late afternoon run, October 25

I am more than this jumbling of scattered thought
more than the fresh cool breeze on my skin
more than this unnamable longing for something other,
more than what I see
when the last rays of bright sun light just the tops of the trees on the far hill—
Oh, surely God knew what he was doing to my heart when he made trees!

I am more than the contents of my skin
wonderful and mysterious though they are.
the sweet complexities of anatomy; the simple reality of lifting one foot after other as I jog down the gravel road, heart pumping, breath rhythmic, muscles flex-release,
flex-release flex-release
the signals from my brain coming so fast that I cannot even think of them,
cells and synapses and nerve endings and endless waves of neurotransmitters;
the way red blood cells work; the way my skin transfers heat.

That is wondrous.

As is the sound my feet make through the fallen leaves—
crunch crunch shush shush crunch shush swoosh crunch

I am more than this jumbling of scattered thought.

things you’re never too old for

Well, I'm in a list-y mood today. Perhaps I'll keep adding to this from time to time--feel free to jump in! Here's what I've got so far.

Things you’re never too old for:

1. day of the week underwear
2. snowball fights
3. Velcro
4. ice cream
5. making your own sound effects
6. learning from your parents
7. singing along with the store music while shopping

Happy Fir Day!

I am sure this is a common problem: when I type, especially when I type quickly, I tend to transpose my letters. "And" becomes "nad," "captain" becomes "catpain" and so on and so forth. Sometimes Microsoft Word catches the mistake and fixes it for me (I had to insist that I wanted cat pain just now), which is convenient but fails to teach me my lesson. Or my elsson. What veer.
One of the words that I transpose most frequently, it seems, is "Friday." For some reason, I keep wanting to say "Firday." No reason for it…or is there?

Perhaps there should be a Fir Day. "Happy Fir Day!" It has a nice ring to it. We could do a kind of Palm Sunday deal, where we wave branches of coniferous trees around instead of palm fronds. We could wear little garlands of soft, short-needled Douglas fir…toss pinecones into the air and at each other…chew spruce gum…

And it would sure smell good. In fact, I think it would be the most pleasant-smelling holiday. And a whole less fattening than Thanksgiving.

dinner, anyone? or perhaps some unconsciousness?

I guess Juergen caught me on the way down, so I didn’t actually fall all the way—more of a gradual slump, which is good—but I don’t remember it. The last thing I remember, I was putting on my jacket while Juergen was telling me the great story of how he was bicycling through my neighborhood when he got hit by a deer, then we stood up and walked through the restaurant toward the door. I was warm, slightly nauseated, and dizzy.

Then I was looking up at the ceiling; one of the waitresses had her arm under my head, and Juergen was telling me just to breathe. Of course, with his accent, it sounded more like he was telling me to "breeze," but I knew what he meant. What I didn’t know was what on earth had happened. Apparently, I’d fainted. I’m not exactly a fainter, so this was something of a surprise. An unpleasant, annoying, embarrassing surprise. I’m supposed to be tough, after all. At least I wasn’t wearing my boots with the three-and-a-half-inch heels, like I almost did. I would’ve had that much farther to fall, and who knows what would have happened then.

And at least I bounced back quickly as blood came back into my brain, and stood up, and we went on our way. The dizziness passed after I spent a couple minutes in the fresh air. It was probably a combination of too much rich, unfamiliar food and wine and coffee and stuffy air. It was not simply alcohol; I didn’t feel the least bit tipsy. (I only had maybe a glass and a half, and I’m not that much of a lightweight.) Poor Juergen felt so sorry, as if it was his fault. I’m the one who’s sorry—and a little chagrined. I placed a horrible cap on a perfectly lovely evening.

Juergen is my landlord, by the way. He lives in Germany with his family, and twice a year he and his wife, Marlis, come out to visit this part of the world, catching up on business, old acquaintances, and the tenant living in their house—me. They are an older couple, probably in their sixties. He made a solo trip this fall, and has been very pleased with how the place looks, for which I’m very glad. They are quite particular people, and part of my rental agreement involves house and yard maintenance.

Juergen took me out to dinner at a lovely Italian restaurant that is way way way beyond the realm of my normal dutch-budget experiences. ("Don’t you dare look at the prices, Lindsey. I am treating you.") We were there for three (three!) hours, working our way through a lovely bottle of white wine (I got the wine lecture), an appetizer of very thinly shaved beef, parmesan cheese, and fresh spinach, a pear and arugula salad with toasted pecans, the main course, for which I had an exquisite rib eye steak and fancy potatoes, and finally…when I felt very, very full, a Crème Brule I couldn’t say no to (I got the Crème Brule lesson too; that man sure can talk) and a cup of decaf coffee (by now it was 9:00) that I hoped would jar my body out of food shock (which obviously didn’t work).

