(Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I have never been to Disneyland, or Disneyworld. I have been inside the Disney store at the mall.
I have never visited the Grand Canyon in the fifteen years we’ve lived in Arizona. I saw it when I was thirteen and not yet afraid of heights. I wrote poetry about it, even.
I have never jumped out of an airplane and never intend to.
I have never ridden in a hot air balloon. Not so sure I want to do that. Although it looks peaceful, the height thing might get to me.
I have never traveled outside of the United States. Unless you count British Columbia on a day trip. I guess you could, it’s Canada, after all, right? You’d think I’d have made it to Mexico by now, but haven’t had much reason, money or desire to do that.
I have never been overseas either. That’d be cool. I’ll have to start a bucket list, maybe.
I have never met anyone really famous. That’s okay by me. They’re just like every other person except a bunch of people know who they are, right? Yeah, sour grapes here.
I have never been to a big rock concert. This holds some interest in the back of my mind, but not enough to really do anything about it.
I have never successfully ridden a skateboard. Tried once, landed on my backside. Snowboarding, I suspect would end up the same way but with more dire consequences.
I have never spent more than three seconds upright behind a boat trying to water ski.
I have never had a conversation in a foreign language. I’d like to change that.
I have never gone cliff diving, or cliff jumping. There’s that afraid of heights thing again.
I have spent a night in the wilderness alone.
I have gone rock climbing at five months pregnant.
I have experienced the joy of skiing many times.
I have watched a grandchild being born.
I have known the love of a kind husband.
I have reveled in the beauty that is Alaska.
I have been part of friendships that lifted me and helped make me whole.
I have enjoyed the blessing of extended family reaching out in many directions.
I have had the once in a lifetime amazement of being on a cruise ship on the ocean.
I have kayaked in the ocean.
I have been involved in something bigger than myself.
I have firsthand seen the wonders of Yellowstone Park multiple times.
I have lived in many different places in the United States and found all sorts of wonderful.
I have driven a snowmobile, and a motorcycle.
I have ridden my bicycle long distances, even conquered a pretty big hill a few times.
I have given birth and held those miracles in my arms and watched them become adults.
I have felt the exhilaration of a second wind that comes when running past exhaustion.
I have felt satisfaction, holiness, peace, joy, serenity, contentment.
I have been changed by some experiences that are unspeakable, unshareable.
I have tried to be true to myself, honest with others, kind, helpful, real.
The most luxurious thing I can think of to do today would be to have a whole day to myself. I’d go for a long morning walk. I’d clean the house. I’d sit with a hardbound book and immerse myself in its pages, emerging hours later dripping with the story, washed new by the author’s words.
It’s been a while since I’ve done any of those things.
Must be time to give in, if I’m fantasizing about them.
It’s not likely I’ll have a day to myself, not with everyone’s schedule around here. But the long walk, I could manage that. Early mornings have a chill to them, but I could bundle up, layer on a few sweaters, put on some gloves, wrap a scarf and throw on a hat, if I can find one. Then off I’d go to my favorite retreat.
Our little “town” had the foresight a few years back to create some open spaces. The Riparian Preserve at Water Ranch is one of these places. The large windowed library nestles into one corner of its 110 acres, with a cement skirted duck pond and sidewalk. Perfect for parents with strollers and tots, or people with wheelchairs,walkers or canes, it serves as a buffer zone of the “wilder” parts of the park. It’s nicely lit in the evening if a couple feels inclined to walk and talk. There’s always an urban fisherman or two there, almost any time of the day or year. They even added an observatory a few years ago.
My favorite area there is away from the concrete and crowds. Further in, nestled among trees and all sorts of green growing things, is meandering paths that skirt seven different ponds. The developers designed the entire area to refill and recharge the city acquifer. As reclaimed water is pumped into the ponds it filters into the ground and recycles. It’s a pretty smart idea.
The bonus is that the area has become a haven for birds of all kinds. Herons, hummingbirds, geese, lovebirds, terns, owls, hawks, ducks are just a few of the over 150 species found there. As a result, photographers, birdwatchers, and nature lovers also frequent the area.
