I’m still waiting for the latest to sink in. Awareness comes in flashes, but it hasn’t quite settled in.
Maybe in a month? A season? I dunno. But seven days hasn’t been enough.
A week ago today Blue and I were married! I told him every day of our honeymoon it feels so surreal. I’m a wife now. And a stepmom. Wow.
Perhaps I’ll spend a few posts digging into these as I try these labels and responsibilities on for size.
The ceremony was short, sweet and intimate, and remains quite hazy in my memory. I was in a fog most of the proceedings, despite the clear, sunshiny day. Dina, our photographer, offered suggestions for poses and she had to repeat them all. I could hear her, but somehow she was talking to… someone else.
I didn’t feel nervous beforehand, despite the group of teenagers who walked by just before the bridesmaids went down the aisle. “Are you going to trip?” one asked. I’m sure I gave her my infamous side eye, but I responded with a shrug and something like, “who knows? I don’t plan to.”
When my uncle escorted me out the double doors, I found Blue and gave him the biggest smile. He matched it with his, waiting. I’d never experienced tunnel vision before that moment, but aside from the blur of guests standing, I didn’t see anything else. I wanted to get down the stairs safely and stand next to him, so I concentrated on that. Even the music – an upbeat tune from Earth, Wind and Fire – is hard to hear in my memories.
Friends and family posted a few snaps of us on social media, or emailed and texted us their faves. I’m floored to see them. That was US! We’re THEM! Each picture helps me recapture the moments I lost to the fog.
As a little girl, when I was about to do something fun, I wouldn’t feel any excitement. Like we’d be preparing to go to Six Flags. SIX FLAGS of all places, where the roller coasters were great and your stomach did all the flips. And I was like, cool, with the shoulder shrug and everything.
And it wouldn’t be a fake cool. I’d seriously have no emotion attached. It was an event that would take place at some point. And I was glad to go, but just slow to warm. Like the idea needed to marinate or something.
But suddenly, something would click. Usually the night before said event or even the morning of, it would finally sink in:
I’M GOING TO SIX FLAGS!!!!
And I’d be excited and smiley and all the things you often associate with excitement. And it would be just as much fun as I knew it would be, and I’d be just as overjoyed as anyone else might be.
I’ve always been that way. I can’t pull up a single memory that contradicts this. It’s like the darkness before the dawn and suddenly it’s daybreak and you can see the beautiful morning.
So we’ve been wedding planning off and on the past couple of months, and it’s been like that. It’s been cool, and some parts have been fun and others stressful, but all of them busy. And I’d see wedding this, or bridal that and it was always just words. Words talking about someone else. And because I know me (and all my close friends know me), no one bothered to ask if I was excited yet. It was simply too early.
Lately I’ve been trying on wedding gowns and some of the consultants are gushy and intrusive and I have to Heisman them: Hey, I’m not a gusher. I’m reserved. I’m not going to faint and scream and fan girl at this dress and I’d love it if you didn’t either.
But now, it’s sinking in. When I read something that says the bride or bridal, it’s referring to ME!
I’M GETING MARRIED!!!!
I’m getting excited! And right on time, today my aunt asked, “are you getting excited yet?” And I had to giggle because now I can say YES!
The name gazelle comes from the Arabic word Ghazal which means “elegant and quick.” ~Wikipedia
Natalie is a gazelle.
I see her occasionally during my greenway runs and I always smile. She’s beautiful. She’s powerful. Elegant and quick. On the greenway, her long dark hair is always pulled back, revealing her serene yet happy face. And by the way, she runs marathons. Can you imagine?
Whenever I see her it’s the same… she smiles and waves and shows not a whisper of being winded. Yet she’s running, not jogging. Cheerful just the same.
That’s beauty. That’s inspiration.
I imagine I’m that way from time to time: graceful, cheerful, powerful. Not as often as I’d like, however, and certainly not while running. That’s one of my goals – to be a gazelle when I run. I’m grateful for Natalie’s presence on the greenway.
