“Mom, you’re just too good for me.”

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I swear to God my son just said that to me on the tennis court. I swear to God. This is the happiest day of my life. The best thing anyone has ever said to me.

Okay, okay, I’m a little competitive. I take a lot of (too much?) joy in beating people at tennis. I know I should be a bigger person. I should hit the ball gently to a 12-year old. I should hold back. But, God help me, I love to win.

The game was kind of crazy because we played Australian – or is it Canadian – doubles. The two of us against Chris, but Chris’s adding was getting a little funky. It was deuce and he’d say it was 15-30 – that kind of thing. He wanted to sit out. He dozed off on the bench, watching us play. Well, he wasn’t watching. He was dozing.

Hayden and I kept playing. The game was 3 to 0 in my favor. And he said that ill-fated line. “Mom, you’re just too good for me.” Oh God. I can’t tell you how good that felt. I asked him if he minded if we put that on my gravestone. I felt the endorphin rush.

Then he came back. It was 3 to 3. And it was game, set, match point; we were playing to 4 games.

Hayden served. It was deuce, add in, deuce, add out.  It was deuce, add out, then he double-faulted. I hate when anyone double faults, but in this case, I took the victory. It tasted sweet. I’m just too good.

Rattlesnake Mountain

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We hiked Rattlesnake.

Maybe a fourth of the way up, Charlotte discovered a shedded snake skin stuck to the trunk of a toppled tree. Hayden peeled it up, like a nametag off a suit jacket. He made us all touch it. So yuck.

We arrived at the parking pull-off around noon and I think it was about 3:25 when we returned. Or else it was 3:52. I’m fairly beat now. And will likely feel it tomorrow.

In terms of endorphins, I think I hit them about 20 minutes into the hike on the way down. I was by myself. I felt a rush of well being as I watched my kids holding hands in a tunnel of light ahead of me. You know the kind of yellow light in the middle of green trees on a late summer day. Very nice. Very Hansel and Gretel. Heartwarming.

But then a stick and leaves were thrown. The girls broke into a fight. Catherine threw some kind of handful of seeds or leaves at Charlotte, to make it look like it was raining. And Charlotte took offense, said something nasty like “You touch yourself!” And Catherine said, “I was only making you look pretty.” And Charlotte said, “Without that stuff falling on me, you’re saying I”m not pretty?” in that kind of head-wagging way.

The endorphin buzz was lost somewhere in there.

But that’s what I get, hiking with 9-year old twins, a 12 year old, a 5 year old (Izzy, Kristen’s daughter), a 30-something year old, (Ben, Kristen’s boyfriend) and the husband with Parkinson’s.

I worried that the climb would be too difficult for Chris and Izy. But Izzy was only carried briefly on Ben’s shoulders.

Chris managed pretty well. Unlike our hike up Coon Mountain last week, when he was nearly last at the end of the hike, Chris, this time,  finished towards the front. With the help of a walking stick. And grit.

Searching for Endorphins

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 First Run

The first day, less than a week ago, Deirdre, the girls and I ran to the little 1888 school house. Since then, we’ve talked endlessly about just how long it is from our house to the school house. 

We started around the garage, ran past the five humongous Newfoundlands at Shami’s.

And we ran uphill to get to that road. Deirdre said, “Going up hill, take small steps.” She said,  “Don’t worry about your upper body at all. Breath in through your nose and out through your mouth.”

Second Run

On Saturday, we ran again, just me and the girls and Hayden. We ran to the schoolhouse, lay on the grass and stared at the Adirondack mountains. We watched the clouds. I was exhausted.

I love the school house. I love the grass, the broken fence, the tree, the yellow lyme schoolhouse. I love laying or sitting in the grass. Watching the kids do gymnastics. Every which way you look, there’s beauty.  A farmer’s field, a newly paved black road.

As we lay on the grass, Hayden said, “Hey there’s Jeff Kelly.” Jeff’s a writer, a jock, and my brother in law Jeff’s best friend. He is a natural athlete and flirt, told me I looked beguiling. I hit him in the chest with the back of my hand. He laughed.

