Alive with Possibility
- At July 07, 2011
- By Roxanne Snopek
- In Life, Roxanne Writes On
- 0
I stood at my kitchen window this morning, waiting for my coffee, and was treated to an airshow. Swallows swooped between my rescued spruce tree and that darn cottonwood that will not be killed, sparrows fed on aurinia now gone to seed, hummingbirds dipped in and out of my hanging baskets, chattering and squabbling. Occasionally one perched on the supports against which clematis vines send their delicate tendrils. The scent of roses, planted and tended by my own hands, hung lightly in the morning air.
Butterflies drifted in and out of a patch of pink yarrow. Now and then, a robin flew in to break up a gathering, and deep within my heavily-laden currant bush, a pair of roufus-sided towhees scratched and pecked. As my coffee and toast got cold, I watched a group of little red-headed finches perch along my espaliered apple tree, six or seven amongst the four horizontal branches, each budding with a different variety of apple.
My yard might not be magazine-worthy; there’s whole patches that I haven’t dealt with properly yet. I plant things, only to realize that they would look better or be happier in a different spot. I build a terrace, only to decide a month later that it’s not quite deep enough, or needs more rock. Wild bunnies make lunch dates in my flowerbeds, and the deer sample pretty much everything, but I figure they were here first, the least I can do is be gracious.
So I move plants, redo hardscaping, dig, replace, adjust. Slowly but surely, I’m making headway against the invasive thorny weeds, but it’s a never-ending task, and I use Polysporin as hand lotion every night. I suspect the apocalypse will end with fleas, cockroaches, thistle and blackberry standing triumphant.
For me, gardening is – like so much of life – an ongoing project. Ideas sprout in me like scarlet runner beans, and I’m never happier than when I’m working on some new possibility, be it a book, a painting, a recipe or a new twist on an old relationship. But bringing ideas to maturity takes patience, thought, observation, more patience, and the willingness to try out something, even if it turns out to be wrong.
Or even if – especially if – someone tells me it was a bad idea.
More creative minds than mine insist that there are no bad ideas. I cling to this. Some ideas are better than others; some ideas are simply jumping-off points. But none are bad. The fifth try might be perfect, but you can’t get to five without going through four. Writers refer to this as the “shitty first draft” concept, which makes sense. Manure is fertilizer, after all.
So I shore up my shaky courage in times of creative drought and seek out warm shelter and support. I’ve found that gardens usually come back, when the season is right; life, it seems, is forgiving to those who keep trying.
So I’ve got flowers, animals, birds, insects, and even food. I’ve got stories, friendship, love, beauty, purpose. It’s summer, finally. My little bit of Earth is thriving …and nurturing my soul along with it.
Day 125, Yup 125 Bikram Yoga classes in 2011
That’s all I’m going to say about yoga right now. Next topic:
Can I be honest?
This isn’t an opening gambit, ala Joan Rivers or Oprah. Nor is it a request for permission. It’s not even a rhetorical question. It’s an actual question, one I’ve been asking myself for, I don’t know, about four decades.
Not sure I’ve ever asked it out in the open, though.
Pretense has always been a burr under my saddle. Maybe because I grew up Mennonite, which like most upbringings is a mixed bag of blessing and challenge. But the “Praise the Lord, we love the Emperor’s new clothes,” aspect of enforced happiness always made my jaw hurt. Of course, maybe it’s not the Mennonites’ fault; maybe it’s chronic low serotonin levels. Maybe it’s because my Sun sign is Scorpio. (And Moon, Mercury and Neptune. Which would explain the brooding.) Maybe it’s my Introvert-Intuitive-Feeling-Judging personality. A first-born, a mesomorph body type, a middle-aged menopausal woman working through the throes of an identity crisis.
Who knows? (And who cares, right?)
Well, here’s the thing: I don’t think I’m alone in my existential questioning. I suspect there are a lot of women in the grocery store, clinging to their sanity like it’s the last can of beans in the bomb shelter, but smiling, smiling, smiling, wondering what on earth they’re doing wrong and how come they’re the only ones not in on the secret to lasting happiness and personal fulfillment?
Okay, I’m a little idealistic. Scorpio, remember?
So I try to ride that fine line between healthy honesty, and being the weird close-talking neighbor who tells you all about her recent hemorrhoid surgery within your first ten minutes of meeting.