I’m not sure what the moral of the story is. Probably just to pay more attention to what my body is trying to tell me—and don’t let myself go in for too much of a good thing. Sigh. It’s not as though I have recurring problems with self-control. Really. I thought about not telling anyone about my embarrassment—but it’s really too good of a story to keep to myself. And I’ve decided that it’s nothing to worry about, really, unless I keep fainting every time I eat. Well, so far so good, today.

I’m tempted to send that restaurant a card or something, with an apology and/or a thank-you to the nice waitresses. I hope they’ve forgotten what I look like. Not that I’ll be eating there again any time soon. However, I must say—I’d love to go back for just coffee and Crème Brule. Mmm.

At least I didn’t fall onto anything or into anyone. That would have been fabulous: I hit a waitress carrying a tray, the tray flies through the air and hits a table, the people at that table jump back and knock over a candle…and the restaurant burns down because of me. Well, that would have given Juergen another good story to tell, anyway. Oh, Juergen. Now he probably thinks I’m delicate. Great.

bumper stickers

I'm not much of a fan of bumper stickers, really. They aren't very nice to the car, they usually look trashy, and half the time they are either just plain stupid, gag-reflex sentimental, downright offensive, or illegible.

If I did have a bumper sticker though, what would it say? Well, it is election season. How about "Didn't vote? Don't complain." Yes. I like that. Or how about what my father used to say: "Speed Kills." That's pretty good too. Simple.

I could get clever or witty, but what I have to say to other drivers usually isn't that funny. That would have to be stickers like "are you really that important?" or "no one else wants to hear your music." I doubt those would sell well in the bumper sticker market. I guess I'll have to just keep muttering them under my breath. Or yelling--if my windows are shut.

behold the power of hair

Last Friday, after a pleasant, slightly shortened work day, I headed down to my favorite barber shop for a much needed trim. As I had hoped, a friend of mine was working. She asked me what I wanted. About to say "Just trim it back up like before," I found myself saying. "I don't know. What do you think?" This was soon followed by the somewhat risky "Sure. Do whatever you want."

And the rock star haircut was born. Now, you've got to understand, this is big stuff for me. If it can't be done in less than ten minutes and/or doesn't involve a ponytail holder, I probably won't do it. I probably can't do it. In those crucial, formative junior high years when girls learn these skills, I was busy doing other things. Like reading. And archery. And getting grass stains on all my pants.

So when my friend styled my hair (It seemed like she used half a can of hairspray) and released me from the spinny-chair, I felt a little different. Stylish. Sassy. I went home and even snapped couple pics to show my family--who I think experienced a little private dismay during my archery and oversized clothing years.

Then I couldn't handle the hair in my face any longer and clipped a big piece of it back. Even rock stars have limitations.

weather or not

If you're wondering
what the weather's like here,
today I'm wearing
flip flops, cropped pants
and black, puffy, insulated vest.

The sun is shining, the
leaves are changing
and I'm
drinking
French-press
coffee.

attention

Attention! Attention! Everywhere I look, there is someone who wants attention—someone getting too much attention—someone who needs attention—someone scared to death of attention—someone not paying attention. When did this concept of "attention" become such a big deal? Probably about the same time we figured out what high self-esteem was, but don’t quote me on that.

I have rather a love-hate relationship with attention, myself. I do not like to be ignored, to feel as though no one would care if I were absent. Nor do I like to be in the spotlight. I certainly don’t need or want all the attention. I do not expand in attention like a flower in the sun. Quite the opposite. I may be witty and bouncy and having fun, but the instant I feel all eyes on me, I start to shrink back. Words get hard to find. No matter how hyper I get, I’m still an introvert at heart.

I suppose I’m pretty normal in my need for a balanced amount of attention. If I were going to get all philosophical, I’d say that most things in life can be framed by the perspective of "a balanced amount of attention." Paying too much attention to work, or not enough attention…bad trouble. Paying too much attention or not enough to your personal hygiene…bad trouble.

I'm not dead yet...

Poor neglected blog! Alas! But be of good cheer, friends--the blog is not dead. It merely went on vacation and is a little slow at getting started again.
Sometime soon I'll hopefully have a few pics of last week's trip out to Tacoma to visit the fam. We had great fun. Time flew. And then I got home...and have been playing catch-up (not ketchup, silly!) at work and at home. So, you see, I'm full of very good excuses for my temporary blog desertion.
Another reason for my despondency is not quite so noble...
Hi, my name is Lindsey, and I've been writing really, really bad fiction. It is very nearly a guilty pleasure, just because it is so positively irredeemable. But it's been fun. And I did say I wanted to write more, right? Baby steps to good literature...baby steps...
What's that you say? Can you read some? No! I don't even read it, it's so bad.