tollipop

all good things are wild and free

Yesterday I went for a run in the desert and made a new friend.  No, this is not the little old man I was telling you about..though the resemblance is uncanny.  

It would have been a match made in heaven, had the attraction not been so one-sided.  Indeed, if you are holding someone in your hands while he scuffles and tries to prong you with his horns, it's a good sign he's not that into you.  

I may have a vivid imagination, dear reader, but I'm not in total denial.

I tried to be mysterious and unfathomable, I exhausted all my charms, but in the end it was not to be. Nothing could persuade him otherwise, not even my promise to read him the works of Thoreau at night.

He could have made me happy beyond my wildest dreams, if only I didn't have to physically restrain him from leaving.  

So I let him go.

He wasted no time with sentimental adieus which, I'm not going to lie, hurt.

Where do you go to find your wilderness, dear reader?  

I often think, practically the last reason I go out to the desert to go for a run is to go for a run.   

I am there to see things, to find things, to catch things, to observe.  I am there to experience the seasons of the year, the nuances of the day, to witness the circle of life, to be out in the middle of nowhere.  

I am there to examine the head of a frog, to wonder at its ignominious death.

I am there to drop a leaf on this web and run like crazy when I see what shoots out of that hole.

I am there to remember, to forget, to marvel, to ache, to fly, to escape, to time travel, to pass through a wardrobe door.

I have all the rest of the day to be civilized.  All the rest of the day to drive carpool, exchange pleasantries, sign permission slips, make dinner, scrub toilets, oversee homework, and smell good.

And the only way that works for me, the only way I'm willing to be civilized, is if I can find such moments to be uncivilized, as well.  

where to go to meet little old men

As it happens, nothing tops the symphony, Trader Joe's, or car dealerships, but I know a place which practically teems with this elusive demographic and I bet you can't guess it in a million years...

Out in the middle of nowhere.

Yes, out in the middle of nowhere, dear reader. THAT is where you will find some of the dearest little old men you could ever hope to encounter.

To wit: the other day I was running along, minding my business, when I came across the dearest, littlest, oldest man I've ever seen in my entire life!  He was sitting on a rock, hunched over, beneath a prickly bush which afforded him the sparsest measure of shade.  

I stopped, of course.  At first I made sure he was still breathing.  Then I made sure this wasn't another moral test, like my encounter with the blue carpenter bee or the ringneck snake, to see if I would leave a desired specimen in its natural habitat.

Because believe me, my first instinct was: can I take him home??

After visiting a moment, however, I was able to ascertain he did, in fact, belong to someone else already.

We talked on and he told me a bit about his life.  People can tell you the saddest things in a mere matter of moments, dear reader.  Out there, in the middle of nowhere, that little old man surprised himself, I think, by telling me about the death of his daughter last December.  

He told me about it, then stopped talking and just sat there, caught by grief.  

So we passed the time in silence.

I ached to move closer and sit down beside him, but if there's one rule about crossing paths with a total stranger out in the middle of nowhere, it's that you respect one another's space.  

Afterward I went on my way, feeling differently...feeling how you feel when you think you're out in the middle of nowhere but you're really not.

And who should I come across, but the legendary silver fox? 

I'm pretty sure he's a legend in my mind alone, but when I see him racing across the desert, so wild and free, what else can my thoughts do but hearken unto mythical figures...to shapeshifters, winged shoes, and rites of passage?

But this time, he ruined all that.  

This time he stopped and introduced himself.

I didn't want that, dear reader.  I didn't want to know his name.

I wanted what I had in my head.  

I wanted to believe, at worst, I was catching a glimpse of some Hollywood look-alike and at best, of the ancient Norseman, of some silver-haired spirit who glides upon the wind.  

But all that's been sacked like the ancient city of Troy.

I don't have high expectations, dear reader.  I leave specimens in their habitats and forever live in regret, I wear the same yellow cardigan fifty days in a row, I adore my family and hope to someday finish writing my crazy, elusive story.  

That's it.  

Plus ramen.  And the odd dead beetle.

