We just finished watching season one of Friday Night Lights, a really great series about the culture of high school football in small-town Texas.
Right here, right now I need to think like I’m playing high school football in Texas, where they make moments of greatness out of playing your heart out on a football field, and where it matters if you give your all.
I’ve never had an experience like that, but now, I need to make it happen here, on my own. Right here, right now, I decide what I’m bringing to this game, and whether or not I can set aside all my bunk and move and fight and play and WIN.
Clear Eyes. Full Hearts. Can’t Lose.
I don’t think it’s all about winning, but I'm seeing it is about the same thing that you have to do when you go after a win--the all-out, suck-it-up, shove-everything-aside-for-the-moment focus and drive. In my day-after-day life I don’t know how to win, I don’t naturally see life that way. But I need to start figuring out how to see it that way, so I can win here, so that my life is not about running just for the exercise, practicing for more practice. When does the exercise ever pay off? Sure, in the day-to-day quality of life, but can’t it be for something else too? For something more? I mean I do that discipline thing physically, running yet knowing I’m not going to win any races, so in this, my writing life, can I shoot for, expect it to pay off bigger?
It has to at some point. Practice, discipline, writing exercise, whatever you want to call it, the lifestyle of exercise and hitting it hard every day here has to pay off, in some way more than just in the quality of the everyday. My life cannot be just about the process and the exercise forever--the treadmill effect. Writing everyday looks and feels great, but am I getting anywhere?
At some point, it all needs to come together for a game, a moment, a time where I have to rise to the occasion and freaking DO MY THING. Get it out there, live, love, dance, run, play, write. Be engaged in every way and just do it.
Clear Eyes. Full Hearts. Can't Lose.
When is, what is, how is that going to be me? I’ve felt it many times, that it was time to show up and play, but I was nowhere near a game. Now I’ve been here, on the practice field and it’s time to show up for a damn game and just damn play--to love the game and just play it. I know there’s a great feeling there, even though I’ve not had it—-that’s what makes me cry when I see it. I know it’s true, and I know it’s great and freeing, and I want to be out there on the field, run my heart out, play the game, do my thing. I’ve never gotten to do my thing, and do it well--haven’t had a thing. Haven’t ever had it all click and work and come together. I have done plenty of things that weren’t completely me and done them well enough, but I haven’t done my thing, been me and just played my heart out and won. Done it all and left it all on the field? Naw.
To do that I’d have to get out of my own head and my own dysfunction and just run, PLAY--not just be. I actually know how to do that, just be. A lot of people don’t. I know how to be fine just being, I don’t have to be doing something, don’t have to be in the arena, I enjoy very much observing the game—I’m very comfortable in my own skin doing that. But now...
Clear Eyes. Full Hearts. Can’t Lose.
Can’t lose because clear eyes and a full heart are all you need. All you need to play, do your thing. That is winning.
I’m in a difficult place. I don’t know how to take any more steps from here. I’m not playing with abandon—-running, scoring, loving the moment and working my ass off—-I don’t know how to do that. I’m still practicing, running laps, preparing for something I don’t know will ever come and something I don’t know how to get to...I don’t even know how to get there.
So, right now I’m tempted to back off this drill, but I bet this is the place where the real work might actually get done. I’ve got to dig in, push that sled across the field with all I’ve got. Push, pull--practice with more than I’ve got--with so much that I’ll be crushed and disappointed if I don’t win, don’t play well,or if I never get to play. Crushed and disappointed--not looking forward to that.
Here I am trying, practicing, working, getting in shape for a game I don’t know, and I don’t know what is going to be required of me. I don’t like that, I like to know what is required of me, and what it’s going to cost before I even think about playing. But I’m here now, already, and, well, I’ve got to keep going, I have a lot of practice time in already. I need to love it though. I need to love this game to play it freely and live it and have it be mine and me and to ever hope to get in the zone, to ever hope to have a great game.
Clear Eyes. Full Hearts. Can’t Lose.
I’ve had that underlying feeling of dysfunction every time I’ve tried to do anything I didn’t have wired, didn’t know I could do, was perhaps above me. Nothing was supposed to ever be above me, it was all going to be cake. So, when I have to put up and not instantly get it right—I start to feel dysfunctional. I get that hollow feeling, the undermining insecurity, doubt, regret...all that. I know it well. That’s why I’ve taught school, aerobics, why I work in a coffee/wine shop. Teach me to do something and it’s already beneath me. Show me a formula—no problem. It’s this other stuff—LIFE—where there is no instructor and no manual, that’s where I get dysfunctional, unconfident and paralyzed. Not that much in life does it to me anymore, I probably choose from things that won’t make me feel that way, won’t require things of me I don’t already know how to give.
