Sunday, January 31, 2010


the snow is a pepper white, its surface firm and crusted, lifting and dropping in subtle shapes atop the frozen water beneath. white mountains ring the vista, set off by the blue backdrop of the cloudless section of southern sky. trees poke through the snow, and a ribbon of asphalt freeway snakes far below on the canyon's belly, but here it is calm and quiet, and cold, just as a winter day in late january should be.
I don't know what's happening beneath the frozen surface of the reservoir.
I can assume the water is thick with cold, sluggish, a world in slow motion. water molecules move more slowly, fish live in a state of semi-hibernation. life continues, but in a different way than it does during the warmer months of the year.
the surface belies what lies beneath, and could convince us, if we didn't know better, that the entire world beneath lies dormant and deathlike.

I rode outside yesterday, shocking myself with my desire and vigor.
piling all my cold-weather gear on, from full booties to skull cap, I set off up the road. up the side of the hill, up through the golf course, past the zoo, past the dog park to the mouth of emigration.
keeping expectations low, I promised myself I could turn back at any time. that I needn't push, that just to be out was a big enough move for the day.
I needed this. I needed to be out, needed to suck in fresh air and shiver with cold. I needed to be in the natural world, needed to see my breath and connect with the reality of it all: the earth, the snowbanks, the denuded trees, the salt stains on the road and the tracks of skinny tires that have persisted regardless of the season.

little dell and I have a lot in common. biking buddy bob the other day said that I wasn't looking quite as numb as I'd looked there for a while, and while this is likely true, there is still much of me that is cold, cold and slow. and like a frozen reservoir, there is still activity within, it's just of a different state than usual. and just as I said about little dell, I don't know exactly what's going on underneath the frozen surface.
things are moving, separating and rejoining and forming different connections. regrouping, reassembling, possibly finding newness, commitment, focus.
but it's slow, moving in that semi-hibernation speed, which can't be hurried.
cycles revolve, motion pushes us forward, the world keeps slowly spinning and we cannot truly stop until we breathe our last breath. whatever is happening within will take place on its own schedule.
I am the shell that holds this process from spilling over, I am the thick, frozen surface that protects the depths below.

one day, not so far away, the gradual rotation of our earth will bring us to warmer days and thawing ice, more quickly moving molecules and an awakening of a more vigorous life.
this I know.

Friday, January 29, 2010

small gifts

this morning's class was one of those that belongs in the I Will Survive This But I Sure Don't Like It category.
there are many things in life that belong there, actually. in fact, here's a list I'll whip out without much contemplation at all:

visits to the dentist
waiting at the DMV
visits to the doctor
filling out forms for the government
drying and straightening my hair
visits to the woman who works with wax
refraining from eating cookies and cake

today, after our warm-up of 20 minutes at 100 rpms, our Work Effort was this:
15 minutes spinning at 110-115 rpms
15 minutes spinning at 115-120 rpms
5 minutes spinning at 120+ rpms

you might say, that doesn't sound so awful. and for some of you it may not be. you sprinters out there, and you who just spin fast anyway, well, bully for you. I am neither a sprinter nor a fast spinner. and I'm working very hard not to say I hate these workouts. I'm trying to have a better attitude, and to cull the word hate from my vocabulary.
because I don't like these workouts at all.
and part of that is due to my legs, who much prefer to push bigger gears at a slower pace, but the more significant portion of dislike comes from the nerves in my saddle area. to spin that fast I have to engage my core and dig down into the saddle, to prevent bouncing. pressing down into the saddle results in . . . you guessed it, pressure on some pretty sensitive areas.
I start these Work Efforts with supportive self-talk that says, you can back off anytime you need, susan, it's okay. and then when I'm 3 minutes in, realizing there are still 12 to go, with a harder segment coming up, I think I might take myself up on that offer. but 2 minutes later, a third of the segment is over, and I convince myself I can keep going.
at the beginning of the next segment I do the same thing: you can slow down anytime you need, susan, it's really okay. and I keep going.
but at the end of it all, I am so full of relief it's palpable. I'm sure everyone on the opposite side of the room can feel it.

