Cue soundtrack from Sound of Music…

These are a few of my favorite things this week:

Half-price Easter candy on Monday.

Sunshine-y walks with Curie around the “lake” (it’s a man-made pond/puddle, but it is big enough for geese and ducks, which are very entertaining for Curie.)

Finding my favorite pair of socks which I’d thought were lost. They were tucked into the last duffel bag from Odyssey. This was not the best find in the duffel bag, but it was a nice surprise.

Discovering the notes I’d taken during Odyssey are not as full of drivel as I’d feared.

Avocados.

Playing half-decently at club on Tuesday.

Finding a bunch of stories that Daniel wrote in first and second grade. (The first was called Apple Story, and it is riveting.)

Raindrops on roses…

This will be my first “major” holiday alone. Ever. I’m watching it approach like I’d watch a bouncing doorknob coming down the highway toward my windshield, with a mix of “hunh, would you look at that?” and “I wonder if that will cause a big dent?” Mostly I’m wondering if the northern Virginia Scrabble club meets on Easter.

Of course, I’m remembering past Easters. (That’s the whole point of holidays, neh?) I never have decorated eggs. Eggs weren’t a part of the tradition of my childhood. One year about ten years ago I bought one of those cheapo kits at Rite-Aid or someplace like that, but somehow I forgot to use it. I think the dyes ended up being used for one of Em’s great works of art. I like cooking the Easter dinner, although often we ended up going elsewhere for this holiday. I like the chocolate.

The music. That is my favorite part. For several years, the family took part in the huge musical celebrations that our (then) church put on. Even when I wasn’t a part, I really enjoyed that part of Easter. Flowers and dressing up and music to fill my ears and mind and soul. And chocolate.

At club on Thursday, I played two phoneys. This makes me very happy. I have felt for a while that I worry so much about playing phoneys that I forego perfectly good words. “Take more risks,” I have jotted on more than one scoresheet. Neither word was obviously bad. Neither was on the list of “phamous phoneys”. Neither word was challenged off. Take more risks, indeed.

Okay, so I’m never really going to be a hang glider. I hope that doesn’t disappoint anyone. (For one thing, it takes a lot of hand-holding to get me up in the air in the first place; it’s hard to hang glide with one hand.) I can fly kites, which is almost as nifty! But I digress.

These days I’m doing a lot of scary things, a lot of stepping out on faith. Maybe other people wouldn’t find them as scary as I do. But the important thing here is that I find them scary -- and that I’m doing them anyway. So what if it isn’t usually considered brave to argue with utility companies? It is brave of me.

I have to confess something. I enjoy reading Anne Lamott. Okay, okay, I know that makes me more touchy-feely than I usually admit. She is very lovey. She talks about mystical things. She freely admits to praying (although she uses the F-word frequently in her books about “faith”. I like this in a person.) She talks about breathing.

She is very real, and I admire this. She talks about her parents and her son with a mix of love and frustration and grumpiness. She admits, in public, in her writing, to sometimes being angry, sometimes disliking her loved ones, to having to work very hard to forgive them.

I like to think I’m like her in a lot of ways, but I don’t share this ability. I can’t easily look at someone I love, look them in the eyes, and say “I’m really angry with you.” “I am mad.” “That was a bad thing you did. To me.” Instead, I’m the sort that says, “Oh, gosh, I’m sure you didn’t mean to run over my dog. It’s okay. I was meaning to get rid of that old thing soon anyway.”

I minimize. I deflect. I say, “I’m fine.” Fine is my F-word.

But I am lying. It is not Fine to run over my dog. I loved that dog. Sometimes I forget that it happened, but other times I remember the dog, I miss the dog, and I want to cry and rage and say “I hate you!” But I don’t do that. I am Fine.

And in doing so, I wrong not only myself (and believe me, I do wrong myself), but I wrong those that I love. They don’t understand why I pull back and stop engaging. They don’t know I’m angry. They don’t ask for forgiveness, because they don’t know there is anything to forgive.

I figured out something. When life is busy and interesting, there is no time to write about it!

Here are some of the things I’m doing these days:
I’m still unpacking. I’m not sure if I will ever finish.
Thank goodness, I have a lot of work. A lot. It is boring, but it pays the bills.
My writing is starting to jell again.
I’m working on long-range planning. It feels great.

I feel great.