The signing was delayed until 2:30. Then it was pushed to 4 pm and they still weren't ready for us. However, we are happy to finally announce that, as of 5 pm this evening, we are first time homeowners. My first car and my first house all in a weeks time - what a grown up I'm becoming! We went out for supper to celebrate not getting writer's cramp from all the pages we signed but it was actually kind of a downer. See, the catch is that while while everything is signed, we can't officially take possession until the money clears the bank. Of course, no one is really sure when that will happen but we are crossing our fingers it will happen by Thursday.
That still leaves me 9 whole days to repaint, tear out carpet, move, unpack, plan a birthday and then get ready for Christmas. Did I mention that half the family is sick? Or that Donald is also writing papers and working crazy, holiday hours? No problem for this retired Navy wife.
Right?
I think all I want for Christmas this year is a replenishing stock of sticky notes and a glass of wine.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
My First Car!
Every kid dreams of turning sixteen and getting their own car. Birthday, driver's license and car. They go together like peanut butter, jelly and milk. I did the birthday and got the license; as the old Meatloaf song says, "Two out three ain't bad." I had to be content with first driving my parent's beige, huge, early 80's, Chrysler New Yorker. Keep in mind, I got my license in the summer of 1989. My boyfriend called it the One-Eyed Beast because it had headlights that popped up but only one of them worked, giving the appearance of a wink. The next year my parents "upgraded" to an even bigger, 70's something, Ford LTD station wagon. Yes, complete with wood panelling down the side and the extra seats that folded down in the "way back" as my mom termed it. My friends called that one the Party Wagon because you could pack, well, let's just say A Lot Of People in it. The exact number will remain a secret because my mother reads this blog! She's too young for a heart attack! Love you, Mom!
I went off to college and never bought a car. Didn't need one. My school had everything I needed on campus. Besides, my mother mailed me a care package every single week freshman year. Her cookies made me a big hit with the football team! My roommate had a car and I borrowed it if I needed it.
Then I got married. Donald had a baby blue, two door Subaru which eventually gave out on a deserted highway in Montana on our way home for Christmas break. We were obliged to wait in a strangers house for five hours while my father in law came to save us. I was sick as a dog and there were ferrets. That's about all I remember. I do know the car sat in the same spot for nearly a decade before someone got rid of it.
Donald and I have had numerous vehicles since then. The coolest was a tiny Honda Prelude his dad gave us after the Subaru fiasco. The worst was a short stint with a Dodge Caravan mini van; we swore off mini vans forever after that experience. With all the cars we've owned, I've never had one that was just mine. Shoot, I don't even think my name has ever been on a title.
Today, I went for three out of three. At 38, I now have my very first car. Her name is Penny (as in "Mini Penny"- come on 007 fans!) and she is a 1983 Austin Mini, which makes her the exact age of my little brother. 6,100 original miles! She is even a Right Side Drive, a true British import! I fell in love with Minis on my first trip to England. Donald photographed me standing next to random Minis all over the country! The fact that her heater needs some work and her wipers gave out on the 60 mile drive home in a thick blanket of fog does not tarnish my excitement. The boys are pretty stoked too; they can't wait to be old enough to drive her! They can drive her but I already let them know that they, too, may be 38 before they get a car of their own!
I went off to college and never bought a car. Didn't need one. My school had everything I needed on campus. Besides, my mother mailed me a care package every single week freshman year. Her cookies made me a big hit with the football team! My roommate had a car and I borrowed it if I needed it.
Then I got married. Donald had a baby blue, two door Subaru which eventually gave out on a deserted highway in Montana on our way home for Christmas break. We were obliged to wait in a strangers house for five hours while my father in law came to save us. I was sick as a dog and there were ferrets. That's about all I remember. I do know the car sat in the same spot for nearly a decade before someone got rid of it.
Donald and I have had numerous vehicles since then. The coolest was a tiny Honda Prelude his dad gave us after the Subaru fiasco. The worst was a short stint with a Dodge Caravan mini van; we swore off mini vans forever after that experience. With all the cars we've owned, I've never had one that was just mine. Shoot, I don't even think my name has ever been on a title.
