The joy of it.

I ran for the joy of it. I ran to capture the moment – to move as fast as it moved past me, dragging it behind me as I kicked short-legged.

I ran for the exercise. Breathing in and out, heavy and full-lunged. Arms stiffly swinging. Knees. Hips. Neck.

I ran because I found I could do it. Though, there was a time I could barely climb a flight of stairs without clinging to the wall or railing at the top. Or even laying on the floor. Chest heaving and eyes aching from the exertion.

I ran because I had to. I ran because life was chasing me down. Life was beating my body and I fought back by lacing up a pair of sneakers and rhythmically lifting one leg at a time, tossing it out in front of me like an anchor on the pavement.

Eventually I ran for a mile. A miracle, I thought. I burst into my home crying, calling out for my love. I ran! I ran a mile! I hollered. And I ran into his arms, sweaty and red-faced.

Then I ran two miles. Then three. I ran a 5k with a friend, getting splashed with colored cornstarch as we twisted in and out of the crowd. I ran five miles, circling a one and a half mile route around my home in Kansas, and developed a bubbled oval blister that I wore with pride.

I run through grief and anger. I run with sorrow, heavy in my chest and pinched in my throat. I run with strength up steep hills, speeding up just for fun. I run with friends. I run waving at the cats and nodding at the birds peeking at me from bushes, trees, porches and lawns.

And though there are times that I forget the pure happiness that fills my veins after a long run, and I often let busy-ness crowd out my need for that specific rhythm, and I sometimes choose to lay on the couch with a movie instead. When I run, I run with joy.

Newness.

Every once in a while I find myself grinning amidst the chaos of change.

We moved, yet again. And this time just three houses away. We had our lists of reasons for this seemingly strange decision – to us it makes sense. We boxed the smaller belongings, just to escort them by car less than a tenth of a mile. We loaded the couch and bed using a friend’s truck for thirty minutes.

I stood in my new kitchen, smiling at the full-size oven and giggling at the plastic white dishwasher. I tested all the lights, tried out all the windows. I explored the space and loaded the dishwasher four times in as many hours. I had a great day.

I get antsy with sameness. My memories, reaching back into the eighties and nineties, are full of rearranging items in my childhood bedrooms every few months. There’s something adventurous about change. Something courageous. An excitement of discovery, wandering the fresh landscape where no memories live. There is fertile ground for new possibilities. Even just with a new placement of the couch.

So this week will be filled with piles of cardboard and loads (and loads) of laundry. I will reorganize the refrigerator, deciding were to put the cartons of milk and bottles of mustard and rectangle pats of butter. I will hang gauzy curtains and fill the bookshelves with my favorite thing to do.

I will enjoy every single moment.

Spring Boots

Joel’s boots sat on the porch this morning. They were still wet from hiking in the dark the night before. Small, soft pink cherry blossom petals clung to the dark bootskin. I stood there for a moment, my key slowing turning the lock, and wondered about his adventure in the middle of the night.

I saw my marriage in those boots – my marriage to an artist. His creativity pushing and pulling him in strange directions. Wielding flashlights at two in the morning in the pitch black wooded hills. Bent over roadkill – on highway 33, going north, going south, going west on highway 50 – photographing a gruesome beauty. His insight into the “whys” – the deeper intent – of typography choices. His need to create a masterpiece with his fingernail on the restaurant take-home cartons after dinner.

Even our more philosophical conversations end in some creative bend.

Every part of his life, even the parts that don’t overlap mine – that he’s too busy to recount and I’m too busy to hear about – is governed by this need to explore and define his world this way.

I have the courage to not just say I write, but to actually do it – because of him. I have the intuition to notice sunsets and the texture of worn-down tire tread – because of him. I can see endless possibilities in our future, both uplifting and grim. But I know that despite the events that may unfold in the yet-to-come, I will still be observing this man from the corner. Taking mental and emotional notes. Learning from his fervor in collecting the essence of each moment and attempting to craft echoes that possess the truth and shape of it all.

And he will still be there, his smile making me lose my ordered step, his boots still damp on the porch covered in flowers, beckoning me to join him as he creates a perfectly fitted frame for our life.

 

http://www.joel-prince.com

http://www.joelprincephotography.blogspot.com

My sensibility.

