Swan Song, Laughing.

Dearly beloved, we have gathered here today to get through this thing called life 
Electric word life it means forever, and that's a mighty long time, 
but I'm here to tell you there's something else.... **

A new site.  I mean, I'm in the process of building a new blog, a different sort of place all together, and so it's time to put NilsenLife aside for a season.  What a wonderful season it's been here!  We started when Lars was brand new - 3 months old maybe? And now we have the most gorgeous family of growing-so-fast kids, all 3 of them, and as they look forward their mom looks up and says what next?

Me, wondering What Next?

Who knows what next.  But it will be something new, something creative, something that asks me to think, explore, and grow.  Because that's the point of this thing called Life, isn't it?

As a last post, I'm giving you guys a list of things that make me laugh out loud.  Not LOL, not ha! but seriously, genuinely, laugh out loud.  In no particular order:

• the sun, after days and days of cold grey rain
• the logic of preschoolers
• a 10 year old's budding attempts at irony
• photographs involving angry dwarves
• terrible puns
• my husband - daily
• every single one of my close friends - we can't be tight *unless* you make me laugh
• Beastie Boys videos

Not even a Top 10 list, but enough to get me through the day.  Laughing out loud is as holy a thing as I know, and I am profoundly grateful to find things to laugh about every single day.

So with that I leave you.  NilsenLife will abide here as long as Blogger will let it, with its gentle posts on babies, and growing, and a parent realizing that so much good awaits.   On to the next. You will always be able to find us, and all of our laughing, here: at The Yellow House.

** total extra credit points if you finished that little riff at the top there, and then dove right in to enthusiastic air guitar.   For those who didn't, it's Prince and, the first cool song I ever memorized:  Let's Go Crazy.   Yes in fact it IS on my running playlist to this very day.

Humble

It's been exactly a year since my right Achilles tendon started screaming at me halfway through a 100 meter sprint.  One year.

The day I was fitted for a walking cast, I  published a brave blog about game changers, and goal shifting, and all sorts of uplifting things.

Six weeks later I posted an even braver blog about skipping the Spanx at my high school reunion, still convinced that the setback was temporary, still riding high on a metabolism jacked up on 7x/week workouts (pre-injury, that is). 

October 2 was the last time I ran.  And what a run it was!  Four miles through the foothills of Los Angeles.  A run I had sooooo looked forward to, a run alongside someone you definitely want to do your last run with. If, you know, there is the acknowledgement that it's your last run.  Which of course I refuse to acknowledge.

If someone forced me to look back at the last 12 months (oh look at that, I'm forcing myself), to find a common thread, the only word that comes to mind is humility.  Pretty much every day of the last year, as I climb out of bed to sometimes-grumbling, sometimes outright-hollering tendons - both left and right - I have been deeply humbled.

scene from one of those quick easy runs

Humbled as I tried, month after month, a 'quick easy run' and then spent the following hour icing my ankles. Humbled as I watched my neighbors run up my street.  Humbled as I met up with my running friends for drinks and reported, over and over, nope, no change. As bad as ever.  Humbled as the physical therapist shook his head ruefully and said he's discharging me, because his excellent plan didn't work, didn't fix it.   Humbled as I told my kids no Mommy can't race you, sweetheart.  It hurts my ankles too much.

But here's the funny thing.  It's been far easier to think about this most physical of lessons - the humbling that comes from not forcing my aging body to do what I want it to do.  Because oh, the humility that life has handed out with relentless enthusiasm this year.  The ankles have been the mere tip of the iceberg.

Maybe I have more to say about humility.  Maybe I have more to say about well...anything. Maybe its time to start saying some things again. 

Tomorrow's February 29.  A day I didn't have last year.  Maybe tomorrow breaks the spell.

Bourbon Slush and Christmas Eve

If you're a procrastinator like me, Christmas Eve is generally consumed with putting together Playmobil castles that have 648 small pieces, and finding the stocking stuffers that I've hidden so cleverly all over my bedroom that I can't actually locate any of them.

This is the recipe to make all of that effort tolerable, even faintly amusing.  Promise

I present Ye Olde Family Recipe for Bourbon Slush:  going ahead and posting it here for posterity.  Because my great grandchildren are *totally* getting a copy of my blog in the family archives. Ha.

