I am proud to say that I am getting close to mastering the front-aerial-somersault/cross-legged/lift/jump/twirl/(newly added) cartwheel routine.
The trampoline in my backyard is huge, taking up a third of the space, and is a source of delight and distraction for my boys and, now, me.
However, always posed to me by alarmed others not in my tribe is the question, “Don’t you worry about the boys falling off? Don’t you have one of those trampoline enclosure nets? What if they end up in the emergency room with broken bones?”
Well, no, I am not too alarmed as mine is the 14-FOOT AIRZONE TRAMPOLINE (notice the all-capital letters) that allows for hugacious bounces. And, no, to the enclosure nets as I have witnessed my boys at their friends houses’ where trampolines are well-netted like a newborn’s head, overprotected in her carseat by doughnut-folded material, allowing for NO movement whatsoever (ergo, no neck strength development, in my mind). What I HAVE seen is boys THROWING themselves at the so-called safety net, which leaves me wondering how much safer that option is to my own large trampoline where all the neighborhood boys tend to congregate and stay centered.
Anyway, I am a busy working mama, legal interpreter with lots of professional demands that I counterpoise with moments of fun with my two boys. And, since they love the trampoline, I think, I love the trampoline, too. “Hey, Mom [bounce, bounce], can you do THIS? [bounce, bounce, somersault].
“Sure I can!” After all, I am a serious runner who has continued my sport in 100-degree hot temperatures and in 17-below-zero frigid cold. [Bounce, bounce, jump, somersault, bottom-landing/bounce.] And sure enough, I could! “This shall be my new cross-training exercise since I can’t seem to get to the gym for weight-lifting!” I happily proclaimed.
Nonetheless, while I have my weird, weird ways (celebrated by my Goddesses), I must admit that I do have a sensible streak, so recently, before my 12th annual 7.5 mile Bloomsday road race, I put my trampolining on hold as I didn’t want to risk injury because I have been known to have some serious falls, bloody scrapes, and bone breaks.
My race was run-tastic and Bloom-icious, but life goes on, and new challenges have cropped up for me as an already cleft-palate mama whose second baby needs more surgery in the coming months and new opportunities have arisen for my oldest (more to come on that). A light-hearted purple-itudeness has been just what I needed, so back to the trampoline I returned. And quite proudly, too. I even posted on my beloved Facebook, “Lynne has made my post-Blooms-edifying return to aerial somersault-ification and flip-struction on the trampoline this evening!” (May 14, 2009)
But promptly in my Facebook inbox was an email from a concerned “friend” who was worried about my “uterus falling out because of all that jumping.” Wordy me, I felt speechless at that but was able to muster the response that, “In addition to my daily run, I incorporate several sets of Kegal exercises throughout the day. But, truly, thanks for the concern!”
Sigh. The naysayers in life.
But…
But…
But [said longingly]…
But… I am SO, SO CLOSE to mastering the front aerial somersault/cross-legged/lift/jump/twirl/ (and newly added) cartwheel…plus, as of tonight, the back somersault-to-feet-twist!
The frame of my life isn’t easy now, but I am creating moments. And those in my tribe say, “Brag AND post a video on Facebook! Cool! I bet your kids love it, too! You’ve got to be one of the coolest mamas around!
“Plus, you’ll love looking back at the video years from now.”
Sooooo…coming soon…Trampoline Jumping for 40-Year-Old Women, Instructional Video!
I have to go now…Goddess Schawn is warming up her camera…
Love life, engage in it, give it all you've got. Love it with a passion, because life truly does give back, many times over, what you put into it. (Maya Angelou)
LL (trampolynne), 5/21/2009. Prevail.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
What Comes of Winter
The barn, once a pumping red organ,
now stands browned as the crusted
wound from a gutted carcass.
Inside, hollow, rotted—
boards sag, broken splinters
like pipes in winter.
Abandoned by laborers,
the only occupant: a rusted cowbell
so brittle that touch
threatens to encore
a thousand fragments ringing
with dusty memories, dissonance,
chiming to the ground.
LL, 3/14/2009. Prevail.
now stands browned as the crusted
wound from a gutted carcass.
Inside, hollow, rotted—
boards sag, broken splinters
like pipes in winter.
Abandoned by laborers,
the only occupant: a rusted cowbell
so brittle that touch
threatens to encore
a thousand fragments ringing
with dusty memories, dissonance,
chiming to the ground.
LL, 3/14/2009. Prevail.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Haiku 8
(Umbra.)
Clouds eclipsing sun
Shadows of bright, gold, and black.
Ebullient shivers.
(Penumbra.)
Seraphic shadows
Tangle in layers of light.
