It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

Putting on Your Game Face

When things get tough or scary, it’s easy to forget what we are doing, and even why.  It’s pretty simple to say “Why bother?  This is just too hard,” and, in my case at least, then go eat something loaded with sugar, butter, flour, and chocolate.  It’s easier to turn on the TV, surf the internet, to read a book, or to just goof off than it is to really work at getting past the uncomfortable stuff.

I’ve said it before.  When I really need lessons, (ok, so that’s most of the time) all I have to do is look at my kids and their peers.

Last night was the school’s Spring Strings’ Concert.  In the Winter Concert, all grades (2-8) perform something.  The venue is larger, the focus is dispersed across the student body, and the pieces played are typically familiar and cozy. 

Everything grows in the spring: plants, kids, and musicianship. For the Spring Concert, the kids have to step up.  Only the strings players in grades 4-8 perform, the venue is smaller, the pieces are eclectic, and the 8^th graders perform their solos.  And, the audience is a bit more critical; parents and grandparents have learned to expect significant growth between winter and spring, and I think the kids realize it. 

Change and development occur under pressure, and it’s illustrative for me to watch how these kids respond to that pressure.  As anyone who’s read this blog should know by now, our school is not heavily populated with passive, docile, blindly obedient kids.  I don’t think it is a coincidence that a curriculum that emphasizes active, engaged learning is going to wind up with a population of active, curious, and questioning students. While these traits will probably benefit the kids in the long run, they make preparation for any sort of focused activity such as a play, concert, or game nerve-wracking for the adults involved.  Rehearsals and practices tend to involve a lot of talking, giggling, forgetting (of everything), and general goofing off.  For weeks.  You can almost measure the time until performance by the lines beneath the teacher or coach’s eyes and the set of his or her shoulders.

Yet, if you ask the kids how things are going, the response is typically, “Fine.”  Though, children who are a bit more sensitive to adult aura will generally add that they wish that their classmates would quit goofing around because it’s upsetting the teacher or coach – not because they think it will impact the performance.

The kids know something that the adults forget.  They know the difference between practice and the real thing.  They know that practice is for building the skills they need, for getting a little bit better each time, for failing, and doing it over.  They don’t express it in words, but I think that they know that when the chips are down: when the curtain pulls back, when the whistle blows, when the conductor lifts her bow – they will be ready. 

The kids have learned to play through the pains of learning.  While their approach can be maddening to watch, I can’t help but think that they may have it right.  They know the difference between the small, daily obstacles and failures, and the big moments where results count.  I’ve watched six years of plays, concerts, and games with this school, and I’ve noticed the same thing every time.  No matter how wound up and scattered they seem right before the performance starts, regardless of the running, shoving, joking, clowning around, as soon as they take their places on the field of battle, whether it be stage or court, something changes.

The kids put on their game faces.  The most distractable, goofy, chatterbox of a class clown will metamorphose as soon as he or she picks up a bow, takes a mark on stage, or gets in position for the tip off.  At the beginning of this year, we spent most of our Saturdays in a gymnasium in Fair Oaks, watching basketball.  During Friday’s concert, I recognized the expressions on several of the girls’ faces as they took up their instruments.  Even though their hands held bows instead of a ball, their expression said the same thing.  “Ok, it’s game-on.  I’m taking this to the net, and nothing is getting in my way.”

As adults, we sometimes lose track of the fact that one can have fun and even make mistakes while still holding an underlying seriousness of purpose.  We get so caught up in our small failures, that we forget how to put on our game faces when it really counts.  I wonder sometimes if this is an area where we need to quit trying to teach our children and instead to listen to them.  Does giving yourself an ulcer during preparations or berating yourself for moments of weakness or failure to make the right choice (every single time) really contribute to the end result?  Do stress and anxiety actually indicate greater meaning and purpose, or do they just prevent us from seeing the fun in the process?

I don’t know the answer, but I wonder.  What would happen if we learned to shrug off the smaller failures, to go play, and to come back with our game faces on, saying to ourselves, “This is what I’m going to do.  Nothing is going to get in my way.”

 

 

Gift of the Small Things

I’ve managed to banish false modesty just far enough to admit that I am possessed of at least my fair share of creative gifts.  I can write, paint, draw (sometimes), cook, and sew.  However, at least two major creative arts lie outside my sphere.  I’ve long since come to terms with my lack of musical ability.  I appreciate music, I can play the notes on the page (on one instrument – the flute), but I lack the ear, voice, and vision to create from music.  As much as I regret my singing voice, I’ve learned to accept that in music, I get to be the audience.  Others create.  Photography, however, is another matter entirely.

Photography is a visual art.  It should be right up my alley.  Ah, yes, we’ll get back to the dreaded “should” in a bit.  Yet, as I’m sure readers of this blog have realized, while I can paint pictures with brush and with word, the simple act of framing the moment I see in a lens and pushing a button is beyond me.  No matter what I see with my eyes and appreciate with my heart about a scene, my photos rarely, if ever do it justice.  They never seem to penetrate the depths of the moment.  All of the elements are there, but something is missing.  In writing, one of the rules is “show, don’t tell.”  My photos tell.