That’s why this. That’s why writing, that’s why the incredible difficulty here, and the impossible way forward. It’s the decision to let something matter so much that if I survive it, let alone succeed in it, what an incredible thing I will learn...to make something a priority, to work on it and practice, then shove everything aside to pull it all out and play and fight and work through it all and leave it all on the field.
I don’t know how to do that...but I’m going to figure it out.
Clear Eyes. Full Hearts. Can’t Lose.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
And That's Not The Half Of It....
SO...
I locked myself out of my house. Fortunately I wasn't still in my pjs. I had just decided to put a couple logs on the fire before taking my dog for a walk. I stepped out onto the deck for some wood, and the door shut. That was sometime around 3:30. Now it's 6:30, and the locksmith just let me in and is fixing the door.
It's been a heinous three hours. I spent the first one trying to break in, and trying to get my dog to put her paws on the handle--she was inside. Just that weight would have opened it, I thought. She's smart, but couldn't master that without opposible thumbs.
Then I banged on a couple neighbors' doors that I sort of know and feel comfortable with, and they weren't home. Then I went to a neighbor I wasn't comfortable with, but was home, used the phone, but did not want to stay there, plus I had a Pilates session I was due for, but no cell to call to cancel. The locksmith wasn't due for an hour, so I ran to the gym--in freezing, windy weather--used the internet and phone to let one of my students know the deal. She picked me up, brought me home and waited with me in her car until the locksmith showed up. I was to have dinner with her and the other student, sort of friends now, after Pilates anyway. They said just forget about the session, and come over as soon as I can.
When I called the locksmith company at 4:30, they said it would be an hour, maybe a little longer. When I called again at 5:45 they said if he gets there after 6 they'll have to charge me more. The guy got here at 6:02. I tried to fight that battle but he threatened to drive away.
"How do I know you just didn't take your time driving over here?" I asked.
"You don't," he said.
He is so right, and he has all the power. It's bitter cold out.
Well the guy had to drill out the door handle, so it's taking awhile to fix. I have to walk the dog before I can go to dinner, and I've been out in the weather for most of three hours and am freezing, and starving, so I don't feel much like doing that. Neither my dog, me, or my Pilates people got a workout in.
Did I mention my heat is out?
I locked myself out of my house. Fortunately I wasn't still in my pjs. I had just decided to put a couple logs on the fire before taking my dog for a walk. I stepped out onto the deck for some wood, and the door shut. That was sometime around 3:30. Now it's 6:30, and the locksmith just let me in and is fixing the door.
It's been a heinous three hours. I spent the first one trying to break in, and trying to get my dog to put her paws on the handle--she was inside. Just that weight would have opened it, I thought. She's smart, but couldn't master that without opposible thumbs.
Then I banged on a couple neighbors' doors that I sort of know and feel comfortable with, and they weren't home. Then I went to a neighbor I wasn't comfortable with, but was home, used the phone, but did not want to stay there, plus I had a Pilates session I was due for, but no cell to call to cancel. The locksmith wasn't due for an hour, so I ran to the gym--in freezing, windy weather--used the internet and phone to let one of my students know the deal. She picked me up, brought me home and waited with me in her car until the locksmith showed up. I was to have dinner with her and the other student, sort of friends now, after Pilates anyway. They said just forget about the session, and come over as soon as I can.
When I called the locksmith company at 4:30, they said it would be an hour, maybe a little longer. When I called again at 5:45 they said if he gets there after 6 they'll have to charge me more. The guy got here at 6:02. I tried to fight that battle but he threatened to drive away.
"How do I know you just didn't take your time driving over here?" I asked.
"You don't," he said.
He is so right, and he has all the power. It's bitter cold out.
Well the guy had to drill out the door handle, so it's taking awhile to fix. I have to walk the dog before I can go to dinner, and I've been out in the weather for most of three hours and am freezing, and starving, so I don't feel much like doing that. Neither my dog, me, or my Pilates people got a workout in.
Did I mention my heat is out?
Air Force Law
Wives of Air Force pilots pretty much count on everything going to hell as soon as the guys leave...something always happens.
Sure enough, Kevin left yesterday, and I came home late last night after work to find I could not get the heat going. My warm little beast and I crowded together in the bed with lots of blankets, and slept well, but the house was freezing this morning. I like being reminded of my childhood and everything, but it would be nice to have a little help with the heat--we are in the middle of a cold snap. I checked out the heater but I don't know what the hell I'm looking at. Good thing I have all that pioneer-like fire-building experience...I've kept the fire going all day.
