Wednesday, December 10, 2014

"Oh, Well."

The "OhWell" hat.



Am I happy?  As a matter of fact, not really.  And I'm not at all ashamed of stating that.  Recently, on a whim, I viewed a 2011 documentary called "Happy"., streaming on Netflix, into the comfort of my own beautiful, safe, clean, quiet home.  It's been on my distant "to watch" list for a while, and it occurred to me that I might tackle some of the sadness, anger, anxiety, and angst I've been feeling lately.  And, by the way, I use the term "lately" loosely, as in, anywhere from one month to one half of my entire life--nitpickers beware.
"O, H!"

 I often get to thinking about this happiness thing, and I usually resort to some gauge of happiness built upon fulfillment, purposefulness, connectedness, gratitude, (blah blah blah).  And when I look at my self-evaluation through that lens, I almost always fare quite well.  Nonetheless, there are people near and far in my life who would probably accuse me of being downright depressed, maybe cranky, blah blah blah. A lot.   Take, for example, my housemates (not including the cats).  How can I not be more grateful? Or more cheerful?Why don't I just get medicated like all of those other used-to-be-sad-people? Well, I am grateful, I am cheerful, and I'm as self-medicated as I'll ever be (I hope).  But I'm still mad, sad, anxious, disappointed, and disgusted--with so much that I see, read, hear, feel.

"H, W"

 So, back to the documentary.  All you need to see is a scratch of a description and you know what you're going to end up with. Happiness is relative. Happiness is part chemical, part environmental. Happiness is available to everyone as long as they have their basic needs met (ahem, America). Happiness is for those who are intrinsically instead of extrinsically motivated.  So, no surprise that this filmmaker follows through with the findings of his profiled experts to explain how happiness (and lack of it) can be found in far flung places (Okinawa, Denmark, Namibia, Louisiana)….  Hmmm.  So I went ahead and watched the whole thing, waiting for at least a nod to the question that always wracks my mind when such topics come up.
"E,L."
 So this is the question that I would expect anybody to try to answer if they made an entire film about happiness on the globe: How does one create happiness in a world where the injustices are crushing? How does one live in happiness when surrounded by information that the destruction to the globe will be so total and complete within a relatively short amount of time that we won't have water, clean air, food, honey, fuel? How do we find comfort in a world where our own happiness rests upon denying the injustices imparted onto others every day.  How do we find comfort in this world when this injustice is played out in the news every day? In this documentary, some attention is paid to how families overcome tragedy and persevere, but I waited and watched for the question that always gives me pause.  If the powers that be, the powers that support our very "ability to have enough" are creating this massive destruction, violence, then what of happiness?  By the end of the film, the crickets were buzzing. Experts consulted, examples given, the greater question, "how to create happiness amidst awfulness, powerlessness, rage, chronic injustice", never addressed, even cursorily (which I would have expected at the bare minimum). So…there you have it, flapping in the wind, as usual.
"L,L"
 When we celebrated my fortieth birthday, quite a few years ago, there was some other pivotal news watershed moment that created a lot of angst for many folks such as myself.  I created a bumper sticker called "Oh Well", and it's still my favorite.  So much so that this Fall I put the finishing touches on the reversible "Oh Well" knit cap!    What better way to sum up a sane reaction to an insane world.  So, there, "Oh Well."  Now just go out and be happy!

***and, LF, you may ask, what does this have to do with the Unencumbered Woman????  Quite Frankly, as I see others around me toil to behave as if nothing is going on, I scratch my head, wondering, "What does it take to pretend that it's not all falling apart?"  "What is the cost, personally, to swallowing emotions, reactions, rage, etc.." The cost, naturally, is incredibly high, and the cost of calling out our disgrace, disgust, anger, is even higher.  So, friend, I guess part of The Unencumbered Woman thing is saying it, being it, doing it.  There's a permission to admitting the free-fall that we are in, that's a thing. That's a thing that I'm trying to do.






  





Friday, November 7, 2014

Make Something Every Day.

That's my current motto.  No matter how crummy things feel, start or finish some project that unites sense of self with reality.  Some project that captures an energy whatever that energy is.  In my case, I'm in the house, again, in what's become a perfectly rational refuge.  The season is brilliant and sunny, the news is raining down on us, and here I am, waffling between angst and whimsy.

