On Thursday, my husband wore a pink polo to work. Pink looks good on him--he has the right skin tone for it--and this particular polo is cut well, and flatters him. (I am not a fan of polo shirts in general , but that is another topic for another time, perhaps. This one looks good on him, and that's what matters to this story.) Whenever he wears this shirt, his eyes and smile have an extra light.
Why mention it? Because at the end of the day, he mentioned that when he wears that shirt, he gets many comments. All of them questioning his motivation. "Why are you wearing pink today?" "Feeling exceptionally secure in your masculinity today?" "Did your wife buy that for you?" And the ever popular, "Why would you want to wear that?" For the sake of clarification, and because now you may also be wondering, I rarely buy clothing for my husband. Heck, I rarely buy clothing for myself! I do not like shopping for clothes, and both of us are particularly hard to fit. I was, however, with him when he bought this particular shirt, and I believe all I had to say about the purchase was a reminder about my aforementioned dislike of polos in general. Also, if you take a look at my husband, and have a conversation with him, you will discover that not much affects his masculinity. (His name, Guy, fits him like no one else I've ever met!)
Why did he wear the pink shirt? He likes it, plain and simple. It's also comfortable, well made, and fits and suits him. It does happen to have a breast cancer ribbon embroidered on it, but that isn't even why he bought it. It was on the sale rack, and fit the criteria in the last sentence. (That was one of the comments he heard, "Well, it is for breast cancer, so I guess it's okay.") My question is, why do people feel the compulsion to comment on it in so personal a way? He's a New England sports fan in Central PA--Steelers country--and will get questions and good-natured jabs when he wears shirts and caps representing "his" teams, but none are personal, questioning his very being. Those questions are general and global, with the most personal being along the lines of "How come you like New England/Boston?" (His accent is now mostly imperceptible to most of his friends and co-workers.)
Telling me about his day, he said that it seemed that everyone had an opinion on his shirt, and the opinions were quite polarized. Everyone either loved it or hated it; no comments in between. I found myself wondering--are there any colors that a woman might wear that would cause that kind of response? Is there any other color that would elicit that kind of strong response? And why would the fact that "I would never wear that color" make it okay to judge someone else wearing it?
I have, for myself, a rule about wearing colors that are close to my skin tone. I avoid it when going out in public. No nude to tan shirts for me, or certain shades of yellow, cream, grey, and even pink, but I would never consider saying "Why on earth are you wearing that shirt that blend in with your skin and makes you look like you're not wearing anything? You must be feeling very secure in your skin tone." Nor would I say, "Why are you wearing a polo? You look like everyone else." Mostly because I recognize these aversions as my own personal quirks, not anything I feel compelled, or even able to express vocally. That said, I have offered fashion advice to our sons to avoid colors that blend into their skin, particularly on bathing suits. And I have been known to mention to my family, out of earshot of the wearer, and when the wearer is someone I do not know, that I could not wear that [shirt or dress] that blends into my skin. I don't mention anything at all about polos. They all seem to like them.
Why is pink -- or rose, salmon, shrimp, coral, or any other variation -- on a man so controversial that people, both male and female, find it necessary to point it out? "You're wearing a pink shirt." I just don't get it.
Showing posts with label differences. Show all posts
Showing posts with label differences. Show all posts
Saturday, August 31, 2013
Thursday, May 2, 2013
ramble a bit
Last week at a book club (Gone Girl, by Gillian Flynn--a book I found fascinating, but not particularly rewarding), a discussion question was presented:
The decision around the table was that this is never good marriage advice. I don't remember anyone even touching on the second part of the question. Although in the case of Nick and Amy, I find it to be appalling advice [*****SPOILER ALERT!!!!!***** She's a murderess and he is her depressed and self-centered husband], in general, I don't think there's anything wrong with going through the motions once in a while.
Before you get annoyed and turn the page, hear me out. Everyone gets bored. Everyone gets cranky. Everyone goes through times when they just don't feel like issuing forth any extra effort whatsoever. How many times have I (you) gone ahead and taken that fitness class, or pulled on a pair of running/walking shoes even though the mood wasn't right? I know for a fact there were many nights (and Saturday mornings!) when I taught dance that I just didn't want to leave my house, fight traffic, and deal with my class, but I did. And each one of those times, I told myself to fake it; to make it look to the people who were paying for me to be there as though I was having the time of my life. And I can say, in all honesty, almost every single time I went there to fake it, I had a better class than usual.
Making a habit of faking, or faking without knowing the reasons behind it, or faking without being unwilling to talk about it at some point is a bad idea. Living a lie is different from faking it until you make it. Nick went through the motions of loving Amy because he was literally afraid for his life. That's just stupid. Amy went through the motions because if she could make Nick love her, she would be amazing. That's just wrong (on a whole LOT of levels!!). That is NOT what I'm talking about here. Nor am I talking about lying, having an unfulfilling sex life, or suffering in silence from any offense, or abusive/toxic relationships.
What I'm talking about are those times when you realize that there's a reason you fell in love, and even though today it doesn't seem like it's there, it is, because it's still in your heart, and in the memory of your soul. Or when you realize that laziness has set in for whatever reason, and the habit is taking control. Those are the times when you have to keep in mind that a relationship is a living, breathing thing, in need of nurturing and even exercise. Those are the times when you have to dig out a smile when you don't feel like it, search the cobwebbed corners of your mind for a favorite shared memory, open yourself to possibility.
I got a CD from church about prayer in marriage. On it, Fulton Sheen talks about the inevitable "dry spells" of anything we, as humans, do for life. Sometimes they cause us to stop what no longer holds our interest, and other times we get frustrated by the seemingly sudden lack of interest. The decision is ours. If we are writers, we might call it 'writer's block,' runners, 'hitting a plateau.' As a dancer, I would take a class in another technique or from another teacher in order to jumpstart my slagging enthusiasm from time to time. In marriage, for a myriad of reasons, many people have the impression that everything should come up roses all the time, and if a dry spell hits, the magic must be gone and the marriage is over. Fulton Sheen said that those are the times when it's up to the spouse who is still flying high to carry the other through prayer and love. It was beautiful! Shortly after listening to the CD (and laughing through tears!) I saw a little ditty that I had seen before, but not paid much attention. Celebrating some huge number of years of marriage, a couple was asked their secret. The response: We never fell out of love at the same time.
We never fell out of love at the same time.
Isn't that beautiful?? Even in those dry spells--those times when he was making her crazy forgetting to _____ (fill in the blank), or when she was constantly ___________ (fill in the blank), the one still managed to love the other. To be in love with the other. It's not always easy. When we mentor engaged couples, we encourage them to keep their workbooks for those days when they need a reminder of the planning the wedding days, the getting read for a long marriage days.
