A Whole Mess of Gratitude

Sometimes I realize how lucky I am and it stops me in my tracks. I'm on the way down the hall to fill up my water bottle at the drinking fountain and I get half way there and I just have to stop because I'm nearly consumed by the thought of just how good I have it.

I am still high from all the feelings of the relay experience. I just can't believe the way twelve people can come together and accomplish something with such strength and humor and spirit. And it doesn't just stop there, I have a wonderful family, too. A family who watches my dog while I'm away and waters my flowers and brings in the mail. I wouldn't be able to have half the freedom I do without the foundation they provide. And a grandmother who turns eighty-one this week. Eighty-one! I'm just amazed by her, and her stories and wisdom. I'm so thankful she's healthy and here to share with me.

And I have friends, near and far. Running friends, school friends, and yes, even blogging friends. I do consider that a friendship, you know. We learn together, laugh together, share some good times and some crap times. That's got to be one definition of friendship and don't let anyone tell you it's not.

Things like this are so easy to overlook if we aren't careful. We can be so driven to what's next that we forget to take stock in what's right now. I don't want to forget that. I don't want to be the girl that's so upset she didn't win a trip to Mexico on the radio this morning that she forgets she has plans every night this week with friends and is going to sing [badly] at the top of her lungs at a concert on Saturday. And I am so definitely not that girl because do you know how long it's been since I've gone to a concert? At least three months and that, my friend, is far too long.

There have been some bad times lately. Some disappointing people, some crud so deep even your tallest boots would fail you but you know, today is just one of those days where it's not front row. Yeah, those troubles are out there, looming somewhere. But all I've got to do is let them be, let them stay out there in the back for the moment. You see, there are these bright, blazing lights shining up front here and for now, that's all I need.

Maybe it's just a life full of plans or having just come off a great running experience but my gosh, I have some good stuff and good people in my life and I'm just so incredibly grateful I can barely stand it.

Women Who Have Shaped Me: My Greatest Cheerleader

Born in Hartford, Connecticut in 1926, the oldest of nine children, she stands tall at 5'9". A good three inches taller than any woman in the family before or since. Perhaps, though, this is part of what made her who she is. She stands out a little, always does things a little differently. A little against the grain.

When I was nineteen, and head over heels in love with my college boyfriend of a whole six months, who my Grandmother is really hit me. "You have plenty of time, poopsie" (one of many unexplainable nicknames), she would say. And after thinking about it, I knew she was right. Just because all the girls I'd gone to high school with and soon after the set I was in college with wanted to rush out and get their MRS. degree, it didn't mean I had to. After all, she didn't. And she did quite well.

At eighteen, when the majority of her schoolmates were looking to settle down and start families, my Grandmother went to secretary school. She would eventually land her first job -other than working on a farm for her entire childhood- at the office of a prestigious Hartford attorney. She was a good secretary, and the lawyer paid well. "I had all my own things, all my own outfits," she brags. "A pair of shoes, purse and gloves to match every outfit." Ah, yes, we are related. Not because of the materialism (though I'll admit, it's there- she's an Avon lady, for heaven sakes!) but because of the freedom. We've both had a taste for it and both took advantage of the opportunity.

I think this, more than anything else, might be what connects us. Our independence and sense of adventure is a common thread between us. For her, it's a reason to cheer. For me, it's encouragement to keep going. Through her, I know I can do many things with this life. I'm not solely dedicated to one path. She went to Cape Cod in the Summer, I'll go to the islands. She made friends where ever she went, I'll strike up a conversation with just about anyone. It's that attitude, that bravery- she has it, I want it.

About thirty-five years ago, my Grandma started selling Avon. This was while she was raising six children. In that thirty-five years, through teething, hundreds of colds, puberty, graduations, marriages, divorces, births of grandchildren and more, she has never been out of the top five in sales in her division (or maybe it's called a chapter- she would kill me for not knowing this). She has never tried for anything less than success, even when it's been tough. She has made a life and a living off something most people might just do for extra cash. She knows the difference between just selling to a customer and creating a relationship.

Which brings me to why I admire her most of all. She's an incomparable friend. She cares like no one I've ever seen. She's the kind of thoughtful that they'd write in an instruction manual titled "How to Be a Best Friend, Confidant, Caregiver and Helper to Everyone You'll Ever Meet." But there's no manual for her, it just comes naturally. And I remember this all the time. When I let a friend talk about their troubles, when I hold someone's hand, when I write a note just because, I think of her. I think of all the ways she's gone out of her way to let people know that someone cares, and I try. I might not be good at it, I doubt I'll ever be as good as she is. But if there's some way to ever show her what I've learned, it's got to be that I try. Which, when I think about it, is also what she taught me to do.
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This post is part of Bre's idea to write about women who have shaped us during this Women's History Month.
(I slacked last week, sorry Bre!)

