tollipop

keeping on

A few mornings ago I decided to take Caroline to school, then drop off my car at the dealership for an oil change.

When my husband heard of this plan he offered to pick me up and give me a ride home.

I was all: That's okay.  I'm going to run home.

And he was all: Are you sure??

And I was all: Not if you ask me in that tone.

But it turns out I was sure.  I really did want to run home.  

The one major difference between running in the city and running out in the middle of nowhere, as it happens, is that the Lululemon running skirt attracts a lot more attention in the city.

Gracias, Lululemon.  Vielen dank.

But that came as a bonus surprise.  What I really loved about the experience was simply the notion of running somewhere.  Like, getting from point A to point B by using my feet.  You know?  Depending on where you live or what stage you are in life, the art of doing so may not be especially viable.  

When I was younger, I used to walk everywhere.  And I'm not talking short, convenient distances.  My parents just expected me to get myself places without the aid of transportation.  

(Well, I did use my dad's crappy ten speed bike to ride 30 k to school each day through every imaginable degree of Canadian weather, on a meager country highway teeming with sadistic truck drivers, but that's another story altogether.)  

No, I'm talking about music lessons and stuff like that.  I used to walk from school to my piano teacher's house every week.  It took about half an hour.  And from there I'd walk downtown to the library and read for awhile before it was time to walk to another music teacher's house for a theory lesson.  Another hour.  In the cold.  In the darkness.  By myself.  

Did I like it?  No.  I loved it.  

If memory serves, I'm pretty sure I loved almost every single minute of it.  Walking. Noticing things. Watching seasons change.  Picking up chesnuts.  Skating on icy sidewalks in the crackling cold.  Losing sensation in my extremities.  Thinking about things.  Wondering.  

Wondering if I'd freeze to death before reaching the library. 

Some Saturdays I'd walk with my little brother to the country store to linger and agonize over the purchase of a few dollar's worth of candy.  How long did that take?  The entire afternoon.

Best use of time ever.

My older brother and I walked miles along the creek which ran through our property, up and down, in search of the perfect trout.  We walked and we talked, and sometimes we didn't say anything at all.

My mom used to punish us for fighting by making us walk up and down our endless driveway.  I think we covered a lot of ground that way.

In my life today, it seems impractical to use walking as a functional method of transportation.  Isn't that sad to say?  The distances are too far.  The time is never enough.  Which is why I try not to miss a chance to walk, or to make my children walk, whenever possible.  

It feels good to walk.  It feels good to run.  Most of the time I run a set course out in the desert that doesn't really get me to a particular desination.  But in a way it does.  In a way, something is definitely accomplished by the time I get back to where I started from.

It's not like I'm a good runner, either.  That's not the point.

All I know is I want to keep moving.

Nothing imprints itself so deeply on my mind, nothing keeps me both present in the moment and keenly aware of my surroundings, while also freeing me to a place where troubles fade away like my own two feet and the magic that happens when they move from point A to point B. 

the weekend looked like this

Dear reader, did you have a nice weekend?  Did you celebrate American Thanksgiving? Did you visit Trader Joe's so many times they practically considered a restraining order?

I did.

Were there tiny cousins everywhere you turned?  Falling out of cupboards?  Hiding under couches?  Getting lost in the potted ferns?

Check.

Did they dance and laugh?

Did they get trampled and cry?

Was there a birthday girl with a new Tin Tin book?

Did it seem every time you turned around, you saw a certain sweet face?

Did it seem the cousins spontaneously divided as the day wore on?  Did you hear them whispering?  Did they try to stage a coup?  

Did it work?

I think it did.  I'm still in a daze, but I'm pretty sure that's what happened.

over the weekend

The weekend started early, stretching ahead of us in miles of practice time, rehearsals, competitions, and performances.

Did anyone else happen to attend the performance of four separate orchestras on Saturday?

Because if you did, let's sit down and have a cup of mugicha together.

Something to take the edge off.

Sometimes I go to the symphony to see the symphony.  

Sometimes I go to see who else is going. 

In case you were wondering where all the elderly, patrician couples hang out, it's at the symphony.  

Men with white, combed back hair, a stray lock falling forward, sweater vests, tweedy blazers, heads nodding as the music begins.  Ladies with frothy updos, encrusted in pearls, hands folded over clutches, leaning forward, sitting back.  

A slight rustling of programs.  Muffled, apologetic coughs.

We saw Rachel Barton Pine practically set her violin on fire.

Long day down.  Tomorrow will be another one.

These are the tights I wore to church.  

