Women's Work

Learning To Let Go

It’s been a year of learning to let go.  I’m getting better at it.  With each moment or event that gives me the opportunity – wanted or not – to let go, I’m becoming ever slightly more graceful, just a teeny bit more gracious.

 

As I rapidly approach the half century mark, I liken letting go to the changing of the seasons: the bright, flashy, needy summer of my youth – when having more meant wanting more, when I constantly burned with desire to own and to possess – is slowly giving way to the softer, easier, relaxing comfort of a cool autumn, where letting go brings simplicity, where happiness lies in embracing less, where all I really need is a crackling fire, a steaming cup of tea, a good book, and possibly someone wonderful with whom to curl up.

 

Of course, that’s fantasy.  Reality isn’t that simple, and neither is learning to let go.  But I’m trying.

 

This is the year I learned to let go of my marriage.  By all accounts, we had a decent marriage and much goodness sprang from it.  But within the inner sanctum of our marriage, the foundation had crumbled years ago.  By last year, the walls had begun to cave in.  When the roof began falling this year, we knew it was time to get out.  I’ve been fortunate.  David and I managed to emerge from our marriage as friends, if no longer partners.  We did this by recognizing that we needed to let go.

 

This is the year I learned to let go of the notion of immortality.  Now that I’m almost 50, my contemporaries are getting sick or even dying.  One friend, age 52, died from a punctured colon after getting his requisite colonoscopy.  Another friend, 48, received a dire diagnosis of Stage 3 cancer.  Another friend, 50, needs a biopsy because of cancer concerns.  Still another one, age 56, died suddenly of a heart attack.  All of this happened in the past two months.  I’ve learned that I am becoming perilously close to touching my own mortality; I am becoming increasingly at risk of losing those whom I love.

 

This is the year I finally learned to let go of my idealism; I learned I had to play the game.  I’ve always approached work believing that good work breeds good results; that hard work is eventually acknowledged.  This year, under a new regime, I’ve learned that diligence and hard work don’t matter nearly as much as the illusion of diligence and hard work.  So I’ve begun sending the big boss emails before and after hours, copying everyone on everything, fostering the impression that I’m working as hard as...well, as I’m actually working. Silly me, in the past, I’ve usually been too busy working to pretend I’m working.  But I’ve learned, at least for now, to let go of that crazy idea.

 

This is the year I learned to let go of an attachment I wanted to continue.  After David and I decided to part ways, I fell in love with someone else.  I’m sure, when I look back years from now, I’ll recognize that I simply fell head-over-heels into a cliché.  But at this moment, still smarting from rejection and loss, it feels real.  But he lost his love for me, and I had to let him go.  The letting go was not terribly graceful, but in the end, I managed to do it, walking away shakily.

 

The flip side to learning to let go, of course, is learning what to keep.  And that’s a harder lesson, and one best saved for another time.

The Summer of My Discontent

When I received the email outlining this month’s topic, I realized: Whoa!  I haven’t read anything of consequence so far this summer.  I don’t think Yoga Journals, newspapers, or airline magazines count.  Honestly, I can’t remember a period in my life where I’ve gone so long without devouring a book or two or three.

 

Very early in the summer, I did read one book (a friend’s recommendation): Eat, Pray, Love, by Elizabeth Gilbert.  Ms. Gilbert’s story struck a major chord (in a bittersweet minor key) because I’m dealing with extraordinarily similar issues.  Unfortunately, unlike Ms. Gilbert, I don’t have massive savings stockpiled to support a pleasurable culinary trip to Italy, or a soul-searching stay in an Indian ashram, or a final respite with a healer in Bali.

 

But her reasons…ah yes, her reasons…

 

I, too, am facing divorce.  Like Ms. Gilbert, we’re divorcing for reasons that our closest friends have difficulty fathoming.  We don’t fight, we don’t argue.  We’re basically kind to each other.  Even the mediators questioned why we are parting because, on the surface, we’re exceptionally compatible.  We’ve maintained a harmonious relationship throughout the divorce proceedings – in fact, we’re more companionable now than ever before.  Consequently, our decision seems puzzling.

