Just Breathe May 3, 2009

Lina and I were having one of our classic mother-daughter conversations while I was driving her to CCD the other day. She told me I would be very excited by what she had to say.

“Why is that, honey?”

“You won’t believe what is in my homework folder.”

She said it in that first-gradey, sing-song voice… the way Donkey sings when he’s searching inside the windmill for Fiona in the first Shrek movie: “Princess… It’s very spooky in here and I ain’t playing no games.”

I tried to imagine what could possibly be in her homework folder that would make me “very excited.” Was it a stack of fifties? A winning lottery ticket? One-way airfare to Italy?

“Soccer sign-ups is in there.”

She was pleased as punch to torment me with this information. She knows I get a charge out of watching her play, but she’s only played on a team once. She always acts like she’s not interested, but you wouldn’t know it by the way she kicks my butt in the backyard. Often after we finish clearing the dinner dishes, I’ll take her and Gianni out to the backyard and we’ll scrimmage. The back wall of the house is my goal and the side of the shed is hers. (G-man is the ref, but I have yet to get him an official whistle.) I have to say, the kid is good, real good and if futbol skills are transferred down the bloodline, it must come from the Petti strand of her DNA chain, because the Donnelly’s don’t have the ability nor the interest to pursue an evasive ball . Stick us on a battlefield or a fishing boat or a large comfortable chair, and we are in our respective elements. Kevin is the exception, but we think maybe he’s from space.

I asked her why I should be so excited about that, seeing as she wasn’t going to let me sign her up anyway.

“Because you love it when I play soccer,” she said, very much impressed with herself.

“You’re right, sweetie,” I said. “I do love when you play soccer.” I was immediately stricken ill at the very idea, aghast at the image of myself now as a thirty-something soccer mom. I checked my pulse, double checked that I wasn’t driving a mini-van, and dabbed at the sweat beginning to bead between my boobs.

“I’m real good at it, right mom?” she asked.

“Yes, you are really good at it, honey. How ’bout we sign you up?” I glanced at her in the rear view mirror to evaluate her reaction.

“Nah,” she replied. “I don’t want to.”She held her hand out the window watching it float on invisible waves of air.

One thing is for sure, the kid has always known what she wants. Her most passionate desires typically revolve around Spongebob episodes, chocolate, climbable trees and web-manipulated plush toys, but sports don’t seem to rank supreme.

In my own sly way, I attempted to subtly weave in the value of team sports, even if it meant refusing to openly admit how much I hated them myself when I was her age.

“Pickles, didn’t you have fun when you played soccer with Erin last year?”

Erin is her best friend, so I figured manipulation surely must have it’s benefits.

“I guess it was fun.”

“What was your favorite part?” I asked her, hoping to reel in the vision for her.

She thought about this for a moment and then replied with a sudden jolt of enthusiasm, “I like the break part!”

I laughed out loud. “The break part?”

“Yeah. The break part,” she said. “You know, when we stop playing and eat snacks and drink juice?”

“Oh okay,” I said with a chuckle. “Did you also like the part when you ran around kicking the ball with your friends?”

She thought about this and replied, “Yeah. I like that part too, but I like the break part best because after all that running, my breath was outta sight.”

Care Free October 9, 2008

When I was around 16 years old, I had had enough of popularity contests, cliques, fashion show-offs, and the backstabbing adolescent status quo. By the time I finished up my sophmore year of high school, I had decided I didn’t care anymore what people thought of me. I had been the target of ridicule and inside (and outside) jokes for so long, that I no longer cared if anyone at all wanted to be my friend. I didn’t care what people thought of my wardrobe, my taste in music or my hairstyle. I sincerely detached, not out of self-pity or some dark, victimized despair. I literally woke up one day and realized I was spinning my wheels, going against the grain. I had to stop trying to please everyone. I realized that by trying so hard to live up to people’s expectation of me, my whole life had become essentially contrived. I longed to finally live sincerely for myself and didn’t want to turn my back anymore to what I personally enjoyed as fun, funny, interesting or uplifting. This included my taste in movies, books, music, clothes and spirituality.

The oddest thing happened once I suddenly decided to stop going along to get along. People began saying hello to me in the hallway, laughing at my wit, asking me to hang out, sit with them at lunch, go to parties, carpool. My decision to stop caring had backfired and I quickly developed a broad social circle of girls and guys from every walk of life, popular and not, who didn’t seem to care whether I cared or not.

A dear friend once told me that people are like magnets. If you push against the pole of one and it repels, it doesn’t matter how hard or how long you push, you will never connect. If you turn around and walk in the other direction though, you’ll find that magnetic forces from every direction will come crashing up against your back, practically begging for your attention.

