meet yourself

There are times in life —

When aspects of your own identity are revealed to you in ways that —

Make you meet yourself and think, “yes” — by God —

This is me.

This part actually fits, feels right, makes sense — and there’s no need to keep trying on different sizes, styles or colors — well, uh, maybe just for kicks —

Occasionally.  

For amusement or a needed change of pace —

In a visit-to-a-foreign-land kind of way. 

But once you know yourself — know where you belong —

There’s really no other way —

To be.

I met myself today around Isles.   Not running, but walking. 

I am —

Therefore I walk.  

I walk. 

I walk. 

And I listen and look.   Sniff and stretch.  Contemplate —

How all the pieces fit together.

The small dog ahead of me just cocked his right ear. 

The man’s hemline is at the water line — his son is in up to his waist. 

Oh —  so that’s the house they bought.  Yes, I can see that.

Little floaty white things falling in the sunlight.  Emerging from behind the berm, a family of four.   They pause —

And I mentally frame them up —

Take the shot.

Lovely.

Nice to meet —

me.

i’m fine

Indeed — what a difference a day makes!

The 24-hour waiting period, thankfully, is behind me by 48 hours. 

Sigh.  Good sigh.  Sigh of contentment and gratitude.

How we wait — how I wait — is a topic that has my attention today as I reflect on the journey my mind took in the 24-hours between when my doctor found a suspicious mass in my right breast —

And the abrupt insertion of a next-day trip to the breast center for an extra special squishing session with an ultra sound bonus.

It occurs to me now — I took the news kinda like an emergency briefing on a breaking market opportunity. 

Doctor’s hands hesitate and come back, lingering longer, probing deeper — second guessing the terrain—

And before she compares the tissue on the other side,  I’m already into the first round of scenario planning —

Something’s different.  This could mean disruption.  What’s on my calendar for the rest of the day?  Tomorrow?  What are the odds?  How old was my mother when she had it? 

When she speaks, I’ve already accepted the possibility on some level. 

I just want to know.

Accepting the next appointment from the nurse, I leave the examination room in a haze.  What to do while I wait?

Who will I tell?

No one.

And so I decide to run. 

I run, thinking about how strong I feel.   How many people I know felt strongest right before they found out.  I think about turning 50 wearing a wig — because my hair is gone — and then I laugh to myself because I realize this is not a problem —

I love wearing wigs!

I run, keeping a steady pace, and watching up ahead for my favorite tree —

The one lovers often rest in eachother’s arms against.

I run, happy to feel the sweat running down my back, and wondering if this is going to happen — well —

What will change?

I run, quiet with a sense of calm, and bringing myself around the lake, through the neighborhood, and home —

To myself.

Then I wait —

Oddly, without fear or any attempts to bargain with my fate. 

I wait — knowing things will be different in 24 hours —

No matter what.

I will be more committed —

To living and loving —

Either way.

sing spring

Is there any greater demonstration in nature reminding us of the process of renewal than spring?  The movement of the earth and all its creatures literally engages every human sense as the old recedes, is washed away and the new bursts forth.  Listen —

Get up.  Get out.  Get on with it —

Get over it.  And into it.

Spring is here —

Or so I hear —

I hear the rushing of water from every direction. 

Whooshing for the nearest sewer grate.  

Bellowing wider and wider channels through the remaining patches of ice.  

Gurgling under the now transparent surface of the lake. 

Running hard —

And laughing harder.

I hear rustling, bustling —

And unbundling.

Splashing.  Chirping. 

Flitting.  Flirting.

Arms linking. 

Feet tapping. 

Hearts beating.

I hear.

Spring is here.

© Julie Stevens 2009

blowin in the wind

Like the corners of a beach blanket on a windy day, seems like certain aspects of life are forever flappin free.

But, hey — is that a bad thing?

A stubborn streak of wind can pick up a lot of answers.

And if we’re not too busy trying to keep things the way we think they should be —

If we are able to stop and listen —

Well, we might just hear something to help us on our way. 

Sure, there’s good that can come from putting things in order.  But I find that the more time I spend straightening, labeling, and stacking things in neat little piles — the more panicked I feel when the wind picks up again.

So why not just let the wind blow through your life?

Let it turn your perfect hair into a fright wig.

Pick up things you think you can’t live without — and scatter them beyond your reach.

Maybe some new dust will do your piles good —

And anyway, you can always pick out the cigarette butts and go on.

That’s easy enough.

all I have

The sidewalk in front of the church is peopled in black. 

My approach is tinted with sadness.

When I reach the would-be mourners, just 50 feet from the lake, I realize my mistake.

This is Saturday.  And these are wedding guests.

