Most of the cards and letters I received, I noticed in my files, dated back to 2001 or 2002. I could think of a few reasons why my correspondence declined then. By 2002 I was a mom of three young kids. Also some of my long distance relationships started to feel the tug of time. Most of all though I think that many of my communications with friends and family have transferred to the electronic. So I am putting the cards and letters in storage. I’ll wait and watch how much paper correspondence I receive, before setting up another file system for them.

Besides the fact that it has taken me time to organize my papers, I also haven’t been able to blog because of the mental clutter I get from a messy desk. I don’t know how it is for anyone else, but I can have a hard time concentrating on a task when the space I am using is filled with leaning towers of Pisa of papers and books. Sometimes my desk barely has space for the mouse to move.

Another aspect of my life that has changed in the past five years is our family. We now have three times as many kids as we did when we moved here. Since 2000, three kids have learned to use the potty and two kids have learned to read. A few months ago it became clear Michaela was ready for more intense instruction so our home school afternoon study program now has two pupils when it once was a naptime for everyone. My desk, located in the kitchen, becomes our family’s educational center, as well as a financial center, miniature art gallery, hardware store, temporary post office, library and technology station.

Somehow too this piece of polished fir fit with a laptop and chair is supposed to be a place where I can come and have time for myself. I’ve been distracted and disturbed by the clutter. The physical transfers into the emotional. So I had to take the time and make the space for myself. Suddenly my desk seems larger. And so does my mind.

Speaking of helping the mind through clutter, I liked Big Paper as Scheherazade described it

Big Paper is a way we figure things out. It’s how we identify blocks and sort out our options and begin to see what we want to do about something. We did Big Paper yesterday and it was, as usual, surprising and helpful and powerful.

Stay of Execution is filled with Scheherazade’s practical wisdom. After reading her posts, I find myself wishing for bits of her life, whether it is a dog or a boat or a breakfast. This time I wish for Big Paper.

Ronni at Time Goes By emphasized the need to share the experience of aging in her post Getting Old is Hard Redux:

What I was trying to get at in that post is that in keeping silent, keeping secret the changes in our capabilities, others have no knowledge or understanding of the physical part of growing old. I want to know what the older years before the old-old age of my neighbor and Aunt Edith are like. I want to know how accommodations to gradual changes are made. What was it like the day it became impossible to move the sofa or climb a ladder? And I’d like to know how these things affect people’s perspectives and beliefs on age and dying.

As Evelyn rightly points out, “how are you” is a greeting, not a request for information. But too much silence poorly serves everyone who is growing older. It’s all part of “what it’s really like to get older” that has been a mystery too long.

I never meant to suggest that we maintain a running commentary on every ache and pain – you are right, that’s boring. But health or, at least, capabilities do wane with age and in silence, we deny reality, pretending that we are just wrinkled kids when we are not.

I’m grateful Ronni wants to break the silence surrounding aging. Her mission is to take away the mystery. I too want to know what it is like. I want empathy and compassion, understanding and gratitude, appreciation and insight. I want to be prepared for what is to come. Those I love and I myself will undergo these changes. Someday I won’t be able to move a sofa or scrub the floor on my knees.

The aging has begun. Today I went to the dentist and I cried. It’s silly. I know. I cried because it required enormous effort to rearrange schedules and bring three young kids along for a teeth cleaning, effort I’d rather spend for something fun. When I finally stop to sit down, I’m in the dentist’s chair – not relaxing. But I also cried because I miss the days when I enjoyed the dentist. Now my teeth ache. They have stains. There are concerns.It’s not an easy in-and-out anymore. My dentist claims I’m not cleaning my teeth well. Yet I neglected my dental care for years of my youth and I didn’t have problems. I suppose this change is one of the first signs of aging.

After a day like today, spent contemplating my teeth, I could relate to Jory’s post describing how her body is like a Honda

I’ve had an interesting relationship with my body. In the past it has been a vehicle, like a beaten up Honda that I drove everywhere because it got me places. I never thought to maintain it, or give it premium gas, and when it rebelled and broke down I was often pissed at it and pushed it harder. During times of full-time employment I tended to drive it to dangerous levels. These days I am much more willing to admit that I live in it; I notice it much more.

I notice it too.

