laugh yourself silly

I stumbled acoss this a week ago or so. I find myself chuckling at odd moments in the day thinking of the couple in this video. I am a loud laugher. I can’t help it. I love to laugh, uncontrollable, unruly, wild laughter. These two had me roaring five times over. What a pair. They are adorable and hilariously entertaining without even knowing it. Enjoy them.

x, cross, plus, t

We can all look at the same thing and see something different. Perhaps if we could shift our vantage point, even slightly, we could see what the other sees. To be in someone else's shoes...

red light run

My feet hit the pavement and ache. I want that ache. It reminds me of what I do, where I am, of being in the moment. The blisters on the soles of my toes retell of the stubborn details, of the determined stories, of my enduring lust-like relationship with running. I wait till nightfall. The night brings with it a calm, a layer of sweet ambiance, and the darkness is enigmatically my cloak of protection.

My feet begin. Slowly at first. I feel the crinkling of leaves underneath me, the sound of my breath sets my pace, and my mind frees. It sets to zero. I am just myself, pushing against myself. City running is not my first choice, but it has a lure all on its own. I weave in and out of streets, knowing their particular smells and sidewalk routine. If I traverse far enough some nights I end up on offroad trails that leave me muddy and itching for more countryside. Tonight the street lamps guide me for a while. Until they don't. I have indeed traversed far. The road turns desolate, black. I can barely see in front of me. I pick my feet up higher, hoping not to trip on roots. The air smells of murky water and wet grass. My eyes are trying to adjust, but it is just too black. My adrenaline is rushing and I am moving faster than I normally can. The music is singing loudly in my ears and suddenly my shadow appears from the flashing lights of an oncoming bike behind me. I try to race it. Sweat drips on my lip. My tongue licks its saltiness and I am satisfied. Other cars whiz past me from the other direction and my opponent is on my tail. There is a red light in the distance and I know I can take him. I dig deep, turn the volume up and pump my arms. The bike knows my intentions. He must. I run. I run as if this were the race. It is still red and he doesn't seem to be showing signs of breaking. I run. My feet move so quickly underneath me I feel as though I could trip, though my stride is wide, my arms pump and keep my pace just fast enough. In my mind I am challenging myself; I can do this, it is just me. The light turns green, and Mr. Bike doesn't hesitate. I am yards from the light, he speeds up and goes straight through leaving me in the dust, but I don't slow down. I make it to the light and then some with the same speed, turn the corner and just giggle a bit to myself. It was a fun little adventure.

My aches, my sweat, my adrenaline in the obscurity is all mine. I love it out here...the road, the dirt, my feet. My mind is clear. It's time to slow down. It's time to say goodbye for the night, to the night. I look to the stars, to the sky. They know they will see me again.

pathways

I got to thinking. Sometimes the proverbial path of life feels like a game of chicken with a speeding onrushing train. Other times it feel like a walk into the horizon of hope. Either way, I know it's a path that is laid down explicitly for me and I will follow it without hesitation. There is a romance and a peace and a beauty indescribable in that. Whomever and whatever crosses my path (and vice versa) will be part of a story, finding me along my winding, looping trail, culminating to lead me exactly where I am supposed to be. Where that may be? I just have to keep on keeping on, come what may.

jungle

A wink, a yawn, a dog trying to get his footing, an approving nod, blaring music to the left, the smell of coffee, the stink of armpit, the stench of second-day garlic breath masked by old-lady-perfume, an elbow to the gut ("oh you're fine"), a sweaty hand on mine (where is that purell?), a cough right to the face, an unabashed singer to the right, a blatant starer 3 people over, a whistler, another elbow to the spleen (not so fine this time), a kissy-face couple, a sleeping doctor, a giant backpack smooshed against my spine, an uncovered sneeze into the atmosphere, a size 12 sneaker on my toes (oouuch), is someone eating chinese (?), a girl taking it all in...

It's a jungle out there.

And I love it.

The metro.

Boston.

connect

It’s strange, this evolution.

One day the connection is intimate, elaborate, integral to one's own life, and then in just one moment, the fading process begins. Each day, one petal withering, then falling off, crumbling, wilting, until the entire flower just returns to earth. A memory, resurfacing annually, perennially...just like that.

Are human relationships so expendable?

fading away...not from my memory...but from waking life...

....struggling to hear every soft whisper until it withdraws into the tiniest murmur ears cannot make out...

slowing down

I WENT TO THE WOODS BECAUSE I WISHED TO LIVED DELIBERATELY, TO FRONT ONLY THE ESSENTIAL FACTS OF LIFE, AND SEE IF I COULD NOT LEARN WHAT IT HAD TO TEACH AND NOT, WHEN I CAME TO DIE, DISCOVER THAT I HAD NOT LIVED.

Kinda brilliant eh?

