Life's Balance

A few months ago, I purchased a balance disc--what looks like an oversized inflated frisbee--upon which one develops muscle tone and, "whaddya know"--balance.  It sat in a basket near my desk where I could fully experience the guilt associated with "committing without commitment."  This weekend I finally began to use it.  I'd like to say I'm feeling more balanced.  Alas, not yet.  And anyway, what's the big deal?  If it's so hard to achieve, maybe it's an unnatural state.  In fact, is it healthy to constantly strive to lead a balanced life?  Isn't it like trying to earn more money or own a nicer home?  And if it were natural, wouldn't we naturally be balanced?

I wouldn't want you all to think I can't see the merit of living a more well-modulated life.  But it somehow seems unattainable unless by happenstance.  If I had a mantra, it would be "live as if there were no tomorrow."  And in order to do that, it has meant that my children received varying degrees of attention (not varying degrees of love, mind you), my house was more OR less cared for and tidy, the refrigerator was more OR less orderly, work took up way more time than it should have, and retirement plans were merely dreams.

Now I'm retired and my children are adults.  They're wrapped up in their own attempts at balance while I still find myself just as busy as I was--sometimes with things that don't align with what I considered my intentions in retirement.  But I'll tell you, dear readers, that I'm still living the mantra.  I fill my days with 1) things I love to do, 2) things I have to do, and 3) things that, in the end, reward me with whatever makes it possible to do what I love to do. 

Wondrous Moments

Now that I've gone back to work--even part-time, I have neglected my blog.  There's a reason why I didn't start this until after I retired.  The fact is, I didn't have it in me to be articulate at the end of the day after being articulate--or pretending to be--during the work day.

I have been spending my evenings planning for our upcoming trip to France, finally settling on destinations where we will make our brief but adventuresome homes.  Now that we've made those decisions--agonizing though they were, we can move on to anxiously watch the Euro and the price of oil plummet before committing to a car and a flight and before paying anything more than is necessary to secure our rentals.  One thing at a time.  I'm trying desperately to stifle my excitement knowing that there are almost four months to survive before stepping on a plane.

There is, however, still wonder to be found in the day.  I try to savor those magic moments even though I don't share them with you.  Each year, I watch and wait for the blossoming of my neighbor's late-blooming dogwood.  My hands-down favorite flowering plant in the neighborhood, I appreciate it more and more each year as it grows taller.  On this day as I was walking by, the neighbor--knowing how much I appreciate her tree,  rushed out of her house to offer me a few branches.  I even went back home to fetch my camera rather than using my iPhone to take some pictures.  I thought the tree deserved more respect.

I hope you are all finding magical moments each day in your busy lives as well.  Whether or not you share them with others, hold the wonder in your own heart. 

France Beckons

Leading up to retirement, I had always pictured myself either moving to or spending long periods of time in France.  And while I am fortunate enough to receive a pension, it does not leave me enough for travel of the international kind.  So this last year and a half has not brought l'aventure I yearned for except through book and film. 

Finally, though, in September, my husband and I will be jumping the pond to spend a few months in France.  My friend, Cindy, will be spending the first month with us; and we hope to have other visitors while there.  While I had envisioned a solitary few months in one place inspired by mountain and sea, wine and cheese, zero obligations, I will be showing people I love the places I love.  And perhaps I will be able to spend some more time on my next book.  (Book number two is mighty close, so that would make it book number three!)  More realistically, though, I hope that my French will improve, we will be able to explore new places, I will find new things to write about, and we will reap the benefits of our genuine appreciation for all things French.  Well, not exactly ALL things French.  But more about that at another time.  Between now and then, France will have 1) a recycled president or 2) a new president.  Either way, I'm not sure it will make much of a difference for us--though the better the dollar against the Euro, the better off we'll be. 

Eze from above the Mediterranean taken in 2008.

Our first stop is Nice.  It's not new to us, but we still have much to see there.  And we will be able to show Cindy places we like and that, I think, she will like, too.  And the remainder of the time we hope to be in southwestern France--either in the Pyrenees or near the Mediterranean just above the Spanish border.

September cannot come soon enough. 

Flying Fantasies

I spent most of my summers in Calais, Maine.  That's pronounced "callous," not "cal-lay," as they pronounce it in France.  Calais sits on the northeast corner of the United States across the border from St. Stephen, New Brunswick, Canada.  Mother was, in fact, born in Canada as there was no hospital facility in Calais in 1916.  And when we were young and wanted to see a movie, we walked across the bridge to catch a performance at the only cinema.

Calais was a wonderful place to summer.  Around my grandparents' house were fields for exploring rocky streams and woods and wonderful things.  The town was small enough so we could walk downtown or to the river or to the cemetery where we would picnic with our great aunt.  There was a garden where my great aunt and I would pick raspberries for breakfast and green beans for dinner.  We picked butter lettuce, which we then sprinkled with sugar and popped into our mouths.  Just like candy.