For a long time now… several years actually… I have been allowing myself to feel let down by my family, friends, coworkers and neighbors. They say things and do things that leave me feeling anxious, unappreciated, unheard, unloved. I just realized today that I’m falling into that old, recognizable pattern. I need to stop trying so hard to be everything to everyone. Stop being a people pleaser and just be myself. Live. Laugh. Love. Just like it says on my bathroom wall.

I can hear people whispering when I walk by sometimes… amusing themselves at my expense… just like when I was 16  years old… and you know what? For too long now I’ve been letting them get to me. Wishing they would try to get to know the real me – how much I long to be understood. Then suddenly it all strikes me as meaningless and prideful. I need to flip the switch again.

The less I try to fit in, the happier we’ll all be.

I did it. September 2, 2008

It wasn’t exactly the performance of a lifetime, but I did complete my first triathlon. I said I was doing it for the “fun” of it, but I have to say, whomever does these things for “fun” is surely insane or else a glutton for punishment. My body feels like it’s been used and abused. My knees are killing me. I cannot walk, unless you consider shuffling my feet without them leaving the ground “walking?” I broke a toenail clean off. My second left toe is a bloody stump. (Still don’t know quite how that happened?) I have no desire to do anything but sleep… and in fact I went to bed at 7:50 pm last night and woke up at 7:40 am this morning, without even so much as waking up to pee or even turning over.

I set out to simply cross the finish line and I did. It took me a little over 1 hour and 43 minutes to swim 1/4 mile, bike 11 miles and run 3.2 miles. The sad thing is that I had a rough time celebrating my “success.” I was so disappointed at the unexpected snafus I encountered, that I spent much of the remainder of the race berating myself. As if my “time” really mattered? As if I would really “place”?

As the swim began, I felt strong and confident. I maintained a smooth, steady pace. My nerves hadn’t gotten the better of me, as I had worried about. I didn’t lose my breath, as I had feared, and I didn’t overexert myself and expend too much too soon. But when I finally looked up from the murky, dense, cedar water to check my progress and gather my bearings, I noticed I was completely alone. No other swimmers surrounded me. For an alarmingly hilarious second, I thought, “Could I be winning?” And in that same moment, the preposterousness of that thought humbled me. I looked for the orange dingies that marked the course and saw that I was hundreds of yards away from them… in the middle of the lake… completely off course. I realized my error and watched as the wave of powder blue swim caps, the same color as my own, approached the shore. By the time I re-entered the course, I was swimming with the yellow caps from the wave that had started 3 minutes behind me. I struggled to regain my composure and rhythm, overcompensating and fatiguing fast.

I dragged my already defeated body from the water as my husband and friends screamed my name and cheered me on. I wonder if they could tell how disappointed I already was? Our friend Mike called out for me to “DO IT FOR DAVID COVERDALE!” He made me laugh and the thought of David Coverdale put a spring in my step.

The transition from swim to bike went surprisingly well, I thought. It wasn’t as confusing and time-consuming as I’d imagined. Although I had never run in my clipless shoes before, it wasn’t all that difficult. (But maybe that’s how I broke my toenail, come to think of it?) Soon I was on my bike and pedaling strong and steady, even passing several other riders. I felt great. Then the time came to switch gears. That’s when I discovered that my gears were not working. Somehow my cable had become stretched, so the gear shifters wouldn’t engage. Needless to say I rode 11 miles in the largest, slowest gear. Uphill. Downhill. Flat. I was up out of my seat for much of the uphills, expending way too much energy and growing wearier and wearier. Rider after rider after rider called out “On your left,” as they whizzed by, leaving me in their dust. It’s hard not to feel weak and washed up after practically the entire registered roster of every shape, age and size blows right by you.

But eventually I found my way back to transition # 2. I returned with my bike just as Lock called out “Do it for Nikki Sixx!” which was the perfect mix of wit and whimsy to grant me my 3rd wind. I threw a headband on, laced up my running sneakers and left transition #2 with a packet of “gu” in my hand, courtesy of my training partner, Christine. Now I hadn’t ever eaten “gu” before, so in hindsight I probably shouldn’t have made the race event my first taste test. I also hadn’t taken notice of the flavor Christine had given me, although she did mention offhandedly that it contained caffeine. Well, so what? So does Mountain Dew and Dr. Pepper. No worries. But I don’t drink coffee because I absolutely despise the taste of it. So needless to say, as I entered the 5k course and the espresso-flavored gu hit my taste buds, I involuntarily wanted to puke, cry and go home all at the same time. But I still had 3 miles… about 35 minutes… to go… with slimy coffee-flavored gu taste in my mouth. UGH!

