Counting my blessings on Easter, April 20th, 2025
April 20, 2025
Springtime came late this year in New England. We’ve lit the pellet stove every morning and each night. The cold has lingered and is starting to creep in now, as I write and the sun begins to set. I like the purr of the chips falling through the shoot, the warm air as it drifts up, and settles on my forearms and ankles. I like pulling a cashmere sweater around my shoulders while I hold onto to coffee and take deep sips. It takes me a while to wake, I appreciate the slow moments in the morning as the house warms and I wait for the rest of me to follow.
We had guests this weekend from my hometown of Mountain Lakes, New Jersey. So I skipped the gym, and enjoyed long, dog walks over the golf course and along the trails of Cunningham. We ventured to Plymouth for the afternoon, where we briefly joined a protest, and stumbled on a craft fair. A closing coffee shop made me a cappuccino, probably because I looked desperate. My husband made sure to show Amy and John Plymouth Rock, as underwhelming as ever. When we left we headed over to meet their son and daughter-in-law for dinner at a little Thai place in Braintree. Anchan doesn’t typically take reservations but when I explained I had guests, and we were a party of five, they made an exception.
We had wine and beer with dinner, Amy and May had fancy cocktails with flowers floating in them; the guys had cold beer in frosty bottles. We nibbled on shumai and spring rolls, duck, chicken, and squid. There was no room for dessert.
We came home, walked the dogs around the block, but just once, then settled into a show and an early bedtime. I was tired, brick tired, like I had run a marathon, cured cancer, or cleaned out my closet.
And then we woke to Easter, the most glorious day we’ve had so far. There was church, good friends, communion, a party this afternoon, and another slow dog walk around the duck pond.
It was a lazy, long, weekend, with one more day left to spend how I please. With friends. With dogs. With Netflix. Tomorrow, I can do whatever the hell I want.
And what a blessing, a gift, and a luxury, this weekend, and the days of my life, are.
My kids are close, and I know where they will sleep. My friends are all citizens, and though they go to rallies, sign petitions, organize protests, are, for right now, not in danger of being picked up BY an unmarked car and masked men.
I don’t have to wake up in a prison, in a jungle, on a floor. Or in a holding cell, waiting to use the phone. I don’t have to glance over my shoulder when I walk down the street or check the news for where ICE has been seen recently.
Because of genetics and luck, so far, the dark that is descending on families all over this country and all over the world, it has mostly touched me while I’m on my sofa, reading the NY Times on the phone.
Yes, it was a lovely, lazy, Easter weekend with the people I love and people who love me. But how comfortable and content can I be when the world around me is growing dim, where hope is flickering as calls don’t come, where others might never know an easy sleep or a slow, spring, morning again.
I do not have enough time left on this planet to count all my blessings. I just wish I could pass some of them on.
Speak out. Speak loud.
Speak for those who have been silenced, for those who will be silenced, for those who might have just been thrown into the back of a van five minutes ago or are being marched onto a plane, hands shackled, wrists shackled, to a destination, far away from this place we call the land of the free.
Peace. Happy Easter. I’m praying for miracles. You?
I hadn’t had time to read the Sunday paper this morning; we got to church late and slipped in the back door. We didn’t even have time to glance at the order of worship when the choir stood up and went to the piano.
Our music director began the first chords of “The Star Spangled Banner” and a soloist soprano sang out the first words- “Oh, say can you see, by the dawn’s early light…”
The choir joined in. The arrangement was slow, and thoughtful. I heard each word of our national anthem liked I had never listened before. There were moments my shoulders shook, and my throat choked- how has our proud nation with our flag, “whose bright stripes and bright stars/Through the perilous fight/O’er the ramparts we watched/Were so gallantly streaming’ come to where we are today, Sunday, October 27th, 2024?
(In case you’re wondering, as I just was, a rampart is defined as the wall of a city or a castle. I’m not sure which in this context, but I’m really not that well versed in history, American or otherwise.)
The Star Spangled Banner is a joyful, victorious, slightly boastful song, of unity, victory, and hope.
We are not there right now. We are fractured.
I hope we are on the way.
I pray Kamala wins and, I believe if that happens, the healing will begin, (after the inevitable whining, recounts, and I don’t even want to go there, here,).
But if she does not, and this is a possibility, we can not simply bow our heads and walk away. If Trump becomes President, we have to fight harder. I know the face of Project 2025 scares the hell out of me, but we are not a nation of people that wrings our hands and gives up. We’ve faltered, as a nation before. We have faced worthy adversaries, internal and external adversaries, and we are still, I believe, contenders, a nation capable of striving towards greatness, and maybe, someday, achieving it.
