The Skillicorn Reunion

I was never able to post these when it happened, but I thought I would still post the pictures... I am not outside as often so I am not taking as many pictures, which gives me a moment to catch up :) And I just realized there are no pictures of Magra... hmmmm...

Grandpa Skillicorn and Emma

Josh and Isaac

Pagra Hill and Isaac, sharing a moment

All the Hill men that were available

Pagra Laughs Out Loud

Great Grandma Skillicorn, would you like a drink?

Emma and Isaac, squishy belly so much fun

Lorna and Grandma Skillicorn

walking in the light

Posing :)

the magic of fall

The I can't complex #2

When I take my son to the park it is very seldom that you don't find him running, here, there and everywhere.  It is one beautiful game to him.  I use these pictures of him and the joy of running for contrast :)

I find that this particular dilemma, the feeling that I can't, has been a particular companion of mine through out my life.  There is a feeling that I have kept it as a friend for far too long.

  When I was in high school, I ran. At least I picked up my legs and propelled myself forward, much like a turtle with severe rheumatism might propel themselves forward in the middle of winter across a deep snowy road.  It was in this slow, methodical, never ending pace that I ran Cross Country and Long Distance in Track.  

Frequently, I imagined that I was one of those slow plodding draft horses, strong and uniquely beautiful (when impersonating a horse you are always beautiful :), never quiting but not sleek and fast like a thoroughbred... In fact, later, one of my friends asked me if I wasn't horrified or embarrassed that I came in last frequently.  I had never thought about it, it was just how things were.  I was slow.  

I came in when I came in, it was never about winning for me, but about trying to do better, trying to survive the race and the burn in my lungs and body.  It was also a means to an end, I wanted to be in shape and be skinny.  I never thought about or dreamed about winning a race, leading the pack or passing them all... it was never my vision because I never dreamed it was possible.  

I couldn't.  I knew it was physically impossible for me to run faster or as fast as everyone else.  My body was different then the majority of other people's.  For instance, most people have fast twitch muscles.  I knew I had none, my muscles were all composed of slow twitch muscles, thus making it impossible to run fast.  Also, I was given alligator legs as my birth right... short and stubby... not even short, small, and slightly curvy... short and stubby.

I don't know how many memories I have of running, pumping my little legs as fast as they could go only to be outstripped, easily, by a long legged friend, well almost any friend really.  That was always discouraging, losing in a sociable race.  For whatever reason, my heart was in those battles, loosing them made it hard to invest in 'real" races,  knowing I would only lose no matter how hard of an investment I gave. 

The last difference between my body and others' was that somehow they surely 
didn't feel the pain I did.  To me the pain was a sure sign, that obviously, I was not meant 
to run fast.  I was so sure that everyone else ran faster because it didn't hurt them as 
much.  How silly of me.  I doubt there are many people who don't experience pain or discomfort when they run, the trick is pushing through it.  I remember still, the night I realized that running fast was all about running through the pain.  It was delicious.

I remember the sensation of almost flying, not that I had reached epic speeds but I had a good pace and I was pushing through the discomfort in my body, so much so that I didn't feel it anymore... I only felt the elation of conquering my weakness and doing something my body had resisted doing for so long... I felt I had wings and could conquer the world.  It was a moment I will never forget, still I can see and feel myself running with my friend, both of us inhaling the dark crisp night with enthusiasm, never slowing the pace, never stopping... just flying.

The I can't complex #1

As a young child my dad frequently took his family into the wild.  We would go hiking, fishing, huckleberry picking, or take long trips into the mountains... trips my dad called "short cuts".  As a young child I mostly enjoyed it, all though the short cuts may have taken "forever", in retrospect I now find those long lost moments not tedious, but lovely.  Now, in my spare time I have many good memories to thumb through.  

For instance, there was the time I hooked my finger instead of the wriggling worm.  Or the time when David and I fell into a deceiving  inch of water and two feet of mud deceptively disguised underneath.  It was a strange sensation, stepping into shallow water and then having your leg sucked into never ending mud, I never did touch bottom as I fell, but luckily only one leg fell in and my brother pulled me up before any real damage could be done.  The rest of the trip we were cold and muddy.  

 There was another occasion when we lost the car on a hike into the mountains.  Most people lose their cars in parking lots or parking garages, we lost ours in mountainous nature on a solitary dirt road.  The walk back to the car was arduous and dark, dark being very significant to a young child with fears of wild, rapid, black dogs attacking.  I remember forcing our way through thick brush and clambering over fallen down logs as we headed downhill, towards where we thought the car was.  Other then a fear of black dogs, I don't remember being particularly scared.  My dad was there, I could hide my panic, pleasantly, comforting it with a gentle pat, in my coat pocket as long as my dad was still there.

Despite the peculiar accident, or two or three or four, we odd children found ourselves in, I mostly remember a vague sense of comfort being together, and a feeling of awe at the beauty and wonder of nature and a certain knowledge that with my dad nothing could hurt us.  Except once, when my dad allowed me to discover for myself just what I was capable of.  

We were fishing, and my dad hooked a particularly large and strong fish.  I remember holding onto that fishing pole with all the strength my little body could muster and still my feet were dragged forward inch by inch towards a small drop off into the water, which I was pretty positive would suck me under immediately, being the large, dark and deep pond that it was.  Determinedly, I tugged back fighting for my four year old life but the fish pulled me forward again, just as resolute to safe his own.  I was teriffied and angry, loosing my ground. 

I looked to my dad for help, why wasn't he saving me, didn't he see the danger.  My dad just stood there, maybe even laughed.  I was so sure the fish on my line was going to pull me in... it was so strong!  I remember clearly the feeling of desperation, tears in my eyes and angry that he thought I could do something so hard all by myself.  This fish was seriously contesting whose life would be forfeit and my dad was doing nothing to help!  My memory loses me there. 

Right there.  Forever fixed in that one spot.  An epic battle between fish and girl.  Both fighting desperately for our lives.  It is a little obvious, I suppose, who won the fight (this is not a fish typing here), but I do not remember how it was won, if finally I mustered enough strength to hurl the beast to shore, or if my tears and anger finally called my dad to my aide.  I have talked with my dad about this moment since then, and he is very adamant that the fish was not going to pull me in, he had full confidence in what his little girl could do, and that if anything happened my dad would be there to protect me.  Looking back I believe he may have been trying to teach me a lesson...the I can lesson... when you are faced with all the fear and doubt of "can't" but find that despite crippling angst you are able.