ROAR

Some mornings I ROAR. 

I wonder if my kids see me beneath the noise ...

RECLAMATION DAY

Mondays are for reclamation — of my space; my schedule; myself.

After a weekend filled with Friday traffic jams; friends and pizza night; overnights; underwater mornings at swim practice; scouts; science projects; church, and so on and so on, I look around Monday morning at the physical chaos.

Where did my house go? I am one of those who views my house as my sanctuary.

The sight of it at the moment matches my internal space — messy and out of order. I set about to restore my calm. I begin with the external. It’s easier to straighten than the rest of me. Maybe that will follow.

In the girls’ room, I come across something of Zoe's, written in her concise hand. At night she often chooses to write or to draw; instead of the appointed reading.  Her creations are strewn across the bed, the floor. They are everywhere. She leaves a wide swath of fanciful destruction in her wake.

I can’t resist the urge to read her words; her thoughts. I often wonder what goes on in that child’s head. She is God’s own mystery to me; an exotic flower. I sit down hoping to find an inside clue — not so much an intrusion, but as a way to connect. 

My first take, is that she writes well. And her subject matter stems from her daily life. (Hmmmmm…. that's familiar….) I find a reference to me in her story. Now I write about her writing about me. It’s like a literary trompe l'oeil. Does that exist?

In “’A Story,’” by Zoe G,” she writes, “…that was my mother. She’s an everyday military spouse who has a passion for swimming, art, guitar, and some other stuff.”

Wow. I’m an everyday military spouse. I guess I knew that. Though, I’m not sure how I feel about it re-created in Zoe’s thoughts; her words. It seems small. I want to be giant in her mind.

That’s the selfish side of me.

I go about my ritual of physical reclamation. Her words keep creeping into my conscience. I think about me in her story; in her mind; in my own mind.

As my space begins to resemble order, her simple description seeps in to the disorder of my mind, and straightens that right up, too.

It gives me pause. Eventually I get there, though.

Military spouse? Yes I am.

Passion? Yes I do.

HALF BAKED

Oh the rain. The rain ... the rain... the rain.

My ideas turn slippery and slide along the squishy streets leading no where. Into the big trenches, they creep along below most people's notice. If I was a boot, I'd step right into the middle of that puddle of prose and, "SPLASH!"

Thoughts go every which way — maybe they will  leave a mark on someone else's mind.

I spend more time in the kitchen then I would when the sun shines. My family consumes bread fresh from the oven; recipes, which require more time than I usually give. The desserts are endless.

The rain continues, but my cooking streak runs dry.

I attend high mass. I think, "What theatre!" as I watch the archbishop's props come and go throughout the service. He has special detail ushers to place and then replace his mitre —his folding high hat; his impressive staff.

I don't feel very spiritual here.

The archbishop seems bored, or maybe just tired. I think he nodded off after communion. I wonder if he is as weary of his job as I am of this rain.

(Is it a sin to think that?)

(Can a devine calling be considered a job? I think, "yes.")

Will God tire of this rain?

CORPEOPLE

Are corporations people?

After I first read about and then watched on Youtube Romney affirming that corporation's are, indeed people (my friend) at the Iowa State Fair, the question lingered with me. This echoed through my head last week as I ran. 

So much so, I sought out a dear friend afterwards, who spends much of his professional life arguing the legal and philosophical answer to this question.  In his response to me he wrote, “The short answer is corporations are a collection of contracts to prevent a repeat of negotiations.  Who are the negotiations between?  Who drafts the contracts; benefits from them, and the like?  Why, people of course."

Then he went on to ask, “What is a corporation on a desert island?”

Though this question keeps getting thrown into the political arena, it certainly isn't a new one. For me it came to light back in my college days, when all things Ayn Rand and the principles of Objectivism were introduced to me by my aforementioned friend. In Rand's works, especially in Atlas Shrugged, she essentially personified corporations through her characters. 

She developed those corporate people in a manner, which made their pursuits almost inseparable from their person. It worked for me, in the bent of individuals building something bigger than themselves in their pursuit of happiness. And, I’ll go ahead and say it —  through self actualization. I believe to this day that the best of the best comes into fruition only by this, and mutual respect.

Rand's basic tenants always have lingered with me, not only in my professional life, but also through my individual pursuits and athletic endeavors.

Today I see it played out in a very basic level every day through swim coaching. You can be the best coach in the world, but each swimmer must be willing to find out who they are in the water. Realizing their best takes more or less time, depending on the individual. At my best, I’m a steward, helping an athlete realize their true potential. A team's success is measured through individual accomplishments.

Is a person who they are, based on the logo they wear, the team they represent, or the corporation for which they work?

That's a big no. It comes down to branding, and the effectiveness of a collective message. Whether it is a small group, comprised of individuals who together make a team, or a larger group of people who work for a corporation.