My face contorts in overexpression, mouth gaping, eyes stretched overly open by eyebrows strung up under a furrowed hairline. The listener’s reaction to my theatrical telling of some event, complete with fast moving hand gestures, is usually this: a look from left to right, a single step back, hands slowly raising in front of their life-sustaining organs.

I have a penchant for exaggeration. As a child I would make others roar with laughter, lean forward with concern, or turn their head in sadness – simply by telling them something, anything I could think of. Once I learned the importance of indicating true stories from made up ones, there were a lot of afterthought confessions.

I’m working on this. I work on it by writing about it.

My stories lean toward the vivid description, sometimes with a suggestion of wit slid into the margins, or appended with flippancy. Details, I believe, tell a story all in themselves: A buttonhole without a flower. The tips of ten long fingernails with the French tip paint chipping off. A single shoe on the side of a country highway.

I try to not be sentimental, but sometimes I fail. I own a handful of binders stuffed with 3-hole-punched paper that testifies to this. And yet I keep them.

I think this says something about my sensibility. I believe there are moments of creativity that may not fit into some mold, that can’t be analyzed through some filter, or appreciated according to some standard. But thankfully they fit in plain-grey plastic books that sit, year after year, in the cubbyholed bookshelf in my office.

It’s still spring.

It’s still winter, here at the beginning of spring. It’s still flurried with snowflakes, patches of white breath clouding our vision, and stinging ungloved hands in the morning. The little critter was wrong, our tradition a liar. But it’s still beautiful.

I will always thrill at the first peek around the curtain, exclaiming, “Snow!” as though I am a ten-year-old again when snow days had a much deeper meaning. There is something magical in a hazy white sky where distance cannot be discerned, no cloud to mark some far up place. The heavens are closer, like a soft blanket covering the world. Fluff from the old blanket is stirred loose by the winds, drifting down to us as we peek through our frosted windows. We bundle and wrap, cover and tuck, and head out into this charmed landscape.

Are our expectations disappointed? We expected the first shoots of daffodils and jean jackets. We expected less bad hair days. We expected the next season, and according to the calendar that governs our lives, it should be now.

I’ve experienced this before. I’m a 32-year-old, still a handful of courses from my Bachelor’s degree, still childless. It’s springtime, but the snowflakes keep falling, the chill still cooling the marrow of my bones.

Yet beneath the dusting there are roots for the daffodil, and I am already wearing my jean jacket under my long, heavy, lined, wool-blend coat.

Underneath it all. It’s still spring.

Early life lessons with a lebanese soundtrack = I was the worst waitress ever.

My first waitressing job was set, like a quirky sitcom, in a small mediterranean cafe. There were less than ten round tables and two or three booths tucked up against the walls. Photographs hung at forehead height – framed images that might have been taken from a going-out-of-business sale for a travel agency in the 90s, complete with thin gold frames. The light from the two large storefront windows was softened by the pale pink decor.

A small shop was attached. I discovered halvah, wrapped in parchment paper and veined with chocolate, within the first two days of my employment. Jars of foodstuffs in olive oil, tins of spices, boxes of tea leaves, and wooden barrels of olives shipped straight from Lebanon to the tiny cement loading dock in the back, where workers would wash the green and black ovals on a white grating in a stainless-steel sink before dumping them in barrels and dragging them two rooms away to the front of the store. The aroma reminded me of the sour pungency of men’s deodorant.

I wasn’t trained on how to wait tables, just given an apron and pointed in the direction of customers patiently waiting at the “Please Wait to Be Seated” sign. “Tips,” whispered the manager in my ear with his heavy lebanese accent. His big, rough, and slightly soggy hand gently cupping my elbow and urging me forward. “Go.”

I was 18, and hadn’t yet discovered that I was an extrovert. I think I mumbled something like over here please, stuck them in the corner, and walked away. Then later, returning with a tray much too awkward for my miniature hands. I set the tray down, moving the forks and knives and salt and pepper to make room. They leaned back in their chairs and stared at the round, brown tray as I yanked the dishes of falafel, chicken tawook, and stuffed grape leaves toward them.

Waiting tables dragged me through the transition from childhood to adulthood – that abrupt realization of responsibilities when you have to put the electric in your name, when credit card offers seduce you from where you tossed them on the kitchen table, not yet ready to throw the possibilities away. Waiting tables taught me how to balance my mood, my time, and four dinner plates at once. Waiting tables became my outlet for that lost feeling that showed up in my life right around the same time that adulthood found me. At least I could manage three tables and a booth during a four hour shift. Or at least I thought I could.

