Random impressions, opinions and ruminations from a woman who would really like to invite EVERYONE over for a good meal, a glass of wine and passionate conversation, but the dining table only seats so many . . . .
The irony of commitment is that it's deeply liberating - in work, in play, in love. The act frees you from the tyranny of your internal critic, from the fear that likes to dress itself up and parade around as rational hesitation. To commit is to remove your head as the barrier to your life.
What do you think of the new and updated Stamp Woman? Click for larger image.
A friend at work showed me a picture collage on his iPhone, featuring his young grand - son's face tricked up like stamp images. "Isn't that cool?" he asked. Boy, howdy! My head began to spin. "Hey, Mark, if I e-mailed a couple of pictures, would you mind . . .?" He said he didn't mind. When the picture landed, I chortled a little, being a woman who is pretty easily amused. Then landed another e-mail: "What do you think of this?" Ha! Coin Chick!
"Now you're the Leslie Morgan Silver Dollar," he wrote. Having not
seen this possibility before, I guffawed right out loud. David commented that my hands resemble claws, as if I were clawing at my face, in the coin version. "Yes, Sir. Distressed at the economy. Clawing for my life."
The end of the work day neared. Only George and I remained in the office. "Would it be bad form if I took the rest of my birthday cake away rather than leave it here to be enjoyed with coffee tomorrow?" For, despite having served plank sized portions, there was still half of that mammoth cake remaining. "Darlin', it's your birthday cake. You do whatever makes you happy." I decided to take it to AA. Sometimes some people there haven't eaten all day. The free coffee and refreshments might be all they get for awhile. Jenn and I attracted a lot of attention in the parking lot. Typically, when someone appears with cake at AA, it means they're celebrating a sobriety birthday. Everyone applauds that. But the cake, on its own, is appreciated, too. "Whose birthday?" "Mine!" "Oh, do you have a year now?" "Nope, I have 59 years!" Odd looks. We set up for the meeting, answering all the questions: "Leslie's birthday, brought the rest of the cake, etc." A woman who is rather contentious came in. "What's that?" We explained again, though we thought a giant slab o' cake was pretty self explanatory. "We're not supposed to celebrate belly button birthdays at AA," she pronounced.
I don't care for the term. I understood she meant we celebrate sobriety birthdays more than natal days, but her comment made me bristle a little. I looked around the room where are posted the 12 Steps, the 12 Traditions, all the short slogans we live by . . nothing about "celebrate no belly button birthdays here". I said, "We're not celebrating anything. I simply brought refreshments to be shared in fellowship." And, besides, there are no "supposed to's" in AA - it is a system of benevolent anarchy. Everyone does it his or her way. Jenn grinned. "Well done," she mouthed. Some others came along and someone said, "Hey, it's your birthday, why don't you lead the meeting?" I did so, with pleasure. The question of belly button birthdays vs. sobriety birthdays was thoroughly chewed upon, as AAs on both sides of the question munched away at my cake. Since I was leading, I got to observe rather quietly, and it pleased me to watch people rant about what was right and what was not and to tuck absentmindedly into that confection that aroused such passionate conversation.
Up just with the sunrise, I flipped on the coffeemaker and the TV, started the shower, stroked Virginia Woolf's fur for a moment, yawned. It requires a lot of my energy to get myself up and out every morning. Oh, I want to go! It's just been a long time since I kept a work schedule and I have to be disciplined about meeting all my obligations, one such demand being to allow myself rest and relaxation and pleasurable activities. An ad came on announcing a concert at a casino-resort I could walk to. I've walked to a concert before. It's kind of fun to simply stroll through the madness as everyone else tries to maneuver cars through chaos. The streets between the venue and home are well lit and busy around the clock. I'd be safe. Maybe . . I like John Sebastian, coffee-house folkie who fronted the Lovin' Spoonful and a handful of other good groups in the day, as well as having a solo career. He's a great songwriter whose voice remains true and who still looks adorable. Maybe . . The announcer raved on about the intimacy of the venue, the rare opportunity to see a performer as special as John Sebastian. One of the artist's songs kicked in, fairly loud compared to the spoken part of the ad, and I had a "WTF?" moment. For performing in person is one Joan (pronounced "John", at least in this TV spot) Sebastian. Not at all the man I had in mind. So, maybe not . . . Oh, I'm certain Joan Sebastian is a marvelous singer. Just not what I was expecting.
Special thanks to Mark Bubel for indulging my whimsy.
I like the little truism "Bloom Where You're Planted". It encourages me to simply do the obvious next right thing, with what's at hand and I'll blossom. I've been back at my much loved work (with only a slightly different flavor and location) for a month now. When I look into the mirror, whether literally or metaphorically, I am amazed at the profusion of sprouts and blooms. Oh, to be sure, there are few stalks or full flowers yet. But compared to only a short time ago, it's as if I've been given a strong application of spiritual, mental and emotional Miracle Gro. Don't read this as "everything's wonderful". Everything is not. But almost everything is much better. And that is huge.
