Landing In Insurance

The words "I work at an insurance brokerage" have leapt out of my mouth enough times now that I am actually beginning to believe them. I suppose that's probably a good idea, since they're paying me, and I spend rather exorbitant amounts of time there.

It's definitely a nice change. To go from dealing with customers to working with customers is truly, genuinely awesome. To answer the phone and know, somewhat blissfully, that it's not going to be someone asking me about shipping rates to Portugal for a Saturday Express package--which I, somewhat proudly, was never really able to answer except to tell them to call 1800GOFEDEX or connect them with my Shipping Specialist--or how much it's going to cost them to print an 18"x24" color graph and mount it on foam-core for some presentation they needed to have it ready for...yesterday. It's a qualitatively different interaction when they're calling to find out if their $2million insurance policy was approved by the carrier, or how much their premium is going to blow up if they decide they're not going to quit smoking (or skydiving or bungee jumping or scuba diving, for that matter...). For one, they're infinitely more concerned about their life insurance than they are about their color copies. Two, they don't look down on me. Three, if they do, they don't usually show it. At least not yet.

Regardless, I have yet to encounter, hear about or discuss anything near the condescension with which customers treat employees at office-printing-and-packing shops. You really would think they'd be nicer: after all, if they're due to present in court tomorrow and their entire case is riding on the mock-up they're counting on you to produce, you'd think a little bit of consideration is in order. After all, it wouldn't take much for a disgruntled, walked-all-over, spent-the-whole-day-trying-to-bite-their-tongue-and-grin-and-bear-it employee at FXK to just delete a project. Or the files associated with said project. "Ooops."

This doesn't happen, of course, at least not in my experience there. Which, I'm grateful to say, is over and done with now. Yay!

Aerial Acrobatics, Anyone?

It all began so innocently. My first Valentine’s Day with Jeremy, a holiday neither of us are fond of, presented the opportunity to attend a Devotchka concert. My first. (His first? Maybe his first. Maybe not.) Anyway, I was really excited that they were playing in Boulder, though slightly soured on the idea of actually doing anything on Valentine’s Day, that Hallmark Horror steeped in tiny pastel chalky candies (that, incidentally, my sweet tooth craves, and I buy them by the bag, but refuse to have anything further to do with the holiday) and ugly velvet boxes of smudgy chocolates. Oh, the shame…but, then, it was the only opportunity for some time to see Devotchka live, as they embarked on their European tour on March 18.

March 18 ended up being an interesting day for me, and it was tied into the Devotchka show. Incredibly enough, the Universal whimsy that seems to conduct my life is as steeped in irony as February 14 is with tackiness. March 18 found Devotchka on an airplane bound for London…and me sitting prettily upon a knot my instructor taught me to tie about five feet up in the air, a knot of filmy polyester fabric strips, two to be exact, each hanging from a rotating caster high above us on the ceiling at the Boulder Circus Center. Moving cautiously about my self-made swing a few times in the air, warily pressing limbs out against the fabric, trying to see how I could move—and finding out quickly how I could NOT—using the fabric like a fluid trapeze.

The concept of aerial fabric art was introduced to me at the show on Valentine’s Day as, during one song of their set, two lithe women utilized two long strips of blood-red fabric suspended from high above the stage to snake their way up and down above the band on either side of the stage. Lengthy series of twists and turns, locks and knots up and down the fabric would culminate in shocking drops and frozen midair splits. The audience gasped and pointed, watched with bated breath. I looked at Jeremy and said, “I have to learn how to do that.”

Well leave it to Boulder to be the only city this size that would offer the option of learning aerial fabric art from not one, but two aerial arts companies. Both Aircat Aerial Arts and Frequent Flyers offered adult beginner aerial fabric classes. I chose Aircat Aerial Arts and a month later joined two other young women shyly attending our first aerial fabric class at the Boulder Circus Center.

