FLYING IN CIRCLES

I keep thinking about circles.

Circles of time;

Circle of life;

Traffic circles.

And, given the time of year, as I look around my festive house, I realize I have a thing for witches.

I don’t know if the two are related, or not — circles and witches — but it seems like maybe they should be, at least in my life, especially this time of year.

I never thought of myself as a collector. But I must be. I have a myriad of witch hats; witch art, witches that fly; witches that sit. Witches that light up. Some that don’t. I find them to be a delightful combination of mystery and edginess. 

They’re all out right now keeping me company in a very inanimate way. (One of them though, looks so life-like, she might take off in flight at any moment. SPOOKY.) Every time the calendar circles to October, we dig into our Halloween fare with verve. I love this time of year.

Apples and pumpkins are circle-like. I love apples and pumpkins; and the beauty of a harvest moon.

Holidays are the time when I think about my Grandma Rose the most. She was a collector. And my memories of her house always include decorative nods to the time of year. I do that now — passing the tradition on in the circle of life. I hope I carry forward the same warm joy that apparently I picked up from my early days at Grandma’s house.

And that brings me to traffic circles. In England and Europe, they are everywhere (it isn’t just Boston). Traffic circles of various proportions engineer traffic flow in a nice way without using stop signs. Sometimes you trigger your indicator, sometimes you don’t. This depends on where you are and in which direction you travel. I prefer them to stop signs.

I have a history with stop signs. When I was 16, I managed to obtain three traffic tickets in a row at the very same stop sign located on Evening St, (I think, it’s called) just East of Worthington High School. (Do you remember the one?)

My license was revoked, and I had to ride the bus downtown and attend traffic school, along with a motley crew of teenagers who casually threw around phrases like “hit and run,” and “driving while intoxicated.” I sort of relished what I viewed at the time as a gritty city feel I got from riding the bus to and fro, and the rule breaker teenagers with whom I kept company for a spell. I also had to do 60 hours of community service. (The circle of those hours ticked by slowly.)

It was fall then, too. I remember having trouble getting to my service hours on time from x-country practice. I love running in the fall to this day. This is why I cannot commit to living in a warm climate. I am strung with strings, tuned to the change of seasons. I like to run through them, like imaginary banners; one to the next.

And as it goes, things come around again — now, and in this time of year. I still absolutely love running in autumn. And it seems I still have issues with police and stop signs to this day. The "American-ized" base has them, along with traffic circles. (I never get into trouble with traffic circles.)

Once again, a stop sign violation has landed me in remedial traffic school with the threat of my license being revoked, due to two incidents within a year. This doesn't bode well, as I live in a foreign country at the mercy of the government, and my partner often is away. This time the only edginess I feel rests along the line of over the edge. 

If only I had a broom.

The military loves acronyms. I got a kick out of this one — Driver’s Improvement Program (DIP). I called and said, “I’m calling to follow up on a notification I received yesterday requiring me to attend the DIP course.” The staff sergeant on the other end of the line replied, “Ma'am?!”

So I went in for my briefing today. I had a private class this time. "No other underbelly rule-breakers to accompany me on this occasion," I thought to myself as I entered. I sat down and waited. The nice sergeant explained he had no protocol for my kind of violation history. His course was intended for those who’ve obtained DUIs, or Hit and runs, for example.

I nodded my head and said with ernest, "I understand."

"A circle is the reflection of eternity. It has no beginning and it has no end —and if you put several circles over each other, then you get a spiral." — Maynard James Keenan.

RUNNING ON EMPTY

There are times when motivation just isn’t there anymore.

It picked up its coat and simply left the building without saying goodbye. In fact, it slipped away so quietly and without notice, it takes time to recognize its absence.

In athletics, this leads to lackluster practices or workouts, and ultimately to one of those slumps, out of which it is difficult to climb. Sometimes, it is an instance, event, or a person, who catapults the divide and brings motivation back; sometimes dragging behind on a leash; sometimes jumping into the circle, dead center with flourish.

When life’s ambitions grind to a halt, it can get tricky. Not only did motivation leave without saying goodbye, but it left for parts unknown; difficult to traverse.

There are days, when all it takes is a bit of make-up and maybe a pedicure to jumpstart a fire.