An elderly couple, apparently regulars for years, came in for an early lunch. It was maybe the third or fourth day of my first week. I was no longer using the notepad they provided me – obviously that was the thing to do. Just remember the order. Easy.

I gave them menus and silverware wrapped neatly in thin white paper napkins. “Can I get you something to drink?” I said, as perky as a moody, 18-year-old, lost little girl could. I remember they both smiled sweetly and looked up at me as they recited what they wanted. I had already learned that no one looks at you when they give you their order, so this made an immediate impression. I nodded, walked behind the counter, around the glass cold-case with the tiramisu and baklava, shuffling past the large garbage cans already filled disturbingly with sweet smells, and up to the drink dispenser. I grabbed a clear, red, hard plastic cafeteria cup and filled it with ice. Wait. I stopped and stared at the silver tongues hanging down from Dr. Pepper, Pepsi, Orange Crush, and the others. Wait. Their tongues seemed to wag in amusement. Wait. What did they want?

Back to the older couple I skipped – still trying out this perky persona. So sorry, so sorry. Can you tell me again? Again, they looked me in the eye, smiled and made their requests. Again, I walked the route to those taunting tongues. Again, I forgot.

This time, I brought the pad and pen. I held them, one in each hand – the pen tip poised for use, the paper resting in my palm. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I lamented. “I’m going to write it down this time,” I explained, and I forgot about being perky. They nodded and smiled and looked up at me. I leaned forward in concentration. The greying, gently wrinkled man winked at me and reached out. He looked me in the eye, smiled and patted my hand. “Two waters, Sweetheart.”

I promptly wrote it down.

“Lemons?” I asked weakly.

It snew.

Water covering. Clinging. Freezing.

Freckles of salt across the porch stairs. Pock marks.

A grey sky with grey cloud. A muted background for white rain falling in slow motion.

Footprints, paw prints, claw prints.

Gloved hands still cold, held to my face. Cold fingertips, cold cheeks.

Snowballs, white hikes, easy-to-spot cardinals snacking on the grass seeds that forgot it’s February.

I laugh and my breath, white against the grey, warm for a moment, moist and then cold, drifts away. It is no longer mine.

Memories of sled hills in Connecticut. Ice-covered trees and no-school announcements. Tires covered in silver chains.

Snow pants.

Snow men.

Snow cones.

Snow angels.

Pink nose and watering eyes.

Winter muffling life, dimming the light, slowing the pace.

Shake me, I’m in a snow globe.

Pain and laughter.

Pain slows down time. Every breath is felt, every heartbeat, every movement of the eyes. Movement feels too fast, tilting the axis, spinning the room. Going to the bathroom is a brand new effort.

I don’t tolerate pain very well. And the anticipation of pain can be more overwhelming than the pain itself. Most of my life I struggled with a fear of needles, though I have probably had my blood drawn more than my family and friends combined. It seems the experience of pain has the same strange imbalance: I have lived with chronic pain in one form or another most of my life, yet I have this embarrassingly small ability to withstand it. (Complete with loud moans, uncontrollable trembling, leg shaking, and the most dramatic facial expressions you can imagine.)

This is what dominated my thoughts after having two upper ribs removed over the holiday break. The large artery in my neck was damaged by an extra rib that I was born with, the solution was to have the extra rib and the rib next to it cut out of my body. (With the medical equivalent of pruning sheers – shudder.) I faced the inevitability with a “just do it” mentality. Good thing I had overcome my pass-out-every-time fear of needles, because the IV alone was a thick, inch and a half long piece of shiny metal.

It is now three weeks later and I am progressing successfully in my recovery. The memory of the first day – the pain, the inability to filter my emotions, the exhaustion from simply opening my eyes – is still easily accessed. I still squirm in my seat when I recount details to inquisitive listeners.

Hours after waking from anesthesia  I look at the clock on the wall, stare at my husband’s face, breath in, breath out, groan, move my right foot, and try not to cry. I hold back the sobs, not because I have remembered that it’s appropriate to restrain emotion for the sake of those around me, but because it will be excruciating to cry. The morphine doesn’t seem to help that much, but what do I know? So I just moan for more. And then I start counting the seconds, because that is all I can look forward to; be certain of. Each moment will never have to be experienced again. Each second is moving past me, beneath me, through me – detached and rejected by me. One – go away. Two – go away. Three – go away. Three seconds closer to freedom from this punishment.