When I reached the halfway point at 1.5 miles, the activity on the road was sparse. All the other racers had already finished or were so far ahead of me that they may as well have been finished as far as I was concerned. They had all lapped me about 15 minutes beforehand. The only people surrounding me now were senior citizens (our ages were marked on our calves), cancer survivors (judging by the bandanas on a few bald female heads), overweight ladies, and the occasional event photographer. I certainly felt an unhealthy dose of shame creep up on me as I plodded along on what had to have been a 13-minute mile, getting passed by a very sweet, but skeletal 69-year old , silver-haired chap in a cornflower blue speedo, followed by an overweight, 54-year old, wheezing asthmatic who also ended up beating me.
To battle the negativity loop that was beginning to play over and over in my head, I started praying in rhythm with my footfalls. Each time my foot hit the ground, I’d say the name of someone I was running for. Not before long, I felt my pace increasing a little bit. Then I replaced the names with gratitude. I quietly whispered “Thank You” aloud each time one foot left the earth and the other one found it. After about a 1/4 mile, I felt strong again, like I had in the very beginning… before I had veered off course in my swim. I replaced my “thank yous” with “fun, fun, fun, i’m having fun, fun, fun…” keeping the rhythm with my steps and this is how I found myself approaching the finish line, never having stopped even once to walk, cry, puke or quit.

I saw my husband smiling, taking pictures and video-taping me. I saw a couple friends waiting there, cheering, screaming my name and waving a sign with my name on it. I heard my friend Michelle scream, “YEAH DENISE! ENJOY THAT FINISH!” Then I saw the clock and I saw that I really did it.

Viva La Villanelle! July 24, 2008

I’m just having way too much fun in this poetry class. The haiku and sonnets were fun to write, but the villanelle was a real treat! According to the instructions, the first thing you need with a villanelle is a pair of rhyming lines that are the heart of your poem’s meaning. You then put an unrhymed line between these two, to make a three-line stanza. The second stanza begins with a line that rhymes with the basic couplet, then a line that rhymes with the middle line you added, and finally the first line of the couplet, repeated. The third stanza has a first line rhyming with the couplet, followed by a line rhyming with the second line, and then the second line of the couplet repeated. The alternating two lines of the base couplet become more and more meaningful with each repetition. That is why the success of the form depends so much on the careful selection of the couplet. The poem then goes on this way for a total of five three-line stanzas, trading off the two base lines, and ends with a sixth stanza that adds the second line of the stanza one last time. This poetic form has had a resurgence in the last hundred years. Probably the best of the poems produced during this time is Dylan Thomas’s reflection on the death of his father, Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night. And according to my professor, probably one of the best poems of the twentieth century of any kind…

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage, against the dying of the light.

Though Wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

No pressure or anything (!) Ok, so here’s my villanelle…

STEADY AS SHE GOES: A VILLANELLE

Fear not those demons that claw, so wicked and severe.
I hoist my tattered sail in vain aboard this forsaken ship.
Travel slow and steady now. Forget not what brought you here.

Mercy come and swiftly soothe this suffering I bear
Bitterness, bind me not unto your toxic, lethal grip
Fear not those demons that claw, so wicked and severe.

Pay not a mind to these gashes and tears
As from this fragile shell my fractious soul may rip
Travel slow and steady now. Forget not what brought you here.

Though light of day fades and dark horizons near
Surrender will be the cost of this long, wayward trip
Fear not those demons that claw, so wicked and severe.

Braver men were conquered on their wretched journeys here
Feeling doomed and ever worse, shamed repentance on our lips.
Travel slow and steady now. Forget not what brought you here.

While men set their courses, so detailed, strong and clear,
Even their best-laid plans do swiftly dissolve and slip.
Fear not those demons that claw, so wicked and severe.
Travel slow and steady now. Forget not what brought you here.

Tell me what you see when you read it. Let me know what works and doesn’t work for you. I am in the throes of revision and I could use a critique or three.

The Real Deal April 30, 2008

So I logged onto my myspace account today, which I rarely, rarely do. I generally have no reason to be on myspace. I largely view it as a tremendous waste of headspace, but it does have it’s good points. I like that I can check in from time to time on a few friends and family members and see what they’ve been up to. Although, if I only log on once every couple months, I suppose it’s old news at that point. Oh well. Better late than never, as I always say.

 

Today I absentmindedly read my profile description and found myself thinking I’d better double check it for accuracy. I thought it egotistically prudent to make sure it reflected the current goings on in my own life… especially since I know there are oodles of people out there that would be so disappointed to discover I’ve become lax in myspace management. (I mean, who says “oodles”? Really?)

 

So, in double checking my profile, here’s what I barely remember ever having written:

About me:
I’m an energetic, driven, creative, sentimental, reflective, humorous working wife & mom. I love gatherings with friends… enjoying food, fun, laughter and rockin’ out to 80’s metal. I cherish friendships and opportunites that foster creative expression and fearless ambition. I am a graphic designer and copy writer. I am also an aspiring author, currently pursuing self-publishing avenues for my books.

