Change is coming. I saw it in the clouds yesterday. I felt it in my hurt foot just now. The visit with Che’ in Arizona is coming to an end. Sad.
Feels as if I just arrived here on the heels of something wonderful. I did! Addy’s going to Somoa to teach words of Christ. Couldn’t miss her big Farewell. So in escaping my own fears of Summer, I have been finding new sunny wonders, not just poolside, and not in treading needless signs of impending huboob.
I’ve turned course to happier. I flew an allegiant broom to friending in Grifindore House. Or was I magically transported from dust and ashes by floom or time turning device to a delightful reunion hall with lots of delicious food? Not to be confused with Beat Bobby Flay. For the record, Chica’s pot roast and buttered carrots are to die for! And Jen’s decadent Oreo dipped Philly Cream Cheese filled cookies, the ones she renamed “Sex Balls” were pretty tasty at the missionary farewell. And the other night Genghis Grill was a culinary marvel!
It simply doesn’t seem possible that Che’ and Stephen and I could be saying good-byes so soon, anymore than students and I were hugging and crying and parting a month ago at the close of a school year. This is a reoccuring theme felt as joy and heartbreak: Life.
And so, again, I’m ushering a summer phenomena in terms of personal emotional survival and thriving achievement. Emotions that cannot be adequately conveyed by words. Ha ha. Just before Che’ mailed a package to Addie, who is in the Provo, Utah LDS Missionary Training Center, I was riding shotgut in the car and reading aloud a post on Facebook titled “23 Emotions That Cannot Be Explained.”
One of the emotions listed was VELLICHOR, n.
It is defined as the strange wistfulness of used bookstores, which are somehow infused with the passage of time. I have felt this sentiment in meeting books for sale at Sam Weller Bookstore in downtown Salt Lake City, Utah, for adoption at Deseret Industries and Good Will, forgotten on dusty shelves at coffee shops, disposed of in teachers’ lounges, on loan in my classroom, and stockpiled on bookshelves beside my bed and stacked on a vanity mirrored bureau. Books…bookstores…booklore….book friends, and more in sentimental reads, Little Golden Books, Little Bear, Sammy the Seal, and Danny and the Dinosaur.
During this visit Chica read to me a heart wrenching love story of Tristan and Isult, better than Princess Bride. It had a giant, but this drama was not meant to be mixed with humor, more like tears. In reminiscing old times and best loved gently read regifts, I immediately thought of the book section at the Peoria, Azona Good Will on Grand Avenue. Che’ and I have sentimental feelings for times spent in reunion with Sid Hoff and other childhood favorite authors. Stretching old spines and turning musty pages feels and smells good like childhood.
It is nearly the eleventh hour. My flight to New York adventure leaves a Jet Blue runway at 11:30 tonight. I will wake with seedy eyes to Big Apple living. Thankfully, my son will be at JFK. We’ll navigate the transit together. I was a little nervous about doing this alone. Alone and vulnerable in an unfamiliar place is sometimes scary in spite of faking brave. These instances require a mindset or power stance learned on a Ted Talk by Amy Cuddy called “Fake it ’til You Make it.” I showed this Youtube video to Heidi Nicole on the eve of her big job interview with Diret TV sales. Sometimes I draw on it myself.
I lie on my back aching from a final ILOVEKICKBOXINGPHOENIX workout, from smiles and encouragement given and received, from a hug from T., and a “Come back and play with us again,” from Linda and Master John. From friends added on my Facebook page and the swell of gratitude in my soul. Kickboxing has become a constant for me. An endorphine rise and reminder of potential, a leveler of emotion and nagging reality whether real or delusional. Exercise makes me feel the hero, super human. It’s fun pretending toward becoming more in mind, body, and spirit, until it turns painful. This must be the inner child jumping on a heart trampoline, begging for attention like a foster child.
I lie here making a mental list of what I am grateful for, a list of what has been the same, and what has been different in my visit with Che’ this time. I realize that no matter what I include on the same/different list, these could easily find place on the gratitude list.
I am grateful for:
Che’ and warm welcoming arms.
the endearing call of “Cheeeecaw, Cheecaw” at any time. It’s fun and encouraging and it keeps me calling or winging back to Az.