Is it too much to ask, then, when I'm out in the middle of nowhere and happen to cross paths with the mythical silver fox, that he not come and lay waste to my wee, harmless fantasy by telling me his name??

in three weeks' time this very same sun will liquefy my face

But not today, dear reader.  Today it was glorious, resplendent, and zen.

I know I said was taking a blogging break, incidentally, and I am.  Don't worry, I won't say anything of consequence here, making this ineligible to count as an actual post.  

It's just that I have to tell someone what happened to me today before it eats a hole in my brain!  

I went for a run in the desert and what did I come across but a tiny green snake.  A tiny green snake with an underbelly of bright, candy orange!  

Dear reader, why did I not catch him?  Why?  

I've seen so many snakes out in the desert, but never one like this.  What are the odds I'll ever see him again?

This is what's going to keep me up tonight...thinking about that snake, how easily I could have scooped him up.  He was a safe one, I know he was.  I could have brought him home and showed the girls. I could have released him into my backyard, don't you think?  So many bugs wandering around out there.  Or I could have taken him back to the desert.  

In the moment, though...I got stuck thinking how happy he must have been right where he was, on such a beautiful spring day.  Even with his tiny brain, I knew he was perfectly content.  And I couldn't bear to mess with that.  

But I'm never going to get over this.  Just like I'll never get over wishing I'd whipped off my t-shirt and captured that enormous blue bee.  

That was almost a year ago and it plagues me to this day.

Though I will tell you, from having captured that black bee the other day...I would've had quite the fight on my hands.  Those bees do not go down easily.

Darn me and my insipid respect for life!  Darn me and my conflicted moral dilemmas!

At any rate...there's magic out in that desert, I'm telling you.  It buzzes and hums with the energy sucked from the souls of all those who pass through it. The cairns come and go...they make me happy when they appear and lonely when they disappear.  There's still water in the creek and soon there will be tadpoles.  There were lizards sitting on rocks and scuttling along my path. There were tiny butterflies, huge black beetles burrowing in coyote dung, and a hawk circling overhead.  

I take back what I said about the desert being too cool to celebrate spring. Today it was filled with so much life, such beauty, bursts of color, and wonderful smells.  

Oh, and a dead bat.  He was mashed so flat on the road I nearly missed him. I've been thinking about bats a lot lately, how tiny and perfect they are, and it made me very sad to see this one a mere tuft of fur embedded in the pavement.  

you know how when you see an amazing moon, you should never try taking a picture of it with your iPhone camera?

Well, sometimes I forget that little rule. 

What a week.  How are you doing?  I feel so completely spun around right now...forgetting carpools, remembering carpools that weren't mine to drive, just so much driving in general, reading a story to Caroline's class for reading week, and, at this very moment, wanting to cash in my mum card after having spent the past hour in my daughters' rooms, trying to make sense of the madness.

Was it even a room?  A place meant for humans to exist?  At this point, I couldn't say.  I would more likely check the box denoting: petri dish, or scientific experiment gone terribly wrong, or possibly just cut the conjecture and skip down the list to the skull and crossbones sign.  

I'm sorry this blog is so neglected these days.  I am working away on this crazy story and it's sapping all my writing mojo and I don't even know if it's any good or not, except Caroline tells me it's amazing.  I keep waiting for my little brother to mean text me, but so far he hasn't.  For one thing, he's coming to visit next weekend so maybe he decided to go easy just this once.  

I can't wait to see him!  Meaning, I can't wait to go eat ramen with him!

Yesterday I went for a run in the desert and I swear I saw Richard Gere.  It was either Richard Gere or some other incredibly foxy silver haired gentleman wearing high end running gear, ultra cool shades, and the kind of cologne that is dangerous to lavish on because the coyotes might end up devouring you for smelling so yummy.

Let me tell you, that guy was lucky. Because as it so happened, I was ravenous myself.  When we crossed paths on the trail and I caught the lingering scent of his man perfume, it was all I could do not to turn around, lunge, and snap off his ankles or something.

Dear reader, when I say I used to run with the wolves, don't tell yourself: oh, she must be speaking metaphorically.  Don't seek comfort with such thoughts. Try imagining something way more literal.  Try vowing never to wear man perfume out on the running trail in the event we happen to cross paths and I haven't eaten yet that morning.