I look in the mirror and see my teeth. I see my hair with gray here and there. And I see wrinkles. I see my parents in the mirror. I remember my perception of them as a child, their fingers, feet and faces, and now when I see myself I see my mom and dad, in the ways the skin and bones have come together on my body over the years. But I’ve started to accept and welcome this resemblance. As a biologist, I see the simple fact of genetic inheritance, but I think I can see also a sense of humility and understanding growing in me emotionally.

So I enjoyed Tamar’s perspective:

I like to think that I am looking more like my father as I get older. I say to my newly acquired wrinkles: “Welcome.”

How can we welcome the changes that come? By realizing that they connect us to others, to our family and friends, to the past and the present. Too often we feel taboos. I know I have resisted describing aspects of my life. I have limits beyond which I refuse to blog. But sometimes I wonder whether revealing these secret sides of myself would help me and help others.

Childbirth brings its own changes to the body. After I had my first baby, I remember conspiring with a friend: we would write a book to tell other potential moms what no one had told us. We made our list. Even though I had taken classes and read books, I was surprised by the body I had after birth. Each woman’s experience is different. Yet I believe we all have pains and joys. The more we can share with each other, the more we can encourage each other as mothers. Annie Feighery in recent posts on preparing for childbirth and c-sections reminded me of Lisa Williams’ informative How does a scheduled birth feel?. Both of these bloggers are excellent resources as well as Liza Sabater’s [explicit] post on sex after childbirth, featuring an interview with her.

What do you wish you’d known about sex after having your baby? I was not at all prepared for how much stress. For an insomniac, the extra lack of sleep can be brutal —doubly brutal with a colicy child. Lack of sleep seriously inhibits your libido.

The sleep deprivation surprised and affected me, in a number of ways. And then I was surprised by my surprise: hadn’t I educated myself? Why wasn’t I prepared? Why didn’t anyone warn me?

One of the best-selling pregnancy books is titled What to expect when you’re expecting. We all want to know what to expect. Life has its curves and corners. Sometimes we have to go it alone. But as we break the patterns and taboos to talk about what’s happening inside us, emotionally, physically, spiritually, we discover we are not alone, and we bless other travellers who are beside, ahead or behind us in the journey of life. Thanks to Ronni, Tamar, Jory, Annie, Lisa, Liza and many others for breaking the taboos and speaking through the silence.

Dave Winer is a musician. Sure, he sings. But I’m using the term musician because it’s the best way I can find to describe how his words resonate and inspire. Like any musician – or any blogger or creative human being – he has his hit singles and his B-sides. This mp3 he made for the Pisa conference today is a rocker. It’s an instant classic. It’s a tune I’d be happy to play over and over until the ears ring. It’s got a good beat and you can dance to it. As all great hits do, it ends with the best part of the song, something to hum long after the music has ended. Here are some quotes I took with pencil and pad while listening (please correct me if I am wrong).

…all aspects of what we do are being driven away from centralization…[snip] everybody’s equally empowered to be creative…[snip]…Maybe we’re going back to the way things were before they were centralized. [snip] We all had to provide our own entertainment….[snip]…and didn’t we lose something when we all stopped being creative and we all started thinking you had to be somebody special, somebody extremely talented, or extremely beautiful in order to have the joy of being creative. And yeah, I think we did lose something. And I think we desperately need to get back to being creative because our world has problems that can only be solved by creativity and they need to be solved by all of us.

Dave’s passion to empower everyone to be creative, reminded me of the dialogue Doc and I had last week (Doc’s piece for Linuxjournal, my response, then Doc) and other conversations that came from his piece on the flat world. Belief in the bell curve logically leads to the conclusion that only the elite may create. Forget it, say the statistics: you’ll never make it. You’re not special enough. Just follow the factory, march with the masses, fit in with conformity. However, as Doc has mentioned in previous posts, blogging allows us to be ourselves. What I love about blogging is that it isn’t school. Instead it’s a great way to discover how the long, flat tail features plenty of original and brilliant individuals. Forget the bell curve and the mistaken conclusion that we have to be super-special to succeed, or even try. As Doc has said, we are all special: Let me add a term so syrupy I can’t believe I’m writing it: we are all also special. Meaning: all of us are valuable. All of us have something to contribute. Somewhere, somehow. Based on this podcast, I think Dave agrees. Imagine everyone empowered to create and share with each other: what potential!

