Every year I am amazed at how our property turns from desolation to overgrowth seemingly overnight. Vermont Spring seems to be on fast forward as though the earth beneath our feet understands that its warm days are limited and it ought to hasten the process for the well being of those tasked with tending it. In late winter, the earlier whispers of SAD grow to shrill and defiant roars, and there is a conspicuous fog of relief when warmer winds blow. It must be that this is why we are so enthralled with the crocus’ that break ground often through the snow. They afford tiny, colorful reminders that we too should seize the fresh start. Indeed, there is a coming awake that happens universally in the spring.
We all have our own way of climbing out of our winter skins and coming to our senses. My hens begin to lay again, my neighbors plan barbeques and spread thick layers of aromatic mulch, and my kids spend hours on their trampoline. In my world, when trout season begins I feel revitalized. Our current river levels all but ensure my fly rod and I would be swept swiftly downstream as my waders fill with water and sink me like a stone. But, the very process of organizing my gear, renewing my license and picking out new flies the way most women shop for shoes, makes me hopeful that there will be sunny days spent in the river and warm afternoons spent at the Alchemist.
The digital revolution and our tendencies toward emailing, facebooking, texting and tweeting have resulted in a false sense of comfort among tightly packed villages that do shallow, distant relationships well. In this era of 24/7 connectivity are we sure we are spending adequate time connecting back to the natural world and to our humanity? Not only has this trend given way to new verbs, but it has bred a new generation and offered a sickle like tool to an existing one with which we can hack at human relationships. These paradigms allow us to disengage from more solid associations and more grounding forces that were meant to tether us back to each other and to the earth. It reduces our ability to cultivate intimacy, a key component to the emerging trend toward mindfulness.
Our work weeks have become so ambiguous with technology that the boundaries necessary to create the time and space we need to participate in the awakening have become virtually (pun intended) unrecognizable. Our accessibility and response times have become unrealistic now that everyone can answer an email on their phone. When did we decide that manners do not apply to technology? When was the last time you walked away mid-sentence while someone was speaking to you? Likely never. Ever not answer a text mid -conversation or have someone do it to you? Same thing. We are forgetting how to be part of the environment; and, the natural world does not wait for us and our creations. It moves at its innate pace bringing seasons to a close whether we notice or not.
From the closing line of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off which suggests that “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in awhile, you could miss it” to the Tao Te Ching which cautions, “Amidst the worldly comings and goings, observe how endings become beginnings” we are reminded to be a part of our world and to not abdicate our innate ability to notice.
Showing posts with label ettiquette. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ettiquette. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Duck and Cover
Often the best plans work out serendipitously. Last night, my friend and I made a last minute mad dash for our favorite mahogany watering hole for champagne, and what always turns out to be ear bending conversations for the eavesdroppers around us. The bartender would no doubt report that last night’s musings did not disappoint.
There is always a point in our conversation where I threaten to use a line of hers as a Facebook status. Her witticisms are among the best I have ever heard and last night’s implication along the lines of ‘If it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it’s probably not a cat’ was a favorite. It isn’t so much that her spin on the maxim was so clever; it was the context in which she cautiously used it to illustrate a gaping hole in my reasoning.
We have a code word we use to clue the other one in to the fact that they are venturing onto thin ice. The ability to deliver harsh reality and truth among best friends is something to count on and cherish, but there are times when our vulnerabilities are too close to the surface and our armor is too thin and then it is best to cut the dose in half or hold back altogether. She and I pull the ‘eggshell card’ in these instances. But last night, and with the benefit of a nice dry champagne, I gave her an eggshell pass and let the insight fly!
I won’t address the context of our conversation as what happens within those mahogany walls, stays within the mahogany walls, but I will say her point was that perhaps life was once again showing me that people are who they are and it is a great time saver to believe them when they first show us their true colors. On the subject of dating, Elizabeth Gilbert says in Eat, Pray, Love “I have a tendency not only to see the best in everyone, but to assume that everyone is emotionally capable of reaching his highest potential. I have fallen in love more times than I care to count with the highest potential of a man, rather than with the man himself, and I have hung on to the relationship for a long time (sometimes far too long) waiting for the man to ascend to his own greatness. Many times in romance I have been a victim of my own optimism."