Such a fine line it is, I think, between sorrow and joy.  Between beginnings and endings.

What’s on the outside will tell you nothin. 

Black goes both ways.  Shows up to pay its respects.  Gathers to witness vows. 

Black covers over grief and wraps itself around promise.  Sometimes at the same time — at the same event.

My gaze shifts to the path ahead where a couple walks hand in hand, baby stroller and puppy’s leash on either side.  If I snapped a picture of them right now, the frame would include the steeple of the church where I wore white in 1995.

The wind picks up and the lake’s icy fingers touch my open neck. 

I push my chest up, throw my shoulders back and take a deep grateful breath.   

Maybe I will never learn how to read today in a way that will help me know whether the fine line of tomorrow is blacked in sorrow or joy.  But maybe that’s not the point.

Remembering the words from Emily Dickenson I selected for the cover of the wedding program  —

It’s all I have to bring to-day,

This and my heart beside.

This, and my heart, and all the fields,

And all the meadows wide.

— I ask myself, would you do it differently if you could do it over?  Will you do it differently if you have the chance to do it again?

No. 

No I won’t.

wild wellies

Ever notice how scarce walkable space actually becomes when the snow finally melts?

Every step is a tradeoff of splats as people and pooches hit the paths in droves and feet face off for premium path share. 

Principles of springtime pathonomics.

Pile or pothole?  Pothole or puddle? 

Flip you for the path —

If you please — or —

Guess not. 

Passive and polite will get you mud every time.

That’s why I wear wellies.  Wild wellies stand their ground. 

And they won’t back down. 

spring break

 

Crocus heads break through the dirt everywhere else on earth, but in Minnesota the first signs of spring are posted.  Keep off the ice.   Break throughs possible.

Sounds good to me.

I’ll start by breaking into a gallop just because it’s in the air.  Then I’ll go ahead and break up with my winter blanket. 

I’m dying to break in a new pair of sneakers — and there’s the broom to break out and windows that need cleaning — that I’ll try not to break.

While I’m at it, I’ll break into laughter that will soar like a fleet of yellow kites against the blue sky — bold enough to break a heart or two. 

I’ll break my gaze with the past.  Let things that never were break themselves against the clean pavement.

Break the wrapper on a new set of goals.  Break the lock on my bike because I lost the key — again.

Crocus heads will break too.  Sometime soon. 

And I will break myself open like a bottle of spring champagne runoff. 

Salute.

brrr — ing it

“I will not be denied,” I say to myself and start piling on the outerwear.

The temp on the car dash registers minus 10 degrees Fahrenheit when I hit the lake.  I don’t see a soul outside of a car yet, but I will.

This is Minneapolis.

Soooo it is.  Yanking off my gloves to wriggle the earbuds of my vintage mini iPod underneath my hat, the first group of runners passes me.  Calhoun Beach Running Club die hards.  I take note of the frost on their caps.  Look down at my own breath making snow.  The music freezes, the battery deadened in less than 5 minutes.

But I feel good.  Dangerously good.

A guy with a dog — not even a Husky — clips straight for me, nods in passing.  I wrestle with my scarf, pull it up over my nose.  Thoughts go deeper with every crackling step. 

“Blowing off the stink” as my mother or her mother or somebody’s mother would say.  

The stink freezes mid air.  I zig zag around it.  Drop down a little deeper and let go, let myself touch what needs to be touched.  Water from my eyes freezes on my burning cheeks. 

Then, rounding the last finger of my beloved Isles, I hear blades scraping before I see the play.  The puck drops and sticks smack the lake, nylon breezers whiz by at breakneck speeds. 

I could go another mile, I think.

I will not be denied the sweet sting of being alive today.

while i slept,

 

the snow fell. 

And now, I wake and write. 

While I write, one of my favorite traditions waits in the freezer — Sebastian Joe’s egg nog ice cream.

I can’t think of an annual holiday gift I relish more than this pint of delicately spiced velvet.

Let heaven-n-nature sing, “I love my neighborhood!”

flouncy nightshirt

I saw his bare legs first. 

Shorts on an icy November morning? 

Then there was the flounce.   Two or three inches of hem bobbing away under a conservatively cut biege overcoat.  Expensive patterned scarf wrapped around his neck.  Dog tugging him down the sidewalk just ahead of me on my route to the coffee shop.  Sashayed right up to the counter, placed an order and while he stood there waiting I took in the slits on both sides of the tattered material.

A nightshirt!

Apparently this article of clothing did not die with Pa Ingalls and can be easily acquired in seersucker, herringbone, broad cloth, madras, and cotton in addition to the obvious flannel.  Goes from the bedroom to the coffee shop with style and guts. 

The new kilt!