Reading to Caroline's class: that was the highlight of this week.  Those kids, paying rapt attention, leaning forward in their seats.  I would do that every day if the teacher would let me.  There is something magical about storytelling.  Some eternal childhood is fostered there where everything is new and wondrous, cozy, safe, limitless, riveting, and happy.  

Do you want to hear one more potentially disturbing thing before I go?  

We have rats in our house.  No, not my children, though their bedrooms might lead you to believe otherwise...real, actual rats.  Not cute mice, like in Cinderella where they sew things for you.  RATS.  Like the creatures who sneak into your room at night and gnaw your face off.

Only, I can't quite bring myself to believe that about these rats.  

Why?

Because I read Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of Nimh to Caroline recently, and I can't get it out of my head!  

I can't dismiss the possibility we may have highly intelligent rats living in our walls, not the kind like Templeton in Charlotte's Web (who was endearing in his own way, you have to admit), or the ones you see in the subways of New York City.  For one thing, they don't actually come into our living quarters.  They just run along the roof over my head.  And in the early morning when I wake up and listen to them scurrying around, I keep imagining they've wired the place for electricity, hauled a shag carpet up there, and are poring over the works of the great philosphers, determining how to create an evolved rodent society.  

It's quite cozy, when I think about it.

If, however, they manage to break through the drywall and storm my bedroom and start nesting in my hair...well, then I may be persuaded to think differently.

I'm not terribly worried, though.  All they have to do is take one look at my girls' bedrooms and they'll conclude we are much too primitive for their liking.

Either way, I told my husband I can't be involved in the handling of this situation, and that whatever he decides, he'd better not talk too loudly about it or they will probably hear him and mount an offensive.

p.s.  Two more things: I don't personally think Richard Gere is incredibly foxy, by the way. That's just how I always hear him described.  Unfortunately for me, all you have to do is use the words incredibly foxy to describe a man and I'm pretty sure I won't be interested.

Secondly, when I said: Do you want to hear one more potentially disturbing thing before I go?  

I probably shouldn't have used the word potentially, right?  I probably should have gone with egregiously.

Wishing you a lovely weekend. xo 

over a gloomy weekend

Instant little sisters!  

We find them in the garden when it rains, beneath the mushrooms.

Other discoveries, though delightful, must stay outside.

The girls persist in making sugar cookies.

So I am stuck eating those.

This time, however, I supervised the concoction of the icing.  I like my icing to be prim, modest, and demure.  

But just my icing.  Nothing else.

The application of sprinkles, as it happened, went unchecked.  

So much for modesty.

A spooky run.  The Dementors were breeding and one tried to kiss me so I conjured up my Patronus, which is a tiny talking turtle.  

They gobbled him like he was a brussel sprout.

Note to self:  next time, conjure a bigger Patronus.

A blue girl, perfect for this weather.

A frail invalid, also perfect for this weather, though I wish she felt better.

We are reading Varjak Paw, by the way...someone here recommended this book and Caroline is exceedingly grateful!

A visit with a favorite auntie who radiates goodness and love.

And a coat I rarely have the nerve to pull off in public.  But I wear it around the house and ask the girls to call me Miss Havisham.  

No one does, though.

No one ever does.

blogging with a text to my head

A recent text from my little brother, Jonny:

Why are you at lunch instead of at home updating your blog?  You have your fans to consider, you know. We made you what you are, and we can take it away.

 

This from the kid I took a charging cow to the gut for when he failed to heed my warning to stay away from her calf.

 

(I subscribe to the notion once you save a person's life you should never let him forget it...especially when he threat-texts you to update your blog.)

 

Hey Jonny: I wasn't even at lunch.  I was home playing scullery maid. Franchement.  I'm waiting until you come visit so we can eat this town out of miso ramen!

.

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Has it really been ages since I last touched down at Tollipop?  Is my cranberry chutney already yesterday's news?  Because I had to take out ten whole cloves to make it and now I'm in the witness protection program, dear reader, waiting for my car to blow up.

