Attitude of Gratitude: A Juxtaposition of Contradiction

It’s not a sight you expect to see, especially when the day has aged past noon.

I can’t say what drew my attention, as I am known for keeping my eyes down, straight-ahead, and focused.

Yesterday, I looked up.

To my right, the sun smiled sweetly, warming autumn tinged breezes on her climb.

And on my left, the milky, waning moon had hung around to watch the show.

It was a beautiful juxtaposition of contradiction;

reminding me to remember,

to refuse limitations imposed by fear,

and to give thanks.

>Attitude of Gratitude: A Juxtaposition of Contradiction

>
It’s not a sight you expect to see, especially when the day has aged past noon.

I can’t say what drew my attention, as I am known for keeping my eyes down, straight-ahead, and focused.

Yesterday, I looked up.

To my right, the sun smiled sweetly, warming autumn tinged breezes on her climb.

And on my left, the milky, waning moon had hung around to watch the show.

It was a beautiful juxtaposition of contradiction;

reminding me to remember,

to refuse limitations imposed by fear,

and to give thanks.

And, His Name Is Palmer…

He has played football with this group of boys for, at least 3 years, already. And still, no one knows his name.

He is slight, pale, and thin. My son, who shares a huddle with him, has never heard him speak.

Midway through our first game, and carrying a comfortable lead, the boys huddled up in preparation for another drive. The huddle broke, as Moms stood and strained to find the numbered jersey they had taken from the washing machine the night before. Several seconds passed before the ball sailed through the air, forcing every pair of feminine eyes away from the backs of their progeny, and onto the arc of brown leather. The catch was made, “the crowd went wild”, and a quarterback was born.

Now, three games into an eight game season, the situation is vastly different. The Panthers are trailing an unworthy opponent, and the starting quarterback is carrying a decided limp. Enter our nameless, faceless, voiceless hero.

I watch as this child, easily fifteen pounds lighter than most of the boys he is challenging, stands; steady, strong, and brave. He takes the snap and dances backwards, awkwardly, in a valiant imitation of a poster on his bedroom wall. His rail-thin arm raises, and he flings the leather in full knowledge he will be hit by a force much bigger, much faster, and much more athletic than he can ever hope to be. And he does so, without a flinch, without complaint; standing tall.

Seven times in a row, the play is repeated. Seven times he huddles with boys who won’t know him in school, come Monday. Seven times, they break and he takes his place in the hot seat. He takes seven snaps, and hurls the ball into the air seven times. And, seven times, the receiver fails to make a catch.

Every time the huddle breaks, I watch his thin, spandex covered body assume the position, and my fists clench in hope. This will be the time! This time he will catch it! And every time the ball hits the ground, or another child’s helmet, or a referee’s hands, I flinch, knowing we have to go back in…

And, soon, as the ball leaves his thin, pale fingers, I find myself unable to follow the trajectory, and, instead, seek to find the one who will deliver the blow. And, as I see the crash about to take place, my hand covers my mouth, and my eyes narrow as I hold my breath in sympathy.

This boy is not my child. But, he is someone’s child. And he is brave, and valiant, and unexpected.

After the seventh throw, the ball has bounced off the turf into a waiting referee’s hands. Mercilessly repeated disappointment has silenced the crowd, and it happens before I know to stop it.

“DO WE HAVE A PLAN “B”?” I yell bravely, valiantly, unexpectedly, and, loudly.

>And, His Name Is Palmer…

>
He has played football with this group of boys for, at least 3 years, already. And still, no one knows his name.

He is slight, pale, and thin. My son, who shares a huddle with him, has never heard him speak.

This boy is not my child. But, he is someone’s child. And he is brave, and valiant, and unexpected.

After the seventh throw, the ball has bounced off the turf into a waiting referee’s hands. Mercilessly repeated disappointment has silenced the crowd, and it happens before I know to stop it.

“DO WE HAVE A PLAN “B”?” I yell bravely, valiantly, unexpectedly, and, loudly.

Attitude of Gratitude: Our Home

In two weeks time, I had quit my job, applied to college (for the third go-round), received my acceptance letter, and moved my family back to my hometown. Whew!

The five of us shared a two-bedroom duplex. The morning I parted the drapes to see a worn, herculon-covered couch adorning the muscle-car crowded front yard of the unit across the street was the first hint that, in my haste, I had, perhaps, not chosen the best of neighborhoods in which to raise children.

Practicality reasoned that moving was impossible giving our subsistence on financial aid and a part-time salary. And still, on my way home from school, or work, or both, I often detoured through the winding lanes of suburban subdivisions.

One house, in particular called to me. She sat in a cul-de-sac at the end of several gracefully curved streets behind towering pines, as though shy. Someone had, regrettably, slathered her in brick-red paint, which explained her reticence to be on display, and yet she stood. In the early morning, a thin fog caressed the pines, allowing her some dignity. As afternoon burned, worn gray shingles bore the brunt of the heat and the pines cast long shadows on her weathered face. In the black of night, she shone, as banks of unfettered windows bore witness to the lives she sheltered while lighting a set of weathered thirty-year-old handprints cast in the concrete walkway before her.

We moved in 10 years ago. Renovation has been slow, but she has been patient.

A hallway bath whose wallpaper had begun to unfurl in complaint, was stripped, sanded, and painted in a textured, earthy brown. Thirty year-old mediterranean tile was salvaged to complete the room. It is warm, inviting, cozy, and welcoming.

