A Flood of Gratitude

One of my swimming friends, an amazing athlete (national champion masters swimmer, biker and hiker) sees an acupuncture specialist about thirty minutes from my house. My ears perk up whenever Kathleen mentions her appointments and the great results, but the drive time had kept me from following up until recently, when I got information and made a first-time date.  Wear and tear from the high school swim season plus general fatigue and incessant nerve prickling in my scalp helped me focus on a plan of action.

D. did not disappoint. Traffic was bad and I made it with just two minutes to spare - cutting things much closer than I like - but my heart rate subsided and I could draw a deeper breath within ten minutes of my sitting down. No one else was in the office, and I unburdened myself of medical history, current emotional and physical challenges, and desired healing. 

In our discussion it came out that I blog and meditate for self-healing when not overly busy, but of course I jettison both of these therapies (at the time I most need them) when my schedule gets crowded. She gently prodded me to get back to both, hence this first blog post in many weeks. Letting myself go off the rails without the support of two stabilizing influences seems short-sighted and destined for failure, and yet it often happens. 

When D. treated me, dimmed the lights and withdrew, I felt a flood of gratitude rise from somewhere in my core and flood upward and out through my tear ducts. I lay in the darkness with acupuncture needles in various locales, weeping for no discernible reason except for this strange and lovely feeling of gratitude.

Since my visit last week I have had much more energy and a more positive outlook. I'm going back on Wednesday (before our high school league championships), hoping not only for my own peace and optimism but that some of the joy will rub off on my girls, helping them to swim best times and hit their goals.

Drop Kick Me Through the Goal Posts of Life

 Last week I went to Denver International Airport to do my interview for the Global Entry TSA program. Rob enrolled me so that we could both use TSA pre-approved lanes at the airport no matter where we traveled, and we had waited a year for the appointment. The only thing I had to do was show up at the appointed time with my passport.

When I arrived at the Global Entry office in DIA there was a line of four people in front of a large locked door with no windows. A phone was mounted on the wall next to the door, as we all had to call in separately to let them know we had arrived. Tension buzzed between us, especially between the two guys who didn't have appointments. I felt a little smug that I had done everything by the book.

Those of us with appointments were buzzed into a little waiting room adjacent to where the interviews took place. We could hear all the questions and replies and I felt like a "win" was imminent. When I was summoned to the interview window I strode confidently to the green chair and sat with my purse in my lap, from which I extracted a passport.

When prompted, I handed that document to my interviewer and he stared with wide eyes for three seconds before turning it around and showing me the photo page. It wasn't my face that looked back at me, but my son's. I felt my mouth drop open, as described in novels, my heart rate jumped, and I exclaimed, "Oh, no!"

I had pulled the passport from its hiding place the night before, after we hosted a high school swim meet. The late night and the craziness of the swim meet had distracted me so that I could not even find my own face!  Fortunately the interviewer could "pass" me with the use of my driver's license, but I need to go back to the airport (a 90-minute round trip) and get my passport scanned.

When I recounted this to some friends on a walk last week, they burst out laughing. One, a friend from the South, said "Oh Lawd! Drop-kick me, Baby Jesus, through the goal posts of life!" My story forgotten in hearing this delightful phrase, she told us all about the older woman who used it in her childhood. My friend repeated it in a broad Southern accent and I made her promise to text me the phrase later.

I've made countless foolish errors over the last few weeks, some minor and some that caused serious inconvenience. It's good that humility grows in this decade of my 50's - if I made this many mistakes in my 20's I'm not sure my self-confidence would have recovered. Truth be told, it hasn't quite recovered since last week's debacle, but I now have an apt phrase to describe my stumbling through the goal posts of life.

I'm Not Aging, It's My iPhone

"I could see the budding wrinkles on my 30-something forehead and the faint red glow of the eczema patches around my eyes. Startled, I began questioning my appearance. Then I began questioning my device."  - Caroline Mimbs Nyce in The Atlantic

In the last six months I've developed an aversion to taking Snapchat selfies. I'm only on Snapchat because my two older children once asked me to communicate via that app. Text messages are staid and take too long, plus they leave evidence (of what, I know not). So I snap away at the cats, the scenery, my (rapidly aging) face.

What a relief to read the article by Mimbs Nyce which places blame for my aging on the overly accurate lens of my iPhone. The phone doesn't lie (I don't think) but neither does it represent the progress of my aging sequentially. Instead, the rapid improvement in technology has accelerated my decline, when actually I am not so much different than I was two iPhones ago.

This dilemma indicates to me - yet again - that I belong to a different time, a time when mirrors were a frivolous luxury and no one worried about cameras. A time when people read books and wrote poetry, talked on porches while knitting, and mused about local events. Our current world overwhelms me to such an extent that I have taken to re-reading Anne of Green Gables and other childhood favorites before bedtime, reveling in both the familiarity and the simple dramas therein.

