tollipop

the weekend

It's been busy...filled with music, bridal showers, meetings, volleyball, study groups, movie parties, a run in the desert, choir practice, a trifling amount of laundry...

and one stolen moment with my husband.

Recently I told Sophie I wanted her to play this piece once a day, without the pedal, meticulous and slowly. I don't know why.  Maybe because I think there's some quality in Bach, some brilliant ability to unlock secret passageways in the mind or, in my experience, to untangle those passageways, open a few windows, clear some of the clutter.  

That's what Bach does for me. 

 
I mean it when I say I'm glad Sophie has found such a passion in volleyball.  It was hard to see her let go of the piano but I could see it was by necessity (schedule-wise) and, to be honest, harder for me than it was for her.  

You just have to roll with that, parents, when it happens.  When your child recognizes what moves her, you have to make room.  

Still, I'm insisting on the daily two minutes of Bach.  

What good is being the mum if you don't get to boss anyone around?

what caroline does when i'm writing

Sometimes in the evening, when things have quieted down, Caroline brings a book and sits on this furry cushion to keep me company as I write.

It is the very best kind of company, this little girl who reads and stops every five minutes to tell me what a good book it is.  

I am still writing.  I hesitate to talk about it, but sometimes I think it is good to say something, even if just to remind myself I am doing it.  

Such a weird place, the arena of writing.  What does one say?  

Hi, I'm a writer? 

No way.  I'm not saying that.  I am only wondering if someday I will be able to say that.  

Here is where I'm at with my story...in a vague, nebulous place.  But.  I know where I need to go as soon as I get past this place.  And I know where the story is heading from there on out...at least, I think I do. 

All I have to do is write it. 

I have no idea if this thing is any good.  It is too difficult to ascertain, it is impossible to rely on my perspective, and at this point I'm not especially interested in knowing the answer to that question anyway. Better to just keep writing and get it finished.  

I will say this, however.  Caroline loves it, the parts I've read to her.  She thinks it's brilliant.

And when I'm up at night lingering over language, hearing words in my mind, searching for the right combination of sounds and syllables, the most beautiful way of saying things I hope will resonate deeply in the reader's heart...well, that is magic.  That is an enchantment which could bind me forever, willingly, in the rich and mysterious, achingly lovely world of words.

fierce

(photos courtesy of Zachary McKimmey)

Dear reader,

How are you doing?  How was your weekend?

Wait...I already asked those questions, didn't I?  Don't worry.  That's not my concussion talking, that's just regular, distracted me.  

My husband says I don't have one, by the way.  A concussion.  

So I was all: Oh, really?  Then how come I always forget carpool?

He just stared at me.  And I had the grace to look away.

But not before I saw pity in his eyes.  And it wasn't for my concussion.

But enough about me...we all know how I can go on about these things ad nauseam.  

Yesterday I received these pictures of Sophie, taken during a recent volleyball tournament.  They make me happy, looking at them.  

And something else.

They make me want to harness that energy and go out and storm the world.  I want to cross ten miles with every stride, fists clenched, hair billowing, breathing fire upon anything that blocks my way.

Most of the time I will sit nicely and sip hot chocolate and inquire about your weekend.

But every once in awhile, flames shoot out of my eyes.  I feel like plundering the coastline.  And everything that bothers me, everything that's been weighing on my mind...better scurry.  Better run for cover. Because I've reached a limit. I've sapped my politesse.  I'm not on a path, I'm on a warpath.  And I'm in no mood to take prisoners.

All this from the vicarious thrill of looking at these pictures.  

Thank you, Zachary. 

circular logic…let's not even call it logic

Dear reader, 

How are you doing?  How was your weekend?  How was your Valentine's?  

Please forgive me if you've already answered those questions.  I was at Sophie's volleyball tournament over the weekend and took a ball to the head, hard.  I'm no doctor, but this is the closest I've come to a concussion and I don't need a medical degree to prove it.

For starters, I can't remember anything anyone told me.  I don't know what day it is.  Or the month.  And I'm hazy on the year.  

None of this has anything to do with my concussion, mind you.  This is just me talking about myself.

Looking on the bright side, I have a tip for all the insomniacs out there: blunt force trauma to the head.

Best night of sleep I ever had.

Afterward, everyone was asking me: Are you okay?  Are you okay?

And I was all: did the word Molten just get permanently imprinted on my cheek?  Because if I were ever to get a face tattoo, that's exactly what I'd pick.

One reason I suspect I have a concussion is that I keep talking about it, ad nauseam.  Like, when I sat down to write this post I was all: don't be one of those people who keeps talking about their concussion, ad nauseam.

And look what I'm doing.  

When normally I'd be telling you how awesome Jiro Dreams of Sushi is.  How my entire family enjoyed watching this film and how I recommend it to you, too.