Wandering the trails a person could walk almost four and a half miles. In years past I’ve spent considerable time there and become a little possessive of the area. There was a group of seven geese that I chatted with daily, even if they were a bit grouchy with me. I’ve lost touch with them and miss that daily interaction.
I feel lucky to have such a haven in the desert. A walk there fills and recharges my own waning resources. Enough of this writing thing. I’m going for a walk. I’ll see ya later.
I haven’t heard the song “All I want for Christmas is a hippopotamus” yet this year.
(Photo credit: Wikipedia)
What a loss.
Nor have my ears been accosted by anyone’s version of “Santa Baby.”
Sigh.
No one has blasted me with “Grandma’s Been Run over by a Reindeer.”
Oh my.
“Rocking Around the Christmas Tree” hasn’t yet bounced and jostled it’s way through my head.
Phew!
Amazingly, I’ve missed every single rendition of “Jingle Bell Rock” that seems to inundate every sound wave in the hearing world this time of year.
What will I do?
Feel at peace, perhaps?
I have a love/hate relationship with Christmas music.
Here’s some nice alternatives to the usual noise blaring on the radio or over the store’s sound system.
Any tune by Vince Guaraldi, whose songs you’d recognize if you’ve ever watched a Charlie Brown cartoon, is a welcome background sound. “Skating” is a nice example. So is this one.
I also hum to myself, often an unrecognizable song, sometimes a composite of a few mismatched songs. That’s my favorite. Whistling is nice, although a little more noticeable. People might wonder what you’ve been up to if you sound that cheerful. Exercise caution with the whistling thing.
Classical holiday music, without lyrics, is my solace this year.
I know, I’m so boring. And I love it!
This year I’m choosing to find Peace on Earth, in a different way. Nothing groundbreaking. Just a simple change in the music I listen to.
In the car, the radio is OFF.
I’ve got a music app that allows me to choose the soundtrack to my day.
The World Is Too Much With Us; Late and Soon (Photo credit: xdestineex)
I feel blessed beyond words. To be able to block out the world, somewhat, with two little ear buds, attached by a thin wire to a miraculous little device in my pocket, is a balm and solace in my life that I am so grateful for.
When “the world is too much with us” I have an instant retreat. Music covers me like an umbrella and keeps the rain of chaos and frantic busyness at a distance. I can breathe in slowly and deeply and move with deliberate and unrushed steps.
Anything with a Windham Hill label, like George Winston, or Jim Brickman works nicely for my sanity level. Jon Schmidt with the Piano Guys is always a great choice. Choosing anything with the word Philharmonic soothes the soul with caressing notes and gentleness.
I’m just keeping a grip on reality as best I can here. So far, it’s only the 12th of December, it’s working.
If music is the handrail on my daily path providing balance and peace, then play on.
Do you have any music that soothes and smoothes your day? I’d love to get some more suggestions.
Classroom (Photo credit: Willow (Chengyin))
Every school day began the same way. Every day but one.
Every day we stood behind our desks, placed our right hands over our left breasts, recited the pledge of allegiance to the flag hanging in the corner of the room near the door between the pictures of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln. Then we sat, arms folded or hands clasped while someone recited a prayer. The chairs scraped linoleum and papers shuffled and books opened and knowledge spilled out over us.
Every day, that is, until that morning. That morning the fluorescent lights were humming overhead to compensate for the lack of sunshine that usually poured through the wide slatted blinds. That morning the blinds hadn’t been opened at all.
Oddly, the teacher wasn’t in the room when the bell rang and we ready to stand and pledge. We did stand, but we waited, our allegiance hanging midair, unmoving, like the flag in the corner. There was a moment of uncertainty and then the click, click, click of heels in the hallway. The doorknob turning, hesitating, then opening into the room. Our teacher’s presence breaking the silence. We scrunched into our chairs, pulled up to our desks, expectant, curious.
I caught only snippets of words as she spoke. “Stanley” and “heart” and “sleep.”
I heard confusion and felt a buzzing sort of talking. This new thing baffled and stung.
Died.
