In Which a Workout Video Kicked Our Butts

Hey!  What are you up to at around 5?

I opened my phone and read the text.  I set down the Moon Sand I had bought for work (yes...you read that right) and typed back my response.

idk...i was thinking about doing a workout video but it can wait.  why? whats up?

I silently hoped Mary would want to do something.  I have to honest here: I had done the workout video the day before and was struggling to move like a normal human being.  I was looking for any excuse to avoid it today.

I wouldn't be so lucky.

Im babysitting and dont want to drive all the way home before log.  *Note: "LOG" is a youth group both Mary and I are involved with, and there is a planning meeting every week.* Ill do the video too!!

My heart dropped a bit.  Sounds good, I wrote.  We continued texting a bit, just talking about workout videos and the like, and then I went to see a client and Mary went back to babysitting.  I got home at about 4:45 and changed into workout clothes, still holding onto a thin hope that maybe, just maybe, Mary would want to do something other than the video. 

5:00 rolled around and I checked to make sure the DVD was in the player.  5:05 came.  I filled a glass with water, remembering the previous day.  5:07 came and I texted Mary.  Are you going to be here soon or should i go ahead and start without you?

Go ahead!  I'll be there soon!

My last hope was gone.  I sighed and turned on the DVD.  "Alright," I muttered to myself as I took a deep breath and tried to get my aching muscles to move.  "I'll do it." 

I was 12 or so minuted into the video when Mary walked in.  "Oh, thank God!" I stopped following the DVD and paused it.  Mary laughed. 

"Tough workout?"  She sat on the couch. 

"Come on!" I said.  She groaned.  "Mary, come on.  You said."  Now that I was in the workout I needed to finish it. 

"I don't know if I want to do it."  She shook her head. 

"Well I don't want to workout with someone just watching me do it."

"Alright!"  Mary got off the couch and stood next to me.  "Let's do this." 

We worked out side-by-side in silence for about 30 seconds, when Mary asked, "Wait, is that supposed to be Carmen Electra?"

"That is Carmen Electra.  And that guy is her trainer."

Just then the trainer said, "If you're doing this right it's going to be difficult to talk.  Well, if you're doing it wrong sometimes it's still difficult to talk."

"Did you hear that?" I breathlessly asked Mary.  We looked at each other and busted up laughing. 

The trainer changed exercises.  We were on our backs doing hip raises.  "I don't think I can do this!" I gasped.   We tried, though, until the trainer said to do the same thing, but this time with one leg off the floor. 

"For reals?" Mary asked as we did the first raise.  "For reals?  For reals?  For reals?" 

I collapsed on the floor, laughing.  "Mary!  I can't do it if I'm laughing!" 

"I'm sorry!  But it's really hard!" 

We moved onto hands and knees, doing leg lifts and push-ups and a number of other torturous exercises.  Mary looked up at the TV, "Steph...Even Carmen is having trouble with this."  It was true.  Carmen Electra was obviously focusing and struggling with the workout. 

"I'm shaking," Carmen Electra said on the TV.  "That's good right?"

"Yes," her trainer said.  "If you are shaking that means you are pushing your muscles to their limit, which is what we want to do." 

"But what if my muscles don't shake, they just don't work?" I asked the TV.

Mary laughed.  "I can't work out because they won't move!" 

We laughed together breathlessly.  The laughter turned into groaning when the exercises got tougher.  The trainer on TV started struggling, too. 

"AAHHH!" Mary yelled. 

"Take heart, Mare," I said.  "There's only about 10 minutes left."

3 minutes later I was the one yelling. 

Finally, finally, the section of the DVD we were working out to ended.  I struggled up and pressed the "Stop" button.  There was no way we were continuing this workout.  My body just wouldn't do it. 

"That was good."  Mary said.  I wiped the sweat that was dripping down my face and nodded.  "That was good.  I mean, at least we laughed.  That's a bit of an ab workout, at least."

I nodded again.  "Yeah."  I was breathing hard, my hands on my hips.  "It was good." 

We looked at each other and laughed again, both of us wiping sweat from our faces. 