I never really knew George, beyond the knowledge that he was nominally related to "us". I worked only for A1 Carpet Care and was David's assistant. David's preference was that I be bonded to him and to A1 and that others in the special little world give me space to do what I do. And that worked fine for us all. Now I work for both David and George, seated in the place where George can be found most times. David pops in many times a day, many times simply to read my face, and we burn up the cyberworld with text messages and emails. It is a wonderful time in space for one who loves to connect with others, such as I.
George, it is clear to me, is a man who "does for" women. He is strong, well-established, sure of himself, knows his way around the planet, and - more importantly - around Las Vegas. He is rather aggressive and confrontational with men, seemingly unprovoked, sometimes. Conversely, he is rather courtly toward women - all women. When a female openly ponders about how to accomplish some task, George gets right in it, partly advising and partly trying to shoulder some of the required action. I am of mixed feelings about this "being taken care of". Mostly I resist it, though I listen to advice. Sometimes (less frequently), I'm simply grateful for a little assist in a mundane errand or dilemma. George calls me (and other females) "darlin' " with some degree of frequency. This is something I've never appreciated from anyone in business, but I have not yet prickled about it coming from George. That's what he does, naturally. If I find it truly objectionable, I'll say so, and I am certain he would modify.
I'd worked only a couple of weeks when my birthday came. I hadn't peeped a word about it, but it was not forgotten. I was only slightly taken aback when David popped in and said, "Grab a pen and pad. Come upstairs with me." No, he's not curt or rude. We just speak in shorthand sometimes. Usually when he goes short-of-words that way, it means his brain is bubbling with the newest idea. It never occurred to me we could have chatted downstairs right where we were at the time. I just hollered out, "Going upstairs with David!" and climbed the stairs in the broiling sun. When I went back down, with David hot on my heels, I learned I'd been had. George took me by the shoulder to the embarrassing moment . . .
Some of these made a much-
appreciated gift. Hey! I'd been
unemployed for a year. This was
exciting! My head whirled.
Edible flowers. I ate one to prove it. I sprayed the rest with a matte acrylic spray to preserve them for some future use other than simply add- ing to my momentary pleasure and future body weight. ;~}
I decided to put half of my windfall into savings, use some to repair some of the harm to my personal business after a year of neglect, and some to buy a couple of things I'd not been able to afford before. Part of that was easy: make a bank deposit. Some of it was glorious: I bought a modest haul of art supplies I'd hungered to own and use. Some of it was daunting, just a little, because I still cannot easily handle more than a few demands at a time. My car, Lucy Sue, looked shameful. Mostly, she had sat for a year, collecting not miles, but dust and grime and hard-water stains. A drive-through car wash wasn't going to do the job and I'm not physically up to cleaning her decently. Along comes George. "I know just what to do, darlin'!" He fumbled for his cell phone and barked out, "Get your ass down here to the office. I need you." I cringed at the approach and waited for whomever to appear. Enter Pablo, a male who has given service to George for many years. He's likely accustomed to barked orders and good pay. An hour later, during which time George ran out into the parking lot windmilling his arms and pointing out tiny spots of Lucy Sue needing attention, the car gleamed. It smelled good. At the end of my day, George took me outside by the elbow, opened the car for me and damned nearly hooked up my seatbelt across my lap. I drove off feeling pretty happy. I'd paid the enormous sum of $20 plus tip. It was a small investment in feeling a whole lot better.
One finds it in the little
things, small connections.
The next day, a Friday, it was monsoonal, hell for hot and threatening rain. This did not make me happy, as my car sat out in the open. I dreamed at the window a little bit, observing the gray sky and traveling back in time. I wondered whether Vicentestill cleaned cars as poorly as a car can be "cleaned", still exuded the charm that pulled me magnetically and whether he had ever received his transplanted kidney. I experienced a little wave of sadness and went back to work. How can this happen in real time, reader? For I am not even slightly fictionalizing this: a man walked past my window outside. I only had a fraction of a second to experience the lightning bolts going off in my head. He opened our door to enter. He made eye contact with me as I sat behind the desk. He nearly dropped to the floor. He began to visibly tremble. He clutched at his chest a la Fred Sanford having the big one. "Leslie! Ay, dios mio!" I vacillated between grinning and tearing up. "Hola, Vicente." "Leslie!" He came behind the counter and took me by the hand. His English has not improved, nor has my Spanish. Other than talk about car cleaning, and limited talk at that, we have trouble communicating to completed concepts. This took me aback only a little: he put my open hand on his chest - hot from hellish heat, wet from his profession - car washing involves water, even for Vicente - heart pounding nearly out of his skin. I could physically feel all of this. He continued to grin at me, trembling. I was struck - for the 9 millionth time in life - by the mystery and joy of connecting purely with one other human being whom one can't help being drawn to. I don't know why I am so bonded to a man who really does a poor job that I pay him for. He is not "hot for me", nor am I for him. It's not that. But whatever one calls it, we have it and it goes deep. After he collected himself, Vicente (of course) put the moves on me about the car. That's his livelihood. I impressed upon him that the car had just been detailed "jesterday". "Oh, jesterday?" I nodded. "Next week, Leslie?" I nodded. David walked in and took in the grand reunion. Vicente left and David grinned from ear to ear. "And you'll still be giving him a 50% tip, won't you?" I nodded. The story of Vicente's return into my small arena does not end here. He (and others) will be the subject of my next post after I grab a couple of photos I need. Across the period of a year, Vicente got his transplant and Leslie got sober. I told him, partly in pantomime, about my alcohol fueled crash and burn. "Ay, dios mio! Now better, Leslie?" I told him I was better now.
