Southern California experienced an unprecedented and unexpected 12-hour blackout on Thursday and it seems everyone's talking about what they learned. For example, we learned blackouts can be fun if they're not associated with hurricanes, floods, tornadoes, or terrorist attacks. Our fun was tempered by the knowledge that Grandma was in the ICU in a hospital running on a generator, and the awareness that there were likely many elderly people alone in the dark and late summer heat. There are more than enough reasons right now to appreciate first responders as well as the medical personnel who stayed at work long past their shifts were over to help our loved ones.
The blackout was over soon enough for most danger to be averted, but lasted long enough for folks to come out of their homes and bond with neighbors over resources, barbecues, bright shiny stars, and the eerie sense of calm and quiet in the absence of electrical hum.
It helps to be a camping family, we learned. We have a propane stove and several LED lanterns, as well as flashlights in various stages of battery readiness. Funny how the brain works; husband and I were so preoccupied with battery, lantern, and flashlight inventory that it was a good thirty minutes before I remembered hey, we have candles all over this house. Duh.
I figured we'd better grill the chicken in the freezer, which was still frozen solid with no microwave or hot water to assist with defrosting. In retrospect we were probably better off eating leftovers from the fridge.
I noticed folks outside in their cars, reading, listening to the radio...and here's where I will admit it would have taken me a long time to figure out I could charge my phone in the car.
Kids are only slightly less enlightened than adults in a blackout, thinking of plugged-in activities and then recalling that they're out of the question. My favorite moment was when Little Sis excitedly announced, "I know! It's super dark; let's play with Lite Brite!"
We ended our evening in the girls' room, huddled under the bunk bed reading Harry Potter by lantern light. Power returned around three o'clock in the morning, but much to the dismay of Big Sis, schools remained closed. The high schoolers I work with? Not so sad about that.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Beans 'n' Rice Night
We are going to lighten things up around here with some dinner dialogue. Specifically (and all "paleo" diets aside), we've been eating a lot of beans lately. Because beans are good! How about them white beans--Great Northern beans? Cannellini? My goodness, those are yummy. Saute them in oil with some greens and garlic and pour over pasta. Or mash them into hummus. Make soup!
My kids love beans, too, which has encouraged me to keep the cupboard stocked with pintos, chick peas, black and white beans (I'm not a fan of the kidney bean, a result of too much exposure to yucky three-bean salad in my youth). One of our daughters' favorite dinners is Rice 'n' Beans Night. I wish I could recall which friend's friend inaugurated this tradition so I could give credit where it's due, but we adopted the idea ourselves, with rave reviews from the Peanut Gallery every time.
Beans 'n' Rice Night is the perfect solution for evenings when the fridge stores are running low; for when you need to feed 'em, fast (as fast as rice cooks); for when you're tempted by take-out but want to save some cash; for when a hearty or warm meal is in order; for when you're in charge of a crowd. Here's what you do: cook some rice. Warm up some beans. I like to mix pintos with black beans and add a tablespoon of salsa and some cumin to give the beans a little more dimension. The rest of the excitement is in the condiments. Depending on what's available, and the extent of your planning ahead, you can top your bowl o' rice 'n' beans with shredded cheese, salsa, diced green chilis, scallions, sour cream, chopped tomatoes, avocado, shredded lettuce, olives, crunched tortilla chips (or serve with warm tortillas).
Easy, peasy, crowd pleasy!
My kids love beans, too, which has encouraged me to keep the cupboard stocked with pintos, chick peas, black and white beans (I'm not a fan of the kidney bean, a result of too much exposure to yucky three-bean salad in my youth). One of our daughters' favorite dinners is Rice 'n' Beans Night. I wish I could recall which friend's friend inaugurated this tradition so I could give credit where it's due, but we adopted the idea ourselves, with rave reviews from the Peanut Gallery every time.
Beans 'n' Rice Night is the perfect solution for evenings when the fridge stores are running low; for when you need to feed 'em, fast (as fast as rice cooks); for when you're tempted by take-out but want to save some cash; for when a hearty or warm meal is in order; for when you're in charge of a crowd. Here's what you do: cook some rice. Warm up some beans. I like to mix pintos with black beans and add a tablespoon of salsa and some cumin to give the beans a little more dimension. The rest of the excitement is in the condiments. Depending on what's available, and the extent of your planning ahead, you can top your bowl o' rice 'n' beans with shredded cheese, salsa, diced green chilis, scallions, sour cream, chopped tomatoes, avocado, shredded lettuce, olives, crunched tortilla chips (or serve with warm tortillas).
