Riding the Bike with One Pedal.

Category: love (Page 4 of 4)

The Poetry in My Soul

I was driving to work today, and the new Snow Patrol song came on; the thing about Snow Patrol, and Death Cab for Cutie, is that I love their music. But, as we all do, we get associations with sounds, smells, that weave into our memories and like a single strand of thread, can jerk us back in time to a completely different place. Even when new music comes out from that band, that sound, the essence that defines a group that’s played together so long, it’s evocative. When other elements combine on top of that single thread, the tug is greater, you can leave your shoes behind it happens so fast, so strong, as you are transported.

Today is a grey, rainy day. It’s chilly, and it’s keep-your-head-down sort of weather.  There’s only flatness in the sky, like a drop-ceiling in a basement;  perspective and instincts for the time of day are removed. When I heard the chords of that song, I suddenly saw myself in the passenger seat, on that long drive north, the day my father died. There wasn’t anything we could say anymore and we both put our headphones on, content in our solitude.  The sky was grey. Flat. A different season, but the same sky. I dreaded every minute that passed because it was bringing me closer to a certainty I could not accept. I savored every minute because each second that passed allowed me to remain insulated, in that place where Denial sits on the couch next to you & whispers false hope, while you nod and try to convince yourself as well.  Distracting you from the door you must enter when all those collected minutes have passed and the time is now.

The largest piece of solace in that day was the fierceness in my husband, focused and doing the only thing he could do. It is part of that memory fabric, and one I’m grateful to have.  As I crested the hill on my commute this morning, tears welled in my eyes, as I felt my love for him explode through my heart like a thousand sharp diamonds, white and perfectly clear, catching and casting the light in countless fragments. Since there was no light to catch, flat greyness overhead, the light could only be coming from within.  It astounds me how we can measure so many things, weight, space and size, yet there can be such infiniteness of space and depth in our emotions.  My words feel clumsy, blunt butter knives trying to carve elaborate chiaroscuro landscapes in sand.

Apricot Tart with a Mascarpone Cheesecake filling Glazed with a Raspberry Sauce.

That’s totally what I would make for my “Make-My-Head-Explode-With-Rage” pie, in the spirit of the utterly charming movie, “Waitress“. I don’t even know if it exists, but after the day I’ve had, I was about to lose my shit all over the Costco parking lot. And then? I decided to think about pies. And what I would make, if I were going to theme my day. It really does diffuse some of the stress! And makes ya hungry, to boot.

Fortunately, I’d picked up a nice big bag of shrimp, and the Wo turned it into delicious scampi. We had that with some salad & a baked potato, all of which he fixed.   After we exchanged twenty minutes of sharp political banter, in which we both just decided to scream at each other the worst things about each other’s party we could.  All on the heels of declaring our unconditional love for one another, so, no worries, we couldn’t be happier. Well, we could be a little less maddened by each other’s beliefs. But it doesn’t touch our love, thankfully! Two minutes of balls-out yelling is cathartic: I’m a tax-loving liberal who wants to hand all the money to no-good deadbeats who’ve done nothing to deserve it; he’s a fascist capitalist who rewards businesses who don’t need more money with more tax breaks and leaves everyone who’s not rich out in the cold. Oh, and yeah, I’m a baby-killer.  But so is he. Now that’s a fuckin’ pie.

Random ORTS!

Boy, it’s been a long time since I’ve done some Random Orts. I have so many blog posts in my head, including the fact I completely ignored my Alphabet Soup Project immediately after starting it, but I think I’m going to shake off the smaller ones into a nice compact post and then maybe there will be enough space and room to let the other notions become full-fledged, viable posts.

1. Redonkulous travel observation, which was already made by someone else, somewhere, but when I read it, I was all, YEE-HAW and can I get an A-MEN?!  Women’s restroom stall doors opening inward …at the freakin’ airport.  I can see it being a-ok if it’s just you and your purse, but really? I have a fantastic piece of luggage (lemme give it it’s own Ort) and even the ease of travel with it is precluded by inward-opening doors. You have to somehow get all of you and your stuff into the stall – with extra clearance, unless you’re comfortable like that, not shutting the door. Speaking of which, my apologies again to the nameless, yet very surprised woman at O’Hare who had not locked her door on the handicapped stall, leading me to believe it was the only one available, and I swear, I was as surprised as you.