David stayed nearby, leaning against my counter on his forearms, a stance I now recognize as the newest, "Let's talk" pose. I was intrigued by his look, as he isn't the only one between us who "reads face". "What's going on, Sir? I can see you're percolating." In our little world are represented many different beliefs and belief systems. A fragment of knowledge about astrology used to make us crow about the Virgo Brigade in our world under the stucco canopy, back where the world can't see us. For in a group of maybe 25 people, several key players were Virgos: David, me, the much-loved and now gone Rudy, Cesar, the wonderful carpet technician. We knew our world ran well because of our Virgoan superiority . . I'm kidding! We thought it was interesting. "You know Trudy?" Sure, I do. She now manages A1 Carpet Care and I don't resent her for it. She was looking for a job when I surrendered mine. She seems to have done well with it and David has told me she is now "one of the family". "Her birthday is the same day as yours, August 24th. She's exactly one year older than you are." I grinned. "Sir, how the hell did you manage that?" He grinned that slow, broad beam and shook his head from side to side, slowly. "I didn't know until a couple of days ago. I had to scramble so her birthday wouldn't go 'forgotten'." And so it goes . . .
In my ears this weekend: Because I love just about anything he performed . .
Hello, there. Stamp Girl here. Chick on a sharp learning curve. The stamp people and I have developed an exciting atmosphere, everyone learning from everyone else, people chewing on "her database" who'd never heard of a database a month ago. "Can your database do this?" Probably can! From my side of the building, "Is this a Lincoln Commemorative or something else entirely?" I think philately is at least interesting, and maybe even kind of fun. They seem to think I am at least interesting, and maybe even kind of fun. New friendships formed, a Labor Day BBQ is planned and next week I will put on my first event since returning to work. More on that later, as my event is a surprise in honor of someone who happens to read this blog.
One does not work for David and expect slow easy days. He and George pay well and provide absolutely everything needed so the staff can work hard and do their jobs well. They're excited about what I bring to their company and want magic immediately. Without any pressure ~ they know everything about why I crashed and burned, approximately where I am in recovery, and some of the triggers that could be bad for me. It's been four weeks now and the days fairly gallop. I haven't missed one AA meeting for being too tired (or for any other reason), though I've had to be disciplined about managing it all. I know this, for certain: I was more than ready to return to work and people and to activities requiring the use of my brain and energy. I also know this: it takes everything I have to do everything I need to do in this new life and keep my balance at the same time. I am frustrated I cannot find time to write much to be posted. I long to "make art" now the creative juices are flowing. I must do my Fourth Step work and continue with my program. Yeah. And not lose myself in any way.
For the purpose of decompression, I made a little zen garden at my desk. I keep a plant, some essential oil to rub on the pulse points for relaxation aromatherapy, my Tao, some special rocks, a pair of framed Asian artworks Jenn made for me, a lovely little piece of Depression glass I got for my birthday, a pair of Asian art collages I've made, and - oh, yes - the fish. Though I always keep bettas in pairs - yes, in separate homes, but within sight of one another so they'll flare and put on a show for me - there was only one available the day I went fish shopping. He's a purple hazy little fellow I named Jimi and he was a pretty mousy little fish. Not
much to say. But I liked observing him in his cool watery world separated only by glass from the hellfire of the blacktop parking lot in a Las Vegas summer. Shopping again, I found Big Red, a crowntail betta with some blue areas against the scarlet fins and some attitude. I submit that few creatures contain as much testosterone, ounce for ounce, as a betta fish. Peace and tranquility are no longer. But I laugh out loud at the fish rowdies.
OK, so some insider philately fun:
To give the reader some sense of perspective, if this was a full set of the five stamps, it would be valued at somewhere between $7,000 and $26,000 depending on many things including whether the stamps had ever been hinged (listen to me talk stamp!), the condition of the gum and more. I don't know the value of these exact stamps. But let's say they're on the lower end of the price range. Wouldn't you still want the word "Louisiana" to be correctly spelled on your display? Just sayin'.
