Archive | March, 2017

Balancing Life

21 Mar

 When my youngest is at gymnastics I sit on a cold metal folding chair and I watch her on the balance beam.  I can see the determination in her face and see her arms out as she wobbles a bit, then catches herself a step in and refocuses.  Now and then she slips.  But most of the time, she catches herself off-balance and continues on.  Her teacher follows a step behind when she is on the high beam, allowing her to find her own strength and balance, but there in case she were to freeze or fall.  

I balance all the time.  I wobble more than she does when I walk.  I haven’t worn heels since I fell in them and cracked my elbow.  I’m still not sure why it’s called the funny bone.  I balance in my running shoes now.  Between keeping my house clean and spending my much-needed free time exercising and writing.  Staying in to watch another episode of Caillou with a five year old on my lap or going to a Yelp Event with a friend.  Going out on a date with my husband, or catching up on the sleep I miss throughout the week.  Between researching more services we need and just going to Culver’s and eating ice cream.

Some days I balance better than others.  Some days I can smile, I can laugh, I can make those phone calls and doctor appointments easily.  Some days all I can picture is a potential hospital visit for a child and my “fight or flight” response kicks in.  I freeze.  I stare at the neon Post It list of “stuff” I need to accomplish and push my chair away from my desk.  I find my blue running shoes and go pound the path with the steady rythym of my steps. Or I put in headphones and go hunting for my favorite feel-good songs and crumple into the feels of those songs.  Or I open the pages of a book and immerse myself in someone else’s life for awhile.  I feel the clinking of my bracelets reminding me of everything.


But then I refocus and I make those phone calls, I schedule visits with specialists, I ask for help and spend six hours in my van to steal a night away with my husband where I can dress up and feel like the fifteen year old girl he asked out years ago.  I can wear a fiery red dress and heels and feel my legs ache from the hill I walked a few hours before.  I can fill my tub with hot water and turn on the jets, closing my eyes for a few minutes just listening to the pounding of the water.  

I might not be graceful always on my walk.  I might sometimes close my own eyes and repeat the Serenity Prayer or look at my bracelets for inspiration.  I might text someone close to me for just a single boost.  But I continue.  And I make it.  I wobble, I catch myself.  I feel my family and friends a step behind, ready to hold their arms up if I need them.  

But just like she does I continue.  Because that’s what I do.  I breathe.  And repeat.

Bring Back Mail

17 Mar

Today I returned from taking my overzealous dog to yank my arm off or choke himself on his leash to sniff and pee in spots, or a “walk” according to my FitBit to pause at the mailbox.  Typically I get a pile of the usual:  local coupons, a credit card offer or a medical bill.  Or on a really good day there’s an Amazon box on the steps.  Granted that holds diapers or Chlorox wipes, but that’s better than a bill.

 But today was magic.  I saw her handwriting first and instantly smiled.  

I knew inside was a letter.

I, like many others depend on email and social media to keep up with friends and family.  I text friends or family and even begrudgingly call now and then (because if you know me you know I don’t do idle chit-chat).

But these letters have a history.  My childhood best friend and I were instantly attached, both being shy bookworms and the only girls on the block. We shared dates with our Cabbage Patch dolls Kelly and Cassandra, we built tipsy sandcastles with rusty Tonka Trucks and plastic shovels in the sandbox .  We laughed often and we were almost always at each other’s house, unless we were spending the day fighting.  Those days we would each sit in our own back yards until dusk, sneaking glances at the other one and pouting until one of our older brothers took pity on us and ended the fued.

And then when I was in second grade I sat on the cement stairs by my front door scratching a scabby knee and cried while watching her family drive away in their wagon, waving until I could no longer see the car.  

While some friendships would end, ours just changed.  We wrote letters.  I’m talking multicolored pens and notebook paper novels about our daily life or challenges or experiments with writing.  We’d mail Christmas and birthday gifts to each other.  When she taught in Japan I would get beautiful origami paper letters sent to my college dorm room.

There was nothing better than seeing her handwriting on an envelope.  This woman has known me since she was born.  We both spoke French at one point, we both spent hours writing novels we (well, I) never finished, we took Creative Writing courses in college, and every time we meet or write we learn new pieces of each other’s lives and sometimes our own.

The letters are not penned as often now.  Sometimes it’s a Facebook post or an email, just a quick message to let the other one know we were thinking of them.  But my entire body sighs in comfort when I sit down with a fresh notebook page, choose my color of ink and write the magic words “Dear Sara.”  Or, even better, seeing my name on an envelope in the mailbox.