Find Your Thing
To Satch
Samuel Allen
Sometimes I feel like I will never stop
Just go on forever
I’m gonna reach up and grab me a handfulla stars
Swing out my long lean leg
And whip three hot strikes burnin’ down the heavens
and look over at God and say,
How about that!
Joe DiMaggio called Satchel Paige “the best and fastest pitcher I’ve ever faced”. His pitching was amazing and his showboating was legendary. His career highlights span five decades. Pronounced the greatest pitcher in the history of the Negro Leagues, Paige compiled such feats as 64 consecutive scoreless innings.
This is the kid who didn’t want to pitch this season. First year in AAA/kid pitch division of Little League. This is the kid who who got seven strikeouts in 2 innings in one of his games, six in another and more games just like that. This is the kid who showed me how he can fight his way back from walking three batters and hitting the next, only to strike out the next three.
This kid, with that look in his eye. Alone on the mound, pitch after pitch, the game resting in his glove, his elbow, his brain. His eyes. His confidence.
Yes, I am proud. Of course I am proud, I am his mother, so pride is a given. But it dawned on me, it goes so much deeper than that. I get it now, what my own mother said to me so many times growing up, ‘find your thing’.
Proud, yes, of course. Absolutely.
But it is knowing, by that look in his eye, and watching him fight back after a few bad throws and seeing him focus; knowing that he knows what my own mama knew. I don’t have to tell him. He’s got it.
Me: So, what do you think about when you are on the mound, ready to throw?
Him: Nothing.
Me: No, really, what do you think about out there on the mound?
Him: Just getting the ball into the glove.
This is the kid who said he didn’t want to pitch this season.
I never rush myself. See, they can’t start the game without me. – Satchel Paige
Time Warped
Between my real life and my reading life, It’s been a whirlwind of a time travel tour over the last week.
Since last Saturday, I have been fashion forward here in 2013 , fashion backward trying to pass as Laura Ingalls [or more realistically, her mother], and a little of everywhere in between.
Come with me, won’t you?
Just a little jaunt through time…
…Saturday: I tried on and picked up our costumes for my son’s class trip to what is known as Sutter’s Fort where we would spend the day [and for the kids, overnight] living as if we were in the year 1846. Yes, really.
Sutter’s Fort. Life in 1846.
…Sunday: I co-hosted a clothing trunk-show party; fashion forward fun with 12 lovely ladies and shopping in my friend’s living room for unique items to add my to my 2013 wardrobe. Like this coral trench that I simply could not say no to. Could not. My wallet says ouch, but I say heck yes.
That top under the trench? Yep. That too. Ouch!
…Sunday evening: I begin reading Austenland, set in Regency England; where a single 30-something [Jane!] embarks on a 3 week trip to the Disney-equivalent of Jane Austen’s world – an English resort catering to Austen-obsessed women - dialect, dress and daily routine and of course the quintessential, yet ever elusive [right?], search for Mr. Darcy. I am of course, fully immersed in Jane’s immersion experience and must remember who and where I am.
Sigh…
…Monday evening: Out with one of my girlfriends, to a modern hip spot in our downtown, having Margaritas on a Monday. Why not? And then a little more of Austenland as I drift off to dreamland, sigh..
Yes, they tasted as good as they look. I think I want it to be Monday again.
…Tuesday. All Day: I looked like this. But, I did smile. A lot. My son is a 4th grader and much of the year has been spent studying CA history. The end of the year culminating experience was a day and night in 1846 at Sutter’s Fort. Parents were into it as much as the kids, everyone assuming the role of early CA settlers. Food was made in a fire, after the folks in the kitchen made the fire, of course. Butter was churned, yarn spun, bonnets donned, lunches wrapped in bandannas, cameras called boxes, and purchases made with ‘gold’. And photos with no smiles; ‘the way they did it back then, mom”.
Who knew that Ma Ingalls knew General Jose Castro?!
I am thinking that I’d rather be wearing the coral trench right about now…
These kids know how to ride in style…horse drawn wagons from school to the fort.