I find irresistible the self-exploration and honesty of that proclamation and find it applicable in any number of circumstances. We want to see the best in those who share our air. Being a victim of one’s own optimism is a cruel affliction because it has its roots in goodness, compassion and empathy. If wielded against us, these blindside hits sting like a whip to sunburn. The hidden agendas of others masked by pretty words are no more truth then the foreign object floating in my wine glass is a grape stem, but still we cling to the hope that everyone will mean what they say and do what they promise. The optimism of youth promises transformation and growth and idealism. The wisdom of age poignantly says, “See that thing waddling over there? It’s a duck.” Quack.
There is always a point in our conversation where I threaten to use a line of hers as a Facebook status. Her witticisms are among the best I have ever heard and last night’s implication along the lines of ‘If it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it’s probably not a cat’ was a favorite. It isn’t so much that her spin on the maxim was so clever; it was the context in which she cautiously used it to illustrate a gaping hole in my reasoning.
We have a code word we use to clue the other one in to the fact that they are venturing onto thin ice. The ability to deliver harsh reality and truth among best friends is something to count on and cherish, but there are times when our vulnerabilities are too close to the surface and our armor is too thin and then it is best to cut the dose in half or hold back altogether. She and I pull the ‘eggshell card’ in these instances. But last night, and with the benefit of a nice dry champagne, I gave her an eggshell pass and let the insight fly!
I won’t address the context of our conversation as what happens within those mahogany walls, stays within the mahogany walls, but I will say her point was that perhaps life was once again showing me that people are who they are and it is a great time saver to believe them when they first show us their true colors. On the subject of dating, Elizabeth Gilbert says in Eat, Pray, Love “I have a tendency not only to see the best in everyone, but to assume that everyone is emotionally capable of reaching his highest potential. I have fallen in love more times than I care to count with the highest potential of a man, rather than with the man himself, and I have hung on to the relationship for a long time (sometimes far too long) waiting for the man to ascend to his own greatness. Many times in romance I have been a victim of my own optimism."
I find irresistible the self-exploration and honesty of that proclamation and find it applicable in any number of circumstances. We want to see the best in those who share our air. Being a victim of one’s own optimism is a cruel affliction because it has its roots in goodness, compassion and empathy. If wielded against us, these blindside hits sting like a whip to sunburn. The hidden agendas of others masked by pretty words are no more truth then the foreign object floating in my wine glass is a grape stem, but still we cling to the hope that everyone will mean what they say and do what they promise. The optimism of youth promises transformation and growth and idealism. The wisdom of age poignantly says, “See that thing waddling over there? It’s a duck.” Quack.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
From there to here, from here to there, funny things are everywhere! ~ Dr. Seuss
There are times when people who write have to do just that. We grab menus, forms, gas station receipts, and paycheck stubs, flip them over and capture the thought stream that charitably surges through our brains. The flipside is also true. Sometimes creativity is entombed in mental concrete. I savor the moments when life flings you colorful caricatures on which to build. Sitting in my daughter's audition this morning I experienced a profusion of characters that both stirred my imagination and forced me to exercise sturdy pre-coffee restraint.
I sat quietly alone in the back of the theater eager to learn the process of becoming the mother of a would-be actor. To my left was a well seasoned stage mom forcing her son to drink from a water bottle to keep his - and I'm quoting verbatim here- throat moist. As I watched the boy reluctantly take several gulps I wondered how he would perform at peak whilst having to pee like a race horse. My daughter and I, on the other hand, had stumbled into the lobby wearing what we only then recalled were explicitly prohibited flip flops and reluctantly handed over our half completed forms. While Moisty and his mom were bathing his vocal cords, I was simply trying not to spill my latte down my shirt while ushering my daughter into the auditorium and hoping the effects of caffeine would hasten my ability to rise to the occasion.
