I've Got One Life to Live In

"How You Feel," Unwritten Law

Tim quit his job last August. He had a number of reasons for doing so (some not appropriate to post on the Internet, although my tasteful and "be-the-bigger-person" character traits are just barely winning out right now, and a big part of me has some already-picked-out-and-practiced choice words for two certain individuals, just in case I ever happen to see them strolling ever-so-shadily around Carlsbad). However, my bitterness doesn't stem from the fact Tim left an otherwise lucrative and successful job. While there were  nights we stayed up late talking about "options" and "responsibilities" and "future plans," and tears may have entered the scenario once or twice, ultimately I know how right his decision was. Because, to be honest, my pride and respect for his actions easily outshone any fear of his potential unemployment. Tim has never been one to settle for "mediocre"-- in swim races, in residences, in career paths. In high school he wanted to be the fastest: he still owns more than half of his school's swim records. In college he wanted to win NCAA's: he did it three years in a row, and became an American record holder in the process. He diligently followed a job to Texas, and ended up discontent and unchallenged in Dallas: he moved back to California and started working for Callaway.

In every facet of his life, Tim puts his whole self; he works hard and he plays hard. He has big dreams, and he isn't afraid to pursue them. He has been coaching swimming for the past four months, and his career is a passion again. His eyes light up when he tells me about a set, a practice, an angry athlete's turnaround behavior. When I picked him up at the airport after a weekend swim meet in Portland, his laughter and stories about "kids swimming out of their shorts!" and too many gummy bears filled the car. He teaches lessons on Saturday mornings, and goes overtime because he "really wants this kid to get the breaststroke kick right." He brought his swimmers donuts on his own birthday, because "they've done a really great job this week." As an added bonus, he has time to spear fish in the middle of the day and coach master's swimming in the morning. He worked on the boat The Horizon last week, while it was in dry-dock, solidifying his place as a crew member on a 5-day Great White cage diving trip in August. He's revived his passion for photography, and he finds spare moments to snap the sunrise, the shoreline, the Santa Ynez foothills. A silent and wearisome burden has been lifted from his shoulders, and he no longer has to wake up in the morning and drive to an unfulfilling and frustrating cubicle. John Irving's Owen Meany said, "IF YOU CARE ABOUT SOMETHING, YOU HAVE TO PROTECT IT—IF YOU’RE LUCKY ENOUGH TO FIND A WAY OF LIFE YOU LOVE, YOU HAVE TO FIND THE COURAGE TO LIVE IT.” My husband is certainly doing just that.

So Tim and I are lucky. We both are currently working in fields that inspire, enrich, and motivate us. We wake up in the morning eager to challenge and create and teach. However, because Tim's new job requires he coach in the evenings, it's been a lot harder for us to find time for us. Dinners together are rare. "Have you watched the new Law and Order in the DVR?" is often followed by, "Yes." Happy hour invites are filled with one instead of two. This part hasn't been an easy adjustment, and I know it's something we are both still figuring out and working on and adapting to. It's easy to turn on the TV and zone out. It's easy to have cereal and graham crackers for dinner when I'm "cooking" for one. It's easy to get caught up in students, schoolloop, and dictionary.com rather than sending a quick text or email to my husband. But, we're learning. To turn off the TV and pull out Scrabble. To cook and then re-heat chicken pasta with bell peppers. To walk for 7-11 hot chocolate at night. To run down to the beach in our sweats, even if it is 9:30, and laugh and race and kiss and trick Bailey into running in the surf:

They say it's important to appreciate life's little moments, jokes, intricacies. And I think Tim and I do a pretty good job of that. After all, it doesn't even take that much to make us happy, since eating McDonald's on the floor of an airport most definitely does the trick:

It's a Sweet, Sweet Dream

"Looking for Space," John Denver

I like to pride myself on the fact I listen to a wide variety of music. I know my life would be less full without the array of selections on my iPod, and the songs and sounds I desire depend on my mood and my day. Sometimes I'm eager for country, and I'll pretend I know how to line dance all around the living room. Other times I can play Sublime's 40 oz. to Freedom CD, on repeat, for an entire afternoon ("Don't Push" is my current ringtone). When I'm in a Michael Jackson frame of mind, as I was for approximately a month after I saw This is It, "Man in the Mirror" becomes my mantra, and I'll force people my mom to learn the "Beat It" dance with me (thanks, YouTube). Every so often, I'll fall prey to the magic of Disney, and I'm forever enraptured by Michael Bolton's rendition of "I Can Go the Distance" and Peabo Bryson's "A Whole New World." As much as he might kill me for admitting it, some days Tim and I love to BLAST Britney, Kelly, Pink, and Lady Gaga girl-power songs, preferably with the windows up, in the car. And recently, I've become re-obsessed with Unwritten Law, and I've downloaded, repeated, and memorized anything Scott Russo and his ever-changing band mates can give me; acoustic, live, or otherwise. Tonight, however, is a John Denver night.

