Didja ever notice how some folks speak of the weather as an optional experience?
“Looks like we may get some weather this afternoon,” they say, or, “Think we’ll have any weather later in the week?”
I’ve tried to picture a day on, say, Alabama’s Monte Sano, without any weather. Would the sun peek above the eastern ridge? Surely not, for if it did we’d be enjoying sunny weather. And if the sun did rise to its appointed rounds but hid its face to keep from making weather, then we’d call that an overcast day. Otherwise known as cloudy weather.
Okay, forget the sun. We’re going to have a sun in this planetary system, so we’ll not count that as having weather, really. Not including the sun, what would a day be like without weather? Well, it wouldn’t rain or that would be rainy weather. And the wind wouldn’t blow or we’d be registering blustery weather. The fog would have to stay away to keep from making foggy weather, too. Likewise any smog and its attendant smoggy weather.
So a day without any weather would be a day in which there wouldn’t be a breath of air, a drop of rain, a hint of fog or even the tiniest tinge of smog. It couldn’t be hot, and it couldn’t be cold. It would be a day of even temperature, still air, and open skies.
Sounds like perfect weather to me!
—end—
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Wrong Way
Rising early, I open the blinds to watch the morning mist's pre-dawn embrace of trees and lawn and Montevallo's aged columns. "Wrong Way," shouts a traffic sign outside my window. It is a familiar refrain.
Would I have chosen differently, long years ago, had I seen the "Wrong Way" signs along the path? Would I be a richer woman now, had I turned and rushed headlong into the mainstream?
I tried it once, full throttle down the highway, screaming around the corners, blazing past slower travelers. The rush was terrific. But the wind whipped my face 'til my eyes teared, so I never saw clearly. And the roar of the motor filled my bones with such sound that my ears couldn't hear my own voice crying out.
When I lurched off the highway—there are no "exit only" lanes on the fast-track—other travelers pronounced me mad.
"Wrong way!" they yelled. "You'll never make it!"
There was no path that I could see, just grass and trees and rocks. I shuddered at the vastness of the silence. Uncertain of the destination, I learned to delight in the journey.
Decades down my wrong-way path, I savor the writer's life. The hours are long, and the work is lonely. (The office Christmas party was a dud.) No matter. Here, heart and head live in sweet congruence.
Today I'll meet with other travelers on the path. Hello. Godspeed. Wrong way, and welcome to it.
Would I have chosen differently, long years ago, had I seen the "Wrong Way" signs along the path? Would I be a richer woman now, had I turned and rushed headlong into the mainstream?
I tried it once, full throttle down the highway, screaming around the corners, blazing past slower travelers. The rush was terrific. But the wind whipped my face 'til my eyes teared, so I never saw clearly. And the roar of the motor filled my bones with such sound that my ears couldn't hear my own voice crying out.
When I lurched off the highway—there are no "exit only" lanes on the fast-track—other travelers pronounced me mad.
"Wrong way!" they yelled. "You'll never make it!"
There was no path that I could see, just grass and trees and rocks. I shuddered at the vastness of the silence. Uncertain of the destination, I learned to delight in the journey.
Decades down my wrong-way path, I savor the writer's life. The hours are long, and the work is lonely. (The office Christmas party was a dud.) No matter. Here, heart and head live in sweet congruence.
Today I'll meet with other travelers on the path. Hello. Godspeed. Wrong way, and welcome to it.
-end-
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Spring Fever
In celebration of Spring Fever
fribble: to act in a foolish or frivolous manner; to waste foolishly, as in 'to fribble away time.'
FRIBBLE
To waste my time is sad, I know.
Profligate en extremis.
But seminars to which I go
For help can make me squeamish.
The management of time is not
A topic I take lightly.
This precious resource “time” has got
The power to keep me sprightly.
A two-way street ‘twixt time and me
Is what the years out-dribble
If I am wise enough to be
Profligate in fribble.
fribble: to act in a foolish or frivolous manner; to waste foolishly, as in 'to fribble away time.'
FRIBBLE
To waste my time is sad, I know.
Profligate en extremis.
But seminars to which I go
For help can make me squeamish.
The management of time is not
A topic I take lightly.
This precious resource “time” has got
The power to keep me sprightly.
A two-way street ‘twixt time and me
Is what the years out-dribble
If I am wise enough to be
Profligate in fribble.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
One-A-Day Courage III
One-A-Day Courage
Final episode (part three of three parts)
The year went on. Every day was a challenge, a triumph. I parallel-parked the car. I learned to read maps. I jumped on a trampoline. I started the charcoal by myself.
I helped drive to Colorado on our vacation. It was May, and the Rockies were awash in greens: dark green pines, mint green aspen, lush green meadows. Surely the phrase “crisp and clear” was coined on a spring day in the high country.