Easy, peasy, crowd pleasy!
Friday, September 2, 2011
Catching Our Breaths in a Clearing
I finally felt it yesterday, that irritating and self-righteous sense that the world is full of petty dramas, complaints, and bullshit. I knew it was coming; it's a phase one passes through on the Roller Coaster of Life and Death Matters. No one but family and close friends understand that nothing else matters right now except Getting Through This.
Monday was my beloved mother-in-law's grave health emergency, and since then, she's moved out of the ICU and into the realm of hope for full recovery. Rehab and her increasing understanding of her new reality as well as financial, legal, and insurance wranglings await us. But we've left the deepest, darkest part of the woods and are catching our breaths in a clearing.
And the clearing is where we lift our heads and see the rest of the world going merrily, pettily, ignorantly on. There's at once the grim satisfaction of having one's priorities realigned with clarity and the frustration of feeling No Else Gets It.
I remember the drive home from the hospital when I had Big Sis. It was the Monday of Labor Day Weekend, and perhaps the Baby Blues were already setting in (and maybe that terrible case of post-surgical constipation), but for sure I had a sense of my life never being quite the same. There was no tragedy--things could hardly have been more wonderful, really--but I recall my head turning this way and that, peering through the window of the car at the Those People who were blithely enjoying their holiday weekend as if the world hadn't suddenly turned completely upside down. There was the Rest of the World, and then there was I. We were strangers for that moment.
After you've spent the night wringing hands, weeping, and worrying in the ER, you might return to work the next day, at least momentarily, to take care of unfinished business or tie down loose ends. Your red-rimmed eyes are a giveaway to colleagues who know not you're not quite yourself. You might break down and explain yourself when asked. But over the course of days you don't owe it to everyone, nor yourself, nor your family, not even Grandma, to retell the tale to everyone you meet. You're somewhere else for a reason, anyway--to work, to spend time with your children, to support someone dealing with something completely else. And even in this Age of Facebook, you don't need to broadcast every detail and every moment of everything, particularly those things that don't completely belong to you.
So life goes on. And while you're tired, and distracted, and likely a bit impatient, it's not their fault that they are right where they are, needing what they need, complaining their complaints, sharing their cheery triumphs. Schmucks will flip you off on the freeway, even steal the sunglasses out of your shopping cart, despite your pain. This hurtling forward with normalcy, with the endless parade of minutiae, and even with the mild cruelties and annoyances, are part of the gorgeous beauty of living.
We're approaching the tenth anniversary of 9/11, and I can re-imagine what I envisioned as an epicenter of grief emanating outward from New York City in the days after the tragedy. We were all affected, but certainly in sunny San Diego, far across the country from the sounds, smells, and sights of those jets, buildings, and lost lives, the rawness was blunted for many. To what extent and how Americans reacted to the growing comprehension of 9/11's events was differentiated in part by our own experiences, degrees of separation, as well as our individual ways of handling things in general. Our tolerance for demonstrations of levity were variable, too. People proceeded with birthday parties, with laughter, with births, and deaths of other causes. But the calculus of What's More Important--attending to the sobriety of mournful occasions versus attending to the needs of the living--is often lost in the reality of forgetting oneself in the moment. We catch ourselves giggling, performing meaningless tasks, buying something frivolous in the midst of such significance. Thank goodness for that.
Last weekend, as we approached the hotel we booked in L.A. for our Taylor Swift Concert adventure with the girls, we noticed a woman in her car partially blocking the hotel's parking lot entrance. Husband exasperatedly pulled around her and parked. Emerging from our car, we watched the woman get out of her own and begin pushing it from behind. Husband sheepishly assisted her in moving it around the block to a parking space. We didn't figure she was broken down. In our impatience we often fail to imagine the possibilities, and practice forgiving.
The world won't stop for us and our troubles; the world won't always know or understand; in this way, the world propels us all forward.
But I'm thinking we're better served considering one another as fellow commuters, muddling through in our near-broken-down autos, driving to the hospital to visit Grandma, who's still in critical condition but getting better everyday. We don't have to know to understand.
Monday was my beloved mother-in-law's grave health emergency, and since then, she's moved out of the ICU and into the realm of hope for full recovery. Rehab and her increasing understanding of her new reality as well as financial, legal, and insurance wranglings await us. But we've left the deepest, darkest part of the woods and are catching our breaths in a clearing.
