Summerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrtime.

I’m not looking to jinx myself, but the living really is pretty easy.

I’m sitting under my $34.99 Christmas Tree Shoppe umbrella and sweating through every stitch of clothing I have on.

This is not a complaint. It’s just fact.

But also, it is so hot and sunny that I have to sit under the umbrella or hide inside with the air conditioner on and the blinds drawn. That, my friends, is a miracle.

Matt and his father are framing out the space for the new barn floor, and it seems like every time they set aside a day to dusk-till-dawn work, it is a bazillion degrees out. I feel badly about this. We should be at camp  (and by this I mean I want to be at camp and I want all of us to pick up and go and I feel the teeniest bit guilty that my tiny work ethic only kicks in only when it is raining or snowing, but really those are good times to lay around and read, too).

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Someone, thankfully, gave the Panther a new home.
Someone, thankfully, gave the Panther a new home.

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My flowers are blooming. Between the frequent appearance of a green John Deere and some helping hands and flowers appearing on my doorstep, it is easy to make the call that we have the best neighbors ever. We get annuals from one side, perennials from the other. As the annuals are blooming now, I’m operating under the assumption that the flowers will not still be in bloom for our September wedding. Oh, well. That’s what supermarket flowers are for. But look at our gardens now:

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I spy . . . four rows of greens. Note to self: next year, diversify.

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I just dropped my baby off at music camp (keep your band camp jokes to yourself, thanks. I can’t handle it!) for his first overnight camp. I realized, with every step I took, that it would be five measly years before I did this, moved him into a college dorm, for real. Holy Holy Holy Shit.

Colby and I did get a good dose of time together today; we waited in an hour’s worth of lines for registration, drove back and forth across campus, moved him into his dorm, met his roommate, had lunch, and sat through the full-group (kids – behave, parents – don’t worry) meeting. We simultaneously realized that we were about halfway through July. And then we didn’t mention it again. Please summer, just stay. Please kid-version of Colby, just stay.

This is what we’ve done so far this summer:

I schedule stuff, drink coffee, and check email. This is how I look 50% of the day.
I schedule stuff, drink coffee, and check email. This is how I look 50% of the day.

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Watching fast cars and funny people.
Watching fast cars and funny people.
We swim with friends. Colby likes babies (understatement of the year).
We swim with friends. Colby likes babies (understatement of the year).

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And we swim elsewhere.
More on this local 'beach' later.
More on this local ‘beach’ later.
United Methodist Strawberry Festival. . I ❤ cheek pinchers. Really, I’m serious!
Chard pie with savory herb crust
Chard pie with savory herb crust
Oriechiette with chard, chickpeas, and smoked gouda
Oriechiette with chard, chickpeas, and smoked gouda
Turkey Lurkey!
Turkey Lurkey!
Swiss Chard Pizza - I'm sensing a theme here.
Swiss Chard Pizza – I’m sensing a theme here.

This week, more of the same. I have recipes for all of the above (up soon). Do any of you have chard/sturdy green recipes for me? I’m running out of ideas.

xoxo

Catch ‘n Release: We Go Phishin’

Colby and his show moms
Colby and his show moms

All parents know that they should play with their kids. This is what play looks like when they are nearly teenagers:

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The first set was unbelievable – especially for a tour-opening show. Our faces hurt from smiling (and every part of my 32-year-old body hurts from dancing).

Phish July 3, Bangor ME from Heather J Webb on Vimeo.

little too much flash, mom?
little too much flash, mom?

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Second set was different, but still good. Set list is here. Harry Hood encore was awesome, but I was so very tired. Colby gave me a piggyback so I could see the stage and it felt like a million bucks.

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This was a fun game for a little bit. Especially the part where Colby would throw the ball at me and I would hit it with my head like a dolphin . . . Our friend Erika was hit in the crossfire many, many times.

I am the walrus?
I am the walrus?

Would you have gone ANYWHERE (willingly) with your parents at 12? I’m not sure I would have. This fact was in my head all.night.long. After we finally made it through the cattle-shute exit gate we took our tired feet (except for Colby – nothing on that kid was tired which only served to emphasize our collective ages and lameness) to McD’s.

I am a lucky, tired, and grateful mama.

Dining Solo

I have been anything but solo these days.

In fact, the past couple of weeks have been busier than usual. I’m feeling that itching from the inside of my soul, the one that says: it’s quiet time.

While I am a terribly social being, I need time to be home alone. It’s like my Miracle Grow.Without time alone I end up looking like sad, sad tomato plants. Yellow and withered at the edges, drooping, and begging for someone to just feed me already.

