Celebration

Here are a few shots that captured the week:

Inspiration Point, Texas Lions Camp

 Texas Lions Camp, Circa 1954

Near Enchanted Rock, where Sis is getting married

 2 generations of cousins

Guest of Honor, turning 70

Bluebonnets a Blooming

What a week we had; family, friends, wildflowers, BBQ, new cowboy hats, Shiner Bock, listening to the elders, and just catching some sun.  Thanks to all my Texan clan.  I love you.

new words

I was in Texas on April 15th, my home away from home.  We were slowly gathering from all over the country to celebrate my mom's 70th birthday on Friday.  Kat and I were pondering the table decorations and how much BBQ to order when a frantic call came in from France.  Her oldest daughter was trying to make sense of the news she had heard of a bomb going off at the Boston Marathon.

The next hour was spent trying to track down the people I love who either run or watch the marathon each year.  Tears poured down my face as I tried to explain to my daughter that I was just so, so sad and worried about family and friends.

"It's going to be alright, Sweetheart, it's going to be alright."  Later, when it was time to fly back to Boston, this same daughter struggled with overcoming her fears of getting on a plane and heading back to a city that had recently been shut down for a day.

"Daddy and I are not going to put you in a situation that is not safe."

We made it home safely and I began to process the stories of terror and fear that surrounded my loved ones that week:  the mother and two children who walked out of the chaos back to Fenway park, praying and crying; the family that could not fly home because the airspace around Boston was shut down; and the friend who stayed inside most of the week.

I listened to these "wicked strong" natives and I heard the change in their voices as they pondered their city, different today than it was a week ago.  Not much I could say.

Then I realized that the loss we are all grappling with is the loss of words.  I can no longer tell my children that I will not put them in harm's way, because I no longer know where the danger lies.  Celebratory events are rigged with explosives designed to maim and kill innocents.  I can't tell them that the world is a safe place.

So we will have to come up with new words.  Words that describe the runners who kept on running straight to the hospitals to donate blood.  Words that tell the story of the first responders who rushed back into the smoke.  Words that praise all the medical personal who saved lives by the dozens.
Words of compassion for those broken enough to kill.  Words for the children who witnessed such horror but will not be defined by it.

Today, a week after the event, I have never been prouder of my adopted city, and all the modern day patriots that will find new words of hope, resilience, and healing.

Ode to the bookstore

Yesterday was Luke's first competitive badminton tournament:




When they say competitive, that is what they mean, he lost all four games:)
I have been reading a lot about building resiliency in kids http://www.paultough.com/the-books/how-children-succeed/ and this author talks about the importance of failure and how we have been protecting them too much from real world consequences. Happily, the world of competitive badminton does not offer that protection:)

It was a long day, with a lot of down time. Luckily, I remembered that one of the best bookstores in the state was right down the road from the playing venue. Big shout out to New England Mobile
Book fair.

I had about an hour, and no plan. Since I am doing research for a book, I headed to the education section and picked up "my kid's an honor student, your kid's a loser" and Robert Coles "the secular mind". Then, onto philosophy for "the death of character" and "om at home".

Finally, poetry for "the best of contemporary Irish poetry".

No time for history, fiction, or art which saved me some money. It was a ninja strike on borrowed time.

Did I mention all these books are used? I know buying used books is not a joy my children will have, so my new philosophy is to buy double and let them shop our bookshelves some day:)


Finally, I will share a quote from the first book from my haul I am reading:

Again and again our professor would make that distinction for us:  the world of action , the world of reflection --and ask us, always, whether the latter qualified as the former.

Robert Coles commenting on a seminar he took at Harvard with theologian Paul Tillich

Poem of the day

On top

All this new stuff goes on top

turn it over, turn it over

wait and water down

from the dark bottom

turn it inside out

let it spread through

Sift down even.

Watch it sprout.

A mind like compost.

            --Gary Snyder

The Guild

Sometimes, I get in over my head. Could be on the slopes, at work, committing my son to a Dungeon and dragons tournament without asking him( sorry about that on so many levels). This week, it was agreeing to attend the local Artist's guild meeting, a group composed primarily of working fine artists.

My daughter's art teacher is such a gentle soul. He and I worked together a few years ago trying to establish a non profit art council in town with other like minded folks. It didn't go but he is always working on getting artists together.

So, cut to Monday night. I'm sitting in a room of working artists, mean age about 60 and they are the real deal. The facilitator of the meeting lays art supplies on the table and encourages us to draw like Van Gogh.


