So now that I'm engaged I think about marriage, but it just seems surreal and nebulous, more of an abstraction than an event. But a wedding, why, a wedding is corporal, sensual! All of my senses are on high alert. Ideas flutter about and I tuck them into my pocket, to see how they fit, how they feel:
Wildflowers gathered in mason jars, my mother's faded cream wedding dress from 1972 (a 'union made' tag stitched inside), exchanging vows outside in September sunlight on waxy-fresh grass.
After the school-yard ceremony, a parade down Humboldt Street, noisemakers and trumpet and hand drums, announcing our love to the neighbors. My dear friends, the ones I see often and hardly, parents and siblings, his family not quite mine yet, a couple of our sweetest students, with bare feet and pimples.
A party at our home, swept clean, doors open, and simply decorated with candles and pink satin ribbons blowing in the warm Santa Ana winds.
I can practically taste the blackberry vanilla cream cake and almond champagne. See the twinkling lights as dusk bruises the sky. Hear Dr. Hook croon Years from now, I want you years from now during our first wedded dance. 'Trip the light fantastic' is how M described dancing on a long ago afternoon, our romance just beginning to blossom.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
Hope
Three cheers for animated cartoonist Mark Fiore who just won a Pulitzer Prize!
Check out his politically raucous biting commentary that will leave you laughing and thinking, provoked and charmed, at
http://www.markfiore.com/
Check out his politically raucous biting commentary that will leave you laughing and thinking, provoked and charmed, at
http://www.markfiore.com/
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Spring Break
Spring break is over, but thanks to the power of teaching, I am reliving it again and again, through words, some randomly picked by the kids, some my own. In English class we each write a scene from our break, incorporating words we've brainstormed in categories like river, fruit, city, occupation, month. Here are some scenes from the glorious past week that I want to keep alive.
On spring break we drive all over, dipping and climbing into valleys, M (my fiance) at the wheel and me cracking open peanut shells, scattering papery skins everywhere. My hair is desert-straight, not a hint of moisture in the air. Instead of a campfire, we walk around the campground at night, the familiar faces of Orion and The Seven Sisters burning me up. The stars shine extra bright with the big bully moon not rising until deep into the night.
I wake up warm and thirsty, tasting metal on my breath. The desert is full of metal---silver, gold, iron, all packed tightly beneath the surface of the earth like tuna squished in a can. At least this isn't the wet heat of August in Jakarta, a heat that breathes hot and heavy in your face like a nasty drunk date. No, this heat is a fresh kiwi clean---I wash my feet at the spigot and rinse the crust from my eyes. A spring flows through the campground. It is our sacred Ganges, and we chase it up into the ash-colored hills, cracking beneath our feet. All along the spring, tufts of green life scream water! water! until I can't take it and I ease myself down into the magical liquid. The wildflowers are the mailmen of this valley, bearing the news of winter's rain, in spring's fine lettering.
The car becomes home, each valuable item pressed into its special place. Daily round-ups of trash and debris keep it tidy. The McCafe cup, from M's to-go coffee on the way out of town, becomes our impromptu trash receptacle for the week. We empty it when it gets full. I am so content to have such a slim sphere to live in; the dashboard is my shelf and table, sometimes foot rest. In the passenger seat I can nap, read, write, dance, listen.
We drive like bandits, with a burning purpose, to get to the new place. M grows silent while I gulp down the last of Stephen King's "The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon." It is late morning on Easter Sunday, fresh hard-boiled eggs in our stomachs, wind kicking sand outside. I don't realize that M is waiting for me to cry, as he knows I will, at the ending. He strokes my hair tenderly and I know that he cried, too. You will too when you read it.
We bathe only twice during our week on the road. Once after the desert, the dry crevices of my body like the parched valley floor nourished by the Texas springs. I use orange ginger conditioner that I can smell on my hair all evening, as M and I stroll the Santa Monica boardwalk and the beach, suddenly thronged by people. The city of Los Angeles startles the soft desert peace inside of me. We watch the sun set over Malibu and the ocean.
I get to see my brother in LA. It's been two and a half years. Then he was skinny, barking from a hollow shell. Now he looks, for the first time ever, like a man. Weight has aged his face, sobriety has calmed him. We eat at The Village Idiot. Our waitress says things like 'what are we drinking?!' and 'it has a citrus undertone, a ceviche kind of resonance.'