Now, I have several friends and family members who are gifted photographers – some to the extent of professionalism.  But, one friend’s pictures make me downright jealous.  Her blog, Facebook page, and Twitter feed are filled with beautiful, arty photos that capture the joy and delicacy inherent in the details of a scene or the small moments of life.  “This is what life is supposed to be,” her photos say as they trace the sunset-colored veining of a dragonfly’s wing or tease the impish glee from a child’s glowing smile.

‘Well, crap,’ I think, looking at her latest posts. ‘We’re good friends; our kids play together; we live less than two miles from each other.  How come my life doesn’t look like that?”  As I scan through sparkling shots of kayaks on open water, cherubic faces of happy children, and glowing, velvet, layers of color, I think of my bathroom sink, smeared with streaks of my makeup and flecks of my husband’s beard.  I focus on the slime growing in the container that I’m pretending isn’t in the back of my refrigerator, the piles of laundry – clean and dirty – taking over my bedroom floor.  I hear two of my three cherubic children screaming at each other in the backyard and keep my ears peeled for the sounds of violence or the stray obscenity.

Now, I know Robyn well enough to know that her life isn’t completely captured in her photos either.  I know her well enough to know her own struggles, lapses, and untidinesses.  In fact, those are the things that I like best about her.  Her openness about not only the triumphs and joys, but also the frustrations and failures, of her own life make me more willing to be real myself.

Yesterday morning was one of those glorious spring days that isn’t pastel-perfect but is instead layered with the exact proportions of shadow and light to fill one’s heart with a sense of miracle.  I ran just over 2.5 miles of my 3 mile loop, allowing myself a cool-down walk through the nature trail at the back of our local park.   I thought of my iPhone in my pocket and contemplated taking pictures, but I had just been looking and some of Robyn’s photos and knew how much the inadequacies of my own pictures would frustrate me.  ‘I wish I were like her,’ I thought, resting my hand on the trunk of a tree and studying the contrast between the umber edges of the bark and its silvery surface.  I closed my eyes, letting the sun warm my back, as my hand rested against the solidity of the tree, and was reminded of the warmth and solidity of my husband.  I walked a few feet further, picked a sprig of rosemary from a bush bursting with purple flowers, and brought the sprig to my nose, thinking of Sierra bringing me rosemary bouquets.  The willow beneath which Aidan and I gathered branches last year for his shelter-project had filled out with delicate, green leaves.  I touched the petals of a rock-rose, and my mind walked through my parents’ garden.  Strands of horse-tail reminded me of long ago trail rides, and the brief moments of respite before remounting my unreliable, bucking, yet beloved mare.  Flowers popped from a tree, and I wanted to show them to Caitlin, far away from me on her own adventure this week.

As I passed through the tunnel beneath the road, I realized that I had been taking photos in my own way.  Capturing the pearls of white-flowered fairy rings nestling in the darker blades of grass, framing a twisted palm frond glowing in the sun against the black asphalt of the street, picking the highlights off of a stick, fallen onto the bark mulch beneath a redwood.  The gift of my friend’s photos, and the gift I found in myself, is the gift of the small moments.  When we pause to frame and snap those details, we are capturing the essence of our lives.  Think back to the biggest events of your life.  What do you remember, truly?  Do you really feel, deep within you, the entire event or day?  Or do you smell the scent of a grandmother’s perfume, or do you recall the feel of your lover’s cheek beneath your hand, or do you hear a laugh, carried on the wind?

Photo credit: Robyn Beaufoy, 2012

The Parenting Plan -- An Open Letter to My Kids

Parenting, particularly other people’s parenting, is a weird landscape – sort of a swamp infested with landmines, alligators, and the occasional diamond.  Yet, somehow, we can’t stay away.  Parenting is a last uncharted territory – trodden by millions, yet pristine in its wilderness.  And no one has a map.  Maybe that’s the draw.  Perhaps that explains our fascination with everyone else’s parenting journey.  We either hope that they have a map and that we can follow in their footsteps, or that their missteps will validate our paths. 

This past week or so, I’ve passed a few signposts that caused me to question, check my compass, and ultimately set me back on course parenting-wise.

A friend posted this on Facebook:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

An article was released discussing the “superiority” of French parenting.

NPR ran a piece on the next move of the so-called “helicopter parents” – parenting the workforce.

An acquaintance mentioned to me that she had chosen to have her children “to take care of me in my old age, but I don’t think that’s going to work out.”

We went to our school’s Open House.

We offered to pay Caitlin to foul at her basketball game.

I ran a half marathon.

 

I’m tempted here to jump into a defense of the “If you get a foul we’ll pay you $2,” strategy, because I know that out there somewhere is a parent waiting for me to step on that alligator, but we’ll get there.