Josey Baker goodness.
In answer to angst, I'm baking bread.  Working my way through Josey Baker's ridiculously straightforward bread making book.  I wanted to hate him, being all young and friendly-n-all, but he's absolutely spot-on with instructions, great photos, great bread.  I'm a convert.







And then on to this.  I have been avoiding completion of the so-called, "Thickly Invented Cool Season Skirt" for a few reasons.  First, I started it last Spring when I was thinking about doing more on-demand crochet and wanted a super fast work-up skirt to make for other folks.  Since then, I've been doing too much of my own thing and not really worrying about who might want to buy my crochet…after all, I need to dress myself, first!  Second, it's been warm for, well, forever, and there's no need to think about winter when it's not here (no-brainer--this is why we crochet rather than knit….More Fun!).  Third, my mind has been occupied by these massive projects that took over hooking time (afghan? please).

2014-11-07 10.01.48 from karen steward-nolan on Vimeo.




But earlier this week, we found a nip in the air and I started eyeing the full-length down coats at Macy's…hmmm, that could be fun (and expensive)….and then I remembered, just put a chunky wool number on my behind and stick to the cast-off-indestructible Patagonia waist-coat that will last,
practically, forever.  And so I resumed work on this Chartreuse, Coral, Grey skirt that, upon finishing, will do me good.

And not a minute too early for either cool weather, or a roll around the kitchen on my old roller-skates, inspired by friend and neighbor, Jenny, who wants to check out the local Roller Rink.  OK, then, this gal is going to work on some of her old moves….

It would probably not surprise many dear readers that The Unencumbered Woman was quite the roller gal in her day (late eighties).  In fact, when in the San Francisco area, for quite some time, the best thing that somebody could do on a Sunday Morning in Golden Gate Park was grab some quad skates, loosen the trucks waaaay up, and dance with the whole crowd, in a cordoned off, with giant stereos playing, smiles, dancing, fun in the sun.  What memories.  In fact, this is a little what the scene looks like today, still fun after all these years!

And so we soldier on.  Happy to be inspired by the act of creation, happy to be home, happy to be here with family and friends.  Happy to remember exciting times in other places, and happy to cherish food, beauty, and the good sense to continue thinking, breathing, building, for as long and as hard as we can, because sometimes, we can't…and there are a lot of others, who can't, and whole couldn't.  Forget those who wouldn't, since we can't do much about that.  I love this bread.  And I love this skirt.  I love making something, every day.

Monday, October 20, 2014

Mom holds the space.

A visit to the coast for more completion.

Today, Mom's eighty-sixth birthday.  I was pretty quiet, here, around the house, and I've gone about as far as I need to, letting go, for now.  We finished up with more *objectia* in Oregon last week, which felt complete, and now, waking up in my own bed, was perfect, for today.  Moments ago, I put the finishing touches on dinner dishes, and thought to myself, 'Well, this sums motherhood up, on so many days'.  I'd like to be politically correct and say "parenthood", but as much as we've tried, in this house, to smash our gender roles, this feels pretty damned traditional, or whatever.

In memory of Mom, I made a stroganoff that is reminiscent of what she might have made for us years ago.  I threw a bit of effort at the thing, even making a roux, adding plenty of butter, and cooking with shallots(!).  Our  high school swimmer came home at about six and expressed her enthusiasm at my culinary efforts (often she's on her own at about this time).  She prepared her own bowl, as I was on my way to retrieve the younger from Martial Arts.  I knew that child number one would be squirreled away for the remainder of the night, chained to her homework.  I took a few bites of baguette dipped in gravy before heading out for dutiful driver-parent responsibilities. Little one and I returned to sit and quietly eat.  She mostly talked, I encouraged eating, and then, poof, "Can I read?".  Spouse has been gone since dark AM and is in meeting until after all this (even the blog post).  So I finish my glass of wine, clean the kitchen from top to bottom, reflect on a hardly eaten dinner, put an extra casserole in the fridge, thinking…'this is a lot of what this thing is about'.  Mom holds the space.  So often, it's a quick exchange, a ride, a comment, a request. We make all the arrangements, we make sure everything's in place, and then they're here, and they're gone, as soon as we blink an eye.