Today, I went for three out of three. At 38, I now have my very first car. Her name is Penny (as in "Mini Penny"- come on 007 fans!) and she is a 1983 Austin Mini, which makes her the exact age of my little brother. 6,100 original miles! She is even a Right Side Drive, a true British import! I fell in love with Minis on my first trip to England. Donald photographed me standing next to random Minis all over the country! The fact that her heater needs some work and her wipers gave out on the 60 mile drive home in a thick blanket of fog does not tarnish my excitement. The boys are pretty stoked too; they can't wait to be old enough to drive her! They can drive her but I already let them know that they, too, may be 38 before they get a car of their own!
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Closing Update
I don't mind nit picking when I am the nit picker. I thrive on nit picky, especially when it involves spotting spelling errors on public signage. When I am on the receiving end of nit picky, it's not so fun. Must be what my husband feels like, living with me!
We finally got word of the VA appraisal on late on Thursday. The appraiser noticed some peeling paint on a couple of windows. He is requiring that all the paint be scraped, repainted and all paint chips removed.
This is all that is preventing me from moving out of my RV. Seems like an easy fix, right? I'd go do it myself if they would let me. Except that it has to be a contractor. And then an order has to be sent to get the appraiser to go back, for another fee, of course, and verify that the work has been done. Then three or four more days, minimum, for the appraiser to file his report. Then, maybe, just maybe, the loan processor will produce all the needed closing paperwork.
Have I mentioned how much I love it when my life's details are being handled by invisible, unreachable, anonymous people? Since we have nothing solid to go on, we don't have a new closing date yet. Probably just as well, for my mental well-being!
We finally got word of the VA appraisal on late on Thursday. The appraiser noticed some peeling paint on a couple of windows. He is requiring that all the paint be scraped, repainted and all paint chips removed.
This is all that is preventing me from moving out of my RV. Seems like an easy fix, right? I'd go do it myself if they would let me. Except that it has to be a contractor. And then an order has to be sent to get the appraiser to go back, for another fee, of course, and verify that the work has been done. Then three or four more days, minimum, for the appraiser to file his report. Then, maybe, just maybe, the loan processor will produce all the needed closing paperwork.
Have I mentioned how much I love it when my life's details are being handled by invisible, unreachable, anonymous people? Since we have nothing solid to go on, we don't have a new closing date yet. Probably just as well, for my mental well-being!
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
I'm Overdue!
My eldest was born promptly on his due date, which, due to my proclivities toward punctuality and tidiness, caused no end of merriment among my friends and co-workers. My youngest, thankfully, arrived a few days early rather than on his predicted date of Christmas Eve. Better early than late, I always say. If I ever felt smug over my punctual and early babies, I send abject apologies out into the universe to anyone who has ever been overdue. All this to say, I don't know what being overdue actually feels like. But today, I have Pretty Good Idea.
Today is our Closing On the House Day. Except that we aren't. We've done all that's required. The seller has already moved out and has rented a place in Nevada. This whole process has gone so quickly and smoothly that I'm a bit surprised at this last minute hiccup. No one really knows what is holding up the process. The appraisal went to some mystical underwriting department over a week ago but no one knows why it hasn't come back yet. No one has any idea when it will come back either. Emails have been sent with no responses. This falls into the category of Things That Make You Go, Hmmmmm.
So here I sit, in my 250 ft of space. It's been raining pretty much nonstop for several weeks now. Every time there is a 45 second break in the weather I herd my children and dogs outside because fresh is good for them. Having them out of my space is good for me. I send them outside so often their shoes are probably going to mildew because they never get a chance to dry out! Today has mostly been dry. Correspondingly, the boys have mostly been outside!
This must be a little like being overdue. I'm both excited and grumpy. I've been patient but now I'm Done. The long awaited date has arrived and is nearly over with no sign of activity. Will it be tomorrow? Will it be Friday? Next week? Please, Please not another month. I've been awake since 3 and I'm definitely tired because I haven't slept well in days. Yet, like the advent of a newborn, I know I won't sleep after the closing because I'll be too busy painting, tearing out carpet and unpacking. Oh, let's not forget about the upcoming birthday as well as Christmas. I plan on sleeping sometime in January.
Keep an eye out for the final announcement. Just like pregnancy, it has to end sometime. Right?