Our instructor and Aircat’s founder and director, Cathy Gauch, is petite, lithe and beautiful to watch. Her instructions were clear and firm, and while it soon became evident that I needed to gain about 500% upper body strength to even be able to climb the fabric (I can’t even pull myself up once! I am such a wimp!), I still loved every minuet of class. My fellow classmates were friendly and encouraging, though I’m easily the worst out of the group. The more advanced students in the class—of about 12, only 3 of us were brand-new—were welcoming and supportive and really, really kind. So despite my own klutziness and severe need to get into better shape, I had a blast in class. I met Jeremy afterwards absolutely glowing, bubbling over with excitement…even though my hands were red and blistering and my whole torso was throbbing with exhaustion from all of the irregular activity. Once back home I climbed into a steaming bath tub with my journal to write about the class…and on the way in, caught my face in the mirror. Quite pink still from the exertions of learning to knot, lock and trying to climb the fabric, edged with little blonde wisps that escaped my ponytail all aroung my hairline, my face was still grinning ecstatically. Exactly the way it was when I caught myself in the mirror sitting on my knot during class.

Ahh, yeah...

(from January 15, 2008)

So aside from the wind, which was incredibly helpful going out, which meant coming back was beastly, my run tonight was phenomenal. As most first ones are…I’ll probably hate myself for doing this to myself tomorrow, but for tonight, I feel awesome. Settled. Balanced. Unfettered. Calmer, clearer, and more focused. All of these awesome things I’ve been missing out on all winter.

Jack once remarked that sleep was his Prozac; if I had to draw a comparison to an anti-depressant, I’d have to say that running is mine. I haven’t smiled so much, so hard, so steadily, in a long time.

Gotta keep on truckin’…

January 26, 2008

Running in Westminster. The Dry Creek Trail or, as I like to call it, the Hotel Trail. Not too shabby till now, hours later, as my knees remind me what a total WEAKLING I truly am. Sitting here at Jeremy's, it's as though some sort of informal contest a la pain is unraveling as each of us moving from prone to standing positions and moving about the apartment produces pronounced creaks, cracks and groans.

He wins. I don't have any injuries as old as his. :)

Keep on...keeping on (sigh)

I need an LOL kitty for this one...


moar funny pictures

The Boy

OK so...a bit much wall here but keep scrolling down...
...

...

...ahh here he is! Ladies and gentlemen, my beautiful boyfriend Jeremy. "Lucky" doesn't begin to describe my fortune in love at this point...he is a truly incredible man, a remarkable individual. I am sooo richly blessed...

Night run...

Run, girl, run.

Glaring white-on-black-on-white. Crystalline drifts meeting filthy slushy sidewalks meeting snow-choked roads and bitter-blackened patches of asphalt. Along the route, the shadows of tree branches intertwine, interlace, gently paling fingers against the bright-white snowpack, made dense by footfall throughout the day. Shoe patterns emerge, boots and sneakers and here and there a worn bike tire tread, signs of life before my shuffling footfalls along this way. The world in its glaring polarity seems flattened, vanquished, as if the snow came down and rooted itself in so deeply it pulled its surroundings down into the earth, and we all became a part of one dimension. I shuffle a bit more hastily, dragging out my breaths in their usual one-two-three-one-two-three waltz-like pattern. Even after so long not running, my breath and pace return with ease, glide in like old friends who’ve strayed far too long. My body checks in. Heart, okay, lungs, unhappy but okay, shoulders need to loosen, body is too tight, needs to untense itself. Needs to remember. Remember the roads that stretched over 26 miles or so, the disheartening end that one long run finally had to come to. The times it did more. The times it did almost as much. The time it will do nowhere near as much, this time, this place, it needs to know, it can relax.

Relax.

Pressure’s off. Nobody’s watching, timing, looking, shouting, waving cheering or even mildly interested in what you’re doing. Anyone else out who even notices you on this godforsaken evening might raise their eyebrows a bit, might be inclined to ponder your mildly questionable sanity, but that’s the most they’ll do. If they even notice. The little runner in black pants and a white jacket, shuffling along the moonscape-like linear dimension of this eerily false winter-world. The goal is simple, driven by a direct and basic need. To run. To run. To run!!!