 

Those looking in from the outside don’t know about the churlish snapping at each other, or the weary plodding through for the sake of the family, or the loneliness of being unable to bridge our vast distances.  And like Ms. Gilbert, I’ve spent too many late nights alone and questioning while my family slept.  I’ve battled self-recrimination and the demons that whispered I needed to stop wishing and whining, and then we could be happy.  It was only when my husband admitted to similar feelings that we finally took our first steps towards achieving peace and happiness for both of us.

 

So instead of reading on the dock, this summer has been devoted to dealing with practicalities: wending our way through mediation and parenting classes, plowing through court documents, disentangling our joint holdings, looking for a place to live.  He spent an irritating six weeks refinancing the house into his name.  And five weeks ago, I tendered an offer on a short-sale condominium that remains locked with the lender’s negotiator, keeping me nervous and slightly on edge.  A traumatic layoff at work – decimating half of our tiny department – sent me into a bit of a tailspin, too.

 

Sprinkled throughout the summer has been occasional weekend travel.  And in early August, I'll be flying to South Korea with 30 other adoptees to visit the places of my beginnings and to put out feelers for my birth family.  So I’ve been trying to plan and pack and steel myself mentally for that. A few days ago, my husband casually tossed out the glaringly obvious question: what will I do or how will I feel should I actually meet my birth family?  Surprisingly – stupidly, really – until he asked, it never occurred to me that I could possibly meet them, given the fact that I was abandoned with absolutely no records.  But he’s right; it could happen.  It has happened to other adoptees I know.  So now…more fodder for my already-overloaded brain.

 

And I admit to ennui and inertia for much of the summer.  Too many changes have crowded into my head space, jockeying for prominence.  There are too many thoughts living there, both positive and negative.  Too many dreams.  Too much hope; too much doubt.  Too much strength; too much neediness.  Plus, when I arrive home weary from 11 hours as an overdressed professional, all I want to do is crawl into my pajamas and escape into my writing and my (admittedly excessive) online socializing.  Cooking, cleaning, thoughtful reading, packing, even chatting on the phone (which requires inflection) – all those seem like too much effort these days.

 

It sounds like I’m making excuses.  And I am.  We’re only halfway through the summer.  There’s still time to unplug and settle down with a good book.  Suggestions, anyone?

A World of Delights

Being a both a full-time parent and a full-time worker means taking care of myself in stolen moments.  It means finding pleasures in mini-delights, with a few gee-whiz indulgences scattered along the path.  It’s about those shimmery, jewel-like moments of happiness that cast a glow upon my day.

 

Here are just a few delights that bring me unabashed pleasure, plus some deliberate ways in which I renew my soul:

 

Simple Delights

 

Unleashing my inner diva by singing, loudly and badly, while driving alone. Shoulder shimmies are mandated at stoplights if the song happens to be ultra-cheesy or anything sung by ABBA.

 

Waltzing with Kimmy while singing, "Tennessee Waltz."  As my father used to sing to me.

 

Reading Cosmo or some equally non-intellectual, mind-numbing magazine.  Bonus points if there’s time and will for trying the suggestions (Avocado and mayonnaise in my hair?  Egg whites on my face?  No problem!).

 

A cat purring on my chest and loving me, just because I’m me.

 

Listening to Nicky sing.  Anything.  His voice is entrancingly pure, clear, and completely un-selfconscious.

 

Napping on a rainy afternoon, naked under flannel sheets and a cozy comforter, in a cool room with a gentle breeze.  Thunder as a backdrop is nice.  Oh, hell, throw in a crackling fire, too, as long as I'm dreaming...

 

And speaking of naked (get your mind out of the gutter)...any chance to be au naturel when sunning is lounge-like-a-lizard wonderful.

 

Teeth-hurtin’ good music blaring on the stereo, as loud as I want it, the kind that makes me want to dance.

 

Discussing matters both lofty and silly with Ben, usually about life and love, preferably over good coffee and a lip-smackingly decadent dessert.

 

 

Indulgent Delights (notice most are food-related!)

 

Caramel macchiatos from Starbucks (and one day I’ll be over-the-top indulgent and order a venti).

 

Tasty little nibbles on the perfect chocolate truffle.

 

Buying (or even better, receiving) the absolutely perfect flower (and ignoring the guilt that it is destined to die).

 

Strong, flavorful coffee – the kind that makes my throat tingle – mixed with the perfect touch of half-and-half.  None of that skim or lowfat milk for me, please.

