Living-Deliberately.com

Still on a theme…heroes who are there to help pick up the pieces. Hear it here.

You could’ve bowed out gracefully
But you didn’t
You knew enough to know
To leave well enough alone
But you wouldn’t
I drive myself crazy
Tryin’ to stay out of my own way
The messes that I make
But my secrets are so safe
The only one who gets me
Yeah, you get me
It’s amazing to me

Every day you save my life

This was last year’s post, on the anniversary of her death, which is in May. This year though, I’ll be in divorce court near that mark and so I’m posting this on her birthday instead. She’d have been 9 today.  Memory Eternal Clara.

My sister pointed out these trees to me. The two of them have grown together to create one image from a distance…unified yet separate. If one is cut, the other will be exposed and odd. Together, they are broader, stronger, more beautiful. Each unique and whole, yet harmonizing as one.

I’d like to dedicate this post to my friends, Randy and Sarah, who celebrated their anniversary yesterday. Trees, poetry, nature, harmony….they embody it all and it’s been an honor to be their friend. 

I’m rewatching a favorite: A & E’s version of Pride and Prejudice. I love this version…the newer one seems to breathlessly rush through the scenes, the little moments that really make the tension of the story.

For most of the years I’ve watched it (and since the kids love it too, we rewatch it regularly, having most of it memorized), my favorite parts have been the quick and witty dialog scenes, the dances, the dawning of the main character’s minds and hearts toward one another. Today though, I’m thinking about a different dynamic: the heroism of the active love shown, the love that ultimately saves the day.

Near the end, when the scandal that had been building through the story comes to a climax, and it explodes in devastating ugliness, Lizzy is faced with the unavoidable visibility and consequent loss that comes with it. Her life is messy: she has a disgraced sister whose choice reflects upon the whole family. Just before, and 3/4 of the story along, she and Darcy have lowered their guard…they have let one another in and fallen in love. Then comes the blow. He comes to see her at the moment she hears the news and the unspoken words are almost stronger than what is verbally said in that scene: she is desperate for her family, she is marked by the drama, and she sees him turn cold at the news. Understanding his predicament, she freely lets him go, knowing though, “I will never see him again”.

True to the age, she never would have. The bonds of propriety were too strong, as shown in all of Austen’s novels. And yet, unbeknowst to her, he is not running from her scandal….he is repairing it. Facing it. Freeing her from it. Saving the day. She does indeed see him again, and is proposed to, at that.

Jane Austen’s story is timeless because lives are still messy. We still form prejudices and suffer from pride. We still flee getting involved in others’ dramas and traumas. We still self-protect and attempt to make only “advantageous matches”. Hopefully there are still heroes out there, heroes who look beyond pride and prejudice and scandal. I think Lizzy was a heroine as well…without coercion she released him, she gave up her dream, even though it cost personal suffering.

It’s a whole level of the story I’d not considered before. It’s depth that defies time.

************

Ammended to say: it does still annoy me a bit that he couldn’t have at least told her something to reassure her when he left…some little tidbit of steadfastness and intent. Anguish would have been avoided and how could he exactly, have kept from at least uttering, “please don’t cry…it will be alright in the end”? Even heroes have flaws I suppose.

This was a post after a friend introduced me to Ben Harper in January 2006. He’s still a favorite…and now I’ve realized the dream of the guitar and actually play his music.

*******

Today I got a fantastic gift in the mail. My friend Kim, who to this point I’ve only known online but plan to meet soon for our piligrimage to Baton Rouge for a gathering of friends, sent me a mixed CD of her favorites. I’d been wanting to…well, for how long? Wanted to hear Ben Harper’s music for probably years. A discussion that mentioned him was the impetus for the idea since she’s been listening to him lately. In the midst of a move over the holidays she was going far and above anything I expected to not only sit down and mix this, but to actually get it in the mail!
The whole disc is great. Better than great…dance-in-the-kitchen music-with-a-goofy-grin kind of music. How often does one find a music kindred spirit? If you have taste like me, not often. When the discovery comes and the sound resonates, it’s a rare thing indeed.
The best thing about this mix: it’s quirky and different and yet fits me like a glove. Some of the artists I’ve never heard of..Billy Joe Shaver, Gillian Welch (she sounds alot like Mindy Smith with more raw edge), Southern Culture on the Skids…there’s also lots I do know and am happy to have a recording of: the weepy beauty of Dolly Parton and Emmy Rossum, “Come On Eilleen” by Dixie’s Midnight Runner, Jewel, Queen.

There’s a list of music that has had enough influence and pure time in my life to make it on “the soundtrack of my years”. Ben Harper’s music is going to make that list. Somehow with every review I’d read, every occassional pop into celebrity news that he made, I knew that his was music worth my investigation. This CD has two of his songs on it. “Steal My Kisses” is a FUN, sing-it-with-the-windows-down kind of beat that conjures up images of afternoon sunshowers, flowered dresses, and tossled hair. “Waiting on an Angel” is soft with a lazy edge, that reminds me of sleepy-sunshine, under a tree with the one who makes me feel beautiful, fingers barely touching and wine glasses empty.