And the clearing is where we lift our heads and see the rest of the world going merrily, pettily, ignorantly on. There's at once the grim satisfaction of having one's priorities realigned with clarity and the frustration of feeling No Else Gets It.
I remember the drive home from the hospital when I had Big Sis. It was the Monday of Labor Day Weekend, and perhaps the Baby Blues were already setting in (and maybe that terrible case of post-surgical constipation), but for sure I had a sense of my life never being quite the same. There was no tragedy--things could hardly have been more wonderful, really--but I recall my head turning this way and that, peering through the window of the car at the Those People who were blithely enjoying their holiday weekend as if the world hadn't suddenly turned completely upside down. There was the Rest of the World, and then there was I. We were strangers for that moment.
After you've spent the night wringing hands, weeping, and worrying in the ER, you might return to work the next day, at least momentarily, to take care of unfinished business or tie down loose ends. Your red-rimmed eyes are a giveaway to colleagues who know not you're not quite yourself. You might break down and explain yourself when asked. But over the course of days you don't owe it to everyone, nor yourself, nor your family, not even Grandma, to retell the tale to everyone you meet. You're somewhere else for a reason, anyway--to work, to spend time with your children, to support someone dealing with something completely else. And even in this Age of Facebook, you don't need to broadcast every detail and every moment of everything, particularly those things that don't completely belong to you.
So life goes on. And while you're tired, and distracted, and likely a bit impatient, it's not their fault that they are right where they are, needing what they need, complaining their complaints, sharing their cheery triumphs. Schmucks will flip you off on the freeway, even steal the sunglasses out of your shopping cart, despite your pain. This hurtling forward with normalcy, with the endless parade of minutiae, and even with the mild cruelties and annoyances, are part of the gorgeous beauty of living.
We're approaching the tenth anniversary of 9/11, and I can re-imagine what I envisioned as an epicenter of grief emanating outward from New York City in the days after the tragedy. We were all affected, but certainly in sunny San Diego, far across the country from the sounds, smells, and sights of those jets, buildings, and lost lives, the rawness was blunted for many. To what extent and how Americans reacted to the growing comprehension of 9/11's events was differentiated in part by our own experiences, degrees of separation, as well as our individual ways of handling things in general. Our tolerance for demonstrations of levity were variable, too. People proceeded with birthday parties, with laughter, with births, and deaths of other causes. But the calculus of What's More Important--attending to the sobriety of mournful occasions versus attending to the needs of the living--is often lost in the reality of forgetting oneself in the moment. We catch ourselves giggling, performing meaningless tasks, buying something frivolous in the midst of such significance. Thank goodness for that.
Last weekend, as we approached the hotel we booked in L.A. for our Taylor Swift Concert adventure with the girls, we noticed a woman in her car partially blocking the hotel's parking lot entrance. Husband exasperatedly pulled around her and parked. Emerging from our car, we watched the woman get out of her own and begin pushing it from behind. Husband sheepishly assisted her in moving it around the block to a parking space. We didn't figure she was broken down. In our impatience we often fail to imagine the possibilities, and practice forgiving.
The world won't stop for us and our troubles; the world won't always know or understand; in this way, the world propels us all forward.
But I'm thinking we're better served considering one another as fellow commuters, muddling through in our near-broken-down autos, driving to the hospital to visit Grandma, who's still in critical condition but getting better everyday. We don't have to know to understand.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Eight is Great
Dear Muggy Moo,
Yesterday you marveled, "sometimes I think that I am only dreaming myself and this life. But then I remember you have to be real to dream, so I think I really am alive."
You are eight today, and about to enter third grade, the grade they tell me marks the loss of innocence. The grade they tell me when "kids change." I squint my eyes and hunch my shoulders and flinch at the possibility that fairies and magic and wonder and pigtails will be abandoned at the side of the road of your growth and evolution. Yet, because you're you, and always will be (part of being you is your trueness to yourself), I believe in your enduring sense of enchantment with the world.
You're our "game" girl, up for almost anything: hiking, bike rides, sailing your own sabot, cooking, gardening, researching, exploring. You'll balk at the beach with its pesky sand, but at the end of the day you beg to go back. Your curiosity is among your most gratifying qualities. We had to pull you away from exhibits at the science museum yesterday; you introduced us to plant species you recognized during a hike in the desert last month. This summer you learned to dive, weave a lanyard, swim backstroke, play piano, Google, hold your breath (sometimes) before barking at your sister, scramble eggs, and catch and throw a ball with a lacrosse stick.
