Reading Rerun

I am a notorious re-reader. Or, at least, I was in my more youthful youth. I used to snuggle up to a book like it was an old friend or well-loved stuffed animal. Certain books provided a comfort akin to listening to memory-enducing music, eating cucumber salad (a Grandma Hope special), or smelling spring lilacs. It's always struck me as funny, though, which books ended up re-read, as the characters or plots themselves were not particularly comforting characters or plots. Case in point: I once read "Gone with the Wind" EVERY SINGLE SUMMER for something like six years. It used to take me the entire summer, and by the time I was finished, I had forgotten the details of the beginning, so I simply read it again--a year later. But "GWTW" is not a snuggly story about friendship and bunnies and rainbows. It's about hardship, war, poverty, and other angsty Southern Belle drama.

A book I read at least fifteen times during my late-elementary to middle school years was entitled, "Anywhere Else but Here" (Bruce Clements). Among the details of the plot is a girl whose mother died when she was a child, a troubled youth who tries to light himself afire, his whack-job mother that runs off to self-help meetings run by a cultish figurehead, and an old man who takes a liking to the main character's dollhouse--a relationship that seemed certain to run into slimy waters (but doesn't). Again, not exactly pre chick lit material.

But this time, while re-reading "Eat, Pray, Love," by Elizabeth Gilbert, I wholly admit that it is as chicky as chick lit gets--except that it's autobiographical. The first time I read it, I was deeply moved by the second section, "Pray." Capsulized, it's Elizabeth's (see, I've read her book twice, so we're on a first-name basis) journey to India to study yoga for many weeks. When I first read this section, I was pregnant and studying yoga for the first time. Well, okay, "study" is a stretch. My pregnant friend and I used to show up for class and try not to pass out while we forced our disproportionate bodies to bend and stretch in ways we'd never dreamed possible. Then we'd hit the Starbucks. But I digress....Elizabeth's yoga journey included not only the Hatha part (the stretching and holding of positions), but also the meditation part, which was never something I considered in seriousness, and certainly not something covered in prenatal yoga.

Until my adulthood, "meditation" was not a noun I heard in regularity, rather "prayer" was the implied verb of choice. I find this interesting, since "meditation" and "prayer" seem to be linked. As it is described in the book, "prayer" is about talking to God, while "meditation" is about listening to Him. Yes, you can go on and on about whether or not the God the Christians believe is in the "same" God the Yogis believe in yadda yadda yadda, but you'd be missing the point, in my opinion. The point is that to do one without the other is like trying to solve math equations, but never checking the back of the book to confirm that you're on the right track.

What's the point?

Not sure that I have one...today. But one of the struggles Elizabeth documents in her meditation practice is the inability to keep her mind "still." And THAT, my friends, is something to which I can assuredly relate, almost on a daily basis. Sometimes I physically and literally cannot write. I cannot keep my mind still long enough to get my thoughts on paper (er, screen). And other times my mind is so frantic that I cannot sleep. Sometimes I wake from a dead sleep to write myself a reminder on the pad I keep in my nightstand. Sometimes I have to whip out my phone in mid-sentence, to write a note to myself. Maybe it's a sign I should spend more time in meditation, the practice of teaching one's mind to be still.

Then again, other times it feels as though my mind is stuck in a swamp filled with Tired Mommy-Brain Mud. And then I can't write simply because I feel I have nothing to write ABOUT, or I can't remember what it was that I was going to say. It's exhausting being inside my head, really.

In any case, I'm enjoying reading this book again....though I admit that this time I'm drawn less to the part of the book that discusses hard work in the form of yoga study, and much more attracted to the part about eating pounds and pounds of Italian food. Maybe THAT's a sign.

Cue the Angel Voices

I don't want to alarm anyone, but I MAY have found the perfect swimsuit. Well, swimdress. And, yes, I'm well aware that the swimdress is not a new invention, but this is the first one I tried on that didn't make me feel all dowdy and motherly and stuff. There is a serious plunge in that neckline, people. But it also has lovely ruching at my biggest (literally) problem area, and a cutesy skirt, and OMG the ruffles on the halter! I think it looks better in person than on the model, but there is NO CHANCE that I will intentionally post a candid photo of myself in a swimanything. After my visit to AZ next week, there might be some candid-LOOKING photos of me in a swimdress, but I assure you they will all be posed, with the applicable parts sucked in.

Anyway...it's Kenneth Cole.

WOW.

I am amazed and flattered by you all, dear readers. Per your many requests, I will continue writing and posting as I feel moved to do so...you've been forewarned.

However, here is my personal compromise, which will somehow make me feel better. I am going to delete the function provided by this website which emails certain people a notice about a new post. In other words, if you're currently getting an email from my blog, you will NO LONGER receive it after today. That means that you'll have to bookmark the site and check back all on your own, adults that you are. (I'm aware that I might sacrifice a little readership, but a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.)

Perhaps I can try to explain. Let's pretend that the president of the U.S. (doesn't matter which one...past or present) were on the email list. And then let's pretend I decided to write a post about how I detest living in the U.S., and I think the leadership sucks, and I'm moving to Canada as soon as possible. It's feels as though I'm posting something deliberately to upset him, knowing full well that he will receive an email announcing my wish to move to Canada. Does that make any sense?

I can feel a little freer to write if I'm not 100% positive of who is reading. See? I already feel better just having made a decision.