An awareness pose.
(Antumbra.)
Edges crenated
Drifting drapes expose glimpses.
Give water to trees.
LL, 5/6/2009. Prevail.
Clouds eclipsing sun
Shadows of bright, gold, and black.
Ebullient shivers.
(Penumbra.)
Seraphic shadows
Tangle in layers of light.
An awareness pose.
(Antumbra.)
Edges crenated
Drifting drapes expose glimpses.
Give water to trees.
LL, 5/6/2009. Prevail.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Peace Out!
During Spokane’s Get Lit Festival in April, I had a cold/cough for a couple of days, but I felt better towards the end, though still ebbing and flowing to the tunes of the ‘Quils. But I decided to head out that Thursday evening to hear Jane Smiley, the festival’s headliner (I have almost all of her books and have been a fan for twenty years). Just needed to get out and seek solace and wellness among words.
The week had challenged even my own upbeat purple-itudeness as I precariously balanced the life, demands, and rewards of a working mama. My first thought was, well, let’s see what gold I can mine from the challenges before me, but right on its heels were my familiar companions of self-doubt and guilt. And chasing after that was the thought, hey, it will be all good and it IS all good. Quite the dog chasing cat chasing squirrel fray in my mind.
So I thought, Get Lit. Go to Jane Smiley. I parked about five blocks from the downtown Bing Crosby Theater and armed myself with strawberry cough lozenges, their scent reminding me of the drugstore strawberry lip gloss I loved at Zachary’s age, and started my way to the venue. Along the way, I got caught up in a crowd of 20-somethings on their way to the Knitting Factory Concert House (adjacent to the Bing Crosby Theater) to attend concerts by bands promoting themselves as Sky Eats Airplane, a Texas electronic/hardcore band, and Emarosa, a Kentucky based “screamo/expirimental” band. They were decked out in their black outfits replete with heavily sprayed and teased out hair, poufed and mohawked with blue and green dye, black lipstick and nail polish, with piercings in every orifice.
And then there was me, with MY version of black, with nonsensible colorful Danskos, lilac scarf, and the long, double-strand of dyed pearls, carrying my current read, “Three Cups of Tea,” the story of a man who establishes schools for girls in Pakistan/Afghanistan regions.
“Dude!” one said. “Man, we didn’t mean to almost trip you!”
“Why, that’s quite alright,” I replied. “I’m just on my way to the Jane Smiley reading in the Get Lit Festival.”
“Dude! Right on! People should read more!” To which his pals heartily agreed. “Peace out!” he declared, accompanied by a complicated hand gesture routine ending in the peace sign, as they joined the line forming in front of the Knitting Factory.
“Prevail!” I responded, waving brightly.
We parted ways quite amicably. And the brightness had returned to my step: I had found my solace and wellness in words before the reading had even started.
Human beings are more alike than unalike, and what is true anywhere is true everywhere…(Maya Angelou)
Peace out!
LL, 5/14/2009.
The week had challenged even my own upbeat purple-itudeness as I precariously balanced the life, demands, and rewards of a working mama. My first thought was, well, let’s see what gold I can mine from the challenges before me, but right on its heels were my familiar companions of self-doubt and guilt. And chasing after that was the thought, hey, it will be all good and it IS all good. Quite the dog chasing cat chasing squirrel fray in my mind.
So I thought, Get Lit. Go to Jane Smiley. I parked about five blocks from the downtown Bing Crosby Theater and armed myself with strawberry cough lozenges, their scent reminding me of the drugstore strawberry lip gloss I loved at Zachary’s age, and started my way to the venue. Along the way, I got caught up in a crowd of 20-somethings on their way to the Knitting Factory Concert House (adjacent to the Bing Crosby Theater) to attend concerts by bands promoting themselves as Sky Eats Airplane, a Texas electronic/hardcore band, and Emarosa, a Kentucky based “screamo/expirimental” band. They were decked out in their black outfits replete with heavily sprayed and teased out hair, poufed and mohawked with blue and green dye, black lipstick and nail polish, with piercings in every orifice.
And then there was me, with MY version of black, with nonsensible colorful Danskos, lilac scarf, and the long, double-strand of dyed pearls, carrying my current read, “Three Cups of Tea,” the story of a man who establishes schools for girls in Pakistan/Afghanistan regions.
“Dude!” one said. “Man, we didn’t mean to almost trip you!”
“Why, that’s quite alright,” I replied. “I’m just on my way to the Jane Smiley reading in the Get Lit Festival.”
“Dude! Right on! People should read more!” To which his pals heartily agreed. “Peace out!” he declared, accompanied by a complicated hand gesture routine ending in the peace sign, as they joined the line forming in front of the Knitting Factory.