When it rained, we would spend the day on the sleeping porch playing canasta or board games or reading.  The sleeping porch must have had a gazillion beds in it.  Or so it seemed.  And maybe one actual piece of sitting-on furniture--some overstuffed, long worn out and discreetly covered chair.  From the porch, we could see the world go by--though in Calais, there wasn't much world that went anywhere.

When I was very young--but old enough to remember, the water arrived in a pump in the kitchen.  When the house upgraded to running water, flush toilets and showers, it was luxurious.  Nana made our meals on an enormous wood stove.  I'm sure she had to heat water on the stove just to wash the dishes.  It's hard to imagine for those of us who grew up with modern conveniences--even if our conveniences were a whole lot less modern than most of our neighbors'. 

Yesterday as I walked the dog, I came across spinners that brought me back to those summers in Calais.  Spinners are the seeds from the maple tree that are attached to what looks like a wing and fall from the tree--often in pairs--and spin like helicopter blades.  We used to open them at the seed part and stick them on our noses. Here's a photo of (l to r) Samantha, Christine, and Sam sporting the helicopter blades on their noses the way we did as children. 

Funny, though.  We never did lift off--except in spirit.

Code Talk

We talk in code, my husband and I, to avoid the apoplectic behavior demonstrated by the use of the word "walk," or "frisbee," or "Niña" (the name of my sister's dog).  Our dog Milo has learned so many words that a misstep--or misspeak as the case may be--sends him right over the edge.  He can distinguish between the hole-y espadrilles I wear around the house and the shoes I wear in public.  He knows I'm ready to leave when I put on my clogs but isn't sure he's going, too.  He pays attention to my feet.  When we're getting ready for a walk, I avoid my sneakers until the very last minute.  As soon as I've produced them, he is relentless.  He jumps, he licks, he gets his nose in there so it's hard to tie a knot.  I don't touch the closet door.  I don't touch my little carry-all sack or the leash.  And I never say "walk."   But it's a fine line between ready and not ready, so we tiptoe around it. 

When we were small, I remember waiting for our father, the minister, to emerge from church on Sunday after the congregation (his fan base) had sensibly exited to enjoy the rest of the day.  We--four ravenous children--would sit in the car waiting, waiting, waiting.  And then he would appear for the drive home in anticipation of the open-faced sandwich with whatever meat and gravy was left over from the roast of the night before--turkey, beef, pork, etc.  Mother would drive and they would talk in the front seat.  In order to make sure we weren't privy to whatever secrets they discussed in that ten-minute ride, they spoke in code as well.  Pig Latin was their language.

Much like our precocious dog, Milo, my parents' precocious children figured out what they were saying and taunted them with it--much like Milo when he hears something familiar that, to him, means fun.  Much like my husband and me, my parents figured out they would have to keep their conversations in the bedroom.  So we talk funny now.  Keeping secrets from Milo.

Steps

Humana health insurance promises good health if we take 10,000 steps each day.  AARP’s most recent magazine recommends 10,000 steps a day and suggests that 5,000 steps means sedentary.  I recently purchased a pedometer, which I have reliably attached to my waist each morning. 

So now I’m going to get fit and healthy.  How?  I walk.  Not that I walk more than I did before I bought the pedometer.  But now I actually know how healthy and fit I’m getting—or how sedentary I really am.  And here’s the frosting on the cake.  Now I obsess about how close I might have come to 5,000 steps or—will I ever get there?—10,000 steps.  The pedometer is the last thing I look at before I take my glasses off at night.  I put it on my bathrobe belt loop before I put my glasses back on in the morning.  I look at it as much as I look at my iPhone, which is—trust me—a lot!  Yesterday, I made 7,009.  The day before 3,698.  It motivated me to riffle through the bathroom cabinet hoping to find an unconsumed and fuzz-free happy pill.  Five days ago, I did my best at 7,480 steps.  Let's see. . .  If I average out the last five days, I have walked 5,605 steps!  

You know what that means?  That means I am officially not sedentary. 

The Noise of Stillness

At the end of the evening—usually the beginning of a new day, I reluctantly give in to sleep.  Rarely in bed before my husband, I love turning off the television or computer and simply standing in the center of the room listening to the noise of the stillness.  No one is fussing in the kitchen, the cat is asleep somewhere, the dog is on the bed with my husband impatiently awaiting my arrival.  The sensation of quiet is palpable as I hold myself still in the darkness.  I feel wrapped against the night and force myself to move toward the bedroom with anticipation for that feeling of body between the sheets.  I gently nudge the dog to make room for me, moving against the contours of my husband.  Then comes that blissful release from the exertion of holding up my skeleton.  Ahhh, peace.