We'd talked up Rosie's new "big girl" ballet lessons all weekend. Last Monday, we arrived only to find the studio dark. In the Rec. Office, the front desk lady breezily apologized for not informing me earlier that the class had been cancelled due to low enrollment.
There are few things sadder than a tutu-bedecked three year old with a
broken heart. As Rosie realized what I was telling her, the tears
started. The loud kind. I didn't exactly hustle her out of the office. Only after the front desk lady fully appreciated the gravity of her error did I take Buzzy to the cupcake
place to recover.
Wednesday is Buzzy's day to dance. This morning, I got up before the kids, cooked them a hot breakfast (oatmeal, and not the instant kind)--and got Buzzy to the studio promptly at 11:05, glowing with maternal achievement. (Anything under 10 minutes late is 'prompt' for us.) Unfortunately, Buzzy's class started at 10:00, just as it has since it began in September. Cue Buzzy's tears. They're huge. She really should be in drama class, but I'm afraid to feed the fire. "I won't know the steps for the recital! I won't know the steps!!" We headed to the bakery for pre-lunch M&M cookies all around.
As I munched on my cookie, I realized maybe I'd been a little harsh on the lady in the Rec. Office. I remembered that my own superstar mother had once miscalculated the time of one of my ballet recitals, and I'd missed the last performance. I remember nothing about that ballet class, but I remember the revolving pie case at the Odyssey Restaurant, which is where she took me to find comfort in a pile of meringue.
Fat Tuesday Forty
In the last week, I accidentally hit a medicine man in
the thigh with a lemon quarter. I met erudite and hilarious writers who
matter-of-factly accept the appearance of wolves as spiritual guides. I walked on Red Rocks and sniffed the silver-berried air. I got a facial from
a lovely, Japanese-speaking woman who ministered to my shoulders with hot rocks
she got from the sea in San Diego. “They
still have good energy! You live in
Sedona a while, you start talking like that!
Very different from East Coast!” Since, after all, it was my birthday, I also got a pedicure and received
kick-ass foot maintenance advice from another esthetician (Black & Decker
Mouse hand sander with fine grit paper. You’re welcome). I learned a Sufi secret. I met an old, dear friend and her
jolly, impossibly dimpled baby in the Phoenix airport.
My friend was tired in such a familiar way. I realized it's a life-changing exhaustion, even after the
sleep deficit disappears. I made a
luminous, smart and kind new friend whose creativity, insight and logic were
all reminders of how fabulous it is to get out of your comfort zone just so you
can meet people like her. The term
“douchbagel” became, for better or worse, part of my lexicon. I did
not seek an encounter with an animal spiritual guide, but I read some psalms
and came back to my old gurus (vintage U2) after a long time away. I remembered the importance of tending to my own medicine. I resolved to write non-precious things more
often and to actually post them, too. Let's hope I don't regret the last one. Eeek! Too late.
Break
Sedona without expectations. The desert grows beauty. The red rocks anchor. Sun and clouds duel on an endless stage.
Inside: a smooth duvet, pitch black room and silence uninterrupted. The sleep I've dreamt of for over five years does not disappoint.
Strangers become comrades. We battle to get the words out, learning the trick, sometimes, is to surrender. We surrender precious. We surrender ego. We surrender sentences. It is safe.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)