 

Dressing up for a night at the opera (and ballet and symphony and theater...ad infinitum).

 

Relaxing in a steamy hot tub, preferably under a starry sky.

 

Himmarshee Bar and Grill’s apple cake, smothered in homemade caramel sauce.

 

 

Necessary Delights

 

Yoga, lots of yoga, for clearing my head and calming my soul.

 

Good books on my nightstand and time to read them.

 

Carving out time to write.

 

Finding a quiet moment to reflect.

 

My friends...the ones who love me and who keep me sane (while understanding my need to be crazy).

 

My family...the ones who fill my heart to overflowing and put the joy in my life.

 

 

Unexpected Delights

 

Receiving that “thinking-of-you” phone call, letter, email, or text at the perfect random moment, just when I need a boost.

 

Completing the entire crossword puzzle, for once.

 

Happening upon a full rainbow – rare, precious and magical.  I can almost visualize a unicorn rounding the bend.

 

A heartfelt hug from an unexpected source at an unexpected moment.  And sometimes, an unexpected kiss would be nice, too.

My Favorite Beefs

I’m sure the intent of this month’s topic was to riff about our various pet peeves (and believe me, I have many).  But I thought I’d veer off on a different tangent and write about some of my favorite beefs, in no particular order.  Enjoy!

 

Beefcake

Beefcake...ahh!...pure decadence in its most delectable form.  Who can deny the pleasure in admiring a handsome hunk o’ man?  Ogling is lip-smackin’ good... giddy, goofy, grin-inducing...and best of all, it’s fat-free, with no calories!  C’mon...‘fess up – you know you look, and you know you like looking.  Although everyone has differing opinions of what constitutes beefcake, we sure do know it when we see it.  Mmmmm!  Here’s a tasty morsel of beef Tatar (sic), drool-worthy beefcake I’ve adored since childhood (...and I’ve deliberately not chosen from among my male chums, because you delicious men already know who you are!).

 

Rudolph Nureyev

 

Beef ditties

Although meat is no longer part of my diet, I’m still susceptible to clever marketing ploys: those catchy ditties and snappy slogans that keep the public clamoring for more.  Who can forget Clara Peller squawking, “Where’s the beef?”  Or how about this: “Beef. It’s What’s for Dinner,” spurred on with frantic urgency, thanks Aaron Copland’s dizzying Rodeo as the inspired background music.  And here’s my all-time favorite: “Two all beef patties-special sauce-lettucecheesepicklesonions-on a sesame seed bun.”  Now, if only my daily memory worked as well as my ditty memory....

 

 the inimitable Clara Peller

 

Beef on the Hoof (more really bad, but mercifully short, poetry)

To some the cow is most divine;

its countenance quite sacred.

To others, cows are dumb bovines...

they moo and wander naked.

 

Who knows what lurks beneath their glance?

Their gentle look is soothing.

To meet a cow is happenstance...

Befriending one is moooo-ving.

 

(insert groan)

 

 beautiful bovines

 

Beefsteak tomatoes

Slice the tomatoes, layer between fresh mozzarella and fresh basil, drizzle with aged balsamic vinegar and exceptional olive oil, and add some cracked black pepper and sea salt.  Voilà!  Caprese salad!  Enjoy with a warm, crusty roll slathered in real butter...mmm!...need I say more?  Let’s eat!!

Caprese salad, simple and delicious

 

 

 

One Foot In, One Foot Out (In Honor of the 20th Anniversary of The Joy Luck Club)

I have no Asian family.  I have no Asian family tree...not a branch, not a twig, not even a leaf.  I have no Asian roots. 

 

All I have is my Asian face.

 

Still, I am an unlikely first-generation immigrant of sorts.  I’m a Korean adoptee of unknown origins...found, fostered and foisted onto American soil, into the waiting arms of a caring, typically-Caucasian middle-class family.  That makes me a product of a typically-Caucasian middle-class suburban upbringing, except – somehow – I don’t feel typical at all.

 

I am American.  I have an American name.  My official family tree says I spring from Scotch, Irish, and English stock.

 

I am Korean.  I have a Korean name.  But my adoption papers say I have no Korean family.

 

Which is real?