We walk, browse stores, and drink iced tea at Starbucks. He shows me face-book profiles on his blackberry and we crack up at all the people we know. When we are not laughing, we are silent. I think about Badwater, the lowest point in all of the Western Hemisphere. M and I walked all over the salt flats there. I think of my brother down in Badwater just now, heart sunken under grief and regret, and I think, too, that this is his chance to crouch low. From the bowl of Death Valley you are surrounded by mountains, including the highest, Mt. Whitney. It takes the valley to see the peaks. I burst out crying as soon as we leave his house and in the hot-tub later that night I feel weightless and free and wiped out.
Leaving L.A. there is the sound of a helicopter hovering above our car as it zips down the final descent of the Grapevine. M slows down and the whine grows louder. Then the car rattles and shakes and I breathe hard and M says, Yep, it's the tire, it's the tire! He coasts off at the exit ramp, the Escort sliding to a stop just in time for us to watch the tire tread roll past the window, smoking, until it finally collapses like a giant spent centipede. It takes us a few hours to get a new tire, all of it happening in too-good-to-waste sunshine, but at least I get to post a blog from the tire shop. We camp that night under gray skies, and in the morning it looks like rain and home and I am not ready.
We thrift shop on the way home, finding treasures in San Juan Batista and San Francisco--- drinking glasses with gold flowers, an oil lantern, a Talking Heads cassette tape, and, best of all, roller skates. Barely used, white, size nine, comfortable. And look at that, the sun is out again.
On spring break we drive all over, dipping and climbing into valleys, M (my fiance) at the wheel and me cracking open peanut shells, scattering papery skins everywhere. My hair is desert-straight, not a hint of moisture in the air. Instead of a campfire, we walk around the campground at night, the familiar faces of Orion and The Seven Sisters burning me up. The stars shine extra bright with the big bully moon not rising until deep into the night.
I wake up warm and thirsty, tasting metal on my breath. The desert is full of metal---silver, gold, iron, all packed tightly beneath the surface of the earth like tuna squished in a can. At least this isn't the wet heat of August in Jakarta, a heat that breathes hot and heavy in your face like a nasty drunk date. No, this heat is a fresh kiwi clean---I wash my feet at the spigot and rinse the crust from my eyes. A spring flows through the campground. It is our sacred Ganges, and we chase it up into the ash-colored hills, cracking beneath our feet. All along the spring, tufts of green life scream water! water! until I can't take it and I ease myself down into the magical liquid. The wildflowers are the mailmen of this valley, bearing the news of winter's rain, in spring's fine lettering.
The car becomes home, each valuable item pressed into its special place. Daily round-ups of trash and debris keep it tidy. The McCafe cup, from M's to-go coffee on the way out of town, becomes our impromptu trash receptacle for the week. We empty it when it gets full. I am so content to have such a slim sphere to live in; the dashboard is my shelf and table, sometimes foot rest. In the passenger seat I can nap, read, write, dance, listen.
We drive like bandits, with a burning purpose, to get to the new place. M grows silent while I gulp down the last of Stephen King's "The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon." It is late morning on Easter Sunday, fresh hard-boiled eggs in our stomachs, wind kicking sand outside. I don't realize that M is waiting for me to cry, as he knows I will, at the ending. He strokes my hair tenderly and I know that he cried, too. You will too when you read it.
We bathe only twice during our week on the road. Once after the desert, the dry crevices of my body like the parched valley floor nourished by the Texas springs. I use orange ginger conditioner that I can smell on my hair all evening, as M and I stroll the Santa Monica boardwalk and the beach, suddenly thronged by people. The city of Los Angeles startles the soft desert peace inside of me. We watch the sun set over Malibu and the ocean.
I get to see my brother in LA. It's been two and a half years. Then he was skinny, barking from a hollow shell. Now he looks, for the first time ever, like a man. Weight has aged his face, sobriety has calmed him. We eat at The Village Idiot. Our waitress says things like 'what are we drinking?!' and 'it has a citrus undertone, a ceviche kind of resonance.'
We walk, browse stores, and drink iced tea at Starbucks. He shows me face-book profiles on his blackberry and we crack up at all the people we know. When we are not laughing, we are silent. I think about Badwater, the lowest point in all of the Western Hemisphere. M and I walked all over the salt flats there. I think of my brother down in Badwater just now, heart sunken under grief and regret, and I think, too, that this is his chance to crouch low. From the bowl of Death Valley you are surrounded by mountains, including the highest, Mt. Whitney. It takes the valley to see the peaks. I burst out crying as soon as we leave his house and in the hot-tub later that night I feel weightless and free and wiped out.
