Ten.Two Thousand, One Hundred & Eighty-Nine
Monday. Last week of school.
Just one small cup. Or two.
The one morning they are actually on time is the day they don’t have to leave as early.
This dance is giving me nightmares.
Sometimes, you can feel the truth of it all in your bones.
“Look at a man the way he is and he only becomes worse, but look at him as if he were what he could be, then he becomes what he should be.” - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
I run home to grab the boxes and see him walking up behind me. He says he has a two-hour lunch break. I want to stay and eat with him. For a moment, I panic. There are only two more years of this.
“…then you’d have more time to work on your writing,” she says. Another tug from the universe.
I'm kind of glad it’s a shorter work day than we anticipated, though it means there will be some heavier lifting in the coming days.
I reverse my walking route, and my legs certainly feel it. I don’t focus on the pace, just finishing. The gleaming flaxen light from the setting sun. Sweat dripping from beneath the brim of my hat. Gratitudes.
Ten.Two Thousand, One Hundred & Eighty-Eight
5, 4, 3, 2, 1.
Who’s texting this early? Oh, no. I need to switch them to the work phone ASAP.
I was right. I do like the way the light hits this little vase full of eucalyptus. I look forward to when the sun sets over the bunch of white peonies.
Just the two of us for practice today. I keep forgetting about those cobwebs. Everything is tight.
They want time in the gym. He shoots. She does volleyball drills. I answer more emails.
Laundry, laundry, and more laundry.
Feeling the heat.
I really only eat hot dogs in the summer, and they always taste so good.
One of the best things about summer is how you want to linger long after the party ends because the sun is still bright and the high heat of the day has just passed, and there’s still more wine and you’ve almost forgotten that tomorrow is Monday.
The last week.
Ten.Two Thousand, One Hundred & Eighty-Seven
First day of June.
I keep losing my phone, which is only a problem because I am trying to turn off this podcast.
Chai latte and a long walk around town, talking about life and kids and coaches and things learned.
The gift of sweet cherries.
Parents vs. Kids. Suited up in my oldest’s old little league All-Star jersey, hanging on the dugout fence. Wishing I could have played. There actually is still time for that.
She says that she knows I’ve missed her being at the house so much, but not to worry - summer is coming.
As I unload the groceries, I see doubles and triples of things. We must not be home much these days, though that is sure to change.
Tired but unable to take a nap.
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen green on the monitor. I guess that means it’s working.
Fresh sheets and a bed all to my self. Still, I turn down only my half of the bed and slide in.
Ten.Two Thousand, One Hundred & Eighty-Six
Finally Friday.
I'm craving just a little bit of coffee, in this chair right here, in this light, with this view.
Oh. No plan. I chuckle to myself.
Constantly trying to remind myself that there is still plenty of time. But maybe not enough time for all of the things I want to do and be.
Their last Friday of school. The last Friday with the sound of clinking plates in the back seat of the car.
The five stages of change.
Balance.
The house is a disaster. Tomorrow. I can do it tomorrow.
Pushing fear to the back of your mind.
This is not the kind of game that’s fun to watch, but the company is good, and there’s a little bit of wine.
Ten.Two Thousand, One Hundred & Eighty-Five
Summer’s morning light.
Peonies bursting open. Summer is here.
Never one to shy away from the audacious.
There is something different about him today. Tired, maybe? Worried, maybe? Just life, maybe?
Realizing that there is still so much that you don’t know but I do love a good presentation.
Wondering if it’s better for me to sit and be quiet, keep my thoughts to myself. People have a hard time with the ones who are always asking questions.
A 2 a.m. arrival? I know we’re all groaning on the inside.
One more chapter.
These long talks at the dinner table when no one is in a rush to get up, and the words keep flowing, and you think to yourself, “This isn’t so bad.”
Friday.
Ten.Two Thousand, One Hundred & Eighty-Four
Tuesday. No. Wednesday.
White pants. Do I dare?
More tea. No coffee. Lots of water.
Okay. The keys do work, but only if you put them all the way in, which means they don’t really work.
Only three.
That can wait.
Was it worth the fight?
Feelings are temporary.