We love you for your loyalty to friends and family--you seem to enjoy nothing more than being with your grandparents, cousins, aunties and uncles. You show them how important they are to you. You are forgiving and generous with the benefit of the doubt; we hope you sustain your reluctance to disparage people (besides, ahem, your little sister). No one can make you laugh (or fume) like your Little Sis. But lately you've been reading books with her aloud at night, snuggling and giggling and sleeping under the star lights together.
For everything you share out loud, you keep a lot inside, craving time to yourself to read, draw, and play with your dolls and animals. You enjoy making tea in the morning. You won't wear a skirt or dress without leggings. You love soup, mangoes, soft bread, pickles, and tomatoes from the garden.
If someone asks, you say you want to be an artist someday. You already are, our little birthday girl. Dance on, sweet dreamer.
Yesterday you marveled, "sometimes I think that I am only dreaming myself and this life. But then I remember you have to be real to dream, so I think I really am alive."
You are eight today, and about to enter third grade, the grade they tell me marks the loss of innocence. The grade they tell me when "kids change." I squint my eyes and hunch my shoulders and flinch at the possibility that fairies and magic and wonder and pigtails will be abandoned at the side of the road of your growth and evolution. Yet, because you're you, and always will be (part of being you is your trueness to yourself), I believe in your enduring sense of enchantment with the world.
You're our "game" girl, up for almost anything: hiking, bike rides, sailing your own sabot, cooking, gardening, researching, exploring. You'll balk at the beach with its pesky sand, but at the end of the day you beg to go back. Your curiosity is among your most gratifying qualities. We had to pull you away from exhibits at the science museum yesterday; you introduced us to plant species you recognized during a hike in the desert last month. This summer you learned to dive, weave a lanyard, swim backstroke, play piano, Google, hold your breath (sometimes) before barking at your sister, scramble eggs, and catch and throw a ball with a lacrosse stick.
We love you for your loyalty to friends and family--you seem to enjoy nothing more than being with your grandparents, cousins, aunties and uncles. You show them how important they are to you. You are forgiving and generous with the benefit of the doubt; we hope you sustain your reluctance to disparage people (besides, ahem, your little sister). No one can make you laugh (or fume) like your Little Sis. But lately you've been reading books with her aloud at night, snuggling and giggling and sleeping under the star lights together.
For everything you share out loud, you keep a lot inside, craving time to yourself to read, draw, and play with your dolls and animals. You enjoy making tea in the morning. You won't wear a skirt or dress without leggings. You love soup, mangoes, soft bread, pickles, and tomatoes from the garden.
If someone asks, you say you want to be an artist someday. You already are, our little birthday girl. Dance on, sweet dreamer.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Facebook Followers
What's on your mind?
Just because I don't copy and paste or repost status updates doesn't mean I don't love my mother, breast cancer research, our troops, gay marriage, children with special needs, my beautiful daughters, my friends, the USA, my husband, the earth, baby seals, or you. I love recycling but not as it relates to posts. Let's see who truly reads my status. If you comment, you MUST post an original, authentic sentiment as your own status. Don't spoil the fun! 93% of you will ignore this and do your own thing. Are you brave enough to be in the 7% that follows instructions?
Just because I don't copy and paste or repost status updates doesn't mean I don't love my mother, breast cancer research, our troops, gay marriage, children with special needs, my beautiful daughters, my friends, the USA, my husband, the earth, baby seals, or you. I love recycling but not as it relates to posts. Let's see who truly reads my status. If you comment, you MUST post an original, authentic sentiment as your own status. Don't spoil the fun! 93% of you will ignore this and do your own thing. Are you brave enough to be in the 7% that follows instructions?
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
List: Bookstores I Have Loved
Jon Stewart did a segment on the closing of bookstore chain Borders' retail outlets last night on The Daily Show. It was funny, of course, but more like a satirized memorial to an endangered species. Once vilified, even the mega-bookstores aren't immune to consumers' shifting focus to electronic media. And while I am increasingly "guilty" of downloading books to read on my iPad, I can't imagine a world without bookstores. Feeling bummed about the closing of our nearby Borders, where the girls and I often went for afternoon field trips of perusing books and selecting birthday gifts, I thought about the bookstores that have been there for me through my various stages of development.
1. Perkins Bookworm: The bookstore in my hometown growing up. We could bike there and grab Baskin Robbins on the way home. Perkins also sold tapes and records, but the kicker? The bookstore was a Ticketmaster outlet, making it the site of my first concert ticket purchase, for a UB40 show.