Like any journey, there are times when concessions must be made. My brother says, "Don't say you don't care where we stop if you really don't want Chinese," not because he plans to stop for Chinese, but because sometimes when we think that something doesn't matter to us, we realize pretty quickly that it does, and that can ignite into an argument, or it can become an opportunity to fake it for a bit in order to ensure that love can continue on its course.
At one point, Amy quotes the advice "Fake it until you make it." Later, Nick writes, "We pretend to be in love, and we do the things we like to do when we're in love, and it feels almost like love sometimes, because we are so perfectly putting ourselves through the paces" (404).
Generally speaking, do you think this is good marriage advice? Do Nick and Amy disprove this advice?
The decision around the table was that this is never good marriage advice. I don't remember anyone even touching on the second part of the question. Although in the case of Nick and Amy, I find it to be appalling advice [*****SPOILER ALERT!!!!!***** She's a murderess and he is her depressed and self-centered husband], in general, I don't think there's anything wrong with going through the motions once in a while.
Before you get annoyed and turn the page, hear me out. Everyone gets bored. Everyone gets cranky. Everyone goes through times when they just don't feel like issuing forth any extra effort whatsoever. How many times have I (you) gone ahead and taken that fitness class, or pulled on a pair of running/walking shoes even though the mood wasn't right? I know for a fact there were many nights (and Saturday mornings!) when I taught dance that I just didn't want to leave my house, fight traffic, and deal with my class, but I did. And each one of those times, I told myself to fake it; to make it look to the people who were paying for me to be there as though I was having the time of my life. And I can say, in all honesty, almost every single time I went there to fake it, I had a better class than usual.
Making a habit of faking, or faking without knowing the reasons behind it, or faking without being unwilling to talk about it at some point is a bad idea. Living a lie is different from faking it until you make it. Nick went through the motions of loving Amy because he was literally afraid for his life. That's just stupid. Amy went through the motions because if she could make Nick love her, she would be amazing. That's just wrong (on a whole LOT of levels!!). That is NOT what I'm talking about here. Nor am I talking about lying, having an unfulfilling sex life, or suffering in silence from any offense, or abusive/toxic relationships.
What I'm talking about are those times when you realize that there's a reason you fell in love, and even though today it doesn't seem like it's there, it is, because it's still in your heart, and in the memory of your soul. Or when you realize that laziness has set in for whatever reason, and the habit is taking control. Those are the times when you have to keep in mind that a relationship is a living, breathing thing, in need of nurturing and even exercise. Those are the times when you have to dig out a smile when you don't feel like it, search the cobwebbed corners of your mind for a favorite shared memory, open yourself to possibility.
I got a CD from church about prayer in marriage. On it, Fulton Sheen talks about the inevitable "dry spells" of anything we, as humans, do for life. Sometimes they cause us to stop what no longer holds our interest, and other times we get frustrated by the seemingly sudden lack of interest. The decision is ours. If we are writers, we might call it 'writer's block,' runners, 'hitting a plateau.' As a dancer, I would take a class in another technique or from another teacher in order to jumpstart my slagging enthusiasm from time to time. In marriage, for a myriad of reasons, many people have the impression that everything should come up roses all the time, and if a dry spell hits, the magic must be gone and the marriage is over. Fulton Sheen said that those are the times when it's up to the spouse who is still flying high to carry the other through prayer and love. It was beautiful! Shortly after listening to the CD (and laughing through tears!) I saw a little ditty that I had seen before, but not paid much attention. Celebrating some huge number of years of marriage, a couple was asked their secret. The response: We never fell out of love at the same time.
We never fell out of love at the same time.
Isn't that beautiful?? Even in those dry spells--those times when he was making her crazy forgetting to _____ (fill in the blank), or when she was constantly ___________ (fill in the blank), the one still managed to love the other. To be in love with the other. It's not always easy. When we mentor engaged couples, we encourage them to keep their workbooks for those days when they need a reminder of the planning the wedding days, the getting read for a long marriage days.
Like any journey, there are times when concessions must be made. My brother says, "Don't say you don't care where we stop if you really don't want Chinese," not because he plans to stop for Chinese, but because sometimes when we think that something doesn't matter to us, we realize pretty quickly that it does, and that can ignite into an argument, or it can become an opportunity to fake it for a bit in order to ensure that love can continue on its course.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
it's what's for dinner
Who would have thought that sauerkraut could cause such strong reactions in people? Honestly, I had no idea.
I grew up with no particular New Year's Day traditions, other than perhaps finishing my thank you notes before school started up again. My grandparents would come for dinner, but holiday dinners were always something different, and usually something we'd never had before (or again after, for that matter). [When I was a little older, possibly my early teens, I remember Gramma Katie meeting me at the door on New Year's Day, and telling me not to come in. When she saw the confusion on my face, she explained that it was good luck for the first visitor of the year to be male, so I would have to wait until Dad or my brother to walk through the door first. Since then, I have tried to more sneakily incorporate this tradition.] It wasn't until I met my husband that I started to experience the concept of "traditional" foods on holidays and other special occasions. Since then, we have developed our own food traditions, particularly on Christmas Eve.
The other day, while grocery shopping for the week, we modified Jonathan's menu to have steak on New Year's Day with Mom. After getting the steaks, chicken and some bacon from the butcher, I turned to Guy and asked if we should get some shrimp, too. I didn't think anything of it, other than it makes a nice appetizer when dinner's not quite ready. I found out later that when one of the boys asked why we'd gotten shrimp (it wasn't on the menu, after all, and we tend to be sticklers there), he said that it was because I'd remembered that it was traditional for his family to have shrimp on New Year's Day. When I heard the explanation, I admitted that had nothing to do with it, but I will try to remember to include it in the future, since it clearly means more to him than either of us had realized.
What does all this have to do with sauerkraut? Well, I can't stand the stuff. We live in an area of the country that is steeped in Germanic tradition, and apparently that New Resident Handbook that we seemed to have misplaced when we relocated from a totally different area of the country includes the fact that here, if you want to survive the year, you must have pork and sauerkraut on New Year's Day for good luck. For the first few years here, I would try patiently to explain that I did not have any ties to this particular tradition, and that since I didn't know it, it couldn't possibly apply to me. For most of the years since, I've just avoided talking about the menu for this particular day off. Today, however, I posted as my Facebook status: "So glad I did not grow up with that pork and sauerkraut on New Year's thing so I don't have to pass it on! Happy New Year! Bring on the surf and turf!" (Have I mentioned that I can't stand sauerkraut??)
What a response! Most people, as usual, had some variation of "if you'd only try mine, you'd like it!" And while lemon pepper or garlic and hot peppers do sound as though they would improve the stuff, I'm still not sold. The one comment about leaving out the juniper berries may have come closer to the issue, but still.
