9.29.2012

Saturday, 7:36am

It's the last Saturday of September. I woke up with the very tip of my nose cold from the breeze through the open windows...from this point forward cold nose, cold fingers, cold toes. I'm actually OK with it - like any good Pollack I've been carbing up and skipping the gym to put on my winter insulation. (Ugh. It's been largely unintentional...today's goal is to move more, plain and simple.)

In less than a week the boss leaves for the west coast, and I'll follow her a few days after. Yep, it starts.

On today's docket? After working free of the heating pad (being a girl is awesome), I'll be walking the dog to Timbuktu and back, going to the Farmer's Market (and, later, improvising dinner), and maybe taking a drive to the nursery to pick up mums for the porch and bulbs for the beds. (I've been thinking about planting bulbs for years - put some into the townhouse beds the fall before we moved...let's try it again, shall we?) Other plans involve writing and maybe sitting at a piano for a while, and if I'm disciplined at all (I know, I know...) switching out summer tanks and skirts for winter sweaters and tights. The organizing will be brutal, but maybe I have enough brain cells on this grey-ish day to do one thing well and completely?

Maybe. I'll report back.

Getting back to listing five things that I'm grateful for. It doesn't so much fit on my other blog, but I've gotten back in touch with a group of girls from my childhood and have been getting back into a gratitude practice. So, for this autumnal Saturday....

1. Sleeping with the windows open.
2. Unstructured time.
3. Connecting with people who make me smile.
4. A new journal. All those crisp blank pages!
5. The space/room to create sometime new.

Happy Saturday, all!

9.11.2012

anniversary

It's a cold morning, and I'm wearing my fleece for the first time albeit with flip flops. Can't find my fuzzies. Boo is dozing next to me on the cold porch. Kitty's inside, watching the busses through the window.

9.11. Sara Sturdevant ousting me from my classroom to morning meeting, which I was planning to skip, and then flicking on my classroom tv to show the first tower being hit. Then tower 2, then Shanksville, then full panic.

It's what drove my decision to move, to start singing again, to put myself out there more. It's been more than a full decade now, since that day.

I can't remember the promises that I made to myself. Tucked away in some random, scattered notebook in a box or maybe a landfill somewhere.

I wonder if I've been true?

9.08.2012

coming storm

Today is the day of the sea change. Right now it's hot as blazes,the kind of day that happens in mid-summer (usually when we're producing something at the FC. *That* kind of hot and sticky.) But I'm sitting on the porch, watching the cat melt into a contented kitty puddle in the heat, toggling back and forth from a writing notebook to a weather application...watching a line of storms plow their way southwesterly. They're in Frederick, according to the map, and here outside DC the breeze has picked up and become lovely and cool, and the sky has glazed over grey grey grey.

I forget, with all the technology and obligations and electricity, that we're all still inextricably linked to the world, the weather. Regardless of how we insulate ourselves from the less comfortable aspects of it with air conditioning and cars with heated seats and the like, it still affects us, weighs us down sometimes, lifts us up at others...

How do we - I - forget this? It seems enormous - like forgetting about the elephant standing on your left foot.

I slept for almost 12 hours last night: tried to rouse myself at 5:30, but failed and hit the couch for several more hours. I'm fighting a headache and all manner of other tiny, pointless maladies.

Somehow, I think, as this new weather pushes in, it'll sweep out some of these aches and cobwebs and such...will leave me feeling renewed.

Here's hoping, right?

My (long overdue) five:
1. Morning naps.
2. Yoga pants.
3. Unstructured time.
4. Cool breezes on warm days.
5. Daydreaming