So it's time that I told you about the name of my blog, Running Toward the Ball. The phrase is from lacrosse, or at least I heard it at summer camp during lacrosse games (actually, during practice when the counselors were yelling at us). Don't get the idea that I was a lacrosse star. I was probably, quite happily, on the B team -- which they delicately called "Silver," the A team been "Gold." I guess that's the first stopping point in this memory -- I was very contented at that time to do my best. I wasn't resentful or jealous, but always working to be as good as I could be. I know that sounds pretty girl-scout like, but it was probably one of the most centered and happy times of my life.
Lacrosse was a somewhat intimidating sport, looking back. In field hockey, the ball was mostly on the ground and all you had to do was be a good runner, chase after it, and hit once in while. It seemed smart to maintain an equal distance from the girl with the ball as you ran up the field or even give more of a wide berth; the girls would whack the ball in huge diagonals and of course I'd go sprinting after it.
I tried the same strategy in lacrosse, but got reminded not to run awy from the person with the ball, to run toward her. That seemed a little counter-intuitive to me, especially with all those sticks waving in the air.
Through the years the phrase has stuck with me and I've adapted it to mean moving toward a goal. I know that seems like the obvious direction, but at times in my life I've been, if not a self-handicapper, then at least not goal-oriented in a clear path, meaning, I'd let myself meander onto more interesting paths, or be a rebel rouser and somehow protest the clear and accessible path (especially those with rules and authority figures). I'm working on "being there" for myself in a more nurturing and rational way -- and not just once in a while.
Of course, getting older, the stakes become higher. Seeing and running toward are more important than ever.
Monday, June 12, 2017
Friday, March 31, 2017
Being Vital
At Thanksgiving last year before dinner, I spoke to out host's mother, Shirley. She and her husband had moved from Vermont to Seattle a few years ago to be with their son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren. They lived in a retirement community.
Shirley was a great conversationalist. I asked if she missed Vermont.
"My husband and I were originally from New York," she began, in a New York accent. But her husband worked for IBM (short for "I've Been Moved") and they asked him to move to Burlington. They went and their kids, a boy and a girl, eventually enrolled in University of Vermont.
I'm not sure about this, but I believe that they had one car. At least the kids didn't have a car. So on a typical day, Shirley would drop her husband off at work and the kids at campus. Then she'd go to the bank, the grocery, come home, put away the groceries, make her appointments. I assume that she'd make dinner, then go back to campus and pick up the kids. After dinner she's take them to the library.
"Wouldn't they be at the library awful late, for you to go pick them up?" I asked.
"Well, they'd take me back home so that they could have the car. It was a very small town."
Then she sighed and said, "Those were the days."
Shirley was looking slightly past me as she recounted all this. From her closing remark it would seem more fitting if she was reliving a life of golf, bridge games, and dinners at the country club. But her wistfulness was for a time when she saw herself as vital -- which is not to say that she's not vital now, with her children, grandchildren, and husband nearby. But in Burlington, she was the center of things in a way that enabled her family to run while each person pursued their goals. She created a world that called her to act everyday.
In the months since meeting Shirley I've thought about whether I'm vital in my world. In fact I feel the question like an undertow. At 57, how connected am I to communities other than my immediate ones -- work and friends here in Savannah? Yes, I stay in touch with a few people from high school, and extended family. But some important connections and activities have puttered to a stop. My ideas about those parts of my life have become more ideas than real.
What is being vital? It's being part of communities, using talents, being more present, more often for people who are important. It means involvement in activities that I see myself in, and some that I never thought about, as chances arise. It's a time that I'll look back on and say, "that was great" or "I can't believe I did that."
For Shirley, with immediate family in front of her, she probably became vital without even knowing it was happening (as my boyfriend said). In my case, I'm thinking about ways that I can be more vital and am trying to take a step toward it everyday. Writing about Shirley is a start.
Shirley was a great conversationalist. I asked if she missed Vermont.
"My husband and I were originally from New York," she began, in a New York accent. But her husband worked for IBM (short for "I've Been Moved") and they asked him to move to Burlington. They went and their kids, a boy and a girl, eventually enrolled in University of Vermont.