Either way, we have a lot of work to do. Our country is broken in more ways Democrat versus MAGA Republican. It was built on the blood of native Americans and slavery. I could go on, but I won’t. This is not about looking backwards.
For the past fifty years, some amazing men and women have been working to build a nation where the lyrics of – “This Land Is Your Land, This Land is Our Land” ring true.
We are a country of amazing resources and strength. We are a country that is part of a world in crisis. The biggest thing we have going for our future is us. All of us.
Regardless, of who wins on Election Day, there is a lot of work to be done.
I don’t think Canada has room for us anyway.
The dogs I love.
October 1, 2023
When I was lying on the sofa this morning, reading the paper, sipping coffee, I glanced up at the ceiling. A hook hangs there that Sheldon, my husband, used to hang our dog Sophia’s lactated ringers, bags that hold fluids for people and animals that are dehydrated. Every other day, he would slip the solution on the metal hook and thread an iv into Sophie’s shoulder. When we started to give her fluids at home whenever she saw the bag and the tubes, I would have to herd her to the couch, and lift her up, her body dead weight in my arms while Sheldon set up the medication. Towards, the end, she was on the couch most of the time.
She suffered from liver and kidney failure. The fluids and appetite stimulants helped her live four years after our vet suggested she had about two months left.
Mostly, she was fine. She’d roll in the grass, swim at Houghton’s, stand by the fence and bark at whoever strolled by our yard. She was fierce- a snarling and growling menace to all that approached, but if a brave soul offered her a cookie, she’d pause, eat the cookie, then go back to the business of barking.
When it became hard for her to walk down the stairs, I started a tradition so that she’d join us at bedtime. It consisted of me bringing treats down to the bedroom, while she watched, and then calling to her “Sophie, cookie party!”
Sophie liked snacks. Sometimes it took a few minutes, but after a minute or three, I’d hear her toenails on the stairs. Most of the time, she’d find the strength to jump on the bed.
(Reading this, I’m a bit horrified; I made my sick dog stagger down the stairs for treats because I slept better with her sweetly snoring at the foot of the bed? In my mind, I was convinced that was where she wanted to be, too, but in retrospect, maybe I should have let her rest. I will say that in the morning, or in the middle of the night, if she needed to go outside, Sheldon, my husband, always carried her back up the stairs.)
One night, about a year before she died, it was clear it would be unkind to make her climb down, and we had our cookie party on the landing at the top of the stairs. She gobbled peanut butter bones from my hand before sighing, and turning, to walk back to her bed by the fireplace. I texted my mother Sophie and I had just had the “last cookie party”. I barely slept.
The next morning, she was fine, and life resumed as normal until it wasn’t. In the period of a week, she faded fast and died, with her head resting on the back of my hand, while I stroked her back.
I miss her. I think she looks down at the house today, and figures she left us just in time.
We have three dogs now. The first is Chanel. My son brought her home to keep him company while on house arrest. Sophie tolerated her, and she learned from Sophia that every person who passes our fence is a potential threat and must be warned, loudly, to move along. Nelly looks like a combination of Winston Churchill and my mother-in law. Her favorite room in the house is Colin’s bedroom, even though he lives elsewhere. When life becomes too hectic, she curls up on the bed and chews on his comforter. She is fiercely determined- she loves to fetch a tennis ball but refuses to give it back. She comes when called, and will move over when I’m trying to get into bed, but in her own time. She likes to keep everyone waiting and is well aware she is worth waiting for.
Bernadette is the middle child. She is a french bulldog, short haired, bulbous eyes, huge pointy ears- she looks a bit like Yoda but less attractive. She is restless and nervous, happy to join in with Chanel to protect our home from all the dangerous babies, walkers, and other dogs who pass by. Sometimes, if I’m watching television, she’ll jump on my chest to lean over and kiss/bite my nose. Just once. She then returns to her business, which is terrorizing Chanel, the cat, Sheldon, a piece of cardboard, whatever has landed on her radar. Balloons, her own reflection, other dogs outside the car window, and the blender, all send her into hysterical fits of barking to the point where I am afraid she’s going to have convulsions. But it passes. We no longer allow balloons in the house, though.