This is the era of ordinary art, to quote Evelyn Rodriguez. This era of ordinary art is extraordinary, and exciting, as Dave described it. I’m grateful and I can’t wait to see what will come next… or at least what song Dave will sing on his next release .

The simplest things are the most difficult for us to capture in words. Love. Beauty. Truth. Quality. Honor. Time. Faith. Not long after we begin an attempt to capture the meaning of these foundational concepts we find ourselves foundering. Each of these experiences is crystal clear. Articulating those experiences is the work of a reflective lifetime. – Tom Guarriello reflecting on John Maeda’s Simplicity blog.

I found Tom through his comment on my blog post and his post linking to Doc Searls and me. John Maeda will be here in Seattle next week, I heard from a friend..

Elizabeth Grigg described her experience at the U2 concert we attended last month [ my post].

Now, rather than feeling pity for those who rally around these nostalgic bands like there was nothing new under the sun since college, I feel empathy. Was your experience as strong as mine? Was your experience as personal? This connects me to others who look back on their lives through these triggers, and is another dimension to nostalgia’s power. In other words, I’m all for it.

[snip]

The reason why we spend $100 a ticket and more for a dinosaur concert like U2 is few other bands can use music to replay our personal history in one concert. It’s an intensely personal experience, and yes, perhaps the music does not always merit the reaction, but it’s as close to “this is your life” as it gets.

Reading her perspective, I realized why I reacted the way I did [my experience felt a little more like this review from a recent Chicago show, found via U2 Sermons]]. U2 doesn’t own the soundtrack to my life. When I listen to U2, I don’t travel back in time. Pride (In the Name of Love) reminds me of middle school bus rides, not one of my favorite moments. The Joshua Tree songs speak to me of high school, unrequited infatuation and the gratitude I now have that no one pursued me romantically before college and Ted. No nostalgia courses through my body with the beat of the bass.

No one band owns the music that makes my memories. Instead I’ve got a mix of MTV, spliced together pop clips, a variety of top 40 tracks taken across a decade, whatever the radio played while life was happening. Fleetwood Mac and Bee Gees tell me of the time my father moved away. Listening to Journey brings to mind the end of elementary school and memories of my friend A—- wondering how far she should go with T. Prince had his rebellious tones, and it was his movie my friend and I plotted to see, soon as we turned 17. Play Springsteen and I see myself in the new room I had to myself, listening to his album, lying in bed and imagining the next mile time I wanted to run. Bruce’s music is itself filled with lots of nostalgia, the Born in the U.S.A. album crying back to previous generations, of Vietnam and glory days long gone, songs that were too old for me at the time, and I knew it then although I assimilated and attached my own adolescent sorrows onto it.

Part of the problem may be that I couldn’t afford much music. In high school I bought a handful of tapes. My money needed to go elsewhere and albums seemed such luxury compared to clothes, food and school needs. It hasn’t been a priority for me.

Part of it is that I may not be wired for auditory as much as other sensory memories. My ears bother me at times and I know my hearing is not as sharp as it could be. I grew up in a symphony of cacophony, as one of four siblings . Now I often choose quiet over music. I’d rather write in the silence then spoil it with sound.

What brings back memories for me? Perhaps not music, but I can certainly feel some nostalgia for toys. From BlogHer participant Roxanne, I discovered michelle at ASV’s list of best toys from childhood. Fisher Price are my favorites. I already posted pictures of my Fisher-Price record player. At a friend’s home -older friends who saved the toys their kids enjoyed for their grandchildren to use – I spied Fisher Price house and horse, identical to the ones I remember.

Animals mean the most to me. I still keep a stack of stuffed animals in my bedroom. At first I felt they looked childish, stashed in the corner, a pile of Cat in the Hat, a koala, monkey, frog and polar bear. But each of these toys represents a part of my past. The Cat in the Hat was my birthday present from the hospital gift store while my brother was recovering from his brain tumor surgery. When I learned to tell time, my mom bought me the koala, from a woman who had held real koalas. The monkey Hosanna hung out with me in college. Bean bag frog was my first stuffed animal, at age two.

