yellow fender

More often than not this time of year I find myself driving at the speed of —

The person pedaling in front of me.

Take last night, for instance.

I pull out of the parking lot at Barbette’s in Uptown, intending to take my usual route home on Irving when a yellow fender flies out of the alley in front me.

Yellow fender pumps furiously, but it’s not enough to get me above 15 mph. 

Irving — a one-way with cars lining both sides of the street — also has a stop sign every block.

Each time I stop — and look both ways — I realize the parade of cars behind me is getting longer.

I’m feeeeeling anxious now. 

Should I try to pass? 

Maybe —- no —- ok, perhaps —- no way.

I grip the wheel tighter and notice that a few cars in the line-up have bailed, leaving a snippy little moped nosing my fender.  

Sensing his growing impatience at the next stop sign, I’m contemplating a bold move in my head —

When he shoots around me, picks up speed and leaves yellow fender and me in the sunset.

I’m breathing easier now as we approach my favorite house in the 1900 block — which just happens to be —

For sale — and —

The same shade of yellow as the fender I’ve grown extremely fond of during the last 10 minutes or so.

This symmetry in color both delights and calms me.

And I can’t help wondering — am I more than just a little –

Eccentric?

return of the romper

Not in my lifetime —

I’d a been willing to bet —

Would this article of  clothing make a comeback. 

But “OMG,” I almost screamed when I spotted them in NYC a coupla weeks ago, “the romper has returned!”

The first romper I owned I made — bought a pattern and fabric and sewed the thing myself —

In our sewing room.

In 1977 I made a day-after-prom-brunch romper — grass green cotton with tiny white polka dots and three dainty little ties across the bodice.

This little number musta been “hot” back then — the shorts barely covered my 12th grade buns and the ties were functional as well as decorative, meaning the entire front was open —

Except where it was lashed together in three places across my chest.

Needless to say, it was the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever worn.   I couldn’t bend over, sit down, or reach for the butter without it shifting away from things that I typically wanted covered —

It was — as we said back then — “quite revealing.”

Alas, I coulda fared much better with the version of the romper my mother made famous —

The strapless terry cloth with the elastic above the bustline and at the waistline.  One piece and it followed your every move —

She owned them in all the colors of sherbet —

Lime, orange, yellow —

And a couple more I can’t remember.

Wonder if she’ll be tempted to bring ‘em back. 

I think I just might —

Many things in life are better the second time around and the romper may be one of them.

the circle

The canopy over the freshly dug grave isn’t nearly big enough to keep all of us dry.

So we surround it on all sides with umbrellas and try to keep from poking each other’s eyes out as we say our final prayers — and goodbyes.

I am literally standing on Grandma Trudi’s grave and thinking of one of her favorite quips — the one about shivering and someone or something running across your grave.   A mouse?

She might have a chuckle over this —

If she wasn’t so sad.

A little over a year ago we brought her here to rest beside grandpa.  Today the ground opposite him is open for their youngest son.

Their baby. 

I am thinking about the months and days and moments of grace leading up to this gathering when I extend my hand to take the rose my cousin offers. 

Yellow — she  said the day before —

For friendship, peace and joy.

I bow my head and bury my nose in the rich fragrance that seems more profound in the pouring rain.  When I lift my eyes, I watch her place the last few dots of yellow to close the huge arc she’s been making—

Erasing the beginning —

And the ending —

With this beautiful symbol of eternity —

This ginormous circle of people that says it all.

The only thing that really matters in life are your relationships to other people.

nowhere to run

It’s true — you can’t run away from your problems. 

I know this because every time I take off running, I find a million little things wrong. 

Problems I didn’t even know I had —

Until I started running.

My keys are making a clanking sound.  An extremely irritating sound — one that  can be heard over my iPod. 

And my god, my sock is slipping.  Now I can feel my shoe rubbing against the spot where my sock should be.  Ughhh.

Why oh why can they not make a sports bra that actually works?   This is cruel. 

Inhuman.