I realize that the early 20th century was no great place for a woman, but this early 21st century woman certainly wishes that things would slow down: technology, world events, even aging. As Thanksgiving approaches I am certainly grateful for blessings of family and friends that the world can't take away, and more determined than ever to stop looking in cameras and appreciate every moment.

Adventure as Therapy

 "Movement is medicine. Adventure is therapy."

- Rebecca Rusch, American endurance professional athlete

When my stomach is in knots, I need to move - to swim, bike or walk using both sides of my body, uniting both halves of my brain. When my outlook on life loops around on itself, I look for adventure, a shot of newness and a tangent pointing the way forward out of circular thinking. In October, as heavy news of the world added to a layer of dread-filled sentiment on the daily, we scheduled bouts of adventure to lift mind and spirit.

First, Rob and D. and I went back to New England. Having lived there for seven years, I find the beautiful forests, older buildings, and winding roads to be therapeutic on a normal day, but in the fall New England is magic on steroids. We flew in to Boston, drove up to Vermont virtually hanging out the window to soak in the beauty from the variegated explosion of color from trees on the side of the road and on nearby hills.

The boys ate maple syrup Cremees while I drank coffee infused with a healthy dose of the same syrup and we walked through a sap-harvesting operation near Montpelier. My cousin and his beautiful family hosted us for dinner and a hike at their home near Burlington, and we walked Lake Champlain and speculated how we could someday buy a lake house in the area.

Back to Boston the next day, we rallied with my college roommate at her place in Wellesley, then gathered with my brother and his lovely family out near the coast in Marshfield. We took in a wet soccer game for Mae (in which she scored three goals!!) and Michael and I took a very wet walk in the woods. Many football games were viewed, games played, and a family dinner delivered.

Back up to Boston / Cambridge the next morning where we gathered with two of my roommates on the Anderson Bridge over the Charles River to watch the Head of the Charles regatta. My friends and I walked that bridge every day of morning practice for swimming and diving, and it was fabulously surreal and wonderful to stand at the apex and watch my friend's older son row past us on his high school boat. It was a glorious sunny day and perfect for reminiscing as we waited in Harvard Square for an old favorite brunch place to open up.

Lastly, we stopped back in Wellesley to gather with Rob's brother and his family. It was a long-awaited reunion and perfect afternoon to catch up (watch more football) and play favorite games. So much fun and so perfect the execution, I wondered why I hadn't planned this much more often!

Adventure continues into November as Aden has just landed in Barcelona for a whirlwind five days with her college roommates - one of whom is taking a semester abroad there. Aden planned her days and pre-purchased tickets, composing a great walkable itinerary that follows in our family's travel footsteps. But this journey is all her own and more magnificent for being so.

Alas, the remaining adventure is an uplanned and unlooked-for tangent for William, who re-tore his ACL and newly tore his meniscus in an intramural pickup game last week. After being so diligent with his PT and rest after the last surgery (18 months ago), it's a hard blow to re-up for the process a second time. But who knows what silver lining might emerge from this cloud, what personal connections will be made stronger, what extra time might yield for him. We are always moving forward, always finding something new in life, and even unexpected "adventures" can yield new outlooks and opportunities.

Real Readers (and Autumn, of course)

I'm reassured by the return of lower numbers to my readership stats, convinced now that real humans are represented by those digits. My small contribution to the whirlpool of today's media has softly drifted to the seafloor, where it lies mostly in obscurity. That's what I'm comfortable with, what I'm used to. Let us hope the bots do not rise again.

Moving on .... Autumn is a perennially delightful subject; my favorite season and one that blew into Colorado over the last two weeks, shaking golden leaves to the dried-out ground. We've had a dry September after an astonishingly wet summer and perhaps for that reason, the aspens down at this elevation rather missed the mark, achieving a dusty brown color as opposed to the brilliant yellows of the high country. The cottonwoods are similarly dodgy, but the ash and willow families are burnishing up nicely.

Autumn celebrates the end of growth, the dying of daylight and the return of colder weather. I always want to adopt it's mantra of flagrant, glowing delight in the face of darkness. In further celebration of leaf-peeping, I'm headed back to New England next week, hoping to catch the fall leaves of that splendid territory before they blow off or get snowed upon. I'm venturing north from Boston into Vermont for a day or two then making the happy rounds of family and friends in my old stomping grounds. I may even resurrect an old sweater or two out of sheer delight, though the modern lightweight tech fabrics are almost as worn, and much easier to pack.

In the midst of a truly topsy-turvy world, in which so many people are shocked and suffering, the ritual glory of dying leaves gives me some optimism that the world can keep on turning and evolving in spite of us. Someday the seasons might continue their peregrinations without us, and that thought, too, brings me some peace.

I hope wherever you are, my dear (few) treasured real readers, that you have some seasonal glimmer of joy in your day. Whether it be a scent, a taste, or a vision of a tree in flame, rest assured that I hope the best for you and I am grateful for you.