This meant no black rimmed, curly-haired Stanley. He was the one with the ready hand, the right answer, the toothy grin.
Having never encountered this new thing in my seven short years of life, uncertainty and questions swirled around me. I did understand the empty chair and the paperless desk, sort of.
Every school day after that one was the same again. Predictable. Reliable. Regular as the clock ticking above the teacher’s desk. Except, he was absent. Always absent, not even on the roll call list.
We never did vow our allegiance to the flag that day. Or pledge, our hands over our hearts, to the republic. We did, however, pray for Stanley, for Stanley’s Dad and Mom.
And somehow, silently, we each prayed in our own way, for understanding of this new, very hard concept to take in.
What subject, in second grade, does “death of a child” fall under? Social Studies? Biology? Math?
Ah, yes. Math.
Subtraction.
The Passage of Time (Photo credit: ToniVC)
Finally
Mercifully
A brevity of
Breathing in
Cherished
Rare moments together
Sandwiched in
Between
Forty hours
Bread of demands
Spice of dreaming
Crunch of wants, musts
Spilled words
Crumbs of
Time
Wasted.
This post is in response to a Trifecta Writing Challenge.
Today’s post is a response to this WordPress Daily Post writing prompt.: “What is your earliest memory? Describe it in detail, and tell us why you think that experience was the one to stick with you.”
Pressing my face into the mesh of memory, I’ve searched and searched for details from my earliest childhood. My attempts to peel back the layers, clarify the view and remove the dust and cobwebs find little substance.
The few memories that surface are vague at best. I couldn’t tell you how old I was, only where I was, but not when. It’s as if I’m waiting for movie clips about myself from the outside like an independent observer. But in reality the only point of view is from the inside looking out. There aren’t any movie trailers.
Well, there are those 8mm films my parents took. But that’s a memory of a memory.
There is this one clear, unchanging mental image, my first memory, my first awareness of being. My first experience with me-ness.
I am walking between my dad and my mom, going up the street towards our little white clapboard house. Each of them has taken hold of one of my hands. Whether I could walk on my own, I have no idea. Maybe I was young enough that they were encouraging walking, or I could have been older and needing to be kept in check by the two of them. The world is vague and blotchy, all color and wash. The features of most things have no distinct form or shape. Our house is the only clear landmark.
The sensation of a hand in each of theirs is vivid; warmth and energy pulse into me. And then, suddenly, I am soaring up and out, secured between them like a swing. Then I am walking on the ground again. I hear, “One, two, three!” and I sail out into the air again, safely tethered to them both.
Multiple times they count and launch me heavenward. Each “three” creates the sensation of my body feeling free and ephemeral, accompanied by gravity’s pull back between them. Whether I spoke the words or merely thought them, my mind says, “again,” after each swing out and back.
night sky (Photo credit: dcysurfer / Dave Young)
I remember laughter, mine or theirs. Both, I’m sure.
I could easily believe a tale of my birth as a launching from heaven, lofted into the cosmos, riding a wave of star dust and gently landing between my father and mother. Caught between the two of them, I scatter dust from my journey as I swing back and forth, back and forth. It’s a fairy tale worth holding on to.
My earliest memory of childhood makes it feel as if I came swinging into this world suspended between them, held fast by love and joy.
We have a saying at our house: “Remember the Beanie Baby!”
It’s a sentiment that applies to many situations and none of them have anything to do with collector’s items. Well, not really, except for the incident that engraved that thought on our family’s collective conscience.
The summer of 1998 found our family frolicking about the countryside. Leaving MSH home to fund our travels, the kids and I took off for family reunions, various once a year get-togethers, and just plain hanging out at Grandpa and Grandma’s, both sets. It was a twelve-hour drive, or more with kids, to get there. Then we drove a variety of shorter hops from one relative’s house, to another, to another over the course of three weeks.
To make the trip even more delightful, the AC in the van didn’t work. There’s nothing like having a warm breeze whipping your hair around for half the day, the sound of the wind roaring in your ears, to make it really feel like an endless summer. The back windows only angled out a couple of inches, serving mostly as venting for the hot air being blown through the van. It couldn’t have been very comfortable for the back seat riders. Fortunately, I was the driver.