Days Go By

It's been nearly a year since I began this blog. While that's not much for some, it's quite significant to me, if only because I've found a place to dump thousands of the billions of thoughts constantly swirling around in my head.

When I woke up this morning I watched and read some news and wondered if it was bad to feel like this, 1/1/07, were just like any other day. I still have the same thoughts, same goals, and same worries as I did yesterday. What makes this different? Should I feel as though I'm standing at the edge of something? Anything?

In two days, I have an appointment with the top sports medicine doctor in the city. He is supposed to help me with my knees (yes, knees, plural. In addition to my right knee being swollen and now painful, my left knee has followed suit since my Christmas Day run). I have had it, I am ready for help. I'm overwhelmingly motivated to run right now, and I can't. I think (and also hope) this doctor will scope both knees. I've had the xrays and MRI's, it's time to do something more drastic. I need to run. I have a half marathon scheduled in March, a full in May, another half later in the summer and probably another full in the fall. I may be injured, but I'm not losing hope. I definitely need this doctor to understand that.

Over the past two days, I have eaten enough to support a family of five. Or twelve. I credit this to football games and my grandmother requesting I bake her some more of my perfect cookies. Obviously, I could say no to neither. Sandwiches, pizza, cookies, pizza, taco salad and pizza do not make for a "hey, look at me, I've lost seven pounds" attitude, so I sure am glad the weekend is over. Not-so-secretly, though, I am glad it was here because I am reassured that I was always right about two things: cheese melted on anything makes it better and, putting bacon on pizza is culinary genius. However, I know and am okay with the fact that this has come to an end, because feeling the way my pants fit sans seven pounds, well, that's almost as good as bacon and, in my case, lasts a heck of a lot longer.

In just four short days, my sister will, once again, have to say goodbye to her husband and send him off to the danger of the Middle East. I can't even begin to express how this makes me feel. He's been home less than two months. I don't care that the President says "there's a job to do" and then proceeds to dump thousands of troops back into a war without a clear plan. I don't care that an evil dictator was just hanged. I'm glad he was captured, yes. It doesn't make up for the fact that men and women are leaving their families for "undetermined length deployments," some for a third or fourth time in two years. It doesn't change that death tolls have reached a milestone, again. I cannot write eloquently about this. It is not something I have understood from the very beginning, and I doubt I ever will. I was raised and believe leaders, elected leaders, should be respected and supported. That is what makes a country strong. Now, that's changed. It is, perhaps, what angers me most.

In about sixteen days, my sister will relocate to the West coast to finish school and be closer to family while her husband is away. Sure, I could go into all the reasons why this is a good, positive thing and the only good thing about the entire situation but really, all I can think about is how she and I will don mouse ears and recreate scenes from our childhood at Disneyland this summer.

Over the past, oh let's say 358 days or so, I've had the privilege of "meeting" some fantastic people. It's you, fellow bloggers and readers. You have opened my mind to new perspectives, new stories, new parts of the country and the world and your lives. I feel as though it's no accident that you and I have stumbled upon one another and the bits and pieces of this last year we've shared and the connections we've had are far more than I ever expected. Plus, you're super cool.

So it is okay, after all, to feel like today is any other day. Our hopes, our prayers, our laughs, our connections and our struggles are what make it so. That's the significance. Without those, I suppose, we wouldn't mind the passing of the days anyway. We might not even notice at all.

High on Christmas

I'm still ridiculously giddy about the last three days. Days spent in a fury of gift wrap, visiting, food and drink. I finished one last shopping trip on Saturday and at the sight of my last gift wrapped and ribboned, I almost didn't know what to do with myself.

But then I did. Party, of course. A Saturday night party, a Christmas Eve breakfast, a Christmas eve lunch, a gathering at Grandmas and a Christmas Day dinner of lasagna, salad (both with excessively wonderful amounts of garlic) and cookies all made for a lovely weekend of tasting goodness. The homemade pie at Grandma's after the football game was TO. DIE. FOR.

A four mile run on the treadmill on Saturday, twenty-five minutes on the bike on Sunday and a run yesterday in which I didn't track the miles or time because it was just so good made for a good maintenance plan to balance out the to-die-for treats of the season.

Christmas Day began with some chai tea and the opening of a couple gifts. Then, it was off to the soup kitchen where I ended up delivering meals to several folks unable to leave their homes for a hot meal. Once again, I feel as though I'm the one who's received a gift as I'm reminded of the pricelessness of even one day of health, family and friendship. In all the trials in this world, I truly have been spared and blessed several times over.