Fall Renewal
So tomorrow is the first day of autumn and I love beginnings. Mornings, Mondays, new moons, new years, you name it. So a new season fits nicely into the mix, and the first day of autumn it’s the perfect time for purposeful renewal.
Lately I’ve been thinking about (and encountering) the Four Agreements and I’ve been journaling a bit about gratitude. So rather than allowing this to be happenstance, I’d like to spend the next month or so focusing on both of these, and incorporating them as a daily practice.
When I say a daily practice, I mean mindfully choosing thoughts, words and deeds that align with the agreements and with gratitude.
Says Don Miguel Ruiz, author of The Four Agreements:
Every letter, every word in each language is an agreement…. As children, we didn’t have the opportunity to choose our beliefs, but we agreed with the information that was passed to us from the dream of the planet via other humans. The outside dream may hook our attention, but if we don’t agree, we don’t store that information. As soon as we agree, we believe it, and this is called faith. To have faith is to believe unconditionally.
Too much of the time, we go through life allowing it to happen to us, while we mindlessly react. But the Four Agreements reminds us to take responsibility and be a co-creator in our experience of the world. Rather than accepting every word or thought you hear, take some time to reflect. Do you agree? Do you accept? How does this fit with the life you’d like to lead?
You don’t have to agree with every opinion you encounter. You don’t have to accept someone else’s reality as your own. You can create new agreements, moment by moment. Word by word.
As a refresher, the Four Agreements are:
Be impeccable with your word
Don’t take anything personally
Don’t make assumptions
Always do your best.
This week, I’m planning to reread the beginning of The Four Agreements, and perhaps write about what I’m reading. I will also continue journaling about gratitude.
What, if anything did you do to mark the beginning of fall? What are your intentions for the season and the rest of the year?
Nearly two weeks ago, I asked about kettlebells. Folks on Twitter, Facebook and my blog responded, and everyone who did had something good to say.
It’s fun (men and women).
It’s a good workout (men and women).
It feels more feminine to me (women).
Out running errands around that time, I spotted a Pilates studio. Kettlebells practically leapt from their signage, and I smiled at the synchronicity. Once home, a quick search brought me to their website, and a phone call led me to their studio this morning.
The studio offers a one-on-one kettlebell fundamentals class. It’s designed to get you ready to join their group kettlebell classes, but I wanted some in-person training on technique for at home workouts as well. YouTube told me there are a lot of interesting exercises one can do with a kettlebell, and common sense told me there are just as many interesting ways to injure yourself.
My instructor was Ingrid, a tall, slim woman with long dark hair. She was friendly and very focused on coaching me in the proper technique. I performed a range of exercises for upper and lower body incorporating pulling and pushing motions, and a swing. The swing she tells often takes weeks or even months to perfect, and she complimented me several times during the session on my form.
She especially made note of the way I didn’t hunch over for various poses where your chest is out and shoulders are wide. That’s something I’ve grown into through a combination of dance and working on moving with grace. I know for sure I used to hunch and shrink. “You’ll advance very quickly,” she said more than once.
Although my ultimate goal is to find more at-home workouts, I do plan to visit the studio for group classes when my travel schedule allows. I can tell I got a good workout today, and I’m sure I’ll have even more evidence (hello fatigued muscles) by tomorrow.
She caught my eye and I couldn’t leave without her.
My flute.
She’s not seen much daylight in recent years – perhaps none at all in the past three, even though I’ve had her since high school. My love affair with flute began after I was scheduled into band around 7th grade. I had been in chorus from elementary school and I did not appreciate the sudden switch. But we needed to be well-rounded, or so the school counselor said. And so band was my new elective. My protests fell on deaf ears as momma asked which instrument I planned to learn. When it became apparent that rolling my eyes nor begging would change her mind, I grumpily opted for flute.
Eighth grade me in our band uniform. Go Chargers!
I took to it quickly, spending hours learning the fingering and appropriate embouchure, practicing all the songs one could play once she knew three notes.