Walden pond is a gem. Thoreau had it right. Big time. This place screams of leave-your-material-life-at-the-gate. It just glows.

You can't help but smile when you're here.

place

Everyone has a place. A place to retreat, to escape, to feel whole, to go when all all else fails. Maybe it's in the mind, maybe it is only visited once a year, maybe it is behind a seldom closed door, away from noise, or the most raucous place one can think of.

My place is simply perfect for me.

Lilly pads greet me with their easy lilting perspective and I am lit from within. I walk past them with a spritely spirit, taking in the different earthen perfumes of the day. The sun sparkles through the openings in the canopy of leaves above. The trees bow and sway, creating a pathway for me to follow in the sunbeams that peak through... as if leading me somewhere. I follow the sunbeams. The sounds of the forest are my private symphony. I arrive at the top, the sunbeams have led me well. My place. It is beautiful, serene. Nothing but an abandoned tower, some dirt, trees, and me. I spin, twirl, and climb the tower. This is where I find repose, This is my place. What is yours?

bittersweet

On that day I was given a gift.

On that day I grew closer to my father in a way that is forever tangibly etched in my mind. Did she know? Could my Nana, in her angelic ways, have known, even her passing would have a side of such light.

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I stood next to my father, first in line behind the casket of his mother, my grandmother. All was silent. I put my arm firmly around his back, rested my head on his shoulder, willed my tears back. He looked at me, eyes raw, red, his body hunched over, his hand reached for my shoulder as he lost his breath. For just one moment he said, "I can't do this."

My tears will not surface now. He needs me. "I love you," and I wrap my arms as tightly as they will go around my dad.

The solemn music begins and the march down the isle ensues. This is, as bad as it gets. The music, so beautiful only intensifies the sorrow somehow. I sit next to my father. The last thing he wants to do is read his approaching eulogy, his breath is heavy. I reach for his hand. We just sit like that for a while, and I hold my father's hand. I want him to know how much I love him, that I am here, that I will always be here. He knows. I know he knows. It is unspeakable.

There are moments in life that are just so beautiful you lose your breath for a second. Almost as if your life, all of it, is encapsulated in that breath, like you're holding onto it, knowing it will pass, as moments do, and you're trying so hard to cling to it. It was being close to my father and holding his hand, that will be one of my fondest, bittersweet memories of all my days.

snapshot of life

I love pictures and I'm not talking digital. Pictures you can hold in your hand. Pictures to frame and put all around the home, smiles peeking out at you from every corner. I thought it may be just me. Flicker, shutterfly, facebook, shareyourphotohere-or-there. It seems no one actually prints photos anymore. But, I know just where I got this penchant for paper fondness. Turns out, it's an inherited partiality passed down through the X chromosome in my family.

My mother stockpiles boxes upon boxes in her basement filled with our childhood photos. When I was little, I would tip-toe into the photo section, topple the boxes over, spend cautious hours looking at every picture, and cut faces out of the ones I loved to make a collage for my mirror, or tiny bejeweled frames in my room. I got in trouble for that. A lot.

My grandmother, her mother, had a much more orderly system. She had physical-hold-in-your-hand-photo albums. Oh yes. Not only did she have photo albums, but she took the time to describe each picture, to put it in its proper place, to record each memory. One day as I was looking through her books sitting on the couch next to my grandfather, he bestowed upon me a great honor. "Take em' shug," he said in his Alabama twang. Now I am the proprietor of these treasures. And they are...treasures. Moments from his life.

**Just a side note that I can't resist pointing out. Look at the top left picture in the album. Yup. That's my Mimi. Sitting right in between a naked statue's legs. She was a spitfire and a goofball. I can just hear laughter now and my Papa shaking his head.

They just don't make pictures the way they used to. So beautiful. The light, the paper, the border...

8 guilty pleasures

Long gone are the days of of Mr. Webster. It's Wikipedia we now hold a shrine to. I was challenged to make a list of my guilty pleasures by a group of friends. For everyone else, it turned into a laundry of list of things they just liked. Before going any further and rattling off a list of things I simply liked, or loved for that matter, I made sure to clarify what a guilty pleasure actually was. It's tougher than you think. Thank you Blackberry (iphone-ers don't hate. I still love my Blackberry.).

Why 8? Because 5 and 10 are overused.

1. Smelling books. (It looks really odd, and the pleasure with which I take is even stranger).

2. The Bachelor/Bachelorette. I will not apologize for my transgressions.

3. French fries loaded with salt. Layer upon layer.

4. Colbert/Stewart DVR marathons through the sleepless night.

5. Eating cookies in bed, sleeping in the crumbs.

6. Singing in my car. If you heard me sing you would know why it is guilt-laden.

7. Walking around my house in the nu. No explanation needed.

8. Girly-scented lotions and potions. I have a lot.