THE COTTAGE CAFE: A SPECIAL PLACE IN MY BACK POCKET

Today I found a new place to eat, a small eatery hidden in a residential area, The Cottage Cafe. It's quaint, packed, and delightful.

The waitress set us at a two-person table with our own water decanter with small-sized canning jars for water glasses. Hewn logs covered the walls, resembling the interior of a log cabin, and old wooden doors, shabby chic style, peppered the ceiling for decoration, along with bird houses and various ornaments of old-farmhouse history.

I figured I was about to get a home cooked meal, something unique and tasty. That's exactly what I got.

I ordered a herb-incrusted salmon salad with a cilantro vinaigrette with a cup of the tomato chive soup, both accompanied with sliced applies and cottage cream and warm honey, whole wheat bread. I ooed and awed, very pleased with the satisfying sensation I experienced while I ate.

By the time my plate was empty, I cradled a  sense of comfort and ease, enough, so tears wetted my eyes. Strange to say I almost cried after eating but true nonetheless, and primarily because I felt contentment and goodness.

Even before eating, I told my husband I had found a special place to put in my back pocket, a place worth going to any day, whether in need of a respite from everyday life or of no need at all.

A NIGHT OWL

Thunder rumbles the night and raindrops pat gently against the ground like mice skittering.  My boy's bed creaks.  He's bent on moving, stalling sleep, even though it's time to loll into dreams.

A child fights sleep until the bitter end, but I can say the same about me.

I'm a night owl by nature.

A speck past nine at night and suddenly I'm energized and creative.  That's when I'll pull out books and glue and scissors and begin moving furniture to a more desirable position.

Being a night owl doesn't coincide with mainstream society and the regularity of school buses and breakfast, so I adapt.

I practice being the good mommy who goes to bed at a decent time and who gets up dutifully to fulfill my mommy duties, but each night is a struggle against every cell in my body, telling me to stay up.

There's so much to be had when everyone sleeps.

Tonight's fine.  A weekend night.

I can linger with the late hours and chit-chat and conjure make believe worlds and imagine my living room differently (though it wouldn't be prudent to shove the furniture around now, not with children finally resting in squeak-less beds) and surround myself with my books and scissors and glue.

Darkness has a way of thinning my perceptions of what's normal, altering my angle of view, and I witness something tangible beyond what's offered during wakeful-hours.

There's possibility in these moments.

I cherish them when they come like nourishing gifts, even if all they may do is remind me I am an individual, outside my mommy suit.

SPACE

There is space in between the moments like Corpse Pose, where the blood in my veins whispers and regenerates my insides, my being, to be what I need to.

Space can be uncomfortable and unfamiliar, almost similar to a pesky mosquito that just won't go away, though my perception of its annoyance is my own and not the truth.

My breath falters when there is no space in between the moments of action, and, yet, I will again try to attempt to live life like there is no need for space or breath.

A series of events have propelled me into a new way of living, which, with practice and time, brings about a willingness to settle in the space and breath, to find peace when the lightening-problems scorch my sky and rip it into shreds.

Of course, my lightening-problems depend on how I see them. Space and breath give me a chance to gather truth and light, a means of seeing through the burnt embers and smoke to what lays beyond, a path worth trudging.

WEEDS

My husband and I have lived in different places, and, regardless if we own or rent, we always care for the yard, add a garden or flower beds.

We're currently renting where we are now, and when we moved in to this cute two bedroom the backyard was mostly dirt with a small section of grass, which was really more weeds than anything.  I asked the landlord if we could plant grass, and he said yes, pretty much free reign.

We planted grass and a vegetable garden, a simple one, and I surrounded the veggie garden with rocks and wild flowers from seed.

After a few weeks now, the grass is growing and seems like a regular yard, where two rambunctious boys can play and wrestle, and the veggie and flower gardens are maturing, a promise of color and deliciousness.

This morning, early, I began the arduous task of pulling weeds from my flower garden.

What came to mind for me this morning while pulling weeds is how weeds will over take, suck the water from the ground, and hide the sun's rays, stealing both from the flowers and plants I want to grow.

These weeds are similar to behaviors I keep with me from long ago that no longer offer a benefit to my life, like throwing temper tantrums or manipulating or whining or staying up too late or being hungry and forgetting to eat or eating too much when I'm full or being sarcastic and flippant when I really need to voice what's going on with me or judging and criticizing others for things I need to change myself or pouting because no one patted me on the back for a job well done or waiting for someone to reach out to me when I could call them and get the ball rolling or watching television instead of joining the world, out there, where things happen and so on.

I collected a lot of "weeds" while growing up, normal it seems, behaviors that worked as a child, or, at least, I thought they did.

When I'm tired or hungry or stressed or overwhelmed or unsure my tendency is to rely upon these old behaviors because they're well-used and easy to slip into, instead of trying something new.

What's funny is, I had a friend several years ago say, "They're not old behaviors if you're still practicing them."

She was right, though at the time I didn't like hearing it because it meant I was choosing to participate somehow.