“Here!” my husband called. “We can get in on this side!” The excitement in his voice brought Lynn and me running hand-in-hand. We were exploring a ghost town, one of many old mining settlements scattered throughout the Rockies. This one boasted a fine, two-story brick house, still standing tall and proud against decades of harsh mountain weather. The ground around its stone foundation hadn’t fared so well. A log was thrown across the four-foot gap between house and terra firma.
My husband was delighted with the precarious walkway. He scooped Lynn into his arms and walked the log with intimidating confidence.
I stood, paralyzed, alone on a far shore as husband and child disappeared. There, on the log, planted squarely between my safety and my loved ones, stood fear.
“This will be it for the day,” I told myself. “If I walk this log, I don’t have to do anything else that bothers me for the rest of the day. All I have to do is walk to that door.”
I summoned up five months of little victories. Looking directly at the doorway, as though fear were some autonomous being and my focused sight the laser that would disintegrate it, I walked across the log. When I reached the door, fear did, in fact, disintegrate.
I’ve lived some eventful decades since then. I’ve been active in small, medium and large businesses, learned to travel with and without companions, worked in political campaigns; I’ve camped, driven and shopped across the continent. I’ve had times when I was afraid of my surroundings, and times when I was afraid for my livelihood, and even times when I was afraid for my life.
But never once, in all these years since walking my Rocky Mountain log, have I been afraid to live. “This will be it for the day,” I tell myself. “All I have to do is walk to the door.” And so, looking directly at the doorway, I walk across the day’s log.
It’s a funny thing, but every time I reach that door, fear does, in fact, disintegrate.
-end-
Final episode (part three of three parts)
The year went on. Every day was a challenge, a triumph. I parallel-parked the car. I learned to read maps. I jumped on a trampoline. I started the charcoal by myself.
I helped drive to Colorado on our vacation. It was May, and the Rockies were awash in greens: dark green pines, mint green aspen, lush green meadows. Surely the phrase “crisp and clear” was coined on a spring day in the high country.
“Here!” my husband called. “We can get in on this side!” The excitement in his voice brought Lynn and me running hand-in-hand. We were exploring a ghost town, one of many old mining settlements scattered throughout the Rockies. This one boasted a fine, two-story brick house, still standing tall and proud against decades of harsh mountain weather. The ground around its stone foundation hadn’t fared so well. A log was thrown across the four-foot gap between house and terra firma.
My husband was delighted with the precarious walkway. He scooped Lynn into his arms and walked the log with intimidating confidence.
I stood, paralyzed, alone on a far shore as husband and child disappeared. There, on the log, planted squarely between my safety and my loved ones, stood fear.
“This will be it for the day,” I told myself. “If I walk this log, I don’t have to do anything else that bothers me for the rest of the day. All I have to do is walk to that door.”
I summoned up five months of little victories. Looking directly at the doorway, as though fear were some autonomous being and my focused sight the laser that would disintegrate it, I walked across the log. When I reached the door, fear did, in fact, disintegrate.
I’ve lived some eventful decades since then. I’ve been active in small, medium and large businesses, learned to travel with and without companions, worked in political campaigns; I’ve camped, driven and shopped across the continent. I’ve had times when I was afraid of my surroundings, and times when I was afraid for my livelihood, and even times when I was afraid for my life.
But never once, in all these years since walking my Rocky Mountain log, have I been afraid to live. “This will be it for the day,” I tell myself. “All I have to do is walk to the door.” And so, looking directly at the doorway, I walk across the day’s log.
It’s a funny thing, but every time I reach that door, fear does, in fact, disintegrate.
-end-
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
One-A-Day Courage II
One-A-Day Courage
Part two of three parts
It was the day after Christmas. I sat in the living room, watching my daughter Lynne playing with the doll Santa had brought her. She had set up an elaborate stage for her new mothering: the living room floor was a creative replica of our neighborhood.
“Let’s go to the store, Mary Anne,” Lynn said sweetly. “No, we’d better not go to that one. I’m afraid the lines will be too long and we won’t be home in time for lunch. Now, don’t cry, maybe this other store will have your ice cream this time.” She walked her doll around the tiny neighborhood. “Would you like to swing?” She smiled so tenderly as she picked up her new baby doll. “Oh, let’s not get on that one, dear. I’m afraid it goes a bit high. Let’s sit on this one over here.”
And so it went, time after time. Every activity was scaled down by fear.
“Is this how I want my child to live?” I thought. “Is this all I am giving her, a tiny life in a tiny neighborhood, bound by fear?”
For six days I looked at the boundaries of my life. Every day, the limits I had set around myself became more oppressive.
I watched the sunrise on New Year’s Day. The sky was perfectly clear, a rosy glow of peach giving way to intense blue. My husband and daughter lay sleeping in the early morning stillness, but I was wide awake, studying the colors of the sky, searching for rays of courage to melt the cold fear that held me prisoner.
