Glanced out my window to see a dark shape at the suet feeder, and assumed it was a grackle. Instead, it was a bird I’d never seen before: a Lewis’s Woodpecker.
Here’s the one photo I snapped before s/he flew across the yard:
I ran to the other end of the house and took this photo from my standing-desk window:
Such a delightful start to this day. As Tom Robbins wrote in Still Life with Woodpecker: “It’s never too late to have a happy childhood.”
Three weeks ago today I wrote about going on my first run in a long, long time.
Today I am writing about not being able to run. Again.
When I received the go-ahead from my PT dude to ease back into running, I ran a total of four times. The first two runs were completely pain-free. During the third and fourth runs, my left Achilles tendon was sore. Not excruciatingly sore, but it did hurt. I backed off, but I should’ve backed off sooner.
Shoulda-woulda-coulda.
I’m now on forced rest and cannot even take walks because that’s enough to fire up
the ol’ tendon. Joy in the land. Last week during my PT appointment I was so discouraged
by what felt like a never-ending cycle of injury jumping from one body part to another, that I smacked my kind PT dude in frustration.
Yesterday I had another appointment, and I started with an apology. I then explained that while my tendon was still giving me trouble, I had a better attitude.
What happened? YOU ARE NOT YOUR BRAIN happened.
YOU ARE NOT YOUR BRAIN is a book that’s helped me recognize the false messages my brain sends me, messages I’ve internalized over the years until they were hard-wired in my circuitry. The book is helping me rewire my brain so I’m not held hostage by that nasty voice. Basically, YOU ARE NOT YOUR BRAIN is a highly readable how-to on neuroplasticity. (Say it with me, people: neuroplasticity!)
Testimonial: Monday afternoon I lifted weights (an activity I’m easing back into) and as I stood in front of the full-length mirror that helps me maintain good form while lifting, I felt a wave of all sorts of yucky thoughts and feelings around the fact that I’m weak and now must lift much lighter weights and have put on some pounds and don’t look so hot in my workout togs. The thought of starting over to get back to my strong and fit self felt like too much; I felt ugly and weak and worthless and overwhelmed by the entire situation.
And then I reined myself in and talked to my brain. I followed the steps and began the process of rewiring my brain by lifting weights while maintaining eye contact in the mirror. I didn’t look anywhere but in my eyes, because that’s where my true self was evident. Not in my waist or thighs or arms. My eyes. I smiled into my blue peepers and lifted those weights, knowing that by taking action I was drowning out that voice and making it harder for it to reappear. It will come back, it always does, but each time I take positive action while that voice yammers at me, the voice loses power over me.
In the meanwhile, I’m rocking the RockTape and trying to focus on how far I’ve come. I won’t be running the Bolder Boulder next month and am still royally frustrated with my limitations, but I’m trying hard not to take those personally.
One step at a time.
One splash of yellow . . .
plus a dash of lavender . . .
means that spring has officially sprung!
Is it possible,
do you think?
For a squirrel
to fall in love with a cat?
To pose and perform?
To entice rather than tease?
Is it possible,
do you think?
For one cat to writhe in response
while the other watches dispassionately?
Is it possible,
do you think?
To guess who writhed
and who yawned?
The last time I went for a run was 81 days ago. Today, with the full blessing of my physical therapist, I ran again.
It’s been a hard bunch of months around here as I went from being someone who did yoga almost every morning plus ran a couple times per week plus lifted weights three times per week plus sneaking in a hooping session or two, to a woman who couldn’t do much of anything.
How did that happen? It was the strangest thing but apparently my old gluteal muscle aka left butt cheek issue didn’t like how I ignored it and let it get tighter and tighter, and so triggered other tight points in my body which culminated in my back getting so tight and painful that it hurt to move. I literally went from being able to put my palms flat on the floor to the next day not being able to reach much past my knees. It was bizarre.
Depression ensued. As did loss of muscle and weight gain. Many tears were shed as I wallowed in what I was afraid would be a permanent condition. I went on my first job interview in about twenty years (with the hope I’d be better by the time the job started) and was hired to work at the library, but ended up having to tell them I couldn’t take the position due to my physical limitations. I never, ever would’ve guessed I’d have to turn down a job for that reason, and it was humbling.
But my physical therapist and I persevered, and then I started getting massages from a genius therapist who focused on trigger points which then allowed me to do more of the stretching and strengthening exercises without pain. We saw light at the end of the tunnel.