I know this is making me a better cyclist. a Universal Truth is that when you are working on a skill of some kind, if you continue to work to improve the parts at which you are weakest, you will become better at that overall skill.
but the culmination of all my work and efforts over the past years have also helped me with something else, and I received some powerfully redeeming gratification this morning:
after all that ridiculously fast spinning, then a stint in the weight room, I headed to the yoga room with the mirrored walls and spread a mat on the floor. I put my forearms down in a vee, placed the crown of my head where my hands met, and gracefully---yes, gracefully---kicked my legs up and into a headstand pose.
I held the best handstand of my life today.
legs together, legs apart in a vee, then back together, barely ever needing the wall.
I was solid, steady, smooth, safe.
and this made up for every bit of that pain-in-the-butt, I Can Barely Tolerate This, can't-wait-until-it's-over, ridiculously fast spinning.
these little rewards are what keep us going, aren't they?

Wednesday, January 27, 2010


At 47, I am still learning how to breathe.
I've got the in and out part down, and I can trade off between my mouth and nose at will. but I'll be damned if there aren't times when the entire breathing process has a mind of its own.

in yoga we learn that the most important aspect of our practice is the breath, that if we lose the breath as we move through our sun salutations and asanas, then we may as well not be moving through them at all.
meditation teaches us to visualize the breath, use the breath to ground ourselves, focus on the breath to keep our awareness from wandering.
and Power Camp teaches us to use the breath to lower our heart rate, to be more efficient, to work at a greater intensity than we otherwise might.

one meditation technique I've been taught is to exhale for twice as long as I inhale: a 4-count inhalation would be held for 4 counts, then released over a count of 8. I find this challenging.
our Power Camp instructors tell us to---at those elevated heart rates---settle into a breathing pattern, in through the nose and out through the mouth, and that this will settle our heart rate, as well.

I've been hearing this, listening to this, attempting to practice this all for years.
and I am still a lousy breather.
better than I used to be, perhaps, but far from where I'd like to be.
I'm still breathless at the top of 2 flights of stairs.
I pant while climbing steep hills or riding in class in zones 4B and 5.
I can't keep my inhalation-exhalation pattern constant during sun salutation B.
and sometimes, in quiet moments, I catch myself suddenly taking a huge breath and thick, have I been forgetting to breathe? Do I have Middle Age Scattered Brain Apnea Syndrome ?

there are many things in my life I am still working to improve. every once in a while it's nice to acknowledge an area of expertise, some performance or function that is replete with skill and accuracy, that needs no more practice.
say, making jello, or folding pillowcases, or even brushing your teeth.
someday, I'd like to add the simple task of breathing to this list.

Monday, January 25, 2010


a crack of light in the dark room of grieving is what friends pass along to us . . . words, hugs, silent communication, notes, bright flowers, food, beautiful cards, waves of loving thought that circumnavigate the world and come to rest upon our earthly bodies. the blessing below came to me from a friend named susie, and the images it evoked brought smiles and delight and a gentle peacefulness to my mind's eye. thus I pass it along in hopes that it will do the same for each of you, whether it's familiar to you or freshly new:

On the day when
the weight deadens
on your shoulders
and you stumble,
may the clay dance
to balance you.
And when your eyes
freeze behind
the grey window
and the ghost of loss
gets in to you,
may a flock of colours,
indigo, red, green,
and azure blue
come to awaken in you
a meadow of delight.
When the canvas frays
in the currach of thought
and a stain of ocean
blackens beneath you,
may there come across the waters
a path of yellow moonlight
to bring you safely home.
May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
may the clarity of light be yours,
may the fluency of the ocean be yours,
may the protection of the ancestors be yours.
And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life.

~ John O'Donohue ~

Saturday, January 23, 2010

I don't want to

here's the thing.
I don't want to write.
and it's not as if the crowd of thousands who read this will be devastated if I don't.
but the issue is this: I made a commitment to do this as practice, as training, as a discipline. it is a form of consistent effort that will result in an improved me; therefore my decision to write or not to write has ramifications on my overall sense of who I am.
I felt guilty enough about the break I took last fall, and my decision to cut back from everyday posting to only odd-day posting.
but right now I'm finding it difficult to write here even every other day. I don't want to.

this is closely related to my "I don't want to think" attitude.

besides, this is supposedly a web-log about cycling (which is often a stretch, I know) and not much of what I am writing lately is connected, even loosely, to riding a bike.
I could tell you about getting my new seat post for spin class (so that I can use my own saddle) and having to track down the little connector part (that would be an SR4500 from QBP, page 729 in the catalog) that allowed me to fasten part A to part B.
I could tell you about so-called Recovery Days that work my legs so hard they want to never bike again.
I could tell you about my first visit to the weight room after a 2-week absence, and how weights only seem to grow heavier when you're away.
but I don't really want to write about any of that.
I barely want to talk about anything.
I feel I've slipped down into that well and that I may never climb back out to see sunshine and smooth, dark asphalt ever again.