And for the truly discriminating investor: One of our consultants has a customer who wants a fine classic, but feels the price is too high. Alex is an older, courtly Russian man from Moscow who has seen many of the finer things in the world. His accent is slightly French and becomes more pronounced when he gets animated. "Leslie, he just doesn't understand. He's not stamp expert. We are. How can we show him?" Hmm . . well, let me see. 1875. Only 3 known to exist. eBay Buy it Now price: $64,999. "Mr. Smith, for a VIP client such as yourself, we'd be willing to match the eBay price. You'd save so much over full retail." Buy the stamp, dammit!
Leslie's hammer
So I've produced a few small pieces of mixed media collage work and they please me. I've even made some for myself and put them up. Sometimes completing a piece means stealing 10 minutes after work, standing at my counter gluing and arranging, hustling so I can have the pleasure of creating, but still making it to AA. The other staff watch me with interest and flattering me. One woman said I inspired her to decorate her office after sitting between blank walls for two years. I finished a piece and hollered indelicately, "Charles, do we have a hammer?" He said we didn't. What? We live amongst half of the world's Steve Kaufman paintings hanging on the walls and we don't have a hammer? "Could you get me something I could use to drive one small nail? I'd use my shoe if I had the right kind on." He moves pretty quickly for a big man. "Here you go. You can keep it to be used again." I asked if he was sure. Was it special for any reason to him or his son? "No, it's yours." That nail was about 2 inches long and not very big around. It required delicate application of the tool at hand. It worked really well.
In my ears right now: A double served either way you like it.
What an odd day. A fairly intense earthquake rattled the eastern part of the U.S., which is unusual. Hell for hot in Las Vegas which isn't unusual in August, but is still hell for hot. To the right below is a truly bad picture of one corner of one of my monitors. Oh, you get in between all the stuff through which I had to maneuver, and produce a grand photo. This is simply for illustrative purposes. You can just about make out that you're seeing WeatherBug. In the red strip across the top, it reads "Alert". The alert is for excessive heat. Ambient air temperature 107 at about 3:30 p.m., though when I got into the car, the sensor was reading 118-degrees down on the blacktop. I display the Microsoft jellyfish on my desktop, though it looks more like flames in my poor photo. I thought that was appropriate, given the temperatures. "Leslie, is that a jellyfish?" I said that it is. "Is it pooping?" I said I didn't believe so and that I thought that was just part of its body streaming along behind. "I wouldn't want to be the nature photographer who has to follow behind wildlife to take pictures of them pooping." I said it might be time to return to one's own desk and leave me alone to contemplate other things.
I had an itch - a yen - to make art and it couldn't be Asian in theme, because that's virtually all I've done since I very recently found ways to express myself again. I used a purchased large black initial "L" that I embellished with sand dollars, two fountain pen nibs, faux versions of the Penny Red Brown stamp that sells for many thousands of dollars each, a London postmark, a European house address number in metal, a glass stone, and paper images of a postcard and old sheet music. Art. I made it for me, the newly anointed Stamp Girl. Not sure what the two shiny, scuzzy looking marks are about. They don't appear in real time. And speaking again of shitty photography, this one is going to show more of my efforts if one clicks on the picture and gets the larger version.
My friend and I made a pilgrimage to Hobby Lobby. We'd printed the coupons, bought the Starbucks just before going in, wore comfortable shoes, carried pads and pens so we could scribble ideas. Hey, we know how to do this. We share or go halves on some art supplies, but playing the coupon game forces us to check out singly, each applying her coupon to the most expensive item in her basket. Our mothers didn't raise any fools. We already agreed we'd spend a long time there, each going her own way and then meet in the middle to ask "Did you see . . .?" or "Do you want to go in on this?" I came around the end of one aisle, having found some wonderful items marked 50% off. That's when I saw him. My blue eyes met his very dark ones and I looked away, trying not to appear too interested. I don't know if he was onto my game. I gave another sidelong glance and decided I'd sashay right past him like I was unaware of his presence. My decision didn't hold. I stopped right in front of him. To my surprise, I reached out my hand and touched him, only moments after first laying eyes upon him. I am compelled to confess I took that fella home with me to stay. I've wanted a male like him for a very long time and he seemed the perfect one, from his size to his sweet face. I made him my own.
This is Atticus, my new guy. Yes, that is the reason I named him Atticus. I don't know very many other Atticus references from which I would have drawn. He makes me smile from ear to ear. He reminds me of Amber's sock monkey, Martika, whom I bought for her at a street fair when the child was still riding in a stroller. Martika was my girl's good friend for years and we changed her up a little as Amber grew older and more fanciful. I made dresses for Martika, sewed on long, fluttery eyelashes, beaded a bracelet right onto her arm and occasionally exchanged her eyes for a new pair. We made up songs about Martika, and that sock monkey became one of the family, essentially a lovable relation who could be tossed into the washer and dryer when she got grungy. She wasn't ideally suited to going into the bath with Amber, but nobody is without shortcomings. Martika was right there beside us in good times and bad. She went into bed with a little girl who was sometimes happy and sometimes sad, scared from time to time, excited upon occasion. Once, on the night before I had a surgery, I'd invited Amber for a sleepover in my bed with me. We were scared about the surgery and both of us cried and held hands during the night. Martika was there, too. Remembering that simian sister makes me smile and feel a little tender around the edges. I hope, if she no longer goes into bed with Amber, that she at least has some protected spot in a closet, and hasn't been thrown out or lost across the years. If Atticus brings me half the joy I think he will, then I will long consider myself a golden child upon whom have been showered many wonderful gifts.