Who I’d like to meet:
Alice Walker, Jane Goodall, Lance Armstrong, Julia Cameron… and the Dear Lord.

 

Ok, so now that we see how great I am, here’s where I start to have a good day. My profile requires absolutely zero updating! I think that’s a good thing, right? It means I’m consistent, deliberate, committed. But where it gets really exciting is in the “Who I’d like to meet” department. Of the five people I said I wanted to meet, as of two weeks from now, I will have met two of them! Oh, and if you count my near-death experience a few years back, three!

 

Thanks to my best friend Jen, I seized the opportunity to meet Jane Goodall two years ago when she gave a “Roots & Shoots” presentation at the Houston Zoo. Roots and Shoots is a grassroots organization that encourages social and environmental awareness and activism in local communities. She was the most graceful, sweet, quiet, articulate, dignified woman I’d ever met. I wouldn’t say I was star-struck, exactly, but I was definitely in the presence of greatness and I basked in it. Jen and I stood about 4 feet away from her as she spoke in a private VIP room of sponsors from Whole Foods Market – where Jen works. We easily could have shaken her hand, asked for an autograph, posed for a picture… but honestly, we were locked inside a beautiful moment in time that felt too sweet and privileged to cheapen with fanaticism. Standing next to us was the UN’s own Ambassador for Peace. It was just so real and so wonderful.

 

Two weeks from now, I’ll be in the presence of greatness again. Julia Cameron, the author who will never know how much her words have helped to transform my life, is offering a weekend workshop at a retreat house in Massachusetts. Once again, one of the highlights of my life will be shared with my best friend Jen, who is flying in from Texas to join me. Back when we were roomies in Mount Holly, we’d sit on the kitchen floor eating adzuki beans and butternut squash and chat about Julia’s book, “The Artist’s Way.” We’d talk about what we wanted out of this life, our hopes, dreams, aspirations, goals, how much we’d stumbled, how far we’d come, and the unknown roads we’d yet to travel. Time and again, year after year, we’ve gone back to the writing exercises and wisdom of The Artist’s Way, and made her enlightening course a lifelong companion. Her lessons have taught us to accept that synchronicity can and does in fact exist, that God wants to grant us our heart’s desire – and that that’s why we are here to begin with. I tout the brilliance of her course to pretty much everyone I meet, and am actually already set to personally facilitate it this summer for a group of local women.

 

When Jen and I lived together, I bought her a present for her birthday. It was a framed print of a picturesque, flawless winter landscape. The verse is what left a lasting impression for me. It said:

Do not go where the path may lead. Go instead where there is no path… and leave a trail.

 

This is a path we’ve been on for 12 years. It connects us even across 2000 miles. I’m happy two friends will be traveling it together… once again… to ultimately each go our own way and blaze a few new trails. I’m so grateful for a beautiful friendship that started at the swim club 25 years ago, and has remained solid, grounded, nurturing, supportive, hilarious, and totally… completely… real.

ap·a·thet·ic April 22, 2008

     According to Merriam Webster’s dictionary, apathetic (a-pə-the-tik) means:

Having or showing little or no interest or concern

     According to me, apathetic is: a pathetic way to feel.

Blah, blah, blah. You know you’re apathetic when you have to compute your age using a calculator. (Am I 36?) Hmmm. Maybe that’s just plain pathetic.

I think it’s more the apathy thing, because I feel like I’m spinning my wheels – at work especially. Nothing seems to be clicking right now and I couldn’t care less. Add that to a few run-ins I recently had with a mother of one of Lina’s school friends, and you’ve got yourself a pretty apathetic chick.

No, maybe that’s resentment I’m feeling. Maybe I’m pathetically referencing the wrong adjectives.

Spiritually, I’ve seen better places. I think I’m angry. Disappointed and discouraged for what I wish I saw around me. I long for deeper connections, kinder communications, compassionate extensions of unconditional love. Most of what I see is greed, personal agendas, grudges and power trips.  Perhaps I’m looking in the wrong places?

I do know I’m watching myself turn old. Yesterday, our friend Scott was over, and we had a very delightful discussion about the benefits of soluble fiber and psyllium seed.

I do know I feel like I’m wasting time at the daily grind. If we only have one life to live, how am I spending 40 hours of that one and only life every week?

I do know there ain’t a damn thing I can do about my newly-emerging wrinkles, progressively descending boobs, and Big Foot feet.

I do know that friendships wax and wane like the moon, but my best friend living in Texas can send me a text message and make me feel as if not a single day has passed since high school. That only makes me miss her more.

Every once in a while I go through these funks. It’s days like this I want to curl up in a ball and coccoon myself. If only to emerge feeling bolder, wiser, and not quite 36.