My Baby

He woke up, slid out of my bed and pitter-pattered into the living room. He is three, but when he crawled into my lap on the recliner and let me rock him, he was my infant again. Sleepy eyed, he stared off towards the ceiling for several minutes and I thought he might fall back asleep.
His hand came up, as if to stroke my cheek but instead, he slammed it into my nose.

H-O-N-K!

iFriends

Chit-chatting on my long runs with the folks in my training group invigorates me. It takes my mind off perceived effort and makes the miles seem shorter. Often times, one decent story (say, how my friend's son has given up diapers yet isn't quite potty trained) can last a mile. And once the tears dry up after learning that the little boy just wanted access his penis "so it dodn't faw aff," I can look around and say "Whoa, we're already on Main St!"

A few months ago, I found some iFriends (to coin a phrase), for my solo running days. While searching for free stuff on iTunes, I stumbled upon a podcast called the Extra Mile. It's a bunch of runners from all over the globe that submit stories & running updates, recorded while they are running. Some are advanced, some brand new, but all have that slightly stecato speech that you get when you converse on the trail. I love it. And it trips me out when I hear a car coming, then look around to find an empty street followed by the runner announcing "Hold on, I've got to cross this intersection." Most of the episodes run around 60 minutes (pardon the pun), so I can stretch a 45 workout into an hour with less mental resistance. They accept submission from practically anyone, so if I ever figure out how to carry a recorder in my bra, you might hear my voice one day...and we can advance from being e-friends to iFriends.

We Are Sorry

*And Thanks to Gwadzilla

"Strong" Coffee

Out the window, a Sysco truck parked mid-street caught my attention. The driver opened the back, rolled out a dolly with vegetable boxes stacked 10 high. I watched him disappear into truck again, leaving his stack balanced on the tailgate.

So from 30 feet away, sitting on the sofa of the bookstore, coffee in hand, indie music on the speaker above, I blew.

One quick puff of air directed at the boxes...and they toppled over.

Once...in Ireland

Once upon a time, a decade or so ago, I lived on the streets of Ireland.
I was a rebellious young woman with dreams of being an artist. Hopeless romanticism, curiosity and stubbornness quickly turned me into a Starving Artist. I sold Big Issue and made jewelry & sculptures out of found objects -life wasn't easy or as I'd hoped. My adventures led me to an Irish mandolin player in County Clare who healed and then broke my heart.

Naturally, I related to this film...




...but the fact that my husband loves and is inspired by this film, reminds me I am a "right feckin' loowkey gerl." I'm in a good place now.

Campfire

For the last week or so, I've dug through the trash piles of neighbors and the depths of empty lots to find firewood. Dry wood is a pretty rare find in the Tropics, so I ended up cutting up 3 Christmas trees to create a campfire for my friends. It's a miracle my neighbors didn't call the police. Taking saw to limbs and digging a fire pit is instinctual for me, a major part of my old life in the woods. In Miami, it's freakish...or worse (gasp), for laborers! Why not just buy fake logs from Publix, I was asked half a dozen times by different people.

But then my mind wanders to what the question probably means: Why not just do the campfire in the fireplace? Or why not just use candles? Why bother lighting them? Why not just make S'mores in the microwave and watch Everyone Loves Raymond on the couch?

I found that contentment is not counted only by weekends, it's counted by the minute. Gambling on later rather than now often ends in disappointment or hallow satisfaction when things do go as planned. Getting dirt under my fingernails is therapeutic and growing blisters on my hands is humbling. When the match is struck and the fire lights, the whole experience is there: the cutting, the hauling, the digging, the stacking, the tending.

I'm reminded of the "craft kits" management ordered from Oriental Trading at a summer camp where I worked: These cute packages that each kid glues A to B and B to C. Voila! They can take home a fancy token that took no skill or thought...only the kids would often leave them in the craft lodge. Their ugly baskets or bead necklaces always went home. There is more value in what you create than what you manufacture.

Anyhow, I really needed the downhome, hanging out around a fire: even if it's 75 degrees out with scattered showers. It was good for my soul. It was humbling and made my hair smell like pine. And the whole experience gave my neighbors something to gossip about.

Daughters of the American Revolution

Since I believe that one must never be so set in her ways that she denies herself the chance to learn a new perspective, I set out to meet the not-so-young women of the Daughters of the American Revolution this morning. While my undying father prepares for his death, he passed down a folder of papers linking us to a soldier in the American Revolution. I found my Great Aunt Mary's DAR membership card for the Biscayne Chapter, and I learned my 2nd cousin Myra partakes in South Carolina.

They do what?

Other than tracing their ancestry to warriors, I am not so certain my role in this Club. Do I have profound respect for the military? Not so much. Am I proud that my Great Great Grandfather's Last Will & Testament bequeaths his "nigger-girl" to his son? Emphatically NO. Can I hold my hand over my heart and actually sing all the words to America the Beautiful? Not without a detectable amount of sarcasm.

Since I had to bring and attend to my wiggle-happy son, my information gathering consisted of: a. DAR plays a very active role volunteering with Veterans; and b. they have a remarkably attentive Minutes taker (whose rendition of last month's 2 hour meeting took 20 minutes to report). Is this something I should be involved in (see #10)? After all, if things keep moving towards Theocracy and the Caste system here in the United States, I might be changing my passport. But then again, just because I don't like the cover of a book, doesn't mean I won't bother checking it out.

Let's see what I learn.