Today I came out of that tunnel. I walked for ten minutes then ran (slowly) for fifteen minutes then walked another ten, ran another fifteen, and walked ten more minutes for a whopping total of 60 minutes of exercise! All I’ve done over the last several months was walk for about thirty minutes at a time, and when I walked home this afternoon I wept tears of gratitude and happiness and oh-my-goddess-I’ve-missed-running-so-very-much-tears.
I’d left a note for Zebu letting him know when I took off and when to expect me home, asking him to drive up the street to find me if I hadn’t returned by then. Just as I walked into the driveway, the garage door went up. There was my son, the one who’s been so sad on my behalf as I struggled to regain my mobility, getting ready to come haul his sad mama home. He smiled when he saw me there and his smile got bigger when I told him I felt great.
Here I am, fresh out of the shower, so very happy to be back:
This morning I reported for jury duty at the county courthouse. I had mixed feelings about being there (because selection would mean I’d have to reschedule an appointment set for tomorrow), but was mostly focused on doing my civic duty.
image from MorgueFile.com
I was pulled from the larger pool into a group of 36 potential jurors for a criminal trial of a man charged with doing $1000 – $25,000 in property damages (this was the summary given by judge before jury selection; basically, a vandalism trial). Twenty-two names were drawn from a box (twelve in jury box and ten seated in front as alternates; I was not one of them) and those people were interviewed by the judge. After that, the prosecutor and defense attorney each had thirty minutes to ask those potential jurors questions that would help them determine who was and who was not a good fit for that jury.
Holy crap. I’m paraphrasing, but it went like this:
“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. If someone is charged, it usually means they’re guilty.”
“In Italy, where I’m from, a person is presumed guilty until proved innocent.” (Paging Amanda Knox!)
“I’m a former police officer and I would always believe testimony from the police.”
“People don’t get stopped for no reason.” (I wanted to shout “Do you have any idea how many men get pulled over for Driving While Black?!”)
It was a fascinating peek into the minds of my fellow citizens in mostly-white Jefferson County, Colorado. When the prosecutor asked each person “Do you think you’d be a good juror?” I thought to myself, “Yes, I’d be a good juror.” And then I started thinking about why I would be a good juror, and I decided it was because of my strong sense of justice and fair play. But then he pressed one woman for why she thought she’d be a good juror and she said, “Because I’d want me on my jury,” and my brain went *ping*
That’s it, I thought. The proof that I’d be a good juror is that I know for a fact I’d want me on my jury. Somehow, that epiphany was such a relief!
Except. It turns out that I’m not so unique. A bunch of other potential jurors repeated that same sentiment. And then Zebu confessed to having that same *ping* this afternoon when I repeated that woman’s remark. Which leads me to believe that if we ALL feel that way, maybe it’s not a very compelling argument.
So now I’m broadening my field of inquiry: Would YOU feel better having yourself on your own jury? And, if so, why do you think that is?
Click on pic for an up-close look into the mind of a 13-year-old.
I submitted the middle-grade of my heart to an editor who was at our local conference last fall and haven’t heard a peep. I just went to my sub timeline and marked it as a No Response = PASS submission.
Closure is good. Not always painless, but still, a good and necessary perspective.
It’s slow-going on my YA, but I’m making progress despite the usual distractions:
All that’s hard enough, but now I have these lovable cats in the house and they demand my attention.
A few minutes ago I was working on my manuscript as Marcel sat in the window behind me, looking at birds and making that funny chuckling sound cats make when they see something they’d like to de-feather, but I was stoic and blocked out his bizarre noises to keep writing. Until, that is, he climbed over my shoulder and down onto my chest where he curled up and aimed his big goofy eyes at me. Really, I’m supposed to have the willpower to ignore such overt emotional manipulation?
And how about his brother Loki who has no respect for my writing boundaries or, for that matter, any boundary?
Maybe I’m supposed to treat him like a Muse?
Yesterday was tough for a variety of reasons, but I didn’t realize how much of a toll it was taking until late last night when I was practically giddy with happiness. What happened?
I received a follow-up phone call from Wildebeest who earlier in the day had expressed major angst and panic about a college assignment. He called back to explain how he’d managed to turn SS Catastrophe around and emerge victorious. As we talked, Wildebeest’s insights into his earlier behaviors and reactions, and my efforts to disengage from his panic, made me feel as if a heavy weight had been lifted. It was one of those Gold Star Parenting Moments.
Right after that call Zippy and I went to the high school to watch Zebu play his last home basketball game. He’s a senior this year and it’s been a disappointing season for him. He was seriously injured during a pre-season conditioning workout and ended up in the hospital for three days with a lacerated liver, and then couldn’t play for eight weeks. By the time he came back, his confidence was low and he never really hit his stride. But I’ve been mightily impressed with how he’s carried himself throughout those disappointments, and so was especially thrilled for him last night when he played his best game of the year. Talking with a relaxed and happy post-game Zebu felt like an absolute gift.