I got a text from Mary this morning.  It said, "Sore.  lets do it again today"

The length of this torturous workout?  30 minutes. 



Hebrews 6:11-12

The Judgement to Love

Every once in a while we hear the same message over and over and over again.  The first time we hear it we may think about it for a bit, nod our heads at what we see as the "value" of the lesson, and then move on.  The second time we hear it we focus on it a little more as we think, Sheesh.  Maybe I should pay a bit more attention to this.  After all, I've heard it twice now.  The third time we hear it we figure we've heard it already so yeah, we drop a minute or so of our time on it and then move on, comfortable in the knowledge that we've done our duty and thought about this oh-so-important message for as long as we needed.  If we hear it again after that we tend to feel annoyed - or at least I do - and the message becomes a burden.  Seriously? we wonder.  Again?  Well I'm not wasting anymore of my time on this junk.  I know it already.  If we hear it anymore we ignore it.  Haven't we already wasted enough of our time on it?  We ignore not only the message, but the uncomfortable feeling that maybe we really should spend pay more attention to it.

I've found myself in this cycle lately.  In so many places I've heard this message: Don't judge.

It comes up in many different contexts.  I've heard it in a sermon at church.  I've heard it from a friend telling me a story.  I've heard it from a visiting monk speaking about his beloved monastery at Mt. Sinai.  I've heard from the parents of children I work with.  I've seen it played out on TV.  Just today I heard it from my dad.  The words may be different but the underlying message is the same: Don't judge.

I went through the "message cycle" and finally realized I couldn't just continue to ignore it.  Now let me be frank here: It's never comfortable to take a true look in the mirror.  At least it's never comfortable for me.  I'm too worried that I won't like what I see.  And if I pay attention to this message of not judging I'm forced to confront myself.  Am I judgemental? 

I don't know if I am brave enough answer that question.

So, instead of answering I decided to skip that part all together.  Really healthy, I know.  Instead of dwelling on whether or not I am an incredibly judgemental person I've decided to act as though I am.  (Do you see how this saves me?  I can keep hoping that I'm not...)  I've thought about all the times in the past I've heard people talking about judgements.  I've thought about conversations I've had with my priest about judging.  I've dwelled on this a lot lately.  And I've realized the response to judgement has been in front of me all along.

Love.

I'm not talking about love in the sense of the gooey, happy feeling we get when we see those we care about.  I'm talking about the choice we make to act in love.  I'm talking about the choice to be kind and loving even though it may unpopular, or that guy really might be frustrating.  Some people call it Agape.  Some people call it "doing the right thing."  It's the same thing: Love. 

It can be hard to love.  We love our families and our friends, but we have a hard time loving the neighbor downstairs who causes a fuss about the parking situation.  We easily love some of our colleagues but just can't stand that new guy who thinks he's so great when really he just gets on everybody's nerves.

I spoke with my priest about this a few years ago, and what he said to me comes up often in my mind.  He told me two thing: 1)When you make a judgement say a prayer for that person, and 2) The cycle has to stop somewhere.

So often we feel judged, or are judged, by a person and in response we turn around and think poorly of someone else.  Or we feel that we need to be better than everyone else, so we think the worst of them.  I am struck by a story Fr. Pavlov (the visiting monk from Mt. Sinai) told:

      There were two monks in their monastery.  When the heiromonk entered the room of one he found it to be extremely messy.  Instead of judging he thought to himself, Wow.  This monk spends so much of his time in prayer and in the pursuit of the spiritual life that he has no time left for cleaning his room.  He moved on to the next monk's room.  He found it to be spotlessly clean.  This time he thought, Amazing.  Just as his spiritual life is clean and clear, so is this monk's physical space.  He judged neither man.  We, in this day and age, in our ignorance, would judge both. 

I was struck most by the end of the story: ...in our ignorance, [we] would judge both.  I know I would.  But this would be a perfect chance for me to use the advice I was given.  Choose to love by saying a prayer.  Sometimes we are given insight to a situation, and it could be horrible.  But rather than using that insight to judge, I hope to (and I have been told I need to) use it for love: pray, and if necessary, act.