Making this stroganoff, I couldn't help but think of mom coming all the way to Vermont fifteen years ago, offering to make the dish for us as ripe new parents.  Me, in all my bohemian, new parent gusto, barely tolerated the offer, not nearly comprehending the compendium of cooking/prepping/planning skills that it actually takes to feed more than one other person for years and years and years on end. I had no idea how many fads preferences and timings and trends any one family cook must flex her weight around.  I simply had no idea.  And I guess that thought taps into the shards of grief that still live in my heart.  I've worked this drama to it's bitter end.  I feel so good, so complete, with both Mom and Dad.  But ever so often (OK, almost every day), there's a pang of total and utter regret.  Why couldn't we have cooked the stroganoff together, a hundred times?  Was I appreciative enough?  Why didn't I ask more questions?  Why was I so self-absorbed?   But of course, we all know the answer to that question, and it's relative, for me and anyone else, i suppose.  I was being and becoming who I needed to be, and Mom was loving me just the same, just as much, forever.
I'm so grateful for the memory of her undying love of me and my family.  Everyone deserves to have somebody, at least one, who sees all the brilliance, all the mediocrity, all the failures, and loves us all the same.

Monday, October 6, 2014

The Yarn of the Afghan…or…Blog and Brag!

Addie's Afghan
Only days ago I blogged about the delightful summer cover-up that I finally finished after a season of difficult fine work.  And now, with a  hint of cool temps and precipitation in the air, I put the last rows and edging on Addie's afghan, which I started at least three years ago.










I was so excited to take on this project, initially, as I'm passionate about these vintage patterns, found in my own mother's collection and elsewhere.  That said, my enthusiasm waned in the intervening months.  So, a bit of background on these Afghans, blankets, and throws.

Vintage pattern books, sit upon the afghan
adorning my creative space.











A while back I finished an afghan that my mother had worked on since the fifties, then abandoned, many years ago.  It sits, happily, in our living room now.
Mom's Butterfly Afghan










And on my chartreuse and grey front porch/workspace, sits the afghan that one of Donna's Aunties began in CA, many years ago.

basic flower motif
All vintage, all amazingly beautiful and, most importantly, comfortable.  And lest we forget, the most difficult pattern I've ever worked (in terms of a sixteen row repeat, not in design of the essential shape), was another vintage pattern that twisted my brain into little knots, pattern borrowed from one of Mom's old books, only described as Pattern #12910.  This one, as I was working, Peter claimed that he thought it was hideously ugly.  That said, every time we sit down in the living room he whips that thing onto his lap about as fast as a hot chocolate chip cookie.  I say, "Not so fast, friend, remember what you said about my afghan!"
"What, no blanket? I'll take a cat."

Comfy, cozy, Pattern #12910.






And what, I wonder, is this all about, short of the fact that I am a glutton for punishment (as in length of time required to complete afghan)?  So many things attract me to making these afghans, and they ultimately serve more than a few purposes, so, what's wrong with a little list-O-Rama?

Why do I make afghans?
1. Sometimes it's delightful to craft a piece that once we understand the pattern it is eternally repetitive (think, what I do while conversing or listening to radio or watching TV).
2.  Short of baby blankets, Afghans are another lost craft form.  Rarely do we allow ourselves time to make something so bluntly esoteric.  I love hearkening back to slower times, no matter how contrived my fantasy may be.
3. These patterns, and this purple, lavender and gold piece, are remarkable in their masculine abstract design.  One double crochet pulled tightly over two rows of other colors. Mathematical, pure, elegant.

Pattern and fabric.
And what is the purposefulness?
1. Afghans in our living room give us permission, even encourage us to sit around and talk/read/sleep.
2. Beautiful vintage adornment is what I love for my own abode.
3. I'm a crochet goddess and I have to make EVERYTHING (OK, almost everything).


And…confessional. What took me so long to finish this piece?  Frankly, it was Awful.  I thought it would work up too small, so I bought a little (but not enough) extra yarn and widened the thing.  This was a ridiculous mistake, because this throw was never meant to be as large as a queen size bed.  And so, halfway complete, I had more width than length, and the repeating waffles needed to be the length of the object.  How many times I wrapped this around my waist, wondering if I could somehow make it a skirt, I don't know, but ultimately,  after a bit of coaxing from my daughter, I called it a truce and finished the thing.  Fortunately, it wasn't as short as I feared, and once I put a finishing edge around, blocked it, and started with the camera, I made my peace.  Not every peace is exactly as I imagine, in fact, almost never.  And so, another exercise in acceptance, followed by joy, beauty, satisfaction, even fun.  Now, the fun part, blog and brag!

 blog and brag

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Can't. Wait. Til Summer. (Hibiscus Tunic).

