Adventure Awaits

Approach each day with excitement because adventure awaits!

Life is a series of adventures. Maybe not the kind you buy a ticket and stand in line for, or the kind you pack a bag and get to the airport early for, but even more amazingly, the kind that you can't plan for because you don't even know they are coming! The moments that you are about to venture into have not yet been written. The wisest man on Earth cannot predict what will happen in the next moment of your life. The smartest physicist, the most brilliant psychiatrist, the most accurate meteorologist (wait, is that last one an oxymoron?)- none of them know what is going to happen to you next. Will you bump into an old friend at the grocery store, and end up going out to dinner? While at dinner, will you have a discussion about the loving the beach, only to have the server over-hear and ask you if you want to take his free week at a beach house that he won in a raffle? Probably not, actually. But the point is that you never know, and therein lies the adventure.

Being an adventurer is not about having enough currency to create one, rather it is about having enough desire to find one. Your life is only as boring as you decide that it is. Be kind. As you let people in, your interactions with them will lead you down new and exciting paths. (No, that is not from a fortune cookie, but read it again because it really sounds like it is.) Take opportunities that are presented to you, and don't decide you won't try new things because you can think of 100 reasons why you may fail. Be present. Be in the moment. Stop being a control freak, and let life take you on a wild ride. You just might realize that you're on an adventure.

#adventureawaits

Considering Time Travel? Think Twice.

Yesterday I was texting a friend of mine, who happens to bear the brunt of my random and ridiculous thoughts, and this blog post is pretty much the result.

I disagree with everyone who wants to time travel. I'm not saying that you're definitely wrong, but when I asked the old Magic 8 ball if you are it said, "Signs point to yes". So. There's that.

Time travel has an undeniable appeal. A cool factor. A "Hey, look what I can do!" aspect to it, but if we really THINK ABOUT IT it's the worst idea ever. I am not even talking about the fact that you may travel to a time and place that you didn't expect to.

"I thought traveling back to the beginning of time would be cool, but I appeared at the foot of a hungry T Rex!!"


Nor am I even considering that your much anticipated voyage through time may be a one way trip!

"Oh no! 1492 was cool but I didn't want to stay here forever!"

No, I am simply talking about the fact that in order to time travel your very molecules need to be split apart and reassembled, in the correct sequence of atoms might I add, in another time and place. Basically, you must be temporarily erased AND then trust that whatever energy or force propelled you through the time worm hole could recreate you, exactly as you. I feel pretty strongly about the fact that temporarily erasing me is not a viable option. Not even if I can finally go to a time where The Jetsons aren't the biggest liars ever, and there are actually flying cars and robot maids.

Next time you are dreaming about stepping inside of a Delorean and watching your parents have their first kiss at an Enchantment Under the Sea Dance, maybe just think twice about it.

I can't say for sure that I'm right, but I can say "Outlook not so good."

Weeds or wishes?

It's all in how you look at the world, isn't it?

My elderly neighbor, Miss Emmy, is in her 80's and independent as they come. Her husband passed away long ago, and it is Miss Emmy who maintains the house. She has always push mowed, and taken care of her yard herself, and she has her massive Live Oak trees trimmed religiously. For the past couple of months she has been in assisted living. We have missed seeing her take her evening walks, and Taryn particularly has missed having her to chat with. A favorite past time for our little eight year old has always been to just go sit with Miss Emmy in her driveway as she enjoys the cooler evening air.

When Miss Emmy left, we were told she would just be gone for a couple of weeks while they got her medications adjusted, but a couple of weeks has turned into a couple of months, and her once well manicured lawn has become weedy and unkempt. I stopped today, walking past, to take a photo to send to my husband, suggesting we mow it in her absence. Her granddaughter hasn't been by recently, and Miss Emmy would hate to return home and see how the weeds are taking over. I got down at lawn level to take a picture of all of the weeds, and my 6 year old son stooped down right next to me and said, "That's going to be a great picture, Mommmy. You got all of the most beautiful dandelions in it!" Then his sister picked one to make a wish, that she was sure not to tell me or it wouldn't come true, and he cautioned her, "Don't take anymore, Taryn. We need to leave wishes for other people."

I smiled at those two cuties. I thought about running through our huge backyard as a kid in Maine, kicking the puffball dandelions so that the white fuzz would go flying, or making a wish and blowing on them with all my might.

I don't know when dandelions came to mean weeds instead of wishes for me, but I hope my kids to see them as conduits for wishes forever. That's a much better way to view the world.

