Tag: reflection

Some Days a Trance, Some Days a Ballet

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 2 Comments

balletTime is one elusive commodity, isn’t it? Every day I aspire to make the best use of it because I hate the thought of days just disappearing…but they do…day after day after day. To help me with my time, I make lists. They help me to aim, focus, and shoot, as well as be able to look at my day and help me see what I actually did.

Historically, I am such a list-maker that my husband jokingly gave me the Native American name of Stands With A List (this will only make you smile if you are a Dances with Wolves fan). But lately even my lists seem problematic. They don’t even begin to reflect my real daily rundown.

In this stage of my life, I feel like all too often I am busy all day, but when the day is over I think, “What exactly did I accomplish?” The reality of one day blurring into the next is something I can’t seem to shake. Working primarily from home only exacerbates the problem—all of the roles I play converge into one.

I can categorize many of my days into “trances” or “ballets.” Both are days of fluid movement…waking to emails, work, taking care of the kid, laundry, caregiving to my mom, work, calls, errands, caregiving, work, groceries…you get the idea. The only real distinction between the two is whether or not I am fully “awake.”

Trance days have me doing something like folding laundry in the afternoon thinking, “It’s 3:00?!?! How did that happen? I haven’t stopped once today, but I can’t remember a thing I’ve done.” These days are almost like a zombiewalk—I am an automaton going through the mundane motions of daily life.

A ballet day, on the other hand, can have the exact same itinerary, but instead I am folding that same damn laundry thinking, “Okay, so I’ve done A, B, and C, and I’m ready to hit D, E, and F.” I glide through my ToDos feeling like I’m making progress. I jeté from one task to the next. (Yes, jeté…that’s right. Remember? I’m using a ballet metaphor. Stick with me.)

Lately, though, the trance days are slaughtering the ballet days, and I don’t know why. It does not thrill me to spend time in Zombieland. Unfortunately, it appears I’m unable to will myself into a daily performance of Swan Lake. I’ve tried when I feel the trance upon me, but it’s not a flippable switch. Perhaps a local meth dealer can help spur me on to greater heights. If it wasn’t for the ratty teeth aspect, I just might consider it.

Can you tell what kind of a day I’m having? That’s right—I’m stuck in a trance. If I wasn’t, I would know how to wrap this post up in a way that might offer a ray of hope or two. Instead I’ll just offer up the old mantra of “this, too, shall pass.” The only problem is, the “this” is another day, and I don’t know how many of them I have left to pass. Geez, Debbie Downer, hands off the keyboard. Let’s leave you for Scarlett O’Hara and remember that “tomorrow is another day.” (Debbie wants to add on “or is it??”)

So tell me…am I all on my own in this, or is this something to which you can relate?

What I Can See in Sea Glass

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 17 Comments

This past weekend I was able to get away with my husband and son for our yearly gathering of my husband’s family on the shores of Lake Michigan. Amidst all of the laughs and chatter as we enjoyed our beach time, there was a quest: sea glass. We all love it and want to add to our collections, so there is always a lot of walking up and down the beach in search of the poor man’s treasure.

We have rules of what is a “keeper” and what isn’t. Basically, if the glass can draw blood, it doesn’t count. We envy the lucky picker who finds the beautiful cobalt piece or the lovely mint greens and soft blues.

My strong start.
My strong start.

My weekend began with two beauties right away…and I pretty much peaked at that point. Some of us got some great stuff, but I didn’t find much to speak of after my initial luck. As I walked along the shore, though, neck baking in the sun, I thought a lot about this valuable (to us) commodity.

I’ve often joked that as a Chicagoland dweller, I should just smash some bottles into Chicago’s lakefront and wait for them to make their way to the Michigan shores we visit…wait for them to show up as the glass that we treasure.

How long does it take for shattered glass to evolve into beautiful sea glass? I wonder. And as I think about the process of what it takes for jagged shards of glass to become beautiful pieces of…art, really, I can’t help but think of how it represents the journey of life itself.

Indulge me in the metaphor for a bit, will you? Let’s say we kind of all start out as bottles. And as the waves of life have their way with us, many of us, for one reason or another, get shattered. That initial phase is devastating. What once was is no longer. What you thought was your purpose is gone. Instead, it’s quite scary. Sharp edges warn of danger.

But the waves keep churning.

And your broken self is pulled into the tide and tossed up on the shore only to be sucked back in and overwhelmed by the waves some more. And then some more. And then some more again.

