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.
Friend Kass is fun. I don't have to have met her in the flesh to know this. It fairly jumps off of the monitor and into the room. This woman is exuberant. She hadn't posted in a few days, but she has a brand new granddaughter, so I didn't think much of it, although I missed her. I think this woman would be good at designing or organizing party games or fun things to do at a business mixer.
Her post said:
Open your first photo folder,scroll down to the 10th photo, post this photo and the story behind it. Tag 5 people.
OK, I can do that, and I have such a mixed bag of stuff in photographs, anything could pop up.
Like Kass, I'm not tagging people specifically. I'll just issue the invitation ~ join in, if it pleases you.
There is a place where I love to go when I am looking for solace. It lies within Death Valley and it features a small system of smooth, golden sand dunes. It is peppered with the debris of long abandoned mining operations and it features the most beautiful variegated rocks I've ever enjoyed. One goes to this place expecting to experience, and one does experience, a classic desert outing.
Tucked around the far side of a mountain outcropping, however, lies an unlikely setting ~ a marsh! In Death Valley! It isn't a very large area, but it boasts ponds with reeds and cattails, salt flats and waterfowl. While the sand dunes across the valley are a silent cathedral in warm, neutral tones, the marsh is a bustling village plaza with darting birds and flashes of green plants. The juxtaposition of these divergent microcosms pleases me. I purposely plan to hike in both locations on each trip and I end up feeling like I've been to two separate destinations.
The picture is a gaze into the jumbled reeds, mostly dry and brown because it is the winter solstice. Some of them have a little green at the tips, however, a reminder of the autumn past and the spring to come.
In my ears right now: To keep in theme with my picture, I was going to say Fields of Gold. Most who read me probably know this beautiful Sting piece. I went to YouTube and made a discovery. Their name intrigued me: Celtic Woman. Hey! I'm very much into my Welsh-ness. I listened to them. I think they are lovely. Embedding is disabled, but if the song pulls you or if you're simply music curious as I am, this is worth a listen. Try it! If you don't like it, you'll pull the plug.
Something that charmed me: Celtic Woman charmed me.
Although this one included no dead bodies, it was a fairly stressful day at the desk for awhile.
We are grand communicators and have been so for many, many years. We engage in light banter and deadly serious discussions in which we solve all the problems of the universe. There are dashes of laughter, tears, encouragement and barking at one another when called for. We use the telephone, blogs (our own and those of others), face to face, and the BlackBerry. We each read the other's face with almost 100% accuracy. Our messages to one another can range from "I came across this online ~ follow the link." to "Dammit, find my Tupperware and baking dishes and return them all!" Most days start with some contact sandwiched between my pre-dawn miles walking and his early cycling. "Hey, it's cold.""Yeah, but dry!"
Following the most wonderful and astutely planned 24-hour camping trip, we'd dished back and forth for some 36 hours. The last e-mail exchange had been warm, friendly, close . . . normal. He is strategizing for a cycling race of great importance to him. I cheer loudly and offer advice, though I am not a cyclist. "How's your lab imaging project going?""Are the phones ringing? Are you booking jobs?"
I heard the e-mail hit and saw it was from him, but I was busy. Some 40 minutes later, I opened it. It was short and succinct. Three words, precisely. "F*#k you bitch" No period at the end of the sentence. Now, I must say I know these words and many other hard, plain arrows of assault and insult. That phrase (in one form or another, a little lighter or a little heavier) has even been tossed at me from time to time. But not by him. He doesn't speak to me that way. When that cowboy and I wrangle, it is done with civil language. We attempt to be productive in our anger.
To say I was shocked does not begin to tell the story. I (literally) physically recoiled, placing my hands on the edge of the desk and pushing my chair backward. I felt gut-kicked. My brain tried to take the wheel, suggesting "Look again. This can't be happening." I leaned forward and peered at the open e-mail on my monitor. Yes, it definitely was from him. There was our full string of e-mails throughout the morning, one after another, culminating in "F*#k you bitch". I'm pretty quick on my feet, even when shocked, so I popped back a short "Why in the world would you send me an e-mail to say "F*#k you bitch"? Why?" I pushed back the chair and churned. I only had to wait three minutes.