Before I go on, I should probably say that I am of Polish/Eastern European and Irish descent. Kraut is not completely foreign to me. I've known, from a very young age, that I would have starved at an even younger age had I been raised in the Old Country, based on those foods I was introduced to. Boiled food makes me hungry within an hour (except for pasta, which makes me hungry in 2 hours. Chinese food fills me for hours; sometimes days) and I just can't do kraut. Kielbasa and pierogies, on the other hand, I could eat, and is still one of my favorite meals, provided the pierogies are filled with potatoes and cheese, not kraut. We used to tell the boys that if they were not good, Santa would put a can of sauerkraut in their stockings. Seriously, that's how I feel about the stuff.
In college, the dining hall was on a 10-day schedule, and in the rotation was Reuben sandwiches and hermit cookies. The only day to get the hermits was the day with the Rubens. Those hermits were good. As a result, I decided I could like Reuben for the sake of the cookies. And they weren't bad, despite being made with pumpernickel, corned beef and kraut--none of which I liked. At all. I thought maybe it was the combination of all things together, or the hermits as a reward. Or the chocolate milk. Whatever it was, it got to where I actually looked forward to Reuben day.
Until the day I realized that Reuben night always found me feeling rather sick; wicked cramps, and a terrible grinding in my belly. My beloved lunch was turning on me, I thought, and then it occurred to me that until I started eating sauerkraut, I didn't have that problem. By Christmas, I had given them up, and didn't have the semi-weekly nausea.
You can say all you want that it was probably the bread. Or the meat. Or it could also have been the cookies. But I know, deep inside, that it was the cursed kraut. It's just icky. And how could that possibly mean good luck to me? Anyone who wants to can have it for their dinner on January 1. I'll stick with what I know will make me happy. And won't stink up my kitchen. This year, steak with buerre d'maitre, and all the fixin's. Oh, it was good!
And shrimp cocktail. It's tradition.
I grew up with no particular New Year's Day traditions, other than perhaps finishing my thank you notes before school started up again. My grandparents would come for dinner, but holiday dinners were always something different, and usually something we'd never had before (or again after, for that matter). [When I was a little older, possibly my early teens, I remember Gramma Katie meeting me at the door on New Year's Day, and telling me not to come in. When she saw the confusion on my face, she explained that it was good luck for the first visitor of the year to be male, so I would have to wait until Dad or my brother to walk through the door first. Since then, I have tried to more sneakily incorporate this tradition.] It wasn't until I met my husband that I started to experience the concept of "traditional" foods on holidays and other special occasions. Since then, we have developed our own food traditions, particularly on Christmas Eve.
The other day, while grocery shopping for the week, we modified Jonathan's menu to have steak on New Year's Day with Mom. After getting the steaks, chicken and some bacon from the butcher, I turned to Guy and asked if we should get some shrimp, too. I didn't think anything of it, other than it makes a nice appetizer when dinner's not quite ready. I found out later that when one of the boys asked why we'd gotten shrimp (it wasn't on the menu, after all, and we tend to be sticklers there), he said that it was because I'd remembered that it was traditional for his family to have shrimp on New Year's Day. When I heard the explanation, I admitted that had nothing to do with it, but I will try to remember to include it in the future, since it clearly means more to him than either of us had realized.
What does all this have to do with sauerkraut? Well, I can't stand the stuff. We live in an area of the country that is steeped in Germanic tradition, and apparently that New Resident Handbook that we seemed to have misplaced when we relocated from a totally different area of the country includes the fact that here, if you want to survive the year, you must have pork and sauerkraut on New Year's Day for good luck. For the first few years here, I would try patiently to explain that I did not have any ties to this particular tradition, and that since I didn't know it, it couldn't possibly apply to me. For most of the years since, I've just avoided talking about the menu for this particular day off. Today, however, I posted as my Facebook status: "So glad I did not grow up with that pork and sauerkraut on New Year's thing so I don't have to pass it on! Happy New Year! Bring on the surf and turf!" (Have I mentioned that I can't stand sauerkraut??)
What a response! Most people, as usual, had some variation of "if you'd only try mine, you'd like it!" And while lemon pepper or garlic and hot peppers do sound as though they would improve the stuff, I'm still not sold. The one comment about leaving out the juniper berries may have come closer to the issue, but still.
Before I go on, I should probably say that I am of Polish/Eastern European and Irish descent. Kraut is not completely foreign to me. I've known, from a very young age, that I would have starved at an even younger age had I been raised in the Old Country, based on those foods I was introduced to. Boiled food makes me hungry within an hour (except for pasta, which makes me hungry in 2 hours. Chinese food fills me for hours; sometimes days) and I just can't do kraut. Kielbasa and pierogies, on the other hand, I could eat, and is still one of my favorite meals, provided the pierogies are filled with potatoes and cheese, not kraut. We used to tell the boys that if they were not good, Santa would put a can of sauerkraut in their stockings. Seriously, that's how I feel about the stuff.
In college, the dining hall was on a 10-day schedule, and in the rotation was Reuben sandwiches and hermit cookies. The only day to get the hermits was the day with the Rubens. Those hermits were good. As a result, I decided I could like Reuben for the sake of the cookies. And they weren't bad, despite being made with pumpernickel, corned beef and kraut--none of which I liked. At all. I thought maybe it was the combination of all things together, or the hermits as a reward. Or the chocolate milk. Whatever it was, it got to where I actually looked forward to Reuben day.
Until the day I realized that Reuben night always found me feeling rather sick; wicked cramps, and a terrible grinding in my belly. My beloved lunch was turning on me, I thought, and then it occurred to me that until I started eating sauerkraut, I didn't have that problem. By Christmas, I had given them up, and didn't have the semi-weekly nausea.
You can say all you want that it was probably the bread. Or the meat. Or it could also have been the cookies. But I know, deep inside, that it was the cursed kraut. It's just icky. And how could that possibly mean good luck to me? Anyone who wants to can have it for their dinner on January 1. I'll stick with what I know will make me happy. And won't stink up my kitchen. This year, steak with buerre d'maitre, and all the fixin's. Oh, it was good!
And shrimp cocktail. It's tradition.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
black and white and red all over
Yesterday, I was asked a question about myself that really got me to thinking. The kind of question that, upon hearing it, makes you want to sit around and discuss the possibilities for hours. Unfortunately, I didn't have that kind of time when it was asked--it was more of a "think on your feet" kind of thing. As I reviewed my day with Guy yesterday, I told him I was pretty excited to have something clear to write about today!
The question (and I hope I get this just right): "Where do you see yourself in the grey areas of life?" (DS*) I asked for a little clarity (lol--clarity on 'grey'), and she responded that I had been talking about following and adhering to rules and regulations, and she wondered if I saw things in black and white, or shades of grey. Actually, I think it was the coolest question ever! So many thoughts starting flying through my head; memories of good and bad things that have happened to me, rules and laws I have followed, made, or broken, who I am now versus who I was even just a year ago.....yet I knew I only had a moment or two to think and to respond.