Instead, I think much of this can best be explained by an open letter to my kids:

 

            Hey guys,

It’s Mom.  Yeah, the one who bugs you to:

• Clean your room
• Do your homework
• Play your cello
• Go outside and do something, anything
• Sort your laundry
• Make your lunch
• Make your breakfast

You know, the one who:

• Takes out splinters
• Snuggles you when you’ve had that kind of day, or when you just want to feel small enough to fit safely into someone’s lap
• Lets you hold my ear while you suck your thumb
• Always has ginger chews on long car rides
• Reads “The Monster at the End of the Book” in a Grover voice
• Climbs trees and skips – yes, in public

So, here’s the deal.  You owe us nothing.  Your father and I chose to bring you into this world, and we chose to repay our parents by giving you the best upbringing we could.  Our only wish for you is that you go out into the world as adults who do the best you can – for yourself and for others.

We will be here for you always.  And sometimes (you might already have noticed) being here for you means allowing you to screw up, fall down, and figure out a way to get back up again. Sometimes it means encouraging you to take chances or (yeah, I know you think it’s weird) even break the rules. Sometimes it means doing the things that we don’t want to do, the things that are hard for us or scare us, because we know that you are watching.  Yes, you help make us better people too.

Sometimes being there for you means challenging you to do more – to do better than what you thought your best was.  Sometimes it means making you rewrite that paragraph until you want to shove it down my throat.  Sometimes it means making you work the math problems until you want to stab Dad with the pencil. Trust me; it’s not fun for us either.  Until it works.

When I watch you guys cope with disappointment, figure out how to solve a problem or fix a broken toy or project on your own, or work out conflicts with each other or your friends, then it’s worth it – it’s worth all of the tears, the red-faced tantrums, the ‘I-hate-yous,’ and the empty place in my heart that comes from seeing one of you hurt, even for a second.

When you talk to us about the stuff that embarrasses, confuses, or hurts you, then it’s all worth it.

I know we can’t help sometimes.  Sometimes all we can do is watch you stumble around through a problem, watch you hurt, watch you feel lost and lonely, and all we have to offer is the cold solace of an insufficient hug.  I know you think at those times that we have no idea what you’re feeling, that we’ve forgotten what it’s like to be kids, that if we really loved you, we would fix everything that is hard for you.

I’m sorry.

I remember.  I remember the loneliness of adolescence.  I remember looking in the mirror and wondering whose face stared back at me.  I remember the lost feeling of my friends running off without me.  I remember losing my best friend – again, and again.  I remember that horrible sense that the entire world was staring at me and whispering behind my back.  I remember hating my parents and family for teasing me – laughing at me.  I remember promising myself that if I ever had kids, they would never have to go through any of that.

I remember.  But, there’s a secret that parents know, that we didn’t learn as kids.  We aren’t all-powerful.  We can’t fix everything.  And, even if we could, we shouldn’t.

Someday, you will get out into a world that holds far more pain than that of your buddies ditching you on the playground.  Someday, you will experience far more loss than a broken toy.  Someday, you will feel a failure far deeper than a bad grade on a test or homework assignment.  And, someday, Dad and I won’t be there to make it better.

Someday you’ll enter a world where you have to work with people you can’t stand.  You’ll have to sit for hours in meetings that make you so bored you want to run screaming around the room, tearing off your clothes.  Someday, someone you love will hurt you in a way that makes every nasty word either of your siblings ever said sound like a compliment.  Someday, you’ll face things so scary that going for the ball in a game or climbing a higher tree will seem like brushing your teeth.  Someday you’ll have to push your mind and body much further and harder than Mr. Wolfe’s mile run.

And, when that someday comes, you’ll be ready.  I know, you don’t think so now.  But, you didn’t think you could ever ride your bike without training wheels either.  Remember how you screamed at us?  How you flung your bike to the ground, shouting that it was stupid and so were we?  Remember how you begged us not to let go of the seat, not even for a second?  How long did that last?  A couple of days?  Now you speed to the end of the block and take your turns so fast that your inside pedal nearly scrapes the asphalt.

Someday you’ll call us to tell us about your new job, about how you got fired, about your girlfriend/boyfriend/engagement/divorce.  Someday you’ll call to say that you’re buying a house, or that our grandchild is struggling in school.  Someday you’ll tell us about the volunteer work you’re doing or your terrifying tax audit.  Someday, you’ll ask for a loan or for a night of babysitting.  And we’ll do our best to be there – our parents have been for us.  But, if we are too far away or unable to help you, you’ll be okay.  It’s all part of the master plan.

Now, about that homework…

Love always and forever, even (especially) when you hate me,

Mom

 

Tasting the Fruits

The last bite of the carrot salad lingers on my tongue – tart and crisp with the yogurt, and brightly sweet with a hidden warmth that spreads from the spoonful of chutney I stirred in.   A final sip of lemon water washes away the salad, and with it goes the tensions of the last month. 

