The Rightness and Randomness of Tandemness

'Tis the season, and all that.

I am quite a Valentine's Day scrooge (I just barely bought my kids valentine's to pass out at school, much to their consternation). 

But, in honor of the impending holiday, here are a few things you may not know about riding a tandem bike:

[David just walked by and read this line and said, "What impending holiday is coming up?"

Um, Valentine's day?  That sounds about right.  We celebrate pancakes and spilt milk at our house, but Valentine's day...hmmm, not so much.]

Okay, back to the "bicycle built for two":

A tandem allows two cyclists of differing strength and ability to ride together, pleasurably.

The front rider is commonly known as the "captain."  The captain has two major responsibilities:

1.  To control the bike, including balancing it whether stopped or in motion, as well as steering, shifting, braking.

2.  To keep the stoker happy! A tandem isn't a tandem without a stoker. The captain must earn the stoker's confidence, must stop when the stoker wants to stop, must slow down when the stoker wants to slow down.

Since the stoker cannot see the road directly ahead, the captain has a special responsibility for warning of bumps in the road, so that the stoker can brace for them.  When a couple fails to make it as a tandem team, it is almost always due to either the stoker being scared as a result of an incompetent/inconsiderate captain, or due to saddle soreness.

The rear rider is commonly known as the "stoker."  The rear rider is not a "passenger", but is an equal participant. The stoker has two main responsibilities:

1.  The stoker serves mainly as a motor.

2.  The stoker's other major responsibility is a negative one: The stoker must not attempt to steer! Unpredictable weight shifts on the part of the stoker can make the captain's job much harder, and can lead to crashes, in extreme cases.   When the stoker needs to shift position on the saddle, or adjust a toe strap, or take a drink, it is vital that they do so without disturbing the equilibrium of the bicycle. These activities should not be attempted at all while the captain is dealing with tricky traffic situations or narrow spaces.

The stoker can also do a bit of back rubbing now and then, as well as taking photographs, singing encouraging songs, reading maps, etc.

The team becomes more than the sum of its parts.  An experienced tandem team develops a very special level of non-verbal communication, via subtle weight shifts, variations in pedal force, and general empathy. After a few hundred miles together, you will find yourself coasting at the same time, shifting without the need for discussion, and maneuvering smoothly even at slow speeds.  This is not just a matter of each rider acquiring captaining/stoking skills; when two equally experienced teams switch stokers, something is lost, and this special communication doesn't happen...it really is unique to each couple.

Now this is real romance to me.  A few hundred [thousand] miles in the saddle together, and still pedalling for each other, with each other, because of each other.       

A Crisis of Confidence Among Other Things

My head is spinning this morning...no real idea what to write, but feeling a need to say something in order to quiet my brain.  So this may be random and rant-like.  Ran-derful.

1.  We had New Beginnings for the young women in our church congregation on Wednesday night.  On Tuesday night with my list still long and my heart in full-fledged panic, I had to go to a meeting for something completely different.  I was reluctant to attend and had the thought that maybe all the parents of my young women and the young women themselves, were probably all just as reluctant to attend New Beginnings and, among other things, listen to me talk again.  I was seized by angst and beside myself thinking about the evening we had planned and what was surely going to be  a waste of everyone's time.

My husband's response:  "You do this [freak out] every time.  It'll be fine."

But as I got closer and closer to the event, my heart was failing. 

I had written a little skit for part of the night...just to make the girl's laugh with their leaders, and teach a little point...and feeling sick about the whole thing, I asked my counselor, "Is the skit just dumb?"

Silence.

Then she said, "Um.  Well, I think it teaches a point."

Okay...

This is not good.

By Wednesday at 5, I was beside myself.   As you can imagine, RIM and CIM were raging.

And after all that...it turned out beautifully.  I honestly think it could not have gone better.  I believe it blessed the girls' lives.  So why the crisis of confidence?  Why can't I just have more faith?  Why do I berate myself?

My house was a wreck.  Still is.  (Just didn't have the heart to do anything yesterday.)  Why can't I just prepare...steady and confidently...so that I don't have these crises of laundry and faith, where everything stops and I lose my mind for three days?

I don't know.  But it's a problem.

2.  Our theme for New Beginnings was "Put Your Best Foot Forward."  And I had all the girls bring one of their shoes to display, something that said something about them...their talents, or their personalities.  It was like a little snapshot of each of them.  Very fun.  The little skit was all about the "De-Feets" of Personal Progress, excuses that they might meet along their way to getting their YW medallions.  (Busy feet, Casual feet, Old feet, Baby feet, Tired feet, and Finished feet.)  My laurels spotlighted the new girls who entered our program and my mia maids did a beautiful musical number.  My heart was busting with pride for all of them.

Anyway, I don't have a good picture because there were too many people by the time the girls arrived with their shoes, but this gives you a little idea.