Earlier, during the registration process, I was drawn to the strident and confident voice of a tall man who greeted everyone with preparedness and vigor typically unprecedented at this hour. I was drawn to his charisma. My mind carelessly entertained projections of my husband and me drinking oaky red wine with him and his wife. I pondered the strange process of making new friends at our age and how years from now we would share laughs telling the story of how we met when our youngest auditioned for local theater. Later my first impression would be shattered as first impressions often are despite the 'lasts a lifetime' myth.
I entered the auditorium, settled into my back row seat, pulled out the book I am reading and dove eagerly into the world Chris Bojalian creates in Secrets of Eden. I was jarred from my story land bliss by a rhythmical drumming that shook my seat every few seconds as though a Brachiosaurus was making its way ever closer to the high school gymnasium. Looking around in all directions, it seemed no one else felt this sensation. It appeared to be localized and I was alone to asses my safety. I closed my book and tapped fully into the feeling. I recognized that the relentless drone of the voice behind me was coming from the man I had only minutes earlier been fantasizing about. The only constant in the room was his voice talking incessantly at a helpless man while hitting the row of seats in front of him for emphasis which sent reverberations down the entire aisle and into my seat. I learned also via his self-absorbed pontifications that the man he was talking at was a police officer and I wondered if he was carrying a gun. If ever an individual might snap and shoot someone, and perhaps justifiably so, this was that occasion.
After a parental briefing the lot of us was excused. Children were led into the auditorium in small groups while the others mingled with the adults in the lobby awaiting their turn. I went back to my book only to be interrupted again. I am, by nature, a people watcher and this was the mother load. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that Moisty and his mom had appropriated the seats that had previously been occupied by a busy mother and her rambunctious toddler. By all rights, the mom -who purposefully left behind her diaper bag to mark her territory in the crowded room- abdicated her seat when she took her toddler to the bathroom. Mama Moisty pounced on the opportunity as only a water pusher could. Upon her return the evicted mom gently offered that the bag Ms. Moisty had moved, now on the table, was in fact a marker left behind to hold the bench open. The toddler was a tiny being of no more than two and capped with a head of curly blonde hair. Her mom was a once pretty woman who was now visibly tired and worn thin. Ms. Moisty, a large woman by common standards, looked up at her and offered only that she had been unclear if someone was sitting there, but she made no gesture to relocate or to scoot over. She and her damp throated boy were now engaged in a full blown game of dice in the space between them. The mom and her toddler took their ineffective diaper bag and played cards on the cold unforgiving linoleum.
Back to my book. Silence again was broken this time by a boy defiantly shouting at this mother as she whispered for him to turn his iPod down. It was a cartoon strip moment where he was unaware of how loud he was with his ear buds tucked in his ears. As he yelled, she instinctually put her hand over his mouth which made his eyes bulge with surprise or perhaps due to the inability for his breath to escape through any other available orifice.
Just as I became sucked into that moment, my sweet daughter emerged from the dark and intimidating auditorium. She took her number off her shirt, handed it in, assured me that things had gone well within and we were out of there… leaving all those characters behind, but surely not forgotten.
I sat quietly alone in the back of the theater eager to learn the process of becoming the mother of a would-be actor. To my left was a well seasoned stage mom forcing her son to drink from a water bottle to keep his - and I'm quoting verbatim here- throat moist. As I watched the boy reluctantly take several gulps I wondered how he would perform at peak whilst having to pee like a race horse. My daughter and I, on the other hand, had stumbled into the lobby wearing what we only then recalled were explicitly prohibited flip flops and reluctantly handed over our half completed forms. While Moisty and his mom were bathing his vocal cords, I was simply trying not to spill my latte down my shirt while ushering my daughter into the auditorium and hoping the effects of caffeine would hasten my ability to rise to the occasion.