 

Sometimes this dichotomy makes me feel free, unfettered, unbound by convention.  Sometimes it makes me feel confused, alone, dangerously ungrounded.  I have never quite found my "place."  Asians have rebuked me sharply for not responding in their native tongues.  Other ethnicities – usually Caucasian – have cracked derogatory racist jokes in my presence, overlooking my Asian heritage because I "fit in" so well.  World War II veterans have elbowed my husband knowingly and winked slyly, congratulating him on his choice of an Asian bride (I still haven’t figured that one out yet, but I suspect it has something to do with subservience).  I exist between two worlds, but fit comfortably in neither.

 

So this is my immigration experience –

 

made in

Korea,

 

but assembled in the

United States.

Snippets of Love

This month’s topic is difficult for me.  It came in the midst of a tumultuous period in my life: a suddenly-fragile marriage.  Therefore, love – romantic love, that is – is very much on my mind, and not always in a positive way.  I considered posting nothing, but writing is cathartic for me; it helps clarify the messy jumble of thoughts clanging about in my head. And so, I attempted to express my recent thoughts about love.

 

But I had a hard time completing any of my thoughts. Because the tides of my love seem to be drifting far from the shore, I’ve spent countless hours comparing my long-held notions about love against lessons accumulated over a lifetime.  An epic battle – the search for my own personal truth – has been waged in my heart and mind.  My obvious confusion bled all over my pages as I wrote.  Consequently, I started and stopped several different versions of this post, always weighing what might be too revealing against what might seem too flippant.  Finally, I decided to post the bits and pieces of what I’ve been writing; the fragments mirror my own turbulent state of mind.  All are unfinished, perhaps waiting for me to arrive at my final conclusions.  Read at your own risk.

 

The Dance of Love

I love to dance.  Let me qualify this: this does not mean I’m a good dancer.  Remember the Seinfeld episode where Elaine cleared the dance floor because of her shockingly bad dancing?  I suspect I’m more like Elaine that I care to believe.  But advancing age has brought about an increasing loss of inhibition, and I’m happy to rock out on the dance floor, despite possibly looking foolish.

 

I recently was invited to a fundraising ball, replete with good food, fine wine, and yes, dancing...ranging from staid-but-compelling waltzes to Men at Work’s YMCA (only after much alcohol had been imbibed).  On one hand, it was extraordinarily fun swirling and twirling with someone who loves to dance; on the other, it was unexpectedly poignant, because, as usual, I was not dancing with a romantic partner.

 

Fate has led me to fall in love with men who don’t dance. After high school (where we would simply cling to each other and sway, eyes closed and dreamy), I haven’t really danced with a romantic partner.  For some reason, I felt that lack keenly at this particular ball.  Dancing close, but not too close.  Dancing with abandon, but not too much abandon.  Exhausting!  And my partner and I didn’t quite dance in sync.  To the casual onlooker, we moved together effortlessly; we even received compliments.  But to me, it was awkward – terribly so, at times.  For example, this is how I felt the waltz: “ONE-two-three, ONE-two-three...” And this is how he felt it: “one...twothree, one...twothree...” It struck me then how much dance imitates love.  You either sync, or you don’t.  You can practice interminably, attempting to polish the rough edges, but in the end, if you feel the music differently, it never quite works.

 

Late Night Chat (snippet within a snippet):

2:06 a.m. Whoa, he thinks that?

2:07 a.m. He misses the point...but it makes me feel small.  And petty for wanting out.

2:08 a.m. It is so easy to reduce the complexities of our emotions.  American culture is very good at doing that.  What’s that saying?  Air doesn’t seem so important until you don’t have any.

2:09 a.m. Yes, indeed.  But it’s so much more than that.  It's missing having someone with whom to share. We have nothing in common. I go out with my friends, but sometimes, it would be nice to lean my head on his shoulder and feel a connection.

2:10 a.m. You share things with your friends, but finally you want to be able to share yourself with him.

 

The Summer of ‘89

Love was the last thing I was looking for when I arrived for a 12-week summer study program on Nantucket Island.  Emotionally weary after a four-year separation from my husband, who refused to sign final divorce papers, all I wanted was a change of scenery, a chance to study, and time to reflect.