When days turn into weeks, then, it takes a bit more encouragement.

When weeks begin to add up, only then I begin to actively wonder, “What the hell?”

Ingredients in such a recipe are so unmeasured and unmatched, it’s difficult to pinpoint which one caused the soup to sour.

I tend to retreat and to begin mentally editing out all the things that bring me down —whether, it is people, places or events. As I go along, I look for clarity in the white space that results on the page when unnecessary thoughts and images are removed, enabling me to see things more clearly.

Seeing clearly doesn’t necessarily lead to action, though. This takes some doing. This takes motivation — and I’m still waiting for that SOB to return.

REALLY?

If you are going out of your way to make me feel ridiculous, you really needn't bother. I feel completely ridiculous most of the time, anyway ...

I had a very Bridget Jones experience yesterday. Only there was no Mark Darcy at the other end of the sentence.

Have you ever received advice so banal you simply want to wad it up and throw it back into the face of the sender?

Was said message well intended? Probably. Valid in content? Most certainly.

In my case, the delivery was so lacking in imagination, I simply was incapable of  receiving it with grace.

"Really?!" 

Take it back.

Certainly I needed a smack of something. But this smacked of — a platitude I didn't desire to receive.

I wanted to mark it "return to sender," only I could't. So instead, I simply threw it away. In a crisis of conscience, I scoffed at self recognition and decided instead to act the part in which I am cast, or cast myself.

I think it's called being an adult. Or, in my case, being a military wife (and an adult).

No, really. I'm that stubborn. So much so, I refuse to see myself in the mirror of truth reflected by another.

Repetition helps.

My daughter auditioned for her first school play this week. She felt she "rocked it." In essence, she's been preparing for this (or any and every) role since birth. She is cut from thespian cloth; employing life as a tool — lining her experiences up on mental shelves, only to be brought forth as needed; props or parts for her own personal stage. 

At times, she's more comfortable in her imaginary world, then in her every day world.

I guess in that, we are alike.

She once told someone in 2nd grade that her house burned down in a fire. She was so convincing in her story her classmate went home that day and told his mother, who then called me to offer aide. I didn't know whether to punish her or to congratulate her for her creativity; or both.

She may have even believed her fabrication— at least when she delivered her monologue. She falls into her roles with great conviction. She was new, and I think looking for a way to connect. However misguided, we can all relate to this desire.

I often look at her with awe, and wonder how I might apply her imaginary tactics so that I am more comfortable and confident on life's everyday stage. I want to live better in my own character. 

I stumble a lot and forget my lines. Once in a while I lose my place entirely. So I tend to retreat until I remember.

I listened to a homily in church on Sunday about acting the part until it becomes you. If you are not feeling charitable, for example, then participate in acts of charity until you feel the beneficial effects of giving. 

While also simple in script, I was able to receive this particular parcel with greater dignity and grasp onto it without finding fault.

It's in the packaging, or at least in the patterns, which are formed by a conversion of points, delivered on different days, in different ways. Eventually they knit themselves into a cohesive message. Only then can you suspend your disbelief; absorb the content; and wrap them around yourself in acceptance.

Oh. Really.

MY GYPSY LIFE

I dance to music
My life it's making
Swirling onto scenes —
whirling dervish
I beg for humility

I wear masques
of many colors
costumes to cover
the expression on my face
that is for me to know

Rarely do I let others see
what is beneath the veil
years of practice
I wear it well, like a
permanent expression

Lines in my face
Begin to map
the paths I've taken
Leading me here
They are both high and low

A collection
of divergent choices,
mark the rows
of celebration and sorrow
Oh to be wiser now

ON (STEALING) INSPIRATION

“You. Are. Crazy.”

I say this to my new neighbor with open admiration, mixed with the taste of fear and a bit of awe dripping off my lips. She’s just shown me her rather impressive collection of road and off-road bikes, — and suggested we ride together some time.

It’s been a while since I’ve lived down the street to someone with similar athletic inclination and daily life predicament, as my own.

For a long time now, I’ve just tripped about; self propelled; skimming the surface of sports, which I used to delve into with great tenacity.

Tracy is tenacious. She seems to gain great satisfaction from her warrior-like approach. She has fun.

