitions again and think "Aren't they one in the same? Doesn't "any amazing or wonderful occurrence" stem from "a supernatural act of a divine agent" in one way or another? I suppose if one does not believe in "a divine agent" one prefers a definition that leaves that "divine agent" out. Now, I guess I prefer the first definition, for me.
I think that too often we are rushing around from task to task, embroiled in our daily lives. As a result, we don't take the time to notice the small miracles happening around us and in our own lives each day. I think it might do us all some good if we made a conscious effort to look out for and recognize these every day miracles. I believe that we would be happier and that happiness would beget more happiness.
I am halfway through my day and already there are miracles. I woke up this morning with a new day ahead of me with, as Lucy Maud Montgomery wrote in Anne of Green Gables, "no mistakes in it yet." My husband called me to say good morning and I, who needs to set five alarms every night before going to sleep in order to insure waking up on time, heard the phone and answered it. The cat freaked out and decided to sink her teeth pretty deeply into my arm, but caused zero bleeding. I received my financial aid award letter from school telling me I was awarded aid for the 2008-2009 school year. The two bills received in the mail have already been paid. My husband's parents have been married 29 years today. My nephew, Jake, rings in his 18th year today. And the day is only a little more than half over.
Perhaps as we recognize the small miracles more and more, the big miracles will arise. As my mother always says, Thank God for small miracles!
Monday, July 14, 2008
Sunday Scribblings #119: My Oldest Friend
Though I always read others Sunday Scribblings, I have never written a Sunday Scribbling of my own. This week, though it is now Monday, I will give it a try.
I am my oldest friend, my mother is my oldest friend, but I choose to write about my oldest friend outside my family.
________________________________
Born in March 1981, she was just a squirmy, three month old infant when we met in June 1981, shortly after I was born. Her mom, Ida, and my mom, Mary-Lynn, met in college in the early 1970's and became fast friends. There was no question that Alison and I mostly likely would be too. They gave us the gift of knowing each other from infancy and, for a long time, growing up together. I always felt this somehow made us sisters, somehow linked us for life.
Maybe part of why we delighted so much in each other was the joy of looking at another person and seeing one's self. As little girls, many people mistook us for twins. Round faces; wide-set brown eyes like bottomless puddles thick with mud; and impossibly curly, impressively dark, brown hair that shown bits of red in summer. One day when we were about 4, we were out with my mother doing errands. As we walked hand in hand across the parking lot, a woman stopped my mother to ask if Ali and I were twins. Before my mother could speak our two lilliputian voices giggled, in unison, "No, best friends."
My memories of our childhood are vast, innumerable. Days on the playground, feeding the ducks at Jenny Gristmill, playing in the dirt when my dad was building her new house, visiting her on the Cape to bring her coloring books and a Snow White doll when she had her tonsils out, playing dress up, riding in the go-cart while she drove, tea-parties at the bottom of her paternal grandmother's swimming pool, swimming lessons at TiTi's, the first time my mom left us alone in the house and we ended up huddled together hiding in the bathtub, days on Duxbury Beach, birthday parties, staying over her house the night before my brother was born and when my parents went to Bermuda, a week in Maine with her paternal grandparents, just everything that makes up childhood, that is a part of growing up.
When I was 10 and a 1/2 my parents went bankrupt and we had to move forty-five minutes away from our old life and in with my paternal grandparents. During that time, my parents cut us off from everybody we had known. As a result, Ali and I were separated, seeing each other only sporadically. The gap widened as we got older. Still we were always there for each other when it counted, for the big life events. I lived in her bedroom for a few months when I transferred colleges and she was in California. It was she who called me when she found out I had abruptly moved out of my parents house, at the age of 19, leaving only notes behind. She who met me in Boston for lunch and sat across from me listening, understanding, interjecting her own thoughts and ideas only when I had finished speaking, sensitively and respectfully asking what information was o.k. to pass on and what I would rather keep between us. I guess we have an innate understanding of each other born from knowing each other since infancy.
Waiting for her in bustling Davis Square two weeks ago, having not seen her for over a year, I was filled with girlish excitement and an inexplicable inner calm, a sense of coming home or of home coming to me. Leaning against the brick facade of the restaurant, looking up from time to time into the sea of faces milling around me, I spotted her in the old Jeep, evidence of the four years she spent in Malibu at Pepperdine University, a self-imposed exile during her parents divorce. It is not the Jeep that I recognize first, but her profile. The plane of her face, her wild curls made wilder by the summertime heat, the spattering of freckles across her shoulder, the almost imperceptible parting of her lips as she pauses before turning into the parking lot, and the movement of her hands on the wheel. I would know her anywhere.
Hearing the beep of her car alarm activating across the street, I close the book I have been reading and look up. As she exits the parking lot, fumbling to put her keys into her quilted purse, she glances up and spots me. Instantly her eyes change and she smiles revealing a perfectly straight and perfectly white expanse of teeth. Her father was a dentist. At the whir of an engine coming toward her, Ali's stride quickens and she opens her arms to embrace me as her feet clear the curb.
