If we are going to ask for our daily bread, we’ve got to take the time to receive it and eat it. God provides, but we’ve got to slow down long enough to taste and see.Glennon Doyle
I’ve got three drink vessels lined up on my windowsill to the left of my favorite 60’s green floral rocking armchair. The vessels spell out my Saturday. Coffee. Water. Margarita.
Once, when talking about my ideas for a book, a delightful soul (who shall remain anonymous) smiled and said that I should name it, “Somewhere Between a Margarita and a Midlife Crisis.” That title seems just about right for 2020.
But I digress. . .
I haven’t written for awhile here. I’ve been percolating. Putting up words in notebooks. Wondering on paper, not landing. Soaking up new information, not sure where to place it all.
Growing up, my dad used to say, “Slow down, Ev,” as I would zoom off in my first-car-gold Chevy Beretta, buckling my seat belt on the way up our country driveway.
I wrecked that car.
I still need to slow down–but I’m moving slower these quarantine months. When we boil down a big pot of garden tomatoes, or balsamic vinegar, the reduction is strong–more itself–undiluted.
I’m feel boiled down, more Evi than I’ve been before.
Loving a first sip of this margarita. Loving the new Taylor Swift album that I’m playing for the millionth time–sensing that strangely, while 2020 waves swirl around me, I’m anchored.
Reducing back to myself.
Back to the Good Stuff.
A small-town librarian.
A teacher of writing.
A lover of notebooks and Mexican food and licorice.
Thankful for a friend who asked if I’d lead yoga in the park–something I’ve never done. She thinks I can.
So I’ll try.
And embrace the idea that yoga is less about getting your body into the perfect pose, and more about how it feels to be in your body, more about slowing down thoughts, to yoke ourselves to some Deep Goodness and remember.
My mom says that writing saves my life; yoga has saved my body.
A body that I’ve–in ways big and small–wanted to escape sometimes.
To have doctors use words like “malformed” while looking at X-Rays of you.
I teach word parts to high school students, Doc. “Mal” = bad. Wrong. Off.
These hips that started hurting years ago after a run with friends before a California wedding reception.
So I’ve seen chiropractors. . .
and physical therapists. . .
and everyone except an orthopedist.
Because kids with scoliosis hate orthopedists. Even positive kids who write blogs about gratitude.
But this Covid time, this slower time, finally got me to into an orthopedist’s office–breathing fast like a 12-year-old getting fitted for a back brace–to talk to a doctor who is going to help. And while I’m getting a second opinion and moving slow, I’m finding out what’s wrong, even when the answers aren’t what I want.
And for that, I’m petulant-thankful.
Like so many things in 2020, I would just like to escape this. But sometimes the hard is the first step toward what’s next. And while this part of this post might seem cryptic, the truth is I’m not sure what’s next. . . surgery maybe. We’ll see.
Because I’m moving forward.
Three vessels on my windowsill. . .
Still here writing.
Still thankful. . . in 2020.
Gratitude Dare. . . make a list of 20 things that make you thankful with your favorite drink vessel sitting to the side.