Da dum da dum

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Totally perfect.
Totally perfect.

 

A little shy of four years ago, I went on my first and only blind date. Even though we ate at a place we both do NOT like and took a detour to Home Depot, we somehow wanted to see each other again. In quick succession came a coffee date, more phone time than I logged in middle school, complicated commuting schedules, and a third shadow to accompany Colby and me on our walks.

Over those years we’ve learned and re-learned; each other and our surroundings. We’ve reconciled our dreams and our realities and we’ve been surprised with the funny places where those two intersect. I’ve been prepared to marry this man for some time.

The Proposal

It was perfect and beautiful, friends. I knew this day wasn’t too far away, but Matt managed to take me completely by surprise. We had a rare afternoon out together and celebrated later that night with my brother and his fiancee (thanks for the babysitting, you two!), Colby and our dogs. We sat by the fire and watched Lord of the Rings and I was feeling that was quite appropriate – since I would maybe slice anyone who came near my shiny, precious ring.

The Wedding

 

. . . planning is in progress. I’ll keep you all posted. All I know is that it will be small and simple and probably in June.

Meanwhile

Colby keeps looking at me and grinning. I keep watching as I walk past mirrors to see what my ring looks like in different light, against a different color jeans. Matt absentmindedly fingers the ring when he holds my hand. I have, wait for it, a Pinterest board. Help me Jesus.

 

Thank you all for your love and excitement. I’m so happy you will be on this journey with us.

 

Review: A Poetry Handbook by Mary Oliver

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Can I tell you, please, what a sparkling gem this book is?

images

Thank you. I’ll be brief.

I came across Mary Oliver‘s A Poetry Handbook while frantically searching Amazon books for something that would communicate poetry in a say, more nuanced way than a list of poetic devices. My students are a mixed bag when it comes to everything, but especially poetry. If we have ‘lovers’ and ‘haters’ for any other academic area, poetry is what turns the classroom into warring factions. It’s what I imagine a gang-ridden classroom looks like, but with Keats and Collins instead of, you know, guns and violence.

The book contains a scant 122 pages and is divided into an introduction, 12 chapters, and a spot-on conclusion. Only a poet could fit so very much into so very little. Specific poetic device comes in the later chapters, and Oliver spends ample time exploring preparation for reading and writing poetry before delving into anything else. She makes a case for imitation as necessary practice, what one does in order to learn, in the introduction:

Perhaps sometime you will have an idea for a piece of music, you may actually “hear” it in the privacy of your mind — and you will realize how impossible it would be to write it down, lacking, as most of us do, the particular and specialized knowledge of musical notation. Why should our expectation about a poem be any different? It too is specialized, and particular (3). 

Sound and line (that is to say, prosody and scansion) come before an exploration of form and free-verse poetics. Oliver is unapologetically insistent that students, readers and writers, learn about these things. I have always struggled with anything more complicated than iambic pentameter, but I’ve been persuaded to try again.

One chapter encompasses diction, tone and voice.  Imagery directly follows. Informative and engaging, this little book is everything I’ve been looking for. Do read it.

I’m leaving you with two longish excerpts. Enjoy!

I like to say that I write poems for a stranger who will be born in some distant country hundreds of years from now. This is a useful notion, especially during revision. It reminds me, forcefully, that everything necessary must be on the page. I must make a complete poem — a river-swimming poem, a mountain-climbing poem. Not my poem, if it’s well done, but a deeply breathing, bounding, self-sufficient poem. Like a traveler in an uncertain land, it needs to carry with it all that it must have to sustain its own life — and not a lot of extra weight, either (110).

Poetry is a life-cherishing force. And it requires a vision — a faith, to use an old-fashioned term. Yes, indeed. For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry. Yes, indeed (122).

Lost & Found

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I lost Colby today.

Before that, though, my day was frantic if normal. I even made time to go to the new makeup store with a friend. I’m having difficulty being productive in between schlepping Colby everywhere (school ->basketball->orchestra->home->bed), so filling up 30 in-between minutes looking at sweet smelling false promises was a welcome activity. I bought some body oil and detangler and new foundation. I left in time.

Colby was totally ready to roll when I picked him up at practice.