Today is our Closing On the House Day. Except that we aren't. We've done all that's required. The seller has already moved out and has rented a place in Nevada. This whole process has gone so quickly and smoothly that I'm a bit surprised at this last minute hiccup. No one really knows what is holding up the process. The appraisal went to some mystical underwriting department over a week ago but no one knows why it hasn't come back yet. No one has any idea when it will come back either. Emails have been sent with no responses. This falls into the category of Things That Make You Go, Hmmmmm.
So here I sit, in my 250 ft of space. It's been raining pretty much nonstop for several weeks now. Every time there is a 45 second break in the weather I herd my children and dogs outside because fresh is good for them. Having them out of my space is good for me. I send them outside so often their shoes are probably going to mildew because they never get a chance to dry out! Today has mostly been dry. Correspondingly, the boys have mostly been outside!
This must be a little like being overdue. I'm both excited and grumpy. I've been patient but now I'm Done. The long awaited date has arrived and is nearly over with no sign of activity. Will it be tomorrow? Will it be Friday? Next week? Please, Please not another month. I've been awake since 3 and I'm definitely tired because I haven't slept well in days. Yet, like the advent of a newborn, I know I won't sleep after the closing because I'll be too busy painting, tearing out carpet and unpacking. Oh, let's not forget about the upcoming birthday as well as Christmas. I plan on sleeping sometime in January.
Keep an eye out for the final announcement. Just like pregnancy, it has to end sometime. Right?
Friday, November 25, 2011
Why I'm Thankful for Harry Potter
I consider myself an Accidental Homeschooler. Teaching my children at home, abandoning any hope of personal free time, wearing the mother hat at the same time as the teacher hat. None of these ever factored into my vision as I contemplated the educational future of my boys. In fact, I distinctly recall having a fairly heated discussion with a parishioner in small town, conservative Nebraska when #1 was the ripe old age of about six months. Still fairly new to the church, I guess not everyone had figured me out yet. So the parishioner, a homeschooling parent, asks me if I intend to homeschool.
My first thought was: "Good Lord, I'd just like to get him out of diapers!" However, instead of a smart aleck remark, I sensibly responded, "Oh, gosh No! I have a teaching degree and I'm a firm believer in public school."
What I thought was a conversation between me and one other person turned out to involve half the room as heads swung in my direction like I'd just announced that I intended to drop my kid out a window. There was a fair amount of gasping, as I recall. Well, the conversation was pretty much over from my end as the gaspers tried to convince me I was wrong. Having an infant is a really good excuse to get out of a lot of things and I'm pretty sure I decided that #1 needed an immediate diaper change. Or feeding. Or a kindergarten enrollment form.
Being blessed with stick-to-it-iveness, I happily sent my kids off to kindergarten when the time came. By the time #1 was in third grade, it was his third school, in two different countries, two different states. Six weeks into the school year he was miserable because of a bullying situation. Crying every night, "Please, Mama, don't make me go back tomorrow." I was enjoying my first year of having both kids out of the house full time. I had a dissertation to write, half marathons to run and I planned on making full use of all my child free hours. Meanwhile, #2 was in first grade and he was coming home every night with quite a shocking vocabulary and many in depth questions about sex. Not to mention getting kicked off the bus because an older boy punched him and he punched him back. And getting pink slips for jumping in the rain puddle. And pink slips for not sitting quietly with his hands folded during music.
I was re-reading Dobson's Bringing Up Boys at the time. It's hugely informative regarding male mental and physical development and firmly establishes, the feminist movement notwithstanding, the differences between boys and girls. Dobson addresses school in a particularly useful chapter and the basic idea is that school is not designed for boys. At all. Dobson also addresses bullying. He doesn't denigrate public school but simply thinks that if you can educate your kids at home, it's probably best. As I read the chapter I began thinking, "Well, we are only stationed here for a year. Maybe I could give it a try. After all, I do have a degree in this stuff and I'm not using it."
I mulled it over for three weeks until I mentioned it to Donald, whose jaw, very predictably, dropped. Later that afternoon he agreed it might be worth a try. With that, we were off. Three years later we are still attending the School of the Kitchen Table, even though that table is presently in an RV.