So that’s how my emotionally difficult day ended on a giddy note. As we got ready for bed, I repeatedly told Zippy how much better I felt; I was like an awestruck little kid taking out a shiny new toy to inspect over and over. I couldn’t stop staring at the Happy.
We all make our own happiness in this life, I can’t create it for my children and they aren’t responsible for mine, but it sure feels good when those positive feelings overlap and we’re all basking in the glow.
Loki
Marcel
(If I were casting Sunset Boulevard, I’d choose Marcel to play Norma Desmond. Something about those eyes . . . )
**
. . . but you can’t make him drink.
(This message brought to you by Parenting Lessons I’m Still Trying to Learn.)
** (photo from OpenImageBank.com – Wildebeest at a river in Ngorongoro Conservation Area, Tanzania)
I love movies. But because I very much dislike watching movies in theaters with people who talk and rustle candy wrappers, I’ve missed many films I wanted to see. (Some I’ve seen at home on our little screen, and while that’s not ideal, it is better than nothing.)
When I found out the Coen brothers not only had a new movie, but that it was about the early Greenwich Village folk scene, I knew it was one I had to experience on a big screen with big sound. It wasn’t until last Friday that Zippy and I finally got our butts to a matinee showing of Inside Llewyn Davis. And it was wonderful. More people in the audience than I would’ve liked, but we were strategic about our seat selection and people were well-behaved. I enjoyed the movie very much and frequently thought about it in the following days. I highly recommend it.
Because last Friday was such a success, we did the same thing today. Zippy took time off from work and we went to see Nebraska, another film we knew needed to be seen on a big screen. (Here’s the premise that hooked me from the moment I read it: After receiving a sweepstakes letter in the mail, a cantankerous father (Bruce Dern) thinks he’s struck it rich, and wrangles his son (Will Forte) into taking a road trip to claim the fortune. Shot in black and white across four states, Nebraska tells the stories of family life in the heartland of America.) I laughed and cried, and Bruce Dern’s wild, white hair alone is worth the price of admission. (There was a bit of talking today in the audience which temporarily rattled my focus, but I was able to block it out and the guilty parties soon shut the hell up without me having to give them that instruction. Whew.)
One of the coolest parts of the afternoon was that we met a woman in the ticket line who was there to see another movie that had already started, and she wondered what we were seeing. When I told her, she said she hadn’t heard of it so I gave her the blurb and she decided to try out Nebraska. Well, as the credits rolled she stopped by our seats (where I was wiping away tears) to say, “Thank you. That was great.”
Word of mouth, baby. Which is why I’ll say it again: Inside Llewyn Davis and Nebraska are two excellent films worth seeing.
Next Friday? I’m thinking maybe Dallas Buyers Club.
Stockings up since Christmas Eve plus Valentine’s Day card from 2012 or so.
Confession time:
(1) I did not work on my YA at all today, but instead worked on a non-writing project, using my Front Office Mind, and really hope my Middle Mind was thinking YA-related thoughts in preparation for tomorrow’s writing.
(2) I’ve suffered bed-head all day, proudly embracing Zebu’s assertion that I resemble Woody Woodpecker.
I’ve been at this writing thing for a while, working toward publication. There have been highs and lows throughout the journey, validation followed by rejection. It’s been tough, but I’ve always been tougher. Something inside wouldn’t let me quit. Something inside knew I did not want to give up.
Several weeks ago, I began to seriously consider quitting.
Seriously, as in, I actually said out loud, “I’m thinking about quitting.” And I spoke those words to a new non-writer acquaintance who’d asked about my writing. That was a huge moment, because during all the years of writing in the bleachers during Zebu’s basketball games and being asked by other parents if I was a teacher grading papers, I always said, “No, I’m a writer.” If they asked more questions, I’d let them know I was writing novels for kids and when the inevitable question came, I’d say, “No, I haven’t been published yet.” And it was okay. There was a core of steel in me that allowed me to have those conversations. I knew I’d keep writing until my stories were published. I knew I’d prevail.
Nothing specific happened in the past month or so to shake my convictions, but somehow I felt I’d reached my limit. As in, maybe it was time to quit putting my work out there to be judged because maybe, just maybe, it was unhealthy to continue making myself vulnerable to others’ opinions. Sending out a manuscript is like offering my heart on a plate so that it can be stabbed, sometimes repeatedly.