All in a summer's work!  It's not like I was working on one project, exclusively, this summer, but somewhere along the way this Hibiscus Tunic completely took over my life.  It was my first major endeavor in the workings of thread, rather than yarn.  Remember those hard little skeins of thread that you found at Granny's or Aunty's house when you were a child?  Sometimes there would be a section  of a doily or some such tiny-ness that would inspire to crochet or craft, but within minutes it was obvious that the fine craft of lacework is definitely a thing of the past.  So when I decided to delve into this little gem I knew I was in for trouble, although the fact that it was advertised in Interweave Crochet, one of my favorite magazines, encouraged me to soldier forth.

And so I plugged….and plodded.
Crucial moment: Must. Unravel.
 Somewhere on the front I hadn't quite memorized or figured out, exactly, what the pattern was.  There's a rather simple logic to the thing, but while reading the crochet pattern, it's easy to bulldoze through the directions without seeing the simple repetition.  My flowers looked a bit askew, but when I realized what I was missing it was time to rip rip rip (this was mid-July).



The thing went all the way to Maine with us.  On this glorious day, I found myself on a beach, staring at lovely mountainsides, terrific vistas, our travel companions frolicking in the water.   Summer joy, itself.




 It really wasn't until the hint of Fall was in the air that I began to scurry through this little ditty.   A mere few days after the Equinox, intermittently working on this beach-wear along with snuggly afghans (temps beginning to drop), I finally picked up the hook and managed to finish the beast during daughter's Belt Promotion Ceremony (always multitask).  A quick seam or two, block this baby, and bAM!  It's a new frock, ready for wear, a bit this season, and a whole lot in coming summers.
Can't. 

Wait. 



'Til Summer.

Friday, September 19, 2014

outdoorsy, active-gal-type-blogamajig, thing!!!!

Westhaven Guest House
And….she's back!!!! Less encumbered, more jazzed and ready as ever for new adventures out in the world.  Recently, my younger child looked over my shoulder as I labored over a blog post.  She insisted, aloud, that I wasn't Unencumbered These Days….I urged her on, and as it turns out, her definition of Unencumbered Woman is one who bikes, plays, and cavorts about in the world, as I often profess to do.  True, to a point, but I picked at her thread and said that actually the Unencumbered Woman means many things, and the only thing that it always means is that she is a gal who is attempting to unload burdens, make life simpler, lighter, less obligatory, sometimes more or less fun, but  there's never a pat recipe for this Unencumbered-ness.  The very act of thinking about the baggage we carry can be a quieting of the noise of every day, whatever sort of noise it is we are confronting.
But I digress, because, this week I embarked on a good old-fashioned adventure worthy of an outdoorsy, active-gal-type-blogamajig, thing.  So….take that, little one!!!
The plan, as conceived, was that I would drive to my friends' house a few hours from here, since there's no traffic, hills, and a whole lotta gravel roads that we can tool around on, with fat tires and not a care in the world.  Sounded like an ideal date to me, and since I stood her up all summer on our Madison training rides and Ironman itself, I figured it was the least I could do.  Besides, what with Ironman behind me and the kids back in school, I sort of have a little window in my schedule that I haven't seen in a while.  My plan was to drive out of town on Wednesday night so I could crash at the (yes) guest house, and wake up rarin' to go.  What a life, huh?

Trader Joe's? The modern equivalent of TV dinners.
 But leaving my suburbia at five-ish doesn't come without it's own costs.  It's only when I leave at this time of day that I realize how essential my very existence is, every single day, between, say, four PM and 9PM.  So, let's just start with the obvious: 1. Rides.  2. Dinner.  The rest, I figure they can work out on their own.  I made a few quick calls to make sure transportation was in place and my companion's ETA was not too far off.  He also had an evening meeting, so as it turned out, the one kid came home on her bike at about 4:00, the other got picked up at 5:35, Peter got home at about 5:40, then made dinner, the big kid has non-stop homework, Peter leaves for meeting at about 6:45, the little one gets dropped off at about 7:00, and so on (I got a text about five minutes after I left (5:20), from the younger: "why are youlettingherbabysitmeshe'sbeingsomean?")  Let me just say, the essential requirement of unencumberment is Heartless Selfishness.  I drove on.  They've got this. No problem.
Loaded, ready to go.
A lot easier than traveling with four.