Colby and I (finally) arrived home today after an overnight trip to Portland to 1. pick up my wedding dress, 2. visit my aunt, uncle and cousin, and 3. welcome my parents home from Okinawa. It was a great trip, but by the time we hit 295 north I was done. Too much interaction, too much talking, not enough sleeping. I made a deal with Colby as we pulled into Bangor. “Ok”, I said, “We have chores to do, but how about we take an hour when we get home?”. He thought it was a great deal. And so we took an hour. He began watching Supernatural (his show du jour), and I settled in on the porch to read. Then I fell asleep, so we took another hour. I was enjoying the silence so much that I decided to let him continue while I cleaned up the house and unpacked. Another hour. I called him down for supper. I sent him back upstairs. Another hour.

I just let my kid watch four hours of television. And you know what? He’s still up there.

Mom’s gotta do what mom’s gotta do.

On the solo note though, what I MOST enjoy about being home alone is preparing a meal for myself. This post reminded me of just how important that time, and that meal, is.

This started as a way for me to deal with a transition night (when Colby would go with his father). I would pour a glass of wine and get cooking. It was meditative and purposeful and when I was done: delightful.

Back then it was always the same meal. Good angel hair (yes, there is a difference), scallops or shrimp in a garlic, butter, and white wine sauce. Fresh parsley. Ice water, wine, something sweet for dessert.

I’ve moved on now, but nothing brings me as much comfort as that old, faithful meal.

Winter Panzanella
Winter Panzanella

Some new meals:

Winter – small batch soups, grilled sandwiches, pastas

Summer – goat cheese and fresh tomatoes on hearty bread, new salads

Anytime – fruit, crackers and cheese; veggies, hummus and cheese

 

Do you cook for yourself? What do you make? It’s time to expand my meals for one file.

 

Goodnight, Friends. I need to peel my kiddo off the television now. xoxo.

A Hesitant Bride

By the time many women descend the aisle, they have spent their child – and early adult – hoods thinking about The Wedding. This may be a pop-culture generated idea, but it’s the idea I’ve always stuck to. I was never that girl. I didn’t pick out dresses, I didn’t think about flowers and color schemes and venues. I never thought about what my husband would look like.  The hours that some spend on a day, I spent on an even more dangerous idea: the marriage, the life.

My precious?

I racked up a few proposals in my late teens and early twenties, and escaped them in the same haphazard way I elicited them. It was easy to place the puzzle piece of a person up next to my nearly completed puzzle. I could never find a piece to fit, it was never difficult to put one piece aside and go back to the box. Just like my grandfather taught me, I completed the edges of my puzzle first, I had an existing framework. I propped up the puzzle box, picture side up and nestled it over the bottom box so as keep it upright. I kept comparing the pieces to the picture, to the in-progress puzzle.

In my late twenties I finally met someone who matched the picture. I couldn’t figure out how, at first, but it was a definite match. The analogy ends here, of course, because you can’t just pop a person into your existing schema. Like the addition of Mary Poppins to an otherwise un-exceptional English household, one person blows out the edges. You must begin again. You build the edges around yourselves.

Begin we did. Not consciously, of course, but everyone begins somewhere. We began in my eventual concession to a friend: yes, you may give the new guy at work my number. These were pre-Skype days, and we talked at night after his work day was over and I had Colby in bed. I sat on my back steps with the cordless land line phone squished between my shoulder and my left ear, a glass of Malbec frequently in my hand. Eventually we met, and our awkward first date gave way to more dates which eventually led to me, standing over our shared bathroom sink, using the neti pot because I have some syphilitic mutant cold, and shouting holy shit, Matt! come look at what just came out of my nose! That’s the end game, friends, finding someone who will look at your snot.

And even though I am conscious of my desire to squeeze Matt into my ideal-husband mold, it still happens. He resists, which gives me an odd sense of faith. If he never easily complies, doesn’t that make for less of a chance he will feel robbed of himself in the years to come? Maybe each shitty mustache, the constant refusal to get a hair cut; maybe that all means that he will hold on to himself through this marriage. It will prevent me from losing myself within him.

This marriage thing, well, I read too much Doris Lessing in my early twenties. I could never get how the balance would work. How is it even remotely fucking possible that you can spend your entire life with someone and retain your self? Add children to the mix, and the proverbial game is over. I want to posit an alternative: What if the nature of change isn’t a loss of self,  but an opportunity for growth?

1 weird person + 1 weird person = 1 incredibly weird couple
1 weird person + 1 weird person = 1 incredibly weird couple

So frequently when Matt and I argue, I find myself thinking, This is not what I want my life to be like, this is not what I imagined. As I get older I am realizing that these statements, and my idealized marriage situation are never reflections of real and actual life. I used to fling around statements like, I am only going to get married once. Really. I could rattle off a list of pronouncements I’ve made on marriage that would make you simultaneously cringe and look at me with the “aww, honey, soon you’ll know” face.