Leaving L.A. there is the sound of a helicopter hovering above our car as it zips down the final descent of the Grapevine. M slows down and the whine grows louder. Then the car rattles and shakes and I breathe hard and M says, Yep, it's the tire, it's the tire! He coasts off at the exit ramp, the Escort sliding to a stop just in time for us to watch the tire tread roll past the window, smoking, until it finally collapses like a giant spent centipede. It takes us a few hours to get a new tire, all of it happening in too-good-to-waste sunshine, but at least I get to post a blog from the tire shop. We camp that night under gray skies, and in the morning it looks like rain and home and I am not ready.
We thrift shop on the way home, finding treasures in San Juan Batista and San Francisco--- drinking glasses with gold flowers, an oil lantern, a Talking Heads cassette tape, and, best of all, roller skates. Barely used, white, size nine, comfortable. And look at that, the sun is out again.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Life in Death Valley
Life in the desert seems sparse, almost dormant. There are scrubs and shrubs and sand and dirt and rocks and everything from the same washed-out, hazy color pallette. At first. Then I start to notice the movement among the quiet stillness---wind, alive and terrible, tiny critters like chipmunks and lizards, bright green tufts growing out of the Texas spring that runs right through our campground.
In Death Valley, I feel alive. As I hike the dry hills, feet sweaty inside my boots, I climb, and my throat hurts, and yet I don't want to stop, destination-bound, not even to notice the life. The life! Wildflowers blanket the hills, little blossoms of yellow and pink, white and purple. When people talk about the desert blooming in springtime, I pictured giant showy diva flowers, like orchids and lilies and birds of paradise. I felt a little let-down, a little womp womp womp about these little buds, so humble and timid. I had to get right down, face to face, to examine the dark red heart-like shapes stamped on the inside of delicate pink petals. I shoved a tiny white tuft, like a furry lollipop, up my nose to breathe its sugar. I sneezed for an hour afterward, and knew, at once, the majesty of these wildflowers.
Life in the desert is sparse; for what is life without water? So when you do find it, it's tame, gentle, the small offering of a child, not the proud present of an adult. The desert must conserve its energy, not waste it. The flowers are even more beautiful to me now that I've walked through their valley of death, slept in its parched arms, woken to brand new sunshine to quell the wind.
In Death Valley, I feel alive. As I hike the dry hills, feet sweaty inside my boots, I climb, and my throat hurts, and yet I don't want to stop, destination-bound, not even to notice the life. The life! Wildflowers blanket the hills, little blossoms of yellow and pink, white and purple. When people talk about the desert blooming in springtime, I pictured giant showy diva flowers, like orchids and lilies and birds of paradise. I felt a little let-down, a little womp womp womp about these little buds, so humble and timid. I had to get right down, face to face, to examine the dark red heart-like shapes stamped on the inside of delicate pink petals. I shoved a tiny white tuft, like a furry lollipop, up my nose to breathe its sugar. I sneezed for an hour afterward, and knew, at once, the majesty of these wildflowers.
Life in the desert is sparse; for what is life without water? So when you do find it, it's tame, gentle, the small offering of a child, not the proud present of an adult. The desert must conserve its energy, not waste it. The flowers are even more beautiful to me now that I've walked through their valley of death, slept in its parched arms, woken to brand new sunshine to quell the wind.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Material Girl (?)
Being a kid in the 80s meant caring, deeply, about the material possessions that informed my identity. My brother and I craved name brand clothing so much that we named our first bunny rabbits Guess and Polo. We counted our unopened Christmas presents. Despite these excesses, though, our single mother modeled opposite behavior: she never used a paper towel to wipe a spill without swiping the entire kitchen floor with it, until it hung limp and greasy as an old man's balding ponytail. Mom hated shopping, grew a garden, and saved any leftover food, no matter how small the amount, to be eaten later. When recycling became a household choice, she embraced it wholeheartedly, dutifully rinsing out the soda cans before plunking them into the plastic bin.
My relationship with stuff has undergone a radical transformation. I love the feel of a well-worn pair of jeans; I love finding that creative non-corporate edge of "fashion"; I love saving money, so I shop at thrift stores, where an outfit costs less than a trip to the movies. I, too, grow a garden, recycle, hand-make birthday cards, try never to waste even a few bites of food. I am grateful for this consciousness, mostly because it feels good.
Still, I consume, often unconsciously, because I am still a child of the 80s burned up with desire for a new bangle bracelet and striped leg warmers. In Berkeley on Friday I came dangerously close to blowing some hard-earned cash on a new pair of earrings at a hipper-than-thou boutique. But instead I crossed the street, browsed the Lonely Planet guidebooks in the bookstore, then joined a friend for a rollicking poetry slam where twelve to nineteen year-olds hollered raw truths like the Beats blowing lyrical mad genius symphonies into America's heart.
On Saturday, the holiest of holy days for me, pure do-nothing or do-everything day, we (that is, my fiance and I) headed north under a bright sunny sky. We wandered the ramshackle streets of Geyserville, landed at an antique store, where (surprise surprise) I found a darling hand-painted jewelry box that I wanted. It cost only twelve dollars, and somehow that fact momentarily trumped the fact that I already have two jewelry boxes, and, ironically, that I hardly ever wear jewelry. I strolled around the store trying to convince myself that this thing would enhance the quality of my life, but ultimately left empty-handed.
We walked along the railroad tracks, overgrown with sweet peas, poppies, and fennel, and picked a bouquet of wildflowers, and thought how pretty our wedding would be, with flowers just like these. We stopped by a cemetery where we listened to the quietness of life already lived, and picnicked in the grass. We were sitting near the Russian River, talking, when the sun began its cool descent. It was about as lovely a day as it gets, here in this spring-green Sonoma County paradise, and part of what made it so luscious and inspiring, was not having to buy anything, being free enough to not spend money, to appreciate the sublime beauty of partnership and grass and decrepit buildings.
The difference between me and wealthy people, as someone very wise once said, is that I have enough. I am not poor, but I'm starting to realize I should thank heavens that I'm not and never will be rich, either.
My relationship with stuff has undergone a radical transformation. I love the feel of a well-worn pair of jeans; I love finding that creative non-corporate edge of "fashion"; I love saving money, so I shop at thrift stores, where an outfit costs less than a trip to the movies. I, too, grow a garden, recycle, hand-make birthday cards, try never to waste even a few bites of food. I am grateful for this consciousness, mostly because it feels good.
Still, I consume, often unconsciously, because I am still a child of the 80s burned up with desire for a new bangle bracelet and striped leg warmers. In Berkeley on Friday I came dangerously close to blowing some hard-earned cash on a new pair of earrings at a hipper-than-thou boutique. But instead I crossed the street, browsed the Lonely Planet guidebooks in the bookstore, then joined a friend for a rollicking poetry slam where twelve to nineteen year-olds hollered raw truths like the Beats blowing lyrical mad genius symphonies into America's heart.
On Saturday, the holiest of holy days for me, pure do-nothing or do-everything day, we (that is, my fiance and I) headed north under a bright sunny sky. We wandered the ramshackle streets of Geyserville, landed at an antique store, where (surprise surprise) I found a darling hand-painted jewelry box that I wanted. It cost only twelve dollars, and somehow that fact momentarily trumped the fact that I already have two jewelry boxes, and, ironically, that I hardly ever wear jewelry. I strolled around the store trying to convince myself that this thing would enhance the quality of my life, but ultimately left empty-handed.
We walked along the railroad tracks, overgrown with sweet peas, poppies, and fennel, and picked a bouquet of wildflowers, and thought how pretty our wedding would be, with flowers just like these. We stopped by a cemetery where we listened to the quietness of life already lived, and picnicked in the grass. We were sitting near the Russian River, talking, when the sun began its cool descent. It was about as lovely a day as it gets, here in this spring-green Sonoma County paradise, and part of what made it so luscious and inspiring, was not having to buy anything, being free enough to not spend money, to appreciate the sublime beauty of partnership and grass and decrepit buildings.
The difference between me and wealthy people, as someone very wise once said, is that I have enough. I am not poor, but I'm starting to realize I should thank heavens that I'm not and never will be rich, either.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Love Those Kids!
Sometimes I cannot imagine my life without teaching. Specifically, teaching the sweet, bright, and crusty-eyed misfits that inhabit the kooky world of Nonesuch, where redwood trees shade our cozy fire-lighted schoolhouse. As financial woes threaten our sacred plot of bliss and love and havoc, as I imagine life beyond Bones Road, as I consider teaching in the big bad scary world of college or, dare I even think it, public school, I find myself relishing the teenagers I spend my days with.