A friend of mine's dad, whenever asked how he's doing answers: "Better than I deserve and often too stupid to enjoy it." Isn't that the truth?

After my delivery person stint, I stopped by the parent's house for even more Christmas cheer. In all these years, my mother still maintains the title of Slowest Gift Opener Ever. She sits and watches everyone else open gifts and then proceeds to open hers not by tearing paper from the gift itself but so delicately pulling it apart that if you didn't see her hands on the package, you'd imagine that the paper were removing itself from the box by sheer will alone. You aren't sure whether to be impressed by her patience and tenderness or grab the box out of her hand and do it yourself before we grow old, forgoodnesssakes!

Later, in the sunny, sunny thirty-nine degree afternoon weather, I went for a run. My knee is still quite unhappy and the side streets and trails are still covered in snow and ice but thanks to warm sun, no wind and Yaktrax I had one of the best runs I've had in a while and, arguably, the best Winter run I'd ever had. The snow crunching under my feet and sometimes coming up as deep as just below the knee in some spots created an interesting, yet peaceful run. Everyone was inside gifting and footballing which left the roads free of traffic and left me to run right down the middle. It's so good, feeling as though the road is yours for a day. I could have gone on forever.

A freeing run to take time to reflect on a fulfilling day followed by a non-traditional Christmas meal to conclude all of it left me feeling thankful and looking forward to the new year and new days to come.

Always the same, like never before

This past Saturday, I baked eight dozen cookies. The same ones I always bake with a couple extra batches thrown in. I never tire of baking cookies I like, so it's always a predictable contribution from me. A friend of mine has a cookie exchange every year and while you may be thinking that a cookie exchange sounds awfully dull and boring, she also serves food and drink, and things like hot chai with Bailey's (my personal favorite) and wine. Instead of exchanging recipes, we all sit around, eat celery dipped in dill something or other and talk and gossip and joke about all the injustices in the world. Particularly, about how designers can make clothes any size they want to and then slap a number on it and call it an 8. That way, at one store, you're feeling dang good and the next, you want to hang yourself in the fitting room.



This bit of the holiday season is actually one of my favorite parts of all of it. I'm at home, in comfortable clothes, mixing and blending and rolling and measuring. I have the Christmas music annoyingly loud and the entire house smells like a big blanket of sugar and spice that you want to wrap yourself in for the entire Winter, only leaving for more warm-from-the-oven goodness. I feel quite domestic in times like this and not so much because I didn't burn one single batch this year, but because I answered the door and greeted the UPS man while wiping my hands on my apron. What, I ask you, is more domestic that that?

This is also the first year I didn't feel the need to eat every single cookie I'd baked. Usually, I have to eat one of each batch (I know, I know) but this year, after eight dozen cookies plus two experimental recipes (not pictured), I was so sick of cookies I could have thrown them out and not blinked. But I didn't, I sealed them all tightly until the next day when I transferred them into a tissue paper lined basket and presented them at the party. (Presented in a basket. That sounds ridiculous. I can't even spell Longaberger!)

I also was careful to save a few cookies for the constructive criticism of the best cookie baker this side of the Mississippi. Which side of the Mississippi, you ask? All sides. Grandma, of course. I always want her opinion and even more so in the last couple years. You see, I've developed quite the competition of cookie baking with Uncle Joe. Uncle Joe, forester and lumber guy by day, is a baking dynamo. He bakes pies from apples grown in his back yard, for crying out loud. Anyhow, a couple years ago, he shared some cookie recipes with me. Particularly, Snickerdoodles. Everyone has always ooooed and ahhhhed over Uncle Joe's Snickerdoodles, including me. (Chocolate hater = HUGE fan of the non-chocolate cookies.)

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It wasn't long, though, before I hated waiting for Uncle Joe's cookies. I wanted to make my own, all the time. So, I started with the exact recipe, an approach which lasted batch after batch for a good year. Then, one day when I was feeling particularly critical of the World's Most Perfect Non-chocolate Cookie, I decided to use half the shortening required in the recipe and make up for it in butter. I did the same with the Peanut Butter cookie recipe.

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Best and likely the most important decision I've ever made in the kitchen.

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So this evening, at Grandma's, I nervously handed her the tin of cookies. She opened it, removed one, took a bite and thought carefully. I, sitting on the edge of my chair for what seemed like a good ninety to 100 seconds, leaned forward.

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"So, are they good."

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She just sat, took another bite, leaned toward me and whispered, as if we weren't alone, "Better than Uncle Joe's."

Christmas miracles come in many forms.