He said he thought the run from our house to the school house was 3/4 of a mile. That made us feel good. He ran backwards as he talked to us, which made me feel lik he could run circles around me, which wasn’t a good feeling because he’s at least 15 years older than me.

Third Run

Yesterday, I said, “I’m gonna go for a run,” to Chris. 

“Okay, I’ll go with you,” he said. I made an ugh noise. Like, Please don’t. But then quickly said, “Okay, but you’ll have to keep up.” 

Chris was huffing and puffing. The previous day, he’d said the school house was 1/4 of a mile. “Now, do you think it’s farther?” I asked as he ran behind me. He couldn’t get the breath to answer. (But then when we reached the beach, we had Debbie drop us in the middle of the lake and we swam back to the beach, probably over a mile.)

Today

I found a good stride.  For the first time I ran farther than the schoolhouse. Hayden ran with me. We made it to the road, Lake Shore. 

Hayden had just bought a pair of red Asics running shoes. He calls them “sexy.” He told me to take longer steps. I liked running with him. I especially liked when we hit the fields of flowers at the Stable Inn. We each took a different path as we ran through the field.

We waved at each other across the black-eyed Susans and Queen Ann’s Lace. There was a smell of pine. I felt really good. I think I found the endorphins.

I wrote another rule

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And updated 43 things. I have to check my facebook. But I really feel discouraged. I want to get my stories published and make money. I also want to keep writing.

I could set a goal like to write 1,667 words a day because that would be 50 k a month. but that is virtually impossible.  How about 172 words a day? Because that’s what rule #5 was.

Also, how do I make this blog private since it’s mostly ruminations? And how do I increase traffic to the other blogs???

Rule #5

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Expect the Best; Love What You Get

Lindsay suggested this rule after working with horses. Every time she gets a new horse, she thinks, “This one will do tricks. This one will amaze and inspire. This is the one!” And every time, that horse is not exactly the ideal horse.

So it is with kids. As he first began to babble, I stared at him in his high chair, wondering, “What pearls of wisdom will he say when he can finally talk? This kid is deep, brilliant, poetic.” And when he did start talking — and I’d been waiting months, years for his genius — I got, “No!” “Mine!” “Dad!”

With people and animals, you gotta love what you get.

It’s hard at times to do that, when you expect so much. But you’ll get something and it will be surprising. And it will be good. Gail told me that as moms, we have to love the title of that book, “The Good Enough Mom.” That’s me. I’m good enough. A perfect mom would be a disaster. Same with a perfect kid. Or horse.

There’s an adage that is useful for creative people — low expectations, high results; high expectations, low results. But this rule says, high expectations and love no matter what.

Today I sent out

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Downward Dog to Yoga Journal. I have an editor’s name, Leila Easa, but I do not have her specific email. So I am just sending to queries… I am committed to sending out 30 queries in 30 days!

Downward Dog

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I have no idea why I love Downward Dog — or it’s official name, Adho Mukha Svanasana.

It is just such a welcome break from more difficult stretches and twists in my Iyengar practice. I have come to love Downward Facing Dog almost as much as Savasana (the Corpse) Pose — my absolute favorite.

When we return to Downward Dog, it is like my body has met an old friend, an old comfortable dog. The pose is almost as good as a lounge chair on a beach in Akumal, Mexico.

It is familiar. My feet flat on the floor, my head in line with my arms. I can find myself in that space easily. I do it well.

I also feel — and I have no proof of this — that my waist is actively shrinking when I am in Downward Dog. Something about this pose makes me feel, “Ah, this is good. I like yoga. I like my body and what it does.”

It is a healthy feeling; I am doing good. Like eating a huge, yummy spinach salad for lunch instead of a cheeseburger.

I have been entering Downward Dog since I was in Seventh grade and took yoga at the Park Ridge YMCA, which is now the Park Ridge Community Center in suburban Chicago. That was 35 years ago.

I have always loved this pose, too, because of its silly name. For the life of me, I cannot see how this pose has anything to do with a down dog. What does a down dog look like any way? Ah well, I love the alliteration of Down Dog. Just go with it.

And I love coming out of this pose because I know Child Pose is coming along somewhere soon. Yes, Child Pose is down the road from Down Dog Pose. Ah, Child Pose, another old and beloved friend.

