Brunch

It tiptoes between breakfast and lunch, morning and afternoon.  It bends and twists into almost anything we ask it to be. 

It is lazy and slow, decadent and rich.

It is tomato quiche. It is baked french toast drizzled with maple syrup.  It is blackberries and blueberries and raspberries in a chipped ceramic bowl.  It is muffins and bagels and orange marmalade.  It is strong coffee in a carafe with as much sugar and cream as a Sunday morning can handle. 

It is a white linen tablecloth outside in the morning sun.   It is bare feet in the sand and a flapping faded sundress in the breeze.

It is a doughnut on a park bench after a stale and drunken Saturday night.

It is a chocolate croissant and a warm cup of English Breakfast.  It is an argyle scarf and the New York Times. 

It is a reservation for six.

It is a first date.  It is a last date.
 
It is a bubbly mimosa in a crystal flute. 

It is room service at noon at the Park Plaza.

It is blue jeans and hash browns at the neighborhood diner.

It is the perfect meal.

(even when I get up early to entertain 15 guests with it)

Blocked

You know when you sit down at your keyboard on a Tuesday afternoon and effortlessly type the words that are free flowing from your ever-creative brain?  Just you and your lap top.  No agenda.  No expectations.  No destination.  Just beautiful thoughts streaming real-time from your head through your hands and onto the flickering screen in front of you.  Magic. Muse.  Whatever.  It's there and that's all that matters.

But then. Then. When someone actually asks you to write something, it all goes terribly wrong.  Your brain turns to mush and suddenly you can't string two words together, let alone make your fingers work on the now-sticky keyboard.  The voice has vanished.  The magic is gone.  You feel like a fraud.

Why is that?

 

Sitting Still

The room is silent.  The beautiful Berkshire mountains are laid out in front of me. The people around me are reading self-help books or catching a few afternoon Zs.  And me?  I am still glistening, in a sweaty kind of way, from noontime vinyasa.

I'm back at Kripalu.  This time by myself (and on their dime! for a photo shoot! this blogging gig does have its unexpected benefits). 

Have you ever gone away by yourself?  In the planning stages, it sounds like a brilliant escape: forty-eight glorious hours by yourself! To do what you want! Alone!  Realistically, it feels not quite right.  It feels like choking down a scoop of self-indulgence seasoned with a sprinkling of guilt.  I have that pit-in-my-stomach feeling that I should be somewhere else.  Do you know that feeling?  That feeling when you call out sick to work or when you play hooky from whatever it is you are supposed to be doing?  It seems like a good idea at the time, but then you end up spending the entire day not quite able to bask in the freedom from responsibility because you know you aren't where you are supposed to be.  That's about where I am right now.

I don't know why, exactly, I am denying myself this gift of time away, of stillness, of peace and quiet.  But I am.  Instead of rejoicing in aloneness, I am wondering if the kids are squabbling at home. I am worrying that The Third Grader will not want to go to soccer camp in the morning. I am thinking about the dirty kitchen floor, the sofa cushion the dog chewed (can I repair it?), and the empty refrigerator I will return home to.

Is it a mother thing?  I don't think so, actually. I know plenty of mothers who are fully capable of stealing away for hours, even days, while leaving thoughts of domestic worries safely at home on their pillowcases.

I guess it's me.  I'm here and I want to be there.  I'm there and I want to be here.   

Today, right now at this moment, I am here.  I am sitting quietly in this solarium on the fourth floor of this converted old seminary, scribbling down these thoughts that are inside my head, and trying to enjoy and appreciate this time away.

And (I think) I am. 

You Never Can Tell

Back when we were young, hip city dwellers, my husband and I were riding the subway home late one night.  It was a sub-zero wintry kind of Boston night and we took our seats quickly, happy to be out of the cold, and into the warm subway car.

It was only after I uncoiled my scarf from around my neck did I notice the man sitting across from us. He was  maybe in his late 20s, and was wearing a black leather jacket, black jeans and biker boots.  His nose was adorned with a small gold hoop, his lip with a single gold stud, and tattoos were creeping out of his t shirt and towards his neck.  His jet black hair was spiked into a loose version of a mohawk.

He glanced over at us and smiled.

But all I could focus on was the 'click click click' of his knitting needles, and the skein of yarn peeking out of his messenger bag. 

Yes, scary biker man on the train at midnight was a knitter.  And a pretty good one from the looks of the wool hat he was knitting and purling away on.

You never can tell.


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We took the boys to their first major league baseball game last weekend.  It was on The List, so we pretty much had to.  The moment of watching an eight year old boy walk into the iconic Fenway Park for the first time is unforgettable. I know he will remember it, all of it: the famous ball field in front of him, the crowd calling for Kevin Youkilis, the popcorn and soda and soft pretzels. Pure, unfiltered magic in the eyes of an impressionable third grade baseball fan.

But all I could focus on was the chatter of the two guys sitting behind us.

They were maybe in their early 30s, speaking in heavy south Boston tongue (think Good Will Hunting for those of you not familiar with the southie accent).  They pounded a few beers in the first few innings and then sat back and spent the rest of the game talking...about their kids.

Oh, their wives would have been proud.

Guy #1 :  So, is yours, like, sleeping through the night?
Guy #2:   Nah, mine's a real pissah (honest to God, he said this), he's up a couple of times most nights.
Guy #1 :  Huh. Yeah, mine, too.  I'm exhausted, man.  It's just...I just want a few hours to myself.  Once a week, is that too much to ask?  

Guy #1: So, how about baths? Do you give yours a bath?  We put him in the kitchen sink.  It's, like, holy shit, he fits!
Guy #2: Yeah, we have this plastic rubber thing we put him.  It's got this big sponge thing on it.  Man, what a pain that is.
Guy #1:  Yeah.  Hey, they're slippery when they're wet, huh?  (I'm assuming he meant the baby here) 

Guy #1: So, what about, you know, bedtimes?  When do you put yours to bed?
Guy #2: Oh, Gawd, anywhere between 8 and 11.  I know we should have, like, a routine thing, but, you know, he's not always tired every night.
Guy #1:  You know what, man?  There's no right or wrong.  It's just, like, whatever works for you guys.

Yes, Budweiser drinking baseball guys at Fenway were devoted fathers and husbands, and more interested in baby-talking than Red Sox-watching. 

Honest to God, you never can tell.