Author: Christi

Why I am not afraid

~ Christi

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Fear doesn’t scare me. It did, for a long time, when I was younger. My mom lived in fear of nearly everything. It grew progressively worse throughout her life to the point of paralysis. She harbored her fears until they usurped her life.

Me, I tried to talk her out of her fears, but I had already learned that you cannot make other people change. Better to change yourself, resisting others’ examples, or adopting them, but more often I’ve found myself in opposition.

Now fear is like an old friend, with her friendly warnings. Sometimes she’s my guardian angel, sometimes she can be a pest. But I always hear her out and take her thoughts into consideration.

An old Mustang

~ Christi

I want to take a drive in an old Mustang. Its paint is chipped, fenders dented. It has rust in the wheel wells, and the left side mirror is cracked. It is confident in its imperfection.

I’ll sit in the bucket seat, leather upholstery worn down, and relax with you at the wheel. I will smell that moldy old car smell with a mix of nostalgia and anticipation.

We’ll drive in silence, even our thoughts drowned out by the thundering engine. We’ll take the back roads like we used to, too fast, losing our stomachs just for the joy of it.

Maybe we’ll even break down along the way. As we wait for a tow, we will sit on the grass alongside the road and admire the view.

My husband is hot

~ Christi

He looks like Matt Damon. His sister said it once, so I know it’s true. My friends all think he’s cute.

He should always keep his hair short. It sets off his face.

He looks smart in glasses. And hot in sunglasses.

He’s getting these little smile lines around his mouth. And his lips. I could look at his lips all day long.

He’s strong, and his arms and legs are so long and graceful.

His eyes are piercing blue, and sometimes I feel like he can just see inside me without even trying.

He has no idea how good-looking he is. He doesn’t care a whole lot, either.

I think that he should work out more. Not for me. But so when he catches a glimpse of himself in a reflection, sees other women besides me admire him, he will know that he’s hot. Without a doubt. I want that for him.

He knows me. He understands what I like him to do, he knows how my body works.

He is so loving. He will do anything for me.

That’s sexy.

Why I’m not perfect

~ Christi

I’m short. You like tall girls. At least you used to.

I cut my hair. You liked it better long even though you never mentioned it.

My skin used to be really bad. It’s better now, but not perfect.

Three times you had to watch me, ever so slowly, lose the baby weight and get back into shape. That’s just not sexy.

For a long time I didn’t want you to have fun without me because I was scared that you wouldn’t need me anymore.

I like weird, sometimes long and boring movies. I make you watch them with me and then sometimes I fall asleep.

I don’t let you finish your thoughts when we’re talking.

I push you to be better at things even though you are already fulfilled at them.

When I get angry I am very self-righteous.

I am changing the game on you.

Why I will never move to Hawaii

~ Christi ~ 2 Comments

Hawaii makes me believe in God. Something intangible about those islands, their coarse black lava juxtaposed against glorious green grass, towering palm trees, and the ever moving ocean, makes me feel free. There, I feel beautiful. I see that Geoff is truly perfect, and so are my kids. Everything I want, Hawaii provides.

A few years ago, we had the chance to move there. We did not take it. We did want to, and part of me will always regret not doing it. But in the end, I needed to keep Hawaii special. When I go there, I always want to see it with fresh eyes. I never want to get used to the feel of the breeze against my skin. I never want to stop being able to smell its sweet, earthy scent. I always want to feel the strain and the challenges its terrain presents. In those elements, the islands renew me, fuel me, help me grow.

When we return home, I can take up the daily tasks of living again, knowing that I have not left my perfect self behind, but given it air and water and all the elements that keep it whole. I have preserved it within my everyday self. At home, I can do what life calls on me to do, I can witness Geoff doing the same, push my kids to learn, struggle, and grow, without a doubt of why it is worthwhile. Our lives always remain rooted in imperfection, with the promise of an occasional green flash.

An old house

~ Christi

I’ve noticed that sometimes when I live in the same house for awhile, several years at least, I stop seeing it. Not just seeing, but experiencing it.

We live in an old house. It has a pretty front porch, enormous windows, high ceilings, detailed moldings. The house has lived much longer than me. Longer than my parents did, and longer than my grandparents. It has had a life of its own, and that life is evidenced by its creaky floors, its cracks, its dungeonous corners of the basement.

We’ve lived here for a number of years, and at first my eyes were drawn to the arches in the hallway every time I passed through. I was disgusted daily by the musty smell of mothballs in the attic, until finally, we removed them. I’d notice the striking beauty of the sunlight and shadows through the front window in the afternoons, especially in the springtime.

Now, I still love the details of the house, but somehow time has softened them. Living in the house has diminished my experience of it. I can no longer smell the mustiness, I can barely hear the creaks when I run down the stairs.

But when we go away on vacation? Returning refreshed from visions of palm trees and crashing waves, or energized from brisk walks through a busy city, I experience the house anew. As soon as I open the door, I smell the dank, old-house smell. I get excited by the sight of the mantle and fireplace in the dining room. I hear the creaks when I walk across the floor, and they feel both familiar and new to me.

The essential

~ Christi ~ 1 Comment

A few weeks ago, while my daughter attended her Sunday school class, I sat in on a meeting with the rabbi on how to make the Passover seder more accessible to your attendees. Most parents were there to learn how to make the seder less boring, more fun, for the kids. The rabbi gave lots of good ideas — toys, games, costumes, decorations. I liked her ideas, but our family always focuses holiday celebrations on the kids, especially when it comes to religious celebrations. It’s our way of repressing the discomfort of facing the question of God and the force of spirituality in our lives. Legitimately, we have a lot of religious conflict around the table, with members coming from different backgrounds, different religious worlds. The older generation has agreed on a don’t ask, don’t tell policy, and for them the seder is just another opportunity to see the grandkids. Giving the kids candy and games, eating a nice dinner, and wiping our hands of the religious side covers our responsibilities without making anyone uncomfortable.

Now, at the meeting, the rabbi brought up an idea that stuck with me. She asked what the matzoh represents. Of course the traditional answer is that is symbolizes the Jews’ escape from slavery in Egypt. But the rabbi took the time to suggest an alternate reading, that our eating of matzoh as Jews is an opportunity to focus on the essential parts of ourselves. A meditation, without ego or the commotion of expectations. What things most make us us? What work do we need to do internally to uncover that essence?

I believe that when you have an existential question, the universe puts answers in your path. Or maybe that the answers are always in front of us, like clues, but you have to ask the right questions to unlock their meanings. This year, for the first time in my life, I enjoyed my matzoh.

Maybe by next year I’ll work up the nerve to share it with the rest of the family.