I dropped him off at orchestra practice, which just happens to be where I work. I let him know that I was going to the gym first and to meet me in my office when he was done.

At the gym, I ran for the first time in a few weeks. It was slow and visceral and I was so so happy to get sweaty. Then my phone rang, and I answered it even though I NEVER answer unfamiliar numbers. Never. Colby didn’t have practice. He had been waiting at the school for an hour. I turned off the treadmill and wrestled with my keys and earbuds while checking my email because he said “Mom. I sent you an email…”. It read something like: “mom, I’m hungry, come get me before the janitor kicks me out”.

I made it from the gym to my office in three minutes to find all the lights off and no sign of my kid.

Seven awful minutes and three bathroom checks later, I found him, but not before I had to tell a group of co-workers that I lost my kid and had they maybe seen him anywhere.

This must be my lucky week though, because not only did I find him in one physical and spiritual piece, he told me “mom – don’t sweat it”.

Forget Powerball. I won the freakin’ lottery.

Prolonging the Magic

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Colby did not want to trick-or-treat this year.

I didn’t push it, knowing that the more I pushed and cajoled, the more he would resist. And you know, trick-or-treating is kind of a pain in the ass, but I reallly wanted him to go. It wasn’t because of my overwhelming love of Halloween, but because in this new world of autonomy and music and girls and armpit hair (and an incredibly stressful election year) I wanted him to do something that allowed him to be a kid. Something silly and mindless and fun.
He finally decided, that tricky little monkey of mine, that he wanted to be Paul Bunyan. Then he told everyone that he was tricking me into buying him a new flannel shirt. One $12.99 LL Bean flannel later:

 

Paul and Babe

Then he and his cousin got the idea to go as Paul and Babe the Blue Ox. I was in heaven. Do you remember this book? 

Our copy has a lot of miles on it, and it was the replacement for the copy I had as a child. Steven Kellog (of The Day Jimmy’s Boa Ate the Wash fame) tells the Paul Bunyan tale with wit and pacing and verve. To boot, the illustrations are intricate and nuanced and are perfectly paired to the story. If you don’t own a copy, buy one now. Here are some of my favorite parts:

Paul Bunyan was the largest, smartest, and strongest baby ever born in the state of Maine.

He soon grew into a sturdy lad who was so quick on his feet he could blow out a candle and leap into bed before the room became dark.

And then there’s Babe the blue ox.

Both Paul and Babe began growing at an astonishing rate, but the ox never lost the color of the snow from which he’d been rescued.

He has seasonal affective disorder:

The blizzard continued for several years … the crew… hibernated. Babe became so depressed that Paul asked Ole to make a pair of sunglasses for his friend. When Babe saw the world colored green, he thought he’d stumbled into a field of clover.

So he ate all the snow.

At that point, all those pent-up springtimes simply exploded, dissolving the storm clouds and the remaining snow.

Sigh. And then the pancakes and the gumberoos and the canyon.

Sometimes his great bursts of laughter can be heard rumbling like distant thunder across the wild Alaskan mountain ranges where he and Babe still roam.

Anyway. I was happy to prolong the magic just one more year. We made pancakes and ate them standing up at the kitchen counter. My aunt and I tried to get the boys (one mine and one hers) ready, but it felt a lot like what I imagine herding wet cats would be like. The boys went out and maybe did more aimless walking around than trick-or-treating, I walked with another mother not necessarily trailing the kids, but you know, just being in the general area.

A quick note: I was the only teacher dressed up at work. I went as Medusa which no one thought was really a stretch, but it was awesome. Awesomer than being Medusa? Having post-Halloween dreads as a result.

I should have kept them in.

‘Round Here.

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Amid my two barking dogs, who are barking so fiercely that it sounds like Michael Vick’s backyard, this is what’s happening:

 

It fits perfectly!

I’m using my fancy-shmancy running shoes as a beer holder… it’s the only action they’ve seen lately.

I spent last night googling “severe PMS”, “intense PMS”, and “PMDD”. So far this week I have cried in class (twice), at a soccer game, multiple times during my statistics exam, and every time I’m in the car. Nothing is actually wrong. I swear. Apparently too much caffeine, a crappy diet and no exercise exacerbates PMS. Sorry all – but I want to punch everything in the face: my dogs, humans, this computer, and this couch. I’ll give you the all clear when I’m my normal crabby non-crying self.