Forgive the food references this morning; I’ve been re-reading M.F.K. Fisher’s The Gastronomical Me after reading an intriguing new biography of Fisher, An Extravagant Hunger by Anne Zimmerman.  My first journey through The Gastronomical Me took place nearly three years ago.  I picked it up in a San Francisco bookstore while alone in the City for a conference.  Fisher’s exploration of her growth and her sensual enjoyment of the world through her experiences with food seemed to perfectly mirror my solitary week exploring the culinary delights of that foggy city.  Just as I dressed in a black skirt and pearl necklace for a four-course dinner alone with my book, delighting as much in watching the people around me as in the feel of pate in my mouth, she wrote of crossing the Atlantic on her own, of solitary meals in France, and of discovering herself through her enjoyment of food.  The quote in the book’s preface spoke to me at a time when I felt that I was at last reaching an understanding of my adult self.  “To be happy you must have taken the measure of your powers, tasted the fruits of your passion, and learned your place in the world.” –Santayana

That was not my first business trip alone, and I had been an adult for two decades, but for whatever reason, that was the week that I first began to ‘take the measure of [my] powers.’  It was one of the first times that I saw myself as directing my own life rather than living for the approval and pleasure of others. 

This most recent encounter with M.F.K. Fisher comes at the end of a couple of months in which my meals have too often consisted of such staples as: two Bao from Costco, microwaved and eaten over the counter with a handful of cashews and a couple of dates; or a grilled cheese sandwich on white sandwich bread, accompanied by a clump of chips.  My energies have been directed goal-ward with little left for inward maintenance.  Even the things which normally center me have this month gone toward other purposes: painting – auction, decorating – auction and Sierra’s party, writing – money or business building, cooking – sustenance only.

What I hadn’t realized, until Fisher’s loving descriptions of meals, friends, and family once more penetrated the fog of my mind, was that I have been living – and eating – therapeutically rather than preventatively.  I know better, of course.  I know the benefits, to myself, and to those around me, of living with intent, of seeking the foods, people, and activities that will make me feel good, rather than seeking out palliatives once I feel bad.  Instead of taking care of myself, eating light, flavorful meals that will sustain me through the chaos, I have waited until monsters were gnawing at my stomach lining and emotions, and then downed too-large portions of the sweet, salty, and doughy foods that make me ‘feel better.’  Even though I no longer have a job that mandates short nails and tears up my hands, my nails remain unpolished and have scarcely seen a file in 60 days.  The extra glass of wine with dinner tastes good and dulls the stress, but it also packs in the calories and leaves me feeling heavy and slow well into the next morning.

It is past time for me to stop, breathe, and focus on eating the foods and doing the things that help keep me from “feeling bad” in the first place.  It is time to run because it clears my head, centers, and energizes me, not because I want to lose weight.  It is time to prepare even meals I will eat alone lovingly, with consideration for myself and for those I feed.  It is time to be aware of, and to take pleasure in, each bite, and to stop when the bites become automatic or the food tastes of sawdust.  It is time to take moments in the day to breathe, to focus on my place in the world, and to give myself enough respite during the day so that I don’t reach the end wrung out, capable only of flopping into a pool of Jello on the couch.  As life presses me with new challenges, it is time to embrace the biggest challenge of all – to live.

20 Minutes (give or take)

The other day, Sunset Magazine posed the following question on Facebook: “What past Sunset article would you most like to make a reality, regardless of cost?”  After reading, and agreeing with, some of the comments: ‘backyard retreat,’ ‘Airstream trailer,’ ‘Maui,’ I realized that my family and I are living a Sunset article, ironically because of cost.

In October, 2009 – about the time we started to struggle with making our house payments – Sunset published an article on “The 20 Minute Life.”  The article envisioned a life in which everything the family needed: work, school, play, food, entertainment was accessible within 20 minutes.  At the time, it felt as though my favorite magazine was taunting me.  The only things accessible within 20 minutes of our home were Granzella’s pizza to the north in Williams, and my mother-in-law’s house to the south in Dunnigan.  The kid’s school was 40 miles from home.  Mike had a 30 mile commute to work.  The only benefit to my 75 mile commute was the NPR time.  We drove a minimum of 30 miles to go to the grocery store, to see friends, or to see a movie.  Our cars devoured gasoline and sheltered fossilized French fries under the seats.  Getting the kids home from school before 5pm became a special treat.  When on call for work, I stayed with friends; some weeks, I spent more time in their living room than my own.  As though the Sunset editors wanted to drive the knife a bit deeper, the town highlighted in the article was Davis, CA – the town I had loved, and left after graduation, the town that housed my kids’ school and many of our friends.

