oatmeal battle scar

I am, as it turns out, somewhat accident-prone. I can go for weeks without displaying any real uncoordinated behavior but then it catches up with me. At that point I typically experience several mishaps in quick succession which serve to remind me once again the need to be a little more careful.

Yesterday it was Rachel vs. boiling hot oatmeal. Steel cut oats to be exact. Inexplicably, I missed the bowl and poured a good bit of the steaming stickiness right on to my leg. I yelped and tore off my shorts then tried desperately to push my leg up over the counter and into the sink for some cold running water. It took longer than it should have for me to realize that was not a very good plan. I’m simply not that flexible. I glimpsed over at Seth and my nephew, Avery, suddenly realizing that they may have been traumatized in some way by the incident or at least by my reaction to it. They were not. I tried to enlist Seth’s help by asking him to get ice for me but he just kept saying “underpanties” and laughing. I got the ice myself. Today I have a little battle scar on my knee (that’s what we call them at our house, battle scars, booboos are for wimps - at least according to Shaun and Seth). Oh well, at least it’s not nearly as bad as the time I almost blew myself up.

confessions

I was over at a friend’s house a few weeks ago. We have children that are close in age who like to play and/or fight with each other. Usually my friend and I talk about kid things during these play dates and that’s what we were discussing until I changed the topic of conversation to the matter of confession. I was immensely curious about the subject and - this is an important detail - I am not catholic so I figured I would ask my friend who happens to be married to one. I know this first-hand because I was actually in her wedding. It was a really big wedding and probably the most entertaining one I’ve ever attended. At one point the old folks were having so much fun they started swigging champagne straight from the bottle. There was also a brawl between two girls for the bouquet and other silly things of that nature. Lots of fun to watch. I also learned from my friend’s wedding that non-catholics are not actually allowed on the stage during the ceremony. I’m not sure if I was allowed on the steps or not. At any rate, my friend married a very nice catholic guy and is now my window into the catholic faith. I am otherwise surrounded by protestants and heathens.

So I asked my friend if she goes to confession. The details are sketchy but I think she said that she does not and her husband does not but maybe other members of the family do because they are quite devout. I said I’d been thinking about confession and how nice it would be to just go into the booth there and confess my sins, what a relief it would be to release those burdens in that way. I think I said something like that. Then she told me that she wasn’t sure but she didn’t think they did confessions that way any more, that she was pretty sure that you just made and appointment with the priest and went to his office to talk things over.

For some reason, this new information made me very sad. I liked the idea of anonymous confession. Not that I could actually go to confession, since I’m not catholic, but it sounded like it could actually beneficial.

You see, I’m not in the habit of confessing my sins to anyone else but I’ve been doing a little reading lately and I’m finding that this is actually something I’m supposed to do. I guess I’ve always just skipped the middle man and gone straight to God. Only sometimes, maybe it would be good to hear another human voice on the other end of the conversation. So I’m still thinking about confession and I’m wondering what you think.

ode to fall

It is late. Too late to start writing a blog but I feel that I might shrivel up if I don’t get a least a thought or two out there.

So I’ve been thinking about Fall lately, wonderful, blissful, beautiful Fall. Did I mention it’s my favorite time of the year? Any day now I will find myself searching for my “October Road” CD. I’ll spend the next few weeks driving around North Florida hoping to spot a Maple tree or something, listening to James Taylor. I’ve been missing that guy.

I’m glad it’s that time of year again.

God glue

It’s been a rough day. The kind I wish never to repeat. That is unlikely but still, a nice wish. And then I stumbled upon this. It brought peace again to my troubled mind.

man is broken
he lives by mending
the grace of God is the glue

I think I can sleep now.

the running life

I have hated running for as long as I can remember. Unfortunately for me, I found myself running a lot when I was growing up since I was always involved one sport or another. I distinctly remember running and running and running around the court lines in the gym at volleyball practice and loathing every minute of it. It made me breathless. It made me tired. It even made my ears hurt. I can’t actually explain that last symptom but the sum effect of it was an ever-present, ever-increasing hatred for running.