Last, definitely last, there is Jack. He is only five months old, so I’m still getting to know him. He doesn’t follow Chanel and Bernadette outside every time a bird flies by or someone gets out the car across the street. He feels they are doing a fine job protecting our home. He’s happiest napping, in his crate, in front of the television, or in my lap on the way to work. Like all puppies, he likes to chew things, but when I say “Jack, give it back, ” he returns whatever his current object to my feet, unless it’s food or something he considers food, which could be Q-tip or a cereal box. Then, it’s a bit of a challenge, and sometimes he wins. This exchange is quite taxing for the little guy, so most of the time, after I’ve confiscated something, he goes to sleep. His disinterest in exercise and incredible appetite are probably why he looks more like a meatloaf every day.
All three of them sleep with us, though arrangements become complicated in the middle of the night, when Chanel decides it’s too warm under the covers or Jack takes an interest in chewing on Bernadette’s tail.
Before we turn out the light, as soon as everyone, human and canine, has found their spot, we have our cookie party. I’m trying to teach them tricks, but I’ve found bedtime isn’t the right time for training.
It’s a party, after all. Right, Sophie?
Day 28, Good Friday, The Celebration of Passover
April 11, 2020
I’ve always wanted to believe in God, or something divine and specific.
Most recently, I quizzed friends who go to church about what they think of their church.
I am a Unitarian, and recently have felt the need to check out a place of worship that celebrated and seemed mostly certain about the existence of God, Jesus, and miracles, Not something out of Flashdance, I like dancing, but I was looking for something a little less UU- everything is possible- and a little more Christian- Holy Spirit, hear my prayers.
I wanted to pray for my nineteen year old son. I wanted to believe those prayers would be heard by someone other than the inside of my own head.
Colin is not living at home, and he’s well, according to him. When I see him, he’s driving away.
He’ll text me at 1030 at night, when he knows I am sleeping, just to say he is thinking of me.
I wanted to turn the grief over losing my son to a higher power.
I wanted the higher power to explain to my boy that he’d do well in real estate, and maybe tell him to come home. (I know higher powers don’t answer prayers the way a waiter delivers orders, but I was reaching. As most people do when they pray, from what I know about the process.)
These days, I’m probably not alone looking for faith, hope, and miracles.
I don’t think I will find faith in a church, or online watching a virtual service, but I might try.
When I reach out to my minister or my friends from First Parish, I will find love. And they will tell me there is hope, and I will offer the same.
I find love among friends, when Katy tells me someday I’ll write a great book, when Sheldon gets out of bed to get me a drink of water at 5 am.
I don’t know about faith. If something has been answering prayers lately, I don’t know who they’re taking calls from. But this is a time traditionally of miracles, so…
Love will have to do for now.
Faith takes time, and work, I think.
These days, I certainly have the time.
Love,
Julie
Orangetheory and ME
November 5, 2017
I go to the gym almost every single day. Working out gives me the chance to listen to silly pop music and use the immaculate showers when finished, (I live with two teenagers).
As you’ve probably guessed, I’m not a gym rat. I’m as coordinated as a newborn giraffe. I carry baby weight 17 years after having the baby, and living with the teenager has probably added a late night when-the-hell-is-he-going-to-start-packing-for-college Breyer’s induced pounds. I wear glasses, my hair refuses to stay in one of those adorable high ponytails, and my torso, when tucked inside a yoga top, looks like a well stuffed sausage.
When a person acknowledges they go a health club to listen to Shakira and hit the steam room, it’s an indication this person should take their workout up a notch. When I received a chance to try out something new, I took the leap.
I was curious about Orangetheory, a fitness studio that opened a year ago in Quincy Center. There are about two hundred franchises nationwide, and the chain is growing rapidly.
Each gym is set up the same way, with treadmills along one side, a large area in the center for rowing machines, and an open space for strength training that includes TRX cords, free weights, and gravity balls. The colors are- you guessed it- tangerine orange, and slate grey.
Along the wall in the separate workout areas are flat television screens that flicker on when class begins. Every participant has their first name listed alphabetically on the screen in day glow letters. During the workout, people can track their heart rate and see how they measure up because of a special Orangetheory heart rate monitor strapped on their arm. The studios are dark, and the music is loud.
I knew all this beforehand because I’d been peering thru their window for weeks, while sipping coffee from the cappuccino shop next door.
