Confessions of a Serial Plate Spinner

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Hi. I’m Wende and I spin plates.

Rather poorly at times, but spin I do. There are days when it feels as if there are more plates wobbling on the ground, just about to lose all sense of motion, than plates spinning neatly in the air.

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Each day begins as a lottery, a game of chance: which plate meets the floor as the rest demand my attention? Will it be my little store? Will it be the gym? It will probably be the laundry; that plate spends so much time on the floor it’s established a dust colony.  Today I will spin the work plate, the church plate, the “no child you are not dying of some strange illness you googled” plate.

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I’d like to tell you that it all gets done eventually. But I’m beginning to suspect that eventually will never arrive. Incrementalism requires a great deal of patience and even more grace: a simple kind of self-love that says, “I’m worthy and enough, even if there isn’t enough of me to go around.” Be gentle with yourself, Wende. Walk gently.

It’s ok if the dog has fleas (OH MY GOD, how did this happen?) and your child is going to college in 3 weeks.

Breathe, Wende. Keep spinning those plates.

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But some days, mother nature throws you a plate worth spinning. An 80 degree day in September: beautiful and clear. Balmy. The word is balmy — but only because Santa Barbara-y is not a word.

We’re not likely to get such an invitation again this year. So, I set down the work plate (though I gave it a few spins just to be safe) and worry plate. I stacked up the laundry and the pest control plates and everything else that can wait until tomorrow plate: and fell soul first into this beautiful day.

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A long walk along the river. Spun! A fabulous dinner on the porch and finishing off that lovely Rosé. Spun! Raspberry Thyme Sorbet. Hey, I made that!! Taking goofy photos with the love of my life. I think you know the answer to that.


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Check out Mireio tomorrow for the Raspberry Thyme Sorbet recipe.

I Fell In Love Again, Today

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Along the river. . .

 

For the past year, IZ and I have been walking the river on Saturdays. Weather permitting. It has become our sanctuary. Our ritual. Our way of exorcising all the pent up emotion that life throws at us Sunday  through Friday. We talk about our dreams, our frustrations, our hopes.

Along the way we meet fellow travelers. Today, a friend of a friend who just passed away — I don’t know her, but we’re connected by our mutual loss, the funeral we attended just yesterday.  And a dog name Maggie May, whose owner informs us that she knows when the wind is blowing by looking at the trees: which means leaves are also blowing and Maggie May lives to chase leaves and fetch them. Choosing just the “right one” each time to take home. And our neighbor, queueing up for the trolley with a visiting relative: because that is what you do with visiting relatives.

As one hour gives way to the next, we are transported as much as we are rooted. Touching base with the local barista and the pavement beneath our feet. This is more than exercise. It is very foundation of our week.  And I am reminded, despite the stress that we vent, the hurdles in front of us (yes, we can eat the elephant one bite at a time), that our lives are truly amazing. MY LIFE is amazing.

And I fall in love all over again.