It simply had to be done, it simply had to be accommodated. After eight p.m. be damned, the body simply had no will left for the runaway mind, already out playing footfalls along the vacant paths, the distant wilderness, the opaque red-grey sky, its charcoal flatness blistered by wraiths of smoke from woodburning fireplaces, thousands of them lit and stoked all over town tonight. The body would not but the mind could. Would. And eventually, had to.

Run, girl, run. Get out there into that flattened skyscape, that planar world you long to be in, melt into, absorb, hold inside. Hold it in. And run.

Why Am I In Hell?

What on Earth did I do to deserve this? I am in HELL!!! Pure, unadulterated FedEx Shipping Hell!!! Aaaaaaaaaaagggggggghhhhhh!!!

Y O U

This was me. This isn't me right now. This isn't how I feel. This isn't who I am. I've gone from bold and brave and fearless to terrified, trembling and tearful.

Who am I?

Where am I?

How can I possibly undo this?

Postrace Report

Given my general dissatisfaction with how the race was run, I'm just going to publish the email I sent to Jeff Mason and Amy Smith, the Race Director and Volunteer Coordinator, respectively. Personally though, I love that course and I had fun running it and it was a really good time. Seeing Jack up there waiting for me at the chute was really sweet. And the volunteers were, as always, SO encouraging, empowering, loving, warm and wonderful. Thank you Boulder Marathon volunteers!!!

I have to admit I'm pretty bummed. Saturday: the Expo? There was an Expo? Aside from a Bear Naked tent, I saw no signs of anything resembling an Expo. While I'm sure Clinica Campesina appreciated all of the work you did for them, for those of us who paid upwards of $98 to participate in this race, we'd rather see some things done for us as well. 5K finisher medals? Really? A 5K is a walk in the park...at the very least, finisher's medals should have been varied based on what race you ran, not all the same. Last year's were nothing to write home about, but at least they were somewhat distinctive, (blue ribbons for the half and gold for the full) and if you're going to sink so much funding into them, why not make something that participants are proud to wear? I don't want to wear a medal after running a marathon and have someone ask me how my 5K went. Maybe it's just me, but it seemed insulting. Oh, and the goody bags that were supposed to be so spectacular had...a couple of promotional fliers for things like Gatorade Endurance and a hat and a tee shirt and a pint glass. Nowhere close to as good as last year's.

Sunday: The course itself was great; the volunteers were wonderful cheerleaders and there was water, Gatorade and Clif Shots aplenty. A little more variety would be nice...but otherwise, the course was great. However, when I got to the finish...

Nobody announced my name at the finish line...at all!!! What a major bummer that was. I mean, I know I'm slow, but come on, man. That's one of the best feelings in the world, and it got totally squashed for me. In fact, the only person--aside from me--who seemed to notice I finished was my friend Jack, who came to pick me up and snapped a few pictures. Amy, you did see and congratulate me, thank you.

And then I find out you're out of finishing medals. So no medal. The 5K finishers got medals but there were none for the last 40 or so marathoners. You guys underordered for a race that reached its capacity a month in advance last year; what on earth were you thinking? Food was scarce, if even available and difficult to find to the point where we just left. After running 26.2 miles, you don't want to have to walk all over to get food. Whatever my "beverage ticket", "meal ticket" and ticket with all my info was for, I still have them, so I hope you don't need them. The music was mediocre at best, and far too loud--and this is coming from someone who regularly brings cotton and expensive earplugs to shows so that the amps don't blast my eardrums into oblivion. Oh, and since nobody seemed to be taking down times, I came in around 5:48:11. I did get my Avery beer and was happy about that, and I did finish. So that was good. But everything else was...well, lacking, to say the least. Even now, when clicking on the "get the most up-to-date race info here!" link on the homepage gets me to...th same email I received from you a week ago.