Most of the time school goes really well. The boys get everything done in a few hours and usually by lunch time they are free to play, which, in my opinion, is a huge advantage. My kids get to still be kids. They have extracurricular activities but it doesn't all have to be squeezed in between 4 and 7 every night. They also get to study what interests them. They don't always want to do their arithmetic but they are both a year ahead of their actual grade so it can't be all bad. They insisted on learning German so we worked that into the curriculum. I'm slowly teaching them Latin because I think it has huge value on their grammar skills. We are doing a pretty in depth anatomy course this year. Being an English teacher to my soul, I throw in poetry memorization but give them some choice in the poems. We go through history chronologically, linking events from all over the world in the same time period. We are up to the mid 1600's and are studying the Plague and the Great Fire of London. I'll probably show them the Monty Python clip: "Bring out Yer Dead!" We also do about an hour and a half a day of required reading. I decide what is read during this time as it usually pertains to our history. They spend a lot of time reading on their own too.
Both boys have read their way through the seven book Harry Potter series. #2 is on his second time through. #1 did not learn to read easily but when he did, he took off and flew through reading levels like crazy. His reading level is early college but his love of comic books does not often reflect this. #2 learned to read easily (I'll never forget his excitement about sounding out B-O-O-K from a Cheerio's box one morning) but has, until Harry Potter, been a reluctant reader because reading requires that you sit still. Reading through the Harry Potter series has given him the confidence he needs to sit through the required reading that I hand him. He knows from experience that even if he wouldn't have checked it out from the library, it will probably be interesting and he really does have the ability to sit still long enough to digest it.
Because of the whole sitting still requirement, #2 is also a reluctant writer. Last week he had to write, Oh Horrors, two informative paragraphs for language arts. Best handwriting, capital letters, punctuation, no run-ons or fragments, subject/predicate in every sentence. You'll remember that type of thing. The text book offered four topic sentences. He discarded every one with much complaining. "It's boring, it will take too long, I don't know how to do it." Blah, Blah, Blah. Suddenly his eyes perked up. "Can I write about Harry Potter?" My first inclination, which I quickly reigned in, was to say, "No, just do what the book says." It's the curse of being an inveterate rule follower. Instead of squashing his inspiration (which I do enough as it is) I calmly asked him to walk me through what he wanted to write. That child beautifully, eloquently, intently wrote two descriptive paragraphs about how to play Quidditch. It took him a good thirty minutes. If I had previously told him he would be writing for thirty minutes he would have called Child Protective Services. Giving him the chance to write about something "interesting" has shown us both that not only is he merely capable of writing, he can do a excellent job.
I'm not always thankful for homeschooling. Lots of days have me searching the internet to see what schooling options are available. Moments like the Quidditch essay help me recall why I am thankful for homeschooling. I don't always, but I can, bend and flex to make school more palatable for the boys. I am thankful for Harry Potter not only being such a creative and entertaining series for me and my children but because it is has proved such a beneficial vehicle for bringing out the best in a reluctant reader/writer.
My first thought was: "Good Lord, I'd just like to get him out of diapers!" However, instead of a smart aleck remark, I sensibly responded, "Oh, gosh No! I have a teaching degree and I'm a firm believer in public school."
What I thought was a conversation between me and one other person turned out to involve half the room as heads swung in my direction like I'd just announced that I intended to drop my kid out a window. There was a fair amount of gasping, as I recall. Well, the conversation was pretty much over from my end as the gaspers tried to convince me I was wrong. Having an infant is a really good excuse to get out of a lot of things and I'm pretty sure I decided that #1 needed an immediate diaper change. Or feeding. Or a kindergarten enrollment form.
Being blessed with stick-to-it-iveness, I happily sent my kids off to kindergarten when the time came. By the time #1 was in third grade, it was his third school, in two different countries, two different states. Six weeks into the school year he was miserable because of a bullying situation. Crying every night, "Please, Mama, don't make me go back tomorrow." I was enjoying my first year of having both kids out of the house full time. I had a dissertation to write, half marathons to run and I planned on making full use of all my child free hours. Meanwhile, #2 was in first grade and he was coming home every night with quite a shocking vocabulary and many in depth questions about sex. Not to mention getting kicked off the bus because an older boy punched him and he punched him back. And getting pink slips for jumping in the rain puddle. And pink slips for not sitting quietly with his hands folded during music.