I made one New Year’s resolution. Only one, but it would change my life forever. I resolved that every day of this one year, I would face and conquer one fear.
So it was that at 6:53 a.m., on January 1, I slipped into an overcoat, got into my car, and drove across town to buy fresh cinnamon rolls for breakfast. On January 2, I walked to the playground and sat in the high swing, pumping myself higher and higher, half gasping, half choking as the earth swept up before me with every downstroke.
Part two of three parts
It was the day after Christmas. I sat in the living room, watching my daughter Lynne playing with the doll Santa had brought her. She had set up an elaborate stage for her new mothering: the living room floor was a creative replica of our neighborhood.
“Let’s go to the store, Mary Anne,” Lynn said sweetly. “No, we’d better not go to that one. I’m afraid the lines will be too long and we won’t be home in time for lunch. Now, don’t cry, maybe this other store will have your ice cream this time.” She walked her doll around the tiny neighborhood. “Would you like to swing?” She smiled so tenderly as she picked up her new baby doll. “Oh, let’s not get on that one, dear. I’m afraid it goes a bit high. Let’s sit on this one over here.”
And so it went, time after time. Every activity was scaled down by fear.
“Is this how I want my child to live?” I thought. “Is this all I am giving her, a tiny life in a tiny neighborhood, bound by fear?”
For six days I looked at the boundaries of my life. Every day, the limits I had set around myself became more oppressive.
I watched the sunrise on New Year’s Day. The sky was perfectly clear, a rosy glow of peach giving way to intense blue. My husband and daughter lay sleeping in the early morning stillness, but I was wide awake, studying the colors of the sky, searching for rays of courage to melt the cold fear that held me prisoner.
I made one New Year’s resolution. Only one, but it would change my life forever. I resolved that every day of this one year, I would face and conquer one fear.
So it was that at 6:53 a.m., on January 1, I slipped into an overcoat, got into my car, and drove across town to buy fresh cinnamon rolls for breakfast. On January 2, I walked to the playground and sat in the high swing, pumping myself higher and higher, half gasping, half choking as the earth swept up before me with every downstroke.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
One-A-Day Courage
One-A-Day Courage
Part one of three parts
Where did the little fears come from? I was besieged by them: tiny fears, silly little nagging bits of unease that kept me from doing the smallest, most insignificant act. I was afraid to go to a new, interesting little shop because it was in a part of town I didn’t know well. At lunch with a friend, I sat in my chair and watched with a mix of envy and longing as she bleated a silly — and fun – note on the kazoo she’d just accepted from the pizza parlor’s wandering clown. It was the same kazoo I declined to try because I was afraid to appear foolish.
On the playground with my three-year-old daughter, I was paralyzed with fear: afraid to let her go up the big slide, afraid to stop her and instill in her my own deadly cowardice. I fishtailed on a gravel road once, so I was afraid to drive on trips any more. I got lost in a neighboring town, so I was afraid to venture away from familiar territory alone.
Living was risky, so I was afraid to live.
And no one knew about it but me. Not my husband, not my sister, not my parents, not my best friend. Because I am naturally outgoing and talkative, no one even suspected that my life was held in a vise-grip of fear. I functioned well enough. I could give a dinner party, go on vacation with my family, do the Christmas shopping. It all appeared just fine.
Because I was afraid to try anything new, I was predictable. Because I was afraid to do anything alone, I was companionable. Old, steady, reliable Megan was always good company. Why would anyone suspect that I was afraid to live?
Part one of three parts
Where did the little fears come from? I was besieged by them: tiny fears, silly little nagging bits of unease that kept me from doing the smallest, most insignificant act. I was afraid to go to a new, interesting little shop because it was in a part of town I didn’t know well. At lunch with a friend, I sat in my chair and watched with a mix of envy and longing as she bleated a silly — and fun – note on the kazoo she’d just accepted from the pizza parlor’s wandering clown. It was the same kazoo I declined to try because I was afraid to appear foolish.
On the playground with my three-year-old daughter, I was paralyzed with fear: afraid to let her go up the big slide, afraid to stop her and instill in her my own deadly cowardice. I fishtailed on a gravel road once, so I was afraid to drive on trips any more. I got lost in a neighboring town, so I was afraid to venture away from familiar territory alone.
Living was risky, so I was afraid to live.
And no one knew about it but me. Not my husband, not my sister, not my parents, not my best friend. Because I am naturally outgoing and talkative, no one even suspected that my life was held in a vise-grip of fear. I functioned well enough. I could give a dinner party, go on vacation with my family, do the Christmas shopping. It all appeared just fine.
Because I was afraid to try anything new, I was predictable. Because I was afraid to do anything alone, I was companionable. Old, steady, reliable Megan was always good company. Why would anyone suspect that I was afraid to live?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)