Stephen for sharing Che’ with me
for Snookie Snookums, a happy, perfect baby girl. At just four months old, Snookie is the cutest baby ever. She is pure joy…..a piece of Heaven on Earth. She is a reminder across the veil that we were once in the presence of God and angels, and that we still are under a watchful eye. I had forgotten what it is like to hold and to care for an innocent infant. Incredible. So fulfilling. She is medicine to a recovering orange chakra.
for Snookie’s almost 4th grade sister In the mirror, looking back to only weeks ago, this child reminds me of another child I will never forget. I wonder if I taught her anything of proportion. If I helped her learn in some way the way I learned from her. Did I make a mark for good in her mind and on her heart toward knowing she is marvelous and empowered. This is possible ONLY in choosing LOVE and goodness toward others…
I need this reminder often too. I worry about that former student. I don’t worry about the one who lives with Che’ and Stephen…..at least not while she is in their care….if she goes back to the former homelife situation….well, then..yes. I can’t bear to imagine Snookie, baby sister there either, reunited in negligence and disconnect. Makes me ask…What kind of parent am I? Answer: mostly gone.
I am thankful for my Utah home and husband, and children. I miss them. It’s not so much in a painful, debilitating, grief struck way. I wonder if it is this way for the young biological mother of these foster children. I remember my own 20-yr-old hospital recovery room, wrestle for forgiveness, and release of twin boys to a new happy home and happy adoption parents.
Children are miracles. I miss my teens back home in Utah. It’s different missing “nearly grown” ones. It’s kind of like missing a favorite, favorite dog-eared library book….feeling it lost and grieving loss in bursts of occassional, panicked realization of misplacement. What is reassuring is…..I know I will find them again in time in searching and in slowing down to better vision. In giving time and presence, mindfulness and feedback.
I am thankful for my injured foot (but not while in New York). I wish this hurt were not so, but it is. This is the consequence of excessive exercise and overuse. I thought I’d “kicked” the habit or addiction of the kickboxing. I have not. My loyalty will likely still lie in driving to Sandy when I get home, and a lesson is to be learned again and again as I wince in pain. I own a few of these scenarios.
As I replay in my mind Rhonda Byrne’s The Power cd, I visualize myself taking steps and saying, “Thank you, (ouch), Thank you, (OUCH!) in an overused controlled “r” Ausie ways. I need to ice the heel for it to heal, stretch it, pick up marbles with my toes, and slowwww way down for the plantar facia to improve.
I do. I have. Sort of. I will. i might. I don’t know how I will do New York short of a wheel chair tour of World One buildings. The slow life with Che’, of stay home and care for small ones has helped me to do this, a little.
Starbucks. I still love my morning Misto. I am convinced the benefits outweigh the guilt….so I dispensed with the guilt and keep the year-old coffee addition in mixing in the mocha and disipating the rising steam like a ribbon of smoke from a big waxy Birthday candle. Cheer!
I am grateful for…..being given the use of Che’s blue Honda and being trusted to do so. I am grateful for the privilege of driving. I drive sooooo much back in Utah. Wow, gas is cheaper here, and Che’s car gets better mileage. No offense to my Pearl. I miss her. Now I understand America’s love affair with the automobile. Smile.
Arizona Highways holds a new meaning for me beyond an oil painter’s reference guide to roughing in sand and sketching saguaro. I can now navigate the Blueberry pretty well…..around Peoria, Arizona suburbs and I’ve learned road names and freeways….101 to 51 to freedom of kickboxing in Snottsdale; OR to 83rd Ave. to just past Fresh Start Church, right at the swim sign, down speed-bumped Arcadia, to Centennial Pool for early morning lap swim. OR…..Cactus to 75th to Thunderbird to Bashas and Starbucks. Love it!
I am grateful for technology….for Facebook friends, quick checks and long reads. I am grateful for WordPress posts and space for writing, for Kerio school mailboxes, and up and coming free Acumen and NovoEd online class offerings, for “Hellos” that say “Keep playing (you’ll be alright!).” Yes. I suppose we will. Sigh.
I miss Mountain Life. I’m grateful for it and the introduction to Grace that I found in the Word, through the sermons rendered and the love I felt there.
I feel it here. Yes, I’ll feel in in NYC too.
I am grateful to be alive and to be setting out on more adventures…..God willing. Guess I should just go….put away words…..stop attempting to explain….quit trying to understand what I feel……and simply enjoy when I can. Guess I’ll check in for my flight and print the boarding pass. Zikes!
Life is as good as I make it. So I’m off to make it New York style with Love and without huboob hubub. 🙂