Earlier, during the registration process, I was drawn to the strident and confident voice of a tall man who greeted everyone with preparedness and vigor typically unprecedented at this hour. I was drawn to his charisma. My mind carelessly entertained projections of my husband and me drinking oaky red wine with him and his wife. I pondered the strange process of making new friends at our age and how years from now we would share laughs telling the story of how we met when our youngest auditioned for local theater. Later my first impression would be shattered as first impressions often are despite the 'lasts a lifetime' myth.
I entered the auditorium, settled into my back row seat, pulled out the book I am reading and dove eagerly into the world Chris Bojalian creates in Secrets of Eden. I was jarred from my story land bliss by a rhythmical drumming that shook my seat every few seconds as though a Brachiosaurus was making its way ever closer to the high school gymnasium. Looking around in all directions, it seemed no one else felt this sensation. It appeared to be localized and I was alone to asses my safety. I closed my book and tapped fully into the feeling. I recognized that the relentless drone of the voice behind me was coming from the man I had only minutes earlier been fantasizing about. The only constant in the room was his voice talking incessantly at a helpless man while hitting the row of seats in front of him for emphasis which sent reverberations down the entire aisle and into my seat. I learned also via his self-absorbed pontifications that the man he was talking at was a police officer and I wondered if he was carrying a gun. If ever an individual might snap and shoot someone, and perhaps justifiably so, this was that occasion.
After a parental briefing the lot of us was excused. Children were led into the auditorium in small groups while the others mingled with the adults in the lobby awaiting their turn. I went back to my book only to be interrupted again. I am, by nature, a people watcher and this was the mother load. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that Moisty and his mom had appropriated the seats that had previously been occupied by a busy mother and her rambunctious toddler. By all rights, the mom -who purposefully left behind her diaper bag to mark her territory in the crowded room- abdicated her seat when she took her toddler to the bathroom. Mama Moisty pounced on the opportunity as only a water pusher could. Upon her return the evicted mom gently offered that the bag Ms. Moisty had moved, now on the table, was in fact a marker left behind to hold the bench open. The toddler was a tiny being of no more than two and capped with a head of curly blonde hair. Her mom was a once pretty woman who was now visibly tired and worn thin. Ms. Moisty, a large woman by common standards, looked up at her and offered only that she had been unclear if someone was sitting there, but she made no gesture to relocate or to scoot over. She and her damp throated boy were now engaged in a full blown game of dice in the space between them. The mom and her toddler took their ineffective diaper bag and played cards on the cold unforgiving linoleum.
Back to my book. Silence again was broken this time by a boy defiantly shouting at this mother as she whispered for him to turn his iPod down. It was a cartoon strip moment where he was unaware of how loud he was with his ear buds tucked in his ears. As he yelled, she instinctually put her hand over his mouth which made his eyes bulge with surprise or perhaps due to the inability for his breath to escape through any other available orifice.
Just as I became sucked into that moment, my sweet daughter emerged from the dark and intimidating auditorium. She took her number off her shirt, handed it in, assured me that things had gone well within and we were out of there… leaving all those characters behind, but surely not forgotten.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Cinderella in Wartime
According to Merriam Webster “memory” is the mental faculty of retaining and recalling past experience. There are countless quotes on memories- prose, short stories and musings about beloved recollections. There are mental health articles in abundance on retaining memories, jogging memory and improving one’s capacity for memory, but far fewer on how to obliterate a memory. In fact, the most available subjects when searching for ‘how to erase memory’ are largely relative to computer memory. While I am adept at extrapolating information from wise sources and applying it to the task at hand, I am hard pressed to find a mental delete button, and a metaphorical reboot seems to be the quest de jour of the Dr. Phil nation. Once after searching until dark, I was forced to ask a security guard to drive me around a parking garage looking for my car. I forget easily.
Nevertheless, memories of playing in the sand with our children do not wake us up at night; nor do they call on us to employ exercises of distraction to eradicate them. It seems to be the heartrending memories and the raw ones that attach themselves to us and demand to be brought everywhere we go. Eckhart Tolle in The Power of Now says, "The mind is a superb instrument if used rightly. Used wrongly, however, it becomes very destructive. To put it more accurately, it is not so much that you use your mind wrongly—you usually don't use it at all. It uses you."