BOURBON SLUSH

2 cups boiling water
4 regular-size tea bags
1 1/2 cups sugar
6 cups water
2 cups bourbon
(1) 12 oz can frozen orange juice  thawed and undiluted
(1) 12 oz can frozen lemonade, thawed and undiluted
lemon-lime soda, chilled
 

Garnishes"lemon rind curls, maraschino cherries
 

Pour boiling water over tea bags;cover and let stand 5 minutes.   
Remove tea bags, squeezing gently; add sugar, stirring until it  
dissolves.  Stir in 6 cups water and next 3 ingredients.  Cover and  
freeze at least 8 hours.  To serve, spoon 1/2 cup bourbon  mixture  
into each glass, add 1/2 cup soda to each.  Garnish, if desired.
 

Yield: 6 quarts
 

The Light Will Always Come

I stand at my kitchen window, these dark December mornings, and I'm astonished by the sunrises of winter. 

Blackness - complete blackness - imperceptibly gives way to black silhouettes against pink, orange, purple.  The entire world is reduced to two dimensions - all is either dark or light.

Watching the light arrive, in my quiet kitchen before anyone has stirred, memories surface: watching suns rise after all-nighters in college, after pacing the floors with wailing newborns.



It is a benediction, every morning:  the end of darkness, the return of the light.  A benediction that promises us daily that no matter how dark, no matter how long the night has been, the sun returns to shine on every living thing - returns to vanquish every last shadow. To make us fully three-dimensional.

At the winter's solstice, where we welcome the gradual (maybe painfully slow, some days) return of the sun to our lives, we can receive that benediction every single morning:  the Light will always return.

With that, I will leave you with a beautiful quote from Gunilla Norris: 

In our lives, we sometimes find ourselves in what feels like our darkest days - days of trouble and loss when our spirits are overwhelmed.  It's important then to remember that our inner light is still there though we may not be able to feel it. Given time, our spirits will lighten bit by bit the way more daylight comes back bit by bit with each day.

November's Gifts

In November, at winter's gate, the stars are brittle. The sun is a sometimes friend. And the world has tucked her children in, with a kiss on their heads, till spring.

- Cynthia Rylant, In November

Funny, that I spent all of October blogging about Stillness, when in some ways November is the stillest month of all.

November is the month in which our world prepares itself for the coming winter.  Even in the warmer parts of the world, autumn is finally surrendering to the inevitable chill.  (You Southern Hempisphere folks? Well.  It is a stillness in readiness for explosion of Summer weather, right?? Different, but the cusp of transition still fills us with suspense, methinks.)

I sit here at my kitchen table and watch rain streaking down window panes, watch the last of the leaves swirl past, one last wild ride before ending their days in winter's compost heap.

Sopping, soaking rain is our gift this November day.  If the 'world is tucking her children in' in November, then the weather today is the children getting their last drink of water, staying for one last minute the turning out of lights.

Most of us here in the States aren't registering the world being tucked in for the winter - we are focused on cranberry sauce macerating, stuffing ingredients, and perhaps anticipating long drives ahead.

And yet these busy preoccupied times are the very best moments in which to take a moment of Still.  To register how quickly the world outside changes, how suspenseful the natural world is, ready to head into the next season.

This Thanksgiving holiday, please, take the time to be thankful for your family, for your warm house, for your Thanksgiving meal.  But here's a little challenge for you:  find also the time to stand quietly at a window, and be thankful for the leaves that swirl past.  Be thankful for the dying grass, for the soaking rains.

Take a moment to be thankful for the profound gift of Stillness in the natural world.  It has the potential to teach us everything.

Attempts to Thaw

Not many words.

Every day I look at this file on my computer, the file that's supposed to be turning into my novel, and I see not many words at all.

I look at this poor old blog, and see not many words at all. None, in fact, since the beginning of the month.

The only things I post on Twitter are my Instagram photos, and even my favorite geek hangout Facebook has been a quiet place for me recently - the Instagram photos get posted there too, and maybe a few comments on friends' posts that amuse me.

What happened to the optimism, the rush of energy to write more, to write longer, to CREATE?  What happened to that heart-gut certainty that a writing life will be the life that says to me daily, Here is where authentic is. Yes. Do this.  You're on the Right Path.