Even when I have happy memories from the past, I am happiest now. I can’t be nostalgic because I don’t want to go back in time. I have my moments of exhaustion, frustration, questions or doubt, as a homeschooling mom of three, but I also know that I am happier now than I’ve ever been. Some things are uncertain but I also feel clarity and peace. Sure, I’d like to be in better shape physically but that doesn’t mean I want to go back to high school. Sixth grade and middle school I’d escape compared to now. Even the early years of our marriage, or the early years of this blog (ha!) aren’t places I want to go, except perhaps for a quick whiff of the excitement of young love and newborn babies. I feel incredibly loved and blessed by people in my life. I’m surrounded by beauty. I’m content and confident, without the clutter I once had inside me. No time machine tempts me. I can’t be nostalgic. I am happy here and now.

Through clicking here and then here I arrived here to read one woman’s confessions of her life as an Amy Grant fan.

Amy Grant symbolized youth, for me.
And sometimes I desperately miss being a dumb kid.

I don’t miss being a dumb kid. Sure, I can tell you the songs that played on the radio after Ted asked me to marry him. I like those tunes (Bryan Adams, Amy Grant) and a certain feeling comes over me even as I think about them. There are probably a few songs from my younger days, such as an old Steve Winwood album, that give me cheery thoughts.

But I’m much happier having kids than being one. And as I have kids I can be a kid again too. Life now is sweet and almost too-good-to-be-true, a Cinderella story but better than a storybook, in fact because it’s fact not fantasy. I hope I can help my own children be nostalgic for the happiness they have but I hope they will always be growing in the contentment and joy Love gives.

While planning my trip to BlogHer, I considered running the 5K and participating in the progressive marathon in San Francisco on July 31. What is a progressive marathon?

Progressive Marathon participants run or walk 26.2 miles over a period of weeks or months, finishing their final 3.1 miles on Race Day in either the 5k Run or the 5k Walk. Participants keep track of their miles on an Interval Sheet that will be available soon. Finishers receive a Marathon finisher’s medal.

Not a bad deal. I could run or walk 23.1 miles before July 30 and then finish it on the 31st in San Francisco. I’d even receive a Marathon finisher’s medal – the same as if I’d ran the whole 26.2?! But it looks like I may have to fly home early Sunday morning in order to make the necessary connections in time for Ted’s OSCON travels. It makes sense, one could say, that San Francisco would have a progressive marathon. The Seattle Marathon has a Kid’s Marathon that is similiar but no such benefit for adults.

Local Options

Guess I’ll have to find a local race to run instead. The other day I happened to see a paper sheet with a schedule of 2005 Kitsap County Runs. Four runs each year are on Bainbridge. I’ve missed April 16 Toe Jam Hill Half-marathon and 10K. I could run the Grand Old 4th 5K again, as I did last year. September 10th is the day for the Blackberry Trail Run 5K and 10K races. The Winter Solstice 5K happens on December 17. For more run info look on the schedule: although I can not easily find web sites for these runs, there are phone numbers and contact information listed on the .pdf calendar.

Why run?

Why push my body through a 5K? Scheherazade believes it is one of the keys to happiness. From How To Be Happy Part 4: Train For Something

Training for something is adopting the philosophy that you can make yourself better at something by working at it whether it’s fun in the moment or not. It makes you interested in and more careful with your body. It makes you stronger and more confident.

Although I can find many ways to spend my morning time alone before the kids wake up, if I exercise, I feel more like myself. It may seem illogical, but exherting myself gives me energy as well as confidence and enthusiasm to start the day. It’s a physical but also emotional and spiritual boost. Sometimes I long for the days when I had more resources for training. However I can do what I can now and hold my goals flexible since my family comes first. When I have a goal and complete it, whether it is crossing the finish line downtown or making it to the next neighbor’s driveway, I feel strong and yes, even happy.

Practical details

Lisa Williams linked to The Couch to 5K Running Plan, a training schedule that encouraged me. What I noticed the most was the fact that it only requires 3 workouts a week for 9 weeks. 1.5 hours a week instead of the 7 I think I need. Sometimes I feel guilty for missing a day or two or three…but 3 workouts is easier to fit into 7 days. I’m not starting at the baseline but I’m also not sure what kind of shape I will be in on July 4th when our island 5K is.

Time to go train…!

[oops - wrote this morning but didn't post until later!]