Snow just started falling. I hope it keeps up. I think I have enough wood to last until Thanksgiving.
Sure enough, Kevin left yesterday, and I came home late last night after work to find I could not get the heat going. My warm little beast and I crowded together in the bed with lots of blankets, and slept well, but the house was freezing this morning. I like being reminded of my childhood and everything, but it would be nice to have a little help with the heat--we are in the middle of a cold snap. I checked out the heater but I don't know what the hell I'm looking at. Good thing I have all that pioneer-like fire-building experience...I've kept the fire going all day.
Snow just started falling. I hope it keeps up. I think I have enough wood to last until Thanksgiving.
Home Fires
Nothing reminds me of my childhood or makes me feel like home, more than a fire in the fireplace.
When I was a kid, it was the only heat we had in our little house. Yes, we were in California, but we got freezing temperatures often in the winter. I remember my brother and I would hear the fire being built early on a school morning--we didn’t have to get out from under our electric blankets until we heard the crackling--then we'd scamper out in our jams to warm up and eat breakfast in front of the fire before venturing back into the cold bedrooms and bathroom to get ready for school. We had to stack firewood and chop kindling every day when we got home, like some kind of pioneer children, we thought.
When I was in high school my parents put in the central heat (and air thank God), and, although we still had a fire most mornings, we’d sometimes hear the click of the furnace and knew we had to get up--not nearly as cozy as the crackling. My parents still have a fire most days in the winter, it’s more of a lifestyle thing now, I suppose, they enjoy camping out there in front of it and the big screen. I love going home and feeling that radiant heat soak into my skin until I have to go outside to cool off. It’s common to venture out onto the porch in barefeet and pj’s when I’m home to grab a couple of sticks, just like when I was a kid. You know those feet will warm up quick once your laying back in front of that fireplace next to a lazy dog.
Well here, for the first time in a few houses, we have a real fireplace, two of them actually, in our tiny three-story rowhouse. Yesterday I decided not to turn on the heat, but to move my writing space downstairs next to the fire. I ventured out to the deck in pjs barefooted, grabbed a couple of sticks and got one started quickly. After I get the coffee going I was so jazzed with myself and my space—I felt like me, smelled like me (smoke), and decided it was going to be a great winter here. I’m thankful for these chilly days, and for the gray skies. With the cold I get to feel the heat from the fire, and the flames shine brighter next to the window when there’s no sunlight.
Anyway, the toothless man who knocked on the door and sold me the wood a couple weeks ago is going to have to come back soon--I’m burning through that first stack quickly. My salary goes to all my indulgences--better wine, better cheese, better bread, better coffee, dark chocolate (for my dog), and wood. Lot’s of dry, easily burnable, instant warmth and comfort.
I'm happy when I’m not having to do anything but dress in jeans and a sweater, boots and a scarf, walk among the fallen leaves out in the cold, then come home to build a fire for the evening. It’s where I’m from, and maybe where I belong. The desert? The tropics? The city? Even a foreign country? Sure I can do them, love and enjoy them, but to feel like me I need some kind of outdoors not unlike central California, and a season with some chill so I can follow up an autumn walk sitting before a crackling fire with a sleepy dog.
So, I'm feeling at home here.
When I was a kid, it was the only heat we had in our little house. Yes, we were in California, but we got freezing temperatures often in the winter. I remember my brother and I would hear the fire being built early on a school morning--we didn’t have to get out from under our electric blankets until we heard the crackling--then we'd scamper out in our jams to warm up and eat breakfast in front of the fire before venturing back into the cold bedrooms and bathroom to get ready for school. We had to stack firewood and chop kindling every day when we got home, like some kind of pioneer children, we thought.
When I was in high school my parents put in the central heat (and air thank God), and, although we still had a fire most mornings, we’d sometimes hear the click of the furnace and knew we had to get up--not nearly as cozy as the crackling. My parents still have a fire most days in the winter, it’s more of a lifestyle thing now, I suppose, they enjoy camping out there in front of it and the big screen. I love going home and feeling that radiant heat soak into my skin until I have to go outside to cool off. It’s common to venture out onto the porch in barefeet and pj’s when I’m home to grab a couple of sticks, just like when I was a kid. You know those feet will warm up quick once your laying back in front of that fireplace next to a lazy dog.
Well here, for the first time in a few houses, we have a real fireplace, two of them actually, in our tiny three-story rowhouse. Yesterday I decided not to turn on the heat, but to move my writing space downstairs next to the fire. I ventured out to the deck in pjs barefooted, grabbed a couple of sticks and got one started quickly. After I get the coffee going I was so jazzed with myself and my space—I felt like me, smelled like me (smoke), and decided it was going to be a great winter here. I’m thankful for these chilly days, and for the gray skies. With the cold I get to feel the heat from the fire, and the flames shine brighter next to the window when there’s no sunlight.