On the day of my visit, I went to the Friday afternoon 4:30 class. As soon as I opened the door, I was surrounded by three different employees. All of them greeted me with the enthusiasm shown for adorable babies wearing cute hats and tiny little athletic shoes or socks with bunnies on them. They knew my name, were eager to answer all my questions and, four separate times, assured me I didn’t need to be nervous
This made me nervous. After they strapped the heart rate monitor onto my forearm and led me to the waiting area filled with female twenty something fitness models wearing perfect ponytails and shiny spandex and one very male body builder type, I was very nervous. Looking at the body builder helped a little.
My trainer decided I would start on the treadmills, and explained that even though most (all would have been the correct term) of the others were runners or joggers, power walking was fine. I walk fast, and I stroll, but I have never power walked.
Power walking was a thing in the eighties. Today there are occasional outbreaks at the mall before it opens because some brilliant activities director at an assisted living facility is nervous about residents wandering around the parking lots trying to get their steps while dodging cars, dogs, visitors, and wheelchairs. It came back yesterday to downtown Quincy, Massachusetts, thanks to me, because I only jog when I’m running outside to chase Sophie The Best Dog Ever, (obviously there might be a better dog that doesn’t slip out the door for a game of tag during rush hour,) find the newspaper, or realize someone is driving away with my phone.
Megan went over what my target numbers would be,and explained about the incline, monitor, and large tv screen where my name was right in between Jenna and Kylie. Somebody turned up the music, and I checked for the fourth time that I’d double knotted my sneakers.
During those twenty minutes on the treadmill, I worked really hard. When using the elliptical, I have access to the same data that flashed over my head at Orangetheory, heart rate, calories burned, and distance traveled. What made me work harder than I ever do at my gym- the data is posted in different colors, according to what your heart rate is. I really wanted to make my numbers RED.
I wanted to make my numbers red so much, I jogged. I even ran. It felt like running anyway.
After twenty minutes on the treadmill, we headed over to the water rowers. There is something significant about these rowers because they are powered by water, but they just seemed like nice looking rowers to me. Rowing is hard, but since I knew everyone could see exactly how much effort I was putting into it, I kept up. When I rowed, I rowed like I was actually trying to go somewhere. (I’ll remember that for next time.)
Because of my unique approach, the fact that it took me about two minutes to strap my feet into the pedals didn’t do too much damage. It only took me one minute to unstrap my feet out of the pedals because I was looking forward to the strength workout.
I’d had the chance to watch two groups rotate thru the exercises posted for us this part of the class, and felt pretty confident I could handle them. After all, I had jogged. I’d figured out the buckles on the rowing machine. I wasn’t wheezing, or asking someone to call my mom.
There are three different sets of exercises during the strength interval, designed to work most major muscle groups. The first set of exercises were one legged deadlifts, spiderman arms on the TRX, and pushups. It’s hard to do one legged deadlifts in a dark room with a Techno soundtrack, especially after running and rowing. I wobbled a bit, but didn’t fall down, so I’ll call that a win.
For the Spiderman arms, I had to position my body at a forty five degree angle, leaning backwards, while I clutched onto cables. I had to use my arms, like hinges, to pull my body up, one arm at a time. My moves were less Spiderman climbing a building and more clumsy person flails on resistance bands. But I flailed less with practice.
Finally, I made it to the pushups. I kept my back flat. My eyes faced the top of the mat. I didn’t bend my knees. I completed five of the best pushups ever before realizing everyone was back up doing the one legged dead lifts again.
At the end of the workout, everyone came together to stretch. I looked around the room, and realized that I hadn’t noticed anyone during my hour session, except so I could figure out what I was supposed to be doing. I had run faster than I have ever run in my life. (As a child, my games of choice was not tag or soccer. They were backgammon and reading books; the latter isn’t a game and might explain a lot about my lack of coordination.)
The next day, they sent me a wrap up of my work out-
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Am I a horrible person for pointing out the expected goal for a first time clients is around 12 Splat points and thatthe numbers are cut off, my Splat points were 29? Splat points refer to the amount of time spent in the red and orange zones, when the heart rate is elevated. Of course, my heart was racing! I ran, and I don’t run, I rowed, and I even ended the workout doing mountain climbers. (At my regular gym, I usually just hold a plank. Not a climber, either.)
At the end of the day, what I’m most proud of is that I took on something new, in a room full of people I didn’t know, and I did things I decided a long time ago I don’t do.
It’s really nice to surprise the world. It’s even better when one of my kids looks at me with respect and says ‘Mom, you’re doing such a great job.” But what I learned at Orangetheory is how wonderful it feels to surprise myself.
Next week, I’m going to try Acroyoga. I’ll let you know what happens.
julierichmond 