The Institute for the Healing of Memories (IHOM), based in South Africa, addresses the emotional and psychological wounds suffered by those in war ravaged countries. The IHOM attempts to help affected individuals remove painful obstacles which can keep them from moving forward. There is extensive supporting evidence that forgiveness promotes healing and thereby peace. The IHOM asserts that holding on to the anger and hate associated with wartime experiences can give way to future conflict and violence. Healing takes place by acknowledging the hurt that led to the feelings and working through a series of exercises intended to permit emotional and spiritual growth.
Rhodes Scholar and renowned teacher of Creative Thinking, Edward de Bono said simply “A memory is what is left when something happens and does not completely unhappen.” Overused expressions like ‘unfinished business’ and ‘closure’ often pepper well meaning advice; but finishing and closing are not always viable options. Death, distance, and circumstance are thieves who strike without notice, depriving us of options and time.
On the complicated subject of eradicating memories it seems everyone is an expert on everyone else’s pain. Most of us march through day after day thanking God for every experience, every sunset and every person who ever walked through the doors of our lives. Still other times gratitude escapes us and we are stuck in a decayed but vivid scene when we wished that the sun had not set so fast or that someone had just kept going or never reached for us in the first place. Like a white gull pressed against a dark sky, the shadow of a painful memory allows for striking contrast and makes the sweet ones shine.
Nevertheless, memories of playing in the sand with our children do not wake us up at night; nor do they call on us to employ exercises of distraction to eradicate them. It seems to be the heartrending memories and the raw ones that attach themselves to us and demand to be brought everywhere we go. Eckhart Tolle in The Power of Now says, "The mind is a superb instrument if used rightly. Used wrongly, however, it becomes very destructive. To put it more accurately, it is not so much that you use your mind wrongly—you usually don't use it at all. It uses you."
The Institute for the Healing of Memories (IHOM), based in South Africa, addresses the emotional and psychological wounds suffered by those in war ravaged countries. The IHOM attempts to help affected individuals remove painful obstacles which can keep them from moving forward. There is extensive supporting evidence that forgiveness promotes healing and thereby peace. The IHOM asserts that holding on to the anger and hate associated with wartime experiences can give way to future conflict and violence. Healing takes place by acknowledging the hurt that led to the feelings and working through a series of exercises intended to permit emotional and spiritual growth.
Rhodes Scholar and renowned teacher of Creative Thinking, Edward de Bono said simply “A memory is what is left when something happens and does not completely unhappen.” Overused expressions like ‘unfinished business’ and ‘closure’ often pepper well meaning advice; but finishing and closing are not always viable options. Death, distance, and circumstance are thieves who strike without notice, depriving us of options and time.
On the complicated subject of eradicating memories it seems everyone is an expert on everyone else’s pain. Most of us march through day after day thanking God for every experience, every sunset and every person who ever walked through the doors of our lives. Still other times gratitude escapes us and we are stuck in a decayed but vivid scene when we wished that the sun had not set so fast or that someone had just kept going or never reached for us in the first place. Like a white gull pressed against a dark sky, the shadow of a painful memory allows for striking contrast and makes the sweet ones shine.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
What Lurks in the Woods
I like to camp. I feel capable, simple and strong in the woods. I take pleasure in fashioning retractable bear-proof garbage systems in trees and using my Swiss army knife to solve problems. Being without modern amenities and setting up a tent takes me back to cherished days on the Pocantico Hills Camp bike trip when dirty was a state of mind and sweaty was a sign of triumph.