My response (the "simple" answer, as it were) went something like this: "When it comes to rules, regulations, and expectations, I tend to see them as either followed or not; black or white. When I am expected to do a job, when I am being paid to do a job, that is the job that I do, as I've been told to do it. In other aspects of my life, though, I tend to be a bit more grey. However, if I see a way to do something better, or that makes more sense, I will happily say so!"
But for the rest of the conversation, a part of my mind was on that question. What a great question!! Especially for me. I hadn't done that kind of soul searching in a long time. And for it to be so applicable to me, at this moment in time, struck me as pretty amazing.
So the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it's not so much about black and white for me. It's more about the details. I'm a detail person, and if there are details--lots of them--I can place importance with those details. The speed limit in town is 25 because of kids living there, and their associated balls, dogs, bikes, toys, and elderly relatives; therefore, driving 25 is important. The pass at school is important because I've been there when the school was on lock down, and the room was called to see if everyone was accounted for, as well as when there was a bomb threat, the building was evacuated, and we had to account for who was in the room at the time and earlier in the day. When the laptops were stolen, too, there was a breakdown in the "system" we used for accountability. When I would walk the deck as an official, it was my responsibility to disqualify swimmers who were not using a legal stroke, regardless of how "hard they were trying." Deadlines, size requirements for pictures and artwork, even parking spaces; all of these things mean something, have details that are important, so I adhere to them. The way Guy put it was pretty direct: if there's a rule, I'm more likely to follow it than not. That's the way I've always been.
But I've also made Guy crazy telling him that there are shades of grey in so many areas of life, because I do see it that way. (Not just grey, actually. I think the world is full of very colorful ideas. It's definitely not a grey place!) What I see as being terribly offensive, another person might not even notice. Things that don't bother me at all might seem like disasters to someone else. There are so many ways to see political issues, personal issues, family problems, attitudes and personalities. If all of that was black and white, the world would be a dull place, indeed. And, of course, all night last night I had example after example of things that I see as grey areas, but today.....zip! Oh, well, I think I can get my point across anyway.
My longer, more in depth response to the question is that I see things in details, in colorful bits and scraps that come together to make a tapestry of life, knowledge, courtesy, fun, decorum and spontaneity. I see myself as a quilt, or a painting--a collage. It is, as Guy pointed out lovingly, one of the reasons I tend to get on people's nerves. (I do, and I know I do, when it comes to following directions, but when those same people don't, they get on mine. C'est la vie.) Many people seem to want to pick and choose which rules they follow or enforce. I can't. Literally. I've tried and I can't. Guidelines, on the other hand, I can make all kinds of gooey! No problem there! That's when my creative side kicks in and we can really have fun.
Try it. Ask yourself where you fall on the grey scale, or ask some of your friends where they put themselves, and then have a lively, lovely discussion. And then ask yourself how you've changed from where you were a year ago, five years ago, a decade ago. A neat little exercise. Thank you, DS.
*Name omitted purposely
The question (and I hope I get this just right): "Where do you see yourself in the grey areas of life?" (DS*) I asked for a little clarity (lol--clarity on 'grey'), and she responded that I had been talking about following and adhering to rules and regulations, and she wondered if I saw things in black and white, or shades of grey. Actually, I think it was the coolest question ever! So many thoughts starting flying through my head; memories of good and bad things that have happened to me, rules and laws I have followed, made, or broken, who I am now versus who I was even just a year ago.....yet I knew I only had a moment or two to think and to respond.
My response (the "simple" answer, as it were) went something like this: "When it comes to rules, regulations, and expectations, I tend to see them as either followed or not; black or white. When I am expected to do a job, when I am being paid to do a job, that is the job that I do, as I've been told to do it. In other aspects of my life, though, I tend to be a bit more grey. However, if I see a way to do something better, or that makes more sense, I will happily say so!"
But for the rest of the conversation, a part of my mind was on that question. What a great question!! Especially for me. I hadn't done that kind of soul searching in a long time. And for it to be so applicable to me, at this moment in time, struck me as pretty amazing.
So the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it's not so much about black and white for me. It's more about the details. I'm a detail person, and if there are details--lots of them--I can place importance with those details. The speed limit in town is 25 because of kids living there, and their associated balls, dogs, bikes, toys, and elderly relatives; therefore, driving 25 is important. The pass at school is important because I've been there when the school was on lock down, and the room was called to see if everyone was accounted for, as well as when there was a bomb threat, the building was evacuated, and we had to account for who was in the room at the time and earlier in the day. When the laptops were stolen, too, there was a breakdown in the "system" we used for accountability. When I would walk the deck as an official, it was my responsibility to disqualify swimmers who were not using a legal stroke, regardless of how "hard they were trying." Deadlines, size requirements for pictures and artwork, even parking spaces; all of these things mean something, have details that are important, so I adhere to them. The way Guy put it was pretty direct: if there's a rule, I'm more likely to follow it than not. That's the way I've always been.
But I've also made Guy crazy telling him that there are shades of grey in so many areas of life, because I do see it that way. (Not just grey, actually. I think the world is full of very colorful ideas. It's definitely not a grey place!) What I see as being terribly offensive, another person might not even notice. Things that don't bother me at all might seem like disasters to someone else. There are so many ways to see political issues, personal issues, family problems, attitudes and personalities. If all of that was black and white, the world would be a dull place, indeed. And, of course, all night last night I had example after example of things that I see as grey areas, but today.....zip! Oh, well, I think I can get my point across anyway.
My longer, more in depth response to the question is that I see things in details, in colorful bits and scraps that come together to make a tapestry of life, knowledge, courtesy, fun, decorum and spontaneity. I see myself as a quilt, or a painting--a collage. It is, as Guy pointed out lovingly, one of the reasons I tend to get on people's nerves. (I do, and I know I do, when it comes to following directions, but when those same people don't, they get on mine. C'est la vie.) Many people seem to want to pick and choose which rules they follow or enforce. I can't. Literally. I've tried and I can't. Guidelines, on the other hand, I can make all kinds of gooey! No problem there! That's when my creative side kicks in and we can really have fun.
Try it. Ask yourself where you fall on the grey scale, or ask some of your friends where they put themselves, and then have a lively, lovely discussion. And then ask yourself how you've changed from where you were a year ago, five years ago, a decade ago. A neat little exercise. Thank you, DS.