And I need to try to end the cycle, at least in my life.  I can't control what others do, but I can love them, and try not to judge them.  And I think I will be able to find some peace there.  As my dad told me this morning, if I'm the one responsible for deciding who is right or wrong, or for deciding who goes to heaven or hell, no one will make it, not even myself.  Because my own standards and judgements (that are quite possibly incorrect) will get in the way of grace.  I can relax a bit, knowing it isn't up to me to do anything about it but choose to love.  And so I will make the effort to make the judgement of love. 

And maybe someday I can look in the mirror without fear.  Maybe.

1 Corinthians 13:1

Daydreams

Sometimes I wish I was somewhere else. 

Don't get me wrong - I love my home and I love my family and friends and the people around me.  I know if I really did leave it would be extremely difficult, like transplanting a tree whose roots are intertwined with countless others.  Possible, but terribly, terribly painful.  But sometimes I just want to leave and explore and maybe stumble upon an adventure.  What's so surprising to me is that in one day - in a span of about 3 hours - I can daydream about being in two entirely different places.

One thing I love about my job is the freedom to meet my clients (read: preschoolers I work with) at places other than a house or preschool classroom.  As it's October plenty of parents (and I) feel that going to the pumpkin patch would be a fun, seasonally appropriate thing to do.  Here in Santa Barbara the only true pumpkin patch is Lane Farms: a smallish family-run farm that has pumpkins, a hay ride, scarecrows, a corn maze, and farm animals. 

As I walked around Lane Farms with my 2-year-old client and his mom and aunt I lost myself in the whimsy of the farm.  Now I realize true farm life isn't sentimental.  I know it means being up before light and down after dark.  I know it's a physically demanding life, and that - more than other occupations - farming begs the mercy of the weather. 

Yet, even knowing this, the simple beauty of the farm drew my mind away from the chaos of balancing work and home and stress, and into a pleasant, if instantaneous, daydream.  For a split second I was miles away, walking in the sunshine and watching a tractor working.  I looked up at my client's mother and asked, "Can you imagine what it would be like to live like this?" I gestured to the still tractor.  She wrinkled her nose.

"I know, right?" she answered.  "It would be terrible." 

Not quite what I was thinking. 

I nodded and made a non-committal sound and turned back to her son with a small sigh.  Thoughts of farm life would have to wait until I was no longer working.

However, as soon as I left Lane Farms I was rushing to get ready for a concert with the girls.  At 6 o'clock I pulled into my friend's driveway and within 15 minutes we were on our way to the Santa Barbara Bowl.  We arrived at our seats in time to hear the opening act sing her last 3 songs.  This was a surprise, because the opener started exactly on time - unheard of in music.  I don't have much to say about her...I'm sure I would have enjoyed her songs, but her voice was breaking by the end of her 40 minute set.  She also announced to the crowd that this was her first official show.  I turned to my friend.  "If her voice is this tired after her first show on her first tour I don't think she will last very long."  It will be interesting to see what happens with her carreer.

But the opening act (whose name I just can't remember) is not what triggered my next daydream.  No...Jason Mraz did that. 

If we are focusing on quality of voice, well, Jason Mraz's voice was almost stronger at the end of his set than at the beginning.  And he had a way of singing and interacting with the crowd that almost made it seem like he was singing directly to Section G, Row J, Seat 14. 

Let's ignore his commanding stage presence and skilled dance moves, the emotion of his singing and lyrics that reach out and grab the heart-strings.  The moment that stands out most clearly in my mind is the moment I have come to expect at every concert I attend.  Every person in the audience was standing and singing the lyrics back to Jason Mraz.  He stopped singing and closed his eyes and listened to the sound of thousands of people serenading him with his own lyrics.  It was that moment when I had the wistful thought of, 'I wish I was on that stage right now...' 

Suddenly I was gone.  I wasn't standing in the audience.  I was in another city, standing on a stage, listening to the sound of thousands being touched by my words.  

Somehow, not even three hours after wishing to be wearing a sun-hat on a farm I was now dreaming to be living the life of a musician. 