I’ve often thought it would be hilarious to just keep on going in. There’s room for two in those stalls. Don’t mind if I wait, do you? I’ll just park my luggage by yours, it’s so much easier to navigate in these, don’t you think?

2. My luggage. I put a lot of consideration into buying this item, because I knew I would be traveling a little bit, and I was replacing my previous small carry-on rolling suitcase, as this is a favorite item for burglars to steal. Because they load all your shit into suitcases & trot them out to their panel van. Burglars rarely seem to go around with Envirosaks, but maybe with the new efforts to Green Up, they, too, care about the earth.  In any event, both times I’ve been burgled, there went my suitcases, as well. So I didn’t want to muck around this time, and now that I have a very good alarm system, I was also prepared to spend a little more money, and get a Spinner-style suitcase. What this means is, no matter what direction you pull your suitcase, it will go. Unlike in-line wheels, which only go forwards and backwards.  I ultimately got this Heys carry-on, in bright turquoise, and I bought it at Overstock.com.  People on Overstock seemed to be mixed on their reviews, but I really like it. So I just wrote my review to offset the haters. It’s the perfect size for 1-2 days and it’s lightweight, rolls anywhere you want it to go, and -let’s face it – the bright color is fun.  The key though, is spinner wheels. And Costco sells the completer set, should we ever leave home on vacation ever again, ever. (Can you tell I kinda need a vacation?)  I think bright orange would suit the NuWos just fine!

3. Cooking with Suba. God love her, but my former co-worker Suba is Hindu, so I should probably find out the proper deity to whom I should sing her praises.  They have a lot. I don’t have that kind of dedication. So I’ll just sing her praises in general, to the almighty Internet, because she is fab-u-lous. And so enthusiastic about food and cooking. A designer by trade, Suba also designed her home, which is airy, open, clean, and as uncluttered as it could possibly get. Needless to say, I felt very, very bad about myself the entire time I stood in her kitchen.  But I worked through my shame, and still enjoyed myself immensely. We learned how to make Yogurt-Curry Chicken with Mango-Mint Chutney and Basil-Chocolate ice cream for dessert. Dayum. It was delicious, and it was good for me to stretch my wings beyond my tried-and-true Thai cooking. (Even though I’d kill, keel, keel and jump up and down shouting, “Keel! KEEL!” if I could learn how to properly make some of the salad dressings and sauces served by my favorite Thai restaurants.) I’m taking her class next month as well, just to keep the branching-out going. You can actually see photos of what we did over at her blog – check it out! And try not to drool. I’ve got a little puddle of saliva in my mouth, just remembering it all.

4. Alphabet Soup. Remember? I said I’d list five words a week that described me, and all I got through was …the letter “A”. Story of my life.  Let’s cram some in so I’m not quite so far behind. I’ve been traveling! (Can you hear the whine that just crept in there? I can.)  Bombastic, Bullish, Brainy, Big, Brave. Crabby, Condescending, Crafty (both ways), Crazy, Caring. Dramatic, Diva, Devoted, Driven, Difficult.  Entertaining, Exuberant, Ehhhh, that’s all I’ve got in me today. I owe ya three more “E’s”.

5. Knitting. I have to do more knitting. I have so many projects swirling around me, with more ideas coming each day, that I must give up some of the Packratting and Plurking and surfing and stick to my knitting! And tomato harvesting. That needs to happen, too.

6. OH Tomato Harvesting! Let me tell you, the fruit & vegetable strainer attachment for the KitchenAid mixer is heaven-sent. In previous years, we’ve used this little red jobber I bought for $20 at Williams-Sonoma, and you crank it and it suctions to the counter, until it decides to not suction and you flail wildly while tomato chunks threaten to fall all around you to the floor.  However, you cannot find this attachment anywhere in town, unless your town is called “New York City” or “Los Angeles” or maybe “Chicago.” I called all over the place, and finally gave up and bought it from Amazon. It arrived quickly and we churned out a lot of sauce. With probably another batch on the horizon.  I love my KitchenAid mixer, and yes, I’m in the Facebook group which is aptly titled, “I Love My KitchenAid Mixer!”. We are 261 strong, and one of the moderators IS a stand mixer. I’m sure it’s code for their PR person or something, but I appreciate the humor in that.