Often, a road trip gives me time to think.   In fact, I've always had a soft spot for road trips.  Hurts that our roadways can be so clogged, unforgiving, and unglamorous (not to mention wasteful and expensive), but I can always settle into a conversation with myself while my R&B commercial station plays the evening set of the "Ghost DJ", or I can learn a few things before I become totally nauseated by the drone of "Marketplace" on NPR (the other night I learned that fifty percent of Americans are one $400 unplanned expense away from financial ruin. OK driving on).
Ahh…the open road, beautiful sprawl.  It's what we're about.

Lookie here! Sunset!  Making progress, fewer cars on the Rod Blagevocich tollway!

So arrival time, amidst stars, crickets, and total darkness.  I'm feeling decompressed already.  The guesthouse (popular with couch surfers) is a gem.  We're all hugs, talk about tomorrow, last week's Ironman, and a little bedtime tea.  Looking forward to sleep with No Cats, I won't lie.

Almost every piece is a found object, craft fully put in place.
Nothing like waking up with nothing on the mind except coffee and a no-drop-ride.  The day promised perfect weather and quiet.  I could definitely get used to this part of the field trip.


And it's a sunrise!!!! Who says that rural IL isn't beautiful!?  All in the eye of the beholder, and I must say that my companions have found and built their own piece of jaw-dropping beauty.  Not without the difficult labor of many many years in this spot.    







After a little coffee and granola, we hiked the grounds.  Friends have quite a spread with motocross bike trails, hiking, quarry, wildlife, and old farm buildings, lovingly kept standing.  I'm in awe of the delightful whimsy coupled with essential carpentry and construction skills.  We're not in Oak Park anymore!










         
Uphill, old chicken coop, trails, woods, quarry. Wow.
Guesthouse Kitchen window
 Our walk took us through dew soaked brush, for the better part of an hour.  If i have to lead this tour next time, I'll still get lost.  What a spread!
I was having so much fun just being away from home that I really could have skipped the ride.  After all, it's not like I've been that itchy to ride lately, but with the encouragement of a monster athlete, I was on my trusty Cannondale and we hit the road.  The scenery was quiet, corn and soy fields, a smattering of houses, barns, lots of silos, and scrub forests here and there.  We were comfortable in the fall sunlight and the wind was unusually quiet.  I stopped once or twice for photos, and this particular farm arrested me.  I love the haunting allure of styles that have come and gone.  I love the very essence of seeing what is there.  And in a state like Illinois, in particular, the void that separates urban from suburban from rural is such gaping hole.  Not that this solitary cyclist can stare into that gap and create any sense, any community, any future for it all, but for a moment wonder what it's like,  what it's like for someone else.  Someone else not far from here, not far, really.

And so i sat on a saddle for a few hours.  An accomplishment that I have to credit to a friend who saw a need to rescue me from myself before I let my lack of cycling get totally out of hand!  After this, showers, snacks, more coffee and yarn work.  An early supper of catfish on the deck and I was headed back to the land of screaming swim meets, homework deadlines, and anxious drivers.  Alright, as long as I'm planning the next trip!  Get out there, and have fun!!!