I went looking for some info on Ben…turns out one of his favorite things is Coldplay. You can hear it in the understated truth of his lyrics. In a year when one of my bhags (big hairy audacious goals) was to learn to play the guitar, Ben’s sounds like the kind I want to play.

“So speak kind to a stranger, ’cause you’ll never know. It just might be an angel, knockin’ at your door. And I”m waiting for an angel and I know it won’t be long, to find myself in a resting place, in my angel’s arms.”

Really beautiful sentiment. I wish the video was of better quality but together with the lyrics, you’ll get the idea.

” What if we stopped having a ball
What if the paint chips from the wall
What if there’s always cups in the sink
What if I’m not what you think I am
What if I fall further than you
What if you dream of somebody new
What if I never let you win– chase you with a rolling pin– Well, what if I did?

Chorus:
Cause I am giving up on making
passes, and I am giving up on half empty glasses, and I am giving up on greener grasses. I am giving up.

What if our baby comes in after nine
What if your eyes close before mine

If you lose yourself sometimes, I’ll be the one to find you safe in my heart.”

“All intensive purposes”?

or

“All intents and purposes”?

I’ve heard both. How do you use it?

My blog is actually getting old! I was looking through some of the archives the other day and thought a repost of a few of them would be fun.

Muse in the Sacred Wood, by Maurice Denis

Eisenhower Farm by Kay Ameche

Anker’s “Sleeping Children by a porcelain stove”

“Hope Cherishing Love” by Harry Mileham

All of the motherhood art in this one.

“Eternal Spring” by Rodin

Wind From the Sea, by Andrew Wyeth

and this one, from the times before I started listing artist and title.

I was thinking today of how heroic it is when someone loves another based on what makes the reciever feel loved, rather than just how the giver likes to love.

More than the “martyr” giver, who is generous and giving because of the reward they feel when they do, there is the self-less giver, the one who finds out what the other needs to feel loved and then seeks to meet it.

Yesterday my dad was out in my car…and along the way he decided to change my wiper blades, have my transmission fluid adjusted, and called to see what kind of latte he’d like me to bring home. Little kindnesses that took my breath away really….we are in the midst of a very stressful time, with lots of waves and emotions and wounds that need healing. To say he’s our “steady” is putting it mildly. In a family made up mostly of women, he finds the love language of each, and learns to speak it.

It’s the determined learning that speaks the loudest to me. In getting to know someone, we may clash. We may not understand or know how to relate. It certainly can be difficult when trying to live in community with others. Listening, and thus really *hearing*, is critical, but I’d wager gets skipped most of the time. (That another of his motto’s is “don’t skip a step” seems not unrelated). So he listens and watches and waits for the right moment….sometimes it’s a free detail thrown into a contracted deal. Sometimes it’s a hug and listening to the vent (rather than engaging point by point or by handing out ill timed advice). Sometimes it’s in fixing something that has been broken or by inventing a new gadget to make life easier.

Humans don’t always feel like giving so I don’t imagine that real self-less type givers always *feel* like doing this.  (I say, ‘imagine’ because even though I’m a mother, and mothers famously give, I honestly wonder how much of what I do is truly self-less). It’s a challenge to give in a way that requires effort or learning outside of one’s comfort zone. I think we are partly selfish for survival…children aren’t exactly self-less, and once wounded, it’s difficult to make oneself not self-protect. Giving requires openness.

And that’s why I think real giving is heroic. The giver has to be willing to be hurt. Rejected. Has to care more about meeting the other’s need, even if that means absence or uncomfortable listening or pain. Somewhere in there is keeping the big picture in mind rather than getting caught in a moment and communicating trust and commitment that surpasses imperfection.

My little nephew is going to be born very soon and we were all sitting around this morning very early, watching my sis rub her belly and think, “baby be born now” thoughts. Rowan, who has asked to nurse at least once a week for a full year after weaning, noticed there was something different between his Mom and his Auntie. Specifically, the “milks” are quite a bit larger for the laboring mother and quite a bit deflated for the Mommy-Who-Fed-Him.

Rowan: “Auntie gots big boobies?”

Me: “Yes, she has milk for baby Samuel”

Rowan: “Me like big boobies.”

Celia: “Some people would find them very refreshing.”

I know I was sleepy but to my ears, it sounded not unlike grown-ups, cruising the strip and debating which would be the best restaurant!

My favorite (remember Nine Million Bicycles in Bejing?), Katie Melua, also did this song, Spider’s Web. Thought I’d share…the video is one half the song, the other half an interview…watch the guy do it in 3 languages at once!

True Story. March is part of “Butterfly Season”, both literal and symbolic, and there I was just riding along on my bike when, “BAM”! A big, yellow and black one smacked me just exactly inbetween my eyebrows.

Guess I’ll add, “sunglasses” to the list of things needed for cycling.

I finally quit procrastinating and went and measured my lap for running and riding. I’d guessed the full lap was between 3/4 and a full mile. BUT GUESS WHAT??!?! It’s actually a mile and half! Oh joy!