I am less hesitant these days, as we move closer to the aisle. I’ve been able to loosen some of my long-held beliefs about what a marriage should be like, and this is the most healthy and liberating thing I’ve accomplished in a long time. I’ve been able to realize Matt as an actual human being who gets to have input in our life – as opposed to the benevolent golem I had created.

My knowledge and opinions on marriage have the shape of an inverted pyramid. Where I once knew so much, and now have less, but maybe more important knowledge.What I’m left with is this:

Our marriage will be whatever it is. We will do the best we can with the tools we have, and we will love each other even when we don’t love each other.

 

Bravery

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I wrote earlier this week about my struggle to tell a story that tweaks every nerve of my being. I’m restoring my courage through the honest writing of brave people.

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Need courage? Start here:

http://momastery.com/blog/about-glennon/

http://dashandbella.blogspot.com/2012/12/i-know-mama-who_13.html

http://www.mattlogelin.com/archives/2008/04/13/what-happened/

Operating Instructions by Anne Lamott

http://benandbirdy.blogspot.com/2012/04/perfect-vinaigrette-healthy-lunch-bowl.html

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Tonight, I’m attempting to make a black hole cake for Colby to take to school tomorrow. That, my dears, is an exhibition in bravery.

p.s.

I bought materials for an extra cake just in case this one tanks.

xoxo

Re-vision and Confession

“Similarly, the impulse to keep to yourself what you have learned is not only shameful, it is destructive. Anything you do not give freely and abundantly becomes lost to you. You open your safe and find ashes.”
Annie Dillard, The Writing Life

Note: I began a draft of this post on January 18th. Today is June 10th.

I have a little more to say now.

 

Earlier in the year, I asked my students to write about revision. I gave them no parameters, but asked them to explore the concept in a free-write activity.

As I read through their semester portfolios, I was amazed at how many students chose to continue this prompt, and to explore the many things, for lack of a better term, that can be revised. Especially as it applies to life, decisions and ourselves.

My students said powerful things about the concept of re-visioning anything. Today, though, I am in the middle of a down and dirty revision. I’m feeling like maybe I’ve been asking my students to do this really really incomparably difficult thing without knowing a true thing about it.

for a disorganized person, this is perfection
for a disorganized person, this is perfection

The thing, of course, is the act of revision itself. I’ve been working on an essay as part of an independent study since January. I had a comprehensive (read: overkill) list of ideas I wanted to explore over the course of the semester, but I settled on one that I couldn’t shake. I was still recovering from the most serious depressive episode I had experienced in many years. I thought it would be cathartic for me, and helpful to others, if I could communicate that experience as it really and truly happens. I may have been wrong.

My first draft came out like it was a self-propelled grenade. I wrote it down on legal paper, page after page after page, while watching tv on a Sunday night. I couldn’t believe it! I read it over and made notes and more notes and then finally typed it up and proudly sent it off to my advisor.

He replied with some basic feedback: clean up the story, keep writing, look for inconsistencies, keep writing. So I did. I dug up a folder of handouts from a memoir class and decided to plot out my story. I color-coded, I plot-graphed; I revised and typed again. I sent it out, he replied suggesting I review the very same handouts. WHAT? I thought. I used those to drive the entire story! I went back into the essay, read it through (orange marker in hand), and felt myself circling the drain. Passive voice at one turn. Unspecific vocabulary at another. Split-infinitives. Narrative break. Inconsistent title. Tense shifts. Lack of focus. Swisshhh.

I put the draft away. When the semester was about to end I, ashamed, asked for an ‘Incomplete’. My advisor accepted. This was all good, but I still had to complete the essay. I asked then, and continue to ask now: Why didn’t I just write about the motherfucking pie crust?

As much as I just.want.to.quit, I can’t quit this. But I have figured a few things out along the way:

  • If you are a teacher, you should experience the act of dirty and personal revision once a year.
  • I let my essay turn into a story which I now need to let just be an essay.
  • Life is harder than it looks. So is writing.

So back to the writing porch I go, but this time without the bajillion drafts.

So what if I opened my new issue of Brain, Child to find my essay (yes, same topic, setting, context. same same.) already written, and written well? It may tell the same story, but not my story. I keep thinking of the Annie Dillard quote that I use to tell my students to write anyway. I must listen to this. 

The confession is this: revision is incomparably difficult. Whether it is in writing or in life, going back to a thing, daring to imagine what it could be in light of what it is; this act requires a courage as flexible as it is strong.