Inside the restaurant our conversation is easy. Over gnocci and pizza, we talk of jobs, family, travels, Italy, friends, love, adoption and real estate. She is looking for an apartment closer to Boston, to work, and tonight, after dinner, we will go to look at one together. I love how we are still so non-judgmental of each other, how there is no hint of one-up-man-ship in what we reveal of our lives. If it is possible, we are still as open to each other now as we were when we were children.
Outside J.P. Licks we giggle over ice cream and sorbet, our conversation turns lighter, except for the bit about her cousin leaving for Iraq this week. I make a mental note to add him and Ali to my nightly prayer list. After looking at the apartment, she drops me at the t-station and even then it is difficult to say goodbye. I hop out of the Jeep and we are still talking. We've missed each other. We promise to make this a monthly occasion and I am grateful. She blows me a kiss from the driver's seat. I catch it, blow one back, and descend into the cool dark of the subway system.
I am my oldest friend, my mother is my oldest friend, but I choose to write about my oldest friend outside my family.
________________________________
Born in March 1981, she was just a squirmy, three month old infant when we met in June 1981, shortly after I was born. Her mom, Ida, and my mom, Mary-Lynn, met in college in the early 1970's and became fast friends. There was no question that Alison and I mostly likely would be too. They gave us the gift of knowing each other from infancy and, for a long time, growing up together. I always felt this somehow made us sisters, somehow linked us for life.
Maybe part of why we delighted so much in each other was the joy of looking at another person and seeing one's self. As little girls, many people mistook us for twins. Round faces; wide-set brown eyes like bottomless puddles thick with mud; and impossibly curly, impressively dark, brown hair that shown bits of red in summer. One day when we were about 4, we were out with my mother doing errands. As we walked hand in hand across the parking lot, a woman stopped my mother to ask if Ali and I were twins. Before my mother could speak our two lilliputian voices giggled, in unison, "No, best friends."
My memories of our childhood are vast, innumerable. Days on the playground, feeding the ducks at Jenny Gristmill, playing in the dirt when my dad was building her new house, visiting her on the Cape to bring her coloring books and a Snow White doll when she had her tonsils out, playing dress up, riding in the go-cart while she drove, tea-parties at the bottom of her paternal grandmother's swimming pool, swimming lessons at TiTi's, the first time my mom left us alone in the house and we ended up huddled together hiding in the bathtub, days on Duxbury Beach, birthday parties, staying over her house the night before my brother was born and when my parents went to Bermuda, a week in Maine with her paternal grandparents, just everything that makes up childhood, that is a part of growing up.
When I was 10 and a 1/2 my parents went bankrupt and we had to move forty-five minutes away from our old life and in with my paternal grandparents. During that time, my parents cut us off from everybody we had known. As a result, Ali and I were separated, seeing each other only sporadically. The gap widened as we got older. Still we were always there for each other when it counted, for the big life events. I lived in her bedroom for a few months when I transferred colleges and she was in California. It was she who called me when she found out I had abruptly moved out of my parents house, at the age of 19, leaving only notes behind. She who met me in Boston for lunch and sat across from me listening, understanding, interjecting her own thoughts and ideas only when I had finished speaking, sensitively and respectfully asking what information was o.k. to pass on and what I would rather keep between us. I guess we have an innate understanding of each other born from knowing each other since infancy.
Waiting for her in bustling Davis Square two weeks ago, having not seen her for over a year, I was filled with girlish excitement and an inexplicable inner calm, a sense of coming home or of home coming to me. Leaning against the brick facade of the restaurant, looking up from time to time into the sea of faces milling around me, I spotted her in the old Jeep, evidence of the four years she spent in Malibu at Pepperdine University, a self-imposed exile during her parents divorce. It is not the Jeep that I recognize first, but her profile. The plane of her face, her wild curls made wilder by the summertime heat, the spattering of freckles across her shoulder, the almost imperceptible parting of her lips as she pauses before turning into the parking lot, and the movement of her hands on the wheel. I would know her anywhere.
Hearing the beep of her car alarm activating across the street, I close the book I have been reading and look up. As she exits the parking lot, fumbling to put her keys into her quilted purse, she glances up and spots me. Instantly her eyes change and she smiles revealing a perfectly straight and perfectly white expanse of teeth. Her father was a dentist. At the whir of an engine coming toward her, Ali's stride quickens and she opens her arms to embrace me as her feet clear the curb.
Inside the restaurant our conversation is easy. Over gnocci and pizza, we talk of jobs, family, travels, Italy, friends, love, adoption and real estate. She is looking for an apartment closer to Boston, to work, and tonight, after dinner, we will go to look at one together. I love how we are still so non-judgmental of each other, how there is no hint of one-up-man-ship in what we reveal of our lives. If it is possible, we are still as open to each other now as we were when we were children.
Outside J.P. Licks we giggle over ice cream and sorbet, our conversation turns lighter, except for the bit about her cousin leaving for Iraq this week. I make a mental note to add him and Ali to my nightly prayer list. After looking at the apartment, she drops me at the t-station and even then it is difficult to say goodbye. I hop out of the Jeep and we are still talking. We've missed each other. We promise to make this a monthly occasion and I am grateful. She blows me a kiss from the driver's seat. I catch it, blow one back, and descend into the cool dark of the subway system.
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