It may even be biologically justifiable for me to quit right now and never bounce another mile.  I mean, do you think it’s a coincidence that most of the women running by me have figures that are closer to men’s than —

Mine?

Ok, now I’m whining.  I know.

But still —

The new arm band for my nano is completely stable — jiggle resistant.

There’s just gotta be a better mouse trap — er — bra strap.

revived

It was 85 and humid in Minneapolis yesterday.

Outside sipping wine with a friend — back up against a stranger and right shoulder inches from the passing cars and buses — I was delighted to feel what I have not felt for so many, many —

Many months —

Alive.

The irregularity and unpredictability of the contents on the corner of Irving and Lake. 

The murmurs and blurts. 

Sirens and skirts. 

Bare legs and boots. 

Tattoos and bikes. 

Glasses clinking.  Doors and blouses opening. 

Ideas spilling over.  The unjamming of thoughts and feelings.

Ahhhhh —

Revived.

thinkability

Oh, I like the way you think.  (I like you.)

Let’s just not think about it.  (I don’t want to deal with this.)

Don’t think.  Just do it.  (I’m afraid you’ll change your mind.) 

Can we think about this another way?  (I don’t like where this is going.)

Won’t you just think it over?  (I hope you’ll change your mind.)

Give me some time to think about it, ok?  (I am not sure how to respond.)

I can’t even hear myself think!  (I’m utterly distracted.)

Think, think, think.  (Oh god help me there’s gottta be another way.)

You can’t think your way out of this.  (Just accept it the way it is.)

There’s no time to think.  (You must act now.)

You think too much, that’s your problem.  (You’re not giving me the answer I want.)

Do you THINK?  (That’s so obvious.)

Stop and think about it.  (This might not be such a good idea.)

What do you think?  (I value your opinion.)

letting go

I’m not sure what I’m about to say.

My head is empty.  Dark nights of the soul.  Soul searching with no end in sight. 

It’s been unbearable.  Because despite numerous interventions —-

I cannot change it.

Cannot will it to change.  Force it to change.  Or politely ask it to change. 

Won’t help to put a smile on it.  Or choose my attitude.

I’ve tried — all of these tactics. 

It persists. 

And I cannot accept it.

But I can accept that I cannot change it —

And that it has now changed me — in ways I regret —

My god, why do I always hang on too long?

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.

trippy little dog

Today I started running —

For my life. 

It’s a good thing and it’s good for me. 

See how much fun I am having!

The day is amazing though still brown and I don’t detect a single bud. 

I walk briskly swinging my arms like a mental patient because — well, the upper arms just can’t get enough of this motion — and yes, I’m too old to care what people think of me.  Well — my walking, that is.

When I hit the lake, I begin to run.  For encouragement and because it makes me feel like a 10th grader who’s never been kissed, I chose to blast “Build me up Buttercup” through my green nano.  Very sassy —

I run for about 2 miles — I think — before I must walk for a little bit.  Next time, I will go further — past the dog park at least, I tell myself. 

I pick up the pace again, less than half way through “The Chain,” and it’s not long before I come upon a cluster of three women crowded together on the path—-

All on their knees — huddled over something of interest, I assume.   Perhaps a wounded bird?

I veer right, leaving the path —

And just as I’m about to clear the mass, a little wiener dog darts out in front of me —

Like a tiny cake jumper!

My reflexes — which passed with flying colors in the doctor’s office this morning —- send my sneakers through the air, avoiding collision with beast and/or chain entanglement.

I live to run another day.

the world is silent

At the fifth station, Simon helps Jesus carry his cross.

In my years of the stations, this year, this day —

The fifth station speaks loudest.

Because I cannot understand why —

I google it to find an explanation:

Jesus even experiences our struggle to receive help.  He is made to experience the poverty of not being able to carry his burden alone.  He enters into the experience of all who must depend on others to survive.  He is deprived of the satisfaction of carrying this burden on his own.

And I know now why this is my station.  I am moving into a unique time —

When I may be called to help carry another’s cross.

I know I am blessed with the strength to be able to do this. 

And I know —

I will not be alone.