"Everything we can imagine is real." ― Pablo Picasso
I hear a soft knock at the front door right in the middle of my REM sleep, and I refuse to open my eyes.
The knocking is insistent.
Is this a nightmare or a lucid dream?
I crack one eye open to look over at the space next to me that should be empty by 6:10 am, but it's filled with Larry, who is unable to breathe through his clogged nose, and it's creating a whistling sound with each exhale as if a train is coming.
He's sick. He must have decided to skip Boot Camp this morning, which has dire repercussions.
No coffee.
The knocking has now morphed into the ringing of our bell.
Dante left for work at least an hour ago.
The details of last night are floating down the river of my consciousness, slowly drifting to the shores of reality.
Did I mention I dream about water when I'm overwhelmed?
Kelley and Tim took a redeye home last night after an unexpected visit. I waited up until their Uber arrived, standing on the porch, gloomily watching them load their gear and drive away. Kelley will be back in less than a week, but we won't see Tim until next year.
Sounds weird even thinking that. Where did 2023 go?
After closing our seasonally appropriate red door, I putzed around the messy house, putting things back in order, loading the dishwasher, wiping down the counters, and piling all the stray shoes on the hearth before giving the sofa pillows a good plumping.
Satisfied, I sat by the fire, thinking about the next few weeks and totally freaking out.
Christmas is coming in fast and hot. Of course, I'm not ready. Every year I harbor this delusion that I will have everything bought, wrapped and decorated by December 10th. This has never happened but there is always next year.
When the idea of sleep seems more appealing than sitting by the fire with my spastic thoughts, I wander down the hall to our room and start my nightly absolutions, but then I lie in bed for over an hour, allowing my mind to drone on and on about how the gifts I've already purchased will be received. Clearly, this is about how I believe I am being received, but it's easier to blame things, isn't it?
So, who the hell is at the front door?
Obviously, Larry is not getting up.
I might not be the thinnest bear to be awakened in the winter, but possibly the grumpiest. I swing my legs out from under the warm blankets. I may have groaned loudly before letting my feet hit the floor, and now my only options are to stand or fall. Such is the reality of life.
I wish I slept in a sports bra because I can feel my boobies jiggle as I scamper down the long hall.
If I stand on my tippy toes, I can see out the small windows at the top of the door.
The person making all this racket is short. Isn't that always the case? I conclude it must be one of my granddaughters and quickly open the door, pulling Audrey, wrapped in a blanket, into the warm house.
"Audrey, what are you doing up so early."
"Grammie, it's a school day, and we're out of bread."
"Bread," I say as if I've never heard the word.
She's saucy in the morning, "Bread Grammie, the stuff you make sandwiches with, it comes sliced."
"Well, that rings a bell, hah, just like you." I laugh, but she's not in the mood, so I move towards the refrigerator, "let me see what we have in the frig." I keep all our bread in the refrigerator these days because we just don't go through it fast enough.
Carbs are not as friendly as they appear.
Digging through all the leftovers from yesterday, I find a few slices of sourdough under the bagels, a new sleeve of English muffins next to the coffee, and a bag of Hawaiian rolls on top of the romaine lettuce.
She's the height of my shoulder now and stands right next to me as I rummage through the containers of food. She grabs the Hawaiian rolls, "Thanks, Grammie. These will do," and walks back across the street.
I stand on the porch, watching her cross the street, my arms crossed in front of me to keep warm. I watch her as if a very loving hawk until she reaches her front door. She turns around and waves at me. I blow her a kiss.
And there I remain, standing on the cold porch, barefoot, with no bra, thanking God for the undeserved privilege of living across the street from my grandchildren because it's not the big moments that change your life. It's the small moments, day in and day out, that matter most.
No, I'm not going to cry.
As I turn to reenter the house, that whole bread thing throws me back in time. I glance down at the clean counters, remembering a time when I spent the morning slamming sandwiches together, four at a time, tossing them into small brown bags with smiley faces drawn on the outside and the kid's names. God forbid someone gets mayonnaise when they want plain bread with their tuna.
Life is what happens when you're busy making sandwiches.
I'm reminded that if I want coffee this morning, I'll have to make it myself, and I reach for the coffee pot, running through the process automatically. I notice the rich aroma when I open the container of grinds and inhale deeply.
Listening to the sound of the water dripping onto the grinds is somehow peaceful, full of anticipation, I feel my mouth watering. Coffee could be one of the last politically correct addictions.
But let's not get all dramatic.
While the coffee is brewing, I walk around the common areas, shifting the blinds so the light can enter the house. I'm obsessed with the morning light, how it reflects off the hardwood floors and slips into the room as if ribbons of gold, and it comes with this sense of well-being as if the body is designed to respond energetically to this visceral agent.
Grabbing my favorite mug, I pour myself a cup and return to my crowded room. Larry's breathing is ragged but soundly. I notice the sheet has come loose on his side of the bed, exposing the mattress pad. It must have been a restless night.
As quietly as possible, I place my mug on the side table, grab my computer off the floor, and stuff a French pillow behind my back, and suddenly my bed becomes my writing space.