On top of which, I receive an email from Timberline Timing Systems--the only company I know of to even attempt to collect a $30 fee for NOT turning in your chip after the race, are you KIDDING ME?--today that said times were posted. So I checked by bib number. My numbers weren't there. I checked by name. My numbers weren't there. I was exceedingly careful to run over every mat and get the okay from the volunteers and race officials that my data had been collected. So...? I don't get my splits because these supposedly amazing timers totally suck? Grrrrreeeeeeeaaaaattt...

I have to say, this was pretty disappointing. The GoLite sponsorship was sorely missed; they made great shirts that you can actually wear to run a full marathon in, not cotton ones that you can't. Maybe at least there will be some cool shots whenever brightroom posts them...otherwise, better luck next year, guys. I know you were trying to make a lot of changes and turn it into an awesome, differently-styled race but instead it was a different, poorly-organized race without enough food or drinks or fun stuff at the end. Like a finisher's medal.

Regards,
Dondi

17 Hours and counting...

The day before…

There are three “R’s” that need to be accounted for: rest, relaxation, rejuvenation. Perhaps a fourth: reflection. And let’s not forget the all-important: regurgitating. I consider myself fortunate that as weird as my eating habits are and stomach can be, I rarely get butterflies so bad I have to take advantage of that fifth “R”.

So I’m nervous, and trying to stay mellow and focused. Doing a load of laundry with my race gear in it. Planning my “utility belt”, as Jack calls it: the shorts I wear with pockets sewn in around the waistband so that I can carry salt tablets, Shot Blox, extra sunscreen, etc. What will go in which pocket to best balance out the weight. Should I attempt to carry my cell phone? What am I going to do with my warm-ups once I get to the course? Will anyone show up to cheer me on, see me off, watch me finish, besides the announcer and the race staff and volunteers? Will I finish?

My feeling on that last question is, if I have to crawl there, I will finish. To say my training has been less than optimal would be quite an understatement. But no complaints. Rather, I’m just glad I’ll get to go do it. I love to run, and I think it’ll be a great race this year. Regardless, I’ll stay strong.

And keep smiling. :)

Thanks for reading…

Dondi

180 Minutes of Purgatory

I know some yogis and yoginis who would be sorely disappointed in me for saying such things but truthfully, two Bikram's classes back-to-back are pretty freakin painful. Which is why I am sitting here now with every type of ice pack I've got, from Boo Boo Buddies to bags of frozen corn, strapped to various joints. At some point I'll ease my aching body into a shower and then maybe a bath. Until then I figure I've built up my endurance for the day and so should be solidly ready for a long run tomorrow. The idea of which is already making my aching joints cry...

23 more days til the marathon...

I WON A FREAKIN KAYAK!!!

ON my birthday! For more details email me; here are some pics. I LOVE it & can't wait to hit some whitewater in it.

Concussed...

So, yeah, basically, concussions suck.

Never having had one before, I am profoundly amazed and have a great new understanding of how important my brain is. Not that the grasp of cranial function as a necessary element to…umm…well…life…is beyond me, but I never really knew, as I think most of us (neurosurgeons, ER technicians, PAs, nurses and the like exempted) probably never really know, just how important that grey matter is until we mess with it. Or rather, have to cope with someone else messing with it, specifically a pro or weekend-warrior (“wannabe”) riding East on the Goose Creek Trail just east of the underpass at 28^th near Valmont, where aforementioned nameless asshole tried to kill me, then yelled at me, then took off, leaving me completely shocked and totally unprepared for what I was about to deal with. (If you are that asshole and reading this somehow jump-starts some feeling of morose sorrow for what you’ve put me thru please, by all means, contact me.)