I like it. I admire it.  I’m just not sure how much I want to live it anymore. She makes me wonder.

I explain to her that while I do dabble a bit in all three disciplines of triathlon, I take more of a Zen approach these days. I’ll get there when I get there. I stopped wearing a watch years ago. I either can’t be bothered by my splits, or I’m too afraid to see what they are. I’m not sure which is true.

Maybe she is my new motivation mechanism — a cure all, for my of late, very laxidasical practices. I could use a kick in the butt. Maybe. I can't help conjuring up the aches and pains I'm bound to feel if I partake. I may opt out entirely. I am older now; and there is only so much mileage in any body part before it breaks for good. That might be the aforementioned fear speaking out. But there is an honesty in experiencing; and then surpassing your human limits. This cannot be fabricated without price. 

Of course my introduction to Tracy coincided with the Olympics. Watching athletes perform at the top of their game is absolutely inspiring. (Yes I’m near London. No. I didn’t get tickets, but I know many people who did. Does that count?)Watching Hope Solo safely guard the US women’s soccer team to a Gold was pure joy. And it looked it. This is cultural, I believe. It’s ingrained. You can’t capture this in the antlers of deer and quietly inject it. You must live it out loud.

Inspiration and joy of motion are two things I try to capture and to develop in my young athletes. The inspiration part is sometimes fleeting. Can you feel the Olympics slipping away? But it’s out there — in all things; shapes and sizes. Magical gardens exist in the most unlikely places. It's the spirit that floats long after the event, which you must learn to catch — like butterflies in a  net — and let free.

It’s not always simple; finding the means to do things that stretch beyond our perceptions of limits. Sometimes it depends on whether we are willing to let ourselves go.  It’s compelling, and something I often consider, as a coach; a parent; a person. One piece of art or performance; or sport; individual in sport; or simply an individual — how we relate to them is for certain as varied as we. Individually, we cast a wide net. Pull in a varied load. There are diamonds contained in the most unlikely places. And some, we find, are not the real thing, after all.

Austria and the people I saw there inspired great dreams in me, of late. The setting and those around me were such sources of light. It's hard to hold onto, though, when you return to your daily life. Although we came down from the mountains to discover the base all alight with the American Para-Olympians training here. The kids and I had conversations about why these people were particularly awe-inspiring as we watched a double-amputee race down the track.

You may find your spirit in an idea; a blog; a 12-year-old girl making waves in fly who lives in Northern Virginia; or if you're lucky, your neighbor. Whatever your stimulation and encouragements, and there could be so many — recognize and capture them. Test them. Those precious moments observed in the Olympics are just that — here and gone. However, the people behind the moments are everywhere.

As fate would have it, as I write this, I read of Lance Armstrong's announcement in yesterday's paper. After all these years of denial, he will no longer fight the drug charges being thrown at him, most recently on his home turf, from the ADA. I remember posting his picture on my office door in the late 90s, as he battled his way back from cancer into the limelight of cycling. 

So many of his achievements served as inspiration to me. His human effort; the work he put into his recovery; his very natural ability and drive — I still consider these legitimate and true. The medals and the glory, though, I don't. He has been stripped of his ability to participate in US Cycling, and all the medals that came with his achievements — along with his dignity, and many of his friends who supported him.

My cup runneth over of late with people and things, which remind me what it means to be here in this place. Flashes of inspiration move us to motion. Do. See. Live strong. But don't cheat.

FINDING HOME, part II

… “Holy shit!” I yelled at no one. 

Lost in thought, I suddenly focused ahead and realized there was a car coming straight towards me. I was driving on the right side of the road … in England. It's early Monday morning, and traffic is light, which is lucky, because to my best guess, I’d gotten out of the neighborhood and about a half mile down the road before I realized.

“Left side. Left side.” I repeat like a mantra. I’m back in the UK.

I need to plug in my TomTom. That little device is nothing if not good at giving me a heads up about which side of the road to traverse. In the last year, it’s guided me through England, France, Belgium, the Netherlands, Germany, and most recently the US.