I'm at university to take a degree in juggling. After a year of reduced activity and reduced life, I'm on a fast track. If I hit warp speed, I will harm myself. I need and want to work, keep working my AA program, write, make art, read . . . and it's not all fitting with the frequency I'd like. I'm painfully aware of which of those things must take priority, whether it makes me happy or not. So ~ ~ every day another lesson or ten. Do not read this as depressed, down or anything negative. It is only "new". Something to be learned. I'm a good learner.
In my ears right now: Yep, I like it in its original form, as well.
Farewell, 58. Contained within you were the worst and some of the best days of my life so far.
Remember me, the kid who greeted other kids not with "Hi", but with "I've got an idea"? So I'm feeling just a tiny bit frustrated these days. Oh, I'll survive it and it's not going to be my excuse to pick up a drink, but I feel it a little. I get up really early to get ready for work. I work nonstop for several hours, jump up, navigate the streets of the city (ugh), pick up Jennifer, go to the library or wherever we've decided we'll pop into for the day, go to AA to fill my reserve tank, sometimes have to stop at Fresh & Easy or get my hair cut or whatever . . there isn't much time left in a day. I am pent up with words and ideas I want to get onto the blog and have not yet figured out how to make time to accomplish. But that's not exactly what this post is for.
I hold my sweet-natured little she-car - Lucy Sue - in similar esteem to that in which I hold my sweet-natured little she-cat, Virginia Woolf. Both of these girls have belonged to me only, not shared custody with anyone else. They rely upon me for their needs and I've managed to meet them, apparently, because both seem in good condition. When I stopped drinking and my life started to flow down the drain, Lucy Sue did what many alcoholics attempt unsuccessfully. She cut back on her drinking. For most of a year, I put in $10 of gas and it lasted a month. I wasn't going much of anywhere. Yes, I noticed all the signs on the gas stations. I knew gas prices were obscene. But I wasn't doing higher math. $10 is just $10. "How much will it cost to fill up my 12-gallon tank?" is another matter altogether. So I pulled in Wednesday, slid my card, used my preferred customer discount and started the pump. Man, it costs a lot to fill a tiny tank with fuel! Who knew? And - I swear this is true - I heard an audible reaction from Lucy Sue. She either groaned or emitted a little paroxysm of sated delight. She'd not felt so well-endowed in a long time. But that's not exactly what this post is for, either.
I love final resting places. Anyone's final resting place. Whether it's catacomb or crypt, graveyard or Golgotha, mausoleum or memorial park, I take great pleasure in communing with the departed. No, I'm not morbid. I don't want to imagine anything unpleasant. I simply want to weave through the rows, reading headstones and memorial plaques, imagining the people and their lives and those who cared about them. I've spent hours in the desert observing tiny ersatz funerary grounds and have been profoundly moved by what I saw there. I've slithered on my belly like a snake in pyramids both in Egypt and Mexico, viewed vast green plots with the white markers for fallen soldiers in several places in the world, and - oh, the promised land - St. Paul's Cathedral in London. Beneath the beautiful structure consecrated in 1708, sitting
there atop Ludgate Hill, the fifth structure known as St. Paul's is a place of great beauty, the tallest building in all of London until 1962, and possessing one of the world's largest domes, still. The stained glass is breathtaking and the American Memorial Chapel touching - remember, the Brits eventually became pretty affectionate toward us Yanks. St. Paul's fills me up with holiness, and I am not speaking of religion, as I don't do religion. At all. A person would have to be soulless, however, not to find something to love at St. Paul's.
After an awe-inspiring look around, almost always accompanied by profound silence from nearly every visitor, one descends to the crypt. Oh, here lie Lord Nelson, cheek by jowl with the Duke of Wellington and Lawrence of Arabia. There are the painters, Van Dyck and Sir Joshua Reynolds, poet laureate Nahum Tate (died 1715) . . my mind goes a mile a minute. The best memorial, however, houses
Sir Christopher Wren who designed the fifth St. Paul's, most of the prior structures having been consumed by fires dating as far back as the year 936. Wren's monument is unassuming dark marble, words inscribed: "Lector, si monumentum requiris circumspice". "Reader, if you seek his monument, look around you." I have never visited his resting place that his grave was not covered in fresh roses or daffodils, laid across the marble, bright punctuation on the deep-toned marble. Cathedral workers remove the floral overflow hourly. And all of that is sort of what this post is for.