But it's more complicated than that, isn't it?

Are the characters in works such as Rand’s congruent with what we see today in corporate America? I would argue, “No.” Obviously her view was a utopian version of what corporate America should be, and sometimes is, but certainly not always. And I think it's this reality, which has people stumped — or at least me.

Corporations are comprised of a collection of individuals who, if the corporate branding is successful, identify in some way with the institution. The employees of said corporation act lesser or more on behalf of their employer, depending on their level of commitment. And their commitment isn't always so great. Frankly I see this all the time when dealing with folks who work for our government.

It gets more personal with family owned companies and smaller businesses. 

 In Rand’s world, when corporate commitment was on par with a life-long pursuit, I buy into the relationship between the two — institution and individual. But in today’s society when employees are fairly transient, how can they possibly relate to the core humanity of a  corporation as strongly?

In today's reality, when someone is acting on behalf of their employer, do they feel compelled to a lesser or stronger degree to hide behind that branding when the situation serves? Do folks use their corporate position to make the world a better place, or maybe sometimes, to achieve their own individual sustainability, to the better or worse of another?

That, too, is a yes.


So are corporations people? Still yes — and sometimes people behave badly. 


That last assertion is something upon which we can all agree.

iSpeak

I speak French.

Or at least my iPhone does. You type a word or sentence for translation, and it speaks back to you. How cool is that?

I learned this least week, which is one more reason to embrace my phone. I was more than ambivalent when my husband gave it to me recently. My thumbs never seemed to navigate right when I used his, and I didn't think I needed all the fancy accoutrements. But after months of never being able to reach me, he'd had enough.

I had a cell — only it never had any charge. Or if it had charge, then it had no minutes remaining. And when you spend as much time faraway from the familiar and as apart as we do, this was an issue for him. (Maybe it was my post about getting lost on a run without a phone that did him in …?.). While, communicating via phone isn’t my first choice, sometimes it’s my only.

Anyway, I’m a little bent out of shape that my phone speaks more languages than I’ll ever master.

We were in France last week. Whenever we travel I’m conscious of my communication skills (or lack thereof). I like to blend as much as possible, especially when I'm travelling alone or just with the kids —not only for safety, but for experience. Unlike the stories I heard growing up, I found the French people I met quite accommodating. But in the country where many don't speak English, I had to completely rely on my friend Andy, who is fluent. I loved listening to his conversations, although I had no idea what he was saying. He could’ve been saying, “Look at my friend over there, isn’t she a silly one?”

Language barriers leave me feeling vulnerable, and I don’t like that. 

In high school I spent a lot of time at my friend’s house realizing I couldn't understand a lick of Korean. She is first-generation, and her parents who came from South Korea often spoke their native language at home, especially when her grandparents came for a visit. 

I remember a time at dinner when I was fairly certain her grandparents were making fun of me during the meal. (It could’ve been their laughter and general nods in my direction that gave me a clue.) After we left she confirmed it. They wondered how much my Amazon self could consume with their silver chop sticks, since I couldn’t keep hold of anything. (Unlike their wooden counterparts, they are slippery!).

Early in our married military life we lived in San Antonio. I worked downtown at the symphony. It wasn’t long before I felt the impact of the “merging of the Americas.” I realized I could only understand about half the conversations happening around me.

I took German through high school and college. It took too many years to put it to the test, and I now know just enough to know I don’t know enough. But I got by better there than in Normandy.

French is a voluptuous language. I loved listening to people speak around me. It seems all the words are formed in the front of your mouth, ready to burst out — all juicy and plump like a peach in summer. I began mimicking the sounds I heard, sort of like the fiction “Mockingjays” I read about in The Hunger Games.

German, in contrast, feels stuck in the back of your throat. You must almost spit out the words.

Italian is sex on a stick. Or at least that’s how I felt when I was in that country.

While English seems almost universal, it also travels around the whole of your mouth, depending on the words. And depending on where you are, it may feel like a language not your own. Have you ever heard a Scotsman speak?

Maybe it’s the simple notion of reaching someone on their own terms, that I crave.

Body language works, and I cherish the moments in life when you know you’ve come to an understanding with someone upon making eye contact. At one point over the weekend, the housekeeper came in looking for the dog (who we let in, b/c it was raining). We sized each other up, because neither of us could understand a word the other was speaking. She looked at me and said something terse. It wasn’t hard to tell she was miffed; nothing lost in translation there.

The French countryside was everything it’s cracked up to be. The vast fields of yellow rape seed you see during the Tour de France already are everywhere. Cyclists are prevalent, too. Even on the narrowest of roads, motorists seem respectful of them. This language; the culture and all its nuance,  you cannot capture in or on a screen. We went for a few runs. Everything went uphill. While the views from above are spectacular,  my legs were screaming — in English.