By the time I got to the park for our team-building activity, it was clear that things were not okay. My vision was blurring, my head was killing me (high impact collision with a bicycle helmet’ll do that), and I was really, really, really nauseous. I could barely make my way around the field and finally one of my supervisors took me to the nearby hospital, where a CT scan revealed no broken bones but the severe swelling of my cro-magnon looking forehead and bridge of my nose, as well as my relative lack of coherence and general dysfunctionalism (beyond the norm, friends and fam; I was in pretty bad shape) revealed I had a moderate concussion. Left with a ton of morphine in my system and no easy way home, I was dialing my friend Bryce to see if he could come and give me a lift when the same supervisor, Dawn, came to pick me up, drove me to get my prescription, drove me to a convenience store, then drove me home, schlepped (with the help of another wonderful colleague) my bike and pack up three flights of stairs to my apartment, and after I thanked them a zillion times, took off. My friend Mike came down from Longmont to spend the night with me despite a 6am catering shift for him the next day. So far the Whole Foods job is working out beautifully; Mike, Dawn and my other colleague who helped me that night (whose name I am not remembering due to my head injury) as well as everyone I’ve seen since have been wonderfully accommodating and have gone way out of their way to make sure I’m healing. What wonderful colleagues to have. Special kudos for Mike for working the catering shift AND then having to go to his PT job; there is a place in heaven for that man, to say the least, for staying up with me (as I was terrified of sleeping for fear of not waking up) and keeping my life interesting throughout the night. It was definitely an interesting night.

Since then I took the next day off of work; tired, miserable and incapable of focusing on anything really without seeing double I spent the whole day sleeping, crying, and taking the pain meds that the ER doc gave me. Friday morning I felt better and tried to go to work; “tried” being the operative word as I worked about half my shift and then was forced to go home by persistent nausea and headache. With no end in sight, I resolved to let my body heal, rest and ice and do whatever I needed to that would help, and try to stay as calm as possible.

It’s Saturday evening now and I am feeling much better, though am glad that I am not working again until Monday evening because I’ll be rock star-quality by the time I get back to slinging groceries, which is exactly what I want to show my new employer. So the moral of the story is: rest. rest. rest. Even when you can feel the calories adding millimeters to centimeters to inches around your waistline because you aren’t working out, rest. You can’t speed recovery of a brain injury, and trying to do so just makes things worse. Keep an eye out on the bike paths and if you see an bum jerk ridnig around Boulder on aerobars only with a blue helmet, white-blue-red-and-black kit, a terrible attitude, and a really nice red roadbike, tackle him and get his info for me, would you? There’s a $1500 hospital bill I’d like to send his way…

Thanks for reading.

-Dondi

His Hero

It’s been a good day today.

I applied for two jobs that both look good, followed up on my Whole Foods interview—again—and cycled about 30 miles around town doing errands and appointments. Bought some rather healthy food at Safeway to make myself dinner. Returned some materials to the library for a friend. Saw my doctor. Chill day so far…

And then I ran into a neighbor I know from my days at Ideal Market, who told me I was his son’s hero. His son is an adorable little boy, maybe 6 or 7 years old, and apparently they’d seen me out running first near our apartments and then out at the Boulder Reservoir. The little boy was apparently blown away that I had run so far—it is a considerable distance—and told his dad I was his hero.

Now, I haven’t actually run all that way. I’ve done a marathon and definitely have done my share of higher-mileage training for the marathon, but I knew I didn’t run out to the Rez. So I let him know that, and he smiled and winked at me, “It’ll be our little secret. My son thinks so highly of you.” What had actually happened was that they saw me on two different runs the same day…first a run around the neighborhood and then out at the Rez. I wasn’t really planning the second run, but a friend was headed out there to swim and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to run out there. I especially loved that when the little boy saw me the second time he said, “I bet she’s not even out of breath!”

I probably was, but it was a wonderful story anyway.

Reflection

I started working for Wild Oats on August 22, 2000. If I'd made it to this August 22 it would have been 7 years there.

Instead, I turned in my resignation on Thursday afternoon and was severanced out, with pay, thru the 13th. The way my boss's boss explained it, I had 2 weeks of paid vacation.