Now, let's play the game. Imagine you have left the building, never to return. Those who loved you wish to construct a fitting commemorative tribute to the wonderful person who was you. What will it say? What will it look like? You are restricted to a headline of your choice (like I've used "Here lies Les" below) and 10 words to tell about your essence. Here is mine. Long may I lie in peace.
In my ears right now: Otis. If you don't love Otis, then I feel sorry for you.
Special thanks to esteemed Word Woman, Rachel Fenton, who recently applied the words "quirky" and "droll" to me. I can't claim those as my own brilliance.
When this is posts, I will be readying myself for work. Not so unusual for a Monday morning, right? I began to work at the age of 14, in 1966. Except for the past year and one year of extremely harrowing pregnancy and childbirth, I have rarely not worked. Work is what I do. So why . . .
OK, look. I took a blood oath that I would not "over-do" as has sometimes been my wont. Yeah, I get wound up tighter than a cheap watch and, sometimes, break a spring or slip a gear. Some who care about me remind me that I don't want to blow - in any way - the second chance I've received that almost no other golden child in the universe would get on her best day. Agreed: I don't want to blow anything in any way in this reincarnation. They remind me I have been physically and spiritually ill - very ill - for a long stretch and that going back to work will be more, in every way, than I expected it to be. All right, I concede. This won't be perfectly easy.
So I'm soaking in the tub this morning, talking out loud to myself and I landed on some profound notions:
This working thing is going to take up a lot of my time.
This working thing requires getting up very early.
This working thing will break my isolation (good and bad).
This working thing will require me to be efficient with my time.
This working thing will give me money.
This working thing feels foreign to me, though it's only been a year.
"Are you nervous at all, Les?" "No, oh no! After all, everything about it is familiar to me." I lie. I'm nervous. A few days before Amber started at a wonderful Montessori academy, I asked my therapist, tearfully, "Do you think they suffer any thoughts like 'Why did Mommy leave me here alone?' " Paul and I had a long relationship by then and he laughed at me. "No, I think they have thoughts like 'I wonder where to hang up my sweater' and 'I wonder where they put my lunch bag'." A very few days into that process, I realized he was likely right and I was likely stressing too much. Is that the case now? I know where to hang my sweater and locate my lunch and even more. I'm worried about the "me" I am delivering. Will I resemble the good me they remember and want on their team? Or will I have lost too much and be only a shadow of my former self? Will they clap each other on the back, exclaiming, "Yeah. It was worth waiting for her to get uncrazy!" or will they exchange glances translated as, "Oh, the poor old bag."? And - oh! best of all - can I manage a job and the 12-step program that keeps me alive? I know plenty of people do. But will I? I guess we don't know the answers to these things yet. It will all have to be revealed. I shall have to wait and see. This is not a position I enjoy.
Jenn and I have developed a nice little flexible system of spending time together based upon the whims of her weird work schedule. She has become my friend as well as my AA sponsor. We're pretty funny, quirky women and most recently have begun to make art together - oh, wait until you see! "Uh, what time will you get off work each day?" That was easy. In time to cross town and pick her up for AA and other pursuits. "Will we still be able to volunteer for things?" We will, though she has agreed to become the "wife", making the commitment and simply telling me to put it in my calendar. "Library? We haven't read it dry yet." Yes, M'am. Until they have no books remaining. And Starbucks every day, too. "I assume no contact during your work hours, right?" Wrong! Where I am headed, there are few rules of any kind and no stupid rules at all. It is understood a person needs to maintain contacts with the rest of her life even if it is midmorning on a weekday. In unison: "Hey, this won't be so bad!"
In the interest of not taxing myself, my brain, my soul, I shall be silly if the reader will indulge me. I see stuff on the streets all the time that makes me laugh out loud even when I am by myself. Yesterday, while Jenn went in to a discount house to buy cigarettes (ugh), I was observing a newly opened Chinese herbal place. One of those where they cover the windows entirely so one can't observe anything going on inside. I'm reading the advertising on the door . . . I could have offered assistance with some of the copy there. I jumped out into about 1,000-degrees of heat just to take a closer look. I engaged the phone cam . . I know next time I'm suffering from that pesky ailment, "lack of pain", I'm going to the 24/7 herbalist. While I'm there, I might pick up some T-Man for my (imaginary) fella, too!
In my ears right now: Because I needed an old friend as I packed my briefcase and desk accessories and, and, and . . .
Something that charmed me until I cried: When I step out of my car, the home dudes will be readying their vans and equipment for the day's work. I doubt David will have told them I'm coming. There wasn't much time to tell stories, and David knows how to let a "moment" build. That's it! I'm wearing the red cowgirl boots!
So it's been one month since I learned I must get some medical monitoring and be very alert for the return of an old affliction after a routine blood draw gave up some worrisome news. Yes, it is a serious ailment and I've already had a 2-year turn standing in the watchtower. I don't care for it much. I wrote about whirling around like a dervish for a week, doing the avoidance dance and then being hit hard after seven days when I was forced to slow down and look it in the eye. Get an update on the enemy's position and plan from there. I don't like "one". It is the loneliest number, just as we were told. One day, one week, one month, one year out of how many? How many ones make "all"? As in "all over, let down the drawbridges". I like definition, as the reader can see.