That year was the tail end of the Great Beanie Baby Craze. McDonald’s had jumped on the hyperactive pellet filled fuzzy critter bandwagon. With each Happy Meal purchased, a Teenie Beanie, miniature version of the originals, could also be bought for $2.
My kids suggested that if we went to a McDonald’s in every town we visited, we’d finally accumulate all the possible Beanie Babies (12) that were available in miniature form. It broke the monotony of all that driving, and gave a sort of treasure hunt mystique to each day. At least they’d end up with one or two of their favorites. We seemed to have good luck with this plan and everyone was happy with his or her new acquisitions, except my youngest daughter.
She coveted Inch the Worm. The bright colors, the squiggly body, the little stitched on eyes, would make her summer completely perfect. Finally, nearing the end of the vacation, we hit the jackpot. We’d down the last Happy Meal we’d ever want to eat and voilà. Inch the Worm was her new best friend.
A distant cousin of Inch the Worm Tilby.
Inch went everywhere with her, never leaving her hand for a second. The two of them seemed to lead an active fantasy life, where Inch the Worm was quite the little hero.
Inch had a predilection for flying. He especially liked to ride the breezes created by the open back windows in the van.
“You’re going to drop your beanie baby out the window!” my son told her.
“No, I’m not!” she’d counter, obstinately gripping Inch even tighter.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he muttered back.
That conversation took place, or some iteration of it, multiple times a day. Sometimes it was one of her two older sisters. “That little worm is gonna disappear!” they warned.
Rarely, she would pull Inch back in and rest him on her lap, or in a pocket, or in her backpack. Usually, she just stubbornly kept Inch in the breeze, flying carefree and happy.
Then, the inevitable happened.
You guessed it.
“MOM! Pull over!!” my youngest screamed from the back seat. “I dropped my beanie baby!”
We were racing up a hill going 55 mph, with almost no shoulder to the road, cars packed around us. There was no way and no place to pull over. Even if we did, it would be dangerous and foolhardy. More than likely, the beanie baby would have sailed behind us and been run over, or caught up under a car, or flung about the road like so much garbage.
We had no choice than to simply drive away from the tragic demise of Inch the Worm.
My daughter was distraught. She was sure we’d find him when we drove that road again a day later. Even with Inch’s neon coloring, we never did see tail or nose of him.
Of course, no other McDonald’s in the western United States had any mini beanie babies left by then.
Forever after that sad incident, when someone in the family warned someone else that their behavior was risky, or stupid, or that they ought to listen to the advice they were being given, these famous words would end the argument. “Remember the beanie baby!”
There would be laughter hiding a tiny heartache for what might have been. It was a painful lesson. It was a funny lesson. It was unforgettable.
I’m pretty sure, when my daughter is a grandmother, someone will “remember the beanie baby” and the story of Inch the Worm will live again.
As a new blogger I’ve explored other blogs, blogging ideas, blog challenges and blogging prompts. What a surprise huh? Ran across this one called Trifecta with a different twist that I want to keep following. The questions and answers below are part of my participation in Trifecta. So without further ado, fan fare, annoyances, or advertising, here are my answers to ten fascinating questions.
Size comparison between the famous ceratopsian Triceratops and a human (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
1. What is your name (real or otherwise)?
Kami Tilby. It’s real. Really. Otherwise, I’d make up something like Hortense Decrepit.
2.Describe your writing style in three words.
Fluent, Fluid, Funny-ish.
3.How long have you been writing online?
Two months and 6 days as a blogger. Overly long status updates on Facebook for 2 years. Snarky comments on Facebook for 3 years.
4.Which, if any, other writing challenges do you participate in?
I rocked NaBloPoMo in November. I’m a dabbler in the Daily Post, meaning I post daily, but don’t often respond to specific topic challenges on WordPress.
5.Describe one way in which you could improve your writing.
Be less timid; write like I’m a rock star with a million followers who hang on my every word.
6.What is the best writing advice you’ve ever been given?