But maybe it isn’t overwhelming at all. Maybe it’s polishing, refining…turning you into the beauty that you will one day be. Maybe the powerful force of the roiling waves is exactly what is needed to make you your best self. The harsh battering of the surf against those jagged edges smooths them over and instead of danger, there is a refinement that makes you something to be treasured.

Or not. Listen, I had a lot of time to contemplate as I was crooking my neck to find this damn glass. Maybe you find the metaphor to be a stretch, and that’s fine. But me? I’m fond of the notion. It makes the “smashing moments” of my life easier to embrace. I look forward to being my sea glass self. A poor man’s treasure worth finding.

The Shoe on the Pavement

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 10 Comments

Every day, choices impact our lives. Some we make, and some are made for us. Some we see coming down the road, and some blindside us. All of them shape who we are—whether we want them to or not. Continue reading “The Shoe on the Pavement” →

Embrace the Wedgie

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 10 Comments

A few years back the family headed up to Wisconsin Dells for one of those intense indoor waterpark experiences in the dead of winter. The kind where it doesn’t matter if it’s 356 degrees below zero outside because you’re in a climate controlled indoor experience that is nice and warm (though the humidity is approximately 172%).

Humidity aside, it is a great time to go down many crazy, zig-zaggy water slides and have some sopping wet fun. Me being the practical (aka miserly) girl I am, I didn’t want to wear my good swimsuit to go down all the slides. After all—I might wreck it—and where would that leave me come summer? (I know many women are shouting, “At the mall with a great reason to get a new suit!” but I find shopping for swimsuits about as desirable as eating my own hair, coughing it up, and eating it all over again. Too graphic? Maybe, but I think you better understand my feelings on swimsuit shopping.)

There was just one problem with my thrifty plan: the elastic had up and died in my old suit. Luckily I brought a pair of swim shorts to go over the suit (hey—I never claimed to be a fashion maven), but this did not solve the problem. While the shorts offered coverage, the exhausted elastic meant that every time I went down a slide (or pretty much did anything), the suit gave me a nice little wedgie.

I grew somewhat adept at demurely fixing the wedgie each time my suit scurried its way north, but it was a constant nag on my swimtastic experience, and it was really dampening my spirit.

And then I had an a-ha moment.

I realized I needed to embrace the wedgie.

Sometimes all you can do is hang in there as best as you can.
Sometimes all you can do is hang in there as best as you can.

You see, I was fighting it because I knew it wasn’t supposed to be—but what if I accepted it as reality and embraced it? What if I told myself that the wedgie was supposed to be there? It was in this moment that I realized that embracing the wedgie meant that I needed to stop fighting physics and work with it instead.

Granted, this took some getting used to, but from the moment I told myself “let it stay—this is my new normal” I felt a bit of a shift in dynamics (as well as my wardrobe). I owned that wedgie, and that made it less annoying.

When our time there was up, I gladly threw the suit in the garbage, but I didn’t forget the lesson. There are experiences in life where what is happening is not ideal but also inescapable for that span of time. I can fight against it and maybe have a moment’s relief, but the annoyance will be all the more frustrating the second it returns. Or…I can accept it for what it is—a “life wedgie” that I need to put up with for a while, and by doing so, lessen the nagging irritation.

And there you have the simple moral of the story, my friends: sometimes you need to embrace the wedgie in order to have as much joy as you can flying down the water slides of life.

The Monotone Masseur

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 8 Comments
Ah...
Ah…

Want to send me into LaLaLand? Rub my feet. Or at least give me a gift to have someone else rub my feet. And so it was that I was headed toward my second foot massage the other day, as I had been fortunate enough to receive two “foot reflexology and massage” gift certificates for Christmas.

I went for my first one a few weeks ago, and though it was different than I expected (more body massage than foot), it was still quite delightful. It was an interesting little setup, with these Lazy-Boy type chairs that recline to fully horizontal. Throw in the fake fire “burning” on the big screen TV, a little ethereal mood music, and I was game. The young woman who took care of me did a lovely job and I actually had my mind taken off of things for a while.

Then there was my second massage.

The first time I went, I was the only person in the large room of about 10 chairs. This time, there was another woman off to the corner…with a guy massaging her. A guy? The thought hadn’t crossed my mind that there would be masseurs, as well as masseuses (yes, I’m all about the proper massage therapy terminology). Hmmm…that would be a little weird, I thought to myself. No guy besides my husband has ventured to lay hands on me in that way for eons. I just closed my eyes and tried to relax.