Tight muscles. Everything is sore from flat-soled shoes. The hill is bitter today.
“Your presence will require something different.”
Ten.Two Thousand, One Hundred & Eighty-Three
Could use one more.
Second-to-last Tuesday before the end of the school year.
The time passes anyway.
Feeling the effects of no coffee for the past two days.
This is what happens when things are created in a vacuum.
Something to block out the noise.
The gift of self-inquiry and reflection; the gift of the desire to see your whole self with all of its beauty and imperfections.
Habit tracking.
Hot sun against my arms. They are shaking the cowbell in my ear. All of the screaming. I tell him that this was too soon after Bottle Rock. I needed a silent-film version of this game.
A handful of Oreos while watching them play. I feel a pang of envy for their joyful display. Take me back to those moments.
Create them for me.
Ten.Two Thousand, One Hundred & Eighty-One
Day 3.
Coffee. Kombucha. The smell of sausage gravy.
He asks me what time I want to leave. I don’t really need to go.
More reading. Not enough time to write.
He wasn’t wrong.
No clouds in the sky today, which means everything feels just a little bit hotter.
Three days is too much.
Captivated by the beauty of Norah Jones.
But then, the silver lining to this is meeting them and genuinely hoping to run into them again, even though they live half a country away.
The Uber driver’s accent is thick. Very thick and German. He’s from the Black Forest, he says. “We make the best German wines there,” he says. I’m getting nauseous in the backseat of his Tesla. Teslas always make me feel nauseous.
Ten.Two Thousand, One Hundred & Eighty
Oddly fresh.
Bright morning sun. Tall glass of water. Headphones and study music. Trying to cram two chapters of reading before departure.
This Uber smells like body odor and peppermint gum.
BBQ and french fries and lots of water.
“My mother…my mother really hates this song.”
Bright blue skies. Cooler than yesterday. Strong desire to lay out on the benches by the table with my face toward the sun.
Energy shifts.
What would I do the same? What would I do differently? In what ways could participation in something like this benefit a brand? What kind of brand? Who would be the target audience? How would you engage them? These are things one thinks about while waiting to go to the bathroom.
“She holds the hand that holds her down / She will rise above” - Pearl Jam
Two nights in a row up way past my bedtime. One more day. Just one more day.
Ten.Two Thousand, One Hundred & Seventy-Eight
Cold.
Too many outfit changes.
I remember to eat the avocado.
We talk until the phone begins to cut out on Petrified Forest Road. Something is better than nothing.
The views.
I get worried that I will get hangry and that they don’t know me well enough to be able to tell the difference between real anger and low blood sugar.
I’m glad I’ve allowed myself to be surprised.
Familiar faces.
It could only happen here.
The three of us walk out into the night under the light of the full moon.
Ten.Two Thousand, One Hundred & Seventy-Six
Peonies opening.
Short pours of coffee.
South to go north, just to go south again.
We all want it to be easier than it actually is.
It is not until we start to cross the bridge when I remember that I forgot to turn off the oven this morning. “Well, at least I know the house isn’t on fire. The neighbors would have called me by now.”
The house smells of burned sugar. I tell him not to open the oven.
Hot.
I make there just in time to give them hugs and to see their at bats. “You look so much happier.” “I am.
This smell is never going to go away.
All clear.
Ten.Two Thousand, One Hundred & Seventy-Five
Monday, Monday, Monday.
The time will pass anyway.
It could be me, but I don’t think it is as hard as they think it needs to be.
Uh-oh.
I find a chair in the sun on the other side of the building. On the other side of the railing is a tiny block of vines. The sound of cars making their way up and down Highway 29.
“I don’t forget who I am.”
My last one as president.
I tell him that I miss my daily phone calls with Julie. My mornings are just not the same.
Be collaborative.
Almost.
Ten.Two Thousand, One Hundred & Seventy-Four
Double-header kind of morning.
Not enough coffee in the pot.
I should.
I slice the tomatoes and lettuce and bacon and stack them between two slices of baguette.
Too cold in the shade.
Thank goodness for that backup camera; otherwise, I would have hit the hydrant.
The constant reexamination of self this will require.
Two games. Two wins.