My BlackBerry announced incoming and I felt a light wave of relief even before opening the e-mail. Now I'd find out what on earth was going on and try to address it. I opened the e-mail expecting some words of explanation. It said, "Because it is true". WTF? [You see, I can use that word, too!] I fired off another e-mail saying, "What on earth is happening? Please tell me what is going on." And I heard back n-o-t-h-i-n-g.
David walked by my desk, got a look at my face and did a double-take. "What's happened?" I choked out a request for him to hold down the fort for awhile and went out onto the deck. I called the number programmed into my BlackBerry and it immediately rolled to voicemail. That's OK, I've got another number or two I can try. He answered his cell phone and sounded pretty pleased to hear from me. Normal voice, "Hi, what's up?" I lit into that man in a way I'd be embarrassed to describe. "Why would you send me an e-mail like that?" He was baffled. "Like what? What has upset you so?"I proceeded to explain that most women would not enjoy receiving a message of "F*#k you bitch". "What?! I didn't do that and I wouldn't do that!"
I am not in the habit of yelling "Liar!" at this man. He's never behaved in a way that would require that of me. Instead, I said, "Well, then your BlackBerry has elected to send me nasty-grams on its own." He asked me to wait a moment while he looked at his e-mail account. I could hear his fingers clacking on the keyboard. "My god. What in the hell?" All right, reader, I know this man. He is unsuccessful when he attempts to fool me. But he wasn't even trying in this instance. I could tell he was utterly confounded. I could sense he was scrolling through the offensive e-mail and then it struck him. "Hey, where's my BlackBerry?" Uh-oh. Yes. Missing on a high school campus.
We both sprang into action. He called his service provider and arranged to halt service. I sent an e-mail to his account saying, "You're pretty funny. We also have good humor. We'll pay a reward for the BlackBerry." There was no reply to that e-mail and the BlackBerry is likely in the trash now that it no longer works. The rest of the story is anticlimactic except that the loud, objectionable girls who found and used the device called Mother Badger in Arizona and gave her some snarky talk. Mother Badger was a school teacher whose gaze could melt the sneakers off an 8-year-old boy's feet. I'm sure she handled her encounter with these girls better than I handled mine.
The reader may think, "Hmmm, OK, man loses BlackBerry. Why is that news?" Well, that's not the gist of my post, favored reader. Those who have joined me on the bus from time to time may realize I am a flawed person with all the disorders one might expect from someone who walked my exact path in life. I've got "stuff" going on. But I work at my "stuff". Pretty much daily. Diligently. And the payoff for that is good. You see, I like learning new things. When something isn't working for me, I try something new. Many times I learn some new good thing I can apply to other situations, thereby proving that old dogs can learn new tricks. Still finding my way along at age 57.
So what did I do differently this time? I didn't let the fear rule me. I took the wheel away from Fear. Of course, I was upset. Anyone would be. And of course, I immediately did all I could to reach him, because it was reasonable to ask, "Hey, what gives?" But instead of deciding that really was his horrible intended message to me and jumping off the deck, I investigated. When I spoke to him on the phone, I listened to him carefully. As I listened, I knew right away that he was baffled because I reliedupon what I know about him. It's called trust. There was no plot afoot to fling me into the fiery depths of hell. He wasn't finally showing his evil hand after fooling me for 42 years that he is a good man. It was simply that his property was lost, found and used to make mischief. I think I handled this the way pretty much any healthy person would have. I think I can do it again in other situations. It puts me in mind of something he once said to me: "Fear is not having enough information."
In my ears right now: I liked it then, I like it now.
Something that charmed me: I had a few hours to kill as I drove east toward Nevada and the cyclist rode my precise route, miles behind. The plan was for me to park at the agreed upon mile marker and put some miles on my carcass in the desert where I could be seen from the highway at all times. I did that, but hey! I had a camera and I was going to pass through the burg of Tecopa, CA, population 99 in the 2000 census, and I know how to have fun. Tecopa has no gas station, no convenience store, few residences. It has a school and a hot springs and here, in out-of-the-way Tecopa, can be found the Promise Land. I didn't go in. I was desert sweaty and I had hat-hair. I thought I may be a little too "big city" for the sensibilities of those 99 citizens of Tecopa. But I surely enjoyed walking around and taking in the ambience.
