isn't it romantic

I have done something I try to avoid at all costs: come to Pennsylvania in February.

Last month my sister got married in Mexico. Little Gen and I boarded a plane to the pacific coast, joining my parents to witness the union. At the ripe old age of thirty-three, I can say I've seen my share of weddings and finding an invitation in the mail is not the excitement it once was; but the beach ceremony of the very first sister to take the leap really was beautiful. The waves crashed against the sand behind the linen arbor where they promised to be faithful forever.

And now, here on the east coast for a family reception, I'm finding the snow storm outside the window a rival beauty, though in a much different category.

Home-bound at my parents' townhouse, I'm wishing for Keeper the dog who would love to go bounding through the drifts, the snow putting an extra spring in her step. I'll have to settle for watching neighbors with pooches and sleds making tracks down the hill.

I also wish the migraine that settled in last night would move out of the right side of my skull where it's taken up residence. And while we're at it, I wish for a warm fire, a down blanket, and someone to share a glass of wine. But I'll have to settle for a gas stove and a couple honeymooners currently sleeping on an air mattress in the basement.

Tomorrow is the day of St. Valentine, a martyr and patron saint of happy marriages. Coincidence?

My little middle sister is married. How is it she's managed to cross over into a dimension that remains a mystery to me? But in a way it seems very ordinary, like having babies and dying. And our new brother fits into the family like a perfect gentleman. He's already assisted my parents in removing all of their furniture from the house to make room for the reception, and then back into the house again after it was over. The fact that's he's Mexican and doing all the heavy lifting has not failed to strike us as politically incorrect and hilarious. As I type, he is shoveling snow off the driveway.

I guess sometimes romance is a snowflake falling onto your eyelash, and sometimes it's throwing your back out with a shovel. It's all part of the same storm.

My Mexican brother just came up from the basement to give me a square of dark chocolate before settling in for an afternoon of writing thank yous.

"Yes, I'll be your valentine!"

OneArmGirl

a brief meditation

It's been a good couple of days for writing and, as it turns out, for sweeping snow off my car. It's no polar vortex, mind you, but here at the bottom of the Rockies, a snowstorm comes as beautiful relief from the monotonous sunny days.

I decided to paint my bedroom. And then I liked it so much, I decided to paint the living room. The color certainly brought warmth to the room, though had I known it would be more bubble gum pink than salmon, I might have put more thought into my color scheme. At least the yellow stained sofa is no longer the most eye-catching aspect.

Painting two rooms with one arm and a hand roller reminds me that I'm still an over-achiever. In the beginning I thought nothing of it, but by the end of day two, my Michelangelo-like aspirations disappeared beneath the epsom salt water of a hot bath.

Then, on Monday, I found myself in a particularly difficult position, aerially speaking, which required me to slide down the fabric, gripping it between my lower arm and bicep. The result was the loss of some skin and a nice rug burn on the inside of my elbow. I learned this about myself: I would rather suffer 2nd degree burns than ask for help.

I am trying to be better to myself. I'm eating salads nearly every day, praying more, and forcing myself to journal. I'm reading a book by Kathleen Norris called Cloister Walk in which she says that in a monastic community "prayer rolls on, as daily as marriage and washing dishes."

I like to think of prayer like that; mostly not lofty or high brow, but sometimes just like getting that last bit of spaghetti sauce off a plate, or painting a wall.

Or something a little less hard on the arm.

OneArmGirl 

working it out

Well, I've had a week to sit around sulking about my limitations. But I have a low tolerance for self-pity, in myself or anyone else, so on my first day home, I went to the gym.

Not one to be accused of being a gym rat, I felt like a bumbling novice trying to figure out how one steps onto the stair stepper and then for the next five minutes (yes, that's as long as I lasted) being fully convinced that I was stepping backward.

Then after making several rounds through the weight machines, studying the multi-step visual directions complete with figures of highlighted muscle groups, I decided to ask for help.

Rey, the gentlemanly man in charge, had some spare time, so he agreed to take me on, though I had the distinct impression that he was doing me a great favor. 

I followed Rey from machine to machine as he explained the mechanics, then took notes on weight settings. Suffice it to say, nothing passed 30 lbs., so there's room for endless improvement. 

Obviously safety was of utmost importance to Rey as he consistently warned me not to do too much and hovered about in case I lost my balance. He seemed very concerned about my balance. I tried to stay within his expectations, but I couldn't help showing off just a bit. I refrained from showing him pictures of my aerial endeavors. 