The band director was impressed simply because it is notoriously difficult for beginning flautists to produce sound at all. But his simple suggestion – kiss the center of the mouthpiece and roll it down the bottom lip – was all I needed to hear.
So I played in our middle school band and loved it. We performed at assembly programs and at festival. Perhaps my favorite song at that time was Carol of the Bells.
There was something immensely satisfying in the way music resonated in the body when everyone played in tune. Simple chords made me smile. So much so, I recorded myself playing one part of a piece of music just so I could play another part and enjoy the harmony.
At some point tragedy struck when my flute was stolen. I cried and cried, grateful that my mother was able to replace it. “I thought you didn’t want to be in the band,” she said, eyebrow raised at the outpouring of emotion. No one, not even me, expected that bond.
My mother honored it and invested in it. Within a few days, a brand new, shiny Gemeinhardt took the place of the used, dented flute we’d all assumed would have a short life in our house.
In high school I continued practicing hours a day and eventually played as well as flautists who began lessons years before me. I became a firstchair flute, out seating senior musicians as a freshman. Lest you think I was a prodigy of some sort, let me explain. Some of my fellow flautists played because they liked it or their parents wanted them to play, but not because they seriously enjoyed it. I loved it, so I happily invested the time. I never became expert at reading music, but I was decent. A good ear and muscle memory from repeated practices made it easy for me to the perform pieces Mr. Moody sometimes singled us out to play.
All in all it was one year in high school marching band, and four years in concert band. More assemblies, some community events, a few parades and annual band festivals. More joy.
For our high school graduation I played a short solo. I watched that video a few months ago. I can affirm, I was not a brilliant player by any stretch. But I loved it.
I had some time to myself so I broke out the sheet music.
The Gemeinhardt traveled with me in college. I almost joined the FAMU flute choir, but I was a little intimidated to be honest, and more than a little busy with other extracurriculars. I played in my dorm room from time to time so I wouldn’t forget my favorite songs. And on it went that way for years. I moved here and there and my flute came with. I tried to break it out at least once a year, just for fun. But at some point in the past couple of years, I’ve stopped doing even that.
So I was surprised when here we were picking up books, and all the while I eyed my flute case and the attendant sheets of music. She wanted to come along this trip as much as she wanted to come along on the previous one.
She’s been here a few days, and Saturday I had a few hours alone. I couldn’t shake the feeling to open the case and play a note. Even though I felt ridiculous, I did exactly that. Could I do it? Could I make a sound? Could I play a single note? A whole song?
Verdict: not quite like riding a bike but close.— nicole denise (@ndcollier) September 13, 2014
In other words, the going was a little wobbly, but it went. I tweeted my experience of rifling through my sheet music and trying my hand at some of the pieces with varying degrees of success. First Bernadette, and then Amanda chimed in. It was Amanda who proclaimed our group the Union of Rusty Flautists:
Rusty, yes. A few of those notes landed sans grace. Mostly because I was “remembering” how to read music, but also because something just sounded a little off. When I played two of the major scales that’s when I could really tell – one of my keys wouldn’t close properly. Poor B♭sounded sad and confused.
And that brings us to today…
Found a place to take my flute!
I’m still not sure what’s pulling me to this flute, but there’s no enjoying it if I can’t play a basic note well. I found a music shop nearby and took it in.
“You have good timing,” the young man behind the counter smiled. “All of our instruments get serviced at a central location and the truck only comes on Tuesdays and Fridays. It’ll be here in about an hour.”
SGI Buddhists call this being in rhythm. Ha!
I’m hopeful it’ll an easy, quick and inexpensive fix. I bounced out of the store with a smile, excited for my flute. I have no idea how often (or how well) I’ll play it, but it’s nice to revisit and old joy.
Today is connection day! That’s what I’m calling it this year, as Blue and I mark our second anniversary.