Maybe that deep gut certainty is still there.  But the life I'm living is somehow letting the other voices weigh in louder.  The inner critic (mine) is merciless, but also I hear the [imagined] Others that misunderstand, that deliberately misinterpret, that judge my humble words as not close to good enough.



It's the freezing of a pond - at the outer edges the words freeze as I try to weave them into fictions of people leading hard, mysterious lives.  That ice hardens and spreads as I become exhausted even thinking about a blog post, and have 702 excuses reasons regarding other things that must be prioritized. As the freezing solidifies, it reaches the odd inner narrator of mine that turns my silly days into status updates or Tweets or captions of snapshots on my phone.  Before long, I stand marooned in the middle of the ice, unsure of how to get back to shore, unsure how to effect a thaw.

I am scared, actually, by how often that freeze happens.  It's just a long and cold winter in my creative life right now. I let those voices shout out loud over the still small voice of authenticity.  The warm voice gently murmuring create, Kirsten, create. 

Maybe today make it a quick status update.  Maybe tomorrow it can be another blog post. 

The only, the only way to the thaw is by breathing deep the warm air of creativity.   To Just Write.

Well.

Well crap on a cracker.

Here I went giving y'all a suspenseful buildup for The Big Reveal today, and pfffft.

Life went & happened instead.  You probably don't want to hear about the death rattle in my lungs from all the winter camping this past weekend [cue emergency call to new doctor o' mine].

Nor do you want to hear about the Careful and Quirky Contractor Man who needed to talk to me 46 times today about the stone pillars in front of my house which apparently have had no foundation for almost 100 years.  [Cue emergency call to insurance adjuster.] 

yep, those stone pillars you see in the back there

 Wanna hear about delivering a forgotten yoga mat to school, only to hear that my lil' yogi decided to skip it today and went home on the bus? [Cue mad calls for the 7 & unders to pile into van; get out at school; pile back into van in time to get Ms 9 off the bus.]

Blah blah blah.

We all got crazy busy lives, right?

I'll give you The Little Reveal, tonight, instead:  I've got a new project.  I am blindly feeling my way towards life as a writer, and unsure even about what that looks like.  But the darkest corners of my heart, and the lightest tippy toesiest part of my brain are in agreement:  I have to Just Write.

So I will.  In November I am doing NaNoWriMo, which for the uninitiated stands for National Novel Writing Month.  What?!? say you A novel?  Surely she's only built up to half a column's worth at best!  Well.  Then I'll spend 30 days writing half columns of purple prose if I have to.  But it's 50,000 words or bust. (If any of you out there are as crazy as me, be my writing buddy - my name is NilsenLife.)

I made the major commitment to a weekend away - by myself. Three days of writing with people I know hardly at all, but who've promised to make me write for 72 hours straight.  (Kinda. With a little hot-tubbing thrown in.)

And then, I will Just Write. 

*************

I never fail to be inspired by Heather and her blog, and the people who connect through it.  She started Just Write, and she has encouraged me to go out there and do my writing thang more times than I can count.  I am so grateful.   Here we go peeps!

Stillness {Day 31 and...30, 29, & 28. Ahem}: What Happens after Stillness?

When I started this 31 Days project, I promised myself I wouldn't beat myself up.  Wouldn't give myself a load of guilt-laden grief over short posts, over half-baked ideas, or posts without cool photos.

Lucky I promised that, because I did indeed serve up a fair few of those kind of posts.  And yes, I did just plain fail to post for the last few days of the month.  [Ed note: To be fair, I tried.  Zipped tight into my mummy sleeping bag, cabin camping in a freezing rainstorm, I tried tapping out a post from my iPhone.  Stupid Blogger lost it THREE TIMES.  More on Stupid Blogger tomorrow.]

There were a few good ones in there too, posts that made me very happy to write.  This one, on parenting, was one of my favorites.  Funnily enough (some would argue for synchronicity here) this post, a sort of companion piece to my favorite, was far & away the most-read piece, with more than four times the number of page views of any of the other Stillness posts.

It seems that finding stillness whilst parenting is a giant challenge to all of us, and all we can do is be grateful for the moments when we find both the joy and the Still at the same time.  That - that - is the magic of raising kids.