I'm not sure about this, but I believe that they had one car. At least the kids didn't have a car. So on a typical day, Shirley would drop her husband off at work and the kids at campus. Then she'd go to the bank, the grocery, come home, put away the groceries, make her appointments. I assume that she'd make dinner, then go back to campus and pick up the kids. After dinner she's take them to the library.
"Wouldn't they be at the library awful late, for you to go pick them up?" I asked.
"Well, they'd take me back home so that they could have the car. It was a very small town."
Then she sighed and said, "Those were the days."
Shirley was looking slightly past me as she recounted all this. From her closing remark it would seem more fitting if she was reliving a life of golf, bridge games, and dinners at the country club. But her wistfulness was for a time when she saw herself as vital -- which is not to say that she's not vital now, with her children, grandchildren, and husband nearby. But in Burlington, she was the center of things in a way that enabled her family to run while each person pursued their goals. She created a world that called her to act everyday.
In the months since meeting Shirley I've thought about whether I'm vital in my world. In fact I feel the question like an undertow. At 57, how connected am I to communities other than my immediate ones -- work and friends here in Savannah? Yes, I stay in touch with a few people from high school, and extended family. But some important connections and activities have puttered to a stop. My ideas about those parts of my life have become more ideas than real.
What is being vital? It's being part of communities, using talents, being more present, more often for people who are important. It means involvement in activities that I see myself in, and some that I never thought about, as chances arise. It's a time that I'll look back on and say, "that was great" or "I can't believe I did that."
For Shirley, with immediate family in front of her, she probably became vital without even knowing it was happening (as my boyfriend said). In my case, I'm thinking about ways that I can be more vital and am trying to take a step toward it everyday. Writing about Shirley is a start.
Saturday, December 17, 2016
Post Hurricane
I went to move my car the other night. It was the eve of Savannah's Rock-n-Roll Marathon and downtown residents had been warned for a couple weeks about towing if cars interfered with the race course. I saw Tess, my neighbor in the big house on the corner, returning from the same errand. It was dark and I barely made out her cropped blonde hair.
"Tess, Hi," I ventured.
"Why, Hi!"
Tess is amazingly friendly. She personifies Southern friendly for me -- or at least Savannah friendly. With a drawl she'll ask you all about yourself and tell you something about herself that's totally unexpected.
I asked her how she fared with the Hurricane. (Hurricane Matthew came through Savannah in mid-October.)
"Well, we stayed here." Mah husband thought maybe we should go someplace but I thought about him in the front, driving, and drinking scotch and me in the back with the cats. I just hunkered down in my bed. Somehow, we were fine. Georgia's bigger than the hurricane and God's bigger than Georgia. That's what I say."
Tess also told me that she goes down to the cathedral and prays every morning. (Cathedral of St. John the Baptist, apparently known as "the Cathedral" is a huge French Gothic structure just north of Lafayette Square.) I imagined Tess as a fixture there, greeting everybody each morning.
"Tell me again where you work," she asked. "Oh yes, we used to have a Jewish neighbor that worked at SCAD. Very nice fella.
Soon after that, election season took hold and a Trump sign appeared in Tess's front yard, along with an American flag on the porch. I also noticed a "Pray to End Abortion" sign in a first floor window as I walked along the side of her house one day.
Fall in Savannah was marked by the hurricane and of course the election. One, if not both events were a way to get to know each other better.
"Tess, Hi," I ventured.
"Why, Hi!"
Tess is amazingly friendly. She personifies Southern friendly for me -- or at least Savannah friendly. With a drawl she'll ask you all about yourself and tell you something about herself that's totally unexpected.
I asked her how she fared with the Hurricane. (Hurricane Matthew came through Savannah in mid-October.)
"Well, we stayed here." Mah husband thought maybe we should go someplace but I thought about him in the front, driving, and drinking scotch and me in the back with the cats. I just hunkered down in my bed. Somehow, we were fine. Georgia's bigger than the hurricane and God's bigger than Georgia. That's what I say."
Tess also told me that she goes down to the cathedral and prays every morning. (Cathedral of St. John the Baptist, apparently known as "the Cathedral" is a huge French Gothic structure just north of Lafayette Square.) I imagined Tess as a fixture there, greeting everybody each morning.
"Tell me again where you work," she asked. "Oh yes, we used to have a Jewish neighbor that worked at SCAD. Very nice fella.