"Even when we grow up, we can still whisper our wishes upon the wind..." Jill Hanna

Stupid Thick Mugs

I am not a fan of mugs. Other than a couple of times, I have not willingly had coffee from a mug in my adult life. Now, perhaps I respectfully have accepted a mugful of coffee to be polite, but when I make my own coffee I "Go Mugless or Go Home". I prefer to use my paper coffee cups with lids, so I might not spill. Plus, I am usually taking my coffee in the car with me to head to work, and they travel well.

I am not a mug-hater. I have a few mugs that I love, like my "Got Bon Jovi?" mug that was given to me as the best late Christmas present ever. That one just makes me smile. It is covered with images of one of my favorite crooners, Jon Bon Jovi, and reminds me of the time we held hands. Yes, I initiated it. Yes, it was in the middle of a concert surrounded by 10,000 fans, but trust me, we both appreciated the moment. I could tell by the way he stopped to, ever so gently, shake me off so that he could move on that it was special. I also love my set of Nordic gnome mugs. They make me laugh because I once had a classroom mascot who was a gnome, named Jack For No Reason, and they remind me of those happiest of times with him hiding around my classroom.

Aside from those, however, I have a cabinet full of mugs that just make me mad. There they sit, all heavy, and thick rimmed. Reminding me that I could not use them even if I wanted to because coffee would drool right out the sides of my mouth. I can't get a proper seal on those thick rimmed mugs, and I always feel drinking-impaired when I try to casually sip my coffee from such a mug. I usually end up having to use my tongue on the mug. And trust me, you should not have to use your tongue to make your mouth strong enough to sip. If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times. Or never. I've really said it never, until now, but I do believe it.

I have a smallish house. Space is at a premium, and those mugs are mocking me...taking up space I do not have to spare. Stupid thick mugs that I hate. I am pondering your demise. So, sleep well in my comfy cabinets while you can. Your end shall be, and it shall be sooner than later.

I apologize for the dark and threatening tone of today's blog. Once I handle those mugs, I predict that things will be all sunshine and rainbows. (Haha, handle the mugs. See what I did there?)

"I do not like coffee mugs, and I am a successful human being. Therefore, successful human beings do not like coffee mugs." -Jennifer Lynn Andreson Freitas

What if?

What if law makers remembered that eight year-olds watch SpongeBob, and sleep with a night-light? What if they realized that if they can’t find their favorite stuffed kitty, with the scratched marble eyes, and the grey fur that used to be white, that they can’t sleep? What would happen if they remembered that eight year olds want to please the grown-ups in their lives more than ANYTHING at all? They want their teachers to be proud of them, and they want to feel smart. What if they knew that kids don’t want to be taught how to pass a test? They want to be taught that dreams can come true. They want to learn about people who lived before them who had crazy, messy, bold, daring, adventurous dreams, and who followed them even when it wasn’t easy. They don’t care if it’s Despereaux or Neil Armstrong, but they want a front row seat to adventures. Their minds are not small enough for standardized tests. They aren’t confined enough to boxes yet to really do well. No, these minds take boxes, and turn them into castles, space ships, and race cars. We don’t produce innovative thinkers because our education system is designed to take innovation out of learning and standardize it. But the best minds are anything but standard. What if the people shaping public education in the United States remembered that? What if grown-ups stopped trying to impress other grown-ups by how complicated they could make elementary school, and common sense ran the world again? Would the performance over 180 days school matter more than one single test then? What if it did?

Best Losers Ever

When I reflect on my prayers for my kids, sometimes I giggle. I always amuse myself when I wander around inside my own head, but in particular to my prayers and dreams for my kids- well, sometimes they are somewhat odd. For example, when I was pregnant, I prayed typical prayers...let them be healthy, (10 fingers, 10 toes, etc.), but I also prayed for my kids to look alike. I even prayed this for Taryn, my first born, who obviously had no one yet to look like. It seemed normal to me, but in talking to people now, I think maybe it was an unusual concern. I remember vividly when I was pregnant with my son, who is two years younger than his sister, people asking me who I wanted him to look like. Though I mostly just wanted him to have all the appropriate working parts, since they asked I always answered, "I don't care if he looks like me or Jayme, but I hope he and his sister resemble each other." People would kind of nod and walk away, and I would think, "Is that a bad answer?" I don't know why it was so important for me to have my kids look alike, but like most things I think it goes back to my childhood.

Growing up my sister and I always looked like, well, sisters. I LOVED how that felt. I loved people calling me "Little Chrissy" and how folks would see us and say that they could tell we were related. Mind you, my sister was my hero. I realize in another set of circumstances kids might hate that...but for me, it was awesome. I also remember how my brother (who is my sister's twin -her younger sibling by a mere 20 minutes) didn't look much like either of us.