So I gave myself a little break. A break from writing and a break from decision-making about writing for publication. I kept reading, though. One of the books I read was a YA from an author who’d written one of the best books I’d read in 2013, an author who sells gazillions of books and seems to be an awesome person. The YA I read was a huge disappointment. Weak, weak, weak. I was flabbergasted. And slightly annoyed. I knew better than to write a protagonist who doesn’t change and secondary characters who serve as placeholders and plot lines that go nowhere, fizzling out into big nothings. Why do I know that? Because I know how to write.
And just like that I knew I wasn’t ready to quit writing for publication. Not because I have any delusions about knocking that author off the best-seller list. And not because I’m angry with the publishing world that has, thus far, excluded me from the club. I’ve gone back to work on my YA because I want to continue doing what I know how to do, and to continue learning how to do that even better.
I am a writer. And no, I haven’t yet been published. Whatever.
Image from MorgueFile.com by Alvimann
Photo by Zebu
“My advice is to grab your rubber duckies and get ready for the week.”
Just received some news from a friend. Her email got me thinking of the day I ran down the battery on my hybrid vehicle and how my friend was more than willing to get under the hood, uh, trunk, to set things right again.
You can do this, sister. But just in case you forget, I got your back.
Today is one of my favorite days of the year: the winter solstice. Tomorrow we’ll have only a few seconds more of daylight, but knowing each coming day will be a tiny bit longer and a tiny bit brighter makes me very happy. I can cope now that the light’s on my side.
HAPPY SOLSTICE, EVERYONE!
Image courtesy of MorgueFile.com
I’ve started a new volunteer gig and yesterday was my second day helping out. The man who’s training me noted that there was just one week until Christmas. My back was to him and without the benefit of body language, I assumed (I know, I know), he was launching into the typical stressed-out “I haven’t started my shopping yet and there’s so much I need to do” conversation so I figured I’d put us both out of our misery and/or guilt by announcing that all I cared about was the Winter Solstice and increased daylight. I capped it off with “Christmas Smishtmas.”
Turns out he wanted to talk about the over-sized tree he’d gotten this year and how it’s too big for his tiny apartment, but that it’s so nice to go home after a long day and turn on those pretty colored lights. Oh, yeah, and beneath that beautiful tree? Wrapped gifts for his girlfriend.
The poor guy sounded apologetic.
The thing is, I totally understand those sentiments and if I wasn’t so lazy, I would have put up some pretty colored lights of my own. I tried to convey that, but he was clearly ready to move on to a non-Scrooge-related topic.
MorgueFile photo courtesy of Cohdra
“Darkness is cheap, and Scrooge liked it.” ~ Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol
Chances are high that if Marcel is purring, Marcel is also drooling.
“In my defense, I’d like to point out that I’m drool-free in this pic.”
I really like Zebu’s physics class work-in-progress, but the kitchen probably isn’t the most sensible place to create a mobile.
However, we’re all adapting.
Zippy made a delicious pot of soup despite the influence of those stinky shoes, and Loki seems content to stroll beneath the teetering creation. So I guess it’s my issue if I smack my head on one of the poles.
I’m too heartsick to seek out details, but there was another shooting at a Colorado high school today. One of my sons is still in high school (a different one), and I’m at a complete loss. How did we get to the point in which it’s commonplace for kids to go to school with the knowledge that some unhinged individual with a gun might show up that day?
F*ck you, Wayne LaPierre and the NRA and anyone else who says s/he’ll fight to the death to protect the Second Amendment. Your priorities are massively f*cked up.
Our hearts broke when we had to say goodbye to Lebowski and his awesome dudeness, and I can still close my eyes and feel the purring weight of him on my outstretched hand. Lebowski and his energy were unique, yet that energy was a subset of Feline Energy, and after he was gone I didn’t just miss him, but also the energy that only comes from cats.
Please welcome Loki:
The consummate trickster.
and his brother Marcel:
“Give me a thick rubber band and I’m a happy guy.”
They are wonderful cats and I look forward to sharing their escapades, but for now here’s a major insight: A benefit to having one all-black and one all-white cat is that the high contrast makes it easy to see who’s doing what during wrestling matches:
Marcel bunny-punching Loki’s head.
I’d forgotten that these photos from a couple weeks ago were on the camera and when I looked at them just now, I realized they held an important reminder for me.
When life feels crazy and overwhelming, I often only see what’s right there in front of me
but when I can take a breath and take a step back, I get a better sense of what’s going on.
Which means that when I take another few steps back, I see even more of the big picture.
Breathing is good. Stepping back is good. And, by golly, every single day has its moments of good.
Tracy Abell 