Finding Rhythm

rhythm  [rith-uhm]  
 noun
movement or procedure with uniform or patterned recurrence of a beat, accent, or the like.

rhythm
noun
1 the rhythm of the music: beat, cadence, tempo, time, pulse, throb, swing.
2 poetic features such as rhythm: meter, measure, stress, accent, cadence.
3 the rhythm of daily life: pattern, flow, tempo

Other than being a difficult word to spell, I find rhythm difficult to incorporate into my life. I relish when I'm in step with myself, but struggle when I'm out. Often I don't know just when to step in, if my lagging foot will catch up. Or drag. Or go way out in front.

Often, I only seem to circle. Safer there. Accomplishing what needs to be done in that little orb.

My husband has a rhythm. Monday through Friday, from the moment he awakes he has his movements down. From what time he makes his coffee, enters the bathroom, turns on the iron, the shower, puts his shoes on and greases his lips from the Carmex jar on his bed stand followed by picking up his gym bag, yogurt, and brief case.

I know not to get up while he is on his route. Days when I teach, I lie in bed until I hear the door to the garage close before I get up to begin my day. I would only get in his way, ruin his routine. His pattern. His rhythm. 

When he comes home from work, he gets the mail out of the mailbox, then tosses his dirty gym clothes into the basket in the laundry room, sets his brief case on the desk chair and his gym bag on the desk. He grabs a handful of almonds to hold him until dinner is ready. He then goes into the bedroom to change into his shorts or sweats (depending on the weather) and takes a seat on the couch, remote control for the TV in hand.

On the days I teach, the rhythm is handed to me. Nothing is required but to follow along, I do fine with that. But when left to my own devises, I struggle. I am not so defined. I have no patterns.

Perhaps it is my days as a mother - always prepared to turn in any direction. No chance to find a schedule of any permanency. Prepared to drop whatever I may have going to tend to the needs of others.

These days I don't have the constant jerk of something taking me out of sync and into another direction -- except for that man I live with. My job doesn't have a permanent work schedule - working different days of the week for different teachers. Different students so no routine there. If I do seem to find a pattern, things like Christmas, company, or a new project take me out of the norm. I find it difficult to get back in order. To make it all fit.

My home life has the rote activities such as cleaning and laundry, Grocery shopping and dinner making. Cleaning and laundry. Grocery shopping and dinner making.

But my days are not very well planned. I can't find a schedule. I'm faced with too many options. I gather my lists and don't know where to begin. Should I work on the taxes? Should I call the eye doctor? Should I wash my kitchen floor? Should I finish that blanket I was making? Should I get those files refiled? Should I go dig up my garden? What time should I go to the YMCA? Should I get a new blog post written? Should I finish getting my pictures on the wall?  Should I just sit and read a book? Should I get my novel out and seek the rhythm of that venture I so love?

Should I call my friends over for Happy Hour? Or should I play another game of Solitaire?

Too many choices. Too many requiring a rhythm that doesn't connect to the next. I don't know how to section out the day for some of those things on my list. How to get back in the more intense rhythm required for those that require immersion - like the taxes or the writing.

How do you get into a rhythm? How do you choose which rhythm? What will you allow to interrupt your rhythm?

Why I'm Not at the YMCA -- and other tales

There is no truth.  There is only perception.  

Gustave Flaubert

I'm supposed to be at the Y. Sweating. I'm not.

I'm enjoying a morning at home. The Y is open every day, isn't it? How often does one get to enjoy a morning at home? Alone?

This is what I'm telling myself as I sit in my favorite spot - my bed. I have this view to my backyard  if I just lift my head ...

And this view, if I look to my right.

And all my crap spread out on the bed before me. Journal, book, phone, computer, coffee cup.  Lunch. What more could you want?

Well, there is that svelte body the Y reminds me I want.  And the gratitudes I haven't written yet today.  I'm also in need of a new journal for this morning I finished my old one and once again it is time to make a new one.