Soon after that, election season took hold and a Trump sign appeared in Tess's front yard, along with an American flag on the porch. I also noticed a "Pray to End Abortion" sign in a first floor window as I walked along the side of her house one day.
Fall in Savannah was marked by the hurricane and of course the election. One, if not both events were a way to get to know each other better.
Saturday, October 15, 2016
Hurricane Recipes
I made it through the hurricane, just like everyone else but, I think, far better than everyone else. I didn't lose power, didn't have damage, and stayed in town with friends. I know that my day will come!
Even though I escaped damage and inconvenience (I'm getting more scared of paybacks by the minute) I did play a small role for friends. They stayed at my house one night when their power went out and I cooked a few meals for them and a couple others who had lost power or wanted company or both. The following is the worst of my hurricane kitchen endeavors.
So many around me were camping out with friends, driving distances to inland Georgia, staying in odd circumstances, etc., I felt kind of bad being too comfortable -- and didn't want to be out-adventured. Thus I decided to use the small hibachi grill that I'd been ignoring on my porch to grill up the thawing packages of frozen fish in my refrigerator (inherited among many other refrigerated and frozen items from friends without power). I'm not a foodie, but I am a food snob. I don't buy frozen fish. I go to the local, incredible fish market, Russo's. Thus, the Kroger packages of Talapia and tuna were foreign to me, but, again, adventure. I marinated as my sister suggested and my friends took over just as I was on page six of the grill instructions and getting frustrated. They're master grillers (a la Green Egg) and I felt things were going well. We had drinks. Thankfully I had the good sense to make one "sure" thing, brown rice with chicken broth. I also made a salad out of a head of iceberg lettuce that didn't seem to go away, no matter how much I used it.
To me the fish tasted like lighter fluid that had gone bad. (Yes, my friends used lighter fluid when the grill instructions warned against it, pa. 6). "Is it supposed to taste like this?" I asked, amazed that they were eating everything on their plates. I tried to find all the rice on mine and didn't bring it up again. The next day we all reported in that we had stomach issues. I think that the fish had been in one too many freezers, then refrigerators over the course of the power outages.
Since then I've cleaned the grill -- another step in my recent quest to face the unknown or at least do something new each day. Maybe that is my personal, leftover effect from going just a little bit outside of my comfort zone during the Hurricane. I'm hoping!
Even though I escaped damage and inconvenience (I'm getting more scared of paybacks by the minute) I did play a small role for friends. They stayed at my house one night when their power went out and I cooked a few meals for them and a couple others who had lost power or wanted company or both. The following is the worst of my hurricane kitchen endeavors.
So many around me were camping out with friends, driving distances to inland Georgia, staying in odd circumstances, etc., I felt kind of bad being too comfortable -- and didn't want to be out-adventured. Thus I decided to use the small hibachi grill that I'd been ignoring on my porch to grill up the thawing packages of frozen fish in my refrigerator (inherited among many other refrigerated and frozen items from friends without power). I'm not a foodie, but I am a food snob. I don't buy frozen fish. I go to the local, incredible fish market, Russo's. Thus, the Kroger packages of Talapia and tuna were foreign to me, but, again, adventure. I marinated as my sister suggested and my friends took over just as I was on page six of the grill instructions and getting frustrated. They're master grillers (a la Green Egg) and I felt things were going well. We had drinks. Thankfully I had the good sense to make one "sure" thing, brown rice with chicken broth. I also made a salad out of a head of iceberg lettuce that didn't seem to go away, no matter how much I used it.
To me the fish tasted like lighter fluid that had gone bad. (Yes, my friends used lighter fluid when the grill instructions warned against it, pa. 6). "Is it supposed to taste like this?" I asked, amazed that they were eating everything on their plates. I tried to find all the rice on mine and didn't bring it up again. The next day we all reported in that we had stomach issues. I think that the fish had been in one too many freezers, then refrigerators over the course of the power outages.
Since then I've cleaned the grill -- another step in my recent quest to face the unknown or at least do something new each day. Maybe that is my personal, leftover effect from going just a little bit outside of my comfort zone during the Hurricane. I'm hoping!
Saturday, September 3, 2016
Labor Day Talk
It's Labor Day weekend in Savannah and the crush is already on, it seems, of incoming students to SCAD for the fall, even though the quarter doesn't start for another week. Students have most likely already come back to the other schools in the area (Armstrong, Savannah State, Savannah Law), but SCAD is the largest and best known outside of Savannah and has the added, local presence of being spread out over downtown.
