Coming Up For Air
When racing in the pool my coaches always told me to put my head down and drive home to the finish. The last few seconds aren’t the time to peek at your competitors--or, even worse, to glimpse at the time on the scoreboard.
I operate the same way under stress: head down, get to the finish, come up for air later. On one hand I get. stuff. done. But the result is that I’m worn way, way down by the end of it.
When moving week arrived I went into my standard overdrive. I packed our entire kitchen. I carried boxes probably too heavy for me. I unpacked with such focus I hardly stopped to eat. On Friday I was in the middle of a marathon kitchen shelf liner cutting session when my dad called.
My great uncle--who treated me more like a granddaughter, who in his early 90s flirted with the bridesmaids at my wedding, who drove cars across the state for Enterprise until a few weeks ago--passed away.
At 96 Uncle Hy lived a long and mostly healthy life, but somehow it seems like not long enough. Maybe because he was living, working and doing it all on his own up until a few weeks prior. Maybe it’s because anyone’s passing reminds everyone about life, timelines and how much we really lack control of it all.
And here I was in hyper control trimming plastic shelf liners to fit within the centimeter of my new kitchen shelves.
I kept my head down on Saturday moving boxes from one room to the next, unpacking stuff, reassembling furniture broken down before the move. There’s so much to get done I just couldn’t stop. I stayed nice and distracted from reality.
On Sunday I woke up early to drive across the state to be at Uncle Hy’s funeral. The Rabbi at the service talked about Uncle Hy causing mischief as a kid, serving our country, dressing in full western gear whenever he could just because he wanted to, going to Vegas and arranging for a limo to take him from casino to horseback, raising a family, loving his wife for 70 years, making friends wherever he went, traveling the world and in general living the heck out of life.
By Monday morning I was back at the new house. I’m slowly coming up for air and I’m exhausted. And sad.
When I came home from work last night Ben and Cameron greeted me at the door with big smiles. I put my bags down and ignored all. the. things. that still need to get done so I could sit on the floor and shake a plastic rattle shaped like a snail with my little boy. I showed him how to spin it to make the beads inside make sound and watched his little hands reach out trying to do the same.
There’s still plenty to do around here, but it can wait. I’m going to look around and enjoy the adventure in front of me, just like someone else I know would want me to.
I operate the same way under stress: head down, get to the finish, come up for air later. On one hand I get. stuff. done. But the result is that I’m worn way, way down by the end of it.
When moving week arrived I went into my standard overdrive. I packed our entire kitchen. I carried boxes probably too heavy for me. I unpacked with such focus I hardly stopped to eat. On Friday I was in the middle of a marathon kitchen shelf liner cutting session when my dad called.
My great uncle--who treated me more like a granddaughter, who in his early 90s flirted with the bridesmaids at my wedding, who drove cars across the state for Enterprise until a few weeks ago--passed away.
At 96 Uncle Hy lived a long and mostly healthy life, but somehow it seems like not long enough. Maybe because he was living, working and doing it all on his own up until a few weeks prior. Maybe it’s because anyone’s passing reminds everyone about life, timelines and how much we really lack control of it all.
And here I was in hyper control trimming plastic shelf liners to fit within the centimeter of my new kitchen shelves.
I kept my head down on Saturday moving boxes from one room to the next, unpacking stuff, reassembling furniture broken down before the move. There’s so much to get done I just couldn’t stop. I stayed nice and distracted from reality.
On Sunday I woke up early to drive across the state to be at Uncle Hy’s funeral. The Rabbi at the service talked about Uncle Hy causing mischief as a kid, serving our country, dressing in full western gear whenever he could just because he wanted to, going to Vegas and arranging for a limo to take him from casino to horseback, raising a family, loving his wife for 70 years, making friends wherever he went, traveling the world and in general living the heck out of life.
By Monday morning I was back at the new house. I’m slowly coming up for air and I’m exhausted. And sad.
When I came home from work last night Ben and Cameron greeted me at the door with big smiles. I put my bags down and ignored all. the. things. that still need to get done so I could sit on the floor and shake a plastic rattle shaped like a snail with my little boy. I showed him how to spin it to make the beads inside make sound and watched his little hands reach out trying to do the same.
There’s still plenty to do around here, but it can wait. I’m going to look around and enjoy the adventure in front of me, just like someone else I know would want me to.