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

September 10, 1950

Vintage Formica table, resurfaced chairs, Fiestaware
Serving tray, gift from M &D, Pyrex Casserole Dish. 
Where does the time go?  Last night I sat down for dinner with only one other member of our household.  I grabbed a cookbook to peruse while we ate.  Silver Spoon jumped out at me, and while I picked it up, fondled it, and opened it to the page I had last marked, I wondered…"Didn't I buy this book, say, a while ago, and didn't I make/read almost nothing from within it's pages?".  Well, yeah.
And I wondered, when, exactly I bought it, and why I had done nothing with it (kitchen remodel notwithstanding).  And, yup, sure 'nuff, there it was within the archives of Instagram, no less.  I posted a photo of said book (along with a few others) forty-six weeks ago.  I bought this book forty-six weeks ago, and here I am, not reading it for the first time, but let's face it…the pages are still spit-clean.
So, who cares?  Am I just like every other dilettante kitchener, claiming some foodie lifestyle but actually winging it on Trader Joe's and restaurants? Maybe so, but, LF, you also know that we lost Mom in January and everything else unravelled from that place.  So, although I, too, buy too many cookbooks and cook not enough, this year I'll give myself a pass.  In fact, so much so that I wasn't mad at myself when I saw the book last night, but I felt like I had just pulled myself that much more out of the fog that is much of 2014.  We made it through a summer of no training, we quit a job that was leaving me emotionally and physically drained, we said goodbye to Mom and her home lovingly and without turning many stones, and so, now, only three days after Madison Ironman, I can envision an even more exciting, invigorating life (cooking, crafts, friends, fun).
Dinig table, chairs, Bamboo china set. GO!
And then, there's this.  Today, September 10, 2014, would have been my parents' sixty-fourth anniversary.  Here I am, in my pristine Oak Park Bungalow.  Not an antique, not a paint chip, is out of place.  Our living space is just about perfectly staged and so many objects connect me to Mom and Dad.  It was the two of them who hunted down our kitchen table and sent it to California, in 1994 or so.  It was Dad, himself, who suggested that Fiesta Ware (California Pottery, as he called it), would be a worth collecting, given my "interests".




It was Mom's keen sight on Heywood Wakefield furniture so that her own dining room set would be mine, finally, after a lifetime of waiting.


 And so, for a brief moment I pull out Mom and Dad's wedding book.  I love just about everything about it.  I love the white leather binding, I adore the pictures that I saw for many many years in my parents home.   I love that it hearkens to a day when someone would host a wedding that entailed a reception of cake, punch, in a church activity room, then a change to day clothes and escape amidst torrent of rice and laughter.

Many thoughts crossed my mind today, about losing Mom and how 2014 has been defined by that piece of our world.  And of course, that Dad, we lost, only two years ago, and so the both of them parted within this now, seemingly short amount of time.




































But as I sat at my Amazing kitchen table yesterday with a dear friend, who is embarking on new love himself, we discussed the notes that Mom and Dad had left on an indoor/outdoor thermometer, purchased at Radio Shack (where else?). On one page, we noted the purchase date, and my friend asked who's handwriting it was (Mom's, and a battery replacement).  I flipped through the pages and commented that Dad's writing was also in the booklet, noting installation date.  We chuckled, and I was touched by that very memory, the memory that is eternal of one's own handwriting mark, but friend added, that it was a positive, that my parents shared such a thing.  He asked, did they agree on the importance of keeping such records?  I replied, yes, it was in both of their natures, although my mother mastered total organization more than my father, that they keep meticulous care and records.

 He smiled, and so did I.  For a moment, I was able to honor a partnership that didn't always look perfect, but one that was in synch in so many ways, for so many years.  I miss them both.  I miss them each in their own way.  My father's passing was a relief for us all but a gushing hurt.  Mom's passing has crushed me to a little bit.  I still can't imagine that she's gone.  I feel even more guilt when I think of the people who lose loved ones at untimely times and here I lost both parents after a long, luxurious retirement.  Nonetheless, that's the way it goes.  So, we reflect back to the sixtieth anniversary when we gathered at the Elks Club and cut a cake and enjoyed friends and family.  Loving both Mom and Dad, KSN...

Wednesday, September 3, 2014

What happens when the perennial Ironman athlete drops the whole endeavor mid-season?