One of the many perks that I enjoy being a liberal arts professor there is a parking pass at lots around the city's crowded tourist spots. My favorite is on the south side of Liberty, one of the east - west corridors that marks off the historic area. I can park there, then pick my way across traffic and cut through the squares and clumps of students and tourists (feeling smugly local all the way). Today I headed to J.Crew to exchange a pair of pants. "I think I waited on you last time," the manager said. "Going up a size," she observed, flatly. I didn't say anything. Saying nothing is powerful. Most of all, it violates expectations to respond, and thus it takes some discipline on the part of the (non) speaker. I find it a challenge because I don't like making people feel uncomfortable, and thus sometimes use a non-verbal gesture instead -- a wave or a nod. That can defeat the purpose of a non-response but in some situations you want to respond, just not with what's expected. A non-response can say volumes, in this case probably more than I intended. I thought that her comment was a poor choice, though it could have been some type of compliment; I was just too hungry at the time to take part in small talk, especially something a little tricky like this. Mainly, I was sick of tight fitting pants around my thighs (I like to think of them as 'athletic'). As I sat down to lunch across the street, I felt a little regret for making the manager (and her trainee) uncomfortable (would I be embarrassed going in there again?), but sometimes it's worth the experiment.
One of the many perks that I enjoy being a liberal arts professor there is a parking pass at lots around the city's crowded tourist spots. My favorite is on the south side of Liberty, one of the east - west corridors that marks off the historic area. I can park there, then pick my way across traffic and cut through the squares and clumps of students and tourists (feeling smugly local all the way). Today I headed to J.Crew to exchange a pair of pants. "I think I waited on you last time," the manager said. "Going up a size," she observed, flatly. I didn't say anything. Saying nothing is powerful. Most of all, it violates expectations to respond, and thus it takes some discipline on the part of the (non) speaker. I find it a challenge because I don't like making people feel uncomfortable, and thus sometimes use a non-verbal gesture instead -- a wave or a nod. That can defeat the purpose of a non-response but in some situations you want to respond, just not with what's expected. A non-response can say volumes, in this case probably more than I intended. I thought that her comment was a poor choice, though it could have been some type of compliment; I was just too hungry at the time to take part in small talk, especially something a little tricky like this. Mainly, I was sick of tight fitting pants around my thighs (I like to think of them as 'athletic'). As I sat down to lunch across the street, I felt a little regret for making the manager (and her trainee) uncomfortable (would I be embarrassed going in there again?), but sometimes it's worth the experiment.
Friday, May 13, 2016
Truth in writing
I've been working on this academic article on a partnership between a Reform synagogue and a Baptist church for more than some time now. I might be at the point of moving past the academic expectations and unthinking to some degree of truth. It's hard to do; we, or at least I, am so saddled with what should be and fear of judgment. Best to play it safe and sound like we should sound.
I'm taking a voice for performance class now. It's not that big of a deal, really, teaching three classes and taking one. Unless losing hair and gaining weight is a big deal. Viv, the instructor says that reality is "out there;" the truth is "in here" -- the performance hall, the stage, the classroom, the movie set. The class is a hell of a lot of work (200 level) and I'm convinced I would be a very mediocre actor. .
Truth is hard. It lies beneath layers of control and expectation. Another lesson from class: Self consciousness is our enemy. Meaning must be the reward.
I'm taking a voice for performance class now. It's not that big of a deal, really, teaching three classes and taking one. Unless losing hair and gaining weight is a big deal. Viv, the instructor says that reality is "out there;" the truth is "in here" -- the performance hall, the stage, the classroom, the movie set. The class is a hell of a lot of work (200 level) and I'm convinced I would be a very mediocre actor. .
Truth is hard. It lies beneath layers of control and expectation. Another lesson from class: Self consciousness is our enemy. Meaning must be the reward.
Monday, December 15, 2014
Robin
I know that all of you are waiting to see what advice and insights I'll offer next on my new blog (about singledom and other topics), but before any other posts I want to pay tribute to the memory of my wonderful friend Robin Riggs Goldsmith. She thought that all of my jokes were hilarious.
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