Each time I return from a place I’ve enjoyed, I resolve to resolve to learn more. It all begins with speech. Maybe soon I can have a conversation with my iPhone...

THINKING OF YOU

Do you believe in the Butterfly Effect?

I think I do…

I am here, so close to where we were, physically, then

But it is 2012 now.

I wonder

how best to commemorate

In your honor

With respect and humility

For the fact, that, I wasn’t the one

You were —

And they were, but

I always feel so close to your pain that first day.

(I do not portend to know about all the days since)

Being back here

For the first time in years

Forces me to face

March 31, which always brings

Overwhelming emotion filled with memories of

The dawn of tragic loss, unconfirmed.

We first made coffee

just for the motion of doing.

And then you asked me how….

…and I still don’t know the answer,

only it’s what they want to do.

Sometime later,

I made you ride a bike,

And you went,

just for the motion of doing

But you couldn’t see —

You said it was a blur

(between the ativan and no contacts)

I wanted you to feel

nothing but wind in your face

just for the motion of doing

I acknowledge and remember

so many special things about each and every one, in words and actions …

They are everywhere.

In peoples’ thoughts, I read.

In my own, I feel.

But I also want to hear

How you are

And what the kids are doing lately

Your family legacy flourishes through their sweet faces

And your smile

Affirming life moves on

In silence now, and without you

I think about the time

we spent here in tandem,

but I also want to

celebrate everything

you’ve worked so hard to build since —

always remembering,

(we never forget) as we

keep moving forward from

Seven years ago today.

In loving memory of those we lost on March 31, 2005; the nine men who comprised the crew of Wrath II, 7SOS, USAF, RAF Mildenhall.

In honor of all those they left behind.

We remember.

INSIDE OUT

I just got back from a run —not just any run,  but one of those rare, life-affirming epic experiences.  Your feet feel fleet, so much so, they barely touch the ground. Instead they more or less hover in rotation just above ground level. These are the runs for which we runners strive, and it's true — you get this endorphin rush known as "runner's high." It certainly isn’t an every day occurrence. But we remember in between, enough to keep us tying our laces and heading out the door. Even on the dreariest of days.

Dreary wasn’t the case today, though. The weather in England is amazing at the moment, making outdoor ventures all the more appealing. Horace and I were feeling so good, we went off our beaten path and ventured into new territory.

It was only after we crossed a bridge, followed a path around a cow field; ran over the lip of a canal and down a single track along the water when I realized I was totally and completely alone. And I wasn't sure where I was in relation to home. Running with Horace makes me a little braver than maybe I would be normally going into the woods. It was amazing and peaceful.

I was really enjoying myself watching Horace wade into the water to catch some ducks, when I suddenly thought no one knew where I was … and my husband is away. I thought, "Home is a hell of a lot further than my house..." So my moment of sanctuary was quickly morphing into stress.

I began to imagine the kids coming home and finding the house empty. I wondered if I found myself in trouble and dialed “999” on my phone, would the constabulary geo track me? Then I realized I forgot my phone. As I watched Horace shy away from getting too wet and give up on the ducks, I wondered how mighty a protector he would prove to be, if pressed.

It was then I decided to reign Horace in and try and find a more beaten path…

As I went along, I thought about a survey I found in the paper the other day. It was a personality test  of sorts to determine whether one is introverted or extroverted. I had time to waste waiting for my truck in the shop, so I took it. Turns out, according to this particular Q&A, I’m so far introverted, I’m almost inside out.

Have you ever taken one of those? I mean, by the time you are my age, which is mid-40s, one must recognize some things about oneself. If not, then, that is a challenge (and a bit sad, really). But sometimes when your characteristics are illustrated in a new way, it really gives pause. At least it did for me.

I choose individual pursuits. I run. I swim. I cycle. I love to cook and read, and play my guitar. My two constant companions on a daily basis are my dog, and the view of my adopted horse in the back field. There is no mistake. I love my friends. So much so, I cling on to those near and dear ones with white-knuckled fists. I love having company. So much so, I treat it as a big event and really try to make it special for everyone. But when it’s over, and everyone has gone home, I tend to be worn out and look forward to quiet.

That's just me.

Zoe is working on her Science Fair project at the moment. Since her interests right now lean toward becoming a brain surgeon (that's our Zoe — go BIG or go HOME!), she kept coming up with things like, for example, testing the effects of different drugs on brain functionality. After we talked her down from this one, she chose a study revolving around handedness, and how it may or may not be linked to personality.

I'm left handed. 

She asked me the other day what the word "introverted" means. Hmmmm….

...Eventually, I found my way. After about a half mile or so running in what I thought was the right direction, I came across a more trodden path. Then a big tanker flew right over my head, which is a familiar sight and sound. I knew I was near the flight path for landing, so I just followed it home.

(Does handedness have anything to do with personality? I have no idea. I'll let you know how Zoe's experiments play out)