7. I am also a fan of Consumer Reports on Facebook. When we won the account, I immediately checked, and they didn’t have a FB page yet. I thought it would be a little presumptuous of me to create a page for them. Hi! I’m your #1 SuperFAN and I’m a little enthusiastic.  Do you mind if I sleep on your floor? Actually, that’s what I associate with the ultimate in self-loathing – a friend of a friend had hooked up with this guy (this all the way back in Minneapolis) and he “had to go to work the next day” so she couldn’t actually SLEEP in the bed with him (after he’d gotten what he needed.) So rather than leave, go home, and reconsider one’s choices in life, she asked him if she could at least sleep on the floor BY his bed.  Gah. Still gives me the creepy-crawlies to imagine feeling that desolate inside.

OK, that was not a particularly uplifting note to end on. Suffice it to say, I am brand-happy, slappy-pappy, and things are good-busy, but sometimes a little too busy. I need more sleep, I need less clutter, I need more knitting, and I’m doing ok with laughter.  I was thinking today, after seeing someone Plurk about how her new boyfriend has already told her “I love you”, but she’s not there yet, what that moment was like for me. And I still remember it, vividly, the first time JWo told me he loved me. But what I really see, as I look back and reflect, is how ten years ago (and it’s been just over ten years), I had no idea what love was when I hold it up to what our love IS. Fresh chipper new love is grand, it’s an Asti Spumante high, frothing with potential and the moment. But enduring love is…. so multifaceted. Sweet, with some tang and full and strong. It’s the reason I don’t want to polish my wedding band. I like the small lines all over it. I’ve worn this band five years, and a lot has happened in that time. A seriously shitton of happenings. Some of the hardest life experiences, ever.  And I got through those things with him.  I see my existence and endurance in those lines.

Now I just need to have the same approach with my face. I actually bought my first “anti-aging” product last week, mostly by accident, actually. I was at the CVS, chatting on my phone while shopping, and I needed some facial wipes. What can I say. The packaging was pink. I’m never really going to grow up, and that, I firmly believe, is the Serum of Youth.

Oh, Time.

I remember being about 7 or 8, and my father, who never quite grasped the concept of treating me like a child, informed me that one day, indeed, he would die. And in his atheist belief, that upon death, there was nothing more. He would be gone. I felt terror, and it must have been evident on my face, as I cried, and told him I didn’t want him to die, ever, that I didn’t want him to leave me. He was the one who was always there for me, no matter what.

He told me, in a mixture of reassurance and dogged adherence to reality and a promise to never lie to me, that we were all going to die, and he couldn’t change that, but that he would do his best to be around for a long, long time.

I wish it could have been more than 32 years, but I did have those years. The memories of this time, two years ago, flooded me last night, and I felt every last nuance of sadness and pain. I used to relive those moments every night; now I think I’ve learned that I’m not going to actually forget them. They can feel as real and present as if they just happened – the film is etched onto my soul.

But so are the good moments. I’ll never stop loving you, Dad. I miss you from the bottom of my heart and I ache from the pain of missing you, sometimes. But there is balance as time moves on and puts more minutes on the other side of that day, June 10, 2006. And so, I add a new label to all this that I put out there: Moving Forward.

Dad Grins

Safecracker

I have been having a pretty good week. Moments that border on ebullient, actually. The weather is bright and sunshiney, and the trees are green, there’s good breezes blowing, and nothing earth-shattering or negative is forcing my universe to center around it.

Driving home last night, listening to the news, I had a new experience in the coping department. I explained it later to my husband like this.

In the beginning of grief, it’s as though you have a thousand sheets of paper dumped all around you, and there is chaos. Everything is laid out and unorganized. Slowly, you start to shuffle and order and find a folder or three, maybe a box, and you put some of the papers away. A gust of wind can scatter them again, but you are moving ahead. More time passes, and you realize you’re never going to get rid of all these pieces of paper, but you do have a system and method and some of the more unmanageable papers are tightly tucked away inside a nice heavy safe. By this I mean, “songs on the radio don’t make me burst into tears every day.” In other words, progress.

