Ten things about me (okay, eleven)

IMG_44791) I love music.  I love listening to all kinds of music and dancing to most.  This first thing I know about myself helps me resolve all the other things I know about myself.  I always feel better when I listen to music and definitely if it’s the type that makes me dance.

2) I am a terrible housekeeper.  I’ve come to grips with it recently.  Instead of beating myself up for it, I relish in all the time I haven’t wasted doing monotonous, meaningless, thankless chores required to keep a tidy house.  Instead of letting the chaos stress me, I am grateful when the day comes that it IS cleaned up (every two weeks when the housekeeper comes.)

3) I am eternally disorganized.  This relates back to #2.  Things don’t get tidied up and put away like I imagine they do in some other households.  Every other Tuesday the housekeeper comes.  I spend the entire morning putting stuff away on the first floor just so she can dust, mop, wipe, and vacuum the first floor when she arrives mid-day.  Then, I retreat upstairs to do the same for the rest of the afternoon until she makes her way to the second floor.  The whole day every other Tuesday is devoted to cleaning up.  I could keep doing it that way or I could tidy up every day.  Either way, it’s six in one, half dozen in the other.

4) I am nearly always 5 minutes late everywhere I go.  IMG_1781This goes back to #3.  I’m always searching for something in a sea of papers that I’m supposed to bring with me or a shirt to be returned after my appointment (that I am already late for) and I can’t find the shirt or the receipt.  Or, I attempt a quick tidy up in order to combat #2 or #3 quick so that when I come home later, I’m not faced with the utterly discouraging mess.

IMG_53515) I dream of living in an Airstream.  With a great sound system.  I won’t have to keep house (whoever heard of trailerkeeping?), be organized, or on-time.

6) I love the places where the land meets the sea.  These are mostly the places I will go to in my Airstream.

7) I am vigilant about the truth.  Music speaks the truth to me.  I will search in all the places where the land meets the sea in my Airstream for the truth, even if I’m late.  Even if the truth is messy.

8) I despise the word hate.  “All you need is love, love.  Love is all you need.” – John Lennon. There is no need for hate.  Ever.  “Darkness cannot drive out darkness, only light can do that.  Hate cannot drive out hate.  Only love can do that.”  – Martin Luther King Jr.

8a) Can I add another thing about myself?  I love quotes.  Quotes help us define our truths, drive out hatred, embrace acceptance and love unconditionally.

9) I love hugs.  Deep, heartfelt, loving, silent hugs. The kind that conveys all the words we use to try to describe love, which is indescribable and invisible.  I love hugs that make you feel the words “I love you” echoed in a whisper in the bottom of your soul.  Words that are of another world, residing in the silence of the embrace.

10) I love silence.  Even in music.  Claude Debussy once said, “music exists in the space between the notes.”  That’s where I like to live.  In the space between the notes, where music lives in silence, in dance, in chaos, in disorganization, or even in a beat that may arrive late and find it’s way to the back of the room in silence.




I have these moments that I call Airstream moments.  It’s when I visualize myself selling everything, buying an Airstream trailer and heading west into the sunset, streaming some air, homeschooling the children out of the trailer.  I don’t have to play house anymore, the husband doesn’t have to play the banker anymore.  He can just play husband.  The one who is devoted to me more than he is to his emails and conference calls.

I expect the real husband lives there.  In the Airstream.  With the real me.  The one who doesn’t have to go to PTA events and cocktail parties.  The one who doesn’t have to pick up the dry cleaning and make sure there are clean undershirts in the drawers. The one who doesn’t have to make sure the kids are on time and well practiced in the art of everything.  The me who lives in the Airstream is someone I long to be for what she is not and yet I have no idea who she is.

I imagine her to be wearing the same comfortable shoes, jeans, and beloved fleece day in and day out.  She eats her yogurt and grape nuts every morning.  A simple sandwich at lunch.  Tea somewhere along the way with fruit and nuts.  Bread and cheese. Salad with a glass of red wine.  She reads books, she writes, she takes photographs, she walks the dog and listens to the news on the radio.  She gets plenty of sleep and drinks lots of water.  She reads stories and plays chess with anyone who will oblige her.  On Wednesdays and Saturdays, she washes her hair and does laundry.

The husband that lives in the Airstream is a man who gets plenty of rest.  He breathes deep and long while contemplating the light.  He doesn’t need as much exercise as banker husband does because he doesn’t overeat like stressed out banker husband does.  He cooks on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays and we eat what’s left in between.  He has time for kisses on the back of my neck and hugs that convey what words cannot.  We share passages from the words we read, listen to radio segments together and have time to question and ponder.  We hold each other close and we dance.   We go to bed early and we wake up late.

I’ve envisioned all kinds of scenarios that correspond with the potential number of riders in the airstream.  One.  Me, alone, solo.  Mom’s taking a sabbatical of sorts, to sort stuff out.  You guys are old enough to fend for yourselves now aren’t you?  Two.  Just us, me and him like it used to be before kids, like it will be after they are gone, which won’t be for another 6 years.  That scenario has to wait.  Three.  Me and the two youngest, after the oldest leaves for college this fall.  Husband can continue to work crazy hours while I go on with my crazy dream.  Four.  Husband quits crazy hours and joins me and the two kids in my crazy dream.  Five.  Oldest takes a year off before going to college and the five of us go on down the road, exploring how we belong together.  As one.  As two.  As three, four, and five.

None of these scenarios are possible right now.  Now I must pick up the dry cleaning.  Now I must practice belonging here.  The Airstream will wait for another day, week, month, year.  Another time.  An other time?  An other me?