Free Yourself.

Nov 12

I always find it unfortunate and a bit jarring when it takes a major storm or event to bring people, myself most humbly included, back down to earth. Life has only kept going and with it – the earth spinning. But this space has grown quiet for far too long minus a few bits of random thought firings. And as busy as I am, trying to beat that alarm and pour my next cup of coffee, perhaps my next glass of wine, other things are slowing down. I’m losing someone really dear to me. I’ve always been a writer, never short on words and thoughts, a serial over-sharer. Yet, these types of posts remain a bit cryptic by nature. Still, I suppose I’ve felt the need for a bit of blood-letting so here we are, shambles.
Let’s do it old school. Bullets? Anyone?

1. Getting back to the barn and riding weekly has proven (as I both feared and prayed) to be a saving grace for my sanity. What a breath of fresh air. I can’t wait to start showing again. Adrenaline. Air. Large mammals. Pretty posture. Jumping.

2. My little girls just had their 18 month check-up. They are strong as ever, and only 19 pounds each. So precious and full of fire.

3. I’ve steered away from being particularly self reflective for the past, I don’t know, year or so? It’s happening again, and I’m choosing (today) to ride it out and let it just be. If you’re here, I figure…you fell in love with it, so, right.

4. Thinking about going from platinum to ginger this week…no big deal.

5. I hate when people ask me what I “do”. It’s getting a bit too fuzzy. Seriously, how do women answer that question? (I wanted to write “women of my caliber” but realized that would read only one way – PRETENTIOUS. But there, see what I did? I guess we’ve just killed two birds?)

6. I absolutely love MRIs. I spent 2 hours in an MRI machine recently and it was the most blissful 2 hours of my recent history. Apparently, such response is atypical. My sports medicine specialist thinks I’m pretty fly.

7. Work has provided me the “luxury” of an iPhone 5. It’s scary, and I like it.

8. I still eat oatmeal every single day, just in case you were wondering (hey, I said we were going old school here with the blogging…)

9. I still am on an old vine Zinfandel kick with seasonal beers tossed in between.

10. Being wordy is exhausting. I live for it. Sometimes they take it, sometimes they leave it. Seems like it matters most when it’s GONE.

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Feeding the void.

Oct 05

The clock tells me it’s 7:56PM. Babies are sleeping, dishes are washed, somehow [again, like magic] I’ve pulled off a miracle whirlwind of feeding, bathing, cleaning and coddling. All in only an hour and a half. Time and I have always maintained a strange relationship. Obsessed. Beat the clock. Beat the clock. Beat yourself. Set new limits. Beat those. Then what? Oh, the appeal of turmoil. So cliche. It is so cliche to feel…so cliche? Everything becomes circular if you never allow yourself to break free of the safety net that we call comfort. Pushing gets easier with time. But risks also multiply, and limits which were once viewed from a safe distance tend to creep up awfully quickly.

Time doesn’t come to life until you take the battery out of the clock.

Another night, forcing bites of a peanut butter and bread through tired lips. I wonder if anyone might think it peculiar, that I eat peanut butter on wheat for dinner at least 3 times per week? I rarely scrimp on details in my day-to-day routine. That is, until it’s 8:00PM and I realize I haven’t had time to eat. In a complex world, the simplicity of a peanut butter sandwich and a glass of clear tepid water becomes so appealing. Such a treat. No thinking involved. Bread. Knife. Jar. Glass. Done.

Forcing substance into a nutrient thirsty body and soul.

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Just another freak in the freak kingdom

Apr 25

A bounding pulse races through wires only to be temporarily halted at various points throughout the day. It is subject to sudden stops and starts, perhaps making it vulnerable but also always prepared to move.

Surprising amounts of time have passed since I’ve had the urge to cut my blonde locks or embellish this skin with more colour. I thought I’d beaten that part of myself, beaten it out like a Mexican rug on a hot summer day. But that element of self reinvention always reemerges. Perhaps it is this nuance which keeps this bird’s heart beating. Like a hummingbird, I spend so much energy flying that I must nurture body and mind constantly. And also like a hummingbird, so comfortable flying and racing about, I now find there mere task of walking absolutely painful.

Does society hold a special place for dreamers? Not the kind that live stagnant with their heads in the atmosphere (though surely it must be hard to breathe up there too). Rather, the dreamers who live fast paced, productive lives. The dreamers who follow direction, like loyal cattle…quiet and prolific, yet always keeping one eye out for the next great escape. We are the seekers.

Extraordinary thoughts and words flutter from the brains of a select few. These select few, if only I could gather them up, place them in my pocket, and pull them out in time for tea. But alas, tea time is different in all parts of this great, great world.


Marilyn knows what I mean.


And all I really want is to see real french ballet…


And drink real champagne…


And perhaps intimidate the masses.

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I’m a satellite heart, lost in the dark.

Apr 24

I am modeling in a runway show presented by Francesco’s Salon for St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital next weekend. Today I stopped by the salon with two-day old hair, no makeup and sweatpants to do a trial. Not too shabby for a completely bare face on two hours of sleep…I can’t wait to see how it all looks in a week when we do full makeup and wardrobe. They are turning me into a 1940s blonde vixen, and I’m wearing the most delightful blue dress.

hairtrial2010-copy

Sometime after the runway walk-through tomorrow I should be meeting with my realtor to collect the keys to my new home. Also on the growing Sunday list…grocery shopping, more grad school applications, bookstore, and mountains of laundry. Sundays are potentially my most important days.

For a myriad of reasons. I like Sundays. And it’s peculiar. Sundays are like little fresh starts…

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Let me paint you a picture.

Apr 19

It’s a Monday night, and I’m spending it with the White Stripes. Speaking of stripes, blue striped pajama pants cover cold legs curled upwards against bony ribs. Baskets of fresh laundry litter my closet–if one could call it a closet. Funny, I actually don’t have a closet. I have a clothing room. Does that make any sense? Well it happened like this: I had an empty room attached to my office. I also had many clothes. And too many shoes to count. So I gave them all their very own room. The most perfect two rooms of the house really, a brilliant design if I may say so myself.

As I procrastinate putting away clean laundry, leaving it to sit and wrinkle in baskets, thoughts flash across my brain like meteors. Did I accomplish enough today? Will I accomplish enough tomorrow? Destiny is calling me so I open up my EAGER eyes, put on my seat belt and prepare for a bumpy ride.

And tomorrow when mumbles pass through groggy lips about the nuisance of having to iron at 6:00 a.m., I will remember, “well, at least your nails are painted, silly girl.”

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