I want to follow her instructions. I want to blow her away with my flexibility and flair and fleetness of foot.
But she laughs gently, rolling her eyes in a sweet way. In a way that tells me I’m failing, but she thinks I’m pretty darn cute, trying to do what she does.
I try to explain to her – Look at my posture! Look at my pose and poise! But her reply is a tad condescending despite her touch of forgiveness. Continue reading
My 7-year-old granddaughter Sophie shakes her head at me in loving mocking distress. “Madre, really? You’re lost again?”
I had hoped she couldn’t tell. After all, she’s in the back seat of my SUV, munching on the brownie I gave her, looking through her bag to see if she remembered to pack her ballet shoes.
Every Tuesday I do this. In fact, she reminds me of this fact now. “Madre, how many times have you driven me to ballet school?” Continue reading
Is it possible to have a perfect bun?
What? Oh, you think I’m talking about a bun, as in a person’s buttocks.
And I’m not talking about a delicious round bread roll, despite the fact that there are several left over from the Thanksgiving meal. Continue reading
Back in the old days, people were encouraged to attend to daily prayers. Not just encouraged, bullied into it almost. So I have a hard time with the idea of “daily writing.” I’ll write when I damn well please, thank you very much.
But then I think of pianists. They need to play the piano, daily, for weeks and months and years to become merely proficient in their musicianship, much less able to say that they’re accomplished pianists.
I watched the NFL playoffs this month with open-mouthed awe and listened to the stories of some of these incredible players. They became incredible by natural ability and then hours of daily practice throwing the ball, lifting weights, running sprints, building “kicking legs” and “tackling arms” since they were pre-teens. Day after day, month after month, year after year. Whether a quarterback, a wide receiver, or an offensive lineman, these guys only made it in their profession by spending their life – practicing. Continue reading
I’m a curly-haired woman who loves fairytale fantasy, long walks along the water, communing silently with babies and animals, and reading for hours in a deep plush chair while sipping Tropical Green tea.
I dislike vapid vain chatter; inconsiderate drivers who turn without blinking; wayward souls who act as if they run the world; grocery carts with broken wheels; men who pinch women’s rears (yes, still!); unanswered e-mails; unplucked eyebrows; arguments; orange vests; and fruit drinks.
My heart soars with the soft, whisper-filled kisses of little ones; a sun salutation on a Hawaiian beach; a spontaneous loud laugh from a coworker; a handful of M&M’s, particularly the green or blue ones; a sudden embrace from my irreplaceable guy.
The sounds I most enjoy: the swish of pens on paper (and the clack of a laptop) during one of my creative writing classes; the pounding surf on the New Jersey seashore; the beat of a Beatles tune; the bark of Henry, the dog, as he sits in front of his cookie jar,; the beginning melody of The Nutcracker Suite ballet; the soft plop of an omelet-filled plate placed in front of me at a sunny San Francisco corner café; the ‘hello Pammy’ call from my effervescent magnetic mom.
Life is worthwhile because of soft classical music on a cold Sunday morning; two-hour conversations with a long-time friend; a tall diffident son who stares deeply into my eyes and says, ‘Love you, Mom’; a 2-year-old grandchild who sits quietly, attentively on my lap while listening to Good Night Moon; a foggy afternoon writing stories about people I’ve never met; a man who runs out to buy my special Earl Gray tea latte, non-fat milk with foam at 6:15 in the morning; a beautiful daughter who wears her heart on every sleeve and her love in her morning glory eyes.
That’s who I am.