My table mates kept waiting for my rough sketch to flesh out. Some of their pieces were more Van Gogh than his were. My husband asked me why I was drawing gunslinger gumbys. Imagine my joy when we had to stand up and do a "walkabout". Painful and humbling.

Now, a week later, I have a different take on the whole experience. As we get older, we follow along the ruts we have created for ourselves because they are familiar and seemingly keep the wagon on the trail. It takes courage to veer off and create a new path, even for a night. But I think we have to. I think we have to expose ourselves and continue to reach for what we might become.

What is an artist? Some one who creates something new. And you can't say gunslinging gumbys are not new. Especially ones on Mars.

Make a little music for the earth beneath your foot

Today, it is a sunny 35 degrees but you can feel it coming. We skied on heavy, wet snow yesterday which is yet another sign. We will have one more big snowstorm and we don't put away winter clothes until the end of April but still, the light is coming back.

New Englanders are who they are because of the distinct seasons. I have finally figured out I can't fully join them in staying balanced during the long winter months. I ski, I snowshoe, I do my death hike and get shot at on my birthday, but I'm a displaced Texan and we dig the light.

Of course, it could be FM (faux menopause), or not having a working downstairs bathroom, or missing the obscure mid-week camp enrichment deadlines (yet again) that leads to the winter blues but I think not. My thoughts begin to soar when the light returns. This morning , I talked to Reverend Judith about intensifying my Buddhist meditation practice, she gave me the name of her llama who is doing an intensive in Cambridge. Last week, I watched old episodes of Macgyver. Just saying.

So, I celebrate the return of the light.. As does Mary Oliver:

The Poet Comments On Yet Another Approaching Spring

Don't flowers put on their
prettiness each spring and
go to it with
everything they've got? Who

would criticize the bed of
yellow tulips or the blue
Hyacinths?
So, put a

bracelet on your
ankle with a
bell on it and make a
little music for

the earth beneath your foot, or
wear a hat with hot-colored
ribbons for the
pleasure of the

Leaves and the clouds, or at least
a ring with a gleaming
stone for your finger; yesterday
I watched a mother choose

exquisite ear ornaments for someone
beloved, in the spring
of her life; they were
for her for sure, but it also seemed

A promise, a love message, a commitment
to all girls, and boys too, so
beautiful and hopeful in this hard world
and young.

Chickens roosting

As I sit on a bag of frozen peas and drink a glass of red wine, I ponder how I got here. The year was 1985. I had just made the momentous decision to drop out of college for a semester and try my thighs out as a semi-professional cyclist (long on the semi). Our coach was a Polish man who had cycled his way out of poverty and good manners. We talked a lot about components and how to make our bikes weigh ounces less with the latest titanium petals. He laughed and told us to lose weight and stop eating pizza.

We were an all woman cycling team, The Bluebonnet Racers. I was a domestique, which is a fancy French word that means the worst on the team. My job was to race out ahead and try and pull the opposing team's best riders off their pace...wear them out and then make room for our top riders to take the lead. There were a couple of types of races: road races and criteriums. Crits are short races, usually under a mile that circle tight and have a high crash rate. I loved them because the domestique role was just for road races. Free to ride one's own race. That is always where I get in trouble. I have never been good at pacing, the excitement of competing pulls me out of having any sense.

That day, we were racing at an army base, about 30 miles south of Austin. It was drizzling and the racing conditions were sketchy. Our team was racing for cash, and I felt a certain obligation to make some money, as I was no longer in college and felt that winning highlighted the professional part of my new path. The course was 1/2 mile, with tight turns around the barracks. This time was going to be different; I was going to stay with the pack and actually pace myself. I managed to override my instincts for several miles. Things looked good.

Then, the drizzle turned to rain and the next minute of the race is still a blur to this day. The lead riders went down and started a domino effect of falling cyclists and crumpled bikes. All in all, 10 cyclists went down, most with broken collar bones. I dislocated my hip. The army docs did not seem to be phased by their barracks filling up. Lucky venue for us.

I was on crutches for several months and during that time realized a college degree probably had more staying power than my bike. Still, I cherish that time, those women, and even my irascible coach.

Today, 28 years later, I felt a bit out of shape. I tried a 20 minute "tone and tighten" regime that included some push-ups, crunches, etc. My hip started screaming "remember the barracks" about an hour ago. Our past lands on us and goes along for the ride.

My crash and burn days may be over, maybe, but I wouldn't trade 'em. Even if it means I have to sit on peas.


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