My youngest son spent a week with his sister in a neighboring town. While he was gone, his room was transformed to reflect his maturity. School colors adorn his walls, and his love of sports and music is reflected throughout.

The browns of the bathroom flow into the adjoining hallway and the border above my head reminds me, “All Things Grow With Love”.

In three days time, my oldest son had transformed the rooms facing the street by swabbing crimson on the walls. I marveled at his carpentry skills as he measured and sawed through the sweat dripping from his Arian forehead, to create a chair rail for my dining room.

Covering the unfortunate brick-red façade took a little more time, but, at last, she is complete. Bathed in a rich khaki that compliments her brick, she sits gracefully on the lot, and Chinese red double-doors provide a ready welcome.

The yards, too, have been transformed. Tropical plants shade the patio while providing color, and outside the sitting area, an English-style garden blooms wild, and free. Farther up the landscape, our vegetable garden yields tomatoes, squash, eggplant, cucumbers, various herbs, and an assortment of peppers during the summer, and fresh leafy greens in the winter.

I loved her, on sight, and knew I could restore her to her original beauty and grace. She has returned the favor by cradling my family and providing a warm and welcoming haven for all who come here. This house has become our home, and I am grateful…

>Attitude of Gratitude: Our Home

>
In two weeks time, I had quit my job, applied to college (for the third go-round), received my acceptance letter, and moved my family back to my hometown. Whew!

We moved in 10 years ago. Renovation has been slow, but she has been patient.

Sunrise

The sun rises slowly.

As she bravely shows her majestic head,

she warms, first, the lowest and darkest parts of our landscape.

And, if I am present…if I pay attention, I can see the warmth build as it is accepted.

I can watch, and marvel, that the sensation becomes a living thing, all it’s own,

as she is joined in her efforts by those she has touched.

>Sunrise

>
The sun rises slowly.

As she bravely shows her majestic head,

she warms, first, the lowest and darkest parts of our landscape.

And, if I am present…if I pay attention, I can see the warmth build as it is accepted.

I can watch, and marvel, that the sensation becomes a living thing, all it’s own,

as she is joined in her efforts by those she has touched.

Unmade…

Fourth grade boys chase girls.

Hence, I spent most of the 4th grade running in large circles around the playground with a group of five or six girls who had innocently, yet proudly, dubbed themselves “The Cool Kids”.

Boys, being male, even in the 4th grade, found themselves strangely attracted to this group of girls with nothing to recommend them besides the braces their parents’ income had lovingly screwed onto their teeth, and a cool club name.

By the 5th grade, the boys had ceased their chasing, and had, instead, begun to study these strange creatures in an effort to understand what it was they had been chasing, in the first place. This reticence on the part of “older” boys is, in my opinion, what forces girls to resort to plan B. In my case, this involved make-up.

A couple of years ago, as I sat in the lobby of a big box restaurant, waiting for my sisters to join me for our monthly “sister’s day”, I was shocked, and admittedly fascinated, by the sight of a child no older than six parading back and forth in front of me, in full, glittering make-up, skin-tight blue jeans, and high heels. She held a fancy cellphone between her delicate, manicured fingers as she chatted with a friend while waiting for a table by pacing the clay tiles under our feet.

This was not my reality. In my time, a simpler time, mothers didn’t allow their girls to paint their prepubescent faces. But girls, being girls, are always able to find a way around an obstacle as simple as parental restrictions. My friend, Melody, and I scratched and saved to buy apple-green or sky-blue eyeshadow, and tubes of sticky, roll-on, fruit-flavored, lip-gloss that we then hid away inside our newly acquired and ever-present purses.

We left home pure, and freshly-scrubbed, and before the first bell sounded, we had completed yet another masterpiece. We raced towards homeroom, batting green and blue eyelids at one another, secure in the knowledge that we were cunning, and smart, and worldly, and beautiful!

I’ve since lost track of Melody. But, I know that wherever she is, she is painted. I know this, because I am.

Or, I was.

“Monday, Monday, can’t trust that day…”

As I finished dressing, I swallowed the handful of herbs and vitamins that constitute breakfast and reached below the vanity for my paintbox. Half bent, in full swing, I caught my image in the large mirror over the sink. I rose, slowly, and looked; really looked. And, I made a decision.

I closed the cabinet beneath the sink with a decided thud, turned out my bedside lamp, and left the bedroom, unpainted.

Today is the fourth day in a row that I have taken on the world clean-faced. Today is also the first day I began to wonder, “Why?”.

My wardrobe remains unchanged. It occurs to me that my middle-aged, unpainted face and wild, unkempt hair, may appear incongruous above my Vera Wang blouse, pencil skirt, and stiletto heels.

So, why?

As I walked into the office this morning, I had regained my spring…and my smile, sans lipstick. As I talked with clients, my leg still swung irreverently beneath the desk in time to our banter, and I worked it, sans mascara. All day, without the mask, I’ve felt strangely attractive and wild; more so than in a very long time….

Many different answers have pinged against the sides of my head since the question was asked:

I work in an office replete with people I have known for most of my life, most of whom come to work every day wearing the face God gave them. Why bother?

I subscribe to a blog, in which the writer presents herself fresh from sleep every morning. I am inspired by these images; their raw honesty, their bravery, and their beauty.

I am raw. I am fresh. I am coming clean. I am starting over.

I am happy.

>Unmade…

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Fourth grade boys chase girls.