How it was a beautiful weekend, filled with many happy and sad moments.  
This was a happy one.

Taking a ball to the head, not so happy.

And how I went to the market and saw these apples and got terribly homesick. Because this apple probably came from a tree within 5 kilometres of where I grew up, dear reader.  

5 kilometres.

And it is making my head hurt, just doing the metric conversion.  Or could it be my concussion?

My head really does hurt.  And I am feeling weirdly nauseous.  But I always feel nauseous when I say ad nauseam because it confuses me, which means I have no business dropping Latin to a disgusting or ridiculous degree.

Which is to say...ad nauseam.

So I should probably stop joking about the damage to my brain because concussion or not, there is definitely some faulty wiring going on upstairs. Probably a preexisting condition.  

But that ball did not help matters.

p.s.  Please don't interpret my comments about getting hit as glib.  I know concussions are serious business. If it so happens something really is wrong with my head, I won't be laughing.  But I also won't be superstitious or think it's ironic because I laughed about it on this blog.

I don't know what I'll think.  Probably that I should stop dropping Latin ad nauseam or something.

happy valentine's day

Happy Valentine's Day, dear reader!  How I love this particular day of the year, how it has always filled me with hope, longing, happiness, joy, and love.  

To me it is a day for simple gestures.  For saying I love you, for smiles, handwritten notes, something sweet, small tokens of one's esteem.  

I believe in love. I believe in love in all its many forms.  I believe in looking into people, for that is where they are easiest to love and where you will see their greatest beauty.  I believe in being kind, warm, generous, inclusive, easygoing, in looking for common ground, in nurturing, affection, friendship, and romance.  

Here is one thing I know about love: it is beautiful to give and receive it, but sometimes it doesn't come to you in the way you wish it would.  

How I wish it would.

But it doesn't always and you can't control that. The only thing you can control is giving it.  

So give it.  Put love out there.  Put it out there whether you are getting it back or not.  To me, that is the most elevating and meaningful way to live.  To love regardless of what you get in return.  I'm not saying it's easy.  I am familiar with gaping holes in one's heart, in missing bonds and things gone wrong.  And I know how an absence of love can bring such bleakness into one's soul, how it can trip so many crappy coping mechanisms.  

But when and where you can, give love.  Put it out there without looking for it to return.  Sometimes it will return.  When it does, open your arms and receive it.

Love brings a certain healing of its own.  It makes this world so achingly beautiful.  It binds up every sadness and conquers all.  Love triumphs and eclipses, it is the last thing standing.  And it will always stand.

I don't know why I always wax so heavy on Valentine's Day.  It's a little knack I have, being the life of the party.  You should see me on my birthday.  You should see what I talk about then.  

I don't know why I can't just leave it at a dozen roses and a box of chocolates, but...Valentine's Day.  You are such a beautiful day.  I believe in you every day of the year.  But when you actually come, I feel a secret thrill.  

And then I have to lecture about love.

I hope this day is filled with sweet and simple gestures of love.  I hope you feel it.  And I hope you put it out there, too.

Happy Valentine's Day. xoxo

over the weekend

Izzy and Caroline participated in a music competition.  Izzy took first place in her division and Caroline got an honorable mention.  Somehow, this discrepancy went over peacefully...aided in part because Caroline loved the color of her ribbon, and also because she loves her sister.  

But she is spoiling to win, that girl. She keeps asking: what does it take?  What do I have to do to win one of these things?

Oh...what is the right answer here?  Should I talk about how it is already a victory, just being prepared to get on that stage?  Or how it is a victory of character, learning to accept defeat without being defeated?  Should I wax jaded and world weary and tell her about the biases of some judges?

Or should I just go with the world's unsexiest answer: hard work.

Honestly, I didn't feel like telling her any of those things.  I already think she works pretty hard at her cello.   I guess she could do more.  But I prefer the balance in her life which allows her to love many things, to come to her cello willingly and work hard during practice time, to enjoy volleyball, reading, writing, baking, and making paper dolls.

I will tell you this--some of the kids participating in music competitions today are working so hard, I'm not sure where their childhood fits into the picture.  And while I am a mother with expectations, I cannot even pretend to want to put my girls into the saddle which gallops at the pace necessary to keep up.  

So.  Izzy won.  She worked hard, but with some degree of balance, her genuine love of music blossoming before my eyes.  It is breathtaking to behold, every day.  

And little Caroline played beautifully on her cello.  She got up there in front of those three stone faced judges, who don't smile or acknowledge the contestants, and did her thing.  I watched them both with an aching in my throat, which I always get when something is unbearably beautiful or sad.

On Sunday night Izzy performed in a concert with the other musicians who'd won their divisions.  I was unable to attend due to a prior committment, but Roger went with the girls and made a recording.  