At least half of the illness fear focuses upon my head and what goes on inside it. No illness ever arrives at a convenient time, I am sure, but when I had to face this beginning in 2006, I handled it perhaps as poorly as it could be handled. Fired by the flaming fuel of terror, I got myself to appointments, procedures, blood draws and emergency rooms, in the company of advocates when needed. I was well-supported by friends and loved ones. My work did not suffer and I maintained my home as usual. I weathered more than 2 years of chaos and came out "optimistically good" in the end. That's when I lost it. The erosion of my self by fear caused me to behave in ways that are unlike me. I acted out. I drank. I broke things that may never be repaired. I harmed myself and others in ways that may never be remedied. My personal store of resources is still low and I cannot afford to "lose it" again, for any good reason. I can pony up for any briefly unpleasant form of treatment or diagnosis. I feel less certain of my ability to hold myself together metaphysically.
Ah, but there is this: almost literally simultaneously with my little physical surprise, I'd been enjoying some temporary sunshine. I was renewing a relationship that is important to me, with a person I love. This was exciting, and I fairly bubbled over with it. I suffered a good deal of teasing and winking. However, the issues that have always been issues are still issues, to my disquietude. I imagine it is my sobriety that has cleared my head, but some things cannot be molded to perfection and I became silent. We're two nice people who shouldn't spend a lot more time beating a dead horse, in my opinion. My withdrawal into self was noticed at AA. "Why so quiet, Les?" I said I had more on my plate than I could deal with. I didn't feel up to handling any of it well, and that I'd possibly make a mess of all of it (again). I was encouraged, day after day, in meetings and in private, to get every bit of the buffet out onto the table in full view. Guess what? I still have health issues. I have resolved a human issue. Everyone involved it in has retained their dignity and love for one another. In fact a love offering was delivered right to my door on Saturday, to my surprise. I nearly broke my face grinning! This may sound day-to-day dull to some readers. This is earth-shattering for me. I don't resolve issues. I bomb the planet and leave no man standing. Including myself. I sense this new way is going to save me a lot of time formerly spent in reinvention. I got through without drinking, without destruction, without hurting anyone. Even myself.
If you heard a thundering din followed by the roar of a rushing river, that was me. For my years-long creative logjam has been freed by a surge of ideas, adhesives and more. I have made and completed a project I am OKgood with! I cannot show it here and now as it is a gift for a friend who won't see it for a few days. It is an imperfect item, to be sure, but it is whole and it shall be presented with joy. It should be noted that I called out for my usual absolutions: "Wrong adhesives on hand." "Don't own the good scissors any more." "I'm depressed." I was gently urged forward. "Try this." Keep at it." Finally it was completed after some pretty close handwork accomplished without my glasses and with muttered curses. I christened it with a histrionic and overwrought name, will feature it on my blog at some future date, and immediately jumped into plans for more such items. As described in my recent post, I'm in full "Hey, I've Got an Idea!" mode. Oh, this will affect others and change the world as we know it. Or so I see it right now. And the beauty of this is that my strong yen to create has lay dormant for so long, I thought it was irretrievable. But maybe not.
The monsoonal season is back in full force with a day of showers and glowering clouds on Sunday. Oh, I enjoy a rainshowerjunk art supply treasure. Yeah! Uh-huh. Within moments, I opened the big garage door in order to breathe. After 5 minutes, I needed to sit down, sweat pouring. Unlike myself, I felt a little faint. Short of breath, kind of. Glancing at the new instrument, I saw it was only about 80-degrees, with humidity at 65%! We're accustomed to single-digit humidity. I came inside, wiped my brow and wondered how people in the east can tolerate that for even a moment. Ugh!
A man introduced himself as a newcomer at AA. There's no requirement for a person to do so, but when one does it, we who are veterans make a point of welcoming him or her. He said it was the first AA meeting he'd ever attended and he was fewer than 24 hours sober. He was back today. "Hi, this is my second AA meeting ever. I'm more than 24 hours sober." Members applauded. I was sitting near him, so I smiled and said, "Good for you! Keep coming back." During the meeting, the topic being discussed prompted me to share an anecdote. It was a rerun, but that happens. Sometimes the day's subject only reminds me of one event, or I'm in a different group. It's OK to tell a story more than once. Some AAs even become legends due to their one seminal story. So I told my true tale and spent the rest of the meeting feeling uncomfortable as I'd been sandwiched tightly between a couple who were sparring and tossing angry energy at one another through me. I bolted for the door after the Lord's Prayer.