I was re-reading Dobson's Bringing Up Boys at the time. It's hugely informative regarding male mental and physical development and firmly establishes, the feminist movement notwithstanding, the differences between boys and girls. Dobson addresses school in a particularly useful chapter and the basic idea is that school is not designed for boys. At all. Dobson also addresses bullying. He doesn't denigrate public school but simply thinks that if you can educate your kids at home, it's probably best. As I read the chapter I began thinking, "Well, we are only stationed here for a year. Maybe I could give it a try. After all, I do have a degree in this stuff and I'm not using it."
I mulled it over for three weeks until I mentioned it to Donald, whose jaw, very predictably, dropped. Later that afternoon he agreed it might be worth a try. With that, we were off. Three years later we are still attending the School of the Kitchen Table, even though that table is presently in an RV.
Most of the time school goes really well. The boys get everything done in a few hours and usually by lunch time they are free to play, which, in my opinion, is a huge advantage. My kids get to still be kids. They have extracurricular activities but it doesn't all have to be squeezed in between 4 and 7 every night. They also get to study what interests them. They don't always want to do their arithmetic but they are both a year ahead of their actual grade so it can't be all bad. They insisted on learning German so we worked that into the curriculum. I'm slowly teaching them Latin because I think it has huge value on their grammar skills. We are doing a pretty in depth anatomy course this year. Being an English teacher to my soul, I throw in poetry memorization but give them some choice in the poems. We go through history chronologically, linking events from all over the world in the same time period. We are up to the mid 1600's and are studying the Plague and the Great Fire of London. I'll probably show them the Monty Python clip: "Bring out Yer Dead!" We also do about an hour and a half a day of required reading. I decide what is read during this time as it usually pertains to our history. They spend a lot of time reading on their own too.
Both boys have read their way through the seven book Harry Potter series. #2 is on his second time through. #1 did not learn to read easily but when he did, he took off and flew through reading levels like crazy. His reading level is early college but his love of comic books does not often reflect this. #2 learned to read easily (I'll never forget his excitement about sounding out B-O-O-K from a Cheerio's box one morning) but has, until Harry Potter, been a reluctant reader because reading requires that you sit still. Reading through the Harry Potter series has given him the confidence he needs to sit through the required reading that I hand him. He knows from experience that even if he wouldn't have checked it out from the library, it will probably be interesting and he really does have the ability to sit still long enough to digest it.
Because of the whole sitting still requirement, #2 is also a reluctant writer. Last week he had to write, Oh Horrors, two informative paragraphs for language arts. Best handwriting, capital letters, punctuation, no run-ons or fragments, subject/predicate in every sentence. You'll remember that type of thing. The text book offered four topic sentences. He discarded every one with much complaining. "It's boring, it will take too long, I don't know how to do it." Blah, Blah, Blah. Suddenly his eyes perked up. "Can I write about Harry Potter?" My first inclination, which I quickly reigned in, was to say, "No, just do what the book says." It's the curse of being an inveterate rule follower. Instead of squashing his inspiration (which I do enough as it is) I calmly asked him to walk me through what he wanted to write. That child beautifully, eloquently, intently wrote two descriptive paragraphs about how to play Quidditch. It took him a good thirty minutes. If I had previously told him he would be writing for thirty minutes he would have called Child Protective Services. Giving him the chance to write about something "interesting" has shown us both that not only is he merely capable of writing, he can do a excellent job.
I'm not always thankful for homeschooling. Lots of days have me searching the internet to see what schooling options are available. Moments like the Quidditch essay help me recall why I am thankful for homeschooling. I don't always, but I can, bend and flex to make school more palatable for the boys. I am thankful for Harry Potter not only being such a creative and entertaining series for me and my children but because it is has proved such a beneficial vehicle for bringing out the best in a reluctant reader/writer.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
The Chance to Dream
Do you know anyone who has made a dream come true? Or perhaps someone in the process of making a dream come true? I'm talking about the kind of soul changing dream that no one but the dreamer could possibly imagine. It's fairly well established that personally speaking, I'm not much of a dreamer. I get too wrapped up in the practicalities. My longest term dream is to have a publisher pay me obscene amounts of money to live in a quiet village in England, not too far from the local pub, and write best sellers. I won't even start on the practicalities of that scenario.