For us, in the fall of 2009, Davis was a dream – the place we drove to see a movie, to wander the fantasy land of the Farmer’s market, the location of my favorite grocery store.  Yet, here was Sunset, featuring a family living my life – biking their kids to school, spending lazy evenings listening to music in the Central Park while eating food from the Farmer’s market stands.  These people didn’t have over 200,000 miles on both of their vehicles.  Their shoulder seams weren’t frayed from the erosion of the seat belt.  They probably even had time to sweep their kitchen floor.

If you’ve followed this blog, you know the rest.  I’ve written about the loss of our home here, and here, and here.  But a year changes many things.  Our living quarters and budget are tight – the financial bogeys that drove us here aren’t ducking back into the closet anytime soon.  Yet, small though our rental house may be, we inhabit it; it doesn’t possess us.  Each child has his or her own – albeit cozy – room.  The oven works, and even though the rental agency isn’t speedy with the maintenance, repairs are no longer our burden.  At least until the rains begin, the kids aren’t complaining about their smaller bedrooms.  Aidan and Sierra spend most of their time outside – in the backyard, on the swing that dangles from the tree in the front yard, at the park, or rampaging with the neighbor kids.  Caitlin has a desk (that she can find!) in her own room, and her bed runs the length of the window providing her perfect reading nook.  We have biked to the Farmer’s Market without whining or automotive encounter.  Caitlin has biked to school twice – losing her way once and scaring the crap out of her mother.  Her response that afternoon, “well, at least now I won’t get lost again…”

And the playdates, my God, the playdates!  In our old home, with the exception of birthday parties, my kids hosted friends perhaps three times in six years.  In the six weeks we have lived in Davis, school friends have visited at least 14 times, and Caitlin and Aidan have both spent afternoons and nights with friends.  This morning, I have a nine o’clock meeting at Sierra’s kindergarten.  I don’t need to leave the house at eight, or even eight thirty.  Eight forty-five will be just fine.  Update:  I did leave at 8:30, but I was able to ride my bike.  Take that, Ham-and-Cheese Croissant!

Ours isn’t a perfect 20 minute life.  I still commute about 35 miles to work, but a 30-40 minute drive beats 60-90 anytime.  Though, I did miss the end of “Marketplace” last night…

Beauty, Grace, and Style

Purpose filled each countenance as they marched from the amphitheater, banners of their respective city-states floating jewels in the spring sun.  Sparta, Athens, Corinth, Delphi, and
Thebes:  each citizen knew why he or she had come – to participate, to offer one’s best effort to the gods.  The discus offered on an outstretched hand to the sky, javelin pointed toward the heavens, the intricate dance in the wrestler’s circle, the perfect form of a runner, the attempt at flight in the long jump: the elements of the pentathlon were as much art as sport, offerings of the best efforts of humanity.

Once upon a time, in an almost mythic past, athletics were art – examples of beauty, grace, and style offered to one’s deity of choice rather than efforts of extremism offered to the almighty dollar.  Considering that, with weekly examples of athletes behaving badly rampaging through the media, even the notion of sportsmanship seems quaint, it may be laughably naïve to plead a return to a standard of art in athletics.  Yet, our societal impulses regarding competition seem in dire need of an overhaul.  At one end of the spectrum, we have athletes justifying the use of illegal drugs because superhuman feats of strength and speed are expected of them.  Somehow, public demand for spectacle trumps ethics.  On this side, too, lies the hypercompetitive, cutthroat realm of youth sports.  We’ve all heard the horror stories: high-schoolers (or is it down to junior high now?) doping with steroids or cheating on exams to maintain eligibility, parents screaming abuse at coaches, referees, and kids, fights between adults on Little League playing fields.  At the opposite pole, we have trophies for 10^th place, medals for “participation”, elaborate graduations from pre-school and kindergarten, certificates for “best smile.”

What lessons are being taught to our future adults?  From my perspective, it seems that kids learn that money, power, and glory belong only to the strong, fast, and sneaky, and that for the rest of us, just showing up is good enough.  I’ll grant that some of the ideals of the ancient inhabitants of the Hellenic peninsula were less than, well, ideal.  Abandoning one’s infant to the elements for physical weakness has to be the ultimate example of horrific jock parenting.  But, bear with me for a minute, the point will come.

 Now, go back to the first paragraph, return to the sunlit hills and ancient oaks and pines.  Look closely at the athletes marching behind the banners of their city-states.  The faces are still slightly round, features not fully formed, faint hints of what they will become; most of the bodies are under 5 feet tall, some are lanky and awkward, some delicate and lithe, some plump.  None of the bodies are draped in linen, nor, for that matter, nude.  Jewel toned T-shirts are the uniforms donned by these warriors, these proud Hellenes-for-a-day.  Welcome to the Waldorf Schools Pentathlon for Northern California.