2. Upstart Crow: The bookstore "across the bridge" that my best friends and I frequented in high school. With a cafe and tables in sweet nooks scattered around the shop, it was a great hangout for chatting, conspiring, and journal writing.
3. Atticus: The bookstore/cafe in my college town that I loved so much I thought I wanted to work there. After a few months of 4 PM-to-midnight shifts on Fridays my freshman year, I reclaimed my social life. Lesson learned: don't ruin a favorite haunt by working there.
4. Kramerbooks & Afterwords: The iconic Washington, D.C. bookstore in Dupont Circle was a mile-walk from my house and convenient stop on the way home from a night out. Who can't like a bookstore that serves beer? If Kramer's ever closes, it will mean the world is ending.
5. UCSD Bookstore: A huge store with awesome school and office supplies and an amazing selection of books. My favorite bookstore for poetry volumes. College bookstores feature arcane academic works, too...fun to browse.
6. Bay Books: My local bookstore, where I order our book club selections and they sell them at a discount. Where my former students work. For a relatively small store, it boasts an impressive magazine selection. Staff recommendation cards there have led me to some terrific reads.
7. Yellow Book Road: A perfect name for a perfect children's book store. Authors hold workshops for children, and the shop offers summer literacy camps.
8. Used Bookstores: My favorite places to peek when I am traveling; I relied on one to keep me busy reading in Florence when I studied abroad in college. Used bookstores have rare treasures and represent the culture of their environs. I chuckled as I watched the clerk at a shop in Half Moon Bay this summer transcribe the titles of each book I purchased into a black-and-white marbled composition book. Time stands still in used bookstores.
9. Borders: I know it's a major chain store, but I will sorely miss our local Borders Books. The franchise connected with the community, holding kids' poetry readings and hosting local musicians. I loved the music section, with a wide variety of CDs to sample through headphones.
Ultimately, bookstores support libraries and communities of reading, and I predict individuals will have a more narrow exposure to new works available without them, as our electronic media preselects readings based on our interests. Bookstores' book displays and groupings entice us into new worlds in a way online browsing never will. We do judge books by their covers, and jackets, and heft. Bookstores gave us permission to sample and fondle the goods.
I don't think there's any other kind of retail experience more satisfying.
1. Perkins Bookworm: The bookstore in my hometown growing up. We could bike there and grab Baskin Robbins on the way home. Perkins also sold tapes and records, but the kicker? The bookstore was a Ticketmaster outlet, making it the site of my first concert ticket purchase, for a UB40 show.
2. Upstart Crow: The bookstore "across the bridge" that my best friends and I frequented in high school. With a cafe and tables in sweet nooks scattered around the shop, it was a great hangout for chatting, conspiring, and journal writing.
3. Atticus: The bookstore/cafe in my college town that I loved so much I thought I wanted to work there. After a few months of 4 PM-to-midnight shifts on Fridays my freshman year, I reclaimed my social life. Lesson learned: don't ruin a favorite haunt by working there.
4. Kramerbooks & Afterwords: The iconic Washington, D.C. bookstore in Dupont Circle was a mile-walk from my house and convenient stop on the way home from a night out. Who can't like a bookstore that serves beer? If Kramer's ever closes, it will mean the world is ending.
5. UCSD Bookstore: A huge store with awesome school and office supplies and an amazing selection of books. My favorite bookstore for poetry volumes. College bookstores feature arcane academic works, too...fun to browse.
6. Bay Books: My local bookstore, where I order our book club selections and they sell them at a discount. Where my former students work. For a relatively small store, it boasts an impressive magazine selection. Staff recommendation cards there have led me to some terrific reads.
7. Yellow Book Road: A perfect name for a perfect children's book store. Authors hold workshops for children, and the shop offers summer literacy camps.
8. Used Bookstores: My favorite places to peek when I am traveling; I relied on one to keep me busy reading in Florence when I studied abroad in college. Used bookstores have rare treasures and represent the culture of their environs. I chuckled as I watched the clerk at a shop in Half Moon Bay this summer transcribe the titles of each book I purchased into a black-and-white marbled composition book. Time stands still in used bookstores.
9. Borders: I know it's a major chain store, but I will sorely miss our local Borders Books. The franchise connected with the community, holding kids' poetry readings and hosting local musicians. I loved the music section, with a wide variety of CDs to sample through headphones.
Ultimately, bookstores support libraries and communities of reading, and I predict individuals will have a more narrow exposure to new works available without them, as our electronic media preselects readings based on our interests. Bookstores' book displays and groupings entice us into new worlds in a way online browsing never will. We do judge books by their covers, and jackets, and heft. Bookstores gave us permission to sample and fondle the goods.
I don't think there's any other kind of retail experience more satisfying.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
On Belay
The last time I was strapped into a harness, I cried. I had spent three years teaching in Washington, D.C., and had returned to my hometown from a year in Kenya. I scored a new job at my own middle school and the staff development "bonding" activity was at a ropes course. Adventurous Me was up for anything. Afraid of Falling Me was excited to conquer her fears. Meeting New Colleagues Me wanted the impression I made on others to be Fun Team Player.
But wasn't long before I would be lowered face down into the wood chips below, trembling and simultaneously sobbing and laughing after freaking out on the Team Tightrope Walk. I was never so happy to be lying on the ground, where I remained limp for a good five minutes, kissing the dirt and recovering from one of the greatest frights of my life.
A manufactured fright, with no real danger, mind you. No amount of that awareness, Mind Over Matter, or desire to not make a fool of myself was making it better, however. Turns out I am pretty good at freaking myself out, and an expert at it when there's a potential to fall down.
I am famously reluctant to stand on chairs or ladders, walk down stairs without clutching a railing, or climb over fences. The latter presented real challenges in college, when our freshman quad was locked up at midnight, leaving early-morning revelers to scale the scarily spiky Gothic wrought-iron gates. I required a team of supporters, boosters, and spotters to make it safely over, and perhaps the assistance of the residual effects of the reasons I hadn't made it back to campus on time in the first place.
Then there was the time more recently when I went running a little too close to a rocky border on a paved path. I fell down and skinned my knees and hands. About a month later I ran the same route, and approaching the spot of my recent fall, I thought to myself, Hey, that's where I fell down! And then I tripped and fell down. Again.
I sort of come by my fear of falling honestly, though I know that it is often my anxiety which precipitates shaky legs and bad balance. And I try mightily not to project my fears on my daughters. Last weekend while camping, though, I had a minor Freak Out when the girls were climbing rocks too close to a scary ledge.
You can imagine my surprise that I scaled a rock-climbing wall on Friday night. It wasn't technically difficult, but it was tall. I didn't freeze and I didn't lose it. I think it had a lot to do being strapped into that harness and feeling the reassuring tugs of my belayer. If I let go, I wouldn't really fall. I trusted that and him implicitly.
I trust myself in the real world less.
So while I am excited to go rock climbing again, I retain my fear of falling. The real world doesn't reassure us with an encouraging "Climb on!" and there are no padded floors and tight knots and safety harnesses. When we take risks, we often fall down, and it hurts. And some risks aren't worth it.
At the climbing gym, we watched a woman practice deliberately not clipping in her harness at the top of the wall, and letting herself fall. She screamed the first few times.
I suppose this is what we do with our kids--gradually loosen our reins and challenge them to take the safer risks, while talking them away from the scary ledges. Avoid freaking them out with our own phobias.
And hope they'll keep letting us know when they're "climbing!"
Then there was the time more recently when I went running a little too close to a rocky border on a paved path. I fell down and skinned my knees and hands. About a month later I ran the same route, and approaching the spot of my recent fall, I thought to myself, Hey, that's where I fell down! And then I tripped and fell down. Again.
I sort of come by my fear of falling honestly, though I know that it is often my anxiety which precipitates shaky legs and bad balance. And I try mightily not to project my fears on my daughters. Last weekend while camping, though, I had a minor Freak Out when the girls were climbing rocks too close to a scary ledge.
You can imagine my surprise that I scaled a rock-climbing wall on Friday night. It wasn't technically difficult, but it was tall. I didn't freeze and I didn't lose it. I think it had a lot to do being strapped into that harness and feeling the reassuring tugs of my belayer. If I let go, I wouldn't really fall. I trusted that and him implicitly.
I trust myself in the real world less.
So while I am excited to go rock climbing again, I retain my fear of falling. The real world doesn't reassure us with an encouraging "Climb on!" and there are no padded floors and tight knots and safety harnesses. When we take risks, we often fall down, and it hurts. And some risks aren't worth it.
At the climbing gym, we watched a woman practice deliberately not clipping in her harness at the top of the wall, and letting herself fall. She screamed the first few times.
I suppose this is what we do with our kids--gradually loosen our reins and challenge them to take the safer risks, while talking them away from the scary ledges. Avoid freaking them out with our own phobias.
And hope they'll keep letting us know when they're "climbing!"
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