We had brown eyes, he had hazel. We had darker hair, he had lighter. When people would see my sister and brother they would always remark about how they looked NOTHING alike-especially for twins. Maybe it's because I was a kid and so, subconsciously, the world revolved around me, but I always felt bad that my brother didn't look like us. I don't know why it mattered, but I have deduced that is where my desire to have my kids resemble each other must have come from.


Another prayer I had while pregnant was that they wouldn't be geniuses, but that they would be average and hard working. I know. Who prays for their kids to be average? I do. I think this prayer came from my experiences as a teacher. I have taught lots of high IQ people that I couldn't stand to be around. They were socially awkward, never quite fitting in. Sometimes they were overconfident, and lacked the ability to empathize. Oftentimes they were lazy. They could do well without trying, so they developed bad habits and didn't do their best. I also taught a lot of amazing kids who were just average or high average in their IQ, but they had passion to do their best. They were able to make friends and interact with people. They got my jokes (which was way high up there on my list of key attributes in a person) and their work ethic made them accomplish GREAT things and develop successful habits. To me, IQ was way less important than gumption, as they say. (Yes, I now realize I could have prayed for them to be geniuses AND hard workers, but I'm no genius myself).

My most recent, somewhat odd prayer for my children is that they will be the best losers ever. Life is about way more failure than success. There are more strike outs awaiting them than home runs, and more second places than grand prizes. Just think of how many more lottery tickets are sold than winners picked. Quite frankly, not everyone gets a trophy! Hopefully my kids will get a taste of winning, but I KNOW they will get a taste of losing, and I really want them to be the best losers ever. I don't mean that they will be content with losing. I want them to hate it with every fiber in their being. But in their anger, and disappointment, in their fury and failure, I want them to stand tall, and be proud of their own efforts. I want them to have stone faces as they hold back the tears of disappointment that will later run down their cheeks, and congratulate the "better man". Then I want them to work like they have never worked before so that next time they can avoid the sting of defeat. It's not my job in life to keep them from being disappointed by losing, but to teach them that losing IS life, and not the least bit of an excuse to stop being the best. Even if it is just being the best losers ever!

"To be a good loser is to learn how to win."


*As a bonus, they DO look alike. :)

Hands

Hands hold a special place in my heart. It's possible that I am strange. I am very aware of that. I have always had a "hand-thing". In fact, when I think back to my first boyfriend, I barely remember his face, but I can picture his hands very well. Young, smooth hands, nervously holding mine. My favorite moment at my wedding was putting the wedding ring on my husband's finger, and I can still picture his left hand on that day, glistening for the first time with the symbol of our eternal bond. Bon Jovi concerts are one of my favorite places to be, and when I think of Jon Bon Jovi, I always picture his hands on his black acoustic guitar, effortlessly dancing across the strings making music. It's magic. "Hands" is also an expression that my friend and I say when something happens that is SO FUNNY that we can no longer function. It means, "I'm laughing so hard that I can't feel my hands." It happens to me regularly. I just have to drop my pen, or stop typing, or put the phone down- basically rid my hands of anything that they were occupied by- so that they can flop while I laugh. It's the best, really. My favorite Christmas ornament is the impression of my daughter's one-year-old hand that has been hanging on our tree for 7 years. I can see every line, and chubby indentation and I can instantly picture her tiny baby hands reaching up without a doubt in her mind that I would reach back.

People talk about their "love languages" all the time. It refers to what makes them feel the most loved. I have taken the test, but honestly, it doesn't have the category that applies to me. My love language is hands. This Christmas, instead of buying me gifts to put under the tree, my husband bought lumber, and cement blocks, and he used his hands to make my presents. Last night, we lit a fire and sat around a fire pit that he constructed. My heart was full. For someone to love me enough to use their talents, and their sweet hands, to make me a gift- well, there's nothing better! He's also building our family a kitchen table. Every time he asks me to walk out to the garage to check on the progress, or give my opinion, all I can say is "I love it. You made it with your hands." He doesn't appreciate that response. He wants an actual, objective opinion. But I can't be objective about it. All that I see when I look at it are his hands. Hands covered in sawdust, full of splinters, with stain stuck around each fingernail, holding sandpaper. Hands curiously examining the texture of the table- is it smooth enough? Is it ready? I want it in my house whenever he deems it ready to be here. He and his hands.

I hope people realize the power in their hands. Hands can write words that inspire, encourage, and tell a story that takes people to far off places. Hands can lift someone up from a dark place, or stroke the fevered head of a child in the middle of the night. Hands can fold in prayer, and move mountains. One hand can grasp another, and tell someone- you're not alone. Hands can make music that moves people to tears, or dinner that feeds hungry faces. They are small. Just ten little fingers.

But hands have the power to do great things.


"I've learned that you shouldn't go through life with a catcher's mitt on both hands; you need to be able to throw something back."
Maya Angelou