I face the blank page with hesitation. Mel Robins claims, "Hesitation is the kiss of death." She says one slight hesitation triggers a mental system that's designed to stop you in your tracks.
So, I write the first thing that comes to mind. I hear a soft knock at the front door. And I watch my thoughts drip onto the page like heated water that turns grinds into coffee.
For a minute there, I thought this piece might turn into a synopsis on sleep deprivation or noise pollution, but no, as usual, my thoughts pull themselves off my mind as if a sweatshirt and slip it back on inside out.
Right?
Larry starts to wake. I'm feeling quite naughty because I've temporarily stashed my moral compass in my pocket after the shenanigans last week, when I was sick, and Larry allowed his empathy to go awol.
I realize this is very immature, and I don't care.
As he's hacking, groaning, and oversharing about his sleepless night, I just smile and say, "You're not getting out of writing this morning. It's our day to write, and we are sticking to the schedule."
He throws his hands over his face, "I'm not writing today."
"Yes, you are."
He rolls over and pulls the covers tightly around him.
This joint book endeavor has been a battle from the first word, and I imagine, to the last. The thing that Larry does not realize is that he's not battling his ability to write. He's a good writer. What he's battling is his feelings about writing. I tell him that my new BFF, Mel Robins (we're practically twins, but she's grossly unaware of our shared umbilical cord or our admiration for each other), says you can ignore your feelings of inadequacy.
"Honey, just ignore your feelings and write." (I purposely left out the inadequacy part, no sense in rubbing salt in the wound)
He lifts his head and looks at me as if I'm insane.
I mutter something rude under my breath, but let's move on.
I reconsider my words and say, "It's like the Nike motto."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"You know, just do it."
So, as you can see, Larry's sleeping, and I'm writing a blog.
But more importantly, I'm realizing how insecure we all are. It might be about different things, but we all have something we're unsure about. I'm insecure about socializing, cooking, and fashion. Larry's insecure about writing, exposure, and getting sick. Bahaha.
It seems to me that the things I want to avoid are the very things that will help me grow. Damn. Hence, the name of my book.
Life does not guarantee success, especially if you don't even try. If you want to win, you have to play.
I'm laughing at that thought because we just returned from an unexpected trip to Las Vegas a few days ago, and I lost five dollars playing a slot machine. I lost it all in less than five minutes. Then I got up from my very comfy chair and walked away from the lights, the sounds, and the ridiculous ways casinos try to capture our attention and money.
I'd rather buy a coffee.
Speaking of attention grabbers, Larry and I spent forty-eight hours in Las Vegas at the iconic but very run-down Flamingo Hotel on the Strip because our son-in-law, Tim Bontemps, is doing a live podcast on the NBA in-season tournament. This is the NBA's attempt to garner the sporting world's attention when everyone is focused on football.
And it was a huge success. I believe it was all due to the efforts of my son-in-law, but that is an unauthorized opinion.
Brian Windhorst hosted the podcast featuring Tim Bontempt and Tim MacMahon. The two Tims are fabulous together and bring a unique perspective to the nitty gritty world of basketball and the complicated dynamics of an in-season tournament.
Kelley flew in the same day as Larry, me, and MacMahon's lovely wife, Maria.
Larry and I attended the Pacers and the Bucks semi-final game, and Tim brought us courtside while the teams were warming up.
Damn, those guys are tall. They look normal when standing together but giants when they're next to regular-sized humans.
If it appears that everyone is vying for everyone's attention, it's because it is true.
Tim and Tim knocked the podcast out of the park.
Larry and I were on the early flight out the next morning. Kelley and Tim would follow us home, spending just one day visiting with the family before taking a redeye home last night.
So here I sit, listening to Larry's ragged breathing, uncertain of where this post is going but certain that if I take a risk and just write, my inner operating system will land on something. So, I ignore all those deep-seated feelings about the empty page and let my thoughts unravel without expectations.
To win the game of life, you have to play, and Mel says there's no stopping in the middle of the game just because you think you're going to lose.
I started this piece with a Picasso quote because there is a guy who knows how to play. He created thousands and thousands of paintings during his lifetime. It's been estimated that he produced over 50,000 works of art. Think of all the blank canvases he had to face. If you'll remember from my anniversary post, there are only 14,600 days in forty years.
You do the math.
As Mel says, "Success is a numbers game," and he had over 100 masterpieces.
I think writing about the small things in life, the unexpected, the things that twist your perspective around and challenge your insecurities, is essential. When I consider the scenery within, what I delight in, what I'm avoiding, and what I'm curious about, I'm really just figuring out who I am and how I fit in this world. I realize our fingerprints are enduring, so I'm trying to not only appreciate but apprehend each moment as it comes -- and delight in the unexpected knock at the door.
Listen to The Hoop Collective With Brian Windhorst, Tim Bontemps, and Tim MacMahon
I'm Living in the Gap, letting my thoughts flow through the daily grind, keeping up the pressure, and with a bit of luck, those words became audible, order your copy of Grow Damn It today. If the stories resonate, consider writing a review; don't hesitate, just do it.
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