un·fet·ter
ˌənˈfedər/
verb
past tense: unfettered; past participle: unfettered
- def: release from restraint or inhibition.
Then, my first day back at work, two days later than my originally intended return, I found myself locked in my classroom, crouched between bookshelves in a corner in the dark behind my desk for two and a half hours as policemen scoured the nearby neighborhood for an armed gunman who decided to threaten the safety of thousands of K-12 children on their way to school (here's a news article if you're wondering). And when I saw my first graders, finally, on what should have been our 4th day back from winter break, I faced questions such as, "Ms. Kaplan, why did the man have a gun?"
Now, most people might get discouraged if those were the first few days of your new year. But I've learned over the years that, for various reasons, I don't count myself in the category of "most people." I refuse to let circumstances beyond my control dictate the direction of the next 352 days of my life. I have no intention of giving up on 2015 just thirteen days in.
Which leads me to why you're here today, instead of across the blogosphere at Doggedly Running. Let me explain.
I've been thinking about starting a new blog for a while. When I started Doggedly Running back in 2011, I was in a very different place. I was on the cusp of my second marathon. Running was new and exciting and different. I was discovering new and surprising things about the capabilities of this body.
I had a dog (singular) who had four-leggedly managed to change my life in ways I didn't think living creatures of the canine variety could do. And I desperately wanted to tell that story.
Life at work was beyond challenging that year. And at the end of the day, I simply needed something else to think about. So Doggedly Running began.
Today is different. Today, running--while still a journey that requires unfathomable strength--isn't the new and fascinating thing it used to be. I now have two dogs, and it no longer surprises me that their existence in my world is life-altering and provides for more happiness and love than I once thought possible. Thus is the nature of dogs. And work, while still continually challenging, I find manageable on more days than not.
So Doggedly Running, for the time being at least, has run it's creative course for me.
Instead, welcome to Unfettered Moments. An idea derived from nothing less than a moment of conversation. After months of trying to develop a new idea, or theme, for a new blog, it was during a moment of conversation over the holidays at dinner with my sister-in-law that the idea was sparked. She mentioned that as she and my brother were discussing 2014 recently, she had realized that she knew they had had some wonderful things happen throughout the year, but all she could remember was the bad stuff. So she was contemplating a New Year's Resolution: to keep a memory jar. Whenever something good happened, whether small or large, she'd write it down on a slip of paper and put it in the jar. Then, at the the end of the year, she could read through all the good things that happened.
I thought the idea was brilliant. And as I contemplated it over the next week or so, the idea grew. And it continued to grow until, after many google searches for appropriate name ideas, it turned into Unfettered Moments.
I decided that Unfettered Moments will be the place where I finally acknowledge that most of my life consists of pieces of moments that stand glaringly clear in the mind. There are thousands of moments in a day, but it is just one or two that each of us remember. The feel of a moment, the taste, touch, and smell of a moment--these are the things we build our lives upon. The space in between all blurs to gray eventually, but when we think back on our lives, we remember those moments.
But the thing is, those moments we remember--we choose them. We choose which moments to remember, both the good and the bad. I'm not promising that all the moments here will be good, but they will be worth remembering. And I promise to share them with you, unfettered.
So to start a new year and a new blog, I don't choose to remember the flu that kicked off my new year. I choose to remember this moment:
The couch in my small apartment is turned from it's normal position, at a 90 degree angle from the wall it typically rests against, facing the TV--a position it takes only when there will be ample TV watching in the near future. I lay with my head resting on a pillow against the armrest, stretched lengthwise on the couch. My curly hair is a single, unwashed tangle. With no make up on and wearing the same pajamas I've had on for 2 days (through the fevered sweats and chills), I stretch my legs across the lap of a man that has somehow in the past four months become a part of my life in intricate ways that I never really believed I'd ever allow someone to become. As he softy strokes my ankle, I feel the movement of a dreamy kick under my feet. My heels are resting on the tightly curled body of Lucy, my 80 lb Lab-Hound mix who has managed to fit herself on the half cushion of space that remains in the corner of the couch that Matt and I don't take up. She groans a little in her dreams. The groan alerts Penny, the 40 lb Pitt Bull that has been sleeping, uncharacteristically, on the dog bed near the couch. She stands up, stretches and moves to one side of the couch, looking for a space to squeeze in. When she doesn't see one, she comes around to my side, still searching. She stands staring, willing me to move and make room. When I don't, she climbs her front paws up on the edge of the couch. Walking her back legs up one at a time, she plops her 40 lbs lengthwise directly on top of me, head resting on my knees, belly to belly, tailed curled under her bottom at my chest. She promptly closes her eyes as if to say, "That's right, I just did that. We. Are. Snuggling." I imagine what this pile must look like on my small couch and can't help but laugh.
And, instead of remembering a scary lockdown and answering tons of questions that should never have to escape the lips of 6-year-olds, I choose to remember this moment:
I open the classroom door, and they come pouring in, coats dragging backpacks as big as their bodies. They ask questions that I don't want to answer, but know I will have to. As I deflect questions and uninformed conversations with "We'll all talk about it together as soon as we're unpacked," I feel a tight squeeze around my waist. I'm caught in the strong embrace of a first grader, arms wrapped fully, ear firmly smushed against my stomach. As I reach down to return the hug, patting her on the back from my towering height, I hear her say, "Ms. Kaplan, I was scared yesterday. I really missed you a lot."
Unfettered moments. Here's to a new adventure.