After graduation I did my best to participate in as few aerobic activities as possible. I didn’t become a complete couch potato, I just chose other, more restful forms of physical activity (think yoga and pilates, walking sort of fast on the treadmill). I have only recently begun to regard running as an activity worthy of my time. This is quite a shift for me and since I don’t change my mind a lot, I felt is strangely noteworthy.

I guess the first hint of a change was inspired by my little boy, Seth. I love him more than I ever thought I could ever love another human being. He has, God bless him, the independent streak of his mother and the energy level of his father, which is to say he’s mostly compliant, except for when he’s not and runs around pretty much all of the time. And did I mention that he’s three? So let’s just say that the need to regularly de-stress is has been growing.

The second and most compelling reason to change became clear to me at the end of a very long illness. The months that I was sick, those were horrible days. I was tired and cranky, hurting and scared but mostly, I was sad, tremendously sad that I was missing so much of my life. And then something miraculous happened. Suddenly, I began to sense health returning to me - not in a trickle but a steady stream. I was overjoyed! Life and vibrancy and hope had returned to me like a very needed but unexpected gift. I remember asking myself one day, what I was going to do with my newly restored life. I decided the most gracious way to accept this gift was to open it, to really live life, and to celebrate it by doing something crazy, something unimaginable, something like running.

So that’s how it all began. I started slowly - and I mean that in every sense of the word - but over time something very strange happened. I began to enjoy it. It is a small thing but I remember so clearly the day that I ran a mile without really even breathing all that hard. It felt great! It gave me this tremendous sense of accomplishment that I had been missing for so, so long. I helped me believe in me again.

So now running has become a bit of a habit (only, unlike eating chocolate and popping my knuckles, this one is actually good for me). I’ve been running about other day now for about three months. And I’m very happy and quite proud to announce that last Saturday I completed my first 5K! Hooray for me! And then just for fun, I did another one last Saturday. Hooray for me again!!!

This is all very new to me, this parading my personal triumphs, this use multiple exclamation points. I am much more comfortable unleashing silliness or mindless wonderings into the world of print. But I think I’m beginning to realize how important it is to recognize those truly amazing happenings in life like changefulness and accomplishment and to celebrate them. They really aren’t that common and they have the most wonderful effect of making life a bit more livable and hope a bit easier to sustain in the midst of difficult times.

stuck in my head

The Bartender Song was stuck in my head all day long yesterday. This did not drive me crazy because I actually get a kick out of that song. I can’t tell you exactly why but I think it has something to do with my strange sense of humor and the fact that I grew up in Lake City where losing your heart in the trailer park is a lot more common than in a place like Seattle.

notes from a recovering perfectionista

For starters, I almost couldn’t find my word document labeled “blog posts.” That was somewhat frustrating. This is what happens when I try to organize my files, when I try to organize much of anything, actually. I am awfully good at appearing to be organized, though. I imagine people look at me and think, “My how organized she is! She must get so much accomplished!” Maybe I’m wrong about that. Maybe no one thinks of me that way at all.

The little-known truth is that I stink at most areas of organization not because I’m incapable but because I just really don’t really like me when I am organized. I tend to get a bit cranky and oppressive and that’s uncomfortable to me (not to mention the people I live with) so I just sort of turn around and head in the other direction, i.e., general disorganization. My closet is probably the one exception. All of the blue clothes are with the blue clothes and the white clothes are with the white clothes and so on and so on. I had a hard time deciding what to do with the few multi-colored items I own. Put them together in their own multi-colored group or go with the base color? In the middle of this dilemma I realized two things: 1) I have an inordinate number of black separates, and 2) I was probably overcomplicating the issue. I never knew you could over-think closet organization but then I could probably win an Olympic medal in over-thinking so if anyone could do it, I could.

I think…here I go again…that if I noodle things through long enough that I will inevitably discover the right answer and that my life will be beautiful and happy and essentially free from all pain and disappointment. I am beginning to see that this is not such an effective strategy. It seems to me that perfectionism carves out for you this tiny little repressive space and expects you to squeeze the whole of your life into it. Only not everything fits, so you have to start tossing out some things - good things like grace, and kindness, and your own sanity. I have become rather fond of those things so by default I have chosen to allow a good bit more disorganization into my life. I suppose there is some middle ground, some balance to be found between the two extremes. Maybe I will find it as I bounce back and forth between the two.