But this post too was a big hit with y'all - a post considering what to do when the smog of life settles right into your brain and you can't clear it.  I talked about just going out and clearing a tiny corner of your world -ordering, and stilling, a small space for you.  Baby steps, folks, is all I'm asking.  Even those tiny steps will inch you closer and closer to places where you find Stillness more often, and more easily.

Here is the BIG QUESTION, though, the one that's been niggling at me all along each of these 31 Days.  With all this Stillness, what happens to moving forward?  To planning ahead?

I'm worried that it's easy to claim you are searching for Stillness when actually you are hiding from things. Pretending to live in the zen moment when in fact you are just burying your head in the sand about the bills piling up on the desk next to you.

So here is where my Big Idea gets its moment in the sun:

courtesy of Pinterest

I think in our everyday lives, in this crazy 21st century world, it is so much easier to let go.  So much easier to move on to the next thing, the next app, the next gadget, the next screen.  This is why I felt there were at least 31 Things to say about Stillness.

But yes, there must be some letting go as well.  Some willingness to look forward, instead of just in The Moment, if only to make consciously living a life of peace possible, instead of lurching from one crisis to the next.  (Not that I know anyone who lives like that.)

Tomorrow, TOMORROW:  I want you to come back & visit here, because I've got some Big Ol' News, and I can't wait to share it with you.  Big News about what I've decided to do after this 31 Days, and where I'm going to do it.

Stillness {Day 26 and, um, 27}: Living the Lessons

The more astute among you have already clocked that no post magically appeared in the 11o' clock-ish hour last night.  Whoops.

You see, there was another sort of Stillness that presented last night.  The sort of stillness that sneaks up on you, disguised by a silly bathtime dance-off, by Mommy's offer to read TWO chapters (just because), by siblings miraculously content to curl around my shoulders and head like kittens.

A very peaceful bedtime it was, and the kids were delighted to have a mom lounging around on their beds, listening to goofy knock knock jokes and failing to hurry them along in the nighttime routines.

Then came the call for lights out, and with it the discovery that Ms 9's Beloved Teddy was missing.  Yikes.  With the wavering bottom lip and fat hot tears spilling, the rumblings of a major tantrum sounded through the house.

Yet, the Stillness remained - through grace alone I stayed calm, refused to enter into DefCon10 with her, and asked her simply to go find another room in which to rail against the Fates and then, to calm herself.   Shockingly, this worked.

Here is where the Stillness really worked its magic:  as the lights were switched off, and darkness settled around their heads as physically as the down of their pillows, the sadness in her heart came out in whispers - broken heartedness over playground politics, perceptions of difference, questions of identity and growth and.... oh.  You know.  The easy stuff.

And I was able to stop and listen.  To really hear.  She'd felt the stillness in my heart and mind, and trusted that sharing the tumult in hers would be ok.  

I wrote earlier this month about offering Stillness to your kids.  Last night I lived the lesson, and was so grateful I did.

Stillness {Day 25}: Poems in the bottom of our shoes

"Poems hide.  In the bottom of our shoes,

they are sleeping. They are the shadows

drifting across our ceilings the moment

before we wake up.  What we have to do

is live in a way that lets us find them."

-Naomi Shihab Nye

As good a definition of Stillness as any I've read. 

You may believe you have no need of poems in your life.  Then you are mistaken.   Perhaps in a month of posts I will not convince you that the sleeping poems in the bottoms of your shoes will change you, but all you must do is look for them.  Your perspective will never be the same.

Stillness {Day 24}: I'm going to go THERE

I hinted at it in my post on airline travel.

Mostly, however, these posts have been carefully skirting the issue.

But [deep breath] I have to be honest with you.  I can talk Stillness all month long, but my dark secret is this:

[clears throat]

[eyes wander towards the ceiling]

Ok. I am a little bit a lot in love with my iPhone.

Seriously?  Is that all?  I hear you eye-rollers mutter out there.  So what?  I'm in love with my iPhone too!  IOS 5 holla! 