My short remarks were about the 2008 theme of "Steadfast and Immovable," which went right in with our feet theme.   At the end of it, I talked about the rainboots...how they need to be steadfast and immovable because "the rains" will come.  (The rains came down and the floods came up, and the house on the rock stood still.)

3.  Yesterday I met Rachel and Christine and my aunt Tori  over at my mom's house for lunch and a meeting about Quilt Retreat this year.  (All you Family Piecers out there, get ready...it is going to be so much fun!  Your invitations should be in the mail next week...provided I finally get my Monday laundry done today.)  Every year all my aunts and their girls get together for a big quilting/sewing/talking/laughing weekend.  (This is our eleventh year!)  And this year it's our turn to plan and host it and we are so, so excited.  To quote my cousin Andrea, "Can life get any better than this?  I submit that it CANNOT!"  It is the exact antidote for a crisis of confidence...to be in a house with 30 women who love you and know you and believe in you despite what they know...to laugh and talk and cry with them...it is the best therapy, the most fun, and I absolutely cannot wait. 

This is our group photo and "finished" project from 2006...(we celebrate all the various "states of doneness").  Do we look tired?  We haven't slept in three days...I can't wait!

I Am Anna Arkadeyevna

I finished Anna Karenina last night.  *Deep breath.*  And I was astounded by many things.  (You can check recommended reading for my full review.)  But the one which has me quite disconcerted is this:  I am Anna Arkadeyevna. 

Yes, really.

Our similarities are so striking, it's a little scary.  What do we know about Anna?

• She is unbelievably gorgeous.
• Men fall in love with her after one meeting.

Check.  check.

• She lives in Russia.
• She committed adultery and feels absolutely no remorse.

Okay, maybe we're not exactly alike.  (Thank heavens.)

But here's the rub...her CIM and my CIM have the exact same script!  I kept thinking, "She's crazy.  She's crazy.  She's just got to stop thinking!"  As I was telling David all about her and how she ends up in the way she does, he was grinning from ear to ear.  Because he knows as well as I do, that I'm as crazy as she is.

"She did not want strife, she blamed him for wanting to quarrel, but unconsciously put herself into an attitude of antagonism."

"She was glad of this appeal for tenderness.  But some strange force of evil would not let her give herself up to her feelings, as though the rules of warfare would not permit her to surrender."

"For an instant she had a clear vision of what she was doing, and was horrified at how she had fallen away from her resolution.  But even though she knew it was her own ruin, she could not restrain herself, could not keep herself from proving to him that he was wrong, could not give way to him."

"She felt like a fight."  (This line alone!)

"And remembering all the cruel words he had said, Anna supplied, too, the words he had unmistakably wished to say and could have said to her, and she grew more and more exasperated....All the most cruel words that a brutal man could say, he said to her in her imagination, and she could not forgive him for them, as though he had actually said them."  (Ha!  Seriously, how did Tolstoy know?)

Some of you, those who don't know me well, are by now shocked and horrified.  Those of you that know me well are simply nodding your heads, empathetically wondering how David has managed to hold me together all these years.  Occasionally I read a book that changes my behavior.  Angle of Repose was like that for me.  I hope Anna Karenina will be the same way.  That I will remember Anna when my resolution to embrace wavers.   Stop thinking, be quiet, and embrace. 

SPT: A Closer Look

The place in my home that gets the most attention is my kitchen.  (After I typed "my" I thought, "I ought to write 'our'," but I really do consider it to be my domain...and mine in every way.)  It is the place where I do all of my cooking, almost all of my homework-helping, much of my listening, a lot of my praying, lots of my crying, some of my laughing, most of my problem-solving, quite a bit of my thinking, much of my homemaking, and most of my nurturing.  It is the center of life for me in my home.  I believe in hearth and home, and in many ways this room is both for me.

When we bought this house I was overwhelmed and, frankly, disgusted by its appearance.  I cried a lot at first.  But the room that just broke my heart was the kitchen.  It seemed so long and narrow with dark cupboards and "busy" granite that didn't match.  There were flourescent lights overhead and weird wire plant shelves in the window.  I looked down that long dark hallway and thought, "I'm never going to be able to cook in here." 

After consulting with my remodelling company (me and my Uncle David), I decided to refinish the cupboards rather than replacing them.  I spent 6 weeks hard-labor on those cupboards.  I cleaned and stripped and sanded and primed and painted and sanded and painted and sealed and painted and sanded and painted and sealed and stained and rubbed and sealed again, until my arms ached.  They were worth every effort, and completely transformed my kitchen.  When I finished I told David that I didn't deserve to live in a house this nice.  I love them and jokingly told my husband that these cupboards better be in my mansion in heaven.   (His eyes replied that even the "mansion in heaven" may be getting my hopes too high.)