*Name omitted purposely
Thursday, October 11, 2012
hurtful, hateful
Something happened over the weekend that really bothered me. I have been trying to resist the urge (the rather strong urge) to write about it because of who it was. Over the past week, I've talked it over with a couple of people I really trust, and they have agreed with my thoughts on the subject. Still, I thought it best to not voice my view; not to draw attention to what was probably a regrettable miscommunication. But I just can't keep quiet about it. I'm fired up, and will be until I get this off my chest.
Here goes.....
I don't know why you might think that you are equating "freedom of speech" with outright rude, nasty or disrespectful behavior. The flag is not simply a "piece of fabric," whether it is the Stars and Stripes or the flag of another country. They are no more a simple piece of fabric than the Bible, the Torah or the Koran are "just a book." The American flag is a representation of an entire country--"body, mind and soul," as it were. Burning a flag is, indeed, an action intended to make a statement. It is not just a right that anyone has, at any time. And if the statement is intended to show general hatred for an entire Nation--regardless of the nation--it is an outrage. Period.
I feel better now. I do have to say, I do completely agree with your statements regarding blanket hatred. Hating a race, a group, a population, simply for existing is ridiculous. Hating an ideology, however, that one takes the time to understand, without propaganda and other media influencing that understanding, is reasonable. Every ideology has levels of intensity, and fanatics in any ideology are dangerous--as dangerous as those with no understanding at all.
Respect the flag. It's the right thing to do.
Here goes.....
I don't know why you might think that you are equating "freedom of speech" with outright rude, nasty or disrespectful behavior. The flag is not simply a "piece of fabric," whether it is the Stars and Stripes or the flag of another country. They are no more a simple piece of fabric than the Bible, the Torah or the Koran are "just a book." The American flag is a representation of an entire country--"body, mind and soul," as it were. Burning a flag is, indeed, an action intended to make a statement. It is not just a right that anyone has, at any time. And if the statement is intended to show general hatred for an entire Nation--regardless of the nation--it is an outrage. Period.
I feel better now. I do have to say, I do completely agree with your statements regarding blanket hatred. Hating a race, a group, a population, simply for existing is ridiculous. Hating an ideology, however, that one takes the time to understand, without propaganda and other media influencing that understanding, is reasonable. Every ideology has levels of intensity, and fanatics in any ideology are dangerous--as dangerous as those with no understanding at all.
Respect the flag. It's the right thing to do.
Monday, August 27, 2012
fears: pt 1
I've had a couple of people tell me somewhat recently that what they are most afraid of is being alone. While I try to be sympathetic, I simply do not share this fear at all. I don't remember ever having this particular fear--I've always been perfectly happy to be on my own; a trait that seems to make other people crazy from time to time. Interestingly, most of these same people are those who do not enjoy my company. I've often wondered why it matters to them that I would rather sit by myself and read a book than make small talk about nothing in particular.
There have been some who have tried to call me "anti-social," but it's not that at all. I just prefer to get to know people on my own terms. Observation and intuition are my tools, and have not lead me astray often. Many times, I have told my husband or my kids, "Watch out for that one....." Not once have I been wrong when I've made that warning. Occasionally, I have been fooled by "the sociopath next door," but in that, few of us are alone. Really, if I want to get to know you, I will, but most likely it'll be because you don't bug me.
Some situations make it especially difficult for me to want to be chatty and social. My husband is a rather public figure, and as such, people tend to think they know him when they only know one side of him. When they see me, they frequently have made assumptions about what I must be like, and the fact that I generally defy those expectations doesn't really sit well. For the most part, when I consider my good friends, I see that they are the type that don't postulate in advance; rather, they take in what they see, and piece others together based upon that substance. My friends are people I admire for that practice.
Back to being alone.....
Rather than fear the silence around me or within my being, I relish it! When I am alone in my home or car, I blast the music, sing along, and dance when I can. I realize that what people fear is the greater Alone. The one that we can capitalize because it means "with no one," and uses the greater "with." For that, I take my cue from my Gramma Katie. She was a widow for as long as my siblings and I knew her. She never missed anything! She went places, listened to Paul Harvey (and debated with him in her kitchen!), made me promise when I left for college never to get old. She invited herself to the weddings and funerals held at the church a few blocks from her home--she didn't know anyone, but she had a wonderful time witnessing the joy, and managed to soothe herself sharing in the sorrow. Once I asked her why she never had a boyfriend or got married after Grampa Henry died. She told me there were two reasons: "I never needed to; never felt like I was alone. And besides, when I told him that if anything ever happened to me, I thought he should remarry, he said, 'Thanks,' and never told me the same!" She believed in ghosts, you see...
Not only have I tried to live up to my promise, I have also made sure that I am a person I like to be around. If there comes a time when I find myself alone, I am confident that I will not feel Alone. I have fantastic friends (and plenty of them!) to help me through whatever sorrow may come my way, but I would be fine on my own. And, as I learned from Gramma Katie, I have also 'given permission' to my husband, should he need to thwart the feared Alone, to move forward and find someone else. [He assures me of statistics, which appeal to my logical mind! haha]
There have been some who have tried to call me "anti-social," but it's not that at all. I just prefer to get to know people on my own terms. Observation and intuition are my tools, and have not lead me astray often. Many times, I have told my husband or my kids, "Watch out for that one....." Not once have I been wrong when I've made that warning. Occasionally, I have been fooled by "the sociopath next door," but in that, few of us are alone. Really, if I want to get to know you, I will, but most likely it'll be because you don't bug me.
Some situations make it especially difficult for me to want to be chatty and social. My husband is a rather public figure, and as such, people tend to think they know him when they only know one side of him. When they see me, they frequently have made assumptions about what I must be like, and the fact that I generally defy those expectations doesn't really sit well. For the most part, when I consider my good friends, I see that they are the type that don't postulate in advance; rather, they take in what they see, and piece others together based upon that substance. My friends are people I admire for that practice.
Back to being alone.....
Rather than fear the silence around me or within my being, I relish it! When I am alone in my home or car, I blast the music, sing along, and dance when I can. I realize that what people fear is the greater Alone. The one that we can capitalize because it means "with no one," and uses the greater "with." For that, I take my cue from my Gramma Katie. She was a widow for as long as my siblings and I knew her. She never missed anything! She went places, listened to Paul Harvey (and debated with him in her kitchen!), made me promise when I left for college never to get old. She invited herself to the weddings and funerals held at the church a few blocks from her home--she didn't know anyone, but she had a wonderful time witnessing the joy, and managed to soothe herself sharing in the sorrow. Once I asked her why she never had a boyfriend or got married after Grampa Henry died. She told me there were two reasons: "I never needed to; never felt like I was alone. And besides, when I told him that if anything ever happened to me, I thought he should remarry, he said, 'Thanks,' and never told me the same!" She believed in ghosts, you see...