…Wednesday: A day off from school, to recoup and regroup. My kiddo and I became one with the couch and our modern-day electronic devices. Him the laptop and me the Kindle. It felt good to be back in 2013, but we both actually miss the dusty mess and one-of-a-kind excitement of the 1846 experience. I finished up with Jane and no, no spoilers if she finds her Mr. Darcy or not. You will just have to do a little time traveling on your own to find out.
Too tired to cook, the kiddo and I walked to dinner and while waiting for our food, we realize it’s trivia night at the sandwich spot we chose. Not playing, but listening along to the questions, we both responded to Q12: Who discovered gold at Sutter’s Fort? Really.
…Thursday: I resumed reading a book I had started before dashing off to Austenland; The Gods of Heavenly Punishment. This is a story in the genre of historical fiction, and set in Japan and Utah during World War II. Where am I?!?
…Friday: My profession is in academia and today we sent off nearly 1000 of our students into the world. They have left the safe, if demanding, ivory tower and are now headed directly into their own amazing futures. Truly, new, exciting and perhaps daunting times lay ahead for them. One day in sweats, the next day in suits. I imagine they will feel some kind of time warp also…
…and here we are, back to Saturday: While it has not yet happened – [ and there I go again, warping time for myself ] – the plan is to once again step back in time and go see The Great Gatsby. What shall I wear…the apron or the trench!?
When I wake up on Sunday, will someone please send me an email or a text and remind me what year it is? And what to wear.
I don’t know about you, but I really think it’s time for more margaritas, a little present-day serum. Monday feels like a lifetime, if not at least a half a century, ago! I was realizing, that if I were Amb from Words Become Superfluous, I could do a post on My Life as a Movie and it could be Back to the Future or Blast from the Past. :)
What era would you choose to get lost in, if you could pick just one?
I dream of jewel beads and mopped floors…
Here’s to all the moms…
May your day be filled with jewel beads, clean counters and tidy rooms.
And if not, perhaps a lovely mess filled with love and laughter!
To the Mom’s – what has been one of your favorite, or most ‘memorable’ gifts over the years?
And to the rest of us ‘kids’, is there a gift you remember being so excited or proud to give to your mom?
Happy Mother’s Day!
Forget the Blueprint, Ride the Mechanical Bull
Have you watched the commencement speech Neil Gaiman gave at The University of the Arts last spring? It's been floating around this week on Upworthy and Facebook and Twitter. If you haven't, check it out when you have twenty minutes to spare. You can watch or read it here.
The speech is full of many great tid-bits and life lessons, especially for those of us who make art or are freelancers.
Comfort Creatures
“There is no happiness like that of being loved by your fellow creatures, and feeling that your presence is an addition to their comfort.”
― Charlotte Brontë
Change and transition are not easy for the strongest among us, and perhaps take their greatest toll on the smallest of us. In times of upheaval and transition, we are comforted by the familiar, the known, the safe. We want to be surrounded by what we know and those whom we trust. The familiar.
My son is truly a trooper and has given me glimpses of what he’s made of. He’s smart, sensitive, intuitive and well, all the same, a nine year old boy. The kind who loves to throw a football, giggle at bad words, deliver a curve-ball over the plate, get lost in video games.
And hang with his dudes.
To help ease some of the bigness of life, I got a few of his guys over for a sleep-over this last weekend. It’s called a sleep-over, but really, the boys were just over. Of course, there was some sleep involved, just not a whole lot. My Sunday morning began around 0-six-hundred as I heard something much louder than pitter-patter on the wood floor above me.
These are boys that my kiddo has known since baby days and kinder days.
One thing I know, he knows how to pick good friends.
The time together included dinner in the dark on the sidewalk out in front of the house; al fresco style complete with a flashlight.
Crazy made up games.
Laughing.
Challenges and contests.
Roasting marshmallows over the grill.
Silliness. Pure silliness.
Races in the living room with carpet skates.
A picnic style breakfast while watching YouTube on the tube.
It’s clear to me, these boys are comfort creatures to my boy. They give him a place to belong. A place where his name is known and his laugh is met with more laughter. A place to trust himself to be nothing but himself.