Last week was my first week riding. At the end of it, I’d clocked 25 miles for the week. I have no idea if that is “good” or not; it’s just where I’m starting. 25 miles, half against a March wind, on flat roads, at 3rd gear. My seat is much, much too big, I still need a helmet before I venture away from my fairly-secure lap road, and mirrors, lights, and a reflective vest would be a good idea too. Twice while out and about this week I caught a glimpse at real road bikes, with the right kind of handlebars and peddals and seats. I count it progress that I can now recognize the difference between the two. Baby steps indeed.

Then came 5 days off any kind of excercise for illness. We all caught a horrid spring cold but in it’s wake is the vivid reminder: I can’t breathe here in Spring. It’s like a freakin’ Azaela factory around here…there’s almost as much fuschia and white in bloom than there is green grass or leaves on the trees. I’m wheezing and just starting to realize what effect not getting enough Oxygen can do to endurance.

New addition: Music whilst running, thanks to the recommendation of my wonderful commenters.  It does indeed help! I still love, love, love riding and hate, hate, hate running…after this Tri goal is met, I may just quit running all together (who am I kidding? I love running. Sigh).  But music eases the mental boredom tremendously. Favorite to run to: White Stripes.

I’ve learned in the last few days to run first, then ride. Also, that the real trick in a Trithalon is not in being able to run a certain distance, or ride, or swim…it’s in the physical endurance of being able to transition and do all 3. Sequence seems to matter greatly, at least right now. So… I run/walk 3 miles and then ride for 8.

What I’ll be working on: the same combination, with a greater percentage of the run/walk actually run, and the gear on the bike higher.  Shoes and bike stuff are financial goals but I can scrape by for quite a bit longer on what I have now.

“Today one small thing I will do move towards a more deliberate life is…..”

My answer: not drink more than one cup of coffee today. It’s been a “food replacement” this week, which I know is not healthy, and I’ve weaned back a bit each day. Today it’s time to be firm about only having one cup, or at least one *caffinated* cup ;-).

My favorite treat: the Sunday NY Times read outside with sun and breeze.

Today’s best:

• term, and one for savoring whilst thinking about linear time (and the sometimes lack thereof): spatiotemporal dimension. As in, “Even an artist who likes to fool around with spatiotemporal dimensions can get stressed out by a deadline”, from the aritcle, “The Taste of Nothing, the Smell of Mars”, in the Art section.
• explanation of the devastating appraisal of my house this previous week (and I betcha the author didn’t imagine how tangible the reality he described would be for his readers), “If the housing boom was a manifestation of irrational exuberance, some say it has swung too far in the other direction, to irrational despondancy.” on the front page, above the fold.
• display of American gluttony: “Everyone wants to eat like an American on this globe, but if they do, we’re going to need another two or three globes to grow it all.”, on the front page.
• scary thought, “No one creates a new technology really understanding how it can be used or how it can change a society.”, from the Business section.

Actually *he* is 12. As of yesterday. We spent an afternoon with Marble Machiato’s and Surfer magazines and talking and pretty soon he’ll get the gift that is going to help him achieve one of his dreams. He changes every day, not unlike that first year of his, and watching him is a marvel.

And I am 12, in a way, as well. Because yesterday was the 12th anniversary of becoming a mother. Reverse the numbers and you have my age that day: 21. It was raining then, just like now. The contractions started in the wee hours and we called the midwife at dawn. She came and told me this wasn’t really labor. I whispered to that little baby that we knew it was and to just go ahead and be born today please. And so he did….the rain made the other midwife late and by mid-afternoon her assistant and I were lifting that wriggling little man-baby onto my stomach.

It was an instant love affair and learning process. I’d had years of experience with babies before having him but that was nothing like rocking my own. We’d spend hours on the couch, him napping on my knees, me just drinking in his peachy complexion, perfectly round head, and beautiful pout. We took long walks around that park with the ancient trees down by the river. In a lot of ways, we grew together.

And we’re still growing. I’ve promised this boy things…things that never should have happened to him will never happen again. I’m looking for redemption for us both…I let something along the way break and now it’s time to fix it. His anger is lessening. His barricade and walls are softening. That happens when the truth is finally told.

Afternoons in sunny light, just gazing at his amazing being still happen. Now, of course, he can talk and it’s incredible to experience getting to know your child as who they are, rather than what they are. He’s not just my firstborn, my baby; he’s becoming a very interesting young man with big ideas and dreams. He has his own perspective…the river has forged it’s own meandering turn, not just wearing down the same, previously trodden path. Mixed metaphor, I know, and that is kind of what a child is: “a comparison between two things without the use of ‘like’ or ‘as’. ” He is not so like us as to be a copy, he is not as we are, and yet he is. Forever “from” us, with traits similar, and always his own, with unique individuality that is as no other.

Twelve years ago I couldn’t take my eyes off him. The days of smelling that sweet newborn head or feeling his breath near my heart are long past. By the time another 12 are past he’ll be a man. These tender days in between are amazing.