In the patio, the man made a beeline for me. He'd been struck by my sharing and took pains to say so. He reiterated he was 24-hours sober and hit my sponsor up for a cigarette, but turned his attention back to me. "Well, let's talk, though I can't help you with a smoke." He said he wouldn't have thought so. I must give off rays or something. For those who do not share our disease, this man is in a hard spot. His face showed it. We talked about my sharing and about how difficult the first days are. He asked when he could find meetings during the week, so we agreed to meet up tomorrow when Jenn and I will introduce him to some of the men in our group who can perhaps sponsor him and who can certainly help him. He was so grateful. He said so. And he showed it. Walking to the parking lot, I said, "Well. My first. A newcomer reached out for help from me." Jenn said, "Yep. He was definitely seeking you. And you did it really well." Imagine this. Exactly one year ago I lost my job and other major parts of my life because my drinking was so out of control. And today I helped a man. He didn't know my story was a retread. He didn't know I'm struggling to work my own program as I am distressed over my other problems. He gave me the opportunity to be of the highest service we can give: get sober, stay sober and help another alcoholic get sober. I just seemed safe haven to him. A drunk with something to offer another drunk. I am humbled and awed.
And so, another day. It's August! Driver's license to be renewed, already. A writing deadline looms, which promises income. The humidity is torturous, causing even my straight-as-pins hair to curl a little. Smokey Robinson on the iPod. And so it goes.
In my ears right now: Because I love it, because it makes me dance, and because the focus just now is on "up", "fun", "hand-clapping".
This post dedicated to the memories that were made.
Just to call a spade what it is, I'm struggling. There is more bubbling on my plate than I'm currently capable of sorting out easily and I was a bit premature in the last couple of posts saying, "I'm back, things are fine!" A more correct assessment would be "I've had a few brilliant spots of diversion and pleasure in the middle of some miserable and frightening and depressing times and I am grateful for them." I have friends who check on me nearly constantly on e-mail, the phone, texting and at AA meetings. I have a friend who makes me nearly insane asking me how I feel. "I don't anything except frightened - it's asymptomatic," I reply invariably. I've decided he doesn't comprehend the meaning of the word. I'll use a different one in future and simply be happy that he thinks to check in on me. I'm not doing anything "bad", "wrong" or "forbidden". I haven't once been tempted to take a drink. I'm just not doing very much of anything. And the verdict on that has been unanimous: "You don't have to do anything. Wait and listen for the answer. And then you'll know what to do next." OK. That's my short-term plan.
I got the darnedest e-mail yesterday:
Dear Limes, I am embarrassed to say I don't know how to blog so the email is it....... I was so excited to see your story. I grew up in Ogden Utah, and there, Hoppy Taws were a serious thing!!!! I loved it and recall one day that I fell playing hopscotch and ripped my new white leotards in both knees, but did I give up, no way..... My Grandma Jensen worked for the Hoppy Taw Co. in the early 50's so we always had them and loved them. I am an artist and I think that my love of color swirls and individuality came from the hoppy taws. Every one was different .I have been trying to get the real history behind the hoppy taw co. Do you have any info . The company on line just gives you current revenue potential and stuff like that, who cares. Any way just thought I would write to a fellow hoppy taw lover and tell her "you are not alone". Thanks for your story, Debi in Idaho
I had to do some quick thinking. She called me Limes, so she has read something from long ago when I was known only as LimesNow in the blogosphere. Now, of course, and for quite some time, I am Leslie Morgan, the same name that appears on my birth certificate and driver's license. And I sport my face all over the place. But I didn't at first. And Debi refers to the hoppy taw, so she has to have read something I wrote about my childhood in Salt Lake City. I noodled around in my blog archives and found it - voila - December 2, 2009! How and why Debi has come across it now, I am uncertain, but that's OK. A writer appreciates having been read. A human being appreciates a connection. And no, I will not give up "hoppy taw" in this post. The reader must follow the link to the original post.
Referring back to my original hoppy taw post, I re-read my own words. I was reminded of yet another time in my life when I was unsure and frightened of things. I leaned on others to help me through. My father and my friend modeled good behaviors for me to follow. I learned to plan, to strategize, to size up others and to trust my judgement. I learned toughness and commitment and I learned to be a sponge, soaking up everything I could from any situation. I became fair and honest and tenacious. Maybe, in a tiny number of situations in life, even heroic, if that simply means reaching beyond one's assumed limitations and acting. I learned that more people are good than bad. More people will like you than hate you. I learned that on a really good day, one might make a connection with another human being never contemplated before. I learned that one might say something that resonates with another person, and that is magic to me.
After my AA meeting tonight, I sat outside on the picnic benches talking with a group of people I really enjoy. I'd done some research online for a man who shall be called a rascal here. He likely deserves a harsher assessment sometimes, but we'll stick with rascal. I shared the information I'd found for him and then spoke of the pleasure I get from writing my blog. I told him some things I'd written about. "But you don't use your name, right?" I told him that I do, and my photograph as well. His eyes got big and for the second time in a few days, someone called me "brave". Emotionally brave. I wonder. Did I learn that, too? And how will I apply that now?
Some hoppy taw art for Debi, though I am not an artist:
