You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘gratitute’ tag.
It should be easy to write on days when my designated topic is obvious. Yet the contrary appears to be true, especially with a full tummy and tryptophan brain.
There’s a bizarre squeaking noise coming through the floor. Maybe I ought to blog about that instead of gratitude?
Today is Thanksgiving, or Turkey Day as some (rather annoyingly) like to call it. I always enjoy the holiday a reasonable amount, although I also consider every day a day to give thanks. Still, it’s lovely to take time out together to show gratitude for what we’re thankful–and consume mass quantities of glorious food! (If “Turkey Day” is the equivalent of “x-mas”, food is equivalent to presents in holiday meanings’ misinterpretations).
For some years now my parents have been invited over to a good friend’s house to spend the holiday, since all of our extended family lives elsewhere; and for the past two I’ve had the privilege of going with them. At Terry and Happ’s we are spoiled with exquisite versions of traditional favorites, always including hors de vours to satisfy a king, stuffing to die for and three kinds of cranberry sauce (authentic, canned and DELICIOUS mixed with creaminess and pretzels). Terry spends a great deal of time on every tiny detail and the result is a spectacular spread with a beautifully decorated table to lay it down upon. Then a group of loving, happy, warmhearted people converge around it and we dine graciously together.
At this particular Thanksgiving celebration there is an added tradition of playing a game. Usually it’s Cranium, but tonight we took a stab at Mad Gab, a game in which players read nonsense sentences that eventually sound enough like common catchphrases that other players are able to guess them.
The game playing is always a highlight, especially, it seems, for the women. Every year we split into male vs. female teams, and every year the game persists with the women shrieking in unison, laughing uproariously and clutching one another, while the men mostly sit and watch the women, semi-amused.
Could this have something to do with freedom of expression in sexual stereotypes? Or female bonding being more easily faciliated? Do women just care more about winning silly board games?
I’m not sure of the cause of the phenomenon. I do know that every time we play I have great fun and laugh my flippen fanny off (and hopefully two pieces of pie). It is downright delightful and tonight I am thankful for that.
Grace
Thanks & blessings be
to the Sun & the Earth
for this bread & this wine,
this fruit, this meat, this salt,
this food;
thanks be & blessing to them
who prepare it, who serve it;
thanks & blessings to them
who share it
(& also the absent & the dead).
Thanks & Blessing to them who bring it
(may they not want),
to them who plant & tend it,
harvest & gather it
(may they not want);
thanks & blessing to them who work
& blessing to them who cannot;
may they not want – for their hunger
sours the wine & robs
the taste from the salt.
Thanks be for the sustenance & strength
for our dance & work of justice, of peace.
—-Rafael Jesus Gonzalez
Joe and I had a fabulous time dancing in Ashland again last night! Things went much more smoothly than before, as we worked it on the floor both together and separately.
If I am still going to parallel such experiences with movies about dancing, last night’s events would have comprised the lovely montage midway through where the female lead finally begins to show signs of significant improvement! Joe commented that I was “at least twice as good as last time,” (adding that I seemed to have gotten over my nagging neuroses about the beat) and a stranger walked up and complimented my moves! No matter that at first I thought he was asking me to dance and so responded, “Sure! I’d love . . .” and then, “. . . er, thank you!” So much for suave.
Anyway, what I actually intended to write about was seeing This is It with my pops this evening. After the most glorious of Sundays–packed full of lounging around in front of the fire first with a cup o’ joe (no pun), next a guitar and eventually a blanket as I cat-napped, followed by the most peaceful venture to Shastice park with Savannah–Dad offered to take me out for a brewski and dinner at the Goat and then to see the recent tribute to Michael Jackson.
I’m a little intimidated at the prospect of trying to write sensitively and eloquently about the film. So, I’ll try to settle back to my heart point at Four, where our tragic and remarkable musical hero M.J. almost certainly lived, and just let it flow. . .
Although I was running on very few hours of sleep, I was mesmerized by the movie as Dad (watching for his second time) said I would be. With my current passion for dance, what I found catching my eye consistently were technicalities like Michael’s impeccable turns. The way that man could spin on a dime and come back to the exact same millimeter of space in a second is astounding. I aspire to do the same!
I might say that the breadth of his talent–in addition to its excellence–is what I find most profound about the King of Pop. Watching the movie we get a chance to observe all the other incredibly gifted people who worked alongside him, but their expertise appears limited while Michael’s spreads as wide as the stage he shines on.
Of course, so does the air of tragedy that surrounds him; and an instability I sensed in his character that had nothing to do with the gory details gnashed on by the media. I just felt nervous that Michael might crack each time a request was made of him, despite that he never responded anyway but respectfully.
It all makes me want to hold him, cradle him like the little Earth Girl tenderly does the last flower. I wonder who the last person to do so, to really touch Michael Jackson, could have been? Did the composer of Human Nature ever receive any real human nurture?
My heart also breaks for everyone involved in the production of what would have been a pinnacle tour, for all the performers who opened the film weeping tears of joy for the opportunity to dance with the living legend.
I suppose that is the mess of life that any good Four will tell you is necessary in order to appreciate the beauty.
I appreciate the beauty of all that Michael Jackson created during his time on this earth–even if he did name one of his children Prince Michael II, a.k.a “Blanket!”
In honor of Michael Jackson, God bless you all.
I’ve been a little preoccupied with my future again as of late. I think it might have something to do with being so energetic and happy most of the time these days and wanting to hold onto that.
Beware attachment! My Buddhist training warns. I heed it. . .
I also hear the resounding bells of discovering several of my passions over the last few months. Along with them is an urge I’m not used to, to go deeper into some things rather than skimming lightly across their surfaces.
The clock reads 5:55 as I type. For the past few weeks I’ve noticed repeating 5′s on a daily basis. Call me cuckoo, but I take the clock as a sign that there is truth in what I’m writing.
Until recently, I pretty fully embodied the tendency of Twos and Sevens to jump from one topic, experience, or area of focus to another, without really delving into any of them. Both enneatypes like the freshness of newness and fairly dislike the tedium and strain of sticking with what’s familiar.
The tendency, like any, has both positive and negative sides. For me, the positive side of skipping rocks has been that I have been exposed to a variety of people, places and things; I have a plethora of experiences under my belt to make myself and my life more interesting. Further, all my skimming has helped me decide which oceans I don’t need to cross . . . as well as, I suppose, which ones I do.
This is the hard part. Although I say I’m feeling the urge to go deeper, as I contemplate what step to take next into my future, I am made to recognize the way I’ve been fly fishing all over this great big world and that it might not be easy to stop. It feels like each time I verge on making a decision and beginning to let that lure sink, I change my mind.
I’m lucky to believe it’s all part of the [perfect] process. Even though over the course of the last two years I have had enough extravagant ideas to write a million blogs, I really have been narrowing the scope and becoming less interested in trying to see and study it all.
Now, I’m paying attention to the places in my life where the passion flows upward. I’m beginning to recognize my personal Old Faithfuls–spirituality, dance, guitar, singing, writing, language, laughing, friends and family–as well as the fact that they can only shower me with their joyous flows as long as I’m standing beneath them and not running amuck somewhere else.
Although I could probably dance beneath them too, because there’s always a little wiggle room!
Halloween turned out to be great fun, of course–although I did end up sneaking away to the privacy of my parents’ home to avoid the trick or treaters I wasn’t prepared for.
At around 8 o’clock my friend Natalie came over to curl my hair and help me take the final step into becoming Curly Top (no one recognized me in anyway and one person’s response to my ‘costume’ was, “You just look like a cuter version of Tessa.” Way to go, me!). Two hours, many ringlets and a cardboard lollypop later, Space Cat and Curly Top exited the premises. Destination: the Wayside Bar and Grill.
At the Wayside I enjoyed one Maker’s Mark whiskey on the rocks (Natalie’s choice) and a good six shimmying songs on the dance floor. I’ve noticed that salsa seems to flavor all my steps these days. I’d probably sway my hips all over the place even to electronica. But despite my ability to tune out leering goblins and other less creatively dressed men and to season hip hop with salsa, the party was not the fun filled environment I had been hoping for.
So, I ventured on to a party at the Coopers. The Coopers are a family of about eight children. Sophie, Chloe, CeeCee, Will, younger boy whose name I can’t remember–that’s five and I know I’m forgetting a few . . . Anyway, they’re a very eclectic and conscious crowd with an amazing old house right downtown (and directly across the street from Berryvale, as a matter of fact); and their party was the talk of the town.
And with good reason. The Coopers had held a decorating party on Thursday evening during which what was most likely a den area had been transformed into a strobe-lit, cobwebed cocktail lounge. When I arrived, a group of people stood chatting out in the cool autumn air and absorbing the glow of the fire from the pit nearby. Inside, a bar, snack tables and couches framed a dance floor pulsating with the beats of one of two hired DJs. I was first greeted with the festive scene, then by the shocked faces of three old friends.
I don’t fully understand the charade, but whenever a certain group of friends from high school and I reunite, there is a whole lot of show and surprise. Then, of course, the hugging. Oh. And for the record, these are male friends.
After allowing an appropriate period of time for reconciliation, I worked my way onto the dance floor and slid right into the groove. The boys danced along with and without me. Everyone seemed to be having a smashing good time.
I stayed until just before 3 a.m., when one friend, Clifford asked for a ride home. Seeing his tired eyes and watching him wilt before me, I gave Cliff the ride gladly, grateful for a chance to put my most recent EnneaThought for the Day into action: Today, try this recommendation: If you develop your great capacity to care about others, you will never go far wrong—in fact, you will do a great deal of good in life.
On our way to his house, the topic of music came up. “Do you play the guitar?” Cliff asked me.
“Yeah! I can actually say now that, yes, I do.” I smiled.
“Me too!” said Cliff with enthusiasm. He proceeded to tell me about a song he had written for his mom for Mother’s Day, then asked if I wanted to come inside and hear it.
For any of you who are thinking, “There she is again in the middle of the night with a strange man who is about to get her all alone inside his empty house!” (or bus, as the case may be), it wasn’t like that. I promise.
We went inside and he shared his song and I shared my songs and he shared another one and I shared my blog. And it was there that I got the idea for this post, which it has taken all this time to really get to . . . :
I’ve been noticing that the more I open up my gifts to the world–music, writing, laughter, love–the more other people respond by opening theirs. In the past year I have been privileged enough to hear numerous original songs–some debuts to the audience of one, see countless works of original art, be danced all across smooth floors and be graced by conversation after conversation steeped in original thought.
People are so cool when you open up and get to know them. And I think it’s in doing both–the opening and the getting . . . –that the true riches spill forth.
Blessings and Thank You’s all around. Peace, ya’ll.
Deep breath.
I think everything good starts and ends and exists within a breath.
“As long as you’re breathing, there is more right with you than wrong.”
That’s a quote from the guided meditation c.d. that accompanies The Mindful Way Through Depression: Freeing Yourself from Chronic Unhappiness, a book co-authored by John Kabat Zinn and others.
I found both the book and c.d. hugely helpful last June when I was fresh off of antidepressants and struggling a bit with franticness and fear. Listening to the c.d. is good when all you want to do is lie in the fetal position. You can still breath there, and that’s all we ever absolutely need to do.
Of the two of us, my brother bears the bigger burden of depression. I can pinpoint a few years of my life when I experienced prolonged phases of despair, but it hasn’t been my norm. Ty has had to work a lot harder for happy.
I didn’t expect to write about this today . . . you never know what might come up while you’re breathing . . .
We spoke today and he told me this weekend was one of the hardest he has ever experienced. He’s doing better though, taking good care of himself in every way he knows how.
As for the rest of us, the many, many people who love and have been touched by Tyler. . . I think the best we can do is send an outpouring of love his way and stay attentive to timing. It’s a big temptation to jump right in and try to be Ms. Fixit right away. Especially as an ET2, I often feel like I have the perfect suggestion for anyone hurting. Sometimes I’m on the right track and what I have to say might be of great benefit; but unless the moment is right, I promise you that perfect suggestion will fall on deaf ears.
As Ty told me about all the steps he’s been taking to stay strong–no caffeine, no alcohol, exercise consistently, meditate daily, and others–I did feel compelled to remind him go easy on himself when he skips a morning meditation or misses a dose of fish oil. I wrote a little bit about my experience of overdoing in an early post, Human Doings, inspired by talking with my brother the same day.
The post begins with a poem; the first line of which is, “You don’t have to be good.”
I don’t want you to be good, Ty. I just want you to be.
* * *
One of my favorite feel-better-even-while-you-cry songs came on as I typed this post, right after Billy Joel’s “Sadness and Euphoria” and in time with me typing the words, “you never know what might come up while you’re breathing.” It’s “Heart of Life” by John Mayer and it goes like this (<—–click there to listen, Mom!):
I hate to see you cry,
lying there in that position.
There are things you need to hear,
so turn off your tears and listen:
Pain throws your heart to the ground
Love turns the whole thing around.
No, it won’t all go away, it should.
But I know the heart of life is good.
I dedicate this post to you, brother. And even though John Mayer says, “turn off your tears,” I say, just keep being you, however you may be. We’ll love you no matter what that looks like. Love and hugs, your Seester.
27 October 2009; 9 p.m.
Helloo-oo everybody. I am without internet again. It’s bazaar how much it affects my blogging when I know you all won’t be reading my post within minutes. For all my talk yesterday about writing for myself, I sure derive a lot of inspiration from the prospect of posting the latest happenings for the world to see immediately. Something to do with instant gratification, I guess.
This evening’s latest is that I’ve stayed up well past the witching hour for the last four consecutive nights and my eyes are burning from lack of sleep. My mind is also moving muchhh slowwwer, so I can only hope this post will be coherent (there’s the upside to no internet! I’ll get to proof and post this tomorrow when I can think straight again).
I’ve only had this little sleep and stayed this positive a few other times in my life. One in particular comes to mind. It’s also relevant to my doings as of late, because it involves salsa dancing and sultry latin men 
At the ripe young age of 18, my dad gifted me with an opportunity to go to Cozumel, a small and spectacular island just a boat ride away from Cancun. He came along, as did Mom for the second portion of our ten day trip; and my fabulous friend Nichole met us there as well. Not your typical 18 year old circumstance for letting loose in Mexico, but I still managed to have a smashing good time . . .
We stayed at a small bed & breakfast (or is it “cama y desayuna”. . .) located closer to the center of town than the majority of touristed hotels on the main strip. The personality of the American woman running the B&B left something to be desired, but beyond that, Amigos was a perfect accommodation for us: comfortable, practical and magical.
People living in Mexico don’t necessarily place much emphasis on curb appeal, but often what you find once you’re off the streets is a pleasant surprise. Amigos B&B is no exception. Entering the luscious grounds requires unlocking an enormous squeaking gate with a clumsy key. Once within the courtyard, the sweet scent of hibiscus fills the air, and fresh mangos, papayas and starfruit color the soft, moist ground. We ate these fresh fruits each morning for breakfast when, no matter how early we rose, the humidity already covered the skin like a warm washcloth.
