The I-35W bridge crossing the Mississippi River collapsed last night at 6:05.
Dozens of cars plummeted into the river more than 60 feet! Right now, at least 79 people have been injured and four have died.
And this is just the beginning of the list. Minneapolis Police Chief Tim Dolan said cars are still trapped beneath the water some containing people (20-30 people missing).Authorities are saying the bridge was "structurally deficient."
I’ve been thinking a lot about falling lately.
Two days ago, I was working out on an elliptical.With sweat falling from my brow and Tom Petty’s Free Fallin’ blaring in the background, I caught an article in Home and Garden (March 2007 issue) about a photographer named Neeta Madahar.The writer, Caroline Cunningham, highlighted Madahar’s new series called Falling.It’s a beautiful collection of different seeds falling, for example, maple seeds unpredictably spinning to the ground.
I started to think about all the ways we use "fall"” to describe good and bad: falling in (or out of) love, falling into (or out of) luck, fall apart, fall back (spring forward), fall asleep, fall down, fall behind, fall to our knees, fall out of bed...
Cunningham wrote, "Madahar’s series Falling explores associations of falling -- the joy, the sense of abandon, and the undertow of uncertainty."
The undertow of uncertainty.I love this description.
We are there right now.We know a lot, but not enough.How could this happen?Are other bridges safe? Do we want to drive over a bridge again? How do we talk about this with kids?
We work so hard to not fall, to not fail. So much fell yesterday and not just concrete and steel: our confidence in our public safety, our sense of control, our sense of security, our innocence...the list goes on.
At the same time, we know that in the face of tragedy, heroes rise up to serve others.
I remember as a kid, when I'd fall off my bike, I was told to shake it off.Because this tragedy was avoidable, it is hard to shake...it's unshakeable.
Grandma Amaryllys is 80! There's nothing like a big birthday celebration to get my priorities back in check. We went to Uncle (really, Great Uncle) Lyle's on Cormorant Lake. It was beautiful, even if I was a couple hours late -- I was directionally challenged...
Besides that, it was great seeing my family -- members of different generations spending time together. I went tubing with cousins (which was more like tubing bumper cars). I'm sure feeling the pain now; I fell three times.
We also played Pinochole (my favorite!). I love it because there are so many people who love to play; I'm usually the weird one begging my siblings to play with me. Dana (my eight-year-old cousin) sat next to me. She sorted my cards, while learning how to play, and was working on a knotted hemp necklace. She used my toe to hold the strings in place. My second cousin Katie and I reminsced about our first time playing Pinochole; we took on my dad and Uncle Lyle and smoked 'em. I still believe it wasn't beginner's luck! We're good!
Then I sat next to Grandma. We started talking about the skits I missed (being late and all) and how much fun we were having. She said, "Alexis, I just want you to be happy. That's my story and I'm sticking to it." She told me how proud she is of me and how happy she was the day I was born because she was FINALLY a grandma. She said she brought pictures and chocolates to her office when she got back from her visit (we lived in California). A few months later when we visited, she said she took me around to show everyone.
It's amazing how she said exactly what I needed to hear. I feel like I've been a bad granddaughter. I haven't taken the time to write, call, or even visit her. I'm averaging about 1-2 times a month now. I communicated with her more when I lived in another country!
I'm going to take the time to connect with Grandma and my extended family more not because I feel like I have to, but because I need to.
"I'm sorry." A statement that seems to be coming out all the time lately. And I need to stop, unless I mean it.
I'm the oldest of four and hit many of the stereotypes: I'm bossy and aggressive (I still contend that it helps us get things done). It's my role in the family and I'm okay with that.
The youngest, Jake, who is probably the most like me. He's a film maker and into radio (he's actually the new producer of The Jill Spiegel Show Saturday nights, The Polichicks, Good Enough Moms, and Katie K-9 Sunday afternoons). The two siblings in the middle: accountant and biomedical engineer! 'Nough said!
Jake always said he was sorry for everything. He's not as bad as he used to be. I remember how annoyed we'd get. When he really was sorry (or should have been) and said sorry, we wondered if he really meant it. The value of his "I'm sorries (is that how you spell it -- the plural of sorry...?)" lessened.
I think I'm there now. I'm saying sorry and not really sorry. Someone hurt his toe over the weekend; I said I was sorry. Why? I didn't do it.
So I'm going to take my own advice and say sorry only when I mean it!
Love, The "I'm sorry for things I'm not -- no more!" Princess
I know I dream every night. But I rarely remember them. So when I do, it's a big deal. About a week ago, in my dream, I gave birth to a small liquid sack about the size of a quarter. (I'm not sure how I did; I was completely clothed). In the sack, there were two black circles and a red one. I had it in the palm of my hand and started poking it with my finger and it burst and the liquid and the circles started to swirl together.
In about one minute, two tiny black lizards developed. I just stared and stared at them. Then I realized that they continued to grow and I got scared and tossed them into a quart-sized ziplock bag. When I did, they stopped growing. I opened and closed the bag a few more times until the lizards got so big that they were pressed against the sides of the bag. Smooshed.
I asked my dad to look at them. Instead of carefully opening the bag, he pulled them out and started to examine them. As he's holding them they continue to grow. When they got about forearm length, they started to change color from midnight black to beautiful, metallic, bold and bright colors --like a rainbow.
What does that mean? I'm not sure what the experts would say, but to me it's about living.
A couple days before, a family member revealed that he was gay. I know, the rainbow colors/symbol signifies the gay community. But I think it's more than that. He said he's known since he was 12. And for all these years, he's been keeping it inside and trying to work through his own feelings. He said he was afraid because it's not socially acceptable, but most of all, what would his friends and family think? And, of course, why me?
Now that he is out, he is different. He's happier. Same guy, just with less of a burden. He said he was tired of pretending to be someone he wasn't. He was ready to be his authentic self. Sharing with others can be healing and freeing. He's not one of the lizards smooshed into a bag craving oxygen to grow.
There's a lot of personal growth going on all around me. Look at this website and this community we are building.
I look at Kevyn Burger today. She shaved all the hair on her head off. She was scared. She was wondering what people would think of her, what they would see, would they see her as less of a woman? But she did it; chemotherapy is her friend she says.
I'm a lucky person to have such wonderful, vibrant, colorful, amazing people in my life who aren't afraid to face their fears and share their truths!
Love, Princess
P.S. The Get Real Girls will be talking Sweet Dreams on Saturday morning from 8-10.
I saw my old man crush at the station last Friday.He’s has no idea.Thank goodness!How embarrassing if he knew.That's the fun of it; nothing's going to happen.
I asked around the office to see if I'm the weird one and I got many responses from "Yeah, of course," to "Ewwww," to "How insulting!" to "What's that?" (He's someone at least 18 years older)
I remember my first old man crush.I was 15; he was my piano teacher and easily 30 years my senior.His music mesmerized me and I loved playing duets with him.It sounds sexual, but it really wasn't.I admired him.He took the time to listen to my stories and asked me what my life goals were (compare this to the conversations, if any, I had with 15 year old boys in my class...'nough said). He touched me with his music and I knew he cared about me as a student.For the record, he's good looking too and recently married.
What is it about an old man crush?Wisdom, mystery, experience, financial security, good looking (or not)?
At least for now it keeps work even more interesting...