I know someone who dreams big. Not only does she dream bigger than anyone I know, she has moved the hearts of many, many people to jump in her dream, actually making it happen. Let me tell you about my friend Tana and her dream.
Within five minutes of meeting Tana, back in 2006, I figured out that we are polar opposites but that she is someone I really wanted to be friends with. Tana is an incredibly artsy, free spirited, fun loving woman who has the most amazing head of long, naturally curly hair. When the opportunity came for a bunch of us to run a 15K race, her idea of a training plan was a few deep knee bends, a wad of chew and a can of Rock Star about 30 minutes before the starting gun. She ran the whole dang thing! She also makes a mean margarita. Oh, wait, I make the mean margarita and she drinks them, while free spiritedly lounging in my hammock! But let's get back on track. A former policewoman, Tana fronts a combination tough cop/surfer girl exterior but she is a quiet giver at heart. When a good friend of ours was diagnosed with breast cancer at age 40, Tana put her jewelry making skills in action and designed necklaces for us all to wear in support. Tana doesn't just smile, she has these amazing crinkly lines around her eyes that make her sparkle.
As further evidence of her giving spirit, Tana has three gorgeous children, all adopted from Guatemala before that country so sadly shut down its adoptions. She has worked with several organizations over the years, previously assisting with international adoptions, translation and now, flying to Guatemala twice a year to take medical and school supplies and teach English. In the last couple of years Tana's heart has become overwhelmed with all the kids she meets whose own dream is to simply attend school.
Think about that for a minute. When was the last time you met a kid who just wanted to go to school? Shoot, my kids are home schooled and all they can talk about is the weekend! I don't know about you but I have never met a kid who just wanted to go to school. Even harder to contemplate is a country where school isn't compulsory. Guatemala provides school only through the sixth grade. Middle school is often too cost prohibitive because most families can barely afford to eat. If there is more than one child in the family, forget it.
Being a giver and dreamer is dangerous; things get done. Tana started a non profit organization a year or so ago called The Chance to Dream which provides exactly that: a chance for Guatemalan kids to dream of going to school. However, the ability to make those dreams happen cannot come from Tana alone. I have no doubt that she would eat PB&J every day if it would help each Guatemalan kid get to school but that's neither wise nor practical (much like her 15K training program). There I go again!
Giving Guatemalan kids a chance comes from those of us who have jumped into Tana's dream. The cost of sending a kid to school in Guatemala is ridiculously low compared to what it costs an American kid. Recall what you may have spent the last time you outfitted an American kid for a year of school with clothes, supplies and lunch money. Even though I don't buy back-to-school clothes or provide lunch money, home schooling is still expensive. The grand total of $210 is all it takes to give a Guatemalan kid The Chance to Dream. Tana knows nearly everyone of the kids in the program and she did a bang up job this year of personally taking their photos and writing up a bio to send to each sponsor. This is not a non profit with dozens of staff. It's mostly Tana, her computer, her telephone and couple of other volunteers. The overhead is not that great (translation: Tana doesn't get paid) so all the money goes directly to support the students and the only teacher, Pedro. Pedro not only teaches full time but also is the sole administrator for the "kind of hammered together" wooden school. Pedro's administrative duties include trekking through the mountains and fields to locate students who should be in school and to meet with parents. He also has successfully coordinated the parents and the students with regular meetings so that everyone feels like they are on the same team, sharing the same goal. Not an easy task when the parents are terribly intimidated by the idea of education.
One of the best stories Tana shared with me last summer is about Sebastian. Tana's uncle supported Sebastian all through high school, long before The Chance to Dream was a reality. Sebastian is now a university student and next year he will pay it forward by working for The Chance to Dream as a part time teacher in Pedro's school, thereby utilizing his education while at the same time allowing Pedro to focus more on administratively running the school and trekking the hills.
This is the heart of The Chance To Dream. Sense Tana's passion: "If these kids don't get an education it is highly likely they will never get past just making enough money to eat. Giving them an education gives them the choice to do something other than use a machete or have a baby. Everyone deserves to be able to pick up a book and enrich their lives. If you can't read, you can't do that."