I'm a bit scattered. I want to write about some things I'm experiencing, but the words don't come. I want to complete Chapter 2 of The Field Trip but it feels a little burdensome. I'm processing some grief and other of life's delights, so I took a solitary walk in the desert and had a come-to-Jesus with myself over some things that need attention. My recent bereavement reminded me that life is short and we can get whammed by a freight train when we least expect it. "So what are you waiting for, Les? An engraved invitation? Stir yourself!"
I'll ask the reader's indulgence if I skip around for awhile in my writing. One of the things I reminded myself among the creosote, cholla and scrub is that I am not and cannot be perfect at anything. I need to stop trying to be that. It saps my energy. And I reminded myself that I'd better laugh - hard and out loud - every day. For if I don't, I might as well throw myself on my sword and be done with it.
Last Friday, I was pretty entranced by the coming of the Wolf Moon, the first and biggest full moon of the year. When I left the office in the evening, I stepped out onto the deck and gasped. On the second floor, I felt I was at the same altitude as that moon. It was the largest I've ever seen, and I felt close to its surface - zoomed in. It glowed golden, not at all silvery, almost like a harvest moon. And the news article was right - one could easily see the various topographical features on that golden ball. I hoped there would be a repeat performance the following night when I was to be in the desert.
In camp at night, I enjoy sitting beside a woodfire, watching closely from the first match strike until sand is finally shoveled onto the embers before retirement into the tent. I situate my chair so close to the fire ring there is sometimes some concern I may burn myself up. I bend over and put my face close to study the changes in the wood and the flames and the undulations of the embers, rather like a lava lamp. Sometimes I say out loud that I'd like to touch parts of it because it is so beautiful. No, I don't actually touch it and no, I was not a firestarter as a child. I'm just drawn to it. Challenge to the reader: describe fire in a way that a blind person could "see" it.
The desert is often breezy and that does not bode well for campers sitting beside a fire. One can be seated in her preferred spot, and when the wind shifts, she gets a face full of wood smoke. Not pleasant. I am much admired in some quarters for my ability to yank up my sling-seat chair, lap robe, assorted items in my lap and place myself 180-degrees around the fire ring in one smooth move. Without upsetting one drop of my drink.
Saturday, the hike and dinner completed, it was time to start the fire. The moonglow came up above the mountaintop, round and huge and silver, the beautiful older sister getting ready to go out with her beau. The wolf moon that followed was small and distant, partially obscured by clouds and dull, not glowing. It put me in mind of the younger brother, watching from behind the curtains. A fine photograph was made at the same time I fiddled with my funky point-and-shoot. I might also add I don't know anything about night photography. My camera didn't even detect the clouds. But I was having fun seated beside my fire, warm and fascinated by that moon. I was also not brooding about painful things. So above, from my camp chair, is my shot of the wolf moon.
And here is my shot of the wolf moon just as the breeze shifted. No, I didn't gather myself and shoot 180-degrees counterclockwise. I suffered the smoke and got the shot!
In my ears right now: It's the seeming 467th cover of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah". This is a very different interpretation and quite beautiful, I think. Sorry, embedding is disabled, but it's worth the trip if the song appeals to the reader.
Something that charmed me: Mother Badger e-mailed me a wealth of good information, ideas and methods of dealing with grief. One may be well known, but I'd never heard of it. One puts a rubber band around her wrist. When the emotional pain is such that one needs a little break, she snaps the rubber band, exchanging a physical twinge for the emotional one. I ran to my desk immediately upon receiving the e-mail. I'm pretty red and welted. My coworkers think that is a pretty funny bracelet, but I must say it does divert my attention when I need that.
That's surely how it friggin' feels to me. It's been a hard week. I began it with a flight to another state to make a visit at a hospice. I didn't care for it much. It took something away from me. I left something behind. It staggered me badly enough that I walked obsessively on Tuesday. The reader doesn't need to how many miles or the damage it did to my feet. One's obsessions can be embarrassing. Let's just say I was trying to walk away from the pain and there was much pain to walk away from. Newsflash: it does not work to try to walk away from pain. The pain just rides on one's shoulder.
Some bloggers mourned the passing of Simmons, Salinger and Zinn during the week. I did, too. Mourning them made me put aside my personal mourning. I didn't want to think about that death any more. Much easier to handle grief over public figures we never really knew. I'm reminded again of the futile way I try to handle loss. Every time. I am stuck on stupid. You see, I always want to do something. "Do something like what, Les? Bring him back from the dead, for instance?" I talked to a counselor who told me all the right things to do like experience the pain and then let go. No, no. This woman doesn't actually want to feel anything about this. Mother Badger sent an e-mail with love. I've been continuously supported in person, on the phone and in e-mails by those who care about me. And I just can't shake off the notion that I need to do something.
I thought to sit and write beautiful words - holy words, the most beautiful writing ever presented, this as a tribute to a man's life. But I sat up all night at the computer and learned I had a blockage. Constipation. I can't write holy words for him. I'm pretty empty of beautiful words. So I'll write some plain words. Plain words are OK, if they're given sincerely. Even if I can't build a shrine, I can make a little impromptu roadside memorial.
His life was filled with many challenges no human being should have to deal with. The ways he sometimes chose to deal with these things were not pretty ~ like during observance of the making of sausages and laws, one's gaze might have to have been averted a few times. I've never known another person who suffered such heartbreaking life events, and I believe the heart actually does break into pieces. His heart finally gave out and I think that is profound. Make no mistake about it, he had many lofty highs in life and people who loved him and successes that exceeded the sum of all of his parts. But I am sad that he is gone. He was younger than I. I wish him happiness, like everyone deserves to be happy. Happy, not dead.
When I saw him Sunday, he recognized me and told me he was glad that I came. Then he asked the $64 million question. The one I've run from for most of my life. "Were you ever really in love with me?" For the type of association he and I had, one would expect "in love" at least in some period of the relationship. I took a deep breath and I lied while looking directly into his deep brown eyes. And I saw peace, relief, maybe happiness, or maybe I even saw that intangible thing - love - cross his face. I have suffered this week from lying to him at that point in his life. I'll shoulder that. Because I didn't lie about feeling another form of love. He has that. I give it freely, in truth.
It is fortuitous. The camping date was already on the calendar. So I'll go and refuel and I'll be warm(er). I'll hike and scramble around finding rocks. I'll read and I'll think and I'll cry. I'll draw with my pencils and write in my journal and take (poor) photos. And when I come home, I'll go on. I'll post my silly Chapter 2 of The Field Trip and I'll work. I'll walk somewhat fewer miles and take care of the cats and the birds. I'll buy groceries and get the haircut I scuttled last weekend in favor of hospice. Something will surely charm me and I'll surely worry about booking enough jobs to support our little magic carpet ride. Because that's how life is.
In my ears right now:
Something that charmed me:I read this in the news and it made me feel calmer. "Tonight's full moon will be the biggest and brightest full moon of the year. It offers anyone with clear skies an opportunity to identify easy-to-see features on the moon.
This being the first full moon of 2010, it is also known as the wolf moon, a moniker dating back to Native American culture and the notion that hungry wolves howled at the full moon on cold winter nights. Each month brings another full moon name."
Latebreaking: There seems to be some question whether the assignment was "Ten Things I Love" or "Ten Things That Make Me Happy". I need to state I processed it as "Ten Things I Love". If I'd done it the other way, I'd have had a list of things that impact me far less than these. If I muffed the assignment, please give me credit for earnestness, sincerity and hard work both on myself and with myself.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
My original post before I wondered if I'd muffed the assignment:
I am usually up for a challenge and I'm almost always up for fun and games. I like connecting with others and learning new things ~ these are major themes in my life and my writing. So when blogging friend Kass threw down the gauntlet, I was ready to rumble. I put two blog posts that were almost ready on the back burner. I grabbed a pencil, some scratch paper and I began to scratch.
I knew immediately that I would not list my family, my lover or my job. Of course, I love all of those. It goes without saying. They occupy a level above Ten Things I Love. Within two minutes I'd made a list of seventeen things I love (I may have to do this exercise twice!). I struggled to pare it down to the requisite ten. I quickly made an association: my ten subjects include some of the labels I use most frequently on my blog. Hmmmm . . . . so I write about what I love. And then something washed over me that made me feel sad. When I look at the list of ten, I realize I am not actively engaged in some of them. I am avoiding some of them. I'm doing some of them only half-way. A revelation: find happiness by jumping deeply into the things one loves.
In no particular order (in fact I thought to list them alphabetically to eliminate any perceived order) here are ten things I love.
I love my physical well-being. I make a pilgrimage every Sunday of life to Fresh & Easy to buy good food for myself. This is more than "grocery shopping". It is a celebration of self. I fuel myself with foods that support my well-being. I walk many miles every day, regardless of conditions. Sometimes it isn't very pleasant. But I never fail to feel grateful I can do this. I hike and climb in the desert for the pure joy of it. At my desk every day, I set a timer to remind me to get up and move my body. I use weights, a wobble board, a light-flashing hula hoop and resistance bands. I indulge myself with frequent massages that help ease my body from what life has done to it. It wasn't always this way. I have 215 specific, well-identified reasons to be grateful for how well my body serves me.
I love to write. I am a person compelled to tell things. I need to tell my stories, my history and my observations of the day. I have a strong urge to share the funny things that happened, to rant about the injustices and unkindnesses I observed. I love rich, colorful, plummy words and I like to make language art with them. I want to retell conversations, and sometimes the written version is better than the actual dialogue. Writing letters and journals, essays and post-hearing briefs have all been part of my tapestry. But writing a blog has been an epiphany to me. Imagine writing and having other human beings comment about it! For me, comments don't need to be false-positives. I've let nasty comments in, too. It's more important - to me - to simply have another human being react and interact. Blogging is the best new thing I took on in 2009.
I love music. I surround myself with it nearly constantly. I'm like millions of other people who would say music is important to them. I might say I take that up a notch. When I hear a song I know, I am quickly transported to the time and place I occupied when I first learned it. Say something (anything) to me and I can often pop out some snippet of lyrics to highlight what you've said. I'm not stupid, but I regard some song lyrics as a rallying cry for life ~ it's an appreciation of the songwriter's ability to weave words into images. I am tattooed with a short version of the most profound lyrics I know. So, from Pachelbel to Pure Prairie League, the Bangles to my Beatles, Billie Holiday to Bob Dylan, R.E.M. to the Rolling Stones and the Backstreet Boys to Beethoven, I have loved it all [except rap]. I can't imagine what it would be like to lose one's hearing. Do you suppose the songs would play on in one's head?
I love my animals. I share life with two cats (Virginia Woolf and Dylan) and two birds (Bloomsbury and Benson). My father says I "over love" my animals, attributing to them qualities they do not possess. My father also says it would be a good life to live as one of Leslie's pets. It fulfills me to be the sole caretaker of another creature. I feed them and clean them and take them to the veterinarian when necessary. I brush the cats and clip their claws. I clean the spittle from the birds' mirror so they can continue to chirp while admiring themselves in its reflection. I buy good feed and palatial bird homes and the preferred type of cat litter. I provide toys and catnip that are mostly ignored and bird toys that are eagerly employed. It sounds like I have to do a lot and spend a little money, doesn't it? I talk to these beautiful fellow animals of the universe and each of the four looks at me as if I am brilliant when I speak. As if what I have to say matters. None of them has ever been cruel or done a thing to hurt me in any way. It's a dynamic that works beautifully. I provide the basic needs for their lives. They grace my presence with all their beauty and their trust in me.
