NITOC (National Invitational Tournament of Champions)

It is a ten-ish-hour drive to San Diego. That is a long drive, but my companions were great company, the music was energizing, and the hours flew by.





University of San Diego was our destination, and NITOC was our purpose for the week.




We worked hard, both at the tournament and at the hotel late at night. It was exhausting in a wonderful way.





When announcements are made it feels all about winning and losing. We love winning, but there is so much more to it. The camaraderie is priceless. We are a team, and it is a beautiful thing.




Even the siblings are there in the early morning, ready to hear of their siblings wins and losses.

The ocean was waiting for us when we were done. Oh! I LOVE the beach. San Diego is gorgeous.

I love these debaters.

And these beach bums.

It's good to be home, but this road trip was a blast!

The Friday Clive

All schools, both here (in England) and in America, ought to teach far fewer subjects and teach them far better.

Garden beauty

Foxglove found blooming in the corner of the herb garden. 

The end of year swirl

Last week my olders finished their Schola classes, this week the junior college classes my older boys were taking finished.  Now it is all about DEBATE.  Research.  Research.  Haircut.  Pick up dry cleaning.  Research.  Pick up new suit.  Match gorgeous but strangely colored thrift store Italian suit to the thousands of ties available.  Find two matches.  Pause for the moment to acknowledge that this is a miracle.  Research.  Talk about debate.  Practice debate.  Research.  Sleep.  Eat.  Research.

We leave soon to drive our trusty and dusty van to gorgeous San Diego.  The boys have never qualified for the national debate tournament before, so it is very exciting.  And the younger non-debaters are excited because there will be the beach, and friends, and fireworks...and did I mention the beach?  We're ready for an adventure.

Debate is a demanding extra-curricular event.  It costs money, it takes time, and it strains the brain cells, but I am deeply grateful that my sons dragged me into it.  They are learning to think and organize and communicate in ways that thrill me.  And I am fortunate enough to have dear, close friends who are involved in the same craziness with me.  It is an all-round win-win-win-win for us.

San Diego -- Here We Come!

Reflections amidst borrowed time

It is hard to believe that my mother was diagnosed with cancer almost a year ago.  When she was given four to six months to live last June, we all were shocked, and we tried to imagine the days ahead.  It was impossible, though. This was all unknown territory.

And now we are in the days of borrowed time.  The reality of what we are experiencing has made us remember that each day, each breath, is a gift.  And, yes, that is a cliche, but it is also true.  Breathing is really, really dandy.  Mom is feeling well, she is pink-cheeked and spunky and taking good care of herself.  She does as much as she can for herself and has an attitude of acceptance and humor that inspires me.

For myself, it is hard not to live on the edge of my seat, hard not to anticipate the next crisis, all.the.time.  Living in the moment, it turns out, is not one of my skill sets.  I try and fail and try again, but fortunately I am getting the chance to practice over and over and over again, so maybe I am learning.  I am tired, but I am making the time to rest.  I am learning to run this particular race with endurance.

Just yesterday Mom was having an outpatient procedure in the hospital, and we had yet another bedside chat.  We've done this a lot, talking about you-just-never-know-what as we wait for doctors or nurses or lab techs to work their magic.  In the last year we've discussed our children, recipes, fashion accessories, favorite books, family stories and memories, and the mysteries of living with dying.  We have both fallen asleep on each other, we've laughed until we've cried, we have held hands, we have gently distracted each other from the worry of the moment.  We are a well-oiled machine, and I love that.

Fortunately, my life is also filled with the exciting adventures of raising children.  We have another high school graduation to celebrate in June, and very special guests coming to town for the party.  But before that can happen we will welcome home our oldest from her victorious first year of college, and before that:  a trip.  I don't like leaving for days on end, let alone an entire week, but that is what I am doing next week.  I am headed to the southern part of the state for a debate tournament, and Mom will be here.  Her words of wisdom to me when I worried aloud that something could happen while I am gone:

"Well, honey, then something will happen.  Oh.  Well."

She's right.  I am going, and it will be grand.

And I will keep practicing my "in the moment skills" as I push away from the edge of my seat.

The Friday Clive

"If all men stood talking of their rights before they went up a mast or down a sewer or stoked a furnace or joined an army, we should all perish; nor while they talked of their rights would they learn to do these things...The man preoccupied with his own rights is not only a disastrous, but a very unlovely object; indeed, one of the worst mischiefs we do by treating a man unjustly is that we force him to be thus preoccupied."

Five O'Clock

"Unlocking the poet within"

 
From the forward:

"For me the private act of writing poetry is songwriting, confessional, diary-keeping, speculation, problem-solving, storytelling, therapy, anger management, craftsmanship, relaxation, concentration and spiritual adventure all in one inexpensive package."

"Personally, I find writing without form, metre or rhyme not 'laughably easy' but fantastically difficult.  If you can do it, good luck to you and farewell, this book is not for you: but a word of warning from W.H. Auden before you go.