Well.  So then the party gets crashed by this guy writing about Henry Thoreau and Walden.  (Another holla! to my friend Don for the link.) Sam Graham-Felson writes about life with an iPhone - no, not just life, but full-time existence with an iPhone.  The first thing we check in the morning, the last thing we check at night.  Sigh.  I *really* wanted not to recognize myself in his descriptions.

I was slow to hop on the iPhone train, but let's just say the learning curve wasn't a burden. I love the email, the Facebook, the Pinterest, the all-of-it.  I love having something to whip out for the kids in a doctors office so that I can get my Achilles' palpated in peace.

But.  But.  To co-opt Mr Graham-Felson's phrase - the iPhone is making my life easier, not better.

When examining one's life through the lens of Stillness, it is hard to make the case for a 62x/day Facebook check. It is dicey at best to suggest that it is important to pin 16 images of Stillness to a Pinterest board in order to find Still in my day.

In our little Stillness experiment I've done a some examination of my phone habit.  I've consciously left my phone on Silent in the evenings when I'm hanging with my husband.   When I play with the kids outside, I leave the phone in the kitchen. 

I'm not quitting my phone.  Honestly?  It had me at the Hello apple.   But I will question the need to hold it in my palm at the bus stop.  I will stop myself before I sneakily check it during bedtime songs & stories. 

This evening I do apologize that I don't have a photo for you, of Ms 3 in a snowman sweater, red velvet plaid skirt, pink & black argyle tights and green frog boots.  It was classic.  But here's the thing:  I was busy playing TV Tag with that funny little girl.  Busy keeping them in hysterics with names of early-80s tv shows and getting smoked by my 7 year old.

Today, my life kicked my phone's ass.

Stillness {Day 23}: It is late. I am late.

haiku is a gift

for a procrastinator

tomorrow: Stillness.

Stillness {Day 22}: Stillness is not always Comfortable

All the soothing images I posted yesterday aside, Stillness can make any of us very uncomfortable indeed.

When we still our minds, the dark thoughts see their chance.  They rear up on hindlegs,  and unleash howls of anger, anxiety, jealousy, or maybe pure fear. 

And in the stillness, the dark thoughts scream, slither and shove for primacy in the front of your brain.  They resent to their core that they've been ignored.



I say, let them come. Let the thoughts come.   Allow the stillness to bring what it may.

My kids have an old picture book that was mine as a child, called There's No Such Thing as Dragons.  A little boy finds a dragon, and every time the boy tries to tell his mother about it, and the mother insists there's no such thing as dragons! the animal grows another few sizes.  It grows and grows (based on repeated denials) until it picks up the entire house on its back, and walks down the street.  The father runs into the dragon, with the house on its back, and the little boy shouts out the window about what's happened, and still the father insists:  but there's no such THING as dragons! 

Finally the little boy confronts his parents, and says (quite reasonably) there IS such a thing, and he's right here with our house on top of him!.

 Poof! Like that, the dragon is reduced to his original, puppy-like size and life returns to normal.

Which is all to say that the thoughts you don't want to spend any time with, the ones that you keep busy to avoid - those are the ones that need to be met face to face.  They must be given space, and Stillness, in order to be reduced to size.

Stillness isn't comfortable, but it's one heck of a dragonslayer.

Stillness {Day 21}: Being Still, the Visual

I have a funny little collection to show you.

I'm obsessed with a site called Pinterest, which is essentially a virtual bulletin board where you 'pin' items of interest that one might run across all over the interwebs.  People can 'follow' your boards, see what you're pinning, and pin it on their own if they're so moved. 

I take the time to explain this, because it isn't H.U.G.E. huge yet.  And really, it is a giant time suck, wherein you can spend 3 hours pinning a zillion things that you'd like to make/do/buy someday but in all honesty will probably never ever look at outside of Pinterest.

Anyway. I've been working on a Be Still board.   (To see the whole thing, you have to click that link.  Or, you know, go ahead & click this one.) These are little gems that have caught my eye in all sorts of contexts; a gestalt, if you will, of the way I look at Stillness.

A favorite path to Still

Being the nerd that I am, I was fascinated to look at the entire thing, and notice patterns: of empty inviting seats, of still waters, of views that invite you in to their visual plane, of soft vintage color, of small moments and quiet drinks.  And books. Always books. 