I love venerable things. I call items with history "venerable things". These need not be priceless antiques. Ordinary household articles of long ago pull me more than a Renaissance painting. I like to handle venerable things and think about other human beings who may have handled them. I wonder if the venerable thing had special meaning to its owner, or was it simply "the potato masher"? I buy venerable things at estate sales and curiosity shops. I decorate my home and office with them. Sometimes I am fortunate to find some lovely vintage item I can wear as clothing or jewelry. Some of my favorite venerable things: my grandmother's 1917 high school graduation gift - a lavaliere that now belongs to me and will belong to Amber someday; my circa 1800 cut glass inkwell with tortoiseshell lid; a pair of eyeglass frames from about 1920. These frames are perfectly round and beautifully crafted. I want to wear them so badly it nearly makes me weep. I cannot find an eyeglass dispenser willing to try to put lenses in the frames. They fear what material the frames may be made from and whether it will hold up to today's methods of making glasses. I shall keep looking. I want those frames on my face. I want to think about the other human who wore them.
I love to be creative. This is one of the loves that makes me sad. For I am not doing it. OK, I'm writing. And I aimed my camera at some beautiful things. On one camp-out. But I am not using fabric in any way, even though I may own the lion's share of the world's stores of fabric. The sewing machine gathers dust and there are no pins sticking in the carpet. I haven't needle-pricked a fingertip for longer than I'd like to admit. The seashells used to fashion angel ornaments languish in closed bins among the shining ribbons and "jewels" meant to render them beautiful. The rubber stamps and archival ink containers lie idle and my embosser hasn't been plugged in for far too long. My cardstock and envelopes and embellishments are lined up neatly in their dustproof containers. Maybe forever, never to be touched again? Those I love enjoy receiving cards I've made. Why am I giving shitty store-bought cards to people I want to present with beauty and the creative part of my love?
I love to read. My mother, my daughter and I each began to read on our own, only nominally guided, at the age of 4. We are strong right-brainers who enjoy words and process information by reading. "Don't show me how to do it. Let me read the instructions!" I am surrounded by men who learn things by looking at a television. That doesn't work for me. When I look at a screen to learn something new, I take it in just like everyone else. Eyeball deep. When I read to learn something new, I absorb it into every part of me. I rabidly attack Prevention when it arrives every few weeks, completely reading it in one sitting. I have more self-help books than I can name, and I read and re-read them. I have many books that are old friends to me, some dating back to the 1960s. I try to give each of them a spin every year. I have virtually visited many places in the world I'll likely never actually see ~ by reading about them. Probably my favorite books are biographies. I'll read one about pretty much any person. This feeds the need not only to read, but it also puts me in the "connecting with others" mode that I love. the ability to read anything ever committed to writing, uncensored, is about as good as life gets. Whatever is intriguing, one can go find out about it.
I love learning new things. When I started my current job, I had a first-ever experience. It took me longer to catch on than I would have hoped or expected. I've always been a pretty quick study. I was about to turn 55 and I attributed the slight lag to my age. I am a bit kinder to myself now. I was entering a field I knew nothing about, managed by software I'd never used. I'd never held a sales position and had to learn that, too. Maybe I wasn't so slow! I was given a good, curious mind and I have many of the qualities of a terrier dog - some things may stump this chump, but I just keep digging until I find what I was going for. I'm afraid my learning process may not be pretty in its execution, rather like the making of sausages and law. It pleases me to learn new things. I wanted to know how to create a website and how html code works - I learned. I wanted to learn to blog. I've done so. I hope I never lose curiosity, even as I slow in my capacity to quickly grasp new things.
I love the desert. I will not be able to tell the reader why I love the desert. I've struggled for hours for those words that will not come. So I shall tell what I love about the desert. I love the loose sandy trails that make a hike feel torturous. I like the rocky hikes that scare me when the boulders shift beneath my feet. I like the drops so long I have to sit down and scoot myself down the rockface on my backside. I like to roast in my own juices in the sharp sun, eking out that one last camping trip in May before temperatures force the summer camping break. I like the snowflakes that fell and melted on my warm, bare skin as I struggled to help put the rainfly on the tent at 2:00 a.m. without my glasses. I love that I lay in 75 mph winds for hours, trying to sleep, weeping in fear, and surviving it. I love the way the coffee tastes differently out there. I love that I know how to pitch a tent, fuel and operate lanterns and a stove, make a safe campfire, follow a map. I like to poke around old mineshafts and find interesting treasures. I love that little creatures allow me to hold them and seem to enjoy my company. I love knowing how to identify animal tracks and desert flora. When I breathe in the presence of the petroglyphs, I feel like I'm in church. When I hike through a broad vista of cactus flowers, I know I have gone to a better place. It's an extreme environment. Harsh. One has to develop skills. I was a city girl. The desert opens its arms to anyone tough enough to survive in it. I thrive in it.
