Life Is Like My Bathroom

Life is weird, right? Like sometimes I walk into the bathroom in the morning and find strange things like a bow tie and a guitar capo in the middle of the floor or a football helmet with a towel inside it or maybe a Lego board set at an angle that appears to be intentional or maybe a scuba diver inside the mouth of a shark. A toy shark, of course, because it wouldn't be "weird" to find a real shark in the bathroom - it would be "scary".

The scuba diver was a toy too because none of us own scuba gear and it would be a different kind of "scary" to find a strange scuba diver hanging out in our bathroom. It would be "weird" if one of us did own scuba gear and put it all on and waited in the bathroom. That would be weird funny...and now I wish that I owned scuba gear for this purpose alone.

Whispered Aside ~ I could not sleep last night which might explain the digression...but...you know I love a digression so maybe I'm just feeling self-indulgent today. ~ End Whispered Aside

I try to make sense of these weird things that I find but I usually fail. I know who is responsible and I could ask what it's all about but there is something about the absurdity of it all that I appreciate.

Truly understanding it might ruin the surprise.

So, my bathroom is a lot like life: unpredictable, weird, absurd, funny, a bit cold and a little confusing.

Last week was all of those things for me.

I was thrilled when my piece for the Listen To Your Mother Twin Cities Show was published by the Huffington Post and the good and bad comments reminded me of the importance of storytelling.

For those who don't know what followed, another site took my story, distorted my message and then took pictures of my kids from my Facebook account and posted them. (The article and pictures have since been removed.)

As I start this new week, I am filled with gratitude.

I am grateful for all who read my piece and took the time to comment respectfully.

I am grateful for all those who contacted me personally to tell me that my words meant something to them.

I am grateful for Luisa who helped me deal with the misrepresentation and pictures even though she was in Trinidad.

I am grateful for every single person who offered to kick some ass on my behalf. Your protectiveness was adorable and appreciated.

I am grateful that I am able to write and that, for whatever reason, people read what I write.

I can't make sense of everything and I don't have to. Last week reminded me that, sometimes, you just need to embrace the bow ties and football helmets and sharks in the bathroom and be grateful for the unexpected.

I am learning to do just that.

Twenty Years

When we met, I was only 24 and she was only 23. We were both new to Minneapolis and each lost in our own ways. We were so different.

I was from Kansas and she was from Portugal. She spoke impeccable English but didn't get any of my pop culture references. I was words and stories and loud laughter and she was quiet and analytical and had the most adorable smirk.

We were a little bit of a mess at times. We were so young.

Twenty years have passed and we are different versions of ourselves, better versions.

I know, without a doubt, that I am a better person because of her.

It sounds sentimental and it is but it is also a truth born of work. We are not perfect, individually or together. There is no secret or special magic. We've made it this far simply by wanting the best for each other, by honoring the most vulnerable parts of each other, by stripping away illusions.

I will always be the girl who is more likely to write her a poem than make her a pot of coffee and she will always be the girl who makes the pot of coffee rather than writing me a poem.

Somehow, it works.

I hope it keeps working for years to come.

Winter In Moments

We went to the cabin last weekend and arrived Saturday, late in the afternoon. I quickly put on my skates and skated in circles on the frozen lake and pushed the kids into the snow and took pictures of  snow angels as the sun set. I could see the beauty in blue of the sky and the sun hitting the snow. I watched the kids skate around me - blurs in dying light - and I found happiness in their pink cheeks and laughs that could be seen in the cold air.

But as the sun dropped below the treeline, the air turned colder and the wind picked up and my feet went numb and I went inside.

On Sunday, Luisa went cross-country skiing with one of our friends and they cut a trail around the entire lake, across the island and back. They returned exhilarated and convinced me to go so I set out with a friend soon after.

I am not immune to the beauty of winter all the time. Blue skis against white snow and the sun high in the sky - it seemed so clear and fresh and right.

We skied side by side, making slow steady progress but the wind began to blow across the tracks and burn our faces and I looked up to find that we were only 1/3 of the way around the lake.

"The wind!"

"I know."

But we kept going because I guess that's what you do.

Eventually, we made it to the other side of the lake and the wind was broken by the island and I could enjoy the quiet and the sounds of our skis against the hard snow. We stopped and watched a dried leaf tumble across a patch of untouched snow.

We watched a leaf.

I am not always open to that kind of reverence but, for a moment, I was.

We made our way across the island, through a patch of brambles. Are brambles really a thing? Maybe they were something else but I know they were prickly and annoying and I said, "Why the hell did they cut the path through here?"

I can't be reverent about brambles.

Skis crunching across thick brown stems - over and over. This was not skiing. This was trudging but we kept going because that was the way home.

I took off my skis rather than go down a hill and over a tree trunk and, once we were back on the surface of the lake, we continued. In the distance, we could see our daughters (my one, her two). They too were skiing, cutting trail right across the middle of the lake - slow, plodding.

"Do you think something is wrong?"

"Maybe."

My friend yelled, "Are you okay?" One of the girls fell as they turned towards the voice. They all three answered "We're fine!"

We kept on our own path and finally arrived back at the cabin. I wasn't graceful in our trip around the lake but I had made it and that was accomplishment enough.

We took off our skis and watched as the girls continued to struggle towards home but then left them to it. When they came inside a half hour later, they were pure excitement and laughter and stories. I envied them. They are growing up in the cold and ice and it will be what they know. I am a transplant and often out of place.

I try. I have  those moments when I can frolic like an arctic fox but, ultimately, I find myself longing for sun and warm breezes and the lapping of the lake on the shore. This winter has been hard and maybe all I can hope for are moments...a leaf skittering on a frozen lake, a cardinal on a snowy branch, my daughter and her friends cutting their own trail. Maybe that's how we keep going...moment by moment...because that's what you do.