Colby and I just ate hot dogs, white bread buns, canned green beans, and jalepeno poppers for supper. We both feel like total shit. Off the wagon much?

As I write, Bella is sitting half on me and is trying to bite my fingers as I type. It’s taken me about 4,000 hours to write this so far. Now I want to punch her in the face. Except violence is not the answer. I’m just going to finish my beer and go to bed.

Lot’s of good stuff is happening though, really.  I’ll fill you in when I’m no longer entirely consumed by my own crabbiness.

I need some good vibes, people. Send ’em my way.

XOXO

Just Call Me Martha: Peace and Productivity

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Rebels. Out on a school night.

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I’m feeling very patriotic tonight.

I have a love/hate relationship with major election years. My love of theory and policy and social justice has difficulty overcoming my keen dislike of conflict. This causes problems.

I’m loving where we are at this point in history, though. Let me keep my optimism, please.

After supper (and a discussion of medical marijuana?) and chores C and I packed up and drove to see the Marine Corps Band. A colleague couldn’t attend and I knew Colby would be quite happy to take his seats. It wasn’t until we were seated (in the perfect, percussion section watching spot) that I was able to recognize quite what a big deal this show was. A quick glance at the audience revealed many white-haired or no-haired heads, though there was a significant showing of students and young adults.

What a show! Colby and I used to regularly attend performances here, but he was a young man in his element tonight. Watching his face, I could see him feeling the music, smiling at certain spots and mimicking the movements of the percussionists hands. It makes my heart flutter to think that he loves something that much, to think that he has a great passion. Our favorite piece was called “Asphalt Cocktail”, this rowdy and discordant piece in which a band member played the trashcan. Who doesn’t love that? The performance included what you would expect, Stars and Stripes Forever and Armed Services Medley and such, with some wonderfully surprising pieces interspersed. The second encore included a crowd sing of America the Beautiful, and Colby and I both knew the words (Thank you Mrs. Tardiff!).

Every time I settle into one of the new Collins Center seats I remember the first time Colby was there – in 2001 for the Cohen lecture series. He was a newborn, I was there for extra credit, and as soon as he was finished nursing I hoisted him up over my shoulder, at which point he vomited into the collar of my shirt so that a river of partially digested milk flowed under my shirt, down my back and pooled in the waistband of my jeans.

Tonight though, no vomit. Just intermission cookies, legs and shoulders spread wide into my space, and a face to look up at instead of down at. Colby yawned toward the end of the show, and this is the point in which I usually throw my arm around his shoulders and snuggle him onto my shoulder to rest. Tonight, I realized that this will no longer work. Instead I, yawning, let my head rest on his shoulder.

Then into the car to listen to the debate. And home for the debate – and debate snacks.

 

Bravery: optimism + stupidity

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Don’t get confused. I haven’t undergone a radical change to become a paragon of preparedness and forethought. I have, however, managed to purchase a winter coat for Colby before snow is on the ground. This is something we usually get around to after he has spent a week going to school with his ever-broadening wrists exposed and wearing mismatched dollar store stretchy gloves.

Ta da!

Apparently it is so cold on the sun porch that he must wear his new coat and hat.

It’s been one of those weekends that I enjoy more because my winter-self is perched inside my left inner-ear reminding me that the clock is ticking.

a mountain, some snacks, and a few boys

The above picture may chronicle the most terrifying event of my life – in which I, one lone adult, take three, 12-year-old boys to hike a mountain. Believe me – I knew exactly how far we were from the nearest hospital. I certainly heard snippets of conversations I wish I hadn’t heard (“That’s what she said! hahahaha!”), but when I heard them pointing out trees and birds and aweing over the foliage, the terror and the education was totally worth it. On the way down a woman told me I was brave, and while I was thankful for the compliment, she and I both knew that what I was demonstrating was not bravery, but a combination of optimism and stupidity. I’m glad we’re down now.

“No mom, I’ll get it”
The perfect pumpkin IS hard to find. Nomar the dog is helping us.
I want some. I want some goats and some cows and some chickens . . .