Over Thanksgiving, I started reading John Steinbeck's East of Eden, since I'm teaching it for the first time next semester. It's brilliant, with characters so palpable and settings so vibrant it's as though I know these scenes actually exist somewhere. The characters are individuals I want to meet. Yell at. Cry for. Befriend. Due to a variety of obligations, commitments, stresses, and activities (such as, uh, Wii Tournament 2010 vs. Chip and Amanda), I haven't been able to read it for a few weeks. I picked it back up this weekend, and I have 50 more pages to go. Tim left a few hours ago to spend the night with my brother and Dad at the Garner Valley ranch, so it's just me and Bailey tonight. And I couldn't be happier about the evening I have in front of me: red wine in hand, I'm perfectly content to let Steinbeck's prose and Denver's country roads take me home...

As the Winter Turned the Meadow Brown

"Mykonos," Fleet Foxes

It's raining. A lot. My non-scotch-guarded (and real, by the way, because they were a gift from my dad) Uggs are streak-stained and soggy, and the essays I've been lugging back and forth to my car are slightly damp and water-warped. The bottoms of my jeans are muddy, and these southern California teenagers I teach just don't know how to handle this (gasp!) water that comes from the sky. But it's awesome. I've been so ready for this change in weather; content to wear sweaters to work and borrow umbrellas and heat Campbell's on the stove in a soup-appropriate environment. I had the windshield wipers blasting on the way home from work, stopped at 7-11 for hot chocolate, and curled up under a Snuggie when I got home. I realize the idea of a "San Diego Winter" is laughable at best, but I'll take what I can get. I mean, I did go in the ocean last week. I might have worn a short sleeve shirt to school on Tuesday. There's a chance Tim brought home frozen yogurt tonight. Yet, these rainy days and weekends allow a chance for rejuvenation, extra blankets, and a (sometimes needed) reminder of why I love to live where I do. While I can handle (hell, appreciate! welcome!) the stormy weather for a few days or weeks, I also know these days are fleeting, and the So-Cal sun will be back before I remember where I lazily hastily stored last year's scarves. True, there may be a "tornado watch" in Carlsbad, but there are also kids shrieking about the "gnarly off-shore lefts" coming off the Terramar break. To my east coast friends: I get it. "Winter" is NOT synonymous with "Good Surf." I'll be sure to remind Tim as he heads out with his shortboard and his "heavier" wetsuit. You know, the 3 millimeter instead of the sleeveless.

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Act as if what you do makes a difference.  It does.  

-William James

On an unrelated note, I got home tonight (hot chocolate in hand) and watched the Hope for Haiti telethon. While I admit I've always been the kind of girl to ask for a People magazine subscription at Christmas, I have to be honest and say it wasn't the celebrities who drew my attention tonight. Once again, as has been the case too often in the last week and a half, I was drawn in, shocked, saddened, and sickened by the images and pictures flashing across the screen. Pictures of rubble, tears, limbs, dust. Pictures of suffering, of loss, of heartache, of confusion. Pictures of emptiness and the seeming inability to rebuild. Faces of terror and guilt. Pictures of a country so ravaged and shaken, the needed transformations and rehabilitation seem so foreign, so far off, so...hopeless.

But as I watched, the donation amounts continued to rise. People continued to call, to text, to log on, to fax, and to e-mail. Foundations pitched in thousands. Communities came together in support. Churches and their members relied on faith and prayer. Money kept pouring in, and despite this country's current dire straits and meager funds, Americans continued to find dollars to donate. And it reminded me of a recent conversation, during which I was told people are inherently immoral, filthy, greedy, and lost. Out for themselves. Unconcerned with their global peers...disconnected from their neighbors...apathetic to their families. And I have to disagree. Because, while I'm certain those people exist, there is still so much... good in this country. People who believe their time, their money, and their concerns matter. Individuals who are willing to recognize strangers in need and act. Some of these people can relate to losing an important possession, a home, or a loved one. Some of these people donate almost blindly, willingly, in an effort to make an impact. And, again, I think of the people of Haiti: poverty-stricken and underprivileged to begin with, they now face an uncertain, calamitous, and frustrated future. They face the reality and the immensity of rebuilding their homes and communities. Their schools. Hospitals. Their families. Inevitably, then, I think of my own current and personal aggravations: I have too many papers to grade. I'm overdue for a dentist appointment. I ordered that vest on-line from Land's End two weeks ago, and it's still not here. And, I really should make time to hang those new pictures and clean out the freezer...While these might have merit in their own right and within my own personal bubble of priorities, I have to stop and put my life in perspective. Because while I might be struggling to finish grading all of first semester's Poe vs. Twain essays before first semester is over, I'm not trying to locate a relative in the broken rubble. I'm not looking out at a sea of personal heart-breaking devastation. And because of that, it's my responsibility to do what I can to help their cause. Because if the situation were reversed, I would hope for the same...

How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a 

single moment before starting to improve the world.

-Anne Frank 

www.hopeforhaiti.com/org
www.unicefusa.org
www.redcross.org
www.doctorswithoutborders.com
www.ifaw.com (Haitian animals)