How young it starts, when we begin to make such a difference in the lives of others. If only these boys knew the importance of their presence. In time. In time.
Not All At Once
Hi Kiddo,
{a letter to my son}
In the last week you have revealed to me so many new corners of your character, and you simply amaze me. You got some news that had to be the hardest thing you have encountered in your short but full nine and half years. It breaks my heart to be the bearer of any news that interrupts your otherwise perfectly placed focus on MineCraft, Soccer, pitching for your little league team, mastering the kendama, and of course chasing the dog around the backyard. Someday, all of this will make much more sense to you. Maybe you will even see how it is in a crazy way even better for you.
For now, though, I wish I could really tell you how impressed I am with you, how in awe I am of your bravery, your determination to be a big boy. Your willingness to not only bend with and lean into this change, but that you can find some upsides so readily.
I can see the ripples of fear creeping up around your edges from time to time, and yet you somehow find a way to rise above it and knock it down, almost like your own version of emotional whack-a-mole. That, Bug, is true courage. If you only knew.
The questions you ask me are far more insightful than some conversations I have had with adults; you find the crux of it all more succinctly than I ever would have. You face your fears and ask me the questions anyway, even though I bet you somehow know that you are not going to like the answer, or know that at least you will not totally understand it. I don’t like ambiguity now, decades ahead of you; you somehow are able to roll with this ambiguity with no ambivalence.
I wish I had had what you somehow have in abundance when I was nine and a half. If I did, perhaps you wouldn’t have to.
When I pushed too hard, trying to help you, comfort you, I could hardly comprehend how you knew what you needed and even more, that you knew exactly how to ask me for it. With an analogy. “Mom, it’s too much advice. All at once. Too much advice mom, is like a bunch of rocks too close together “, you said, and then told me that, “it should be more like a long string, strung out over time. Not all at once. Ok?”
I hear ya kiddo, you are speaking my language and I am astounded by your wisdom. You have my word to not barrage you with too many words too close together; but whenever you need to take a rock from that pile, you know I am right here next to you and will take your lead. Maybe together we can out to ‘your bridge’ and go throw it in the river.
We are just starting this new adventure and you have shown me that you are possibly stronger than your mom. You are showing me how brave you are, how truly adaptable and resilient you can be and I could not be more proud of the person I get to call my son.
You, growing up, is a long game and even though you and I both want it to all be ok for you right now, let’s both try to remember that you need to take your own time with things. I want you to know that everything I do is for you – so that things are better for you. So that your easy laugh and smiling eyes are always what people see first when they meet you.
Love,
Mom
Ps: that wrestling match tonight? I totally won!
Professional Be-Bop
Yesterday I was feeling blue, but moving through the day as if, as if all is well. I ran some errands over my lunch hour and had the music playing, loud, to soothe my soul and boost my spirits, as it usually does.
One of my favorite beat inducing artists came on and I found myself tapping my foot lightly, patting the gear shifter, nodding my head just ever so slightly and mumbling-almost-lip-syncing the lyrics – truly a lackluster attempt to be moved by the music as I drove through town.
Still pondering my mood and it’s source, I noticed, or rather felt movement, on my left as I pulled up to a stoplight. The woman in the car in the lane next to mine was simply, rocking out. She was totally jamming to the music! She was behind the wheel of a fancy black sedan, shiny and well maintained. Without staring, I could tell she was a professional woman, probably in her 50′s and maybe even early 60′s. Short dark hair nicely done, but not quite coiffed. Styled. Stylish. Yes, I could even tell she was wearing a suit. She looked so well put together. Fancy sunglasses, some highlights in her hair. I promise, I didn’t stare. Or stalk. Or snap. I really wanted to take a picture and I didn’t.
You can exhale now.
I couldn’t help it; she was really rocking out. Hands in percussion-like movement across the steering wheel and gear shifter, lips moving with the words, body engaged in car-dancing. Completely in tune with the music.
Before I knew it, I was smiling. My heart lifted, my eyes brightened. I was delighted by her joy, her lightness and her pure enjoyment in the moment. I was moved by her obvious happiness. I was actually disappointed when the light turned green and as I drove on past her, I turned and gave her a quick smile; I somehow wanted her to know that her happiness was contagious. I have no idea what she was listening to, but I decided in that moment that she was grooving along with the same song I was. She just had to be.
As I turned up the stereo a little bit more, it occurred to me how we can make an impact others when we don’t even know it. When we have no idea that others even see us, notice us. We matter.
My professional be-bop lady was happy, she was IN her moment; all she had to do was be happy and I got to benefit. From that point on my day took on more shades of yellow and much less of the blue. I wish I could thank her, let her know how much she brightened my day, lifted my spirits and gave me something to smile about.
Have a be-bop kind of day; go ahead and rock out – you just might make someone’s day! Here is what Bonnie and her Be-bop lady were listening to:
The heart of life is good
I can remember a conversation I had, that unbeknown to me at the time, would one day shape my entire attitude towards life and make some of the most painful and challenging and testing experiences that were yet to happen, bearable. And not just bearable, but valuable.
It was only 8 words in response to a question I posed to my mother, but I knew even at the time by the way the words struck me dumb that I had heard something that was significant and somehow, would shape me.
I was thinking about something last night…
…and I forgot what it is.
I was laying on my couch, half asleep and half watching an episode of Homeland [thank you Amb from Words Become Superfluous, for the recent addition to my TV lineup!] and an idea came into my mind for a blog post.
Like in many cases, I get the idea from a seemingly unknown corner of my brain [I know, scary, right?] and it starts to take form with words and phrases, but most importantly, a feeling. At least that is how the creative process works for me. Some of the time.
I worked through the the concept and I liked it, felt I could get some traction when I sat down at the keyboard to put some meat on the bones.
I even had some ideas for images I might pair with the words. Like a good Cabernet and some dark chocolate.
Then something unfortunate happened. Homeland got intense.
Then something mundane happened. I fell asleep.
As I perused a few of my favorite blogs this morning to start my day, it suddenly dawned on me. I had had a blog post idea of my own. I started to get excited to write when I realized, I was thinking about something night and then I forgot what it is.
It’s gone. Totally gone. Well the frustrating part is not really. It’s not totally gone. If it were totally gone, I’d be in peace, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But, because I have a tiny remnant of memory that I had had a great idea, it’s driving me crazy that it’s there, but not really. It’s like being blindfolded to hit a pinata. You know that the rainbow colored paper-mache donkey is there, right in front of you and you strike out, here, there, over there, up there, over there , again and again. Wildly. And still, no contact.
I want the idea back as much as the kid with the bat and the blindfold wants the candy.
It could have been about getting an idea to write about. It could have been about the elusiveness of time when you are waiting for something. It could have been about purples horses.
In my fleeting contempt with my suddenly sieve-like brain, I searched for and found a great article that outlines some strategies to capture the muse and the author writes:
I’m obsessed with the concept of creativity, especially how to capture the muse when she finally shows up to the party (usually, fashionably late).
In my case, the muse showed up when I didn’t know we were having a party. I was a rude host and didn’t invite her in, feed and water her or even give her a seat at the table. Next time I will serve fine wine and smelly cheese, with a pad of paper and a sharpened pencil!
What tricks do you use to remember your best ideas?
Now, what was I going to do next?
Holding Tight the Laces
Let it Go.
There are a hundred ways to say it. A hundred things we would be better off for letting go of. Old resentments, misguided worry, a weary worn out grudge, the past, unrealistic expectations, that which we cannot control, a broken heart, a million what-ifs and of course all the coulda-shoulda-wouldas.
Let it go.
We have all heard it, we have all heard ourselves say it to someone else in compassion or perhaps even exasperation, and maybe we have muttered it under our breath for our own benefit when we have worn ourselves out worrying or troubling or obsessing about something, or someone, and finally, at last know there is nothing else we can do.
Let it go.
A simple little phrase. If only it were that simple.