In the Waldorf curriculum, fifth grade academics focus on ancient civilizations.  Beginning in Mesopotamia, the children journey over the year throughout India, Persia, Egypt, and conclude their expedition in ancient Greece.  This journey trains the body even as the mind learns.  Games class in fifth grade is devoted to pentathlon training.  At Davis Waldorf School, our much-beloved games teacher Brian Wolfe worked tirelessly and thoroughly with the fifth grade, teaching them technique and form for each event, training their muscles and minds.  This coaching was thorough to the point that when Caitlin came home the afternoon prior to the event, she very seriously informed about her nutritional needs for the evening.  My daughter, who normally guards all school-related information with CIA approved security, went on to tell me exactly where they were going to go once they arrived at the host school in the morning, and what would happen at each point during the day.

In the Waldorf pentathlon, the children are assigned to city-states based on temperament.  Thus competitive kids compete against those of like mind, the more mellow against their peers.  The maternal cameras instinctively picked the kids from “our class” out of the T-shirted multitudes of each city-state.  On each of the familiar faces that day, I saw the same expression of resolve.  These kids were here to participate, and each intended to give it his or her best.  Watching one of Caitlin’s often flighty classmates take her position for the discus, I stopped mid-sentence, mid-breath.  Holding her disc aloft, the girl dropped to one knee in a position taken straight from Greek art.  “She’s beautiful; she could be on an urn,” I whispered to her mother.

“I know;she told me, ‘Mom, I know I’m not going to throw it the farthest, so I’m going to go for beauty, grace, and style.’”  That was the effort that each of our kids showed that day.  They may not have all been the fastest, the strongest, or the biggest, but they all went for beauty, grace, and style.  These attributes manifested in the perfectly positioned arms and upright heads of the runners, in the angle of the javelins, the extension of arm with disc, and they showed in smaller things, things unrelated to technique.  Beauty, grace, and style were present when one of Caitlin’s classmates fell at the beginning of his long race.  Not tripped, fell.  Total face plant.  Grace, you ask.  Yes.  Grace when he regained his footing and ran, catching all but the first two runners by the finish, though all had at least a 50 yard lead.  Beauty, grace, and style were shown by a boy, from another school, who stopped during his race to check a fallen runner.  Beauty grace and style came to the fore as the kids cheered each other on and wrapped consoling arms around the shoulders of those whose muscles had failed them.  I saw nothing but beauty, grace, and extraordinary style as I watched Caitlin run her quarter mile with perfect form, dead last, but never once faltering in her effort to catch the runners in front.

When the laurels were awarded to each city-state, wreaths were bestowed for first, second, and third place in each event, and two wreaths were given for beauty, grace, and style in that event.  From DWS, some of our kids placed in some events, some won laurels for beauty, grace, and style, but all of them left the temple of the gods standing straighter, shining in the sun, and knowing that they had accomplished what they came for.  For them, the winners were not only the big, strong and fast, and just showing up wasn’t nearly good enough.  They strived to please the gods.

Side note:  As a proud mom, I have to mention that Caitlin received a laurel for beauty, grace, and style in the 40 yard dash. 

Runners, Pipers, and Tambourines

Bagpipes as a Zen moment?  What can I say?  I’m Scottish. 

The soft skirl of the pipes drifted around the corner of the hillside.  The first hill had been a pain.  The incline did not challenge my body, but my patience had been sorely tried.  Foolishly, I had begun the race in the group with the posted pace for a 10 minute mile.  I knew I could keep the pace for at least 3 miles, though I was uncertain about the entire 6.  As a road race newbie, I hadn’t realized that this group would also include every person who planned to run at least a little.  A block or so past the start, the crush had thinned a bit, and my feet had found a rhythm.  Just as I began to feel that maybe this crazy endeavor was doable, the mob screeched to a halt.  Like gawkers at an accident scene, the masses ahead had hit the first hill and apparently said to themselves, “Oh, this is too steep.  Maybe I’ll just walk this one.”

Needless to say, by the time I crested the hill, I was ready to bite someone.  Then the moment arrived.  The first notes wafted down just as I heard someone say, “Bagpipes?  Really?”

Yes, really.  Silhouetted on an emerald knoll, a group of kilt-clad pipers played against the mist.  Perfect.  Wrong tartan, but that was forgivable.  My grandfather was a McIntosh.  The clan motto is “Touch not the cat bot a glove.”  Basically, mess with us at your peril.  A stretch of asphalt opened before me and my feet found their cadence.

Back in May as I descended from the endorphin rush of my first 5K race, the 6 mile Wharf  to Wharf (Santa Cruz to Capitola) seemed quite reasonable.  ‘Two and a half months to train.  No problem.’  Therein lays the danger of accomplishment.  The human brain is never satisfied.  I caught myself yesterday afternoon seriously contemplating a brochure for a half-marathon in October.  Endorphins are insidious creatures.  What I had failed to foresee in the balm of May was the effect of summer on my will to exercise, or really on my will to do anything.  My physiology functions best from 65-80 F.  I had also been unable to predict the case of shingles that made the notion of a sports bra unbearable for a full week before the race.  Yet, here I was.  6 miles.  The brochure stated quite sternly that runners must keep to a 15 minute/mile pace and that the course would be closed within 90 minutes.  I envisioned myself dragging at the rear of a pack of thousands, calling my husband for a ride somewhere around mile 3, the pointing and mocking onlookers.  I was dragged to the starting line by two factors.  I had told the children that the weekend camping trip was so that mommy could run a race, and I didn’t want them to see me backing out of a goal.  Also, my mother had told me that I should rest the shingles and scratch the race.  39 years, and my mother still hasn’t learned that the best way to get me to do something is to tell me I shouldn’t.  Sorry mom.

