Stage Names.

He caught my eye the first day of class, his baggy red trunks sagging below his knobby knees, arms crossed defiantly while everyone else stood enthusiastically in flowery two-piece bikinis with chubby smiles and rainbow plastic goggles. Clearly swim lessons were getting in the way of his summer vacation plans and video games.

We went around and said names- Allison, Jessica, Jennifer, Matthew- and eventually all eyes landed on him.

"Keeyan."

I stopped to clarify.  "Keeyan?"

"Yeah. Keeyan."

He was always the last to enter the water. While everyone else was halfway through their 20 bobs, he would stand with his toes curled at the pool's edge, arms stiff at his side. Then, without coaxing, he would jump in, fiercely without reserve, and join in with the rest of his bobbing poolmates.

Teachers say they don't have favorites.
It's a lie.
Keeyan was mine.

He would begrudgingly blow bubbles and float on his back like a squirming baby otter, his outie belly button reminding me of my Cabbage Patch Kid dolls. When he'd put his face in the water, his legs would kick with such determination that his oversized baggy red gangster swim trunks threatened to slide off. I found it hilarious and endearing.

"Keeyan, monkey, airplane, soldier."
"Keeyan, belly up, pretend you're Santa Claus…big belly in the air."
"Kick, kick, kick, Keeyan! Arms straight out in front of you, like Superman!"

For weeks, from 10:00-10:30am, I witnessed Keeyan's transformation from a disoriented drowning rat into a calmer, smoother golden retriever paddling out to fetch a stick.  Keeyan was my success story. Fistbumps and all.

The last day at the end of class, an older woman approached the pool deck, her arms spread wide holding a faded blue terrycloth towel.  She smiled at me, then looked down at Keeyan.  

"Get out, Ken. And say thank you."

I was speechless, betrayed, duped.
And then I laughed.

I wonder how many of us deliberately swim through life in our constructed facades and shells, paddling as fast as we can to preserve that freedom, in hopes to not get called out by our loved ones? 
Don't we all?
Whether we're Clark Kent
or Saint Nick
or Ken.

And yet realizing that at times we need those stage names to transform us into our alter ego, fearless and gangster and badass? Perhaps instead, it's about striking a balance between that certain special magic of our imagined selves and our real, raw, messy selves, trying to stay afloat and not get water up our noses.  It's knowing when to put away the cape and put on the nerdy specs instead. 

And Keeyan, wherever you are, I hope you're swimming in the deepest oceans, untethered by those awful red swim trunks, fearless and full of imagination.  I'm sure Ken would agree, that summer you taught me the true swim lesson.

The Uses of Sorrow.

(In my sleep I dreamed this poem)

Someone I loved once gave me

a box full of darkness.

It took me years to understand,

that this, too, was a gift.

-Mary Oliver, Thirst

Taking Flight.

Sunset from Limatour Beach

Still soaking in this past weekend.  Grateful to be in the creative company of so many published writers and writing professors.  Proud of myself for showing up and being as present and brave and vulnerable as I could.  It was beautiful to meet such unique individuals and hear their poetic artistry as it landed on the page.  Perhaps the greatest lesson was learning that we are all the same- walking these same shores of life, witnessing the same sunrise and sunset, and trusting that as we pick up the pen, magic will be created and we will once again courageously fly with our words.

Needing to Recharge.

Ain't that the truth!  God bless all the boys who drop everything, come over when it's late and give your brand new car a jump.  (sure beats calling 24 hr Roadside Assistance)

Hoping this weekend will jumpstart and recharge my inner writer's batteries as well.  And hoping that the only thing that dies is my inner critic.

Books Over Basketball.

"…for some of us, books are as important as anything else on earth. What a miracle it is that out of these small, flat, rigid pieces of paper unfolds world after world, worlds that sing to you, comfort and quiet you or excite you. Books help us understand who we are and how we are to behave. They show us what community and friendship mean; they show us how to live and die."  -Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life

Kaia looks about as thrilled as I did when I was younger...

Coming from a girl who would rather pick up a basketball or a fishing pole or even a rolly polly bug than pick up a book, it's amazing how some things that once you wouldn't devote five minutes to are now the things you crave.  Some think that people don't change.  I'm here to tell you that they do. 

I have stacks of books now in my living room and on my bedstand, constantly competing for my time and attention. But somehow, Anne Lamott always manages to sneak her way to the top and into my hands. Can you tell I have a slight writer's crush on her?

B-attitudes.

Feeling so grateful and light and energetic- mostly because of high-vibrational foods and the good people in my life.  This last weekend of November (wow, does time fly!) was brought to you by the letter B.

Blended juice of beets, carrots, apples, parsley and ginger. Amaaaazing.

Move over, Vitamix…there's a new kid in town… 

Another adventure in vegan, gluten-fee baking.
Ginger molasses cookies that complemented our pumpkin coconut ice cream!

Bicycles and beets and baking and boots and bear hugs and breathing and bracelet-making and books and boats and Bibles and a Breville and time spent with one of my favorite people in the world, B.

Blessed. 

Moving On.

I spent the past nine years in a loveless relationship with Mr. H. Now don't get me wrong- H was dependable, trustworthy; the one you'd want to bring home to meet your folks at Christmas. They would approve of his no-frills, humble appearance; breathing a sigh of relief that there was nothing too loud or obnoxious about him.  Practicality on a plate.  Serving me selflessly for years. 

We took road trips from the coast to the snow-capped mountains, sand and sweat-filled memories logged in our memory bank. He came to all of my races, rain or shine. We spent chill mornings together listening to Howard Stern and eating oatmeal.  We sang together at the top of our lungs and laughed and shared deep conversations in the wee hours of the night. 

He was reliable and responsible, but I secretly wanted him to be more cutting edge, sophisticated, risk-taking. And so we'd show up at places together, conservative and happy, but knowing deep down we were both in a passionless relationship.  I ignored it because I thought H was my future. 

And that's when things started to get bumpy. Nothing felt as smooth or effortless as it once had way back when. We thought we could fix it- fix us… And so we sought professional help. We spent money. And we spent time. And even though he always said he was about reliability and spoke of our future together, I began to question him. It felt like superficial bullshit.  Eventually, things soured.

And that's when M first caught my eye. M was sleek and sexy and confident and wildly charismatic. My heart would race and my cheeks would flush every time I would catch a glimpse of him. I had to have him. I craved him, like a drug. Late at night, I'd find myself googling him, staring at his pictures- the light of my computer screen illuminating my lustful eyes. And the first time with M? Amazing. Toe-curling. He was exciting and new and effortlessly fed my adrenaline-hungry body.  He was everything that I had imagined. I wanted to bury my nose in him and inhale his scent deeply and caress him. He was addictive. Where H had left off, M took over, paying such careful attention to the small details- he cared about how my music sounded, the temperature of my body, my safety, my happiness.

And so yesterday, I made a big decision.  I chose M. And I'm all in, baby. 

Excited for our adventures that await.

Goodbye Honda, hello Mazda3. (oh, and hello, Garmin Vivofit!)