 

And then I met David.  What can I say about my first impression of David?  Long, brown, unkempt hair that flipped and flopped and waved messily past his shoulders.  Very large glasses sitting atop a prominent nose.  A ripped, skin-tight peach tank top.  Pink short shorts, also ripped, and printed with elephants, zebras, and assorted zoo animals.  White canvas deck shoes, ripped as well.  But the most compelling thing about David – even more so than his outlandish garb – was the energy that streamed from him.  He was bouncing so hard in those torn shoes that I thought he was going to flip right out of them.

 

David invited me to the beach the following day.  As we were leaving the Jetties, I stumbled on a rock and David grabbed my hand to steady me.  That’s when it happened: an electric shock coursed through my arm and raced down my spine when he touched me.  It was as though his boundless energy jumped from his skin into mine. I ripped my hand away, but the sensation lingered.  I knew then we were destined, if nothing else, to become great friends.  From that moment on, I was aware of him.  He later told me the same sensation had happened to him, and that from then on, he was aware of me, too.

 

Love Ditty (post-yoga musings)

My heart...

not so lonely.

My need...

not so great.

My love

wants love only.

I can wait...I can wait.

 

Romantic Love – the Elusive Ideal

The hardest thing to admit, especially in public, is something unflattering, something secretive, something that even seems slightly freakish.  But today I’m going to throw caution to the wind and write from the heart about what’s been on my mind lately, unfiltered and unfettered, because coincidentally, what’s been on my mind is love.  I’ve been thinking about love recently, in its many wondrous incarnations, and what I’ve concluded is this:

 

I am incapable of romantic love.

 

I did not come to this conclusion easily or lightly, but it seems to be a theme that runs through my life.  Even as I yearn for loving closeness, a tiny part of me always locks itself away.  Is this a self-protective mechanism?  I don’t know.  I do know I can share almost everything – my thoughts, my heart, my body, even pieces of my soul – but love as the poets proclaim it eludes me.  I yearn for it sometimes, even as I run from it.  I have taken down whole relationships, possibly even my current one, because of it.  But perhaps romantic love is only an illusion. Or perhaps, as a wise friend said, perhaps the essence of love is simply the reality of the connection itself.  Maybe it’s not as mysterious as the bad poets make it out to be; maybe it’s so ineffable that the great poets fool us into thinking we can know it.

 

A Postscript from David:

“...  maybe romantic love is not enough to keep a relationship going throughout time. It is that spark of romantic love that binds real lovers, whether married, divorced, living together, or living in distant lands. Maybe life, self-preservation, kids, work, and money are enough to dull the spark.  When all goes wrong, remember the swans, but sometimes butterflies need to fly....”

 

Zen and the Art of When

Yoga has been my love, my salvation, my strength.   It has helped to quell my mental storms.  It has soothed my body and stilled my mind.  But recently, the calming, tonic effects of yoga have diminished slightly, especially at night.  Lately, my mind dips and swirls and careens endlessly through the night, a whirling vortex of inner noise, chattering about matters both weighty and inconsequential, leaving me foggy and befuddled in the dawn.  I lie awake, thoughts colliding, breathing deeply, wondering desperately: “Zen?...When?”

 

Last Sunday, weary after another sleepless night, I found myself shuttling children back and forth between various activities.  It was a gloriously sunny, windswept day.  At one point, between dropping off one child and picking up another, my exhausted body rebelled. The beach beckoned, if only for a brief, stolen moment.  And not just any beach, mind you...I wanted Dania Beach...still a little funky, still a bit wild and untamed.  Plus Dania Beach happens to be home to Grampa’s Bakery, purveyors of the world’s most stupendously, outrageously, decadently luscious buttercream-filled doughnuts.  Naturally, it was practically mandated that I pick up a couple of doughnuts on my way.  I savored a single doughnut on the beach, enjoying the breeze in my hair and the sun on my shoulders.  With my senses almost fully engaged, I felt tantalizingly close to zen.  But my mind prevented me from delighting fully; it knew there would be karmic payback for that doughnut...it was just a question of when.

 

Later that afternoon, I stood in my kitchen tucking into my second doughnut. As I was polishing off the last few crumbs, David arrived home.  Yes!  I had barely enough time to race to yoga.  I grabbed my gear, filled my water bottle and sped out the door.  Arriving just a few minute late, only one spot remained in the crowded class.  So I unfurled my mat between a pleasant, roundish man on my right and an athletic, tennis-playing woman on my left.  Something about the man set off a small warning bell...something someone had told me...but the warning eluded me, and I shook off my concerns.