 

Only a fool would crush ten whole cloves with the flat of her blade and not expect major repercussions.   And it's not like I can count on my little brother to save me, franchement.  It's more like he's on their side.

.

Anyway, beyond that, it's pretty much business as usual around these parts.

 

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If you count cellists in cat hats as usual.  Which I do.  I don't even bat an eye.

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Not to mention this fantastic injury I sustained out on a recent trail run.  I know--it's not that impressive from a blood and guts perspective but just consider the artistry!

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Sophie's club volleyball season started this week.  Say good-bye to my creative little papercutter...say hello to my amazon slayer who breathes fire down the nets.

...

And on it goes.  It's that time of year when my friends text me to see if we can carpool to this or that rehearsal/performance/concert and I have no idea what they're talking about.  Terrifying.

 ... 

So, dear Jonny and anyone else who threatens to topple the Tollipop empire if I don't stay two steps ahead of the curve: there could be some irregularities around this joint for the next little while.  It could be I'm hiding in a corner somewhere, or up a tree, hoping the clove mafia and all my uber competent mom friends find someone else to bully and synchronize schedules with.

 

I'm not trying to be a wise guy.  I'm not trying to make waves.

 

Let's everyone just step away from the calendar and breathe...

lately

There's been a great deal of music going on.  Practicing, rehearsals, late night lessons, competitions...

A trip to the petshop after a doctor's appointment.  I offered Sophie a treat and this is what she chose (the trip, not the kitten).

For my part, I looked everywhere for a tiny talking turtle but it was these two who spoke volumes without uttering a word.

This is a little game I like to call chase. 

Was I being chased?  Yes.

By the darkness.  

You should have seen me go, dear reader.  No stopping to follow butterflies this time around.  No checking for tadpoles.  No contemplative moods.  I ran as if the raw, bleak fingers of night were reaching for my neck--reaching, scratching, not quite able to grab hold.  I ran ahead of the shadows lapping at my heels with cold, sandpaper tongues. I flew over rocks, brambles, and thorns. I stumbled and fell.  I lost my already tenuous grasp on reality, letting terror come for me like a pack of wolves.  I heard a sound from deep within rise up like a child's cry and still I ran on.

Mind you, I did stop briefly to take this picture.

This one, too.  

But after that I ran with the speed and desperation of a wild-eyed rabbit.

This game is called scullery maid.

It's fun to play when you are having lots of friends over for dinner.

Never underestimate the power of scullery maid to transform an otherwise mundane task into a deliciously tragic one of epic proportion. 

I made this scullery maid set the table.  The only problem is she likes setting the table.  She simply adores it. 

Which completely ruins the game of scullery maid! 

Oh well.  There are plenty of instances wherein she plays a perfect game of scullery maid.  A breathtakingly perfect game.  

Like when it's time to clean her room.  Or clean her room.  

But enough about us, dear reader.  What have you been up to lately?

is anyone in charge around here?

Caroline's record for consecutive bumps with the volleyball: 84

Generally I prefer her to practice outside, darling.  But I'm not the sort of glittering socialite who cares a ton, one way or the other.  I'm more intrigued she locked onto the sport in the first place.  Six months ago she groaned at the thought of entering a gym (and when she did, she came armed with a stack of Nancy Drews). Now she insists on attending all Sophie's games and follows the action like an entrenched bookie.  

But she also adores her cello.  And baking, reading, writing, drawing, plus all things French.  

Basically that girl is setting herself up for a very interesting life.  

I went for a run this morning.  You know, the desert really is glorious.  Maybe it's cool and distant, maybe it's deep and unfathomable, but the desert is also humming with an energy which makes me bound around in it like a sloppy puppy with enough adoration for the two of us.

The cairns continue to come and go.  Some of the best ones are suddenly missing.  Some are still there. The ancient Norseman, if he really exists, must struggle between his poet's soul and his natural inclination to plunder the coastline.

You can't tell me there isn't at least a little magic out in the middle of nowhere.

When I reach this place along the trail, I always think the figure off to the right is an owl sitting on a cactus stump.  

It's actually just a cactus stump.  

But each time I pass by, for at least three seconds, the owl seems a very real possibility.

what kind of bird are you?