I have a lot of stress in my life — sick husband, three school-age kids, full time job. But there is something about Down Dog that makes me feel, I am up to the tasks of this crazy life.

There are many things I cannot control in my life. Many things I do badly, many cakes I only half-bake. But not Down Dog. That, I can do. And do well. And as I enter, rest in, and exit this pose, I am at one and the same time, resting and striving. It is a good place to be.

Rethink Church

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The toothless watch seller on the corner of 125th and Malcolm X got out the photo of his son whom he hadn’t seen in 13 years. He parted from his wife when the boy was 12. In the photo, the handsome young man embraced a young woman on a rock.

The man was selling watches for $8 and $5. He told me he was abused and beaten as a kid, as was his mother and all of his siblings. And he said, “I’ve been in drug rehabilitation and I know all about denial. But the reason I drink is that when I lived in New Orleans, oh, it gets so hot, you need a nice cold beer.”

Drew and I watched over the man’s card table while he ran in to the Carver Bank to get change. That was one of our Random Acts of Kindness, part of today’s Rethink Church campaign. We opened doors for people at the bank. And we listened to stories, because, you know, everyone had a story.

The woman with the cigarette outside of the Starbucks wanted to know about our red jackets and hats. We told her we were part of the United Methodist church.

“The United Methodist Church? Is that Pentacostal? Because my father was a Pentacostal minister. He told God ‘If anyone of my family is going to get ill, let me have the illness.’ And he did. He got cancer and he died. My mother will die soon too, she’s just waiting for the last two out of six of us to go to church. I’m one of the two. So is that Methodist Church one I should go to? Do you have to wear a dress to church? Because I don’t have a dress.”

I told her she didn’t have to wear a dress. I don’t wear a dress to church. (But you know I don’t want to hasten her mother’s trip to heaven so I gave her the soft sell.)

We met a guy named Carlos who wanted to know where the homeless shelters were. We handed out the sheet with the shelters’ addresses. And Carlos asked us did we have a Metrocard and could we give it to him?

It was 10 in the morning. My unofficial partner was Drew Giddings. Drew was an excellent companion because he was friendly and wry and appropriately peeved when the security guard kicked us out of our most excellent location — opening doors for the disabled people going into 55 West 125th. Drew kept count. He and I performed 18 acts of random kindness in Harlem. Our next stop was Bryant Park.

Our leader was Bill Shilady, upbeat and easygoing. There were maybe 200 church people fanning out in several New York City neighborhoods today to promote tenthousanddoors.org and the Rethink Church campaign. Bill had prepped us at St. Paul and St. Andrew when we assembled at 8:30 am. One of our talking points was that church is a verb and not just a noun.

But no one really prepped us for the stories about alcoholism, death, and, yes, appropriate attire. (Maybe these are the parts of church I can rethink.)

“Nice suit!” Drew called out from the steps at 6th and 41st . The two young men stopped. One opened his briefcase and there were pattern squares and fabric samples neatly organized. Yes, the two guys were selling custom-made suits. “And our shirts are cheaper and better than the ones at Pink.” The two quite possibly did a better job of selling us their suits than we did of selling them on the United Methodist Church.

Some in our group simply dispensed the free music download cards, others really engaged with pedestrians. We tried to get the stories, maybe even make a friend.

One tall handsome guy accepted the free music card and gave me his card. “Because some day you might need a lawyer to protect you from identity theft .” I might.

In case you’re wondering, I did buy a watch from that watch seller in Harlem. The watch is keeping good time. But then I just bought it this morning. It only cost five dollars. Drew might buy one of those guys’ custom suits.

The highlight of my day? When Drew treated me to a Random Act of Kindness and bought me a spicy beef Jamaican patty at the Crispy Crust. It was so good. (I’m pretty sure all of the other Rethinkers on the bus were jealous.) I think I’ll go back for another patty someday and I’ll chat with that watch seller at the corner.

To the Editor

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Have you ever had your car towed? It’s a bit like entering Dante’s Inferno. I’m sending you a post on my experience from two days ago when my car was towed right outside my apartment building.