I just got off the water. Doesn't that sound romantic? Well, I did. And it was. My husband and I sailed around our tiny lagoon on our $200 Sunfish. And I felt like I was a Jewish Kennedy.
I feel guilty for indulging in this perfect luxury. Yes, I know it's a sport. But I usually sit at the bow and watch my husband maneuver the winds. I threw on my green sweat pants and a beat up old UCLA sweat shirt, the one with holes on the elbow and the rip on the left side of the pocket. I placed a big floppy hat on my head and black sunglasses over my eyes. My hair is stringy straight and I wear no make-up. Not to sail. I look like hell but nobody would know--because of the smile on my face.
The winds were up and we sashayed through the water--fast at times. Really fast. I smiled broadly. The boat keeled on its side and my feet dangled in the cold water. Romantic. Perfect. Just Tom and me.
Before we began our sail, I spoke with a friend of mine who was interested in hearing about my life. I spent most of the time telling her about my writing. I told her that I worked until the kids came home and my days felt a bit chopped up. She reminded me that I would miss this time when the kids were gone.
I thought about this for a moment or two. Not that long ago I would have found this tremendously sad. But not today.
I recognize that big change is coming and I will miss these days so very, very much. But I am slowly evolving. I know I need to make time for me now. This is my life.
Part of what I'm working on right now (a rerelease of my father's autobiography) involves me going through boxes and boxes of old photographs. Photos of me as a kid, of my mother and of my kids. Thousands and thousands of memories.
I stopped dead in my tracks. There were endless pictures of my two sons. Pictures in albums, loose pictures, negative saved. I realized that I took so many pictures of my kids because I was sure that something bad would happen and all I would have or they would have were pieces of matt paper, to remind them or me of what once was. It all felt so incredibly morbid.
The Empress over at www.gooddayregularpeople.com was dishing out awards the other day and she gave me the honest and scrappy award, daring me to come clean.
I was born to be free but have always battled my fears. As a result I am certain I have lost the best part of my spirit.
I could feel it this late afternoon as my husband caught the wind in our sails and took us everywhere and nowhere--freedom. Fast and free. The way I want to live.
The way I once was, a long time ago before circumstance and sad endings creeped into my joyful being. Fear of the unknown or in my case, fear of the known.
Honest--I watched my Dad die. I watched his kidney's fail then his heart. Then my sister. First her heart, then her kidney's and finally her lungs. Then my mother, her mind. Things failed all around me. All around me things fell apart.
Scrappy--Kyle was in my stomach when Georgie's lungs finally failed for good and I had no choice. Everyday had to be a miracle because I had a lot of living to do, for a lot of people I adored and who adored me. Morbid. Yes, because too much recognition that every moment is precious means that you live in a world where you know that everything can be taken away in a moment. Morbid yes. Free no.
Scrappy--I sail on a lagoon in an old boat and I enjoy every minute of it. I have grit. And guts that I seldom give myself credit for. It's time I do. I look at the picture I posted of myself and that's the girl inside of me. I've always been there. Free
So Miss Empress, your highness, is that honest and scrappy enough? Thanks for the challenge. My personal challenge is to try and be a little more free everyday. A little more honest and scrappy!