 

Let me digress a moment and briefly explain my latest yoga passion: I’m a recent devotee of Bikram Yoga.  Also known as hot yoga, it’s conducted in a superheated room: up to 100 degrees or more, with humidity hovering somewhere in the 80-90 percent range.  So yes, you’re sweltering, even before moving a muscle.  Start moving, and the sweat flows copiously.  It’s invigorating, cleansing, calming, and challenging.  Holding a pose properly requires enormous concentration; done correctly, one is elevated into a meditative, or zen, state. 

 

Unfortunately, the vagaries of my mind have also invaded my body; merely maintaining my balance has been challenging enough of late.  Forget about zen...my mind wanders to when I can release the posture without seeming too disengaged.

 

Still...a new class, a new beginning.  In that optimistic frame of mind, I began class.  First posture was a breathing exercise.  Deep breath in, hands under chin, elbows up, backbend, exhale, back to starting position.  In, up, back, down.  I started to relax deeper into the posture.  Inhale, exhale.  Ahhh.  I took a long, deep, cleansing breath...I...I...wait...what was that smell??? And then it hit me. ”Uh-oh!!...I’m next to STINKY MAN!”

 

Another fact about Bikram: you’re in this heated room, often mat-to-mat and toe-to-toe with people who are sweating as much as you are.  Usually this is okay.  In this particular class, however, there are two men whom you want to avoid at all costs: I call them Stinky Man and Rain Man.

 

Rain Man sweats way more than the average person...no, make that three average people combined.  Buckets and buckets of sweat pour from him.  The teacher makes him stand in the corner so only one unfortunate soul is his unwitting victim.  Veritable rivers and rivulets fly off him as he moves through the poses, flicking onto whomever or whatever happens to be within range.  Getting splashed is unavoidable.  Mid-way through class, and then after class, the teacher has him wipe down the mirrors he has drenched.

 

Stinky Man is a different story.  He just...smells.  The more he sweats, the more he stinks.  There’s no rhyme or reason for his odor; he’s not particularly unclean or unhealthy...he just...emits. 

 

So there I was, standing next to Stinky Man, who had begun...um...emitting, rather profusely.  “You’re in rare form, buddy,” I thought as I desperately attempted not to breathe.  I sucked air in and out through my mouth, rather shallowly, my breathing contrary to yogic teachings, contrary to achieving any sort of peaceful mind.  Rather, I was simply struggling to finish the class.  It was a near-impossible task; wave after wave of noxious fumes emanated from him, so potently powerful that I could almost see the odiferous clouds rising from his body.

 

I wiped my face, took a huge gulp of water and then, as the water hit my stomach...uh-oh!...my afternoon doughnut reared up with a vengeance, churning and grinding, feeling sodden and leaden and greasy.  So now, a new, more pressing, concern: how to frantically concentrate on (1) not inhaling Stinky Man emissions while (2) not heaving watery doughnut bits all over my mat.  We turned sideways to move into our forward bends and Stinky Man’s ass hovered right near my face, practically under my nose.  Urk.  Gag.  Karmic payback, indeed!

 

But amazingly, unexpectedly, struggling ceased.  Suddenly, I was rock-solid...strong, flexible, balanced, sane.  My pose was steady.  My mind was clear.  As we moved into the next poses, I stood as still as a statue in each...unwavering in my stance, solid in my balance.  My mind was humming, yet perfectly still, honed into a laser-sharp focus, the outer world distant.  Oh, yes...I would call this zen.  Most definitely zen.  I was serene and peaceful...flowing, being...existing within a calm, contented, focused otherworld.  When did this happen? 

 

The feeling stayed with me throughout the class.

 

What the hell just happened?

 

Turning the events over in my head later, I could only surmise one thing: by focusing so hard on not gagging or not throwing up, I may have forced myself into my own version of sacred space.  Maybe my answer to zen does not lie in contentment, or harmony; maybe my zen springs from discontent, from disharmony.  Not from ease, but dis-ease. Perhaps the messy bits of my life...the thoughts that keep my mind spinning through the night..are the cluttered yin from which my spiritual yang springs forth.  Perhaps I achieve zen only when the noise in my head is so overwhelming that finally all thought is obliterated. It's not exactly a comforting thought - knowing that extreme discomfort seems to inspire my spiritual awakening - but it just might give me a direction...or point me toward a path...