After our Space A flight to Dayton, it led me to Columbus, then on to Huron, south again to Tennessee, then to Florida and back to Dayton. Upon landing and driving down I-70 the visual disparity between the lushness of England and the burned out flatness of Ohio was distinct. Not attractive scenery, the interstate between Dayton and Columbus. I was disappointed. I wanted my perceived home to feel more welcoming.

It wasn't until we reached the mountains of Kentucky and Tennessee days later that I enjoyed the bucolic setting and visual eye candy I normally associate with that part of the country. It was a welcome change.

We packed a lot in those days — celebrated the 4th of July with family and friends; took in Lake Erie; watched my son drive my beloved dad's boat (a right of passage in my world); rode a few rockin' coasters. But now it's time to head to the emerald coast. I channel the sounds of Zach Brown and point it south.

Florida offers respite and balance. Stark was the contrast between the stifling Ohio drought and the daily damp and downpour of England. As we crossed the border into Kentucky, my car temp read 107 Fahrenheit. I wondered if my tires would melt, or blow, like my bike tires used to in the heat.

But we made it. We soaked in sun, sand, sea, and time with Grandma MJ; along with as much fresh catch as possible. It was grand. The strip of land along the coast known as 30-A is heaven on earth to us.

I’ve been back on British soil for about a week, but literally haven’t left the house. A new house. Another house. Our house hopefully for more than a year this time. Now we're in a neighborhood with lots of folks and other children for the kids to play, away from my beloved woods and backyard cob horses, but I'll adjust —in time.

I keep saying to no one in particular and anyone who will listen, "moving is like giving birth, you need more than one year to recover before contemplating another." But we did it. I've been wrapped up in unwrapping since landing about a week ago. I thwarted the usual jet lag, which accompanies travels in this direction, and jumped right into things. I never rest until nary a box is in the house.

Now I allow for tired, which explains why I'm driving on the right (wrong) side of the road. Oops. I adjust my wheel, and begin travelling forward; finding my home for another year in England.

        

FINDING HOME, Part I

We landed on the hot Ohio tarmac and waited for the USAF blue bus to drive out and retrieve us from the C-17, which transported us from RAF Mildenhall to Wright Patterson in Dayton. During the time in the terminal and the nine hours on the plane, we befriended the others and for the kids, they played with friends they knew. But once in the terminal, the connection begins to unravel. Bags are quickly retrieved and plans are made, as Ohio isn't the goal of most.

It is exceptionally hot here. The heartland is recovering from recent storms, so the electricity is out in many places. I watch as our friends disembark and dissipate in the hot Ohio sun. We originate from common grounds, all associated in some way with the Air Force, but we now melt away, literally going in all directions on US soil.

The military isn’t as visible here. We’re just about one percent of the population now. We come from our microcosm overseas, where we are unified by our air force connection, it takes me a moment to adjust back into our mostly invisible existence here. It’s both comforting and not, in equal measures.

Other folks prepare for the next leg of their journey towards their final destination. But ours is nearby. Ohio is home for us, even though we haven’t lived here now for more than 10 years. We could have landed anywhere CONUS, so it feels a bit like kismet that we’re here.

The kids feel it, too, and despite being tired, they are giddy with anticipation to see friends and family, and of course Cedar Point, our favorite roller coaster amusement park on Lake Erie.

Along with the time lapse, the temperature disparity adds to our disconnect. We left in layers. England was cold and rainy, and the climate on our plane is kept intentionally brisk. The C-17 is huge and roomy. We sprawled out in sleeping bags, and played mini-soccer with our hacky-sack. Beyond our safety brief before take-off, we were left to our own devices for the trans-Atlantic journey.

The Air Force spotted us a ride here. It's one of those unique benefits of active duty, dependents and retirees. If we do the paperwork, arrive on time, and have the right number in line, we may catch a ride on military transport planes going in various directions around the world.  I felt like I won the lottery when they called my name. 

Now we’re on our own in the 100 degree heat. I stow our passports, and look at my military ID still in my hand. At home in England, my military ID is the key to my world. Here, it is not necessary. I stock it away for safekeeping.

I watch the waves of hot roll off the tarmac. We quickly peel off the layers, and I remember how much I like air conditioning in these situations. It takes just a bit of time to gain our bearings, schlep our bags and secure our rental car. Before we know it, we are driving a recognizable path along I-70 East, toward the familiar …