I heard this low, monotone voice say, “Hi. I’m Patrick,” and I opened my eyes to see a young 20-something set down the soak bucket in front of me. He did not sound unlike Patrick Star from SpongeBob. In fact, if there was a line-up of guys you would think least likely to be a masseur, his number would be called again and again. “This should be interesting,” I thought.

While my feet soaked and got less “footy,” Patrick started on my head and shoulders. “Let me know if you want more or less pressure,” he droned. Now, for whatever reason, I never like to tell someone who is giving me a massage to go easier—some sort of twisted sense of pride? Whatever it is, it’s stupid. Patrick started in on my neck, which is a big ball of tension, and I thought, hey, this may be okay…then he moved to my scalp. I didn’t know if he was breaking off strands of hair or simply ripping them out from the follicles, but…wow. The noise inside my head sounded like a mob of angry crickets. But I took it, dammit.

By the time he moved to my arms, I was fairly certain he was making it up as he went along. He seemed to be trying to relocate my never-been-dislocated shoulder. I figured maybe he was stretching out my socket. Then he did some sort of weird finger tap dance up and down my arm. I swallowed a giggle and wondered if I was on Candid Camera. But when he moved over to my other arm and did the exact same thing, I realized he was either a very good remember-er or there was a method to his madness. Slowly but not-so-surely he made his way down to my feet. His technique of pat, press, and poke made me wonder just what sort of massage school he had attended, but I hung in there.

He could be perceptive, though—as when he asked, “Too hard?” after he pushed into the arch of my foot so deeply I was certain my spleen had exploded. (I’m no expert in reflexology, but I’m pretty sure he killed my spleen in that moment.) Perhaps it was the convulsive movement that mimicked being electrocuted that hinted to him that he had been a bit too firm.

At some point, it became all about survival. After the foot portion of the rub, it moved to my back, with the chair fully reclining, and me on my stomach. Talk about feeling vulnerable…with my gluteus MAXimus at the mercy of “Hi. I’m Patrick.” The poking, pressing, and prodding continued.

I realized I was now much tenser than when I first sat down. My claustrophobic self was just concentrating on breathing (the little “face ring” that is supposed to allow a person to breath easily never quite does the trick for me). I may have even promised God that if I survived this I would strive to be a better person.

To add to the ambiance, the woman in the corner was now making odd grunting and moaning noises. I wasn’t sure if she needed help or a cigarette. Just as I was concentrating on ignoring her animalistic noises, Patrick took me by surprise and bent my recently operated on knee back beyond its acceptable range of motion. It was at that point that I overcame my “massage machismo” and nearly barked, “No!” I think I stunned him, but he was a good listener. He didn’t even try the other knee, and I wasn’t going to remind him, either.

By the end, I briefly entertained the idea of asking the receptionist for my “I Survived Patrick” t-shirt. Instead, I’ll make sure to request the woman from my first visit. In fact, I may need to schedule that soon, since I still haven’t untangled myself from Patrick’s masterpiece.

On This, We Can Agree

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ Leave a comment
Thank you.
Thanking and remembering ALL.

Most people recognize that today’s America is extremely polarized. Hostile camps are set up on pretty much every issue, to the point where our government can’t even work together to solve very solvable problems, and our population is all too comfortable denigrating one another’s views. But on this—I hope, I pray—we can agree: we thank and honor those who have given the ultimate sacrifice in service to our country. And we are grateful to all those who serve.

Memorial Day was created after the Civil War to honor both Union and Confederate soldiers who died in that war. (And, of course, it has evolved to honor all Americans who have died in military service.) But perhaps its origin should be a lesson to us today—that extremely opposite sides can come together to honor the sacrifices made for this blessed country of ours.

I don’t mean to be simplistic about this at all. War is certainly not just good vs evil…but no matter what the gray areas are of any given conflict, we must always remember that we have people who say, “I will risk my life for this”—and the “this” is ultimately the freedom we Americans enjoy—warts and all.

My dad served in World War II. My father-in-law was present at the Cuban Missile Crisis. I never got to know a cousin of mine because he died in Vietnam when I was just a baby. I have friends and neighbors who serve and have served bravely. Hundreds of thousands of people who don’t even know me are taking care of business on my behalf. Thank you all.

I pray that as a country we strive to be better people every day, and that we grow in tolerance, respect, and love for one another. To me, anything less dishonors those who have given all.

Thank you.
Thank you.