peter pan was onto something

When I asked six-year-old Maryanne what she wanted to be when she grew up, she said, "I want to be myself."

It struck me as the best answer I've ever heard to that question.

I spent yesterday night in my hometown with childhood friend Mañana Mama, who not long ago became mama for the third time. We spent a well-deserved evening (on her part, at least) catching up and drinking bourbon.

We play an old high school friend round of Do You Remember?; discuss love disguised as compromise; and mourn the lack of money (read: respect) in any of our preferred vocations.

And then I drift off to sleep atop a down comforter and beneath an adobe skylight. I decide, when I grow up, I want a skylight in my bedroom.

It was nice to get away. It seems to help one get a look into her life from the outside.

I must say, from the outside, things are looking pretty good these days. I'm about to start teaching riding lessons again, and get paid for it. I'm making connections in the horse community that may lead to any new adventure. 

I'm also preparing for the spring show with AirDance NM. I'm partnering with one of the two guys in the company for a piece. And even greater, he's actually excited about working with me-- Me, the girl that started learning aerial dance a mere year and a half ago. It's very nearly a dream come true.

Things are good.

But have I grown up to be myself?

When I was a wee girl, I wanted to be a mommy. Watching Maryanne and her little sister done fairytale pinks and purples for another day of spring break adventures, I think if we are to discover what befits us, we ought to look back to our childhood.

"I'm a gem-hunter," Maryanne declares brightly, finding what she deems special rocks in the gravel landscaping.

"A geologist," her mama corrects gently. But Maryanne is undeterred: "I'm a gem-hunter."

When we were children, Maryanne's mama and I embarked on various vocational explorations. When we realized we could make things from chicken feathers, rocks, and beads, we opened a handicraft business, even compiling a catalog to display our wares. 

Later, we started a (very) local periodical covering breaking neighborhood news and events, accidentally initiating adult forays into the world of journalism for both of us.

Sitting on sofas, scotch in hand, we both now agree we hate journalism. But she has badgered the editor of her small town rag into letting her have a column. And I, well, I'm still looking for an agent.

"Don't let the grumpy gate-keepers get you down," she calls after me when I leave the next morning.

-----------------

At aerial practice two company members discuss the origins of circus. One muses if joining the circus might once have been an alternative for women with limited career options.

"Teacher, nurse, or trapeze artist," I join, laughing at the sound of it.

But why not?

It seems we might do any number of things in a lifetime; but why waste any more time not being ourselves?

OneArmGirl

two mysteries revealed

It seems the mystery woman has been identified as Deborah Gardner of Spokane (Thank you reader, G.B.). Not only is she a lovely young woman, but from the brief research I've done (i.e. reading an email sent by a researching friend), she also has an encouraging story of adoption into a loving and supporting family.

Now on to the other mystery: the identity of the artist. This was kept under wraps not due to lack of information, but from lack of permission to reveal. But he has kindly granted me permission.

He is Duncan Sawyer of New Zealand, formally educated in physics and self-taught artist. 

Here is another taste of his work:

Sophia Hummel plays the violin

And…

I know that girl!

Mr. Sawyer paints on commission and you can find him on Facebook by name.

OneArmGirl

mystery woman

A week or so ago a reader emailed to ask if I might know the subject of one of his paintings…

I do not know who this woman is, but was struck by the twinkle of joy he captured in her eyes. I thought (with the artist's permission) I might post the picture of his painting here to see if any of you, my followers, know who she is. The artist has a sister who is a congenital amputee, and he has other similar portraits in his portfolio.

Just who is this beautiful mystery woman with the twinkly eyes? Now it's up to you to sleuth it out…

OneArmGirl

going the distance

I had a strong talking to with myself this week.

Since getting home, and actually staying home rather than jet setting somewhere else as I've lately been doing, I've been a little prone to loneliness and self pity.

Woe is me, I'm single again, I'm alone in the world…that sort of thing. Never mind that I've been 'alone' for all but a few years of my life when it comes to romance. I really ought to be a pro by now.

And getting back into aerial dance has been no picnic either. Planning to enact some great feat on the lira, I manage to get just one leg hooked over the hoop before gravity and my recently dormant muscles decide it's just not going to happen.

'I'm too old for this…I have one arm…and a compromised immune system,' I moan inwardly, 'what am I even doing here?'

I got an email this week from my little middle, recently married, sis, who felt compelled to tell me how I have inspired her and how she believes I inspire all sorts of people just by being who I am. I read the email sitting on my couch, where I'd previously been pondering how many people's lives would actually be affected if I were to check out early.

Now before I start getting a flush of emails expressing concern for my mental health, let me assure you, it's too late. That's the kind of morose hypothetical gymnastics I do for fun.

But I was glad to hear it. If you can get that sort of email from the person you had to share a bathroom with while growing up, you are blessed indeed.

Stretching out on the mat before practice, I try to look past the talented acrobats around me and remind myself that it's not about what I can do on the lira today, it's about showing up every week and trying again without quitting.

I was offered a job last week as a therapeutic riding instructor. It was exciting, of course, as that's essentially the one thing I was working toward all last fall. But it's taken some time to reflect on my journey to this point. Not so long ago, I didn't imagine I'd be doing anything equine-related, much less get paid as an instructor. Yet, here I was, standing amidst a group of people I'd just met, clapping their excitement for my presence.

Driving to aerial rehearsal last night, I reflected that one year ago, I would never have guessed I'd be a member of an aerial dance company now. I took a moment to let gratitude wash over me. It felt good.

As Anton Chekhov said, "Any idiot can face a crisis, it's day to day living that wears you out." Or, you might say it's the practice of waiting…for strength, for purpose, for love…that is so hard.

But I don't intend on being any idiot.

OneArmGirl

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