I love connecting with others. Human beings fascinate me. Almost all of them. I have felt like an alien visitor all of my life, however, because I don't feel as if I really understand other people. Therefore, I study them carefully. My friend and I laugh about something. If someone said, "Hey there's a great author from the 20th century named Hemingway", my friend would want to read Hemingway. I would want to read the biography so I'd know about the person Hemingway was. If my pink bus were an actual bus, I'd be the small woman at the back, surrounded by her bags of stuff, craning her neck to check out all the other passengers, taking notes. I study people and I try to find some place where I might make a connection with them. It excites me to find the fragile strand of commonality between me and another person. The electrical connection makes me feel alive and normal and . . . not so different from anyone else. Not alien.
CHALLENGE: I didn't think this exercise up. I was tagged. I'm officially tagging anyone who reads this to go do it for yourself. It's a good, introspective time spent with oneself. Tree, I'm specifically tagging you. Maybe you can't do it right now. But do it sometime. Do the short version. It might help you find your way. It helped me find mine.
In my ears right now: It runs long. It is worth listening to. It is like church music played on a pipe organ. She's got the pipes.
Friend Kass gets my nomination for the Girlock Holmes Super Sleuth Award which has utterly no value other than it's tribute to her sensitivity to me. And that makes it worth millions. To me. "The silence is deafening," she wrote. "What kind of shit are you dealing with?" This woman and I are simpatico, favored reader. Congenial. We've never met and yet there is an electrical connection. And she was right.
I'd been pleased and proud to limp out of the holiday season upright. There were still the daughter's and the mother's birthdays to deal with and the every few days' (or once a week) sly and sometimes unkind shots made across my bow, but I thought I was doing pretty well. And then I made the phone call. When I was told that Stephanie no longer worked at Massage Envy, I couldn't reply. I don't think I said, "OK, good-bye." Now, I know how to find Stephanie. Her major job is in the spa at a high-end resort on the Strip. Although she'd never said a word about leaving Massage Envy, she had been bringing me spa magazines and speaking to me of vichy baths, exfoliation and various mud treatments, so maybe . . . . She'd been trying to figure out the best discounts for me, based on credit cards I held or frequent traveler scams I might belong to. Uh-uh. I'm not doing it. We found a way for me to get a 70% discount, and the day's treatment was still hundreds of dollars. I don't want a spa citron salad and a fluffy terrycloth robe all day once a month with treatments I don't seek made on my naked person. I want my frequent deep tissue massage, delivered by one person I trust and rely upon.
The phones took off dramatically at work. It was evident that none of us had kept our edge sharp for dealing with nearly impossible demands of time and resources when we're booming. Homes and I were feeling the pressure, steam cleaning machine hoses sprung funny leaks and the general public's attitude has improved little. One customer had a major flood in his home, resulting in a huge water damage job. No, we don't wish anyone ill. But that's income for us. That's what we do. We didn't flood his home. We just fix it. Unfortunately, the man appears to be a tremendous alcoholic. Sober when Troy arrived to do the work, he required assistance to write his check at the end of the job. Now we cannot raise the man from the bed he shares with his demons to get our industrial fans out of his house. We are also concerned about the man's welfare. For me, there is pressure because it was month-end, year-end, accountants, taxes, and the anticipation of helping to breathe life into David's new business venture. This is all shared simply to say, "New day, same old stuff." I get through it better at some times than others.
I'd asked Stephanie for recommendations of some of the other massage therapists. My friend was looking for a way to reduce the cost of frequent massage and wanted to give Massage Envy a spin. "How about if we each book a massage, pay attention to the talents of the therapists, compare notes, and go from there?" "Good idea!" "OK, I'll book the appointments." We presented ourselves at the appointed time and met in the lobby afterwards. Walking toward the car, I asked, "How was yours?" He said it wasn't bad. Not perfect, but slide her some points for this being the first massage. "How was yours, Les?" I'd have to say it was good. Definitely promising. I'm not shy about saying, "Hey, is there any therapeutic reason you can't _____?" And now we know three different massage therapists there who are at least acceptable. Other massage days will roll around, and so it goes.