Not only have I tried to live up to my promise, I have also made sure that I am a person I like to be around. If there comes a time when I find myself alone, I am confident that I will not feel Alone. I have fantastic friends (and plenty of them!) to help me through whatever sorrow may come my way, but I would be fine on my own. And, as I learned from Gramma Katie, I have also 'given permission' to my husband, should he need to thwart the feared Alone, to move forward and find someone else. [He assures me of statistics, which appeal to my logical mind! haha]
Thursday, August 9, 2012
yes means yes
Dear Anonymous~
What you have to say, behind the mask of anonymity, means very little to me now. I do not know what I have done to you to make you want to hurt me with words. I realize your anger, pain and frustration must come from a place in you that needs release--I have been there, not once, but many times. And, no, they are not all related to your unnecessary comments--in fact, that particular dark place was not the darkest, only the most recent; and the one that brought about the most healing, growth, and, yes, lightness and joy. Your words, intended to slow or reverse our healing, will instead continue to motivate us to be better, closer, more united. Your words increase my strength and resolve. As I read them, they lacked the power to hurt me, or even to touch me. They were yours, and yours alone; that is how they will stay.
The greatest gift I have found is forgiveness. What you don't know, or seem to grasp, is that I have forgiven. The three best words ever: I forgive you. Love is easy, shoot, lust is even easier, but forgiveness requires looking deep into oneself and identifying the source of the pain, acknowledging it, being present in it, and l-e-t-t-i-n-g i-t g-o. I have done that, and more, both on my own and with assistance. I am free.
What I need to tell you is that I forgive you, too. Your pain, your anger, your darkness inside, is not actually related to me, as far as I know. Let it go. Find someone who can honestly help you find it and release it. Whoever you are, you can be at peace.
That is my response to you. I wish you peace. I hope you move forward. I have, and there's no longer any reason to dwell on looking back.
~Stephanie
What you have to say, behind the mask of anonymity, means very little to me now. I do not know what I have done to you to make you want to hurt me with words. I realize your anger, pain and frustration must come from a place in you that needs release--I have been there, not once, but many times. And, no, they are not all related to your unnecessary comments--in fact, that particular dark place was not the darkest, only the most recent; and the one that brought about the most healing, growth, and, yes, lightness and joy. Your words, intended to slow or reverse our healing, will instead continue to motivate us to be better, closer, more united. Your words increase my strength and resolve. As I read them, they lacked the power to hurt me, or even to touch me. They were yours, and yours alone; that is how they will stay.
The greatest gift I have found is forgiveness. What you don't know, or seem to grasp, is that I have forgiven. The three best words ever: I forgive you. Love is easy, shoot, lust is even easier, but forgiveness requires looking deep into oneself and identifying the source of the pain, acknowledging it, being present in it, and l-e-t-t-i-n-g i-t g-o. I have done that, and more, both on my own and with assistance. I am free.
What I need to tell you is that I forgive you, too. Your pain, your anger, your darkness inside, is not actually related to me, as far as I know. Let it go. Find someone who can honestly help you find it and release it. Whoever you are, you can be at peace.
That is my response to you. I wish you peace. I hope you move forward. I have, and there's no longer any reason to dwell on looking back.
~Stephanie
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
a pretty day
This morning, my husband asked me to marry him. Down on one knee, looking into my eyes, and holding my hands in his.
To some, this may seem strange. In fact, to many, this may seem like an odd question for him to ask me. We've been through quite an upheaval lately, with so many roots and causes, but, bottom line we'd let our selves go a bit. Our true selves. Somewhere along the line, with four kids, two dogs, five jobs, the death of two parents, and countless volunteer obligations, we managed to lose sight of the simplest of tenets of a healthy relationship: we stopped talking with our hearts. Sure, we spoke to each other, shared some news, some hopes and dreams, some fears, but the time to open up and share the tough subjects kept slipping away.
We'd argue about that from time to time. And there were certainly times when we caught ourselves sharing the thoughts we most feared sharing. Over the past few weeks, we have rediscovered the intimacy that comes from heart talking. More than anything, what we have learned is that the more we talk, the more we want to talk. And the more we want to talk, the more in love we fall. In all honesty, it feels, for both of us, like the first time we've ever been in love. And it's such a wonderful, refreshing feeling.
About a year ago, I read something about staying married being a daily choice. It resonated with me. I remember, too, that at the time, when I shared that thought with my husband, he balked. He said that being married just is, and we were already married, so there was no choice to be made. He thought it was silly. Still, to me, the idea that each morning I should make a choice in how I lived, that I could decide each morning, when I looked in the mirror, whether I would be a married woman, or someone else. Since that day, I have overwhelmingly chosen married woman. And the result has been overwhelming, too.
Not long ago, my husband asked how I got through those days when I have doubts--about being a mother, being myself, being in love. There are so many times when I have those doubts; those nagging feelings that I'm not doing my best, that what I'm doing is either not right or not appreciated, even the times when I wonder if I really love being a mom, being me, or even if I really love him. The simple answer is, "I do." I do love my role, my vocation, and my husband. I really do--I stood in front of a whole bunch of people 21 years ago and said so, after all! In response to his confused look, I responded,
"When I wonder, when I doubt, especially our love, and I have a hard time coming up with a reason that I fell in love, I ask myself, 'Do I love him?' And the answer is always, 'Yes, I do. I do.' And when I tell myself I do, I then begin to remember the little things--the special look, the conversations, the laughter, the tears--and I remember why I love him. The doubts fade away, as they should."
Since that day, I've managed to avoid most of the doubts entirely, but I know that is likely because of all the talking we've been doing. When school starts, and the secondary jobs pick up again, and the craziness of parenting pulls us in many directions at once, they may return once in a while. I'm fairly certain, as long as we make time for conversation--deep hearted, true sharing--the frequency will decrease. We've found what we've been missing, and, honestly, we can't bear to let it go. Ever again.
I said yes.
To some, this may seem strange. In fact, to many, this may seem like an odd question for him to ask me. We've been through quite an upheaval lately, with so many roots and causes, but, bottom line we'd let our selves go a bit. Our true selves. Somewhere along the line, with four kids, two dogs, five jobs, the death of two parents, and countless volunteer obligations, we managed to lose sight of the simplest of tenets of a healthy relationship: we stopped talking with our hearts. Sure, we spoke to each other, shared some news, some hopes and dreams, some fears, but the time to open up and share the tough subjects kept slipping away.
We'd argue about that from time to time. And there were certainly times when we caught ourselves sharing the thoughts we most feared sharing. Over the past few weeks, we have rediscovered the intimacy that comes from heart talking. More than anything, what we have learned is that the more we talk, the more we want to talk. And the more we want to talk, the more in love we fall. In all honesty, it feels, for both of us, like the first time we've ever been in love. And it's such a wonderful, refreshing feeling.