My Mother’s Day indulgences included oatmeal scones with loganberry jam. The scones are a new recipe I created, using soy butter instead of butter, and adding wheat germ and rice bran for extra nutrition to the oatmeal and flour. I found the Swedish loganberry jam on a shelf at T&C and brought it home as a treat. Yes, the plates too were a small indulgence, something I searched for weeks to find. Sunday afternoon I took time off from my usual endeavors of gardening, blogging and desk tidying to read Song of the Azalea. Although I didn’t know it at the time, this autobiography of a former Communist in China turned out to be an appropriate story for Mother’s Day. More review of this book to be published later…and time for my morning indulgence again today…

I imagined this skull at the zoo outside the gorilla cage was a prop for a Shakespearean play, awaiting the performance of a simian Hamlet.

When the camera arrived, a few weeks ago, I ran down the street the following morning to record the dogwood blossoms. These native flowering trees are one of my favorite signs of Northwest spring. But the blooms are already fading and flopping, brown around the edges of the petals, no longer fresh and white. After I took my picture, I stopped noticing the flowers, walking past without a second glance. Now another year will pass before I can glimpse their beauty again.

In snatches and snippets caught here and there, I’ve been reading through a collection of essays by Anna Quindlen: Loud and Clear. I cherish her wisdom in her writings on motherhood in retrospect. She described her journey through stresses of parenting and working, failures and joys, both national and personal crisises, the delicate dance of composing columns about family matters, pieces titled Doing Nothing is Something and Good-bye Dr. Spock. Here’s my favorite quote, from an essay lamenting all my babies are gone now.:

But the biggest mistake I made is the one that most of us make while doing this. I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs….I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less. (page 11)

It’s great to have a camera to capture the moment. But a photograph can’t compare to being there. Not presence, the filling a seat on the sidelines out of duty or obligation while the mind is otherwise occupied, but the passionate participation in the ephemeral, seizing the day, every opportunity to love and laugh before it disappears. I want to live in the moment so I have more than a picture to remind me of what has passed. I want a vivid clarity, an imprint not only an image, a richer treasure to savor forever in my soul. I want to be in the moment as the river flows through time so when I look back on the map, through the topology of wrinkles and rememberances, I can know I was there.

My apologies to Amanda Witt: I hope this post doesn’t cause her or anyone else too much pain. Literally…

Monday morning I was listening to NPR when I heard a story on synesthesia that fascinated me. For Pianist, Music Unleashes Rainbows of Color:

When pianist Laura Rosser performs, she hears more than sounds. She hears colors — each note has its own associated hue. Rosser has a rare neurological condition called synesthesia. Stimulation of one sense produces the sensation of another.

Synesthesia is rare. Perhaps one person in several thousand has it. Most of these people don’t have the form that allows them to perceive sounds as colors.

I don’t have synesthesia, but my first reaction was to want it. How cool it would be to hear colors in music!

Then as synchronicity would have it, I read Amanda Witt’s post What color is Saturday? in which she described her own synesthesia.

Only some of the letters have colors for me; but color infiltrates elsewhere. One example: When I’m in severe pain, I see the color orange; so when I was in labor, instead of telling Jonathan, “It hurts so much,” I said, “There’s so much orange.” Conversely, the color orange strikes me like a physical pain, and if I am visually assaulted by it for very long, I’ll develop a bad headache.

I realized that if I had synesthesia I might not like orange (or other colors) as much as I do. Orange was associated with pain for Amanda Witt and discordant music for Laura Rosser. Recently though I can’t stop staring at my tulips.

That afternoon at Home Depot (a store that is rather orange in itself), I couldn’t resist taking a couple poppies home with me. On the phone earlier that day I had mentioned to someone who is mentoring me in one aspect of my life that I was sick and Ted was traveling. Do something for yourself she said, suggesting a babysitter. Instead of a sitter, I got myself fiery flowers.

With their crinkly colorful petals, the Icelandic poppies reminded me of crepe paper bouquets we kids would make at school for Mother’s Day. So captivated was I, I stopped the cart in the store a few times to try to take a picture and I even snuck one on the way home at a stop light…

I can’t imagine the color orange giving me pain. Or seeing orange when I am in pain. Since learning about synesthesia, I can’t think of colors the same. Periwinkle sonatas and vibrant alphabets sound enticing, glimpses of a world I wish I could enter, additional dimensions I’ll never know. But I’ll be content admiring my poppies.