Lemons and Lemonade

When life hands you a lemon, make lemonade.

It's one of the best cliches. Trite? Of course. An eye-roller when someone says it during a talk in church? Definitely. Wise? Absolutely.

I believe in making lemons out of lemonade. The therapists call it cognitive restructuring. I call it living life in a way so you don't want to bang your head against the wall.

Insomnia

It's almost 5:00 a.m. I've been awake since 3:00. A.M.

I hate insomnia. Why is it that at 3:00 in the morning I can't stop thinking about bills and taxes? Why is the witching hour of 3:00 the time my sons' lives and choices niggle at me? Why is 3:00 a.m. the time to worry about work, make dieting plans, and schedule my week?

I know all the typical answers. I'm married to someone who specializes in sleep, for heaven sake. I know the textbook explanations and answers. I've written articles on sleep, and two major book proposals. But at 3:00 a.m. the easy, tidy answers don't matter. The dark folds around me, while thoughts of broccoli, bills, and backaches scamper around my brain like unwanted nocturnal predators.

Fortunately, I don't have insomnia every night. It's just an occasional, irritating visitor, like an aunt with bad breath. I sympathize with people who fear going to bed every night, knowing they'll be awake at 3:00 to greet their own nasty aunt. Facing the old bitty a few times a month is bad enough.

But, enough for now. It's time to get up!

Happy Birthday, Ethan.

Today is my second son's birthday. Ethan is turning 23 today. Of course, on someone's birthday, you think about ... well, their birth. What else?

Ethan's was tumultuous. He looked horrible when he emerged from the womb, bruised a hideous shade of purple, squished and blue from oxygen deprivation. (Sorry, Ethan, no nice way to say it.) His body had already been invaded by Group B Strep, a dreaded organism that kills half of its newborn victims, and that would infect his entire body and bloodstream. I've written often about Ethan's miraculous recovery and won't go into all that today.

The interesting thing is that I still don't forget. Everyday I am grateful that he survived. Not only survived the disease, but survived to be gifted, smart, kind, and a whole bunch of other positive adjectives, despite dire predictions to the contrary. I watch his fingers dance around the keys of his bassoon and marvel. I look at him think about everything from religion to dating with the intensity of a Tibetan monk and wonder how his mind has such depth when mine so often skims the surface. I watch him clean up the kitchen, without being asked, and I think, on top of it all, he's thoughtful.

You'd think that after 23 years, I wouldn't think much about his difficult start in life, that by now it would be commonplace. But it's not. Nor are Mozart operas, that first tulip in the spring, or the view from one of Colorado's magnificent mountains. Miracles are all around us, if only we choose to remember them.

Why a Blog?

So, why on earth am I writing a blog? There are millions of blogs online. Many are written by witty writers and intelligent, fascinating people. Folks who can tell you how to go into a grocery store, use coupons and buy $175 worth of food for $12.62. People who can give you a new Crockpot recipe for everyday of the year. Political analysts who can rant with the best of them. Spiritual gurus and knowledge seekers of all varieties.

I am none of those things. I am just another writer.

Frankly, that's why I've decided to blog. My writing of late has been ... well, lackluster, to say the most. I teach writing workshops where I preach the gospel of writing practice. "You've got to practice writing," I tell my students, "the same way a musician has to practice scales." And yet ... it's easy to let yet another day go by without writing a single word. So many other things get in the way ... a class or workshop to teach, papers to grade, a kitchen sink full of dishes, chocolate chips begging to be baked into cookies, errands to run, an episode of Modern Family that just can't be missed, bills to be paid, people to be talked to. The stuff of life.

I'm not sure any of those things are worth writing about, yet I admire writers who write about the mundane, the small, the simple ... and find beauty and interest and life. I'm not sure if I'll endeavor to be one of those writers or if I'll just write whatever pops into my head. I guess we'll find out.