Another hill, another corner.  Passing a folk guitarist, a glimpse of the sea.  A Kiss tribute band played on my left, my feet grinned.  Pulling up a long slope I saw my favorite group of the run.  10-15 tie-dye clad musicians lined up behind a sign that read “Sons of the Beach.”  As I passed, a tambourine and soap bubble infused version of “Rawhide” followed me.  Ah, Santa Cruz.

Balloon arches marked each mile.  The first split time depressed me so badly that my feet almost halted there and then.  ‘19minutes, seriously??’  I told my feet that we had started at least 5minutes back and had been held up in traffic.  ‘Get with it.’  The legs heard and obeyed.  The second mile took just over 10 minutes.  At each rainbow arch, my body responded to the called time as to a challenge.  With each mile my pace increased. 

Onlookers lined the roadway.  Far from the jeering phantoms of my insecure imaginings, these people projected lifesaving goodwill.  Generous with their cheers and encouragement, they gave the impression that each of us had our own personal pep squad.  Some held out hoses or sprinklers for those of us longing for a shower.  One lovely man offered a tray of strawberries and orange segments.  The crisp sweetness of that kind orange carried me a full mile.  One mother and her two children held out their hands to ‘high five’ each of us as we passed.  Just past a percussion group, a lone man stood and banged with a mallet on the back of a skillet which rang sweetly across a slough. 

‘Come on,’ called Capitola.  ‘Come see me again.’ 

‘You can do it,’ Santa Cruz pushed me from behind.  ‘You started here.’

Start there, I did.  Certain places weave in and out of our lives like thin gold threads.  From early trips to the beach and Boardwalk with our grandparents through my college years and into those of my sister, Santa Cruz and Capitola have flickered in and out of my life.  Indirectly, my current adult life has its roots along that bay.  Had I missed a party in Santa Cruz 20 years ago, I would not have met my husband 5 years later.  Strange but true.  After all, it is all Dave’s fault.

Saturday had been spent dragging the kids from one old haunt to the next.  Plugging up the hill to the UC Santa Cruz campus, I demanded of the backseat, “Do you want to see where Aunt Steph went to college?”

As we entered the grounds, their enthusiasm turned to confusion.  “Where’s the college?”  “This is it.”  “This doesn’t look like a school; it looks like a forest.”  I grinned to hear them echo my first impressions.  20 years ago, my roommate and I circled the campus endlessly ‘looking for the college.’  It had seemed impossible that the random collection of buildings that sporadically dotted the forest was indeed a university.

Our next stop was Natural Bridges State Beach.  Flashes of the essence of Santa Cruz drifted past:  surfers floating like black seals on the waves, the requisite amateur-painted VW van, the skateboarder towed by a large, enthusiastic dog, the smells of brine, kelp, fog, and fish.  On the beach, the kids caught a connection to home.  “Come on, Aidan.”  Caitlin dragged her brother to a specific vantage point along the shore.  “Look!  See it?  See the rock; it’s the one from the painting.”  They knew the story, knew that mom had painted the scene in oils from a photograph sent by a college friend.  However, this was the first time they realized that mom painted actual places, and that they were visiting a place that had hung on the living room wall longer than their own lives.  Ghosts of my past walked the sands where my children frolicked.  Past and future joined near a crashing, grey surf beneath the spiraling wings of pelicans.

As we parked near the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, a more distant past floated through my memory.  The Boardwalk rang with the excitement of childhood.  Screams and laughter danced above the rumble of surf and roar of rollercoasters.  Grease, salt spray, and tanning lotion ran under the sweetness of cotton candy.  Clutching the hands of my children, I became the child.  My grandparents appeared at every corner.  Glancing at the waves, I heard my grandmother’s mantra as my sister and I ran toward the surf, “Don’t go in past your knees!”  We stopped for lunch and my husband’s jaw dropped as his calorie-conscious wife ordered deep-fried artichoke hearts and a linguica sandwich with grilled onions.  As the crisp grease and metallic artichoke melted onto my tongue, my grandfather’s grin appeared.  My children had a bag of plastic sand toys wedged under the table; the cups of neighboring beer drinkers evoked the memory of hops-scented sand castles.  Grandpa had always saved his beer cup for us to use as a sandcastle mold.  The first tower or two smelled faintly of beer and the paper had a tendency to disintegrate after a couple of trips to the ocean for water, but it was a tradition.  As we draped our bright beach towels over our patch of pillowy sand, I felt the rough edge of brown and white striped terry-cloth.  Grandma line-dried her laundry, and her towels had all of the pliability of coarse-grain sandpaper.  As we emerged from the waves, sunburned, salt-scoured, and sand-crusted, Steph and I stood with meek trepidation as Grandma rubbed us down with the agonizing vigor of love.  We were well into our teens before we managed to convince her that a) we could towel ourselves, and b) that we would really rather not change out of our bathing suits in the middle of the beach with only a towel tented around us.  I resisted the temptation to similarly torture my children.