Possibly not one of the more significant elements of the weekend, but let's not dismiss it altogether.  Don't stick a Canadian girl in the desert and tell her it's a trivial matter when the weather finally cools down enough to wear tights.

Don't do that.

On our way to Izzy's audition to perform with the Las Vegas Philharmonic.  A slight adjustment of accessories and nerves.

Not hers.  Mine.

 

Just kidding.  It's really more a pleasure to watch Izzy perform these days.  

I used to be nervous when she was little, not knowing how she'd react if things went south on stage, but now I have a pretty good idea she'll man the raft if the waters get choppy.

Packing up.  Going home.

It makes me happy when my girls fall asleep reading a book.

Final concert of the weekend.  Possibly the best one of all. Late, cozy, filled with love, French, and madeleine cookies.

The kind of moment you wish could go on forever.

same old ordinary day

There really is nothing ordinary about a day. 

They might seem the same, but that's not because they truly are.  It's only because you forget to notice the differences.

Take a look around.  Same old ordinary day.  Many, many differences.

Pasta for a zillion to be served at Sophie's volleyball banquet: not especially common.

Attending a master class by Rachel Barton Pine: way, way, way out of the ordinary.

Rachel Barton Pine.  Who are you?  What child in the 3rd grade elects to practice eight hours a day?  What child must be persuaded by her parents to set down her violin and come have dinner?  

How fascinating to make your acquaintance.

Korean bakeries: not exactly a standard feature of our day.  

But they should be.

Tofu mushroom soup, sizzling in a stone pot: you should make yourself more familiar, as well.  

Friends around the table: what a treat.

Barley tea in a pretty white cup: mmm.  We're going to be seeing a lot more of each other, you and I.

yes, zoe, it sounds like an amazing book

One of my sisters lives in Chicago...a distance which tugs at my heart, yet has been somewhat softened lately by the newly struck up correspondence between our almost 9-year-old girls.

The letters are fantastic.  They're brilliant.  Here is an excerpt from Zoe's most recent epistle:

I've started writing a book called The Sweet Surprise.  It's about a girl named Laura Fisher who has one million chocolate bars fall on her head and she discovers a new power she has. Does it sound like a good book?  If so, I'll send you a copy when it's finished.

Not to be outdone, Caroline wrote a book of her own.  She plunked down last night for a dramatic reading as I was practicing an accompaniment to her cello concerto.  

Question: What better time to ask your mom's attention than when she's already doing something else on your behalf?

Answer: That's a trick question.  Any kid knows there is no good time to ask your mom's attention--just hijack it or you'll be waiting around forever.

At any rate, the story is called Willow's Park and it's about a girl named Willow who discovers, much to her relief, that she doesn't belong to the mother she lives with but comes from another planet and has a BETTER mother out there who misses her very much.  

She read the whole thing to me with a straight face, I swear.

Following is an excerpt, which Caroline is now busily transcribing to the computer in order to send her cousin a copy: 

Willow’s Park

Hi. My name is Willow.

I live on Cranberry Street. I have been trying to find the secret my mom never told me about. Something interesting I hope. I will tell you all I know about the secret. A trusted neighbor of ours said "do you know about the secret?"

“No,” I said.

“Never mind,” said the neighbor. Her real name is Rachel Page.

I said “Wait, would you give me a clue?

“When you were a baby people thought you were not from this world,” said Rachel. “Why?” I asked.

“You had glowing eyes. Your eyes would change colors by your mood.”

 “Really?” I asked.

 “Yes,” she said. I could not believe it. I really have glowing eyes.

“Will you give me one more clue?”

“No,” Rachel said. “But I will give you one thing; this is the map will lead you to where you used to live.”

“You mean that’s where I lived when I was a baby,” I said.

“Yes,” said Rachel.

::::::::::

That's all she's typed so far and I can't tell you the rest as the book is lost somewhere in the catacombs of her bedroom.  But it just gets better and better! Especially the part where Willow meets her real, way more awesome mom.  

What do you think, dear Zoe?  Does it sound like a good book?  

Because Caroline is sending it your way as soon as she works out a few kinks in the plot. 

the mystery at lilac inn

Dear reader, would you like to see something spooky?  

No, it's not the Halloween decorations which are still haunting the house well into November.  That's not spooky. That's standard.

I'm talking about a mystery.  A ghost.  Missing jewels.  An old, decrepit inn.

Come closer and take a peek.  

See?  Spooky.  