I drag myself here to the computer, and sign on with great reluctance. I click on the New Post icon, and I force myself to start typing.
I don't want to do it.
but I fear that if I don't keep plodding along, I will stop plodding at all. I will be overcome with inertia and will sway with the wind, falling sideways to the ground. I will not get up. lichen will take over, my northern side will become fuzzy and green, and soon I will be nothing more than a slight bump in the path.

so today I plod. I type, I throw words out there and try to organize them into coherent sentences that don't sound too full of self-pity as to be nauseating. I try to avoid maudlin, morose, and melodramatic.
but reality is that I hurt, and a nineteen-year-long portion of my life has now been swallowed up by a black hole, folded neatly and placed in a velvet drawstring bag.
I don't want to type,
I don't want to write,
I don't want to think,
I don't want to feel.

here's how you know (and thus, I, as well, must know) that I am still me:
my ending thought is this: thank God there's a chocolate cake in my fridge.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

time trial

today was a time trial at power camp.

which makes me think of how these two words come together, time and trial, to mean something that is intense, difficult, challenging.

time to me, right now, is challenging. and is often a trial. each day is filled with intensity, some difficulty, and challenges galore.

I'm in my own personal time trial, which will, just like the power camp ones, last longer than I'd like, be filled with experiences I don't like, ultimately make me stronger, and most importantly, eventually conclude.

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

halfway here

that's me, halfway here. and it's not always the same half that is present.
sometimes---usually---it's the physical body, but once in a while it's the emotional, feeling part and my body disappears to become just a part of the scenery.
I feel as though I sleep-walked through my day today. I could make a list of everything I've done, yet I have little memory of actually doing any of it. I've been in a phase of telling myself not to think, don't think, don't think, and this has put me in a place of rote behavior.
my car knows the way to the jcc for power camp class.
my body knows how to fix meals for the kids and pack orders to ship.
my mind knows how to function in safe mode, where I seem to be participating in an interaction but I am not really, at all.
I'm not sure who produces the words, the smiles, the responses throughout the day, but I'm quite positive that it's
it's the half of me that will hold down the fort until I somehow cleave myself back together.
which I, eventually, will do.

Sunday, January 17, 2010


there have been numerous times in the past two weeks when I have wanted to bolt from the spin room, screaming, escaping.
and I haven't.
but at times it has taken every ounce of willpower I have to stick it out, to keep on spinning, to keep doing whatever I've been told to do, to stay committed. every ounce.

I've written before about how power camp and cycling itself have helped me overcome that little voice in my head that says you can't do this susan. the one that says you've got to stop NOW or you're going to die. the one that says you can't you can't you can't as if it's an old LP stuck in a worn vinyl groove.
that little voice is still there: I've just learned that it usually is incorrect. it's negative, it's a fatalist, it's a drama queen. it's hysterical and melodramatic. it thinks so little of me it's embarrassing. and what I've come to understand is that even though I've taught it to back off a little, it will never truly go away. I will always have to try to squelch it, to talk back to it, to conquer it with a resolute disregard.

so the fact that I've been able to stay in class, to finish whatever drill we're practicing, to sit amongst people when I want to be a hundred miles away . . . this ability is a result of years of discipline. I don't want to be there: I want to be curled up in a ball on the couch. but I know I need to be there, I need to keep moving, I need to stay focused on the parts of my life that I've worked so hard to develop. I've trained myself to function in ways that keep my head above water, that keep me from slipping below the surface and melting into the comfort of oblivion.

I'll keep going to class, although I don't want to. I have the courage to get out of my car and enter the building, and I will pull it out of my core each morning. I will find the strength to converse a bit with those who try to engage me; I will find small smiles to return to those who smile at me.
and there will come a day when it will not be quite so difficult. because everything changes, everything fades, nothing lasts forever: life is transient, and each stage we experience is just a prelude to the next.

these next words came to me from my stepfather, who paraphrased his son-in-law's response to jake's leaving us: as we cannot understand God, or God's plan, we do not know that for Jake, his soul being in Jake's body for almost 19 years could have felt like one hour in our time, and that hour, stretched over 19 years, might have been necessary to ready him for something else.

I'll never know how much discipline jake had to practice over the years, to stay present in his body when the alternative must have been ever so much more attractive. but I'm pretty sure I'll be honoring him best by continuing to live, continuing to be disciplined, continuing to focus on what ultimately brings me joy and connects me with spirit. and I, as will each of you, will move along into the next phase of my life, to see what this one has been leading me toward.