Early this year, I was plugging away at my usual training, at a lackluster, but not impossible rate.  After all these years, I know that I can slog through an Ironman if that's what I want to do. I lightened the load significantly this spring, but I figured that I would sustain and increase my training enough, come summertime: I'd be out there on my long rides, runs, and swims at the height of the season.  But something shifted for me, and right when I might have considered piling on some longer workouts, I started to question the whole affair.  Was I not busy enough, with a full plate and a few new projects?  What if I continued to sleep in, drink my coffee in bed, focus on work around the house and the trips that were on my calendar, not encumbered by worrying how I would fit my training into an already packed schedule?  What if I slowed down enough to try to organize my financial life, my home, and stay awake long enough to make sure my teenager is feeling supported?
So, I quit the big one, and I quit all of the smaller ones that are there to get me ready for the big one.  And, after so many years, I didn't miss it.  I didn't miss one tiny part of it.  I missed the whole thing so little, in fact, that I wondered if I over-stayed at the party, in the first place.  Maybe I let this thing go on for too long?  But all I have to do is reflect on last years training and racing to know that's not the case.  I was challenged and fit and having fun, and felt at purpose.  A year ago, I  was expressing an important part of who I am and what I believe in through the sport and training.  So, to have a change of heart, and to respond, heartily, to that change of heart, I feel, is about as Unencumbered as I've ever been.  I shed the ten to twenty hours each week of training,  I ditched the enormous dietary issues, the sleep obsession, the skipped events/parties/etc…I ditched the extra expense of always staying current with gear, clothing, and more, I even ditched hair removal and focused on keeping my skin moist, fresh, and chlorine/salt free.  I grew my hair out, wore more jewelry, opened the holes in my ears for earrings, and started spending more than two minutes dressing.  When I walked out the door, for a trip, say, anywhere,  I didn't rest on the laurels of "I'll look good because my muscles show and my face is gaunt."…When I left the house, I wanted to look put together, not in a hurry, not exhausted, not haggard.  One thing I didn't ditch: the sun.  What can I say?  I think the vitamin D helps, and although I'll throw a hat on, our sunny days are few and far enough between that I'm catching whatever warmth and cheer I can derive from our ultimate source of energy.
The culmination of all this Unencumberment was a pretty massive undertaking, which involved family van-ning it all the way to Maine and back.  Such a delight, summer vacation without the constant preoccupation (OK< I'll get up really early and run 8 miles, then sneak onto my bike tomorrow) etc…Free to enjoy Niagara Falls (Canada side).


Free to indulge family boat trip "travel right into the Bridal Falls!"



And ahhh, Unencumbered swimming. It was only after about ten days on the road that I sat at a beach in Acadia, thinking…hmmm….I wonder if right about now I might see some triathlete in training dip his/her foot into the water and get ready for "a swim."  I'm just about ecstatic that my two strokes of choice this summer have been breast and side stroke.  More, I left the goggles at home, just about every beach day.  Ashby and I enjoyed one glorious afternoon on the shores of lake Ontario.  As I gazed over the vast expanse, I felt the chill of knowing that this whole region inspired so many of the Joyce Carol Oates stories that I love so much.  The still in the air took me to another place.

Lake Ontario!  Upstate New York. Four Mile Creek State Park.

Half Moon Pond State Park, VT
 On to Vermont, where I realized that after eleven years, I have a lot of unfinished business.  It was a delight to be in this beautiful, powerful place again.  Our first few days were uninterrupted by friends.  Later on, when we reconnected with parts of our VT community, we were overcome with emotion.


Lighthouse not far from campground  (self-time photo)
 As the season progressed, I realized that one of the great benefits of training so much is that I create solitary time that I might forget to take, otherwise.  So, by the time we landed at Acadia National Park, I had my alone time primed. Must. Have. Alone. Time.
Peter took this shot. What a perfect afternoon. Driving Acadia with two rowdy teenagers and two adults laughing and laughing and laughing. 

Visible competence, comes with the near approaching fifteen year mark.
 Being there, for all of the together activities felt complete.  Hiking, after a long day with the kids at the beach. Riding carriage trails at a cadence and pace suitable for the 8-11 year olds in the gang. Playing cards, charades, clean-up, prep.









By the time we returned to Vermont and dropped in on some terrific friends, we were fried.  It was clear to me, by this time, that had I tried to continue training through my adventures, the whole thing probably would have exploded, so a great year to take off.  We were able to indulge Burlington's great feel and connect with friends, get cleaned up, and ready for a very long drive back home.  I've said, many times, that our magical four years in Vermont, seem as if a dream.  By no means was it a perfect place for us to live, but the wonder and lifestyle, community and terrain was great for our very young family.  We miss it, sure, but not until we saw the mountains, trees, skies, friends, and water that we were overcome with the passage of time.  We only left, assured, that we need to continue making time in our lives for our community as it extends in every direction from our current locale.
And best, last.  We came home to the culmination of a season's work.  Absorbing Mom and Dad's furnishings into our Queen Anne bungalow, finishing the kitchen, a dear friend tended and painted and made sure it was amazing when we walked in the door.
 Carpet! Art! Clean! 
Lavendar! Induction stove! 

blue marmoleum!