But, in all honesty, when the concert ended and I yawned, exhausted from the work week and the excitement of the evening, I was simply happy to be one of the girls.  Stumbling from laughter and - for the moment - carefree, I was happy to be me: A child development specialist living a quiet, sometimes stressed, mostly happy life in Santa Barbara.

Psalm 139 :7, 9-10

A Bit of Whimsy Inspired by the Season....

"How very refreshing," the yellow Upright sighed to his friend across the field. 

"What is?" came the response.

"The rain, of course.  After standing in last week's heat this is wonderful." 

"Won't make things easier for tonight's game."

The first Upright thought for a minute.  "Perhaps not for the players, but the fans will be entertained."

"If they're not too miserable from being soaked through."

"Well, I will be entertained," replied the cheerful Upright, set on staying positive.

"I guess I will be, too," said the grumpy Upright after a moment's pause. 

The two stood in silence for some time, one determined to enjoy the rain, the other determined to resent it. 

"You know," said the first, "I bet there are a lot of fumbles tonight."  Caretakers were starting to appear on the field, taking care of game-day business. 

"Of course there will be," the second scoffed.  The lights came on in the stadium, highlighting the raindrops.  The wind picked up speed, whistling where it had been whispering.  Both Uprights shivered.  "Not so refreshing now, is it?"

The first Upright stood in stony silence, unwilling to be provoked. 

The grumpy Upright grew uncomfortable.  He watched fans filing into the stadium, loaded down by ponchos and raincoats, blankets and towels.  Unable to distract himself he finally spoke.  "Hey, want to bet that there's at least one missed field goal tonight?"

After a few more moments of silence he got his response. 

"You're on."

Glass-Blown Fairytales

While in Nashville visiting Amanda and Elijah and their twin daughters Aida and Sophie, Manda, the girls and I met our Granddaddy at Cheekwood (the botanic gardens of Nashville) and saw the amazing glass art of Chihuly.

Now let me be honest here: I was much more excited at the prospect of being with Amanda and her daughters for the day than looking at plants and glass. Don't get me wrong - I expected the exhibit to be interesting and cool, but I wasn't planning on falling in love.

I was suitably impressed when we arrived at Cheekwood and the girls cried, "We are at Cheekwood!  We are at Cheekwood!"  My nieces are so clever to be able to recognize the road leading to Cheekwood.  Manda pointed out the first Chihuly display as we drove into the parking lot.  "It's macaroni and cheese!" Sophie yelled from the backseat.  She had a point: it looked like an enormous pile of mac and cheese - giant yellow, orange, and white tubes twisted and intertwined, climbing higher and higher. 

Sophie has a point, doesn't she?  

When we walked up to the "macaroni and cheese" and I stood there in awe.  The sculpture was humming - apparently they light up at night, so this was an electric display - and I imagined it was singing itself a little song of contentment.  I hurried to keep up with Amanda, Sophie, Aida, and Granddaddy and we wandered across a dewy lawn to a pond full of glass "Walla Wallas." 

The Walla Wallas in the pond.

I expected them to float into the air at any given moment.  Or maybe if I looked away, but turned back quickly enough I could catch them flying around.  I tried, slyly.  It didn't work. 

My main moment of amazement, however, was on the other side of the pond.  It was a piece called Sunset Boat and this is where I fell in love.  Red, yellow, orange and white glass filled a boat to the point of overflowing.  Points shot out while spirals slithered within the boat.  Globes rested quietly in the middle of chaos and I swear I saw a fairy dancing on the water.  I was smitten.  Even after walking away and looking at other pieces I saw the Sunset Boat in my mind.  I had to go back and look at it.  I felt the subtle sting of tears as I borrowed Amanda's camera and took a few pictures.  I needed, somehow, to keep this boat with me. 

I was in love.

Sunset Boat

Eventually, however, we needed to move on.  (I mean, really, we had two 3-year-olds with us...They needed to keep moving.)  In the house at Cheekwood were some more glass displays: chandeliers. 