My family proudly believes in Tana's dream by supporting two boys, one of whom is graduating middle school this week and moving on to high school. The other, at age 18, is technically too old for middle school but so desperately wanted to attend. This shy, 18 year old man is sitting in a classroom with far younger kids because he sees it as a chance to change his stars. There are many other Guatemalan kids wanting an education. If you need further inspiration, check out The Chance to Dream at the link provided below. There are many stories on the site as well as opportunities for giving. Perhaps you can give a kid The Chance to Dream.
http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Chance-to-Dream/203392046346997
http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Chance-to-Dream/203392046346997
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Today, I have a free Saturday yawning ahead of me. I haven't had one since the first week of September. Because of the rain my boss at the orchard told me, and I quote, "stay home and party." I sensibly went for a run instead. Lest you think me either truly dedicated or just plain crazy, I managed to squeeze the run in during a mist, rather than a downpour.
Since living in Washington, Saturday mornings have always been my inviolable running time. Saturdays have always been the one day in the week I can count on for whatever mileage I need. Working in the orchard has put a crimp in my running schedule but as apples are thinning out on the trees and the rain is coming like clockwork, I sense my working days are shortly numbered, indeed. Which is great for my brain.
No, I didn't lose the thread of this blog. Running is as good for my brain as it is for the rest of me. Probably better, actually. I don't run because I love to sweat and breathe hard. There are other, er, more pleasant activities for that. Ahem. I don't run because I need to lose 20 pounds. I don't run because I need to say that I'm a runner. I run because it is the one thing I can do to really empty my brain, my heart, my soul. There is a huge freedom in letting my legs go on autopilot as my lungs fill and empty with clean air and my brain is left to take a mental bubble bath.
I can't think of one crisis in my life that wasn't made a little easier by going for a run. Generally speaking, the bigger the crisis the longer the run. I'm completely aware that my taking up half marathons has a direct correlation to Donald's PTSD. I am comfortable in my own skin and with my own silence. I don't need to come back from a run with all my problems solved; that rarely happens to me. I just need to come home with my brain unfogged, ready to face the problem that remains. My family is fully aware and supportive of my need. One day last summer, during what I've affectionately come to think of as the Summer from Hell, on a particularly awful morning, my husband held me as I sobbed and his only words were, "You need to go running." With various bodily fluids dripping from the holes in my face, I took his advice. I came home with all the moisture evaporated. Several nights ago my youngest came in the bedroom where I was tucked in bed, reading, and said, "Mama, I encourage you to get up early tomorrow and go for a run." Must have been a worse day than even I thought!
Sometimes when I run I do get flashes of brilliance that I often turn into a blog. The mental bubble bath becomes more like mental speech bubbles. Little blips and fragments of semi-schizo conversation. Take this morning, for instance. There I was, three miles in, and feeling blissfully relaxed and empty. Suddenly a little bubble floated up and popped.
"Six months." Okay, I give up. Six months what?
Another floaty bubble. "Your typical six month time frame."
Ahhhh, yes. My six months. Now I knew what I was talking about. (See what I mean by semi-schizo?) Years ago I noticed a pattern in my life. I now call it the Six Month Time Frame. Six months is typically how long it takes me to settle in to a new location and really begin to make it my own. Six months is about how long it takes me to decide where I want to invest my friendship, where I want to be involved in at church, where I want my kids to hang out, where my runs will take me on a regular basis, where I prefer to shop and when. Six months is about how long it takes me to assume something like a normal life after the upheaval of another move, which, if you total all the moves in my life they nearly equal my age; at 38 that number seems utterly ridiculous. This pattern reestablishes itself time and time again, so I feel confident that it's just my own personality design. I do know plenty of people who jump straight in, eyes shut, and arms open. A shaker and mover in this area, I am not.
We've been in Salem 7 months. It's just been since September that I sense we are building what passes for a normal American life. We moved to Salem with two sets of friends in place and between them they have succeeded in introducing us to people who are becoming not only our small group but also our community. The house we are buying is located just blocks away from most of them. Our church is the first thing we established here and the people there have been so welcoming. There is even one older lady who has "adopted" our boys because she only has granddaughters and she doesn't get to see them very often. Having jobs has further established our sense of belonging and having a house of our own, one that doesn't rock with the wind, will be the icing on the settling-in cake.