Autumn in the desert is like everything else in the desert: sparse, subtle, spare.

Still, there is a way to love it and here's my secret: be cool.

Just be cool, dear reader.  What's the big deal?  

Just, like, wear skinny jeans and an ironic tshirt...but not on purpose.  Don't let your face register emotion under any circumstances, even during a bear attack. When you see a friend, nod imperceptibly.  Perceptible nods are so eager.  So uncool.  If someone bursts into the room, screaming: Anthropologie is going out of business and everything's on sale!, don't break a sweat.  Don't show how much you want it.  

That would be uncool.

Once you have this down, you and the desert are going to get along just fine.

No one will even know you're friends.

If you'd like things to be more obvious, if you want things to be more rich, exuberant, excessive, abundant, and vivid...you know where you can go to get it.

But don't expect it to be any more breathtaking than this.

This is autumn in the desert, dear reader.  

Did you see it?  Did you nod imperceptibly?

Of course, I don't nod imperceptibly.  No way.  I could never be that cool!  

Darling, when I said be cool, I wasn't talking about me.  I was talking about you!  You do it.  You wear the skinny jeans.  I'm past hope.  If someone bursts into the room, screaming: Anthropologie is going out of business and everything's on sale!, I will register emotion.  

I will break a sweat.   

There's nothing subtle about me and the desert, dear reader.  Not even close.  I bound around in it like a freshman with a crush on the most popular boy at school.  Is it painful to witness the adoration written all over my face while he hangs out with his friends, never once looking in my direction?

Who's to say?  Who's to question the balance of such things? 

All I know is someone has to do it.  Someone has to be cool.   

Otherwise, what would happen to all the ironic tshirts no one wears on purpose??

getting my wilderness on

Dear reader, society dictates I must conduct myself with a certain degree of civility. I smile and exchange pleasantries. I fold laundry, moisturize, and return library books (except for this one time when it was a really good book). I brush my teeth, stop at red lights, wait my turn, talk about the weather.  I sit in music recitals and clap when the time is right.  I attend church, place my napkin in my lap, and lock the doors at night.

For the most part I feel it.  Sometimes I phone it in, but generally it's for real.  

But I also feel this: my wild side. 

Do you have a place you can go to be wild and free?

For me it can be almost any place, but the desert is best of all.  Sometimes I feel a million miles away out there, it is so vast.  I close my eyes and tilt my face to the sun.  I stretch.  I breathe.  I take a few steps.  My head is feeling better already.  

This morning I found a little green bug.  He was hiding in a cloudburst of yellow wildflowers and I decided I couldn't affort another fiasco like the recent missed opportunity of catching the midnight blue bee, so I plucked him off his bloom and deposited him in my skirt pocket.  I cringed for the next forty minutes, picturing him bouncing around in my spandex, but I was still so chagrined about not catching that bee.

The tadpoles continue to hang out at the creek--a tight knit group of like, four. I can't tell if they're growing or what, they seem to be in no rush.  I'm beginning to suspect some degree of juvenile delinquency there.  

And the butterflies!  I ran through a cloud of Painted Ladies and thought I was in fairy land.  

The cairns are as strange and mesmerizing as ever.  They are always changing, making my path both familiar and filled with discovery at once.  They appear and disappear, arrange and rearrange.  Do you believe in the ancient Norseman, dear reader?  Do such things make you wonder?

As my run drew to a close, I noticed a bird of prey circling overhead.  He was so close I could see the dark and tawny markings of his wing feathers.  His scream pierced the air and I stiffened.  Was he a trained falcon from the Middle Ages, warning me of danger ahead?  I held out my arm like a waiter in case this was the luckiest day of my life, but no dice.

He wasn't buying it.

When I got back to my car, I grabbed my camera and fished the bug from my pocket.  He was remarkably chipper considering his ordeal, though not about to exchange best friend lockets with me anytime soon. Still, he graciously posed for these pictures and I marveled at his coloring and wished I could keep him.

But he's a wild thing at heart and there's no changing that. 

Nor should one try.

There's only acceptance and fitting moments of civility in between.