I've long been an advocate of journal writing, dedicated to the cause, anxious to write in it every day. Not only does it provide an avenue to bitch, but also a place to share my ideas, joys, novel notes, New Yorker covers, stickers ranging from tea cups to birds. An email or letter from someone I want to save. A hatred I want to rid from my brain. An event I want to remember. A plan to improve myself. Another plan to improve myself.

Yes, my journal pages are personal. I don't worry about what I've written for I'm fairly certain no one will ever read them. Anyone willing to peruse the pages would probably die of boredom and if they perchance came upon that one little nugget here and there, most likely they'll have flipped past it while yawning.

For years, before children and with children, I started journals. I don't know how many I had with only a few entries before I forgot about it. Five entries seemed to be a magic number before I no longer remembered the dedication I'd sworn to uphold. Finally, finally about 15 years ago I began a much more defined foray into my thoughts. I'd read where if you did something 21 times in a row, it would become habit.

I passed my newfound knowledge onto my mother as I sent her another pretty blank book to collect her memories and thoughts. "Twenty-one days in a row, Mom. That's all we have to do." (I also used that method to entice her to wear her seatbelt. Twenty-one times, Mom. Then it will become habit. "I just don't like being confined.")

Need I add that when I cleared my mom's house I found most of those journals I'd sent - complete with empty pages. However, there were many a plain old spiral notebook filled with incredible gems of her thoughts and past.

To each her own in the type of journal, but I digress. The point of this story is that I didn't get to the Y because I wrote my three morning pages in my journal this morning and I finished the last available page. Twas time to put it up and create a new one.

I keep old journals on the top shelf of a bookcase in the bedroom.

Up there on the top shelf. That black binded stack. Here's another reason why I know no one will ever read my old journals. None of the men in my family would look up that high. My husband sleeps in this room every night for sixteen years and he probably doesn't even know there is a bookshelf in there. Even though that's his baseball signed by somebody famous on the second to top shelf. (Okay, he probably knows that is there but chances are that is all he sees on that shelf.)

That's my Michigan State football music box. Go Green!

Anywhoo, when I went to add my newly finished journal to the shelf I discovered the stack was crammed to the top. Therefore, I needed to move that stack to this box in my closet (which I'm also certain no one in my family knows is there. See, you all know stuff now that those closest to me don't.)

Before adding them to the box, I spread them out on my bed and leafed through a few of them.

What I found surprised me. Even though it was a healthy stack of writing, the journal I'd completed before this one today encompassed almost two years of time. That the one I had finished this morning only the past year. That the other sixteen covered the three years before that.

I knew that the last few years I'd become remiss. That events in my life had left me cold for words. That those years, although filled with many joys, had been hampered by a few deaths. But still, so few words during a time of such activity and emotion.

I blame my Midwestern upbringing.

Something about stiff upper lips. Something about don't brag and, most certainly, don't whine.

Okay, I get that. But it never occurred to me that that thinking would transfer to my personal thoughts in a journal. That the times that rang high through graduations and weddings I couldn't translate into words on my morning pages. Having too much fun. Or that the events and emotions leading up to and after the deaths of my parents wouldn't convey either. Much too painful.

Perhaps it was my Midwestern upbringing in regard to the bragging. Perhaps I was just a chicken shit for the whining.

At any rate, it is time to make a new journal. Obviously I make my own. Here are my ingredients:

Empty pages - spirals, black-spotted line or blank book
Paper - either scrapbook paper, old wrapping paper, newspaper, whatever appeals on the day

 

Construction paper for inside flaps

Ribbon for a placemarker

Spray glue

Scissors

And there you go. A new journal.

Here are my choices today, always based on mood, for my next journal.

 

Butterflies. For new beginnings.

Blowing the Whistle

Who dares to teach must never cease to learn.

John Cotton Dana

Yesterday, I had a half day afternoon job, teaching Latin. I'm not a morning person, so not having to show up until noon works for me. I spent my morning puttering around the house--reading a little, writing a little, checking my email, and planting a few columbines out in the garden. I emptied the dishwasher and brought up the garbage cans. Took something out to defrost for dinner, then washed my face, put on my teacher clothes, and headed off to the high school, and Latin.