He must have been impressed, though, because he shared with me that he was a polio survivor and had achieved remarkable strength in his legs, though they remained stick thin. He also had a spinal deformity which causes him daily pain.

"I just learned to live with it," he said.

'Just learn to live with it' is a phrase I've come to loathe, especially when someone else pronounces it over my life. 'You just learn to live with it!' I find myself wanting to snap, 'I have bigger plans.'

And I do. But truthfully isn't that what we're all doing every day? Learning to live with it, whatever it is? Primarily, it is being human, constricted to a body and a reality that never seems to be enough.

I guess instead of learning to want less and be satisfied with enough, I'm really just learning to live with my own expectations, no matter how irrational they might be. They are haughty and elitist much of the time, but they are also genuinely desiring to inspire and make a difference. I'd rather learn to be friends with my expectations than enemies.

Last night at aerial rehearsal, I pushed myself too hard, as usual. But I also spent considerable time sitting on the safety pads, watching the achievements of my companions and trying not to entertain envy or frustration.

I'm just learning to work it out.

OneArmGirl

getting up

In California last week, I was able to stop in and see some old friends.

I hadn't seen my first vaulting coach and fellow single-armed friend Rick, and wife Virginia, in seven years. Of course, Rick got me back on the horse as soon as possible.

Shoulder stand on the barrel

It's been a while since I've vaulted with any regularity, but I was happy to attend a morning adult class with several other women the day after I arrived. There was plenty of stretching and chatting, and I felt at ease among peers. I even attempted a cartwheel on the barrel (with plenty of spotting) and only a minor strained muscle. 

But come the afternoon kids' class, fatigue was setting in. I felt the old nemesis of a compromised immune system pushing me up against the wall, and I knew I should call it a day. I stayed outside, thinking I'd just watch the kids do their thing. But sitting cross-legged on the barrel, my frustration grew as I watched the thoughtless youthful expenditure of energy. 

"Are you going to get up there?" one of the dads asked encouragingly. He didn't know me, but his eyes told me he wanted to see something impressive.

And I knew I could do it…in my mind, conceptually, I had it together. Even my muscles know what to do. Whatever skill doesn't come naturally, I have the drive to hone. But it is all for naught, I thought, with growing desperation, because the more I push, the more I suffer. Why do I even try?

Heading for cover inside, I felt tears welling up, threatening to run down my cheeks.

Still teary-eyed, I sat with Rick watching television after class. I didn't want to cry, but I wanted him to know I was upset. It didn't take much coaxing.

"I just get so frustrated sometimes. I have all this ability, but it doesn't matter…"

"I know," he said stretching his one over-used shoulder, "believe me, I know… But we're not here for ourselves, we're here to help as many people as we can."

I didn't care. Not one bit. And I was angry because I knew he was right. What makes me special?

We decided to go see Lone Survivor. I was still angry in the car ride over. As the story of US Navy Seals doomed to fight odds quickly turning against them unfolded, I felt a kinship with these men of exceptional determination. I, too, want to fight with everything in me, or die trying, viciously satisfied.

Yet, for all their skill and dreams, these soldiers were still in the service of someone else's mission, bound by duty to something outside their control. In one powerful moment, the leader leaves cover to make a call for help, knowing it will mean his own certain death. Reaching an exposed rock, the mobile phone to his ear, he begins to explain the dire situation when he is riddled with enemy bullets. His body slumps, the phone dropping to the ground, but he has accomplished his mission.

I felt the tears coming again. But I also felt relief. The pain remained, but the loneliness was gone.

OneArmGirl  

post christmas

It’s nice to have a new year, a new start, even if it’s really just a turn of the calendar; even if it’s only starting over somewhere old and familiar.

Grand Canyon gazing

Little Gen was waiting for me right where I’d left her. She had the apartment clean, Christmasy, and smelling like tacos. The traditional Christmas dead tree branch was hung with lights in the window. 

I made my pilgrimage to the Rio Grande river for sand to fill my farolito bags (a New Mexican tradition of weighting candlelit paper bags to light the way to the Christ Child.) My Jewish friend Nomi dutifully folded the edges of nearly fifty paper lunch bags in preparation. That’s a true friend.

Farolitos in place, we were on our way to the Old Town festival of lights and live nativity. I celebrated my one year anniversary of knowing the Franciscan Friars of Don Juan Diego Friary by surprising Brother Max with a big bear hug. Then we were almost recruited into the live nativity, but were saved at the last second by a group of children.

So it's been strangely normal coming home. And definitely too soon to be on the road again, but here I am.