Here’s where it connects to yoga: honesty is related to stamina. Endurance. Steadfastness. Stick-to-it-iveness. Hangin-in-there. Doing what you say you’re going to do, when you say you’re going to do it. No excuses, no “oops”, no “sorry, I meant to” or “I was going to next Thursday,” or when it wasn’t raining, or the dollar picked up, or the yen went down, or your mood stabilized. And no “I didn’t think it would be this hard” or “but I got tired” or “I forgot.”
That all sounds pretty judgmental, doesn’t it? When it comes to interpersonal relationships, honesty is a key player. The closer the relationship, the more important trust is. And the bigger the betrayal when it is broken. “Forgive and forget” is a nice idea and has its place but “forgive and file it away for future use” is human reality, and sometimes the only way to check repeat-offenders.
Personally, when it comes to conflict I’m a natural-born fan of avoidance, denial and the Armani-clad Emperor.
But I’m facing it.
Can I be honest? It might be my biggest challenge.
Even bigger than Standing-Head-to-Knee.
Hangover Hero
- At May 26, 2011
- By Roxanne Snopek
- In Life, Roxanne Writes On
- 0
Now that I’ve finished my 100 days of Bikram yoga, I don’t know what to title my posts. I still did a class today… that would make 101 classes… if anyone cares… maybe I’ll start counting the days out of 365, as in, “how many yoga classes can I do in 2011?”
Hm. That’s an idea. Stay tuned.
In other news: I’m the goat-parent today. Yes, you read right. As of this morning, I had two out of three daughters miffed at me. (It’d probably be a hat-trick but the third doesn’t live here anymore.)
And the remarkable thing is, it feels okay.
I have a poodle-like need to have people not be mad at me. I’m a first-class conflict-avoider, a peace-keeper, a comforter, a pleaser. I’m not proud of it, but there it is. (I’d like to point out here that the Mennonites built a whole religion around conflict-avoidance, except they called it Pacifism, and it got them out of fighting in wars. We’re still a fairly agreeable lot.)
So for me to feel okay about this is… new.
But you’re probably wondering when I’ll get around to the “Hangover” part of this post. Alright, here you go.
Our 16-year old has been wanting to go to The Hangover II movie, which comes out tonight. She’d mentioned it a few times, but I guess I’d filed it in the “Think About This Eventually” area of my brain.
“Can you drive me and my friend to the theatre?” she asked yesterday, finally coming straight to the point.
“Sure,” I answered. “No problem.” Agreeable, remember?
“And, um, will you buy the tickets?”
“Why?” Oblivious, naturally. I was probably chopping vegetables or something.
“Well,” she hedged. “They might not let us buy them.”
“Why not?” Still not getting it. Or maybe I was distracted by onions.
“Hm… well… it’s a restricted movie.”
Aaaaand the penny dropped.
“Let me get this straight.” I looked at her enormous, blue, beseeching eyes. “You want me to sneak you and your friend into a movie that you wouldn’t otherwise be allowed into because the powers that be deemed it inappropriate for people in your demographic.”
“Uh-huh!” She nodded eagerly.
Now this is a girl who’s seen the first Hangover movie, in the comfort of our home, in the company of her parents. Yes, all the inappropriate content, the foul language, everything. Supervised exposure and open communication about such content has always been my policy. I figure being homeschooled for 10 years puts her behind the times, exposure-wise, so I think of it like a vaccine.
But actively participating in such sneakery? I could probably go along with it if it was just my kid, but her 16-year old friend? Whose parents I haven’t met? You never know what kind of crap could rain down on you. Not comfortable.
Which made her mad. Mad! (We have a close relationship, and she’s a pleaser, like me, so this was something of a breakthrough for both of us.)
But I held firm. Then I pulled out the crisp, rarely-used “Ask your father” card.
Her face fell. This was not the answer she was looking for. In her experience, Mom says yes, Dad says no. Mom encourages, Dad cautions. Mom says “why not?” while Dad tells you the 50 ways it could kill you.
But he surprised her.
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll drive you and I’ll stay for the movie, too. In case you need an adult.”
I pretended to be surprised, too. I know he doesn’t get as many chances as I do to be the hero-parent. So today, it’s his turn. And he gets to see a movie that I probably wouldn’t go to with him. (I mean, I’ll watch it at home… if there’s nothing else on… but pay to see it in a theatre? Meh.)
And I get the TV to myself tonight.
Win-win-win.