I am more happy than I can say working away in my kitchen.  It is where I find true expression in my homemaking and mothering, and I believe even though it is usually not a reverent place, most of the things that I do in it are sacred. 

SPT: New You Resolution

This new year has already had me up against the wall.

Already behind, already running.  No time for thinking or reflecting or even (it feels like) breathing.

The new year and all the new beginnings it brings feels like a pressure situation to me.  I have flaws.  Many.  Even the title of my blog speaks of my regrets.  So I need to get this right.

If I could change one thing about myself it would be my "resistance."  Resistance to the hearts and stories of those most precious to me, resistance to being vulnerable, resistance to asking for help, resistance to early mornings, resistance to forgiveness, resistance to joy even, resistance to being enough.

Over a year ago, I was shopping and saw this picture.  I stopped and stared at it.  For a long time.  It made me weep.  It was the way I wanted to live my whole life.  Completely and wholeheartedly.  Without reservation or resistance.

So my word is Embrace.  Instead of fighting so hard against absolutely everything in my life, I'm going to embrace it.

I will embrace entropy

so that I can

embrace my children more

and

embrace the joy of their growing and the moments I get with them

I will embrace my husband more completely

and wholeheartedly, and hold less back from him

I will embrace what scares me most

and at least try to write

I will embrace my life exactly as it is

with all its imperfections and heartaches

and embrace the truth that

my Heavenly Father only gives good gifts.

This will be hard for me.  Embrace.  To be honest I already feel the resistance rising inside me.  But the alternative is only regret.  And I am finally so deeply, profoundly tired of putting up this ridiculous resistance.

The only hope, or else despair,

Lies in the choice of pyre or pyre--...

We only live, only suspire

Consumed by either fire or fire.

--T.S. Elliot, Four Quartets

Some Thoughts and Some Plagiarism

(I'm warning you...this is a mess.) 

A few of your posts have got me thinking. 

As I reread Kelly's "3rd post ever," it reminded me of one of my favorite poems by Denver Butson.  I hope you enjoy it:

Tuesday 9:00 AM

by Denver Butson

A man standing at the bus stop
reading the newspaper is on fire
Flames are peeking out
from beneath his collar and cuffs
His shoes have begun to melt

The woman next to him
wants to mention it to him
that he is burning
but she is drowning
Water is everywhere
in her mouth and ears
in her eyes
A stream of water runs
steadily from her blouse

Another woman stands at the bus stop
freezing to death
She tries to stand near the man
who is on fire
to try to melt the icicles
that have formed on her eyelashes
and on her nostrils
to stop her teeth long enough
from chattering to say something
to the woman who is drowning
but the woman who is freezing to death
has trouble moving
with blocks of ice on her feet

It takes the three some time
to board the bus
what with the flames
and water and ice
But when they finally climb the stairs
and take their seats
the driver doesn't even notice
that none of them has paid
because he is tortured
by visions and is wondering
if the man who got off at the last stop
was really being mauled to death
by wild dogs.

I know.

And then tonight, I read a beautiful (and awe-inspiring) post by Marie, who I do not know, but wish I did.  As I read her words about the mothers who came before her, I remembered something I read years ago in Martha Stewart Living and ripped out.  It hangs in my sewing room to help me remember just what it is I'm doing every day.  I will share it with you.  It was written by Stephen Drucker, Editor-in-Chief.  (The emphasis is mine.)

"The twentieth century, so eager to get on with the future, hasn't been especially kind to traditions.  In fact, much of this century has been dedicated to sweeping them away, which as it turns out, isn't especially difficult to do.  All it takes is one broken link--from mother to daughter, from country to city--and a little bit of hard-earned wisdom valued for hundreds of years is gone forever."

Last week I was practicing spelling words with my oldest daughter.  (Honestly, we practice so many spelling words around here, I've started to measure time by the "list of the week.") I always say the word and then make up a sentence to go with it...so she'll understand the context, and also because I really love making up sentences.  Anyway, we came to the word "author."  I said, "Author.  Author.  Your mom wishes she was an author."  Olivia started to laugh.  She noticed the surprised look on my face and said, in complete incredulity, "Do you mom?"  And then she shook it off and began to laugh again.

My life is secret even to her.  I have a secret history my own daughter does not know.  And I realized that my own mother's history is a mystery to me.  I've never thought to ask about her dreams.  I wonder if that is because I never thought (as Olivia does) that she had any dreams other than to bring me into the world and meet my every need.  Or if the asking would be too painful...to see what she gave up for me. 

But there is this:  Because of my mother's sacrifices, because she believes in traditions, I know part of her history in my own hands, in my daily life.  And not just my mother's history...it was her mother's before that, and her mother's before that.  There is something beautiful and quietly reassuring in that shared history.  Like we know the most sacred secrets...the ones only our mothers and our daughters will ever know.