Friday, January 15, 2010


it's been almost 19 years since I buried my son, little joe.
seems like just a few corners and turns and doorways ago.
jake, though, we will not bury. it doesn't seem right for him.
one day, after we've had time to just be, we will take his ashes and spread them over God's ground and let him return to this beautiful earth. it will be someplace I've ridden, someplace where I will continue to ride, a place I find joyful and vibrantly alive and intensely rich with simple, natural beauty.
I have a spot in mind, and we will see if, over time, that remains the chosen spot.
but for now, today, we will sit with jake's ashes and cry, be sad for ourselves, thinking of all that we will miss about his precious presence.
we will be joyful, as well, for the gift of his release from this life. we see him playing and laughing and giggling with God . . . and this is what helps us keep taking those steps forward, one foot first, and then the other.
I don't say rest in peace: he's been resting for years. I say go with God, be free, soar and swoop and hold a place for me.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010


today I need space from the world.

I need a cushion ten clouds wide and two mountains deep. a moat around me, one with the breadth of snake river and the power of cottonwood creek in the heat of spring. people's arms can reach out and touch me, and I will feel their love, their empathy, our conjoined pain, but I am protected so that I won't fall into the well of despair that opens up when hearts touch and intertwine with other hearts in shared sorrow.
their hands will float across the clouds and lightly rest upon my shoulder, my back, my hair, and then they will fade away and I will be left with the heat from their soul.

I am balancing, I will stay upright.

and I will crash, eventually, inevitably, momentarily.
and the well will be there, and I will fall.
but all of those hands that have reached across the abyss to show their love form together to build this beautiful human ladder that will provide me a path up and out from the depth of that well.

thank you, hands and hearts and souls that surround me, and stretch far enough to reach me across the clouds and the moat. I feel you all.

Monday, January 11, 2010


my son jake has been living in a suspended state his entire life. a state of latency, a place of truly being neither here nor there.
he continues this today, though he seems to have moved slightly further along the continuum toward not being here. just slightly, though.

he's never had a body that worked like most of ours do. he's never been able to control his muscles: they do what they want. his mind ~ we don't know.
so he's always lived in this inner world, so very different from the one the majority of us inhabit.
he lets us know when he's upset or feeling pain, and he lets us know when he's happy. he has the best, huge and deep belly laugh: it shakes his entire body.
he laughs at jokes his brother tells him.
he laughs at the walls.
he laughs at the angels he sees, dancing around the room, high against the windows and ceiling.

jake has lived his entire life in an existence unlike anything I can really imagine. he cannot talk. he cannot tell us anything about his experience. he cannot move himself or label anything he sees.

and now he is moving closer to a new existence, one that none of us have any real knowledge of.
but I pull out my constant companion, faith, and know that jake will soon be released to share every bit of his depth and wisdom and love, to run and jump and play, to ride that special, custom bike they're putting together for him up there.

we will just hang in this suspension for a while longer, as it tilts, gradually, continually, toward his new equilibrium.

Saturday, January 9, 2010

losing time

I have, at times, lost pieces of my life.
days, sometimes weeks. I think I've lost a few months, as well.
today I felt january slipping from my grasp. I'm not sure what day it is---I have to think really hard about it throughout each day---and I'm not really sure what all has taken place during the past 6 days.
I think I will be losing most of january this year.

this happens to me when grief and loss slip into my life. I lose time. time becomes a strange concept: I watch the hands go around the clock, I see the digital readout change from one hour to the next, but it feels as though I'm living outside the boundaries of time. I go to bed at a typical bedtime hour, and I get out of bed at the usual time. but I can't hold on to time's structure as it seems illusory; time has become a nebulous concept.
today, I have to count backward to figure out how long it's been since we came home from the hospital, and I come up with 3 days and 90 minutes.
whatever that means.

clara is a tiny hispanic woman who has been in our lives since jake was a baby. today she came to visit, and brought us a plant, her radiant presence, and the gift of these words of Khalil Gibran:

"For what is to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun? And what is to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless ties, that it may rise and expand and reach God unencumbered?
Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.
And when you have reached the mountaintop, then you shall begin to climb.
And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance."