So as I’m listening, a report comes on about Ted Kennedy’s brain cancer/tumor. I was shocked, but didn’t really feel anything, initially. Until the doctor they interviewed started explaining his type of cancer, and that it wasn’t metastatic. Click. My father’s cancer had metastasized throughout his body, including his brain.
The approach to treatment was described. Click. I heard my father’s voice, so small, trying to control himself and be strong, telling me the cancer had, indeed, gone to his brain.
I heard the doctor from the Mayo clinic say, “You do realize there’s nothing I can do for your father, right?” and remembered the utter confusion in my mind, because no, I did not understand that. Spin, Spin, Click.
And I looked around and saw a bright blue sky, sharp, fresh green leaves bursting from the trees, smelled fresh cut grass and remembered that day, when I found out the cancer was in his brain, how I screamed at a co-worker and drove myself home, to sit outside in the blinding sunshine and sob, confused and afraid. Seeing my husband’s face unexpectedly appear, for of course he would come home to be with me, even though it never occurred to me he would.

And the safe door swung open to pour those tucked-away papers all over my lap. All of this, that’s taken several minutes to write, happened in the span of 60 seconds or less. I found myself with tears streaming down my face, struggling to regain my previous optimistic demeanor, and to maintain control, because I was driving. I wasn’t crying for the Kennedys, though I keenly know how hard it must be for them. I cried for myself. My loss. My pain. It was brief, and I went home to get a big hug and to putter with my husband in his garden, to pull some weeds and admire the drip irrigation system he’s worked so hard on. Life goes on. My desire – almost two years ago – was to get THROUGH all of this. What I didn’t know, and couldn’t fathom, is that there is no end point. This will stay with me until I die. In ebbs and flows, my love and sadness will visit me, sometimes expectedly, sometimes out of the bright blue spring sky.

Nobody lied when they said time was the answer. So hard to see in those early months, but it truly truly does heal. Heal, not cure. Sigh. I’m learning so so much.

Happy Five Years!

Five years ago today, the Wo & I got married. Nine years ago today, we met for the first time.

We’ve had a lot happen in our lives, especially in the last few years. I can’t imagine the journey without him. He’s my rock, my rudder, my fellow clown, the one person I’ll allow to know me inside and out most fully.

I love you, JWo!

Knits! Life! Thanks!

I have a couple finished objects…..

The Emperor’s New Scarf (pattern by Lucy Neatby) is done! My gnome approves.

Cozy Gnome

I’m teaching this as a class at The Studio in August! I’m also teaching a class uh, next week, so I have to get that store sample done, pronto! (It’s a bath cloth, short rows, and it’s half done – in linen, one size zeros…)

I also finished my Opal Flamingo socks, and my gnome REALLY liked these:

Gnome in Disguise

We went out to the Stitch-N-Pitch on Sunday and had a great time. Sunburns for everyone, a big win for the team, and I’m actually going back out to the stadium tonight! I’ll probably be even sweatier. Yay!
Me taking a self-portrait/inclusive pic:
Kansas City Stitch-N-Pitch

Kyra, Beth, Jimmi, Lissa (in the row behind leaning forward):

Kansas City Stitch-N-Pitch

Kristin & Justin:

Kansas City Stitch-N-Pitch

We all had names on our sleeves, and numbers on our backs (I was “11”, because THIS knitter goes to ELEVEN! – just like my old blog tagline, all of which was, of course, in homage to Spinal Tap.) You will not be surprised to see my knitname:

Kansas City Stitch-N-Pitch

I figure after some of the stupid drama in our knitting group, it was perfect.

Thanks to everyone for the comments, well-wishes & thoughts sent my way, especially this week. My dad would be amazed at the number of great, caring people I have in my life. And a little thankful, I think, that his only child didn’t end up all alone in the big world. The day before he died, just hours before I got the phone call, telling me to come home, hearing the last words he truly spoke to me, I wrote this post. I still remember the feeling inside, of crumpling, falling finally underneath it all – even before the phone rang. And you? You were there. You came through. You helped. And you haven’t left me. Thank you again. I found this post because I wanted to find the words I couldn’t remember, the poem about hope. If you don’t click through, here are those beautiful words, one more time.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all.
— Emily Dickinson

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