“Prevail!” I responded, waving brightly.
We parted ways quite amicably. And the brightness had returned to my step: I had found my solace and wellness in words before the reading had even started.
Human beings are more alike than unalike, and what is true anywhere is true everywhere…(Maya Angelou)
Peace out!
LL, 5/14/2009.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Counting Trees
One of my favorite places to run through is a boulevard lined by four rows of huge red oak trees which drop their acorns in the fall…sounds of sizzling bacon. Recently, I stopped by on a low-key five miler and wondered about the trees who reside here. I have jogged here for years, never pausing to count them, and this seemed a good time as any.
You’d think that such a task would be easy, but I kept losing count…did I count that one? Oh yeah, I did but not the one behind it, diagonally to the left…or was it to the right? I simply could not keep them straight, so I decided to revisit during my lunch break.
From my car, I thought this should be a breeze. Nope. Still lost count and could NOT keep track of those counted and those among the not-yet numbered. Figuring that nearby homeowners would not appreciate my slathering the trees with bright red paint in an effort to stay organized, I decided I would return with more eyes.
So I recruited my boys on the way to a Tod Marshall poetry reading. I rolled down their car windows and gave clear instructions to each of them. To my nine-year-old I explained that he was to count only the trees that lined the left side curb and not to worry about the trees behind as we would catch them on our way back up. To my almost 12-year-old, I said, do the same thing, only on the right side. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that they, too, became easily confused, because, after all, I as an adult was having difficulty. They kept messing each other up, so around again we went after I advised them that perhaps counting silently might be beneficial to the other and lead to a more accurate measuring. Then up the other side we went, counting the other two rows.
It was hysterical. I laughed until the tears were streaming down my cheeks. The boys’ facial expressions, responses, and questions just sent me into another peal of laughter.
“Um, Mom, why are we counting trees?” my nine-year-old asked.
“I’m not sure. I guess I am just curious about all these gorgeous trees,” I answered, thoughtfully rubbing my chin.
“If you don’t know why, then why do we HAVE TO count?” he persisted. “Hey, do we include the tree stumps?” (I still don’t have an answer for that one.)
My almost-12-year-old chimed in, “Curiosity makes people do the strangest of things!”
I couldn’t speak for almost 10 minutes, I was laughing so hard.
I finally have some numbers: between the multiple countings, my best guesstimate is somewhere in the 60’s. SWEET! (But please don’t quote me as mine was gloriously messy count. If you need precise numbers, perhaps you should just go count them yourself.)
I am now off to count the lilac bushes in Manito Park’s Lilac Gardens!
LL, 5/8/2009. Prevail.
You’d think that such a task would be easy, but I kept losing count…did I count that one? Oh yeah, I did but not the one behind it, diagonally to the left…or was it to the right? I simply could not keep them straight, so I decided to revisit during my lunch break.
From my car, I thought this should be a breeze. Nope. Still lost count and could NOT keep track of those counted and those among the not-yet numbered. Figuring that nearby homeowners would not appreciate my slathering the trees with bright red paint in an effort to stay organized, I decided I would return with more eyes.
So I recruited my boys on the way to a Tod Marshall poetry reading. I rolled down their car windows and gave clear instructions to each of them. To my nine-year-old I explained that he was to count only the trees that lined the left side curb and not to worry about the trees behind as we would catch them on our way back up. To my almost 12-year-old, I said, do the same thing, only on the right side. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that they, too, became easily confused, because, after all, I as an adult was having difficulty. They kept messing each other up, so around again we went after I advised them that perhaps counting silently might be beneficial to the other and lead to a more accurate measuring. Then up the other side we went, counting the other two rows.
It was hysterical. I laughed until the tears were streaming down my cheeks. The boys’ facial expressions, responses, and questions just sent me into another peal of laughter.
“Um, Mom, why are we counting trees?” my nine-year-old asked.
“I’m not sure. I guess I am just curious about all these gorgeous trees,” I answered, thoughtfully rubbing my chin.
“If you don’t know why, then why do we HAVE TO count?” he persisted. “Hey, do we include the tree stumps?” (I still don’t have an answer for that one.)
My almost-12-year-old chimed in, “Curiosity makes people do the strangest of things!”
I couldn’t speak for almost 10 minutes, I was laughing so hard.
I finally have some numbers: between the multiple countings, my best guesstimate is somewhere in the 60’s. SWEET! (But please don’t quote me as mine was gloriously messy count. If you need precise numbers, perhaps you should just go count them yourself.)
I am now off to count the lilac bushes in Manito Park’s Lilac Gardens!
LL, 5/8/2009. Prevail.
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