I cried as I read these words, recognizing their veracity, and their power to help us keep pushing toward our individual mountaintops.

jake's journey toward his mountaintop has taken 19 brief years, and he pauses now before he begins his climb.
during those years I have lost small pockets of reality, of the clock-world. and as he works his way through this pause I will hover in this illusive place, and soon look back to see that I lost these weeks. lost them, yet spent them well in a state of being, a state of presence, a state of connection with a future time.

Thursday, January 7, 2010


I'm not up for lighthearted chatter today, but there are things to be said that will hopefully straddle the pathway between morosity and artificial gaiety.

yesterday evening we brought my son home from the hospital, after stopping treatment for his pneumonia. he had reached a point where interventions either needed to be intensified, or ended. I could write a small volume about all that went into that, but it's not necessary. he came home, and I am gently thrilled to have him here with me at this point in his life. we are calm and peaceful here, and I am full of gratitude and love.

I've been contemplating my current situation with my son, and thinking about the fact that it's just my time to be going through a Major Life Event. I visualize the spin class room, and picture every bike filled with a body. I could go around the room and ask each person what kind of challenges life has thrown their way, and I would hear at least two dozen heartbreaking stories. there would be stories of death, and of triumph over difficulty. stories of loss, and of suffering and sorrow. the tales would be from 10 years ago or 15, or from last winter. none of escape unscathed.
of the people I know best in that class, the stories include divorces, overcoming cancer, experiencing a wife's successful bout with cancer, living with a wife's degenerative illness . . . and these are people I only associate with for biking. if I knew them more intimately, I'm sure I would know of more challenges and struggles.
mine is just one more. I'm taking my turn. it feels like a long turn, certainly, but the good news is that I can handle it. not just me by myself, but me with my living support team of friends, family and acquaintances, and even more importantly, my spiritual support team who choose to remain unseen.
but rarely unfelt.

there's a song from the sound of music which can really only be listened to if julie andrews is singing it. my son's dad has frequently sung this verse in moments of happiness: nothing comes from nothing, nothing ever could, so sometime in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good.
as I believe in reincarnation in some form or another, and I also believe in karma, I expand the theme of this verse to past lifetimes as well. and somewhere, sometime, somehow, in some way, I must have done a million good things.
because I am loved. I am blessed a million times over. as difficult as some of the experiences that life has presented me have been, I have always been guided through to the other side.

this afternoon a medical social worker came to meet with us, as part of the hospice team. her job is to assess the situation, and work to provide whatever supports may be lacking.
we lack nothing.
we have family, we have friends, we have a warm home. we have spiritual support, we have religious support. we have everything we need.
I have nothing to ask for, and there is not a better place to be in the entire world.
I have my son here with me, we are surrounded by a cocoon of love and protected by a multitude of angels, and we now can relax into the gift of time with one another.

somewhere, sometime, somehow, in some way, I must have done a million good things.

Tuesday, January 5, 2010


a handful of weeks ago I began a blog post that I quickly relegated to the Draft folder. it wasn't much more than a title and a one-sentence concept, and I stopped myself from working on it because I feared it was going to be too pitiful. too maudlin, too woe-is-me, too much of an obvious tug on hearts and emotions.
all of that leapt from a single sentence, yep.
but the events of this week have pushed me to return to that line, connect it with my current position, and see what comes of it.
there are certain places that have become touchstones in my life, places that hold great emotional wells, deep and plentiful. one of those I drive past each morning as I go to power camp: Primary Children's Medical Center (PCMC). It's just a building. a large one, yes, but still, a building.
it's been almost 19 years since I first walked down one of its hallways, and it's a place achingly, painfully, familiar to me. to enter this building sometimes unleashes a grief so deep it threatens to swell up and swallow me whole.
some days I drive past the hospital and it's as if nothing ever happened within those walls.
other days, my heart leaps as I drive past, and I push all those thoughts and memories back down, deep, so that they don't overwhelm me.

that huge, sprawling building is a touchstone for me, one that defines the bulk of my adult life.
and now I'm creating a new touchstone.

it's another hospital, far across the valley and of a deeper shade of brick yet still, at its core, an artificial environment that is uncomfortably familiar.
my oldest son is lying in a bed next to me as I write. I look at him, and relive so very many experiences we've had within hospital walls. as I told this morning's doctor, my son has been through hell. from day one, almost 19 years ago. he's had more surgeries and procedures than any one person should ever have to have, and suffered through so much pain and discomfort that I'm amazed he ever finds the strength and desire to smile. we humans are so unbelievably resilient.

today it's pneumonia, and a low platelet count.
but I see flashes of him at 4 pounds, at 5 pounds, post-ventricular-shunt surgery, post-g-tube surgery, in the ICU near death. I see him, I see me, I try not to feel deeper than the first few layers.
he's resting now, and I join him in this existence outside reality. the rest of the world spins and rotates, moving through its day, but time has come to a standstill for us.
that's what the PCMC touchstone represents for me: a withdrawal from ordinary, understandable life into an artificial zone where time and reality are suspended for hours, days, weeks.