About a year ago, I read something about staying married being a daily choice. It resonated with me. I remember, too, that at the time, when I shared that thought with my husband, he balked. He said that being married just is, and we were already married, so there was no choice to be made. He thought it was silly. Still, to me, the idea that each morning I should make a choice in how I lived, that I could decide each morning, when I looked in the mirror, whether I would be a married woman, or someone else. Since that day, I have overwhelmingly chosen married woman. And the result has been overwhelming, too.
Not long ago, my husband asked how I got through those days when I have doubts--about being a mother, being myself, being in love. There are so many times when I have those doubts; those nagging feelings that I'm not doing my best, that what I'm doing is either not right or not appreciated, even the times when I wonder if I really love being a mom, being me, or even if I really love him. The simple answer is, "I do." I do love my role, my vocation, and my husband. I really do--I stood in front of a whole bunch of people 21 years ago and said so, after all! In response to his confused look, I responded,
"When I wonder, when I doubt, especially our love, and I have a hard time coming up with a reason that I fell in love, I ask myself, 'Do I love him?' And the answer is always, 'Yes, I do. I do.' And when I tell myself I do, I then begin to remember the little things--the special look, the conversations, the laughter, the tears--and I remember why I love him. The doubts fade away, as they should."
Since that day, I've managed to avoid most of the doubts entirely, but I know that is likely because of all the talking we've been doing. When school starts, and the secondary jobs pick up again, and the craziness of parenting pulls us in many directions at once, they may return once in a while. I'm fairly certain, as long as we make time for conversation--deep hearted, true sharing--the frequency will decrease. We've found what we've been missing, and, honestly, we can't bear to let it go. Ever again.
I said yes.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
when I grow up
Last night, as I watched a portion of the London Olympic Opening Ceremonies, I cried. I missed the beginning, and only came in at the dream sequence. At work, we had been talking about the Beijing ceremonies, and we agreed that nothing could top them. (I remember I cried then, too.) London's, in my humble opinion, were pretty darn cool. They were not China, but I don't think they were trying to be--they were trying to be London.
What impressed me, what moved me to tears--as always--was the heart, soul and skill displayed. Each of the children played their role, nurses were recruited to show their pride in who they are through dance and pantomime. The villains came! And Mary Poppins saved the day. Through it all, there were dance steps, formations, facial expressions, costume and set changes coordinated with hundreds of thousands of individuals, all working toward a common goal. And a goal that not everyone understands the importance of--a performance.
Performance art is misunderstood. Some of it is really weird. But sometimes it can carry you away as much as a painting, a sculpture, a book. I'm a little biased, I know. I was a performer; I am still a performer at heart, although these days my performances tend to be a bit more personal and on a different scale. (And no one pays to see them, or I'd be rich!) A part of me wonders if some of the comments I've seen about the Ceremonies being "weird" were related to the earlier parts I didn't see, or to something else. The commentary was too much for me, but I didn't have program notes to read first, so I know it was necessary, and there were times when I would have been completely lost without those voices, but Bob Costas, with all due respect, is a sports guy. A dance or performance commentator may have sounded less, well, like Bob Costas. (I love his voice, don't get me wrong, but he really does remind me of The Wide World of Sports for reasons I cannot explain.) On the other hand, performance people can get a little more wrapped up in what they are seeing......
Which brings me back to my own tears, and the tugging at my heartstrings. I miss that atmosphere. I miss that anticipation of a cue, and the proximity of other bodies dancing the same dance. Once or twice I picked up a flubbed step, a missed turn (also amazing, considering how many people were performing!) and was so impressed that the person who made the mistake, as well as those around them, were smiling away. Clearly they acknowledged the mistake, but the show must go on, and it was FUN!! I miss being at performances, and watching them live, watching them come to life. I go to our school plays and concerts, but I miss the dream of seeing a performance every week, every month, of being part of the energy.
The goal, as I understand it, was for the London Ceremonies to reflect the personality of London, and of Great Britain. All I know of either is what I've heard in history class, so of course parts of it struck me as odd; just as a performance trying to depict my own personality and history would seem odd to anyone who doesn't know me. The key is acceptance with an open mind. Once you meet me and get to know me a little bit, you can make the choice whether I am 'weird' or not, but don't skip the 'get to know me' part. Anyone who has the guts to be completely themselves when first being introduced will probably seem pretty darn weird.
I admire that.
What impressed me, what moved me to tears--as always--was the heart, soul and skill displayed. Each of the children played their role, nurses were recruited to show their pride in who they are through dance and pantomime. The villains came! And Mary Poppins saved the day. Through it all, there were dance steps, formations, facial expressions, costume and set changes coordinated with hundreds of thousands of individuals, all working toward a common goal. And a goal that not everyone understands the importance of--a performance.
Performance art is misunderstood. Some of it is really weird. But sometimes it can carry you away as much as a painting, a sculpture, a book. I'm a little biased, I know. I was a performer; I am still a performer at heart, although these days my performances tend to be a bit more personal and on a different scale. (And no one pays to see them, or I'd be rich!) A part of me wonders if some of the comments I've seen about the Ceremonies being "weird" were related to the earlier parts I didn't see, or to something else. The commentary was too much for me, but I didn't have program notes to read first, so I know it was necessary, and there were times when I would have been completely lost without those voices, but Bob Costas, with all due respect, is a sports guy. A dance or performance commentator may have sounded less, well, like Bob Costas. (I love his voice, don't get me wrong, but he really does remind me of The Wide World of Sports for reasons I cannot explain.) On the other hand, performance people can get a little more wrapped up in what they are seeing......
Which brings me back to my own tears, and the tugging at my heartstrings. I miss that atmosphere. I miss that anticipation of a cue, and the proximity of other bodies dancing the same dance. Once or twice I picked up a flubbed step, a missed turn (also amazing, considering how many people were performing!) and was so impressed that the person who made the mistake, as well as those around them, were smiling away. Clearly they acknowledged the mistake, but the show must go on, and it was FUN!! I miss being at performances, and watching them live, watching them come to life. I go to our school plays and concerts, but I miss the dream of seeing a performance every week, every month, of being part of the energy.
The goal, as I understand it, was for the London Ceremonies to reflect the personality of London, and of Great Britain. All I know of either is what I've heard in history class, so of course parts of it struck me as odd; just as a performance trying to depict my own personality and history would seem odd to anyone who doesn't know me. The key is acceptance with an open mind. Once you meet me and get to know me a little bit, you can make the choice whether I am 'weird' or not, but don't skip the 'get to know me' part. Anyone who has the guts to be completely themselves when first being introduced will probably seem pretty darn weird.
I admire that.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
downs and the ups they bring
This weekend was supposed to be our family vacation. School starts Monday for our boys. I work at a pool in the summer, and the school district there started Wednesday. Combine those factors with the fact that August is always slow at the pool, and the formula is complete for a weekend to go away.