The poet who writes 'free' verse is like Robinson Crusoe on his desert island: he must do all his cooking, laundry and darning for himself.  In a few exceptional cases, this manly independence produces something original and impressive, but more often the result is squalor - dirty sheets on the unmade bed and empty bottles on the unswept floor."

"I hope reading this book will ...awaken the poet that has always lain dormant within.

It is never too late.  We are all opsimaths.

Opsimath, noun: one who learns late in life.

Let us go forward together now, both opsimathically and optimistically.  Nothing can  hold us back.  The ode beckons."


I have long wanted to learn more about poetry, specifically writing poetry.  I read Stephen Fry's book (The Ode Less Travelled: Unlocking the Poet Within) a year or two ago, but this is not just a book to read.  It is a book to work through.  And now I am working.  With only a few more weeks of the school year ahead, I am planning on getting my husband to join me in poetry summer school.  His assumed "YES!" is one of those advantages of marrying an English major and language arts teacher. 

As Fry said, "Nothing can hold us back."  Let the poetry begin.

The Friday Clive

Master, they say that when I seem
to be in speech with you,
Since you make no replies, it's all a dream
- One talker aping two.

They are half right, but not as they
Imagine; rather, I
Seek in myself the things I meant to say,
And lo! the wells are dry.

Then, seeing me empty, you forsake
The Listener's role, and through
My dead lips breathe and into utterance wake
The thoughts I never knew.

And thus you neither need reply
Nor can; thus, while we seem
Two talking, thou art One forever, and I
No dreamer, but they dream.



 

Recommended

Wild wind blowing.

Nature's brew.

Locomotive passing through.

Thundering 'cross

Ohio plains,

bringing waves

of quenching rains.

Sad but true, it's been a long time since I purchased a children's picture book. As a storm chaser wanna be, though, I couldn't resist taking a look at Ohio Thunder at Border's the other night.  The illustrations are perfect, the writing simple and lovely.  Highly recommended for any budding meteorologists on your gift list.  I am happy to have two copies tucked away in my stacks.

The fairweather fan checks in

I am not a serious baseball fan, but I married one and a few of our offspring love the game.  This weekend my husband's team, the team of his childhood, had a perfect game.  Wowee zowee.


I am sure John will always remember Mother's Day 2010 as the day Dallas Braden pitched a perfect game.  And the day that his wife renewed her interest in The Game.


Go A's.

Monday's soundtrack

On a May Monday in Placerville, where it is supposed to reach a high of 53 degrees and be raining, this is the perfect soundtrack.

Something in the way she moves...
I feel the earth move...
Sweet baby James...
Up on the roof...

Maybe another cup of coffee, maybe another sweater, maybe I'll wait to plant the vegies until the rain stops. Maybe I will just sit here and hum along. Ahhhhh...

Mothers' Day Blessings

To have a mother....

to be a mother.....

These are not blessings that I take for granted.

The Friday Clive

Literature adds to reality, it does not simply describe it. It enriches the necessary competencies that daily life requires and provides; and in this respect, it irrigates the deserts that our lives have already become.

All swim

When you leave our house in the spring, you have to watch for slow traffic.  Slow, cheeping, fuzzy traffic.  The geese population on the pond down the hill is burgeoning, and early evening must be "all swim" time, for we encountered three families of geese jumping in for a dip.

We love watching the parents getting those babies across the road.  It is serious business, and heaven help the family van that is tempted to rush or frighten the offspring.

The evening light on the pond, the long shadows and blue glow, the ripples made from goose after goose slipping in for an hour of evening exercise before bed...it is all part of the beauty of life down the hill.

My favorite ladies

Two of my favorite ladies in the entire world:  Aunt Doris with Mom.

Yours truly with her favorites.

The only part of the evening that didn't settle well was the inevitable goodbye. 

We aren't so fond of goodbyes these days.

The birthday boy

  1995

This is one of my favorite pictures of my family. 

I love Rex's serious face, how much he looks like my husband, and the sparkly autumn light. 

The day this photo was taken seems like yesterday, and yet I look at my six-foot-tall son and know that lifetimes have passed.

What's up....

My aunt, my wonderful aunt, the younger sister of my mother, is here visiting. Ever since Mom was declared to be ill (I guess diagnosed is the right word) I have wanted Aunt Doris to come visit. And now she's here! Yahoo.

Mom looks sparkly and happy and, dare I say, healthy. She's pink (not yellow) and we've heard her laugh over and over and over. It is a Good Week.

Pictures coming. My mother actually requested pictures of her and her sister. This is a first in the life of my mother. I have stacks of "I cannot believe you are taking my picture" photos of my mother. Portraiture is not her love language. It is her beyond-hate language, actually. So I will take pictures today in total shock. And then post them here for you to see.

We've also had a birthday...for this young man

And a career-high wow! game for this young man

And, yes, someday I will figure out how to take basketball photos.  But for now, this will have to do.

When the visiting and celebrating and hoop making excitement dies down, I'll have more coherent things to say.  Maybe.