My father did not like to fly and so each summer we drove the 24 hours from New York to Florida in the most efficiently packed vehicle on the road. Prior to departure, my father would evaluate our luggage and the available cargo space of our Ford Bronco, then mastermind the most geometrically superior packing plan ever created. He would create a comfortable space in the back of the Bronco for my brother and sister and me to lay down with our pillows, blankets and books. Our vehicle was miraculously transformed into an RV every year and we were never short of amazed. As a result, I am convinced that in the area of packing a truck for a trip, I am genetically gifted. Sadly, my husband feels the same way about his own skills and so at the inception of each trip I bite my tongue and watch him pack the bed of our pickup. Admittedly he does an excellent job packing the bed, but then seems to forget a number of things including all that our children have packed and by the time the superfluous items are loaded into the back seat all that is discernable is a pile of possessions with four little blue eyeballs peering out from within it. Off we go!
We camp in the Adirondacks. Our entire road trip from front door to campsite is breathtaking and that truth is never lost on any of us. Due to circumstances beyond our control, we were forced to try a new campground on our latest outing. We arrived at the main office to find an old gas hearth outside with a filthy couch in front of it, I suppose in case one fancied sitting in a roadside parking lot on an infected couch gazing at a sham of a fireplace. In addition, there were two dozen motorcycles and bikers in the lot. As we assessed the situation we assured ourselves that the biker group must have only stopped to gather supplies at the campground’s convenience store. Minutes later they left and we were relieved. As my husband got out of the truck to check in, he offered us a comforting farewell, “If I am not out in 15 minutes, send someone for me”. The girls and I locked the door behind him.
As we headed to site 19 we were unnerved to find that the sites were extremely close to one another with no privacy. For those that do not camp this means, among other things, that you will either get up and walk all the way to the actual bathroom in the middle of the night, or you will hold it until morning. As a camping family we all get into the act and have a comfortable campsite with dining tent, sleeping tent, cooking station, campfire ring and hammock erected within 30 minutes. This was an impressive home for the next two nights, indeed. Moments into our camping adventure we realized that our fellow site mates did not speak English. All of Canada had come to enjoy the Adirondacks this weekend as well it seemed; and, as English speaking Americans we felt like foreigners in our own land.
To our dismay our site mates were young, loud and drunk making our home away from home so unappealing that I gave pause to consider sleeping in the parking lot, on the contaminated couch, in front of the broken fireplace. As I attempted to settle into my sleeping bag, I was struck by distant thunder. A loud roar built in the distance and rumbled toward us like an earthquake. As I considered the possibilities of what act of God would sweep us from our beds, the ground shook and the procession of Harley Davidsons made its way into our campground highlight after headlight. Later, I was pleased to learn that while their late night entrance was unsavory, the bikers were far more courteous than our foreign friends. Despite my family’s cornucopia of sleep aids, from iPods to ear plugs, I stayed awake all night protecting my young from the potential hazards of insolent heathens.
The Adirondack weather graciously provided us with sunny days and cool nights. All in all, we had a delightful weekend full of horse show jumping, kayak racing, swimming and hiking. Cooking together made us feel capable as a foursome and while our Killer Bunnies game turned ugly at times due to our collective competitive nature, the weekend was a success. There was even a bit of culture as we learned that everyone is different, manners matter, and most of all it is hilarious to yell “Fermez la bouche! “ as a family at 3:00am.
My father did not like to fly and so each summer we drove the 24 hours from New York to Florida in the most efficiently packed vehicle on the road. Prior to departure, my father would evaluate our luggage and the available cargo space of our Ford Bronco, then mastermind the most geometrically superior packing plan ever created. He would create a comfortable space in the back of the Bronco for my brother and sister and me to lay down with our pillows, blankets and books. Our vehicle was miraculously transformed into an RV every year and we were never short of amazed. As a result, I am convinced that in the area of packing a truck for a trip, I am genetically gifted. Sadly, my husband feels the same way about his own skills and so at the inception of each trip I bite my tongue and watch him pack the bed of our pickup. Admittedly he does an excellent job packing the bed, but then seems to forget a number of things including all that our children have packed and by the time the superfluous items are loaded into the back seat all that is discernable is a pile of possessions with four little blue eyeballs peering out from within it. Off we go!