One other thing. Those who blog know how this works already, but for the rest of you...Sometimes I'm not posting in "real time." There is a setting on this site that allows me to set a date and time for the post to publish. Sometimes I write five posts in one day, but stagger the publishing dates for those who are reading in a "blog reader" and like to have new posts more frequently. Just something to bear in mind.



Thanks for the love,
H
http://handbrosegarden.blogspot.com/

We (Might) Interrupt This Program

Today is another one of those days when I give serious thought to discontinuing this blog.

Before you ask--no, it's not something you said. Or didn't say. Well, not exactly. And, no, this isn't one of those lame attempts to generate a bunch of comments just for poops and giggles. And, actually, this was written several days ago.

It's not that I'm devoid of things to say (usually), and it's not that my days are filled with disinteresting events (usually). It's that I'm so fearful of speaking my mind here. And that is not the kind of blog I want to be writing. A "weblog," most commonly used as an online diary, should be a place where the author is free to express her thoughts and feelings, without regard to her audience. I am, on a daily basis, envious of bloggers like dooce and Kage, who write with what would appear to be a lack of self-consciousness, though, of course, that word in and of itself is a misnomer in this case. Because what makes them truly successful bloggers is their vast quantity of self-conciousness--the awareness of "self." And when they write in this uninhibited way, they do so in a public, un-anonymous forum (yep, before you mention it, I'm pretty sure that isn't a word). (Oh, and their real names are Heather Armstrong and Kristy Glass.)

When I blog, I am detrimentally aware of my audience. I know exactly which family members and friends requested to get an automatically generated email announcing a new post. I know the race, religion, location, and socio-economic status of almost every one of my readers (thank you, Google Analytics and--you know--just KNOWING who my readers are). I'm aware that my husband reads and has a pretty detailed opinion about how much information I share. I'm fully aware of who will be offended, bothered, or excited by every post. I can predict, almost with one hundred percent accuracy, who will comment publicly, who will send me an email with a comment, and who never comments at all. With all this information, it is nearly impossible for me to write uninhibitedly.

I have generated two possible solutions:

1. Perhaps I need one blog for family stuff (pics and video of the Munch, etc.), and one completely anonymous blog where my family members all have pseudonyms, and I wouldn't intentionally publicize it to anyone I know. Sort of like Swistle.

or

2. I could delete everyone from the email list, and turn off the comments.

The second solution would leave me without the knowledge of who is reading and what they think, while the first solution would probably just leave me without readers. Here's the weird thing, though. I like an audience. That's no secret, really. After all, I am an actor and a teacher. If I thought no one was reading, I'd probably stop writing. And I do keep coming back to the original reason I started this blog in the first place. But I also acknowledge two things that have changed for me. One is that I read many more blogs than I did when I started writing my own. Therefore, I have a heightened awareness of what others are writing about, and that often inspires my own posts--many of which I don't end up posting because of the info in paragraph two. The other major thing that has changed is, well, my life. I have fewer creative outlets than when I was working outside the home. I have fewer adults I interact with on a daily basis. I am more in tune with politics, the blogosphere, social networking, etc. And, oh yeah, I'm now a parent. In other words, I have more to talk about.

I suppose there is a third solution: FREAKING GROW A PAIR. See now, I offended you and you, and YOU have no idea what that expression means...am I right? As Yente would say, "Of course right."

(Yeah, you're going to need to look up that reference, aren't you?)

A Note from Oliver

Dear Readers,

My mom is much too sad to write this herself, so I told her I'd give her a hand. Without going into detail, I'm happy/sad to report that I am now living with another family. My parents and I think I am better suited to a home with no children. I am so sad to have to leave the folks who raised me, but my new owners seem to love me a whole lot, and are patient with my shortcomings.

Thanks for being kind to my parents during this rough time. This was an impossible decision for them, to be sure.

Love Always,

Oliver

Makeover Magic

I'm not sure this really counts as a makeover, since we never intentionally staged the room the way you see it in the "before" picture, but here is the almost finished Piano Room (directly across from the kitchen):



















It's still missing window treatments, some additional decorative stuff on top of the wardrobe, need to hang the picture, etc. But it's close!

Clever Monkey

Yesterday the Munch and I were hanging out in the house doing boring stuff: laundry, tidying, taking out the trash, etc. I walked to the patio door (which functions as our back door, and, therefore, has a deadbolt lock on it) to dump the trash bags in the cans, simultaneously thinking, "you know, one of these days we need to hide a spare key somewhere, just in case the little man figures out how to twist that silly lock, hahaha..." Naturally, I turned around from the trash cans, headed back to the door, turned the knob, and--well, you figured this out already, didn't you. LOCKED. OUT. Of the house. With a TODDLER on the other side. FIVE MINUTES BEFORE PRECIOUS NAP TIME. Kill me.

I spent about seven minutes trying to teach him how to turn the knob ("Mommy, what's a knob?") before I figured out that my time would be better spent trying to break into my own house, to no avail. I ran (REALLY QUICKLY) around to the front, hoping against hope that someone had forgotten to lock the front door. No dice. I inspected every screen on my way back around to the ill-fated patio door, tried the knob again, and found it unlocked.

Clever monkey.

Inaugural Zoo Trip!

Guess where? Not Lincoln Park, for once. Last week, The Munch and I took a much-needed trip to MI to visit Mimi, Papa and "Omi" (Auntie Naomi), and we took an almost spur of the moment trip to the Detroit Zoo.

The impatient toddler in the house is preventing me from writing much more, but here are the pics. Enjoy!

http://gallery.me.com/hannahrae#100478