Yeah, Latin. Like I know how to teach that. But in this stint of substitute teaching, I've become quite adept at learning a new subject in only a matter of moments. Often subbing is only babysitting as teachers leave boring worksheets or study time. But I find refereeing a room full of middle or high school students, with basically nothing to do for an hour and a half, offers more strain on my temperament than discovering a new subject and seeking a route to enhance both their learning and mine.

In the past few months, I've taught World History, Geography, French, English, Band, Theatre Arts, Algebra 2, Earth Science and Biology. I've learned, and hopefully passed on, some valuable material. But where have I spent most of my time? P.E. Physical Education. Picture a 53 year old women in the middle of a gym with 35 kids playing combat Dodge Ball. Not a problem, though. As the mother of three boys, I'm comfortable walking into a room with flying balls.

I'm requested often for PE. My friend at the YMCA gave me a whistle which I keep in my teacher bag. Comes in handy when the mom voice doesn't quite rise above the din in the gym.

If students become unruly in PE? I merely blow that whistle and say in a calm voice. "You guys aren't listening to me. Time to run."

As the kids run/walk/jog around me, tongues hanging to the floor, they ask how long they have to run. I look at my watch, then answer. "Until I get tired."

Works every time.

So, Latin. I go to school. Turns out I have my days wrong. My Latin assignment is on Friday. I blame menopause for the brain fade rather than stupidity. Like, didn't I look at the date of the job when I signed up? So thankful the women who work that front office are my age. They laughed with me, rather than at me.

Showing up for work, and then not having to? Almost like a Snow Day.

Until Friday then. Magister dixit. Carpe noctem.

What I Did on My Spring Break

Well, spring sprang. We've had our state of grace and our little gift of sanctioned madness, courtesy of Mother Nature. Thanks, Gaia. Much obliged. I guess it's time to get back to that daily routine of living we like to call normal.

David Assael

Remember this photo? And my post on my great housekeeper skills?

Tuesday, me and Ian - eight hours spent shoveling out the study where three boys have unwound and only spot cleaned for (dare I say?) years. Keep in mind, in the above picture you can't see all the junk (i.e. baseball uniforms, golf clubs, school work, old computer games and the boxes they arrived in, soda cans, underwear) lurking in the crevices beside the couch and computer - or the floor. Nor the mountains of dust on the books. I won't mention the old rug. The result?


Tell me it looks better. Please. I know it smells much better.

Also, youngest son is mad at me. After the first day of NCAA basketball playoffs, I'm 12 for 16. Ranked 143000 on ESPN. Told him when we picked our brackets not to mess with me. That I knew how to do this. He scoffed at my choices. Hmmmph. No scoffing going on today!

Also, spring has sprung in Texas. The Bradford Pears have been most beautiful.


Tomatoes once again planted, dauntless in memory of my previous thwarted attempts.
Cabbage salad soon available for dinner.

Had a pomegranate martini for lunch the other day -- and a nap in the afternoon.

With a clean study, a trip to the library, two miles swum at the YMCA, and 8 high school baseball games behind me, once more to the lake for the remaining two days of vacation, my copy of EB White's essays under my arm. Next week, back to work.

Dancing in the Night

renewal |riˈn(y)oōəl| noun

the action of extending the period of validity of a license, subscription, or contract : the contracts came up for renewal | a renewal of his passport. • an instance of resuming an activity or state after an interruption • the replacing or repair of something that is worn out, run-down, or broken

One evening when I was a little girl, like four, I became angry with my family. They were tickling and teasing me and I hated it. Cried. Packed my little pink suitcase and ran away from home.

I rang the doorbell at the neighbor's and the mom came to the door. I told her I was running away and asked if I could stay at her house. I remember her standing there, probably holding back a laugh, and saying that it wasn't a good night for her. She had company. That maybe if I came back the next day, there would be a place for me then.

That rejection only offered one other door to approach, one other home where I would have chosen to reside. Certainly not to the Greenlee house as they had a bunch of boys, and I couldn't cross the street by myself. I walked back past my own house to the Dunfee's on the other side. I knocked and knocked at their back door. No one answered. No one wanted me. I had to go home.