We camp in the Adirondacks. Our entire road trip from front door to campsite is breathtaking and that truth is never lost on any of us. Due to circumstances beyond our control, we were forced to try a new campground on our latest outing. We arrived at the main office to find an old gas hearth outside with a filthy couch in front of it, I suppose in case one fancied sitting in a roadside parking lot on an infected couch gazing at a sham of a fireplace. In addition, there were two dozen motorcycles and bikers in the lot. As we assessed the situation we assured ourselves that the biker group must have only stopped to gather supplies at the campground’s convenience store. Minutes later they left and we were relieved. As my husband got out of the truck to check in, he offered us a comforting farewell, “If I am not out in 15 minutes, send someone for me”. The girls and I locked the door behind him.
As we headed to site 19 we were unnerved to find that the sites were extremely close to one another with no privacy. For those that do not camp this means, among other things, that you will either get up and walk all the way to the actual bathroom in the middle of the night, or you will hold it until morning. As a camping family we all get into the act and have a comfortable campsite with dining tent, sleeping tent, cooking station, campfire ring and hammock erected within 30 minutes. This was an impressive home for the next two nights, indeed. Moments into our camping adventure we realized that our fellow site mates did not speak English. All of Canada had come to enjoy the Adirondacks this weekend as well it seemed; and, as English speaking Americans we felt like foreigners in our own land.
To our dismay our site mates were young, loud and drunk making our home away from home so unappealing that I gave pause to consider sleeping in the parking lot, on the contaminated couch, in front of the broken fireplace. As I attempted to settle into my sleeping bag, I was struck by distant thunder. A loud roar built in the distance and rumbled toward us like an earthquake. As I considered the possibilities of what act of God would sweep us from our beds, the ground shook and the procession of Harley Davidsons made its way into our campground highlight after headlight. Later, I was pleased to learn that while their late night entrance was unsavory, the bikers were far more courteous than our foreign friends. Despite my family’s cornucopia of sleep aids, from iPods to ear plugs, I stayed awake all night protecting my young from the potential hazards of insolent heathens.
The Adirondack weather graciously provided us with sunny days and cool nights. All in all, we had a delightful weekend full of horse show jumping, kayak racing, swimming and hiking. Cooking together made us feel capable as a foursome and while our Killer Bunnies game turned ugly at times due to our collective competitive nature, the weekend was a success. There was even a bit of culture as we learned that everyone is different, manners matter, and most of all it is hilarious to yell “Fermez la bouche! “ as a family at 3:00am.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Unlikely Rebel
I am a rule follower by nature. I miss opportunities otherwise seized by the majority on the basis that they may run a slight risk of violating some potentially unwritten law. To this end, I miss out on many a good parking spot on the off chance I could be towed. But today I broke as many written and unwritten rules as possible, most in the area of etiquette and human decency. In church this morning it was offered that we often express anger as a response to our own feelings of hurt, frustration and fear. While not angry, I did act out of all three emotions today and enjoyed doing so. Following service, which I attended alone, I drove without informing anyone in my family, to my favorite coffee house. Broken Rule #1. Off to a fine start. Upon arrival, I found that it had undergone extensive, and in my opinion unnecessary and unwelcome renovation. Nevertheless, I took a seat at the bar in the window and watched the prettiest snowfall, drank the worst latte, and enjoyed the solitude.
I chose this place because on past visits I had wondered to myself why such a gem was so sadly under patronized and today 'quiet' was on my agenda. Unfortunately, sleek cappuccino machines, shiny new bamboo flooring, flashy decking with modern handrails, and granite counter tops seem to coax the residents of Jericho out of their otherwise sleepy farmhouses on snowy Sunday mornings. In a misery loves company moment, a large woman dressed in pink sat uncomfortably close to me. I had taken the middle seat at the three person bar to make it less likely that anyone would sit next to me. These are not the rules by which I typically play, but this was not a typical morning. I was in an almost visible bubble and I was liking it. Her proximity was so close that it forced me to gather my newspaper innards, stack them neatly, tuck my elbows in and put my latte mug on top of my paper making it impossible to flip the pages at my leisure. I became so uncomfortable with this posturing that I hummed along loudly with the tune playing in the coffee house which seemed to work. A sideways glace in my direction on her part, and not one bar into "Round Here" by the Counting Crows and she was gone. Rule #2 shattered.