I was struck still again by a huge white, champagne, and gold chandelier that immediately brought to mind Christmas.  Glass ribbons and spirals hung midair and I could almost hear sleigh-bells ringing (despite the warmth and bright sunshine outside).  Chihuly's blend of elegance and whimsy was magical.  I was transported to a different time and place.  I'm sure it was only the presence of Amanda, the girls, and Granddaddy that kept me from completely losing myself and becoming "that weird girl" that stood at each display much longer than was necessary. 

A close-up of the "Christmas" chandelier

The stairwell with the "Christmas" chandelier

Another chandelier.  Amanda loved this one.

I know fairytales aren't real...But as I have mentioned before I am inclined to want to believe in them.  And at the Chihuly exhibit at Cheekwood I found something that allowed me to do so: Glass-blown fairytales. 

All of the pictures are from newspaper articles or other blogs.  The use of cameras was prohibited inside the house at Cheekwood and I don't actually have a camera.  So special thanks to those people from whose blogs I snagged the pictures. 

Genesis 1:14-19

Celebrating Life

Today I had the opportunity to celebrate the life of a wonderful man. 

I looked around the park in awe, marveling at my god-brother's talent in making a space simultaneously elegant and welcoming.  I offered my help in setting up, and had to chuckle at how dismal my party-arranging skills are compared to his (we all have our talents, don't we?). 

I stood, mesmerized by the slide show - 54 minutes long - that made me smile, cry, and laugh.  I got butterflies in my stomach when a song that my god-brother and best friend and I sang came on, followed by satisfaction that I was able to do something to help, no matter how small.

I looked around, unsurprised, as a seemingly endless stream of people came in.  So many people were touched by this one life.  So many people wanted to pay their respects.

I felt happiness for my cousins and their growing catering business.  The food was delicious and I was proud of my family and their ability to build their business from the ground up. 

I felt joy at seeing my younger brother laughing with his friends.  It has been years since they were all together, and anyone could see they were practically revelling in each others' presences.  Later Mary and I would spend time with them all, joking and laughing and enjoying the day.

It was bittersweet when I greeted the family, asking them how they were doing and knowing that whatever answer they gave would be only a half-truth.  Knowing that no matter how "fine" they said they were it was too soon to be completely true.  Wondering if it would ever be true again. 

I felt extreme gratitude that my dad is still with us.  He is such an anchor and rock in my life, and in so many others.  Many heartfelt prayers of thanksgiving have been sent heavenward in the past month. 

And I felt love and pride mingled with sadness as a 17-year-old stood in front of the group and spoke about his dad.  I stood in awe as I realized that although I have seen him, and loved him, as the 4-year-old he was when I met him, this 17-year-old is now a man: a man I am proud to call my friend.  I cried as he reached out with only a few words and touched lives just as his father did.  And I listened as he hoped everyone present would take something away with them. 

I did take something...I took a firm desire to live my life to touch others.  I took with me a hope to be a vessel of God, to shine love to people, the same way this man shined love.  I took a need to celebrate life, mine and others, and to give thanks for every part - the beautiful, the painful, the bizarre, the sorrowful, the joyful. 

Memory Eternal, Bobby.  You are missed, and very dearly loved.

Psalm 30:5

Who Falls Off an Airplane?? - or - Adventures in Air-Travel

I have just had the (wonderful) opportunity to visit my sister and her family for a week. So many beautiful things happened this past week, and I will write about those soon. But, considering the fact that I spent two full days in airports and on airplanes, I would like to take a moment and focus on just that: airports and airplanes.

I woke up at an ungodly hour - and forced Cat to wake up at an ungodly hour so she could drive me to the airport - and was on a plane by 6 am. The flight to LAX was pretty smooth, ignoring the fact that I set off the metal detector at the airport, but they couldn't find the reason...Or the fact that although I did renew my license I didn't do it with enough time to receive my new one before the trip...And the fact that the plane was so small it felt like we were being flung around by every gust of wind - and it was a very windy morning.

I was determined to be cool, calm, and collected. I wanted my nameless fellow travelers to see me as a sophisticated woman who doesn't bat an eye at the aspect of flying somewhere new. The problem was that I am more curious little girl than sophisticated woman. My eyes were wide, darting around, trying to take everything in.