I won’t even talk about the drainage tube that hung from my chest, an inch below my incision that was drawn across the top of my collarbone. The incision that every patrolling doctor declared as “beautiful” at first site. Not surprising, since my surgeon is arguably the best in the country.

But the pain, the experience did not kill me. I might even say it has made me stronger. How – I don’t know yet. It’s just intuition. And it’s now behind me, part of my story.

Yesterday I went to my second physical therapy appointment. The physical therapist stretched and massaged aching muscles and tried to increase my range of motion. Then he carefully placed his fingers around my incision and began to move the tissues to loosen them and help with the healing process. I can’t even describe how unsettling this was. I remembered this time how important it is for a 32-year-old to not make ridiculous noises. So I focused all my energy on remaining quiet.

He slowly moved in small circles, and then back and forth, up and down. After about ten seconds I realized the disturbing contortions that my face was producing. In embarrassment I murmured,  ”Just ignore my face.”

“I’m trying,” he said playfully.

And then I laughed, suddenly able to relax.

You may have heard me tell this story before…

I have a distinct memory that occupies a very tender space in my reminiscence. It has a little bit to do with the idea of aging, but mostly it signifies a moment in my life when I first felt truly alone. It was my mother’s 32 birthday.

I walked into our bright, linoleumed kitchen in the home we had on the little cul-de-sac in sunny California. The same kitchen where my Mother would bake apple pies from scratch, peeling the apples in spirals and letting me chew on the skin and watch. The same kitchen where I was caught sticking a wet finger in the sugar bowl, in an effort to quickly and efficiently scoop as much sugar into my mouth, which I instinctively knew was a bad choice, though no one specifically told me. Until I was caught. And then I was told. Firmly.

I saw this Mother of mine – the symbol of love, the first person I thought of upon waking – leaning with her back against the countertop. She smiled. I smiled. She told me it was her birthday. The light angled in from the window over the sink,  attempting to illuminate the moment.

I told her it was impossible – there was no way it was her birthday. My exact words, at age six, were probably something like “Nu-uh.”

“It is,” she said. “It’s my birthday, I’m 32 today.”

“No. Momma. Look. I don’t turn seven until December 9th. It’s not even past Halloween yet.” I looked around for a calendar, a clock, my flashcards, something to help me explain.

She sipped her tea. “We weren’t born on the same day, Honey.” She sipped again. I just stared, the sound of her voice sounded faraway and tinny – like she was speaking through the drain of the nearby stainless steel sink. The sink that she would scoot a chair up to, after she wrapped me in an apron and outfitted me with yellow, dusty, gloves, so that I could help with dishes. The sink that I would watch the leftover milk and too-mushy-to-eat Cheerios splash into, almost every morning.

“What?” I asked.

“I’ve been alive a lot longer than you. My birthday is on a different day.” Another sip of tea. Another smile.

My memory stops there. Black. Motionless. But a feeling remains – hovers over the end of the revery. A realization that my Mother, my love, my comfort, my hug-machine, was NOT an extension of my own body. Maybe I looked at my arm, maybe I just wandered back into my room, absorbing this instant moment of maturity. I don’t remember.

What I do remember was how that changed my outlook on the world around me. The world a little bigger, me a little smaller. Everything a little less safe.

Except when I would hear my Mother sing, while she sat on the livingroom floor, strumming the guitar on her lap. That same California light reaching across the shiny yellow wood, and warming my back as I lay upon my stomach watching her. I would feel safe.

Three days ago I turned 32.

I have no daughter to reassure that she can face the world alone. So I reassured myself.

In some ways, I am still that six-year-old, looking for meaning by belonging. And in some ways, I am 32. I now see the choice in where I belong. And I am grateful that I, alone, make that choice for my life.

Label confusion.

I’m an explainer.

Which some people confuse with complainer.

Or long-winded, but I am that too.

I have friends who mean to be well-wishers. But sometimes sound like non-listeners.

Friends that are comedians, but are actually genius observers.

Friends that seem genius, but are just wise enough to not say much.

I’m a sensitive soul who uses words as roots, and I have  a worrying mind that lives in the clouds. But often I just look unorganized and tired.

I am that too.