If I tried to tell you about it, you'd never believe me.  It involves a titian-haired girl with intrepid sleuthing skills offering her services to track down a nefarious gang attempting to foil the renovation of a historic inn.  You'll hear about a spectre, a shark in fresh water, jewel heists, fiancés, threats, espionage, doppelgängers, blackouts, actresses, bomb threats, cold wars, and miniature submarines!

And I'm barely getting started. 

I mean, rather than asking what the story's about, try asking what it isn't about.  

That should stump Caroline.  That should buy you some time.

Then you can change the subject and ask her about something else.  Something that does not involve the summary of a story.  Because as I've already mentioned, the word summary to Caroline means taking something which is long, detailed, and intricate, and making it WAY MORE so.

yo yo

Some relationships, once gone, leave the heart with an ache and permanent sense of loss.  In our home, grief over a departed hamster is intense yet blessedly finite. 

Meet Yo Yo.  He is not named for the toy nor the casual greeting, but rather after the great cellist whom Caroline admires.  

In case you're wondering, Tin Tin was properly enshrined after his much extended wake.  We miss him and his little ways, but it is rather uncanny how much Yo Yo resembles him and seems to present many of the same habits. 

So life goes on...

We left the pet store with only Yo Yo in hand, but Izzy made sure to text this picture to her dad and let him fret for the next several hours that a certain Mr. Collins would be eagerly awaiting his homecoming that night with more than the standard amount of drool.

unless you're on a leaky raft in the middle of the ocean surrounded by sharks and some guy just ate your chocolate...

Dear reader, how do you deal with an ordeal?  How do you face moments of hardship, adversity, and distress?  

I recently read Unbroken and was left to ponder, among other things, the way one's approach to a situation seems to determine so much of how it is experienced and even the outcome itself.  I'm referring to the ill fated rescue attempt by Louie Zamperini's flight crew during WW II, which resulted in their plane crashing into the Pacific and the three survivors spending over a month on a raft enduring horrific conditions.  

Two of the survivors met the challenge with an innate sense of optimism and determination to draw upon every resource in order to see it through, no matter how daunting the odds might appear.  The third survivor seemed to look at the same situation and draw a fatalistic conclusion from the outset.

The differing mindsets had a dramatic effect on the way these men experienced their ordeal.  Without wanting to give away details, it would seem it even affected the actual outcome of their story.

Who are you on the life raft, dear reader?  How do you deal with an ordeal? 

Last week I received a phone call that caused me to drop everything and get on a plane to be with someone who is very dear to me.  It's been a sad and scary, tender and funny time.  

How can terrible things also be funny?  I don't know.  They just can. You kind of have to be determined on that point, I think.  It's probably one of the few choices that's still yours to make in a moment of crisis.  You know?  Undoubtedly the terrible part is coming your way whether you like it or not.  If you see something funny amidst the wreckage, grab it.  Hold onto it.  Have a good laugh if you can.  It will feel like deliverance.  

Sometimes the humor will be perverse.  It may be dark.  It may be borderline inappropriate.  On the day I left, Caroline's hamster died.  Not funny at all.  I hugged my desolate girl and promised her dad would take care of things with a proper burial, then hopped on a plane.  But when I called home three days later only to be informed Tin Tin was still out in the garage, decomposing in plain sight, somehow that was funny.  Maybe you had to be there, maybe you had to have seen much worse, maybe you had to be sleep deprived, but trust me: it was funny.  

Dear reader, if I could wrap my arms around this world and make every little thing better, I'm afraid I would.  I'm afraid I wouldn't have the heart to let people suffer.  But suffering isn't always such a bad thing.  At least, in my moments of greater clarity, I'm compelled to admit some of the most profound and beautiful developments may occur as a result of sorrow and woe.  You become a better person.  You find deeper meaning in life.  You see the great character in others.  You are reminded more clearly of what matters.

Of course, nobody wants to hear about this while they're actually on the raft.  No way.  It's only for those who are looking back in hindsight.  Tons of hindsight.  

For those of you who are still in the thick of it: maybe you break a few emergency swear vials along the way.  So what?  Not every moment under duress needs be your finest.  Not every manner will be fit for tea with the queen.  

After all, you're on a leaky raft in the middle of the ocean surrounded by sharks, franchement.  And some guy just ate your chocolate.  Or maybe your situation is not quite that dire.  Either way, I'm sure you have grounds for losing it.  I'm sure you have grounds for being scared, hurt, angry, withdrawn, for wishing it would all go away.   

But you also have grounds for a laugh.  You do.  Steady now.  Wait for it.  Something funny is going to happen.  And you have grounds for noticing the beauty around you, for savoring every good moment, for not going down without one hell of a fight.