Thursday, April 17, 2008

I'm Just So Tired of Thinking About How Much I'm Thinking

Today was a long day, what with a bajillion dollar corporate merger and all. Late in the day I checked out, ran some errands, and came home to a positively glorious Thursday late afternoon. I shed the work clothes, donned the yoga pants, tank top and sneaks, and jetted out for a burst of running, followed by a cool-down walk with the dog. It felt great, this gift of breath and movement.

The house was too quiet, though. The kids were with their father and due back from their visit after Sean's tae kwon do lesson before dinner. I missed them. Yes, yes. I cherish my "alone" time, which is frequently populated with Ian, the dog, family, chores, etc. But I miss my children when they aren't home. They love spending time with their father, and he is a great dad. For those things--and for their sake--I am grateful. But I am selfish, too: I want them home. I miss them.

After enough water, I headed toward my stash. Several new bottles had been staring me down all week from my wine rack, which Ian stealthily stocked when I wasn't looking. It was a nice surprise, to say the least. But since I make an effort to not really drink during the workweek, I've had to snub the fresh bottles every witching hour after quitting time. Tonight, though, was cause for celebration, if only because the sky was so clear that I could see all the way across the water and past the skyline to Sleeping Giant "Mountain" from the front porch of my house, where I sat with the dog, a magazine and a big glass of Punto Final malbec.

Birds chirped, neighbors called to one another, others walked their dogs while some hit the street for their evening jog. Still others cruised the streets on their Harleys, anxious to make some noise on this perfect spring night. The setting sun was so warm on my body that I almost broke a sweat while reading. The dog sighed and slept by my feet, her black fur hot to the touch in the sun. And then I was treated to the holiest of warm weather sights: A plump, bright bumble bee buzzed by. Even the dog sat up to notice.

I sighed, content in the moment and exhausted with all the thoughts swirling in my brain. There has been a lot of talk about the future lately. Ian and I have narrowed our house hunting scope, and as a result we've found fewer things within our range that are "worth" buying. Still, there are options, now and later. And what happens, happens.

I've been so eager to put down roots, though. And I know I will, when the time is right. Tonight, as I sipped my malbec and waved to neighbors, I concluded that it's just fine right now where me and my little boys live, as much as we would like a place to call our own--and with Ian, too. It's just fine, this view of the water, this street full of strollers and skateboarders and dogs and Harleys, this great big porch just begging for pots of pansies and impatiens. True, they are only annuals. But if that's what I exchange for another year here, that's okay. And if we move? Well then. Aren't we lucky?

Tomorrow I'll cook up a big breakfast for me and the boys before we head outside, ditching my cellphone in the house as we leave.

As for the rest:


So tonight I'm watching the Yanks get viciously spanked by the Sox after last night's awesome game (and subsequent Yankees victory), and I'm thinking:

The thing about baseball is, the old players and fans love to talk about the connectivity of it all. How they all remember who was where when what happened and how, and why it all meant so much one way or another to everyone who shared that moment, whether on the field, in the stands, listening to the radio, watching it on TV or reading it in the paper the next day. Some unexpected play changed the course of this or that game. Some unexpected hero turned a game around for another team. Some small-town kid had a record-setting major league debut and was never heard from again. And another went on to become a Hall of Famer. Entire seasons were altered by war--or strikes. There are curses. There are champions. There are underdogs. There are rabid fans and casual free-ticket game goers. It's just a beautiful thing, how this game connects everyone who pays the slightest attention to it, across time, teams, money, politics, religion, gender. When you're watching a game, you're rooted in the moment, which is part of a rich, varied, complex past. What better metaphor is there for life--or families, friendships, even neighborhoods--than baseball?

And this, because I always gotta lighten the mood:


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