Looking at my "old" behaviors and being realistic on whether they are still standbys for me to fall back on is like pulling weeds from my garden.

If I don't take the time to assess how I'm showing up and try and practice doing the opposite of what those old behaviors say to do, they will grow and block the sun's rays and suck the water from the behaviors that I want to grow.  I will create an environment where I will wilt and shrivel like the flowers I saw this morning that were desperate in trying to survive the weeds' thievery, but just couldn't do it.

And now, with the weeds pulled and a little water, the flowers have perked up and have the chance of reaching their potential, which, from my perspective, seems amazingly profound and beautiful.

IT'S ABOUT TO BEGIN

This morning, conversing with my husband, I realised my birthday is this coming Saturday, and I will officially be embarking on the last year of my thirties.  Curious.

What I find to be curious is the movement of time and how, at the moment, I don't feel like a girl in her late thirties, but, the reality of it is, I am.  Things are different, but I don't always feel different, or more like my state of being seems constant throughout the years until I am reminded otherwise.

For example, when I was at the swimming pool with my boys yesterday there were these two young teenage girls in their skimpy, two-piece bathing suits, and, by the way they were walking and sitting and leaning against the side of the pool, I could tell they were more interested in showing off their bodies then actually getting in the pool to swim, which I don't think they ever did anyway.  I remember doing that, flaunting what I had to get attention and trying to hide the fact that's what I was doing.  And now, I'm more interested in swimming then getting the life guard to goggle at my ass.

Another example, chatting with my boys and telling them stories of "When I was a kid..."  When I was a kid there were no cell phones or computers or answering machines (remember the old ones that sat on a side table, and you had to use mini tape cassettes) or internet or cartoons on any day except Saturday or 24-hour television or satellite radio or CDs or DVDs or Blueray or Xbox or Play Station or iPads or texting or any other thing that has made life quicker than it used to be.

I remember riding my bicycle a lot and playing in the dirt and reading books and collecting cassette tapes to play in my boombox and waiting all week for Sunday night to watch the Disney movie of the week and saving up to go the movie because that was the only place to see it, unless I wanted to wait for the hoped-for-day when it would be edited for television.

My boys give me wide eyes and open mouths, like I speak of a world that is inconceivable to imagine, and I see that and remember when I did the same to my parents and aunts and uncles and grandma, well, grandma just came from a time so long ago I couldn't even comprehend how she survived it.  It feels odd, them doing it to me, and, yet, there I am, a woman who's in her late thirties with a suitcase full of things that are outdated and most likely collecting more.

When writing the word outdated I thought of attaching the word unusable, but I know that's not true.  The things I used to do may be outdated and some of them are not ones I would care to repeat again and don't feel the need to, but some of them are still usable and beneficial to me.

Take cell phones.  I have one for emergencies, and I don't use it.  I don't answer it unless it's a planned thing, like I'm traveling or I've told my husband I will have it turned on for a particular reason.  I used to have the best cell phone and would have had it seared to my hip if it had been feasible and not painful.  I thought I needed it, couldn't live without it and there were a lot of "what if" scenarios attached to it.  I've found I'm less stressed by utilizing one only rarely, if that.  Living like there aren't cell phones is beneficial to me.

Books.  I love to read, to get lost in another's world, using my imagination coupled with their words to get there.  I remember before my husband and kids, the one possession I had were my books.  I'd pack them in blue milk crates that way I had a bookcase in the making, and the moment I stacked the crates up with my books gleaming forth I felt comforted, like the dinky little bedroom could be home to me, if only temporarily.

My boys are more interested in playing with their iPad or getting on the Xbox then reading books, so, of course, it's a constant topic of discussion or argument on their part to convince me that technology is better for them than books.  Another thing about books is the feeling of having one in my hand, the smell, the texture, the sound of flipping paper, the tangible essence of creativity, and the benefit of not bothering my eyes or mind with a computer screen's light, even if it's dimmed.

I know there was the benefit of not having everything at my fingertips, of not being able to get a hold of everyone at any moment of the day, of having built in pauses in my day because there was no other way around it except to wait.  And now things are fast and demanding, and I have found there is an underlying expectation from people of having to be available because it's possible, and, of course, everyone's doing it.

People look at me odd when I tell them my number is a landline and not a cell phone, and if they want me to call them back, they need to leave a message.  I'm not big on checking to see who called me and then feeling obligated to call them even though they didn't tell me they wanted me to call them, plus my caller id light doesn't work.

All in all, regardless of what's different, I'm still here, participating and experiencing my life and the inevitable change that comes with it.  I get to pick and choose what fulfills me, and I choose to try and live a little simpler, less consumed with the latest gadgets and whether the life guard's eyes are locked on my ass.  Though I do have to say, I did have a moment where I wanted the body I had when I was 20, things stayed where they were meant to.

I am embarking on the last year of my thirties this coming Saturday, and I choose, today, to enter it with gratitude for having more time on this earth to hang with my boys and go swimming and walk my dog, Stella, and laugh with friends and ride motorcycles and hike amazing mountains and so much more.  My life takes the hue of my perception, and mine is bright with color and joy, today.