After a brief layover, Nomi and I have gone to California, thus completing our east to west coast sojourn. Every time I come to California from some other part of the country (which isn't often) I feel suddenly angry. It's something to do with the warm, moist air, the sunshine, and happy people everywhere. It's just not fair that one state is hogging all the goodness of a temperate climate. 

The air here revives me, so I'll soak it up as long as I can. I spent this last weekend in some horse country east of Santa Barbara, once again asking myself why I live in a desert with no ocean. 

Today I'm back with some old friends of vaulting, the very ones who introduced me to this great sport. Yesterday I was privileged to catch up with some riders who have made great strides in their abilities; one woman who was barely able to sit up on the horse is now up on all fours performing the flag with one arm and one leg raised; and a young man who doctors said would never walk is now standing on the back of a horse.

It's this kind of evidence that keeps me coming back. And it keeps me moving forward.

Off to another ordinary day of miracles…

OneArmGirl 

i'll be home...

Turns out, miles and miles on interstate highways are not all that conducive to writing. In fact, I now believe the genius of Jack Kerouac is not what he wrote, but that he made the time to write at all.

Otherwise, our cross country pilgrimage has gone rather well. We've visited various holy sites such as Stake N' Shake and a museum with Evel Knievel's X-rays. Spoiler alert, the man broke a lot of bones.

But the high point came with an unexpected detour in Carthage Missouri to a place unceremoniously called Red Oak II.

"Oh, you really should go if you have time," our rosy motel hostess said.

"What is it, exactly?" I asked, unconvinced.

She couldn't really say, only that it was some kind of model old town and that you just had to see it to understand. And I'm not sure why, but I decided to take the bait.

I'm so glad I did. Red Oak II is indeed a collection of 20s era buildings re-created into a small town of a bygone era. The man behind the imagination is Lowell Davis, a painter and general renaissance artist most famous for his farm life depictions. The little town is complete with church, jailhouse, and general store, but as a painter might dream it, in an array of vibrant colors.

Mr. Davis himself came out to greet us when Keeper the dog got the attention of the town pack. He then offered a tour of his personal dwelling and painting room, even humoring me for a photo on his porch which couldn't have been more story-like if I'd written it; the dog and cat posing like seasoned models for portraiture.

It was a beautifully warm day for December, and we were the only people in the town, aside from the few locals who make their home there. Scattered about the grounds, we found rusting automobiles and a small plane. It was quite the collection of junk, really, but arranged so thoughtfully, it left me feeling I'd stepped into a life-size doll town.

The visit to Red Oak II more than made up for other disappointments of off season closures and one very unfortunate gas station dog-poo-stepping incident. I don't want to talk about it.

It just goes to show, some of the best and worst things in life are those you stumble into...

It's good to be home. A very Merry Christmas to you and yours,

OneArmGirl

alpaca kissing

Ever since leaving my busy fall schedule (which I was more than happy to do), I feel like I've fallen into an activity vacuum. One week, I was teaching eight riding lessons, and the next I was laying on my parents' couch thinking about whether I had enough energy to stand up and get the nail polish remover. These kind of abrupt schedule changes just aren't healthy.

I was full speed ahead and then I just stopped. Now I'm having trouble rebooting. If I don't even have to make my own breakfast, how am I expected to be productive the rest of the day?

I'm seriously starting to think my parents' house is some sort of land-locked Bermuda Triangle where no one would care if you wore the corresponding shorts all day, every day. 

What is it about this place, I asked myself recently, that makes time seem to stop except for the hourly reminder of the clock chimes, which only really serve to sooth me back into a nap. If there really are clock chimes--I might just be imagining them.

We've discussed road trips to local destinations like Washington DC, Gettysburg or Baltimore. But none have tempted us back to the road.

"Let's go see alpacas," Nomi suggested several days ago. Apparently she had discovered an attraction much closer to home.

It proved more difficult to actually find the alpaca farm, and mid-venture, we changed the plan and decided to go trail-riding instead. Thus began an extended jaunt through the Pennsylvania countryside, stopping intermittently to ask for directions along an unplanned trail riding treasure hunt, complete with old farmer missing teeth.

In the end, we never found the place we were looking for, but stumbled on another nice riding outfit along the way. How many times does this happen in life?

It was raining the day we actually visited the alpacas, who seemed largely unconcerned about muddying their silky coats for future scarfs and winter socks. They were keen, however, to take the treats we offered--but somewhat less keen to take them right out of our lips. Then one of them spit on Nomi's, leaving her face glittered with grass particles.

"Let's make alpacas the theme of our road trip," Nomi suggested.

"I don't think so," I said.

OneArmGirl