Just Thinkin'

I kept a log of France. It was quick, uninspired, un-poetic. It was functional.

I wanted to keep track of all the places I was seeing; all those beautifully foreign names seemed bent on slipping through my fingers. I figured if I wrote them, cataloged them, they’d somehow find more permanence.

They have – kind of. Now I wonder: why was I so worried about ancient names to ancient cities? I should have written down the words, the expressions, the daily hugs that came from Noah, Isaac, and Bentley. Turns out those are the things that slip away, the moments that are precious and only for a moment.

Who wouldn't miss these awesome kids?

Bon Voyage - thanks to Proust

“The voyage of discovery lies not in finding new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” Marcel Proust

At the Getty; discovery via my camera lens.

This statement is so full of truth, I am almost speechless. Almost. True, Proust is known to have spun a few pearls here and there, but this one is the one that is speaking to me today. There are times that (and I feel I am not alone here) I am in need of a new discovery. Whether it be a discovery of self, of others, or of Nature, it makes no difference. It is simply a desire to remind myself that there are so many things out there, so many new places still to be seen, so many new friends still to be made , so many dreams still waiting to be fulfilled.

There are also times that those new discoveries seem so far out of reach. The idea that a new place has to be far and exotic or that dreams are destined to remain abstract can mysteriously turn into a tangible weight. The calculations of making new discoveries don’t seem to add up.

Then, (oh, the wonderful then), I come across something written in the early 20^th Century, and it is exactly what my soul needs to be reminded of. It has been said many different ways, this idea of attitude over circumstance, because it is truth. It is a truth I am glad to exercise – in taking a familiar hike with a friend expecting new inspiration or reading a memorized Scripture ready for God to speak to me anew.

What new discoveries await when we reset our mindset? So, so many, I feel.

Another Pacific Whey Observation

She's here again, the lonely lady - her hair cut short, her pressed blouse perfectly tucked in. Her wine glass sits at arms' length, perched just above her plate. She methodically wipes down her silverware before placing the napkin across her pencil-skirted, dark navy lap. Everything in its proper place. Everything just so before she takes a small, measured bite. A practice that has, no doubt, been often rehearsed and executed.

This is her routine. This is her comfort.

Age is a number...right?

I wonder if I'd be let into Neverland. No, seriously. What is the requirement? Their age limit, is it chronological or psychological? Though I've passed childhood and adolescence, I'm not old, exactly. Though, I am the oldest that I've ever been. It's just that the term, old, seems to be relative, doesn't it?

I am twice as old as some of my students. It is difficult for them to imagine being as old as me, just as it  is difficult for me to truly imagine a 64 year old Shannon - she seems so old. Yet, I also see my mother, heading into her own 6th decade of life, and she doesn't seem old to me. I know she loathes saying she's in her 60's, but really, if you met her, you'd know, she's not old.

How does one measure old anyway? The rest of the world - those around me - tend to remind me that I do not, in fact, refrain from aging. Sometimes it is in the profound: someone I used to babysit having a baby herself. Sometimes it in the silliness: the new "heartthrob" who is 22 looks like he's 12.

There are times I forget I'm 32. I forget that I have now been out of school (negating college) longer than I was in it. I forget that the 90's were more than a decade ago. I forget that my metabolism has indeed changed - well, I forget as I'm eating the ice cream, not so much when I pull on my jeans.

Out of all the things I unintentionally forget, there's one thing that I need to be more diligent in erasing from my mind: the idea of who I am "suppose" to be by a certain age. There are things I haven't experienced yet that I thought I would. But, you know what? There are so many more things that I have experienced that I didn't even know to dream about when I was younger, and that's pretty dang cool. So bring on "the old," in all it's wisdom, chaos, wrinkles, joy, experience, disillusionment, and adventure.


Still, that Neverland thing would be pretty fun too.

Just because it's been a while...

I have nothing of importance to say, nothing gnawing at my brain to get out, but my writing hand is getting itchy – well, has been for some time now. The problem? I've been fairly dormant, uninspired.

I was hoping France would light a muse-filled fire under my uninspired butt; however, it did not. This is not to say I didn’t love my trip, I did (but that’s for another time). It’s just that it wasn’t a very introspective time; this trip’s personality was just different. Perhaps it was me. Who knows? 

Time, at home, alone hasn’t really helped either. I suppose I am still hoping that all my nonsensical daydreams will somehow formulate themselves into a cohesive and interesting narrative. Sadly, they have not. Lazy Buggers.

So…what’s the answer? Well, when I figure that out, I’ll sing it from the rooftops, or, more realistically, type if from my couch (it is not easy to get to my roof).

FYI...

A bit of a purging, but I may also be able to use it later:

I don’t think I’d survive very long in the wild. You see, my defense mechanism is slightly useless: I withdrawal. Yes, my great defense against the dangers and disappointments of the world is to turtle shell it. I wrap myself in a lie of apathy; all the while, I lick my wounds and scold myself for being wounded in the first place.

I do not want you to apologize, pity me, or follow me. I want you to go back in time and not hurt me. Barring miraculous time-travel mojo, however, this  outcome is unlikely. So, instead, I want you to go away, not forever (most likely), but long enough. I want you to know you cannot fix me right when you want. I want you to know that what seems like a silly disappointment to you is simply one more to add to my collection. I want you to know I will be fine; I just need time to stew, wallow, and swim in my own head until I can once again emerge a rational, even-keeled adult.

...Alone...

I see an elderly woman eating alone: wine glass, half sandwich, open book. I have seen her before – always alone. I see her and wonder so many things. Perhaps because I am there alone as well, I wonder if I’m seeing an aged version of me.


She looks content enough, but there’s a subtle look in her eyes that says otherwise. I only catch a glimpse that betrays a longing. There’s something sad, perhaps missing. And I wonder if she is eating alone for one meal that day or all of them. I wonder if she has had to eat alone for a season or a lifetime.

This second thought is the one that really gets me thinking – almost fretting- that indeed, one day, my diet coke and grading will be replaced with white wine and a novel, and someone more than half my age will hope she isn’t looking at her own personal prophecy.