The way I see it, they were doing everything possible to fire me. This is not your standard-issue "my-boss-is-an-asshole" rant. This is me. Anyone who knows me knows better than to believe I did a piss-poor job. The ends didn't justify the means anymore. So I resigned and was pretty much booted out. Figures.

The way I see it, I had a few hours to say goodbye to people I'd known for years. A few hastily-scrawled emails to vendors. A lot of hugs, and a few tears. A phone call to a dear friend who came to my office to help me get my stuff home. A couple of bags and boxes. It's amazing how little space 7 years really occupies.

So...onto bigger and better things. If I don't adopt this attitude, I will start crying.

Good bye, everyone...and remember...do one brave thing today...

...then run like hell!!!

~Dondi

Stress Is Curling My Hair

OK, no, but seriously now...

It IS making me do really crazy things. Like trash a 5-mile run because I was so distracted I wasn't pacing myself effectively and checlked them up to "junk miles". Like try to go to bed earlier, wake up earlier, do more things earlier. Like getting in some strength training here and there. Becoming better friends with one of my neighbors who likes to run at the rez (and even attempting to keep up with him during our first outing together! And I did! But I think he was probably being nice to me...) and even agreeing to a--gulp--7:30 a.m. Sunday morning run. No going out after closing up the shop for me; I'll be heading home from Origins Saturday evening to some kava kava and an early bedtime. For an early run. On a Sunday.

Not that I was a partier (party-er? somehow, partier never looks right to me...) in my previous life or anything. But work has stressed me to the point where I am running for the sheer relief of being consumed by an activity that isn't work. Call it escapism. Call it whatever you want...I call it sick. Pathetic. A bit frightening.

But, also...strengthening. Renewing. Reinforcing. Quieting and, incredibly, slowing. Reassuring and peaceful. And as a result of this insanity, I'm growing, and changing, and realizing I am capable of extraordinary things. Like trying to hear more of my friends' stories. Listening to their laughter. Trying to contribute instead of overtaking. Maybe it's progress, maybe not. But it sure feels good. When I'm at work I feel exhausted, faded, washed-out, done. Tired. Weary. When I run, my heart, my eyes, my smile is open. I'm laughing out loud (much to the dismay, no doubt, of the pros running circuits along the same bike path) and my faith in the world is renewed.

Enough that with registration for the 2007 race filling, I stake my claim by registering for the Boulder Backroads Marathon again. Finishing is still the only real goal. But...could that be New York, gleaming in the distance? Or is it...Boston?

...just sweet...

Edie seemed a little unsettled when i put her to bed the other night after I tucked her in, so I sat with her and stroked her hair and sang to her until her eyes started to fall heavily closed all on their own. I was singing Jack's adaptation of "The Song of the Wandering Aengus", by William Butler Yeats, and my voice does neither the poem nor the song Jack created from the poem justice, but it seemed to calm this beautiful little girl and begin to put her to sleep...

...sweet...

Bitter...sweet?

So my director, who I think is on my side, calls me into her office this afternoon for what I think is a routine update meeting, which actually turns into a "you're going to get fired in two weeks if you don't shape up" meeting. And all I can think is, this is SUCH bullshit.

First of all, I've been busting my ass on this project. I have the permanent marker marks all over my hands to prove it. But instead of getting recognized for my productivity, I get, "You had that dentist appointment Monday," and "You were on the phone with a vendor who called you on your cell during your lunch break," and that's just not okay. So, the appointment that was scheduled two months ago I should've rescheduled because my boss--who is out of town--has too much testosterone to admit that this is a personality conflict and I'd be better placed in another department? Wha...?

And so I just nod and grimly smile. What am I supposed to do at this point? Leap, and the net will appear? Or the void will swallow me...at least then I'll get some quietude...

