In search of my proverbial sailboat (and a real one would be nice, too)

I've been wondering for a while about spring, whether it will ever show up and stay for more than one afternoon before it disappears again into frosty night and and freezing rain. But I've stopped wondering, because it's here.

That's not to say it won't be 35 degrees and raining when the kids play soccer on Saturday. (That's exactly what it will be if the weatherman is right.) But it is to say simply that I have weeds in the flower beds, real ones, green ones. It is to say simply that we are all alive and growing once again.

Last night, we rushed through dinner on the promise of outside play. We slipped on sweatshirts and shoes that wouldn't mind the mud, and out we all went. I weeded while the kids raced bikes and shed their sweatshirts. Then in a stroke of brilliance, I tricked them into running laps for 10 minutes. I called it "race training", and boy did my six year old light it up. While Caed pumped arms and heaved lungs, Dani trailed behind (lapped by big brother at least 5 times) giggling the whole way. I'm not sure I've ever seen her run without laughter accompanying her. She is the picture of childhood delight.

This morning, Dani crawled into bed with me. I wrapped my arm around her, and the only thing I could think was that she used to be smaller than the length that her little arm is now. And how that floors me. And softens me. And the softening is particularly helpful considering her whining started the moment my feet hit the floor. Remember that picture of childhood delight I just told you about? Flip that picture over and discover the opposite of delightful. Good morning to you too, Whiny McFussypants.  


Today, I've traded wondering about spring for wondering about rhythm. And how exactly to find it. Between Larry's ridiculously brutal schedule and my unusual list of to dos this month, life feels more akin to jerking through stop-and-go traffic in a Hyundai than gliding over waves in a catamaran.

And all I want (besides spring--which I now have) is to get my proverbial sailboat back.

What do you think? Does a good rhythm for life just happen--in a feeling the music sort of way? Or does hard work matter? I mean--can a good rhythm be forced? Like everything else in life, I'm guessing it's probably somewhere in the middle--a combination of circumstance, an intentional approach and flexible attitude. 

So, in the spirit of exhibiting a flexible attitude, I'm hitting publish on this all-over-the-place post, and heading outside to play with the kids until the sun goes down. (Truth be told. They are going to play. I'm going to clean out the garage. Because I can't possibly get into a good spring rhythm when the garage floor is still caked with sand and salt from the 75 bajillion inches of snow we got this winter.)

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