I was surprised to find myself feeling so mutinous after church and in the coffee shop to which I had come to soul search. But then I do enjoy the rare and sporadic digression into sarcasm and in fact at the inception of this blog I all but promised such forays to its readers. As a writer I find it fascinating to write in different states of mind and this was certainly a different state of mind. Immediately following the ingenious humming incident I decided that writing in this, at best overtired and at worst unhinged, state should yield something funny if not perhaps admissible in court. So I did what any Sunday morning-post church-rule breaker might do I grabbed the newly renovated coffee shop's menu, flipped it over and started writing. Rule #3...nearly unforgivable.
Sometimes I stare blankly at my laptop waiting for inspiration, but today I wondered how many menus I could swipe before they thanked me for my gracious $5.25 purchase and tossed me out onto the brand new porch. As the snow continued to fall the words gushed from brain to pen to menu and my smile grew wider and likely more odd to those around me. Two menus later I found myself less cantankerous, kind of liking the smooth granite counter, feeling bad about the girl I'd hummed out of there and looking forward to heading home. I am a rule follower by nature. So even when I set out to break them, I am generally the only one who notices. But sometimes going rogue, if only in one’s mind, is just the outlet we need to turn a bad day around. It really was a beautiful, sugary snowfall.
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I chose this place because on past visits I had wondered to myself why such a gem was so sadly under patronized and today 'quiet' was on my agenda. Unfortunately, sleek cappuccino machines, shiny new bamboo flooring, flashy decking with modern handrails, and granite counter tops seem to coax the residents of Jericho out of their otherwise sleepy farmhouses on snowy Sunday mornings. In a misery loves company moment, a large woman dressed in pink sat uncomfortably close to me. I had taken the middle seat at the three person bar to make it less likely that anyone would sit next to me. These are not the rules by which I typically play, but this was not a typical morning. I was in an almost visible bubble and I was liking it. Her proximity was so close that it forced me to gather my newspaper innards, stack them neatly, tuck my elbows in and put my latte mug on top of my paper making it impossible to flip the pages at my leisure. I became so uncomfortable with this posturing that I hummed along loudly with the tune playing in the coffee house which seemed to work. A sideways glace in my direction on her part, and not one bar into "Round Here" by the Counting Crows and she was gone. Rule #2 shattered.
I was surprised to find myself feeling so mutinous after church and in the coffee shop to which I had come to soul search. But then I do enjoy the rare and sporadic digression into sarcasm and in fact at the inception of this blog I all but promised such forays to its readers. As a writer I find it fascinating to write in different states of mind and this was certainly a different state of mind. Immediately following the ingenious humming incident I decided that writing in this, at best overtired and at worst unhinged, state should yield something funny if not perhaps admissible in court. So I did what any Sunday morning-post church-rule breaker might do I grabbed the newly renovated coffee shop's menu, flipped it over and started writing. Rule #3...nearly unforgivable.
Sometimes I stare blankly at my laptop waiting for inspiration, but today I wondered how many menus I could swipe before they thanked me for my gracious $5.25 purchase and tossed me out onto the brand new porch. As the snow continued to fall the words gushed from brain to pen to menu and my smile grew wider and likely more odd to those around me. Two menus later I found myself less cantankerous, kind of liking the smooth granite counter, feeling bad about the girl I'd hummed out of there and looking forward to heading home. I am a rule follower by nature. So even when I set out to break them, I am generally the only one who notices. But sometimes going rogue, if only in one’s mind, is just the outlet we need to turn a bad day around. It really was a beautiful, sugary snowfall.
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