You will all have your own images that mean Still.  Even if you aren't a visual person, take just a few minutes today to think about what sort of pictures would be Still to you.  Imagine it, do a quick Google search, stick up a magazine photo on your fridge.   There will be something, I'm betting, that will whisper Be Still to you, every time you pass it.

Pay attention to this.  It is Stillness seeking you out.

Stillness {Day 20}: Poet of Stillness

I first discovered the poetry of Gunilla Norris as a newlywed graduate student.  Penniless, living on a student loan, but convinced that we could still create a life of beauty.

Her poetry backs up this idea.  And it's stunning.  Below are some excerpts from her website:

Keeping a cleaned and empty surface somewhere in our homes is a little thing that can have subtle power. Take the kitchen counter, for instance. When cleared of all used up and sticky things, it can be a wonderful reminder to clean the inner counter, too, of its messy complaints and leftovers. A clean surface is a wonderful icon for stillness and peace. It can also be a place of inspiration for cooking up something new.

Keeping silent, we hear the roar of existence


It is a paradox that keeping still can lead us so fully into life and being.

It has always been my understanding that when we are really present in our daily activities, our lives become more luminous, filled with love and grace.  


What little thing could be more powerful than a pause — a simple, "do nothing" breath break so the soul can catch up with the body? More powerful yet would be more of them sprinkled throughout the day. 

These are beautiful thoughts about the depth of our living.   A little tricky, finding profundity in your local bookstore that looks more like Toys R Us, but track it down.  You won't be sorry to read someone articulating the joy of stillness so beautifully.

Stillness {Day 19}: Do you have to be still to be, y'know, Still?

So yesterday I called out the Activity People. The folks who consciously structure a huge amount of busy-ness into their lives. 

This morning I got an email from one of my most favorite Activity People, the one who finally got me off the couch and running.  She'd been catching up on the blog, and right off the bat, she asked me:  "do you have to actually be still to be Still?

No.  Oh my, no.

The Stillness arrives in the strangest of places.  It arrives in the middle of a long run, when you realize you've forgotten the preschool playgroups, the vacation-time bills, the Make Sure I Remembers.  It arrives in the early morning as you switch on the first lamp in a dark kitchen, and make a small circle of light in which to enjoy your coffee.  It is absolutely there as you stomp in puddles, play tag in the backyard, or throw yourself into a game of pickup soccer with friends.

These are just my small moments.  You will find your own.  You can find your own, anyway, if you want.  The quieting of your mind has nothing to do with physical stillness.  It has everything to do with awareness, and gratefulness, of where we are. In that very moment.

Stillness {Day 18}: Are your feet falling asleep?

All this stillness, I mean.  Have your feet fallen asleep?

I knew starting out that Stillness wasn't going to be The Hot Topic of the century.  I mean, there are over six hundred bloggers participating in the 31 Days Project this October!  And I'll be honest:  31 Days to a No-Brainer Wardrobe sounds infinitely more fun than this Stillness stuff.

Stillness is a challenge.  For those prone to navel-gazing like me,  it comes a little bit easier.  I love having the excuse to sit still and think really hard about where and why I am.  But I do have a fair number of friends who are busy busy people.  They are people who structure their entire days - entire lives - around work, sports, activities, playdates, coffee dates, you name it. 

I so envy their energy levels, their focus, their drive.  At heart, a navel-gazer like me is a teensy bit lazy, and likes to explain that away with a lot of talk about introspection, self-knowledge, and um, creativity.  I am pretty much at peace with who I am, and say this with tongue firmly planted in cheek. 

The world needs all sorts, y'know?

But here's where I have the inside track, and why I kinda like my Thinker/Watcher self:  Stillness arrives more quickly for me, these days.  If a silent sort of meditative quality can scream its name on occasion, I am the person who can hear the hollering. 

I find myself noticing it in the middle of a preschool hayride, and I point out to my small girl the spectacle of 20 ducks in formation, black checkmarks in the clear autumn sky.   I am tempted to stop my car in the middle of a two-lane road, just because the lineup of a red barn against autumn trees says to me Stillness Lives Here.  I notice the square of sunlight in the middle of my living room couch, and I am instantly grateful for the invitation and keenly aware of its temporary state.  I lie down immediately, and seize the rare chance for a nap.