 

Or maybe it’s a simple reminder that doughnuts, yoga, and overwhelming stenches are not an ideal mix.  So from now on, I think I’ll go to yoga on an empty stomach...and be on time....and hope that when I find zen again, it will be under much sweeter circumstances.

Signs and Wonders (Soaring Like a Duck)

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m just not into team sports...not for watching, not for participating.  I’m definitely a yoga, dancing, stretching, meditating kind of gal.  Naturally, then, fate provided me with two rabid sports fanatics in the forms of Ben and Nicky.  Thanks to these two, I’ve attended all manners of games, a bit hazy on the rules, but nevertheless cheering enthusiastically (hopefully for the right teams).

 

Nicky, in particular, will doggedly obsess over a new sport.  This year, he was fiercely determined to become the Alex Ovechkin of the inline hockey rink.  He was so determined to play that he dipped into his savings to pay for half of the equipment. So determined, he forewent a Monroi, a nifty electronic chess notation gadget, in favor of a pair of really good skates for his birthday.  What can a parent do in the face of such determination, except sign the kid up for the local league, and hope for the best?

 

As expected, Nicky was the youngest and least seasoned on his team....scrappy, but obviously untrained.  Within the first week, he was traded from one of two “stacked” teams and moved onto the underdog team – a team with a laid-back coach and a mellow approach.  Their regular season was a mix of some wins, but mostly losses, with everyone having equal chances to play.

 

So you can imagine our surprise when this underdog team morphed into something unexpected – a serious contender in the playoffs.  In the double-round eliminations, they first squared off against Nicky’s original team – and won handily.  They fell in the next round, but just barely, losing to the other undefeated “stacked” team in a tightly-contested, heart-pounding game that spilled into overtime.  And then...final elimination to determine which teams would play for the championship title...another high-tension, high-scoring game.  When the buzzer sounded at the end of the third period, the teams were tied 7-7.

 

Overtime: each team scored once, maintaining the tie.  Shootout Number One: each team scored twice, maintaining the tie.  Shootout Number Two, the nail-biter: the first team to score would win.  Two players from each team tried and failed to score.

 

Our third player skated up to the line.  At that precise moment, two ducks flew overhead, graceful, soaring, and starkly white against the night sky.  I nudged Ben, pointing to the ducks: “Look – a sign!  We’re going to score, and win!”  Ben laughed condescendingly and called me crazy.  He conceded...well, maybe if they were doves...but ducks??  No way.  But then our player glided confidently toward the goal, took careful aim, shot – and scored! 

 

Now the other team was in the hot seat.  Their player skated up, moving surely toward the goal.  He, too, took careful aim, shot – and missed!  Pandemonium ensued.

 

So now this underdog team, underestimated but ever determined, is heading into the finals.  And no matter what the outcome of the championship game, they’ll emerge with trophies, a sense of pride, and a lesson learned that sometimes teamwork, heart, and fair play really can pay dividends, even when the odds (and teams) are “stacked” against them.

 

And, if you believe in signs and wonders, as I do, then maybe – just maybe – the team should offer a tip of their helmets to a pair of snowy white ducks.

 

Facebook Frenzy and My Return to Semi-Sanity

Hi.  I’m Melinda, and I’m a Facebook addict.  There...I said it, and now I hope to take my first baby steps toward Facebook rehab.  

 

I’m starting to actively dislike the mushrooming presence of Facebook in my life.  I originally joined to monitor my son, but the account stayed dormant for months.  Then an old high school friend sent me a “friend” request....then another...then I discovered a whole network of friends on Facebook.  Suddenly, I was hooked.  I've been particularly obsessive during the holiday season.  With no real daily structure, my routine has slowly morphed to accommodate my Facebook addiction: I wake up, log on, answer messages, change my status, write on friends’ walls, comment on friends’ photos, investigate friends’ profiles, chat with friends.  Eventually, I’ll surface for air, shake off my Facebook-induced coma, realize that hours have passed and the kids have been playing computer games the whole time.  So I’ll feed the kids, yell at them to do something constructive (unlike me) and start the cycle all over again.  Late into the night, you’ll find me still sitting at my computer, cramped and hunched, hollow- and glassy-eyed, unwashed, unfed, and unkempt, typing madly in an attempt to be succinct, witty, and simultaneously amusing and knowing.