On the beach, the kids proved themselves as individual as their nicknames – neither clones of each other, nor of my childhood.  Sierra, our “marmot” played happily on the sand, shunning the waves, like a good little land mammal.  Aidan, the “alligator” was happiest in the shallows.  An overly strong wave would cause him to tug at my hand with shouts of “Back!  Back!”  And Caitlin?  Caitlin stood as far into the surf as I would permit.  Two or more weak waves caused her to raise an eyebrow at the sea and ask sardonically, “C’mon, Poseidon.  Is that all you’ve got?”  (She’s re-reading the Percy Jackson and the Olympians series.) “Do you really think it’s a good idea to taunt Poseidon while we’re standing in the ocean?”  “Moommm, I’m an otter.  I’m a creature of the sea.”  And so she is.

Aidan’s hand tucked into mine as we stood in line for the Giant Dipper, reminding me of the mingled excitement and guilt as I held Grandpa’s hand in the same line 30 years ago.  The thrill of riding a “really big, grownup rollercoaster” tangled with the fear that Grandma was right.  Maybe he really was too old for “those rides.”  What if he did hurt his knees or back or heart?  As Aidan’s face went still as the lap bar engaged, the old fears seized me from behind.  What if he was too young?  He was just barely over the height limit; what if it wasn’t safe for him?  What if he was scared?  I screamed with laughter around the dips and turns darting glances at my son’s white face.  The glory of risk-taking fought for supremacy with my need for a guarantee of security.  There are no guarantees; I abandoned myself to the last swooping turns.

Buckled into the car, the first bite of my caramel apple caught my teeth and dripped down my wrist.  In the back seat, the kids shared a bag of cotton candy.  30 years ago, the traditional treat “for the way home” invariably produced the need for at least one stop in response to my sister’s agonized cries of “I’m stickyyyyyy!”  From the back seat, a voice asked, “Mom, do you have any wet wipes?”  “Nope, they’re all in the back.  Do you want a napkin?”  “No, that’s okay.”

Feet flew the 6^th mile past the coast and into Capitola.  A man with a wig like a giant tribble skin ran on my right; I passed a woman with a tank top that read, “Never tutu old.”  She wore a red lace tutu.  I sprinted down the hill with the long galloping strides of my childhood.  My own children and patient husband waited just beyond the finish as I ran from the past into my future.

Pounding the Pavement

            “You can’t run away from trouble.  There ain’t no place that far.”  --Joel Chandler Harris (Disney interpretation.)

Thirty years ago, I would have agreed wholeheartedly with Uncle Remus.  An ill-fated attempt at the 880 in fourth-grade track had given me to believe that running was its own brand of trouble.   Sore shins, aching legs, burning lungs, a stitch in the side – who needed it?

            Now, running ties me to an immediacy where my troubles have no place.  The tension over scheduling, the school form that I’m sure is somewhere on the kitchen table, the past due bill lurking at the edges of my bank account, the fact that we “never have anything good for breakfast", patients that refuse to improve despite my best efforts, the chapter that is jammed somewhere between my brain and keyboard, the expenditures of time and money on a “hobby” that shows no sign of contributing to the family income or well-being, the urgently needed health-certificate that I’m pretty sure I’ve forgotten to sign – these bogeymen have no place in the morning run.  Reality centers in the soles of my shoes as they slap the asphalt, in the brush of my breath against my ribs, in the melting sun like sap against my skin, in the rustle and buzz in the wild oats and yellow-star that line the shoulder, in the smeared carcasses of road-kill rattle snake that give new import to the noise in the brush, in the smell of humid earth and distant horse.  Finances, husband, children, friends, work, words remain at home.  Like the shadow in Stevenson’s poem, they have “stayed at home behind me and [are] fast asleep in bed.”

            On occasion, I invite my life to run with me.   “Come on,” I say.  “You’re welcome to join me, but you have to keep up.”  Some things drop quickly behind, exhausted.  Others keep pace with me, and we jog toward the hills in a sort of uncertain truce.  By the end of the run, I have befriended these thoughts, fears, and uncertainties.  Monsters hold far less terror after 2 or 3 miles.  I think most of their size comes from water-weight.

            In deference to Uncle Remus, I concede that perhaps we can not escape our troubles by running, but I would submit that a little exercise tames them.