After breakfast, most days we would spent hours snorkeling in some of the clearest, bluest, most colorfully populated waters in the world. We even went for a recreational scuba dive, “recreational” being an option for anyone not scuba certified that wants to sink just up to 50 feet below the smooth surface of the sea. But whilst the mornings and afternoons were lusciously relaxing, it was the nights in Cozumel I ended up living for.
There are two clubs, Carlos & Charlie’s and Senor Frog’s, on the oceanfront of Cozumel that cater directly to people coming in off of cruise ships, These chain establishments are as unoriginal as the premise they operate on: to give mostly American tourists the time of their lives while leaving them under the impression they are truly experiencing Mexico. Yet even as I am turning my nose up at them, I was beyond delighted by repeated opportunities to jive in a crowd of, yes, tourists, but also local foxes prowling the dance floors.
I’ll tell you that it didn’t take much of being bumped and grinded by stumbling vacationers to realize that engaging the foxy locals was the better way to have a good time. These men had moves, patience and an affinity for American women.
On the second night out with Nichole, one particular fox caught my eye, then my hand. He wasn’t particularly a physical Don Juan, but he was a real live Latin dancer with the patience to lead me and teach me the subtleties of the dance. “No, no, no” Antonio would scold with his chin tipped down and his eyes trained on mine, “You must use your salsa eyes!” Then, with a toss of his bleach highlighted blond hair we’d be off again.
Nichole was considerably less enthralled by the scene (apparently, her idea of a good time isn’t dancing in conga lines past men pouring diluted margarita from jugs into open mouths night after night); but my faithful friend still escorted me to Senor Frog’s every single night of her trip. Only once did she fail to follow one my fancies, much to my father’s dismay. After leaving the club at 2 a.m. Nichole returned to the B&B and I opted to ride away with Antonio on his scooter (Dad wasn’t dismayed until 4 a.m. when I eventually returned home). I ended up all alone with Antonio in the painted school bus where he lived, smoking Mexican marijuana and listening to him serenade me on the guitar with his own rendition of Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here.”
I suppose I was lucky nothing terrible happened–especially considering that after spending further benign evenings with seemingly respectful Antonio, he eventually revealed his intention to experience the ease of an American girl like me and yet never really pushed his agenda. But risque as I suppose it all was, I also consider myself incredibly lucky to have had such an experience to enhance and color me and my life; and I don’t regret it! On the night Nichole chose to return to the hotel and I declared I was going off into the wind with my Antonio, I felt like I was on to something. Even though I realized the risks involved to some extent, I wasn’t scared sitting in that strange old bus with a lanky Latino strumming his guitar and trying in vain to help me relax into the rhythm of a coffee can drum he placed in front of me. I was exhilarated!
Alright, maybe you wise ones are thinking I made a series of crazy, stupid decisions (probably because my frontal lobe wasn’t developed. We can use this excuse for at least another 13 months) and should be counting my blessings. I am, honestly! Just for a broader set of reasons. . .
Anyway, the premise of this post was to share a story about staying up even when my physical condition should well have been down which is only be possible because at such times I am led, and fed, by something greater. Man can not live by bread alone!
And as much as I hate to admit it, I don’t think woman can live on only dancing, either. I had better get this body to sleep! Buenas noches.
It has come to my attention that having a focused intention for my blog would behoove us all greatly. Today I’d like to write about just that.
I’ll start at the beginning (even if to say so is redundant). My initial inspiration for starting a blog was both special and rather unoriginal. I decided to treat myself to the luxury of a matinée one late summer afternoon. So I took a quiet walk down to Mt Shasta Cinemas and bought myself a ticket for Julie and Julia.
For the most part, I enjoyed the movie; but there was also this whiney little voice inside of me (probably my ET4 heart point, otherwise known as a “soul child”) that was actually quite jealous of Julie and Julia alike. “Why should Julie get to do what she loves and then have a book published and a bit fat feature film made starring Meryl Streep?” it demanded. “When will I be loved?”
Lurking there, just behind the jealousy and whinging, was also sadness and a feeling of disconnect from my own path. It had been more than a year since graduating from Naropa, yet still I was “transitioning and integrating” (my words, spoken so many times) and not feeling like I had made any real progress. Somehow, watching Julie and Julia up on that screen touched this tender area of my being and as the credits rolled at the end of the film, I stayed in my seat and wept. (I’m laughing now. I knew there was a reason I named this blog Carry Kleenex, Carry On).
As I walked home, the urge to create a blog of my own crept up inside of me and gradually grew. What’s amazing is that it didn’t dwindle. I wrote my first blog within a week of seeing the movie and the love affair hasn’t fizzled yet. Yes, it’s only been a month, but a month is a long time to do something consistently, first of all, and secondly, I’ve heard that it takes 30 days to establish any habit, good or bad. Given that, consider Cocoa (:acronym CKCO shortened and cute-end) established!
When I actually sat down to write my first post, it all seemed to flow naturally. I came up with the topic and title relatively easily, thanks to a little help from my mom. I even think my initial intention was fairly clear from the start, with the original subtitle: An attempt to redirect my musings to an audience that’s interested. (I’ve since altered that heading slightly, changing “attempt” to “intent” because of the importance I believe the concept of intention to bear; I’ll elaborate on both in a minute).
I am a person who analyzes life and my own behavior on a regular basis. While I find such a quality endearing, it’s easy for me to make the leap and realize that such is not likely the case for every person I encounter. But, I thought, there must be somebody out there who would enjoy and perhaps even benefit from hearing my thoughts on life. So I decided to share them, realizing I might also get some of that particular energy out of my system and into an environment where it would at least have the potential to thrive.
My hope was not so much to entertain or enlighten as to simply offer my thoughts and myself and allow them the chance to be received. I also realized, on some level, that by writing things down I would have an opportunity to get to know Tessa better. I don’t know if it sounds weird that I needed to get to know me, but I honestly did and I do . . .
The point is that, yes, I am writing this blog for people to read it; but my primary intention remains to stay focused on Spirit, both mine and the great one and to see what pours forth. This becomes increasingly challenging as hits to the site and comments on it increase–and not just comments, but comments, filled with integrity and heart. Seeing such things makes it really tempting to try and lure more loveliness into the light, but I realize that the reason this whole process is actually working at all is because I’m not doing it for anyone else. I think that’s an important thing to remember for anyone following a passion, that if you’re not doing it to fulfill you, you probably won’t be fulfilled.
In any case, the reason I changed the word “attempt” to “intent” was to further focus the direction of this offering of mine. I believe in the power of the spoken (or in this case, written) word and I felt that by using the word “attempt,” I was weakening my . . . I hesitate to say “resolve” because to me that feels rigid and closed. So, I was weakening the strength of my . . . well, intention to make a genuine and positive change in my life and to pursue a passion.
Writing daily and opening myself wider than I have been to a even broader range of observation has truly enhanced my life and increased my happiness. The birth of this blog was a genuinely “beautiful dawn.”
I encourage you to listen to the sweet and profound song entitled as such and to pay attention to the lyrics as you do so. I’ve been playing it on my guitar and singing along, and it brings me joy that I want to share. I hope you’ll be inspired.
Learning how to cry is the hardest part
There’s only one way to mend a broken heart.
~Beautiful Dawn, The Wailin Jenny’s
Again, my life is so, so rich. I’m lying down on a couch wrapped in an afghan my grandmother crocheted (that word is spelled so weirdly. How can anyone read it and not think crotch-e-ted?) with the Yankees and Angels dueling it out in the background. Dad and I just finished a scrumptious Italian meal of red wine, mixed green salad, spicy sausage, rotini and homemade spaghetti sauce ripe with sauteed mushrooms, bell peppers and tomatoes from our garden. It doesn’t get much better; and I’m beginning to believe that yes, it can always be this good.
Today was another exceptionally full and busy day. I had my first official day in the deli at Berryvale. Despite that no one has yet to mention anything about me doing any baking (which is what I thought I was hired for), I still enjoyed myself immensely. I spent the morning smiling, flirting, and waiting on customers, pushing buttons, serving wraps, filling coffee and did I mention? Smiling.
After Berryvale, I moved on to work a shift at the SAC gallery. That I followed up with a short jaunt (it’s hardly a jaunt; the door to the kitchen is in the gallery!) to the Village Books bakery where I prepared (and sampled; mmm) ganache for topping trays of brownies. If you’ve not yet had ganache, you ought to. It’s semi-sweet dark chocolate melted into heavy cream. It is so sinful and delicious, and makes me think of Chocolat every time. . .
When I eventually got home, I was tired and rather displaced. I tried to collapse into a nap, but was still buzzing from the day’s activity. So I went for a walk.
It was divine. Bonsey (i.e. Savannah Belle Bones, the best dog in the world) went with me, past the high school, through Shastice park and onto a Disc Golf course. The course is actually just a lovely trail that wends through the woods with the occasional wire goal along the way. It’s lined with deciduous trees and thimbleberry bushes that turn golden in autumn, so the richness of fall color is there on all levels. Tonight we were out at sunset and due to the alpenglow, the pink hue streaked 360 degrees of the sky.
The highlight of the outing occurred when I happened upon the most luscious of smells in the middle of the trail. Suddenly, it was as though I’d walked into a grove of honeycomb. A sweet, subtle scent permeated the air. I inhaled deeply and raised my arms to the sky. I inhaled again and again and again and sighed in between.
The richness of life is available in every breath. Every breath is a chance for glory, for grace. I challenge you: take it.
A day to remember, in reverse:
I’m currently propped up in bed wearing a seafoam green flannel nightshirt with monkey’s all over it that my mother sewed for me. Zoe, the feistier of my two cats, is resting sweetly atop my outstretched legs. I’m drinking red wine and just finished relishing a delicious dark chocolate covered macadamia nut straight from Hawaii (hand-delivered to me by Carl and Kathy). In the background, Pink’s “Please Don’t Leave Me” is on repeat; it’s been stuck in my head since I worked out at Curves (“For Women”) earlier this evening.
I started going to Curves when I was 16 and still in high school. I remember being so impressed and happy with the program that I wanted to write articles in favor of it. These days I’m not so enthusiastic about it–although I suppose I am about just about everything else. Actually, as I hopped around on one of the Curves recovery boards today a gal whose seen me there a time or two before said, “Geez, you have too much energy all the time!” Thankfully I’ve learned, sort of, not to take things like that too personally. . .
Prior to going to Curves, I visited with my new friend Coreena at the SAC gallery. She relieved me at 1 p.m. as the coop member on duty for the afternoon and I came back around 4 to help her finish up the day. Together we looked at photos of her family’s holiday hideaway, “Hikers Rest,” on the big island of Hawaii. Corree had a c.d. playing in the background, “Have you heard of Rob Sexsmith?” she asked me.
“No. He’s good?” I replied.
“Oh, yeah! Plus he has ‘sex’ in his name.”
“And smith! As in ‘wordsmith.’”
“Or ‘locksmith. . .’”
I let Coree look through the clothes of mine the local consignment store had just rejected. “They didn’t take this!?” She asked, bewildered, as she tried on a pale blue corduroy jacket. The jacket was a hand-me-down from a Bostonian friend of mine, seasonally appropriate, cute and in good condition. I couldn’t see the problem either, but to each their own.