 

Actually, it’s really not THAT bad...yet..(spoken like a true addict), but it's a foreshadowing of where I could be heading... 

 

This morning, with the dawn of a new year, I decided to stop the madness.  I woke up and checked Facebook quickly, logging off within ten minutes.  I returned to my pre-Facebook morning ritual of preparing a steaming cup of tea and sitting down with the daily crossword puzzle.  As I rummaged in the cupboard for a tea bag, my eyes fell upon an unopened box of Chai Tea given to me by my sister-in-law.  That was my a-ha! moment.  I suddenly locked onto the gnawing reason for my increasing discomfort: lately, I’ve been so caught up in my virtual world that I fear tuning out the colorful, multi-faceted real world.  My Facebook friends might be able to send me a cyber-drink, but it’s my sister-in-law who gifted me with something tangible, thoughtful and decadently delicious.

 

I am fortunate to have a close circle of good friends: old friends, new friends, caring, wise and wonderful friends.  I have friends of different sexes, orientations, philosophies, races, and talents; the common thread is that they somehow enrich me and make me a better, happier person for knowing them.  My Facebook friends are part of this incredible pastiche: they, too, provide nourishment to my soul, but in a different way.  My goal is simply to restore the balance between my on- and offline worlds. To that end, I plan to pare down my Facebook friends to the ones who truly engage me; instead, I'm going to form closer connections with my friends who exist outside the cyber-world.

 

Tonight I’m having dinner with three incredible women: all are beautiful, smart, funny, forthright, cultured, honest, passionate and intense.  We see each other rarely, but whenever we meet, my heart is suddenly aglow with light and laughter and love.  When we parted at our last meeting, one friend leaned over and unexpectedly hugged me tight.  “I love you so much,” she said, “and I miss seeing you.”  Simple words like that resonate deeply when they are spoken from the heart.  Simple words like that – powerful words – feel strange and foreign rolling off of my tongue, repressed since childhood against expressing emotions.  But now I know the pleasure such spoken words can bring, and I try to say them whenever it feels right.  It’s one of many valuable lessons learned from a cherished friend; it’s a sensation that can only be experienced fully outside the confines of the computer.  No cyber-hug or cyber-word can compare to the real thing, ever.

 

So tonight, while I am out with my friends, I will raise a glass to my wonderful Facebook friends, whose pleasurable discourse nearly seduced me.  And I will toast the friends from my corporeal world, whose actions, words, and touch fill my life with immeasurable joy.

 

And because I love irony, of course, I’m going to post the link to this blog on Facebook.

Celebration in the House of Mouse

I promise this blog will be short.  PROMISE!!  I had already written my blog for this month, so just this once, I'll be posting two.  I'm finally home after an incredible long weekend in Orlando...Disney World, to be exact, accompanying my chess-playing son to the Grades National Chess Championship.  Even before I knew how the weekend was going to unfold, I felt compelled to write about it.  Why?  Because the Universe came knocking in the form of signs. You think I jest, but no: road signs everywhere pointed me toward a Celebration....literally!  Around every bend, I saw a new sign:  Next Left to Celebration Parkway.  Next Exit to Celebration (which, if you don’t know, is a meticulously over-planned Disney community that is pristine, but juiceless).  And of course, the tournament itself was held at the Coronado Springs hotel in Disney World, the Happiest Place on Earth.  Disney music is piped into the bathrooms.  Waffles are in the shape of Mickey Mouse.  The staff is annoyingly perky.  It’s enough to drive you Disney-doofy, especially if you’re a non-believer in all things Mouse, as I am.

 

But the signs were not only literal...they truly were a gift from the Universe.  After the dust settled, and the smoke cleared, my son emerged as the National seventh grade co-champion!!  He took First Place based on a series of complex calculations known as tie-breakers.   So, yeah...last night, I confess, we got down and dirty with the Mouse; we celebrated hard, slamming back Slurpees and chocolate at an alarming rate.  But in this case, I think even Old Walt would approve.