There are fascinating things to see everywhere, but airports, I have found, are amazing places for people-watching, finding character fodder, and all-around observation of the silly, sweet, tender, and ridiculous. For example, I after being at LAX for 10 minutes (including sitting on the runway) I had seen 2 street-sweepers (runway-sweepers?), 2 vending machines for iPods and the like (no joke), and Jude Law look-alike. I know he was a look-alike, and not actually Jude Law,

This is really Jude Law, NOT the guy I saw standing at the airport...

because he was standing at the gate waiting with the rest of us poor shmucks who hadn't made it in time to snag a chair. And as I still had about an hour and a half before boarding for my next flight I wandered about 20 feet and found a Starbucks. With coffee in hand I went back to wait to board the flight, humming along to the piano version of the one Phantom of the Opera song they played over and over and over and over...

My layover in Chicago was shorter, but I discovered quite a few things while waiting:

-I must have little minions or something who love me, because the first thing I saw upon leaving the plane was a Starbucks! YES!

-I could have gotten a flu shot, or for $30 more, a pneumonia shot. Nice...

-All of the workers I encountered had a serious attitude problem.

The return trip, however, was where my main excitement happened. I had given up the hope of ever appearing elegant or sophisticated, and hoped instead to enjoy my Milk Duds and a book and see if I might discover anything in the other passengers that might suit a story or something. Imagine my dismay when I sat down and realized my row-mate was a man who chose to take part of my seat and apparently felt that personal hygiene was optional. I curled into the window and (luckily) lost myself in my book. The flight was smooth, and I was only disrupted by a few snores from my neighbor - really, it wasn't too bad.

However...when we landed, and my neighbor decided he would be first off the plane I decided to be patient and wait. After all, I reasoned, I didn't want to rush and (knowing me) fall and hurt myself. When I finally got to the door of the plane I smiled and thanked the flight attendant and stepped to the top of a small flight of stairs. Careful, Steph, I thought. You don't want to fall...That would be embarrassing and potentially painful. I made it down the first two steps with no problem. But then I put my left foot down and slid forward. I still don't know how it happened, but somehow my foot slid through the front of my sandal, popping the upper out of the sole. I slid down the last two steps, frantically grabbed the handrail, and held on for dear life. I somehow landed on my feet on the tarmac, my rear about 2 inches from the concrete.

Fabulous.

The rest of the passengers, waiting on the tarmac for their carry-ons that had to be gate checked, turned their eyes away from me...Afraid to see my embarrassment, I'm sure. I laughed at myself, picked up my shoe and held it up. "My shoe broke," I announced, wanting to be sure they all knew I am not simply a clutz. "It was my shoe. My shoe broke." People nodded, obviously not believing me. "You okay, miss?" an airport employee asked, laughing at me.

"My shoe broke," I answered, loud enough that everyone could hear me. It didn't matter. They continued ignoring me. "My shoe broke," I muttered as I hobbled across the tarmac trying to put the upper back in the sole. I walked through a wing of the airport with one shoe on, laughing and shaking my head. I pulled out my phone and texted my friends...I needed to share this with someone! Other travelers saw me and gave me a wide berth, wanting to avoid the crazy lady with one shoe on who was muttering to herself. I finally fixed my shoe and slipped it back on, and followed the signs to my gate. I slowed to a stop as I looked out a giant window...There was a crystal clear view of the plane I had just fallen off. I shrugged off the knowledge that it was not only the other passengers of my flight that had seen me fall but anyone who happened to look out that window. I kept walking (and had yet another Starbucks) and then stopped in my tracks. There was another giant window. "Great."

I took the escalator down to my gate (I was understandably a little nervous about stairs) and made my way to a chair. I stopped again. "Oh, man!" People around me looked over then quickly away, wanting to avoid any contact with a crazy lady. There, taking up the entire wall, was yet another giant window with a clear view of my plane. "Wonderful!"

My only consolation was the hope that people may not have looked out the window at the exact moment I fell off the plane. Well, that and the fact that there was a man waiting at the gate who was doing yoga right in the middle of the floor.

Yes...There was someone who was really doing this.

So I wasn't the only crazy person in the airport that day.

Job 8:21