Anyway, the toothless man who knocked on the door and sold me the wood a couple weeks ago is going to have to come back soon--I’m burning through that first stack quickly. My salary goes to all my indulgences--better wine, better cheese, better bread, better coffee, dark chocolate (for my dog), and wood. Lot’s of dry, easily burnable, instant warmth and comfort.
I'm happy when I’m not having to do anything but dress in jeans and a sweater, boots and a scarf, walk among the fallen leaves out in the cold, then come home to build a fire for the evening. It’s where I’m from, and maybe where I belong. The desert? The tropics? The city? Even a foreign country? Sure I can do them, love and enjoy them, but to feel like me I need some kind of outdoors not unlike central California, and a season with some chill so I can follow up an autumn walk sitting before a crackling fire with a sleepy dog.
So, I'm feeling at home here.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Addiction
Well, it turned out okay—my bad night’s sleep didn’t totally wreck my writing time, and my little beast’s scarfing of an entire chocolate bar hasn’t killed her. It made her antsy all night and demanding of an outing this morning--she just went crazy in the backyard, racing around like she never does in her own yard, running fast figure-eights and kicking up leaves. Usually she’s still in bed at this time. But today she’s feeling the effects of a hangover—a chocolate hangover.
Last night she got a hold of an expensive bar we just opened from my work, and ate the whole thing--The whole, 74%, $5.25, large, dark chocolate bar. Her nineteen-pound self ate it all.
We finished dinner and I cleared the table except for the bar. We both left the room, then Kevin found her a few minutes later smacking the wrapping. Not a bit left, but evidence all around her.
So we had to endure her ramping up last night before bed, pacing a bit in the night as she tried to rest, and her absolute craziness this morning. She went in the backyard a couple of times and ran circles, but only to demand back in with an aggressive yelp and an almost verbal insistence that we go out for a run. I’ve endured the stare and she’s finally settled some, but the second I get up or move a chair she’s all amped up again. I am going to have to get her out big before I go to work—else she’ll be inside bouncing off the walls until we get home. I’ll try to work the caffeine out of her little system with a quick 30-minute run off-leash—that’s about all I can do for her.
It’s not the first time she’s poisoned herself on chocolate, she’s done it a few times. We had her only a week or two—still hadn’t decided if she was going to make the cut, if we were going to bring her home to the US with us from Okinawa—when we left her in the car with a few purchases we had made while we went into a restaurant. I forgot about the dark chocolate bunny I had hidden from my husband, his Easter treat. It wasn’t a large one but it was solid.
She couldn’t even eat it all. We came out of the restaurant and she was all sleepy, laid out with chocolate smeared all around her, bits of wrapper and the bunny ears nearby. She was drunk, completely wasted, on chocolate. We couldn’t blame her then, she was a street dog, accustomed to having to find whatever she could to survive, not yet trusting the always-full bowl of food at home, still on the scrounge.
But now? She should know better now. Today she’s all hungover with no excuse of need or necessity but because, like me, she just needed some good chocolate, dammit. Can I really blame her? I’m also perfectly provided for yet I sometimes orge-out on things that are really comforting me--food, wine, chocolate, a really hot shower…
A year ago it was the Halloween candy she got into when we weren’t watching, all the tiny Snickers and Milky Ways we bought for the neighborhood kids--only the wrappers were remaining. Yes, we know her hangover routine well—it means a bad night’s sleep for all of us as she paces and we keep waking up to ensure she hasn’t gone into a chocolate-induced coma.
It’s just chocolate really, that she gets into trouble with—she doesn’t do the trash much or beg at home—she snags an occasional chicken bone she finds on our walks, but again, who can blame her? It was her living, now a dysfunction from her past. It’s unseemly, embarrassing and ridiculous with what she now has provided for her, but still, are any of us any different? I reminded my husband of this (he was still verbally berating her hours after the incident), she was curled up next to him, he was petting her and sipping a gin and tonic.
It’s not good for her, but she cannot help herself. So, we recommit to keep the chocolate up—not just up now, but away, tightly away. No enabling.
We must remember we have an addict in our midst.
Last night she got a hold of an expensive bar we just opened from my work, and ate the whole thing--The whole, 74%, $5.25, large, dark chocolate bar. Her nineteen-pound self ate it all.
We finished dinner and I cleared the table except for the bar. We both left the room, then Kevin found her a few minutes later smacking the wrapping. Not a bit left, but evidence all around her.