On this day two years ago, we acknowledged our mutual interest in getting to know each other better. We had been acquaintances on social media for a couple of years by then, with no more than a handful of tweets and a couple of happy birthday FaceBook statuses between us.
During those couple of years we’d both experienced our share of dramatic life changes. But even now, neither of us can pinpoint the reason or timing of the shift from “that guy/woman I never met in person although we have 50 mutual FB friends,” to “that guy/woman I might need to pay more attention to.”
Yet one day out of the blue, a tentative message turned into the beginning of a romance. And here we are, two years later.
Happy anniversary, Blue.
Me and Blue picking up the kiddos and heading to see The Nutcracker.
I’m thinking about kettlebells. I heard of them long ago, but when I saw videos of folks kettlebell routines, I was never moved nor motivated to try them.
A few years have passed and like most things other than liver, I’m reconsidering. I enjoy the building strength aspect of strength training, and although my current barbell based program is fine, and sometimes even fun, I want something new.
One of my friends has recently begun kettlebells. What about you? Have you ever tried them? Did you like them? Why, or why not? Leave me a message in the comments…
Because of work, I am often around strangers during lunch time. Not complete strangers as usually we’ve spent the past few hours engaged in professional learning. But distant enough that they may ask me to repeat my first name or still mispronounce my last. Aside from 911, they wouldn’t know who to call in case of emergency. They have no idea I enjoy reading juvenile and young adult fiction.
In the course of the day I may have used my short distance running or Blue’s marathons as a way to explain something. I could have made reference to salsa dancing to shift the energy after a break. I probably mentioned kids I used to teach while demonstrating the various interactions between teacher and students. In other words, they think they know me.
But invariably, if I’m having lunch with or near one of these people, they will comment on my dietary choices and proclaim “that’s why you’re so thin.”
No onions, no cheese. Just the way I like it!
Today it was because I requested a salad with no dressing. “No dressing?!” exclaimed the astounded person. “THAT’S why you’re so thin!” As if I were keeping a secret. Never mind the “non-thin” things I eat that happen to be currently out of view. The key to it all (today) is the dressing.
The dressing thing gets a lot of attention, actually. Some people chalk it up to an amazing amount of discipline. “Wow! You eat your salads dry? That’s hard core. No wonder… ” {you know where this is going}.
Thing is, I like the taste of vegetables. Always have. My mother didn’t have to sneak me spinach. I asked for it. We grew cucumbers in the backyard and I ate them. When cabbage rolls were on the menu, I cheered. I like vegetables.
And, I dislike salad dressing!
I grew up the only child in the house. My mother liked French dressing. I found it atrocious. My father ate bleu cheese. Probably the worst thing I’ve tasted. Even worse than liver. So, if I wanted a “sauce” for my salads, it was one of those, or nothing. And since I liked vegetables, nothing was the right call!
Years of that and eventually I found out other dressings existed, but I didn’t go out of my way to experiment with them. Because why? If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Now I won’t say I made it to 40 never tasting other salad dressings. I have, and I am okay with ranch and Italian. Oil and vinegar are also cool. Occasionally the juice from a lemon or lime might be a nice change. But it’s rare I’ll add them. And today was a day I opted for “the usual” to accompany my gumbo: small salad, no dressing.
Although I explained the dressing thing, the woman still gave me a look as though she knew better.
I bought this print by LaShun Beal circa 1998 as a 20-something graduate student at Florida State University. Fellow grad students hosted in-home art shows, and we’d select our prints, matting and frames.
Beal had a few captivating pieces at the time, but she’s the one that spoke to me. Money was tight, and framing isn’t free, but I’ve never regretted the purchase.
She’s been with me through many moves back and forth across the GA/FL state line including last year’s epic return.
Bibliophiles unite!
Blue and I are in the process of consolidating homes, and last night we began by collecting my bookshelves. But as we surveyed my house, there she was, hanging patiently on my bedroom wall. I knew I wasn’t going to leave her there another night.
This morning I returned from my run, and Blue had already unloaded the smaller odds and ends. And her.