Shopping at Trading Places became a favorite pastime this summer while my big brother Tyler and Allison were in town planning their wedding. Neither my new sister-in-law Alli nor I are big shoppers, but somehow we created one fabulously fun experience after another at the little store. No doubt it was largely the influence of TLC’s What Not to Wear. Passing comments like, “Stacey and Clinton would NOT approve” back and forth resulted in each trip becoming highly entertaining. It also made it easier to provide–and receive–honest opinions about potentially poor choices in clothing.
I like to think Alli, Stacey and Clinton would all approve of what I came out with today: a gray Daisy Fuentes sweater-dress, a melon cardigan and a pair of black ballet flats, all for $17.50–and I didn’t pay a penny because I had $26 credit for clothing I brought in previously! Consignment, I tell you, is the shit! Please pardon my Français.
Prior to shopping came work at the gallery, and just before that I met for a most inspirational cup of coffee with a longtime family friend, Nathan. Being at similar places in life, we discussed the pros and cons and proper timing of grad school, travel, and just enjoying our little hometown. I tried to refrain from imparting any unprecedented wisdom to him, but Nathan seemed to welcome it. So I shared how when I finally slowed down and began to be present in my parents’ house in this teeny town of Mt. Shasta, life came to meet me, instead of the other way around. I explained that when I finally stopped “should-ing” all over myself, my passions just burbled up to the surface. It’s beautiful, really, and I wish the same for everybody . . .
As our morning together drew to a close, Nathan and I suddenly touched upon an idea to collaborate with many of the other motivated, creative and inspirational young people in town. Now, it looks like all the lovelies I’ve been spending time with–Coree, Joe, Nikolas, Royce, Nathan, and others–may all get to come together and create something beautiful.
Time will tell; and so will I. Stay tuned.
New blog goal: To get my writing time down to 30 minutes or less for nights when I’m either exhausted or in danger of it in the morning.
Start time tonight? 9:46 p.m. Bedtime last night? 3:45 a.m. Blog time remaining? 29 minutes and counting. . .
Last night was dance night again, hallelujah! In celebration (and recovery) today, I suggested to Mom that we rent either the original Dirty Dancing, the remake: Havana Nights, or Shall We Dance.
She and I walked to the video store, Mom in a t-shirt and me decked out for snow in a hat, sweatshirt and wrist-warmers. We oohed and ahhed at the turning leaves; golds and yellows, pinks and reds and brilliant oranges. We tried collectively to remember what it is that affects the vibrancy of the colors each fall and got as far as “I think it has something to do with an early frost. . .”
With Savannah in tow we passed by Berryvale’s glass doors. “You might be working there soon!” said Mom. Royce waved from inside.
Shortly thereafter we entered Couch Critics (otherwise known as “Potatoes”) to a chorus of barking dogs leaping against the inside of a white truck parked out front. Mom whispered to me, “There’s that smell in here again! Patchouli and body odor and weeds!” I told her she would like today’s previous blog.
Perusing the selection, of the movies I’d mentioned we came across “Shall We Dance” first; but with one look at Richard Gere’s smirk and silver hair and then J-Lo (no further explanation necessary) we put it down and moved quickly on to rent Havana Nights.
Although the film was mediocre as anticipated (contrary to the review on the cover, it did not hold a battery-operated candle to the original), we had fun ogling the young Latino lead, Javier; and I got lost in a daydream of the next time I will get to go dancing again.
The only drawback is that now, after watching Javier and Katie jive and gyrate amidst clumps of sweaty Cubanos, my stakes for ultimate dancing satisfaction are getting higher. Rick and Peggy’s Open Floor dance classes are splendid, sure, but how can they compare to that Cubano calor? (translation: heat).
I guess for now, at the ripe young age of 23 and fresh out of recovery (from heartbreak, that is), hormones are ruling the scene and I’m liking the looks of that Dirty Dancing. Now, if only I can find myself a partner with passion, moves, and a back like Patrick Swayze (bless his soul!), I’ll be on my own way to Heaven.
It’s 10:14 and I even had time to edit! Thank you and good night.