I still want to take my son swooping and soaring on my bike. but perhaps I'll start with just a shared visualization. I can talk him through it, the climb up the canyon with the sun on our bodies, the air crisp and refreshingly cool and clear. he'll be wrapped more warmly than me, and he'll feel cozy and safe. birds sing, wind gently rustles aspen leaves. someone's fire sends the scent of burning wood floating across the road and we pull it into our lungs, delighted.
Jake's cheeks are rosy as mine are flushed, and the top of the hill comes at just the right time. we slowly traverse the crest, then gather speed as we begin our swoop, his body leaning against mine as the air surrounds and protects us. we soar down the hill, the two of us, caressed by son and shocked with fresh air, and we are as vibrantly, fully, beautifully alive as two beings can ever be.
we have a new touchstone.

Sunday, January 3, 2010

time off

as much as I love to log miles, and to be busily productive, I also like to have time off.
time off from work, from family responsibilities, and ~ yes ~ even from riding my bike and spinning and exercising and yoga.
because this time off allows me to get caught up on those things that I never seem to have enough time (or motivation) to do.
this weekend I had time, and it was glorious. not only did I put away most of the Christmas decorations around my house (I'm now down to just the tree), I also rearranged my laundry room, put together a storage shelf-unit-thingee, scrubbed a few floors, threw away oodles of things that needed to be discarded, ate lots of chocolates and caramels, thoroughly cleaned a few spots in my house that needed it, and, completed a few little projects that have been patiently, so patiently, waiting for me.
I'm not a pack-rat, but I do have this tendency to hang onto things just in case . . . and then I have another collection of things I hang onto because one day I'll fix them . . .
this weekend both confronted me.
some of the just in case items ended up in the trash can.
and some of the one day I'll fix them items actually got fixed.

and the task that pleased me most this weekend was gluing back together a broken mug that has been in the latter column for, oh, perhaps two or three years.
this is no ordinary mug.
this is a mug painted by one of my daughters, back when she was perhaps 7 years old.
she'd been to one of those "paint your own" pottery places, and came out of it with this exceptionally beautiful mug that stated I Love Mom loudly and clearly, in burgundy and purple and yellow. we used this for toothbrushes and the toothpaste tube in my bathroom until one day it got knocked over and crashed on the floor.
I am not good with glue, and I didn't want to even attempt gluing it back together . . . but I also couldn't bring myself to throw it away. so it sat in my kitchen drawer for a few years, all 7 or 8 pieces of it, pitifully resting there, waiting for me to make a decision about what I was going to do with it.
yesterday I finally decided what to do with it: throw it away. I took one piece out and tossed it in the trash can. then I picked up the next piece to do the same, and I hesitated.
could I really throw away this work of art that my daughter so lovingly created just for me?
no. I couldn't.
I picked up the piece out of the garbage can, and pulled the other pieces from the drawer. I tried to fit them together, checking to see if I had at least the major pieces, and sure enough, I did.
I took out my grocery store list and wrote ceramic glue.
and by late yesterday afternoon, I had resurrected my daughter's creation.

it's now sitting on my desk, here by me as I type. it's holding a small collection of pens, and a business card or two. she hasn't seen it yet, and I smile as I think of what she might say when she does.
most importantly, however, is the fact that this mug will now, almost certainly, forever remind me of the possibilities that arise when one takes a little bit of time off.

Friday, January 1, 2010

binary code

today just seems like binary code to me; everything reduced to its simplest version.
today is a microcosm of the year to come:
a workout with my butt in the saddle. chores. work-related activity. caring for my dog. dishes. laundry. interactions with fellow human beings. a shower. hair care, make-up, shaving my legs. moments of pleasure. moments of relaxation. observations of fellow human beings. entertainment. expenditures. conversations about the mundane, and about the significant. time spent reading. eating. overindulging in chocolates. shivers and sighs and cuddling up with pillows and blankets. thinking, contemplating, manifesting. being grateful.


happy new year, complete with wishes and hopes that each of us find plentiful time for those things that bring us pure joy.

and most importantly, a wish that you may always remember the root and core of your own personal binary code.