The Death of the Woodpecker

www.monterey-bay.net
http://www.monterey-bay.net

Death of a Woodpecker

Pileated, red

I watched you for weeks. Trying

to take pictures – I perched on windowsills

and under trees. I couldn’t capture, only

listen.

Your scarlet head forced my

attention back – outside of myself and the housework –

to the trees lining the driveway, apple blossoms,

green grass, a street lined with loving

neighbors.

Last night

I sat outside, talking and laughing

ice cubes and chardonnay and grilled chicken

I placed my dirt-stained feet underneath me

turned toward conversation, I saw the

car, I heard the thump: soft as a pillow, solid

as life.

I think I am a flower

hello, friends.

I feel myself sprouting and growing and greening up just like the tomato plants in my garden. I’ve been productive and focused and happy. I want to be my summer person all year round. Maybe I have chlorophyll instead of blood?

Just look at this:

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I woke up at 5 a.m. today, so I was outside with Matt by 8. We sweated gardened for  most of the day. Did I tell you we have the most wonderful neighbors? They are retired now, but ran a nursery and now share resources and knowledge with us. Anyway.

I capped my day off with drinks and dinner with a colleague just as evening rolled in.

I’ll be back with pictures tomorrow.

Sleep tight.

xoxo

Spring Fever

My father and I have this thing where, most afternoons, we call each other and see how the day went. The conversation is predictable: An ‘A’ day, not an ‘A’ day, or even worse – “a Day”.

Today was a Day.

  • My fat pants didn’t fit. I’ve been reduced to pants and skirts with drawstrings and stretchy waistbands.
  •  I teach seniors who have three official school days left.
  • I had to grocery shop after 5 p.m. without Colby (he is THE best grocery shopping companion of all time).
  • Two important decisions need to be made pronto. I can tell nearly anyone exactly what I think they should do. I tell them to take care of themselves, to make a list, to prioritize, to think. For me to do these things, well, a totally different story.

My two decisions may directly address the problem of ill fitting pants, though. I need to decide whether or not I’m going to sign up for this triathlon (I’ve been dreaming about it all year) AND if I am going to apply to yoga teacher training (which I’ve wanted to do since I was 10 and saw an article on yoga in my mother’s Redbook).

Both decisions have financial implications for my family. Both events will *hopefully benefit me, my health and my sanity.

first race ever
first race ever

This evening will find me grading, folding laundry, taking a creative look at our budget, and making up my mind.

 

Peace out.

 

Image courtesy of acousticzen.com
Image courtesy of acousticzen.com

 

 

The Good, The Bad, The Ugly

I can’t get enough of this season. Except, well, the tree pollen that has turned my sinuses into twin rocks. And the seniors who are ready to bust out of the school like a boil getting ready to burst.

I’m staring out the window at school all day. I want to play in the dirt and ride my bike and drink coffee on my sun porch and go for mid-morning runs.

I’ve watched our forsythia and rhododendron bloom and begin to drop, and now, now our apple trees are in bloom! Our driveway is covered in petals and I sigh every time I walk out the door. Lavender lilacs, bright pink and glossy green rhododendron, brilliant yellow forsythia, fuchsia and snow white crab apple blossoms. It’s too much. I walked the dogs tonight and kept taking long, deep breaths of the heady, verdant air.

I have a visual list for you this week. The good, bad and ugly of what’s going on ’round here.

 

The Good

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crab apple blossoms
crab apple tree - looking up
crab apple tree – looking up
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driveway
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driveway II
BASEBALL SEASON
BASEBALL SEASON

 

my new toy
my new toy

 

walks with Sam and Bella (Sam was rolling in the ditch and missed the pic)
walks with Sam and Bella (Sam was rolling in the ditch and missed the pic)

 

Colby's spring concert. Look for the tall blondie.
Colby’s spring concert. Look for the tall blondie.

 

the new improved compost pile
the new improved compost pile

 

The Bad

 

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one of many windows in need of replacement

Picture this, finished, on September 7th . . .
Picture this, finished, on September 7th . . .

The Ugly

 

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Sigh. You can't win every battle. See: Dump Mower and Big Chev
Sigh. You can’t win every battle. See: Dump Mower and Big Chev

 

Goodbye, blue pool. I will drive the two miles to the lake this year.
Goodbye, blue pool. I will drive the two miles to the lake this year.

 

Lots of good stuff going on, but also lots of work. This whole wedding planning thing turned out to be a bigger job than I anticipated. I’m dealing insofar as I’ve stopped sobbing “but it looks like shiiiiiiiiit. hiccup. it’s just one big awful fucking mess. hiccup. there are HOLES in the walllllllll. hiccup”. I’ve chosen the path of cautious optimism, and am going with a “everything will turn out” mantra.

Happy Monday, all.