It seems to me that this this is one of those lessons we have to learn over and over. And then, perhaps, again. Turns out, that along with our hearts, our brains are not programmed for change or loss. I learned this from a new perspective recently while reading a terrific article about dealing with change. It hit home when I read that…
When we run into a roadblock, suddenly information we trusted has broken down. Where does the other road lead? How long will it take? Is it dangerous? What we don’t know tends to scare us, and change creates a lot of things we don’t know. As a result, we tend to act pretty irrationally to try and prevent change, often without realizing it, and make our lives unnecessarily problematic. {via Lifehacker}
Letting go is saying yes to loss. Choosing to say goodbye to something. Even the things in our lives that take up unnecessary space, cause pain, or rob us of joy somehow settle in as something familiar and letting go creates an unexpected emptiness. Letting go is an active invitation of the unfamiliar, and somehow, we are strange creatures who cling to what is familiar, sometimes just what takes up space, even when it doesn’t always feel good.
As an eighth grader, I had begged my my parents for new roller skates for my 14th birthday. Begged and bargained. And finally, they gave in and agreed that would be my gift that year. I got to pick them out – white leather boot, blue wheels and stopper, and even a bright blue pom-pom on the toe. While the surprise element was zero, the anticipation factor was high; I loved knowing that by a certain date, those skates would be mine, all mine. My birthday finally rolled around and the skates were safely in my possession; I am sure I skated around the block, imagining my first chance to loop the rink with my girlfriends and with an eye on that cute boy from across town. That night, some thirty plus years ago, as I fell asleep, proud owner of the new skates, I held the laces of those new skates tightly, my hand hanging over the edge of my bed, unable to let go. I wanted to be sure that when I woke up, those skates would still be there. I didn’t trust that what I had wanted so badly, and had finally received, would not in fact somehow slip away.
The skates were something I could easily – and legitimately grasp, hold on to, and make sure they did not roll away from me.
But what about when it’s more complicated than roller skates? When it is something that stirs you? What if it is something, that despite the fact that the earth is not likely to tip on a slant and cause things to roll away, is something you want to hold close?
We know that if we can let something go, and if it remains with us, or returns, that we should be able to trust that it is meant to be part of us, that there is something truly organic at play. When we successfully stuff a square into a circle, it may seem for the moment to feel good that we conquered, that we won, that we got what we wanted. But in the long run, it seems safe to say, that time will only reveal to us that it never really fit in the first place.
What’s hard is not knowing, and yet allowing ourselves to truly step back and let the universe do it’s work. Let the surface slant and see what rolls. What I am still struggling with, I will be honest, is finding that balance. The balance between gently holding that which we care about, and still allowing time and space to work its magic. Knowing when it’s time to put my hands up in acquiescence; understanding that I have done all that I should, or could. Even if just temporarily. Understanding the balance between coincidence and intent, the fine line between patient and passive, the delicate dance of safe and vulnerable.
I have been pondering this notion for days, trying to work out a solution to a dilemma and a way of being during an ambiguous time. I am wrestling with big change that requires grieving something familiar that cannot continue. We came close to losing my 92 year old father last week and my brother and I both felt compelled to let him go, and to let him know he was free to pass from one world to the next if he is tired. An important relationship requires that I let go for awhile to allow it’s potential to emerge on it’s own. In the time of my pondering, and beating my chest over all this, I’ve gotten a text from a friend who unknowingly suggested I give a listen to a song by Frou Frou called Let Go. Mimi’s post, graciously extending her angel wings over me, talked about letting go and the persistence of hope, and a very wise person I know [ok, my sister!] re-framed my question asking me if I can let it be, instead of feeling that I have to let it go. This letting go, this saying yes to loss, at any level; is excruciating in some moments. But sometimes, to let go is not so simple, but simply, the only way. And when we surrender ourselves to what is to be, we somehow allow for just that. What is to be.
So, where is the line? The line between grasping too tightly and letting go? Between letting go and letting it be? What about when letting go feels like giving up? Because somehow, I still feel like that 14yr old who wants to hold tight to the laces of my skates as I fall asleep.