I don't recall what happened after that nor anyone teasing me for having run away. I imagine my humiliation of having to come home offered them an opportunity to let me return in peace. Or so I hope. But with my running away at that age, I set a course for myself. One I've come to depend upon.

Yesterday, I ran away from home. All the years of occasional upset with my husband, or needing to breathe while caught in the mire of raising three kids, or just life itself, an escape plan became necessary. Often a walk around the block sufficed, or a trip to the library, alone. Maybe a visit to the greenhouse to finger the delicacy of a new plant.

Often times I escaped to the safety of my women friends, to the comfort of their kitchens or conversations, sharing our woes or asking unanswerable questions about why life makes us have certain feelings at uncertain times.

I did that Thursday afternoon. After a sluggish swim at the YMCA, I gave up on attaining my normal mile and quit at 3/4 mile. While making phone calls to several friends to meet at the bar in 45 minutes, I knew that wasn't what I should be doing. That I had projects going at home that required my attention. But I simply did not want to do them. So I ran away to the bar to join four friends who all in a small window of notice, showed up for the companionship also.

I am most grateful for those women, but there is something in me when I get in these moods that also requires solitude.

Yesterday afternoon I ran away to my cabin at the lake -- a much appreciated haven for this soul of mine. A settling place for my wits, a privacy I seem to require every now and then. Should I have been at home to cover what was needed there in terms of motherhood and wifedom? Absolutely. But I wasn't.

Last night, I sat in my blue chair, cranked my Ipod as high as I wanted. I stared out the window at the lake, a few lights across lighting the water's edge. With a glass of wine, I sang out loud to my heart's content. Brown Sugar, The Freaker's Ball, Songbird, Dream a Little Dream of Me, Brand New Day, Field of Opportunity, Shining Star, Green River, Hernando's Hideaway, The Trouble with Love is, Revolution, Amie, The House is Rockin', Give up the Funk, I Wish, Highway to Hell, Voodoo Cadilac, Twist and Shout, Freeway of Love .... and on and on. Name that tune. I sang it last night.

I finished the evening seated in my chair with eyes closed. In my mind's eye, I wore the white satin ballerina outfit I wore when I was 12, complete with the flowing net of a long tutu , the music of Frederic Chopin's Les Syphides filling the cabin. This ballet has no plot - only the mystical movement of white clad dancers floating in the moonlight, just like me. Sleep arrived.

Never would I do that with others in the house. But, now I'm sung out, danced out. Need to pack my stuff and head home as soon as I finish this rambling post. We will gather as a family (less the Arizona boy) tonight to celebrate my oldest son's birthday. I will attend, truly happy to be with all of them. For the time I've spent alone has proffered the privacy I required. I've become accustomed to gathering it as quickly as I can.

This morning I made a new list in my journal of things I need to do, goals I need to set -- become more organized, better read and more rested. I have a plan. That's what running away does for me. I am thankful not only for those friends and the cabin which offers the solace, but for the night.

Running Interference

Insanity is often the logic of an accurate mind overtasked.

Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.

Between this new job, the YMCA, and high school baseball, my blog is going to hell. I so hope to catch up this weekend. With no desire to leave your visit here empty handed, here's a picture from a trip to Alaska last summer. It's a humpback whale waving hello. Oh, wait, that's me!

I get paid tomorrow. I plan to spend it on Sangria Margaritas at Jardin's.

Finding My Lane

English usage is sometimes more than mere taste, judgment and education -- sometimes it's sheer luck, like getting across the street.

E.B. White

You know how when you first get on the road with a long, long trip before you, and it takes a while to get comfortable in your seat? That time before you relax and find your line in the road as you’re trying to get out of the city? That’s where I am, although as of today, I’m on the outskirts of town, ready to roll.

The temporary job I have taken involves scoring high school assessment essays. Sort of a No Child Left Behind measure of student abilities. These essays, written by 11th grade students, require a passing mark to attain a diploma. An exit test, as it were. Top Secret stuff this is. I had to sign a Confidentiality Statement vowing not to discuss any of the essays I score. Considering the quality of work I’ve read thus far, forgetting them as fast as I can offers my only option for survival.