So we had to endure her ramping up last night before bed, pacing a bit in the night as she tried to rest, and her absolute craziness this morning. She went in the backyard a couple of times and ran circles, but only to demand back in with an aggressive yelp and an almost verbal insistence that we go out for a run. I’ve endured the stare and she’s finally settled some, but the second I get up or move a chair she’s all amped up again. I am going to have to get her out big before I go to work—else she’ll be inside bouncing off the walls until we get home. I’ll try to work the caffeine out of her little system with a quick 30-minute run off-leash—that’s about all I can do for her.
It’s not the first time she’s poisoned herself on chocolate, she’s done it a few times. We had her only a week or two—still hadn’t decided if she was going to make the cut, if we were going to bring her home to the US with us from Okinawa—when we left her in the car with a few purchases we had made while we went into a restaurant. I forgot about the dark chocolate bunny I had hidden from my husband, his Easter treat. It wasn’t a large one but it was solid.
She couldn’t even eat it all. We came out of the restaurant and she was all sleepy, laid out with chocolate smeared all around her, bits of wrapper and the bunny ears nearby. She was drunk, completely wasted, on chocolate. We couldn’t blame her then, she was a street dog, accustomed to having to find whatever she could to survive, not yet trusting the always-full bowl of food at home, still on the scrounge.
But now? She should know better now. Today she’s all hungover with no excuse of need or necessity but because, like me, she just needed some good chocolate, dammit. Can I really blame her? I’m also perfectly provided for yet I sometimes orge-out on things that are really comforting me--food, wine, chocolate, a really hot shower…
A year ago it was the Halloween candy she got into when we weren’t watching, all the tiny Snickers and Milky Ways we bought for the neighborhood kids--only the wrappers were remaining. Yes, we know her hangover routine well—it means a bad night’s sleep for all of us as she paces and we keep waking up to ensure she hasn’t gone into a chocolate-induced coma.
It’s just chocolate really, that she gets into trouble with—she doesn’t do the trash much or beg at home—she snags an occasional chicken bone she finds on our walks, but again, who can blame her? It was her living, now a dysfunction from her past. It’s unseemly, embarrassing and ridiculous with what she now has provided for her, but still, are any of us any different? I reminded my husband of this (he was still verbally berating her hours after the incident), she was curled up next to him, he was petting her and sipping a gin and tonic.
It’s not good for her, but she cannot help herself. So, we recommit to keep the chocolate up—not just up now, but away, tightly away. No enabling.
We must remember we have an addict in our midst.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Flurries
Yep, a few snowflakes blew past me when I was walking my dog today in the cold wind out by the Potomac. Not enough to stick, but still, very cool to see after spending the last few autumns and winters in the desert and on a tropical island. Finally we have weather that suits the season--kind of helps put me in the mood for the holidays. Also, the red berries are out on the two-story-tall holly tree outside our house. It's just begging for holiday lights after Thanksgiving, unfortunately I can't figure out how I'm going to get them up there....
I'm going to try out both of the little fireplaces in our house tonight and make a big pot of soup to warm me up. I'm not used to these temperatures, can't seem to bundle up enough....Walking my dog at night is now an act of courage and an isometric workout. I'm guessing I'll get used to it by about March.
I'm going to try out both of the little fireplaces in our house tonight and make a big pot of soup to warm me up. I'm not used to these temperatures, can't seem to bundle up enough....Walking my dog at night is now an act of courage and an isometric workout. I'm guessing I'll get used to it by about March.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Elasticity
I can keep the weight off, I can color my hair (although, haven't had to yet), I can keep up-to-date with trends and accept all kinds of new ideas. I can keep learning and get smarter, better, wiser, stronger and more flexible, but....I can't seem to keep my lifelong partner, Elasticity, from running out on me. He sneaks out and then lies about it--like I'm not going to catch on.
Where is he going? No one said he could leave....none of us get to just leave....we have to stick it out to the end....I suspect he's running off with someone younger who is easier to live with--fat in the cheeks, plenty of sub-cu and all of that.
You know what E? Go ahead, I can hack it, I'll be fine, I have other friends. But, odds are she's going to get tubby you know--you won't be happy when you have to carry all THAT around someday....
Where is he going? No one said he could leave....none of us get to just leave....we have to stick it out to the end....I suspect he's running off with someone younger who is easier to live with--fat in the cheeks, plenty of sub-cu and all of that.
You know what E? Go ahead, I can hack it, I'll be fine, I have other friends. But, odds are she's going to get tubby you know--you won't be happy when you have to carry all THAT around someday....
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