All of you Activity People out there, it's ok.  I get you.  I understand that Stillness feels as foreign to you as Tantric Yoga or ... pffft. I don't know - needlepoint?  But it doesn't mean you get a free pass.  Stillness is there for you too.

Just for a minute, today, just for maybe two minutes even, allow yourself to think about Stillness.  Allow yourself to consider the people who live with Still.  Is there anything there you recognize?  Anything there you envy for your own existence? 

I'm betting that all of us wish there was more Still in our lives.



 

Stillness {Day 17}: Naptime

The end of naps is nigh.

She's so close to four she's planning her 'birfday partee', so tall and strong and funny and mouthy and gorgeous.  She's *this* close to four, and the other 2 had left naptime far behind by the time they'd reached this ripe old age.

But oh:  the profound stillness that comes over her when finally she climbs onto my bed, rubs her soft blanket against her cheek and lowers her eyelids.  Her entire being welcomes the quiet, welcomes the chance to let it all be, just for an hour or two.

As with so much of life, our instincts at three speak to what is basic within us.  The ability to be still and rest peacefully. 

How long has it been since we've laid down our burdens (preschool or otherwise) and rested? 

Stillness {Day 16}: The Clock Stood Still

I visited a friend's parents today - made my right turn onto their road, following the narrow single lane back towards their familiar gate.  It must have been about this time of year I drove that lane for the first time, twenty five years ago.  I eased into their driveway - almost as familiar as my own parents', and I had the strangest, most beautiful sense of the constrictions of time and space suspending.  

The lovely old farmhouse welcomed me as it has so many hundreds of times - with graciousness, quiet beauty, and imperfection.    The family inside - brothers, sisters, parents, grandchildren, babies -  shared all of those traits and more, as we hugged hello, wondered how long has it been? and traded stories. 

Perhaps it was the warm autumn sun, the alchemy of that warmth mixed with a beautiful October breeze that turned leaves of trees all around the house, and made curtains wave to me.  Perhaps it was the lack of schedule - the willing suspension of deadlines, of timeframes, of task lists.  Perhaps the evanescent magic of fall - a time of year so quick to end, so dark in its finishing days - made the moments there in the farmhouse feel all the more achingly beautiful.

photo courtesy of Flickr Creative Commons

The facts of our lives:  grinding daily schedules, disappointments inherent in adult life, heartbreaks acknowledged but unspoken, did not magically disappear.  But somehow, there in the autumn sunshine, all of our lives became so much larger than the sum of our days, so much bigger than a life of schedule and task.

A family, gathered.  A friend, welcomed.  Somehow the simple rituals of a family together took me closer yet to the essence of Stillness:  awareness of - and gratitude for - history.  For connection.  For time. For love.

These, friends, are the gifts of Stillness. 

Stillness {Day 15}: Goals on Ice

My view right now is a long stretch of jeans, and my ankle stretched out beyond that - on top of a complicated hierarchy of ice-filled Ziploc bags.  I take turns, icing first the right side, then the left.

I've got my laptop on my lap, looking at photo after photo of Facebook friends - including my own crowd of running peeps  - finishing the Baltimore Running Festival. 

Most of them ran the half marathon today, and I had planned from the minute I finished the BRF last year to be running it along with them. 

And here I sit, icing the same Achilles injury that's plagued me since February 28. I iced these ankles at 6 am, 1pm, and now 10pm.  I did not run today.

I bravely blogged about goals, and game changers, and embracing a season of healing  - a season of stillness, if you will - back in March.  By October 15 I have lost patience.  I don't want to embrace the season of healing.  I want to wake up tomorrow morning and run with my friends in the woods, the way I used to every Sunday. 

But the human body is a funny thing, and Achilles injuries even funnier.  If you tempt them - if you push further than you know you should, you will pay.  Two weeks ago I ignored the twinges, the quiet warning signs that I should know by now to respect, because I wanted so badly to run with a friend in the foothills of LA. 

I'm still paying.  Paying for fighting the Stillness.  Not that I really believe Stillness subscribes to the philosophy of paybacks, but it's one of those immutable rules of Life:  if you ignore what you know to be true, what you know to be necessary, you will always, always regret it.

Tonight, I'm mostly whining about Stillness.  It's true.