We took the boys fishing today at a local pond. Although the pond is a bit small and yucky, it’s a calm and lovely family pastime that we’ve come to enjoy. The boys love the catch and release and have learned how to cast quite beautifully. This morning, we watched as a father and son walked up with their fishing gear to set up nearby. They had gear much more impressive than ours—seemed to be taking their outing far more seriously than we, intending to actually keep the fish they were confident to catch, even though we have only ever been able to catch 3-inch fish from this pond.
We watched in wonder as they set up their lines, buckets and live bait (we were using bits of leftover pepperoni picked off from last night’s pizza). We thought for certain we would learn something from their expertise. Moments later the father threw a yellow bucket far into the water, meant for holding the live fish they were sure to soon catch when quickly he let out a yelp followed by a curse as he realized the bucket was not attached to anything on land. He and his son watched helplessly as the bucket slowly floated further away into the mucky water. The son encouraged his father to retrieve it before it went much further. So, out the father went, in his pants and flip flops—red faced and frustrated. As he stepped back onto shore—one broken flip flop dangling from his foot, we tried to act like we weren’t watching when he shot us an embarrassed glance.
A half hour passed as we cast our lines in unison next to this father and son, waiting for the fish to bite. As our boys pointed out a blue heron and ducks swimming nearby, we couldn’t help but overhear the father voicing his frustration at the fish in the water: “COME ON! Take it, already! Eat the damn thing! Bite it! Jesus!”
I suppose we did learn something about fishing from them, but it wasn’t anything about technique or gear. It was about finding joy in just being together- without agenda. Today I realized that fishing for us is not about the fish at all.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
at least someone didn't poop in your eye
When you’ve had a hard day, loved ones will often say- “things could always be worse”- the idea being to provide you with perspective on your challenges. Sure, you might’ve burned your hand while making breakfast, fallen down on your way to your car, run out of gas on your way to work, then locked your keys in the car, just to get to work and realize that it’s a Sunday, but, at least you didn’t break your leg, get hit by a truck, or get carjacked. Things could always be worse.
This morning, as I sat in my living room eating my breakfast, my cat Hazel leaped up to my lap seeking some attention. Hazel has an anal gland issue. This means that at very inopportune moments her anal glands express themselves in various unfortunate ways. At this particular moment, my dog Wilbur happened to be sitting next to me, also seeking attention, and the brunt of Hazel’s glandular expression landed squarely on his face. In his eyes to be precise. It’s difficult to describe in words the smell and texture of the oil that comes from Hazel. Needless to say it is gag-worthy.
This is one of those worsts that I think people refer to when they try to comfort you during bad days. “At least someone didn’t poop in your eye”. It’s a new low that I think will now always come to my mind when I’m having a bad day.
This morning, as I sat in my living room eating my breakfast, my cat Hazel leaped up to my lap seeking some attention. Hazel has an anal gland issue. This means that at very inopportune moments her anal glands express themselves in various unfortunate ways. At this particular moment, my dog Wilbur happened to be sitting next to me, also seeking attention, and the brunt of Hazel’s glandular expression landed squarely on his face. In his eyes to be precise. It’s difficult to describe in words the smell and texture of the oil that comes from Hazel. Needless to say it is gag-worthy.
This is one of those worsts that I think people refer to when they try to comfort you during bad days. “At least someone didn’t poop in your eye”. It’s a new low that I think will now always come to my mind when I’m having a bad day.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
earning texture
I don’t have eyes for shark teeth or four leaf clovers. Never found one of either in nearly 40 years. My 8-year old son can take four steps on the beach and find a shark’s tooth or a few steps in our front yard and find a four leaf clover. He has eyes for that sort of thing. We call him eagle eye Jack. My eyes seem more drawn to texture—to uneven shapes. To imperfection.
I passed a woman on the beach this morning—she showed me all the shark’s teeth she had found. Besides teeth, her hand was filled with shells she had discovered along the beach—all perfect in shape. No knicks or holes—and the colors were clean and bright—belying their true nature. I mean, shells, after all, are the discarded encasements of sea creatures. Inhabited and discarded again and again before tumbling around the ocean floor for years and then vomited onto the beach. So, to find a perfect shell is indeed remarkable, and this woman chose to remark, “Doesn’t it just look fake? I mean like I bought it from a store?”
I thought this was interesting as I’d just been thinking that the ocean is like nature’s gift shop—offering up shells each morning on the beach for us all to choose from. And we all have such different tastes- perhaps we are drawn to shells that have lessons within them- or that are reflections of us.
While her hands were full of brightly colored purple and pink perfectly shaped delicate shells, my bucket was full of oddly shaped deeply embedded coral with many holes—washed and worn out but absolutely solid in nature. I’m drawn to shells that I suspect have a story to tell—a long history that involves them earning their texture.
I passed a woman on the beach this morning—she showed me all the shark’s teeth she had found. Besides teeth, her hand was filled with shells she had discovered along the beach—all perfect in shape. No knicks or holes—and the colors were clean and bright—belying their true nature. I mean, shells, after all, are the discarded encasements of sea creatures. Inhabited and discarded again and again before tumbling around the ocean floor for years and then vomited onto the beach. So, to find a perfect shell is indeed remarkable, and this woman chose to remark, “Doesn’t it just look fake? I mean like I bought it from a store?”
I thought this was interesting as I’d just been thinking that the ocean is like nature’s gift shop—offering up shells each morning on the beach for us all to choose from. And we all have such different tastes- perhaps we are drawn to shells that have lessons within them- or that are reflections of us.
While her hands were full of brightly colored purple and pink perfectly shaped delicate shells, my bucket was full of oddly shaped deeply embedded coral with many holes—washed and worn out but absolutely solid in nature. I’m drawn to shells that I suspect have a story to tell—a long history that involves them earning their texture.
the quiet life
A blog. Me? I was writing to my sister and my mom about how I wanted to start doing something different during what has become the quiet life I’ve come to inhabit due to chronic pain caused by migraines. What to do when I'm in pain? Lie in bed, mostly. The tv in the background often provides distracting comfort. But I’ve come to think that passing the time more consciously might do me some good. Perhaps taking up a craft project- putting some markers and paper by the bed to create something that I could pick up and put down such that I could feel I was making progress toward an end. This might help me feel that the time is not so wasted- so lost. My sister and mom both responded in unison- that I should spend the time writing instead. They both enjoy my take on life- my dry humor and my reflections and processing on life. My mom shared that we all should remember that our particular ‘take’ on life can perhaps be a gift to others-and can provide lessons that can help others on their way. So, here goes.
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