Her teacher attended and texted me to say Izzy played like an angel...something about that really touched me, as if she understood my disappointment in not being there and wanted to share some of the joy of the moment.

I could write a zillion blog posts and never be able to express how much I love Izzy's teacher.  She is highly skilled, tough yet nurturing, loves animals and has a menagerie in her home, and devotes herself to her students.

I count her influence on Izzy as one of our greatest blessings.

And Izzy's accompanist.  I adore her.  You should see her hands.  You should watch her play...anything. I know enough about music to see her brain works very differently than mine does when she looks at a musical score--she has a way of breaking it down, of recognizing patterns and rhythms in pieces she has never played before.  She reads music in a very advanced way, perhaps in a mathematical way, yet plays with the soul of a poet.

 
So much talent in this world.  So many people making it a beautiful place.  I know there is sorrow, too.  I see it around me every day, it is too easy to find.  

But it is beauty that captures and keeps me.  I see it everywhere, even in the things which make me sad.

cats and dogs, ponies, birds, and one little lamb

Whenever I come out here to go for a run, I get to this bend in the road where a burst of excitement courses through me and my heart begins to race.  I start smiling, I may or may not pant and wriggle, and I realize in that moment I know exactly how a dog feels when you ask him if he wants to go for a walk.  

Evidence of Lilliput, as I secretly expected.  Now to locate that wardrobe door...

Making me happy.  Just pure happy.  Don't worry about the date...that only proves she's my girl.

Sophie's work in progress is still in progress...  

He looks like the kind of fellow who could get by just fine without hands but that's only my opinion, and we all know what happened when I asked for thumbprint cookies and everyone else wanted the kind you have to ice.

The other morning Sophie came downstairs at 5:15 (she leaves the house by 5:30) and presented me with this drawing.  It's entitled Confessions of an Ornithologist, which is not half as intriguing as the fact I was up late the night before, helping her through a crisis of feeling overwhelmed by everything she had to get done...

Moral: don't stipulate to needing a complete understanding of your teenager. Empathy is good.  But don't hold out for logic, not every time.  Your soul will make a horcrux before that happens.  

So much violin (and cello) being played lately, at all hours of the day.  A music competition looms on the horizon...

How is that the cat's problem?  It's not.

Sometimes I'd like to be a cat, too.

the price of imperfection

On the way home from church today the girls and I tried to decide how crazy we could get with our afternoon and the thing we finally hit upon, crazier than every other idea, was to make fudge.  

Yes, fudge.

Don't tell me putting butter, sugar, cream, and syrup into one pot isn't asking for trouble.

Especially if you do it my way.

Did it turn out?  

No.  Not really.

Listen, dear reader.  Being absentminded is not for the faint of heart.  

If you're going to refuse to follow a recipe, if you're going to launch into the making of fudge without a candy thermometer, harboring contempt for certain ingredients (maple syrup...hello?  you belong on pancakes), timing it so you have to take a break in between to conduct your church choir for an hour when you should, in fact, be finishing what you started, then guess what?

You are going to fail.  You're going to take it on the chin.  

There are probably loads of clichés out there about how failure is the unwitting springboard to some new and totally unforeseen success.  

This much I know: they were never devised by someone who can make fudge.

But consider for a moment: who could've guessed the fallout from my doomed fudge attempt would yield these pretty lollies??

(No, I'm not saying that with a straight face.  I know failure when I see it.) 

What can I tell you, dear reader?  This is not my first time at the rodeo.  I'm no stranger to playing chicken with a recipe.  If you're going to live life on the edge, as I do, if you're going to opt for the hardcore daze, then you'd better get ready for the consequences.  You'd better brace yourself for some ruined fudge and count your blessings if that's the worst you ever know.  

Only don't actually count them, your blessings.  Just round to the nearest ten.

But if, on the other hand, you happen to like the sound of this, if you're okay with succeeding only some of the time, if you think you have what it takes to be as daringly incompetent as I am, then here is the application for my club.  

If you end up losing it before you forget to fill it out, that's how you know you're in.  

::::::::::::::

p.s.  One more thing...I was recently nominated for an award at Apartment Therapy...in the category of Best Family and Kids blog.  Oh, how that makes me cringe!  How that makes me wonder!  I'm surprised Tollipop has not been arrested and locked in the pillories by now...do they not screen?  Do they not check for content?!

But I will say I was sincerely touched by the gesture.  And it reminded me it's been a long time since I thanked you for coming here to visit.  It means a lot to think you find my words worth reading.  

I really am working on that novel, by the way.  I don't know what will happen, it makes me nervous to speculate. I'm not even sure I can get it done.  Writing a novel: it seems like such a brash claim.  But I am in the process and enjoying it very much.

If it ever does gets done, this blog and your encouragement will be part of the reason it happened.  

Thank you for coming here. xx