My parents picked us up to celebrate Pumpkin Day. What?! You don’t celebrate PUMPKIN DAY?! Oh people. Pumpkin Day is an annual holiday that always occurs on the Sunday after my childhood friend Jenny’s birthday.

Me, in the back of a really old car. Yay and Brrr.
Maybe this is the bike I’ve been looking for!

We spent one day with our friends at Owls Head Transportation Museum. Colby spent the evening with Mimi and Papa, and we had a rare quiet car ride. Since Colby doesn’t really fit in the back of any of our vehicles and I get motion sick, our family car trips tend to be filled with lots of clearly articulated complaints or passive-aggressive sighing. We’re all guilty, and it tends to be enjoyable for none of us. I popped two Dramamine at breakfast and slept nearly the whole way down and back – a present for me, a present for Matt.

It’s the last week of soccer season here, and I’m just now doing the laundry from last Thursday’s monsoon game. This was not a smart move on my part. As much as I want to run out the door to make a 6 o’clock yoga class, the smells of last week’s laundry are beginning to mingle with the aroma of last week’s dishes. I’m not sure which one is worse, and this means I need to tackle it all.

I’ve decided that I am going to keep some of that bravery from the weekend tucked in my pocket, because I really need the optimism to balance out the stupidity of our daily routines, or lack of. So this week: real dinners! finished homework! umbrella and blankets packed!

Race Report: Maine Marathon 1/2

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Maine Marathon #2 (last year relay – this year 1/2!)

The only picture:

Why does my child look unhappy? What?! He’s going to be outside in the rain for 2+ hours? What’s NOT fun about that!?

I tried to give them an out all week long. Really, I did. But at 4 a.m. yesterday morning, I threw us, a bunch of food, and multiple changes of dry clothes in the car. Matt drove, Colby slept and I stretched and annoyed Matt with endless attempts at meaningless conversation. We left in the rain, driving toward more rain, and arrived promptly . . . ahead of schedule. I should have recognized our punctuality to be indicative of something great, but I didn’t. The boys waited, I paced. I ate a cookie. I slopped Body Glide all over my toes so that they were slipping all around in my socks every time I got back out of the car to use the bathroom, again.

I’ll give you the short version: It was rainy. I ran 13.1 miles, alternating between conversation bombing (a personal flaw I’ve decided to turn into a skill) people around me and turning my attention inward. I ran and enjoyed the (foggy) ocean view. I took deep, restorative breaths of ocean air. I ran and took mental notes on amazing landscaping. I ran and prayed what Anne Lamott coined the “Help, help, help” and “Thank you, thank you, thank you” prayers, with a new ‘help’ and a new ‘thank you’ every mile.  I ate my new favorite Honey Stinger gels at miles 4 and 8.  It was truly awe-some. I ran without an ipod, iphone, or a watch. I came in about two minutes under my goal time to shave about 7 minutes off my half time from last spring.

I don’t know what happened.

Because I lost so much training time I had planned out a walk/run schedule, but when I got to my first walk time I felt good, so I kept running. And so on and so forth. I had been holding a finish time of 2:30 in my head all summer long, and last week during a training melt-down (during which I almost dropped out) I decided to let that time go and be happy with a finish. Once I realized that I was on target for a possible 2:30 finish though, I reformulated that plan.

I held back early on just because I wanted to finish and finish strong (read: not vomiting and not in the medical tent). About halfway through I made a deal that I would turn it on a bit after mile 10. And I did. After the last clock I knew it was going to be close, but I stayed strong and steady. Coming into the chute I saw the clock counting up 2:28 . . . and I put the hammer down (does anyone know what that saying actually means? I don’t but it seems appropriate, so it’s staying). I crossed the line AT 2:30, but as of last night my official time was 2:28:42. Air punch karate kick.

While I was wiping myself down in the backseat of the car (windows were fogged, no worries people) Matt asked the perennial “why the hell does anyone actually want to do this”. And I’m not sure I have the answer, but I have my answer. I do this because in a world where so much is dependent upon everyone else and so many people are dependent upon me, this is the one thing that really, truly is all me. My training or lack of, my perspective, my juju (good or bad). All of it.

And as much as I need to be in control, it was awfully nice to let go and let my training, my body, and some benevolent higher power take over.