I'm often surprised by where my running will mentally take me. An innocent speech bubble catalyzed a tremendous sense of calm and well being, a sense of "I belong." I also find that well being is accompanied simultaneously with gratitude. Now, armed with those dual pistols, I must figure out what to do with the rest of the day!
Since living in Washington, Saturday mornings have always been my inviolable running time. Saturdays have always been the one day in the week I can count on for whatever mileage I need. Working in the orchard has put a crimp in my running schedule but as apples are thinning out on the trees and the rain is coming like clockwork, I sense my working days are shortly numbered, indeed. Which is great for my brain.
No, I didn't lose the thread of this blog. Running is as good for my brain as it is for the rest of me. Probably better, actually. I don't run because I love to sweat and breathe hard. There are other, er, more pleasant activities for that. Ahem. I don't run because I need to lose 20 pounds. I don't run because I need to say that I'm a runner. I run because it is the one thing I can do to really empty my brain, my heart, my soul. There is a huge freedom in letting my legs go on autopilot as my lungs fill and empty with clean air and my brain is left to take a mental bubble bath.
I can't think of one crisis in my life that wasn't made a little easier by going for a run. Generally speaking, the bigger the crisis the longer the run. I'm completely aware that my taking up half marathons has a direct correlation to Donald's PTSD. I am comfortable in my own skin and with my own silence. I don't need to come back from a run with all my problems solved; that rarely happens to me. I just need to come home with my brain unfogged, ready to face the problem that remains. My family is fully aware and supportive of my need. One day last summer, during what I've affectionately come to think of as the Summer from Hell, on a particularly awful morning, my husband held me as I sobbed and his only words were, "You need to go running." With various bodily fluids dripping from the holes in my face, I took his advice. I came home with all the moisture evaporated. Several nights ago my youngest came in the bedroom where I was tucked in bed, reading, and said, "Mama, I encourage you to get up early tomorrow and go for a run." Must have been a worse day than even I thought!
Sometimes when I run I do get flashes of brilliance that I often turn into a blog. The mental bubble bath becomes more like mental speech bubbles. Little blips and fragments of semi-schizo conversation. Take this morning, for instance. There I was, three miles in, and feeling blissfully relaxed and empty. Suddenly a little bubble floated up and popped.
"Six months." Okay, I give up. Six months what?
Another floaty bubble. "Your typical six month time frame."
Ahhhh, yes. My six months. Now I knew what I was talking about. (See what I mean by semi-schizo?) Years ago I noticed a pattern in my life. I now call it the Six Month Time Frame. Six months is typically how long it takes me to settle in to a new location and really begin to make it my own. Six months is about how long it takes me to decide where I want to invest my friendship, where I want to be involved in at church, where I want my kids to hang out, where my runs will take me on a regular basis, where I prefer to shop and when. Six months is about how long it takes me to assume something like a normal life after the upheaval of another move, which, if you total all the moves in my life they nearly equal my age; at 38 that number seems utterly ridiculous. This pattern reestablishes itself time and time again, so I feel confident that it's just my own personality design. I do know plenty of people who jump straight in, eyes shut, and arms open. A shaker and mover in this area, I am not.
We've been in Salem 7 months. It's just been since September that I sense we are building what passes for a normal American life. We moved to Salem with two sets of friends in place and between them they have succeeded in introducing us to people who are becoming not only our small group but also our community. The house we are buying is located just blocks away from most of them. Our church is the first thing we established here and the people there have been so welcoming. There is even one older lady who has "adopted" our boys because she only has granddaughters and she doesn't get to see them very often. Having jobs has further established our sense of belonging and having a house of our own, one that doesn't rock with the wind, will be the icing on the settling-in cake.
I'm often surprised by where my running will mentally take me. An innocent speech bubble catalyzed a tremendous sense of calm and well being, a sense of "I belong." I also find that well being is accompanied simultaneously with gratitude. Now, armed with those dual pistols, I must figure out what to do with the rest of the day!
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