Our plan had been to go to Maine to see the Blue Angels at Brunswick, ME, and stay with dear friends in Topsham. Unfortunately, the stars did not align; they had to take their daughter's things to school, so we decided to have our first-ever Staycation. Giving our son, Henry, parameters, he made a chart with weather forecast, planned activities for each day, and an alternate activity, too. Hurricane Irene made an appearance on the eastern seaboard, which led to Plan B each day, but so far not due to severe weather, just some clouds and sprinkles.
Yesterday, we did get to go on our planned hike at Hawk Mountain. The climb up started out fairly flat and easy, with lookout points requiring a little rock scrabbling. Fun, easy, and we enjoyed each others company--and the chipmunks that showed up at each lookout point. Rather suddenly, the path got rocky and rough, but before too long we summited and took in the panorama. It was absolutely breathtaking! Sky with hazy clouds, trees swaying gently in the breeze, green fields, railroad tracks and a few houses below......I could have stayed for hours.
After a few minutes, probably 15 or so, my husband and Henry were ready to go, Joseph asked if he could just take a nap, and even Drew was ready to move on. I chuckled, as awed by the differences in all of us as I was by the view. Differences that not only make us who we are, but also help our tolerance to grow, help us to appreciate one another, and make our lives more interesting. I knew that it was quite possible that my desire to just sit on a rock may very well have been greatly indulged by my guys, so with a last look, and a simple "already?" I climbed up off my rock to head back to the trail.
On the way down, other pink-faced people were heading up--looking, I'm sure, very much like we did not long before. Henry joked about his disappointment at not seeing any hawks or eagles, and I feigned exasperation at his lack of patience. As I was thinking about how sweet my "city boy" husband is, and how fun it is to do outdoorsy things with him, we passed the benches provided very near the point where the trail changes from smooth to rocky. Sitting alone was a woman, perhaps mid-60s. The boys, ahead of us, politely ceased their chatter. That's when Guy spoke.
"Are you doing okay?" he asked. Such a simple question, but one that completely blew me away. The woman's face softened, and she replied, "I'm fine. I'm just waiting for my husband. Thank you." It's one of those things that always catches me off guard, yet it's one of the things that made me fall in love with him in the first place. Guy has a way of picking up on the needs of strangers, and addressing them in a way that puts them at ease. The question he asked is one that I could certainly have asked, but never occurred to me until he asked it. As life has gotten crazy with jobs, kids, dogs, bills, we don't get to spend the same kind of time together as we did when we were dating or newly married, so moments like this are so very necessary to our marriage, our relationship, our love. In that half a moment, I fell in love with him yet again. No, it wasn't the falling off a cliff in love feeling I had back in the early 90's, but I still recognized it in that bit of breathlessness, that "ah!" in my heart, and especially in the way my eyes were affected.
When I think about the things that are our love, I can feel my eyes soften on the edges. I imagine it's the "soft focus" of real life. When I concentrate on that feeling, I realize that my neck and shoulders also soften, relax a bit, become a little less tight, and my heart opens. That's when I remember the cliff-falling, ultra-intense, uncontrolled explosion of feelings from all those years ago. Those small moments feed the fire. It's still there, although having become familiar with it, I sometimes take it for granted. Searching for those small moments, and recognizing them when they present themselves, is such a beautiful exercise! I love falling in love again, unexpectedly. I wonder where the next one will be.....
Our plan had been to go to Maine to see the Blue Angels at Brunswick, ME, and stay with dear friends in Topsham. Unfortunately, the stars did not align; they had to take their daughter's things to school, so we decided to have our first-ever Staycation. Giving our son, Henry, parameters, he made a chart with weather forecast, planned activities for each day, and an alternate activity, too. Hurricane Irene made an appearance on the eastern seaboard, which led to Plan B each day, but so far not due to severe weather, just some clouds and sprinkles.
Yesterday, we did get to go on our planned hike at Hawk Mountain. The climb up started out fairly flat and easy, with lookout points requiring a little rock scrabbling. Fun, easy, and we enjoyed each others company--and the chipmunks that showed up at each lookout point. Rather suddenly, the path got rocky and rough, but before too long we summited and took in the panorama. It was absolutely breathtaking! Sky with hazy clouds, trees swaying gently in the breeze, green fields, railroad tracks and a few houses below......I could have stayed for hours.
After a few minutes, probably 15 or so, my husband and Henry were ready to go, Joseph asked if he could just take a nap, and even Drew was ready to move on. I chuckled, as awed by the differences in all of us as I was by the view. Differences that not only make us who we are, but also help our tolerance to grow, help us to appreciate one another, and make our lives more interesting. I knew that it was quite possible that my desire to just sit on a rock may very well have been greatly indulged by my guys, so with a last look, and a simple "already?" I climbed up off my rock to head back to the trail.
On the way down, other pink-faced people were heading up--looking, I'm sure, very much like we did not long before. Henry joked about his disappointment at not seeing any hawks or eagles, and I feigned exasperation at his lack of patience. As I was thinking about how sweet my "city boy" husband is, and how fun it is to do outdoorsy things with him, we passed the benches provided very near the point where the trail changes from smooth to rocky. Sitting alone was a woman, perhaps mid-60s. The boys, ahead of us, politely ceased their chatter. That's when Guy spoke.
"Are you doing okay?" he asked. Such a simple question, but one that completely blew me away. The woman's face softened, and she replied, "I'm fine. I'm just waiting for my husband. Thank you." It's one of those things that always catches me off guard, yet it's one of the things that made me fall in love with him in the first place. Guy has a way of picking up on the needs of strangers, and addressing them in a way that puts them at ease. The question he asked is one that I could certainly have asked, but never occurred to me until he asked it. As life has gotten crazy with jobs, kids, dogs, bills, we don't get to spend the same kind of time together as we did when we were dating or newly married, so moments like this are so very necessary to our marriage, our relationship, our love. In that half a moment, I fell in love with him yet again. No, it wasn't the falling off a cliff in love feeling I had back in the early 90's, but I still recognized it in that bit of breathlessness, that "ah!" in my heart, and especially in the way my eyes were affected.
When I think about the things that are our love, I can feel my eyes soften on the edges. I imagine it's the "soft focus" of real life. When I concentrate on that feeling, I realize that my neck and shoulders also soften, relax a bit, become a little less tight, and my heart opens. That's when I remember the cliff-falling, ultra-intense, uncontrolled explosion of feelings from all those years ago. Those small moments feed the fire. It's still there, although having become familiar with it, I sometimes take it for granted. Searching for those small moments, and recognizing them when they present themselves, is such a beautiful exercise! I love falling in love again, unexpectedly. I wonder where the next one will be.....
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