Like Marisa, who brought me a bundle of freshly-ripped scallions from her garden, left them on my table in the morning. On the wipe board she'd written the couplet "What is this life, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare." Marisa has short wild hair the color of strawberry lip gloss; she's got dirt under her fingernails and hairy armpits; she volunteers, reads voraciously, and wanders through Santa Rosa's scrubby blond hills. When she's really passionate about an opinion in class, she blushes, and it reminds me of me, except I can only wish I were a tenth as savvy and smart as she when I was fourteen.
Like Mike, who has resisted reading novels for years, trudging through the rhetorical swamp of "The Color Purple" like a soldier who's lost all his ammo. In the past, he's gone months without doing homework. But yesterday he helped to lead the class discussion of "Slaughterhouse Five," his philosophical mind accessing Kurt Vonnegut with ease and beauty. He even researched the three types of irony. Our discussion ran five minutes over, and still, we could have kept going and going.
Like Jackie, who French braids my hair and draws pictures of me with a huge loud mouth and unruly locks. At fifteen, she's an old pro at dumpster diving, scoring bags of Traditional Medicinal tea that staff and students drink throughout the day. Sometimes she "dumpsters" a frilly hoodie she thinks I might like, or a copy of Dante's Inferno. I have never witnessed her being unkind to anyone, ever.
Like Jora, who is seventeen going on thirty-five, with knowledge and experience that would make Madonna blush. She wears tight low-cut shirts, swears like a sailor, tells me when my body odor is out of control. She recently wrote an essay exploring how she, unlike most of her cohorts, doesn't smoke pot; she's naturally high. It's easy to forget she's a kid. But then I notice her smooth sincere face in class, absorbing my mini-lecture about "The Scarlet Letter," patiently waiting for her turn to talk, excitedly, about what she thinks Hester and Dimmesdale will do, and why they love each other so.
Like Cody, who has given me a hug every day for the past four and a half years, since he was a tiny shaggy-haired sixth grader who would jump out of my classroom closet to scare me. As a tenth grader, no amount of black T-shirts, visor-tipped beanies, or baritone can mask his pure essential sweetness, his eagerness to get back to school when he's away for more than a week.
Like Marisa, who brought me a bundle of freshly-ripped scallions from her garden, left them on my table in the morning. On the wipe board she'd written the couplet "What is this life, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare." Marisa has short wild hair the color of strawberry lip gloss; she's got dirt under her fingernails and hairy armpits; she volunteers, reads voraciously, and wanders through Santa Rosa's scrubby blond hills. When she's really passionate about an opinion in class, she blushes, and it reminds me of me, except I can only wish I were a tenth as savvy and smart as she when I was fourteen.
Like Mike, who has resisted reading novels for years, trudging through the rhetorical swamp of "The Color Purple" like a soldier who's lost all his ammo. In the past, he's gone months without doing homework. But yesterday he helped to lead the class discussion of "Slaughterhouse Five," his philosophical mind accessing Kurt Vonnegut with ease and beauty. He even researched the three types of irony. Our discussion ran five minutes over, and still, we could have kept going and going.
Like Jackie, who French braids my hair and draws pictures of me with a huge loud mouth and unruly locks. At fifteen, she's an old pro at dumpster diving, scoring bags of Traditional Medicinal tea that staff and students drink throughout the day. Sometimes she "dumpsters" a frilly hoodie she thinks I might like, or a copy of Dante's Inferno. I have never witnessed her being unkind to anyone, ever.
Like Jora, who is seventeen going on thirty-five, with knowledge and experience that would make Madonna blush. She wears tight low-cut shirts, swears like a sailor, tells me when my body odor is out of control. She recently wrote an essay exploring how she, unlike most of her cohorts, doesn't smoke pot; she's naturally high. It's easy to forget she's a kid. But then I notice her smooth sincere face in class, absorbing my mini-lecture about "The Scarlet Letter," patiently waiting for her turn to talk, excitedly, about what she thinks Hester and Dimmesdale will do, and why they love each other so.
Like Cody, who has given me a hug every day for the past four and a half years, since he was a tiny shaggy-haired sixth grader who would jump out of my classroom closet to scare me. As a tenth grader, no amount of black T-shirts, visor-tipped beanies, or baritone can mask his pure essential sweetness, his eagerness to get back to school when he's away for more than a week.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Ode To Spring
All the flowers in all the pots on my porch are unfurling their tight-fisted little buds, like a toddler who finally releases her hold on mommy's finger.
