Reclaimed.

Today, Barack Obama was sworn in as the 44th President of the United States of America.

Lately, I have been thinking about sustainability and community. I think it is all the promise of change in the air - suddenly, buying organic isn't enough - I want to do it in a way that supports my community. Not purchasing new isn't enough, I want to create with my own hands. I want to make do, to patch the tire, to embrace things like canning and jarring and darning of socks.

I want to reclaim all the damaged things, used and thrown away.
Perhaps because I feel as though my country has finally been reclaimed.

Maybe my idealism could be usable with a little wood glue and a coat of varnish. Maybe my patriotism could be darned with a needle and thread, fixing the hole I left in the heel of America's sock. They will never be perfect again, these things, but there is nothing more beautiful than the hard-won character of something of value, glued and fixed.

Wishville, USA

I am living in Wishville right now. It's a place I go to in my head - there is a door in, but no door out. In Wishville, I am engaged in active daydreaming. I usually go there when I'm in front of the computer, making up alternate scenarios for my reality through research and endless tangential googling.

Sometimes, Wishville is about furniture or my immediate surroundings. Others, it's about a more disciplined yoga-ish meditation-filled lifestyle. Sometimes I'm an astrologer in Wishville. Sometimes, I'm a world traveler and adventurer extraordinaire.

Today, my Wishville is about becoming a teacher. Getting rid of the three credits between me and imminent career change. Figuring out the financial aid I'll need to make it happen.

Today, instead of engaging in my life of the present, I'm living inside the idea of "could."

Rocinante

My parents have a wooden statue. The skinny legs of Don Quixote mesmerized me as a child. His craggy face was explored by my fingers as they grew. I studied the dark wood and its grain in the carving, feeling the smooth curves of his coat and pantaloons, wondering how you make something like that from a block of wood. The statue always seemed so strong, but delicate.

My father, who was hardened and shaped by decades in the military, wasn't always the way I knew him. Once, he wanted to be a poet, or a forester in Oregon. Once, he was a writer and a dreamer. Once, he was an optimist, a writer of love letters. Once, he was a philosopher king. Once, he sang "The Impossible Dream" in the shower, getting ready to meet my mother on a date.

Once, he was Don Quixote, adventurer, knight-errant, dreamer and hero.

We are different people, my father and me. Life shaped him in ways that I will still not accept for myself. But, that statue reminds me of him in his youth, in what I envision as his purest state.

C's parents had a similar statue in their home, when he was growing up. When I came to his house for the first time, I saw that he had the same framed print of Picasso's Don Quixote as I had grown up with (in addition to the statue). They played the soundtrack to Man of La Mancha on their turntable constantly - as did my father and mother.

C and I are buying a 34 foot sailboat. We will hopefully close by the end of the month. We dream of sailing together all over this blue earth. This purchase is the beginning of making that dream a reality.

The boat is not perfect. It is old. But, to our eyes, it is beautiful. It is Rocinante, the skinny nag, riding to glory - helping us tilt at windmills. As we keep believing in beauty. Believing in honor. Believing in dreams.

...but she's ours!

We arrived home from our big weekend in Chicago with CB in tow, fresh from her stay with her Dad, his wife M and his whole family for a week. When I say fresh, I mean it the same way my mother used to say "Don't use that fresh tone with me, young lady." She's fresh, alright. Freshly spoilt. It's to be expected. But, dealing with it isn't a rose garden.

Getting your child back from their other parent is a double edged sword as with so many things in loving your child. On one hand you feel complete, an aching hole is filled, the world is brighter. On the other, your head feels like it is in a vice with the constant whining, jokes you don't find funny (but the child's other biological half clearly did) and the general exhaustion that can strike anytime, but seems to strike harder when you've had a week of peace and quiet.

I've done this before, so I know that my patience runs thin that first week, despite my joy at having my girl back. When my mother asked if she and my dad could take CB for the weekend right after she returned, I didn't hesitate with my "yes."

My sister KW decided to come out from Philly for an impromptu visit and take CB up to my parents' house for them, a day early. Monday night, sitting around the dinner table, I mentioned KW's visit and CB's subsequent departure. Much to my surprise, H got indignant. "So, CB is going away AGAIN?" he asked. I said yes. His voice went up two octaves and he said "But, we just got her back -and now she's going to leave again?!" I explained that my parents hadn't seen her at Christmas. He went on: "But, she's ours! She should be here with us, not going everywhere else!"

H's indignant response was music to my ears. So is the way he'll quietly take CB under his wing and teach her things, or the way he'll patiently play Candy Land with a two year old who has the attention span of a gnat because he sees the value of teaching her to love board games, knowing that it's an investment in years of beating her at chess. For my part, I think she'll give him a run for his money.