Broken for You

Thank you, thank you to my book club friends for introducing me to the novel Broken for You by Stephanie Kallos. What an amazing read. I stayed up late last night to finish it, then couldn't sleep afterward.

I enjoyed the tiny little things, like the odd change in perspective (the narrator brings the reader into the novel occationally by using "you," an unusual but interesting approach) and the well-placed quotes which caused me to stop and think: "Whether the stone hits the pitcher, or the pitcher hits the stone, it's going to be hard for the pitcher."

Even more, I enjoyed the big things--the integration of the Hollocaust and remembering those who lost their lives there; the ecclectic mix of characters, and the way their lives were intertwined (sometimes without the characters' knowledge); the relationships that develop in the novel, unpredicatable, necessary, lovely.

And, of course, to me, the main point:

Look then at the faces and bodies of people you love. The explicit beauty that comes not from the smoothness of skin or neutrality of espression, but from the web of experiences that has left its mark. Each face, each body is its own living fossilized record. A record of cats, combatants, difficult births; of accidents, cruelties, blessings. Reminders of folly, greeed indiscretion, impatience. A moment of time, of memory, preserved, internalized, and enshrined within and upon the body. You need not be told that these records are what render your beloved beautiful. If God exists, He is there, in the small, cast-off pieces, rough and random and no two alike.

Home again, home again, jiggity jig

Why is it we can go to the most amazing places on earth, yet still yearn to come home again after only a short stay?

Matt kissed the house when he got out of the car last evening. Excited to be home? Obviously. Most of us are after a stay away. But this kid was coming home from Disneyworld...

We had an amazing trip, despite lost luggage, freezing (Florida) temperatures, and various layovers. Both Disneyworld and Universal Studios Orlando helped us create great memories.

There is a Girl Inside

by Lucille Clifton

there is a girl inside.

she is randy as a wolf.

she will not walk away

and leave these bones

to an old woman.

she is a green tree

in a forest of kindling.

she is a green girl

in a used poet.

she has waited

patient as a nun

for the second coming,

when she can break through gray hairs

into blossom

and her lovers will harvest

honey and thyme

and the woods will be wild

with the damn wonder of it.

Baseball Boo Boos

When the kids were a couple of years younger, we were lucky enough to have them on the same "little guy" baseball team. It was fabulous...only one schedule for practices and games, and all of that time to sit back and reflect on how clever we were to have them both in the same program.

As most parents do, we got sucked in to the parent-as-coach world and ended up running the team. My husband, Ryan, coached, and because I couldn't throw a baseball as far as my then 6-year-old son, I was the team mom (read: book keeper, band-aid carrier, bag girl). As coaching gigs go, it wasn't too shabby. A group of 6 and 7 year old boys (and one 8-year-old girl) can test the fortitude of a single mom, but not the armor of the united Dad and Mom army. We were invincible. Snotty noses, lost mitts, and boo boos were no match for this pair.

As we were just finishing up the season, Ryan was coaching from behind the batter (rookie move) when, as luck would have it, a foul ball bounced right into his face...

We were scheduled to leave for Kauaii three days later.

To make matters worse, our son Matt got hit in the face with a baseball on the very same night...

Seriously, what are the chances of that?

But they made quite a pair, united in misery...

They had battle scars, war wounds, proof that, while the rest of us were taking life easy, they were out there, taking one for the team. Literally.

So a couple of fat lips and a few chilly afternoon games, and the season was over as quickly as it had started. We said good bye to the munchkins and moved on. Now, two years later, and many miles away, I'm missing those little dudes who filled those cloudy spring afternoons with sunshine...

Luckily, one of the little dudes (and the little princess on Daddy's shoulder) is upstairs asleep in his bed.

High Anxiety

I hate downhills. It's the story of my life. Whether I'm on a dirtbike or a snowmobile, skis or a sled, put me at the top of a hill and push, and I start screaming like a child who has just found out he's headed to Disneyland. But not in a good way.

I suppose some psycho-babble-ologist would say I have control issues. After all, in most of those situations, a person flying down the side of a mountain doesn't have a lot of control. And probably wants control. But I would argue that it's really more about...well, dying. Downhill=fast=painful crash=well, you can finish that equation.

But lately, I've been a little more than facinated with high places. Notice the distinction: I still hate downhills, but I don't mind the view from way up yonder. Our new home is at the top of a big downhill, and I don't like many things better than just sitting outside and looking.

This summer we ventured to a few 8,000 ft. peaks and were rewarded with spectacular views. I've been hankering for a trip to something higher. I think Everest is probably outside of my comfort zone (someone might give me a push, and that would be a super scary downhill). But maybe Pike's Peak or something in the 13,000 ft range. I could do that.

Perhaps it's age and relativity. When I was young, I was bigger than my body (to steal from John Mayer). I was so important to myself, and that outweighed everything around me. "Sure, yeah, that's a high mountain, a beautiful view," I would think.

But now, I am, if anything, smaller than my body (and I'm not even accounting for the middle age spread). The world seems so big to me, the universe unimaginable. I am stifled by the thought of everyone and everything existing at the same time. I am in awe of the view.