Last week, after being exposed to a variety of essays, I found myself appalled at the state of student writing. Took me two days before I decided my only chance for keeping the job was to turn off my brain. To close my editing mind and stop looking for strong verbs and good dialogue, not to mention complete sentences. I wrote on my rubric paper FORGET WHAT YOU KNOW - STAY IN THE BOX.

This paradigm seems to have helped. Friday they turned me loose to score away. Not sure if I’ve dumbed myself down or am better practiced at adapting to any situation after raising three boys. So far my only conversation with a supervisor came this morning when I was moved to another group. Apparently I scored high enough on the qualifying tests that I needed no further training. When we left today, my new supervisor said to others in my group “Did my messages help you see how to score that?” I looked around. We get messages? I didn’t get any.

I have so many topics I want to discuss, but I’m too tired. I’m making a list as I want to address this plight of the stay at home mom returning to work. And the middle—aged women now having to return to the economy after years of supporting their husband in their careers, or post divorce. The difficulties faced by the working woman--period, as well as my musings on all those alongside me in this temporary venture.

Meanwhile, I can tell you I have made it to the YMCA three nights out of five. Last week, 40 minutes on the elliptical aided in lowering my blood pressure while I pined over the state of the written word.

I’m beginning to think this job will be like driving across Nebraska on I-80—one long line where the road goes on forever and the exit ramp never comes.

Exercise is Absolutely an Ugly Word

When I feel like exercising, I just lie down until the feeling goes away.

Robert M. Hutchins

Long ago, way before the newspapers and magazines talked about it, I noticed Michelle Obama’s toned arms. I wondered. Was she one of those lucky people who had a body like that simply because some beefy god awarded it to her randomly? With no work required on her part?

Yesterday, the true answer arrived. I read she gets up at 5:30am to work out. Crap! What a message that sends. I don’t know about you, but exercise and I don’t click early in the morning. In fact, if I ever find myself getting out of bed early to go to the YMCA, someone please slap me. For it will mean I’m living someone else’s life or something too strange has altered my normal makeup. I can’t handle that much change.

I am so not a morning person. But I am an exercise person. My brain tells me that it is good for me, therefore, I do it. But I hail to the Flabby Arm Club.

I've tried to ditch that group, to no avail. Last December, a fellow member of the arm club and I marched from the bar to the Y and signed up for eight sessions with a personal trainer. I’ve dabbled in exercise through the years, even did the Danskin Triathlon in 1997 (where I finished the ½ mile swim in 19 minutes, thank you very much.) But, excuse me, where you actually have to exercise while someone stands beside you saying “Only eight more and 500 sets left” doesn’t compare with a Sangria Margarita at Jardine’s.

Needless to say, my midlife world has put some weight on me. Yet after three months and a dedicated effort at this exercise gig, I can honestly say that so far I’ve gained four pounds. Working for me, wouldn’t you say?

Two to three times a week I lift weights and two to three times weekly I either swim a mile, sprint on the elliptical machine, or aqua jog. A measurement a month ago said I had lost 4 ¾ inches.

Do I look any different? No.

Do my pants fit better? No.

Are my boobs smaller? Of course.

But I remained undeterred. Surely my heart must be healthier. And somewhere under these lumpy body parts, there must be some muscles. Right?

RIGHT?

Which brings in an entirely different discussion. Starting next week I begin working 8-5. Getting my ass out of bed, dressed with hair combed and teeth brushed is going to be an exercise in itself. Tell me how I keep my dates at the Y? I’m thinking I need to drive there directly from work. But my life doesn’t always allow for nightly exercise. i.e. people to feed, baseball games to attend, other mom/wife/friend/life activities.

Anyone want to share their methods for work, toned arms and gut? Please, I already see that getting up at 5:30 is a good answer. Ain’t my thing. I’m still trying to figure out how to get to sleep before 2am so I can get out of the house by 7:15. All suggestions considered.