Baby-sitting

I met Howard and Jen through Jack, and my life has been infinitely more blessed because of them (and him, for that matter, but that’s another blog for another day…) and their unique and beautiful presences. What an honor it is to allow me to care for their children.

Jen and I have the same conversation every time I baby-sit for her children. I think she overpays me, and she explains that she couldn’t possibly pay me enough. Round and round we go. One of these days, she’s going to get genuinely pissed off at me. At least that’s what I worry about.

But how can I tell her what an honor and joy it is to take care of her two lovely lovely little ones, what beautiful children they are, what peace and calm and absolute joy I get from cuddling with Edie, putting her to bed, knowing that she knows me and feels safe with me. How it feels when Gabriel lets a bit of his guard down and curls up with me for storytime, how cool it is that I can talk to him at some level about Star Wars, enough, at least, that when it’s time for bed and the stories have all been read he tears out of his shirt and indiscriminately requests that I scratch his back while he drifts off. How much joy comes out of that moment for me, that he feels safe (enough), loved (enough), protected (enough), secure (enough) to ask me to stay, to love him a little, in whatever way he’ll let me? How can I tell her what an honor it is to be with her children, know that she and her husband can go out and enjoy an evening together, alone, as a couple, as themselves, really get to enjoy each other, knowing—really knowing—that their children are safe and loved and adored and protected, how do I tell this woman who in about the first seven minutes of knowing her had already stitched her family into my heart: Howard, Jen, Edie and Gabriel. Assorted pets (Lucy and Willy, the dogs, Annie, the cat, Gup-gup, the fish, Coco, the guinea pig…am I missing anyone here)...how can I tell her how much I love them all?

Most especially, these two precious little gems. One eleven, one seven. Dark, dark hair and blue blue blue eyes. Sprinkles of freckles on their noses. Children are easy to love; they're also easily detestable, but Gabe at his worst with me is just a notch or two on the wrong side of hyperactive and Edie...you can't help but love Edie. You can't help but love Gabe for that matter; even when he's acting out he's still a good kid (this is, of course, based on my knowing this family for less than a year and no doubt missing a substantial majority of Gabe's less-than-promising moments...but you just know he's a good kid, just occasionally acts rotten to keep me on my toes, it seems). These children are so beautiful and so loving, how could I possibly not love them?

When I carry Edie to bed and get her settled in, she coos and smiles at me, and it’s as if she can see right into me, right through me. Her eyes flutter when I kiss her forehead and tell her good-night, tell her to have sweet dreams, tell her I love her. Because I do. When Gabe pulls the blanket over his head as I try to drop a kiss good-night onto his forehead, then lowers it, his eyes dancing, both teasing and imploring. So I kiss him good night and tell him to have sweet dreams, smiling, tell him I love him.

Because I do. And so they sleep snuggled warm and tired in their beds, and I head down to hang out with the menagerie that will now keep me company, until Howard and Jen come home.

How did I get so freakin BUSY???

Monday: Double shift (Oats 8:30 to 5:45ish, Origins 6-9:30ish)
Tuesday: Oats til 5:30; Bikram's 6:30 to 8
Wednesday: Double Shift
Thursday: Oats til 5:30ish; running with Rick at the rez
Friday: Double shift
Saturday: Origins 10-4, baby-sitting for Howard and Jen 6:30ish til...
Sunday: long run at rez...and maybe...stillness?

You know it's getting bad when you're wondering when you can possibly fit in meditation...

"Leap and the net will appear..."

It's a nice idea, as a testament to your faith. A principle by which one tries to live. A notion that in and of itself comprises part of your belief system, or just a phrase you try to keep in mind, to give you a bit of perspective.

When it dictates your life and rules over it like a fascist dictator, on the other hand, it's absolute torture. When it means you don't have any firm ground to stand on, that every component of your life is in limbo all at the same time, that you've leapt and now you're in a state of freefall and can't see the net and can't see the net and can't see the net...well, it becomes increasingly difficult to believe it will appear.

Please, please, please let it appear...