“…to a very large extent, an individual’s current life is the result of earlier choices; life has continuity.”
Ten.Two Thousand, One Hundred & Seventy-Two
What if I’m remembering it wrong?
The last avocado.
Misunderstandings.
Sometimes, keeping your expectations low is a good thing. Low expectations + detachment from the outcome.
Should I or shouldn’t I? I’m running out of time to decide.
Emerging from the cellar into the bright afternoon light. I pick a bench bathed in sunlight. We take in the views as we eat our lunches.
This is a good team.
This left-hand turn off of Oakville Grade, though.
“The fit is fitting.”
Sometimes, it’s nice to have an extra voice at the table.
Ten.Two Thousand, One Hundred & Seventy-One
It feels like the morning mist is creeping through the windows.
All black everything.
Now, all white. Don’t spill the coffee.
Peonies and pea tendrils and little white flowers.
A quick lunch at Gott’s before the second session of meetings. A group of older ladies asking questions at the window. The line is beginning to snake out into the parking lot.
That’s a lot of work.
The thing about these reunions is that it’s one of the few times a year I get to see some friends. A manufactured reason outside of ourselves. But I’ll take it.
He says that sitting there, he thought to himself, “This is not a bad life.”
Pizza at the high top and wondering if this is the night they will be tucked into the corner of the bar.
When am I going to get the cleaning done?
Ten.Two Thousand, One Hundred & Seventy
Keeping with the tan and black and white theme.
Avocado, olive oil, Maldon salt, and flakes of seaweed.
Only music this time.
I let the beauty of it all envelope me. I think I could be happy here.
I ask for the name of the ceramicist. “TBD,” she says. “Are you a potter?” “In my dreams,” I say. “I will be old and gray and in a cabin by the ocean.” “Manifest that.” “I will.”
All this and a Bic pen.
I could eat chips and salsa all day.
I watch the temperature climb as I head north. 70 degrees in the parking garage. 75. Then 78. 81. 85.
Of course, I am doing walk-up music.
All I can think about is how much fun it could be if this was happening for basketball too.
Ten.Two Thousand, One Hundred & Sixty-Nine
Just a little bit colder.
No appetite.
Too many bags.
I realize that the end of the invasion says, “Vineyard tours.” Oh, I did not wear the right shoes for this.
Crows and a hawk. Soil talk. Vistas blanked out by the morning’s fog.
No baseball caps; cowboy hats are acceptable.
Everyone wants a plan.
A perfect pink peony.
Numinosity.
“To be an adult is not just to have a big body; it’s to know that I’m accountable for what’s spilling into the world through me.”
Ten.Two Thousand, One Hundred & Sixty-Eight
Monday.
No tire pressure.
When I get into her car, I hear the voice of Ashley Flowers.
Dirty boots.
It is still foggy in the Russian River Valley. We talk about how sad it is that they removed the Syrah, coastal influence, slow ripening, and the way the vineyard cradles the cold air and fog. There are worse ways to spend a Monday morning.
Everyone wants a plan.
1967-ish Turquoise blue Mustang convertible with a cream top and cream leather interior.
Pit in stomach, which means several days of eating something the body no longer can handle.
What is and is not a reflection of oneself? There is no such thing as control.
Habits.
Ten.Two Thousand, One Hundred & Sixty-Seven
I needed the extra time and space.
Stack logs. Search for lighter. Start a fire.
How, after a rain, everything glimmers. Everything is sharper, clearer, more defined.
Almost there.
I start to think about worst-case scenario and then walk myself back to reality.
Two weeks down. 4 more to go.
More tri-tip. No one is complaining.
Do you root for the local team or for the upset?
They are asking questions that surprise me and delight me. I try to hide my excitement.
Decisions to be made.
Ten.Two Thousand, One Hundred & Sixty-Six
Rain and more rain.
I beat the crowd. A box of assorted pastries. A few English muffins for good measure.
Coffee on the sofa thinking about all of the reading I need to get done. Thank goodness I finished my paper.
Why?
Rain and sun and rain and sun. People who don’t know where they’re going.
Not at all what I was expecting.
Firewood fairy.
The quiet in the center of the storm.
Races in the rain.
I won the raffle!