Aug
8
I bought earrings at Old Navy the other day, three pairs of gemlike plastic oblongs in deepening shades of blue. They’re cute, little eye-catching bits of color that I like to dither over: does this one go best with the chambray shorts, or this one?
They were all of nine dollars, or three dollars a pair, if you want to think of it that way. I’ve bought enough earrings lately that I got a special jewelry tray with a velvety grid to store them in. My favorites are the swooshy gold leaflike danglers from Cost Plus World Market, but the giant sparkly beaded hoops from Target are a runner-up.
When did I finally try a pair of delightful cheap earrings, after an entire lifetime of believing I could only tolerate fancy metals? I’ve worn the same gorgeous but subdued studs forever, convinced the fun stuff just wasn’t for me. I remember, years ago, the flaming itchiness of aggravated ears, a flush that would spread to my cheeks. Maybe just a particularly crappy piece of jewelry, or maybe somewhere along the line my ears stopped being hoity-toity about what got jammed up in their holes? (Well! That took an unpleasant turn.)
Anyway. My point is, there is an entire new world that’s open to me, adornment-wise! I’ve gone the minimalist route with jewelry for a very long time and I’m charmed by the peacockiness of adding spangles to my own self. It’s pleasing in the same way stringing a trail of sparkle lights on the mantle is: a bit of shine, a little something extra.
Duh, you’re probably thinking. So you’ve discovered ACCESSORIZING. I know, I know. It’s a small thing. But a reminder that there are plenty of happy surprises left in life.
When we did our family rafting trip on the Rogue River last month I spent quite a bit of time in an inflatable kayak, mostly paddling along but also navigating some actual no-shit rapids. Here’s the thing I could never have predicted in about a million years: I was pretty damned good at it. “You’re a natural,” shouted our guide at one point, and you guys, I cannot tell you what that did for me. Like no big deal but go ahead and etch it on my gravestone, okay? A natural at whitewater kayaking.
It’s true I managed to get dumped at one point so perhaps it’s a bit early to call myself a natural, but it was a scary thing and I was brave enough to do it, and not only was it fun, it was like dancing across the water. Like feeling some great cosmic torrent of energy and being fully plugged into it, like being deeply alive on every level. Like being a purposeful part of the world.
It’s all too easy to get tunnel vision, these days. I mean in the narrowed-in sense, but also in the sense that there is darkness all around us. It feels helpless, like being swept in a current of shit. But then there are all these gifts, these moments of beauty big and small.
I don’t really know where I’m going and I never have. Lately, though, I feel like I’m on the surface of things. Dancing, even. Wearing, like, the most adorable earrings.
Jul
25
I’ve been writing in a paper journal since May of 2017, after I was inspired to do so by my first hospice patient. She told me she wished she’d been better about keeping a diary, and subsequently was delighted to hear I’d started my own. “Keep at it, you’ll be glad you did,” she said, and I have, for the most part. I was diligent about writing daily for a while before petering out to a once-or-twice-weekly update, but I haven’t given up.
Like blogging, the longer I go between journal writings that more difficult it seems to dip back in, but both efforts are forgiving: if a page gathers some dust, so be it. It’s always there waiting for me.
Summer has been flying by, we’ve already packed so much in it’s hard to believe we still have August to go. John’s parents, our family, and John’s brother’s family went on a rafting trip down the Rogue river at the beginning of the month. Our foursome took a very long and very hot road trip to the Grand Canyon, staying in a remote ranch perched on a broiling but beautiful desert hillside. This weekend we’re going camping, our second trailer outing of the summer. The sunshine and long light-filled evenings feel like a daily gift, something to soak up and hold onto for dear life when the inevitable February doldrums arrive.
When we’re not on the road, I work mostly in the mornings, from the couch or a coffee shop. The kids spend their time watching YouTube, playing basketball in the driveway, crafting weapons out of plywood, devouring endless amounts of food, and arguing with one another. John comes and goes, sometimes working from his desk in the living room and sometimes out in the shop.
It’s an awfully good season of life in so many ways. Imperfect, of course — I would love for there to be less arguing, and for the one inside cat to stop peeing on the carpet — but there so much to be grateful for. I can see it in that journal I should write in more often, the pages and pages of not-particularly-notable moments that add up to a spectacularly unspectacular existence, a gloriously humble and happy home.
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