We brew a jug of sun tea in the garden for two days, sweeten the warm amber liquid after a game of thunder on the basketball court. Served over ice it's the best thing all day.
A week ago I was skiing in Tahoe, at seven thousand feet above sea level, fresh powder from an early morning snowfall. Ease, quiet, solitude, focus, bliss. A prayer. May I bring that mountain meditation home with me, snap it into it's rightful place in the puzzle of my hectic life. Let be be all there needs to be.
Kids take St. Patrick's Day very seriously. I completely forget about the requisite green excitement, so thrilled am I at seeing my first paid articles in print. What surprises me most is Nate, fifteen-year-old punk kid, cultivator of nonchalance, in bright green sneakers and dark green bandanna, waiting for me in the morning with an elfish grin and pinched fingers.
I lay on the trampoline at school, reading "The Scarlet Letter," glad I'm the teacher and not the student wrestling this heavy prose to the ground for the first time. I'm tempted to hurl the black novel into the mint-laden grass and drift off to sleep. I wonder if Cami and Jora will actually read the assigned fifty pages by tomorrow. I am almost sure I wouldn't have when I was in high school.
Boy it sure feels good to break out the sandals! The old crusty ones still bearing the outline of last summer's escapades, the spiffy new red ones I bought in the mall at Christmastime, the new-to-me baby blue pumps I found in the thrift store the other day, a steal at five bucks.
On the basketball court I balk at my winter body. Pale legs, with hair grown dark during these months of hibernation. Softer around the belly. Motivation kicks in: I'm ready to tone and strengthen, to shed winter's insulation. Can't wait to swim and run barefoot through the grass, and watch my nose freckles multiply.
So we change the time, robbing from morning's sleeping hours to pay afternoon's play-time hours. I've been tired all week long, grumpily snoozing through the alarm, lazily marveling at the endless warm afternoons. I think about Kurt Vonnegut's Tralfamadorians (if you haven't yet read "Slaughterhouse Five," trust me, you won't regret it), who pity the human concept of chronological time, in which moments are over and gone forever. To them, "all moments, past, present, and future, always have existed, always will exist."
We brew a jug of sun tea in the garden for two days, sweeten the warm amber liquid after a game of thunder on the basketball court. Served over ice it's the best thing all day.
A week ago I was skiing in Tahoe, at seven thousand feet above sea level, fresh powder from an early morning snowfall. Ease, quiet, solitude, focus, bliss. A prayer. May I bring that mountain meditation home with me, snap it into it's rightful place in the puzzle of my hectic life. Let be be all there needs to be.
Kids take St. Patrick's Day very seriously. I completely forget about the requisite green excitement, so thrilled am I at seeing my first paid articles in print. What surprises me most is Nate, fifteen-year-old punk kid, cultivator of nonchalance, in bright green sneakers and dark green bandanna, waiting for me in the morning with an elfish grin and pinched fingers.
I lay on the trampoline at school, reading "The Scarlet Letter," glad I'm the teacher and not the student wrestling this heavy prose to the ground for the first time. I'm tempted to hurl the black novel into the mint-laden grass and drift off to sleep. I wonder if Cami and Jora will actually read the assigned fifty pages by tomorrow. I am almost sure I wouldn't have when I was in high school.
Boy it sure feels good to break out the sandals! The old crusty ones still bearing the outline of last summer's escapades, the spiffy new red ones I bought in the mall at Christmastime, the new-to-me baby blue pumps I found in the thrift store the other day, a steal at five bucks.
On the basketball court I balk at my winter body. Pale legs, with hair grown dark during these months of hibernation. Softer around the belly. Motivation kicks in: I'm ready to tone and strengthen, to shed winter's insulation. Can't wait to swim and run barefoot through the grass, and watch my nose freckles multiply.
So we change the time, robbing from morning's sleeping hours to pay afternoon's play-time hours. I've been tired all week long, grumpily snoozing through the alarm, lazily marveling at the endless warm afternoons. I think about Kurt Vonnegut's Tralfamadorians (if you haven't yet read "Slaughterhouse Five," trust me, you won't regret it), who pity the human concept of chronological time, in which moments are over and gone forever. To them, "all moments, past, present, and future, always have existed, always will exist."
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