A) Keep your butt in the chair and write! B) Limit adjectives and adverbs. C) Read great literature. And D) a twist on the Kindergarten classic, “show, don’t tell.”
7.Who is your favorite author?
I love Anne Lamott. I swoon over Geraldine Brooks! Ivan Doig‘s descriptions leave me breathless. Anna Quindlan and Anne Tyler are exquisite. Elizabeth Berg reads minds and hearts. Richard Ford, Barbara Kingsolver, Marilyn Robinson, write with rich, evocative, flowing prose. Leif Enger, oh my, you have to read his books. Ann Tyler, covers it all. Thomas Hardy, is all pain and stark beauty.
8.How do you make time to write?
I give up two hours of sleep every morning. Sometimes I give up bedtime too. Depends. My best writing seems to happen when I’m only partially coherent. Which, come to think of it, is most of the time. I must be a brilliant writer. Or delusional. Or very sleep deprived.
9.Give us one word we should consider using as a prompt. Remember–it must have a third definition. Incandescent. Then, I could write about myself, on a good day, slightly delirious and self-aggrandized, and with a bit of a God complex. Or not.
10. Direct us to one blog post of yours that we shouldn’t miss reading.
What happened to the trifecta idea? Fine, if you’re going to limit me to just one post. It would have to be “The Good, The Bad, The Not So Pretty of Parenting Moments.” Although, be assured this is not a mommy blog.
There you have it. Me in a Meme.
I’m not usually so me, me, me. But I couldn’t help myself. Embarrassing.
(Seriously, you should check out one of those writers I mentioned in number 7. You can’t go wrong with any of them. Sure, you can wait until after Christmas, but no longer.)
Piano pedals on a Grand Piano. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Hey, guess what? It’s Gratituesday!
One of my earliest memories is pretending to play the piano on a wooden shelf while one of my mother’s piano students banged away at a song in the adjacent room. I was an extraordinarily gifted pretend piano player. When my mother played I became a prodigy of the imaginary keyboard in front of me.
Later, I graduated to playing my own compositions of rainstorm, the high notes, and thunderstorm, the low notes, and tornadoes, running my hand up and down the keyboard.
How anyone tolerated this noise is miraculous to me.
Mom taught me the basics. “Here we go, up a row, to a birthday party,” became my favorite song for a few months, because I could play the entire song. Even if it was only eight measures and one hand. When I learned to add the left hand to make a harmony with my right hand, I was ecstatic.
Photograph of bust statue of Ludwig van Beethoven by Hugo Hagen (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
My favorite cartoon character wasn’t Bugs Bunny or the Road Runner. It was Schroeder, the piano playing, wise man of the of the Peanuts gang. I longed for a miniature piano with the range and ability Schroeder had. I wanted my own Beethoven bust overseeing my progress. I was sure if I mastered the piano I would be master of everything and, even better, that boys would flock to me. I didn’t really pay attention to the fact that Lucy was the only one drawn to Schroeder and she was a bit nuts, a bully even.
For a couple of years I had a piano teacher that Mom and Dad paid for. I suppose that was helpful. I was probably more disciplined about practicing for someone other than a relative.
For as long as I can remember, Mom always taught piano lessons in our home. Every day after school, and every morning during the summer, students would file in and file out, filling the house with what passed as music. It was the theme music to our lives. If any house had a soundtrack, ours surely did and it was filled with stops and starts, hesitation and things played off-key. But it was a weird, joy-filled music.
Mom’s income helped pay for all kinds of “extras” and let her be a stay at home mom, still caring for us kids. She was always there for us if catastrophe struck, still there for us if a sibling was being unfair, still there for us if we needed the reassurance that she was there.
I’m sure it wasn’t easy. We probably drove her crazy with near constant interruptions, too much noise, too many questions. But she taught a gazillion kids the piano, and she taught me the piano. She also taught me and patience and persistence.
She also gave me the gift of music. I’m not a concert pianist. I quit lessons as a teenager. But I can plunk out a kids song, accompany a choir, and play for enjoyment. I am blessed beyond measure by this singular gift. How grateful I am for my piano teacher mom.
Kami's Beautiful Morning 