I'd been given a generous gift card that could be used at any of four dining establishments. We were massage-lazy, so we chose the nearest, not the one we already knew we liked. Being seated was smooth and easy and the vivacious Vicky soon had brought his Tanqueray martini and my iced tea (no, not the Long Island variety). She enthused to us for quite a long while about the restaurant's new menu and pointed out several ways for us to "get more" and "pay less". We could actually get about 5,000 calories worth of food for less than the fewer than 1,000 we'd hoped for. But the fun really began when we opened the new menus and began to study them. For we - two truly irreverent, sarcastic and sometimes rude individuals - found ourselves in the west's last bastion of applewood smoked bacon. We are two people with a serious aversion to bacon. After seeing it on the menu, even in the desserts (no, not literally), I began to notice the plaques on the wall celebrating the greasy stuff. I heard him say, "Oink" and "Do you see anything you'll eat in here?" And I started to hoot in my seat. His burger was decent he said - "Hold the bacon, please." My quesadilla explosion salad fed me three meals - "Hold the bacon, please." Note to self: Avoid that diner ~ it smells of bacon!
And then, the end of the evening. We took time, again, to speak gently, with care, of things damaged between us. We acknowledged again that neither of us knows how to fix these things, completely. We committed again to wanting to repair what is broken - to find the way. A week prior, he'd come up with a brilliant idea and I'd pursued it. I shared my findings and the comments made to me to be shared with him. We shared schedules for availability and we took hands and agreed, there are some things not to be put down forever broken, but pursued until they are fixed or until there seems no reason to pursue them. We spoke of camping soon to be shared, and a blanket of peace settled.
So, dear Kass, you were right. The little elevator car that is me slipped a cable and took a dive down a couple of floors. I did not crash into the floor 20 stories down. I just slipped a little ways. And now I hear the professionals gathering. Tools rattling, measurements being made, voices. "Broken cable over here on Number 4 - easily fixed." "Little shot of WD-40 and some duct tape, this will be as good as new." "As long as we're here, let's polish up the buttons and replace the light bulbs." You see, when you don't know how to fix it yourself, you ask for help. Call for service. Trust in the good intentions and ability of all the players (I understand that, I work in a service industry!), set the appointment and go.
I share this, feeling somewhat vulnerable. This could be easily mistaken for "crazier than batshit". I would hope the reader has read enough from me in this and past posts to understand it is pretty healthy. I performed a ritual this week. I drove to the Mojave Preserve and parked in a paved, well marked parking lot. I took the fairly short hike that is nearly flat in the first half and pretty torturous rock climbing in the second. I am never 100% certain I'll make that last 500 yards. One ends up in a rock citadel with a 360-degree view of the world. This being a weekday, I saw no other human being on foot. I did not create this ritual. I read about it and I understood it. I "got" it. One gathers her anger into a fiery ball and hurls that flaming orb into the cosmos. I flung that fireball like an Olympian discus thrower. And then the next. And the next. I threw balls of pain and anger and every other kind of rot until my ancient shoulder forced me to stop. I began to sag a little in the climb down the rocks. Before Las Vegas came into view, I was worried I'd fall asleep at the wheel. I slept all night long, never getting up to use the bathroom, tend to meowing cats or explore why the BlackBerry was breeeeeng-ing me at 2:00 a.m.
Photo credit: Hammer Head - J. D. Morehouse
In my ears right now: "Crying", a most beautiful song. I've loved it by Roy Orbision, Roy Orbision and k.d. lang in duet, Don McLean and k.d. lang solo. Yes, I'm playing them obsessively in order.
Something that charmed me:
I like k. d. lang's "baring my soul", "baring my feet" performance style. I suspect splinters are an occupational hazard and a warm, wool rug is a perk.
I didn't hit the ground running on New Year's. My readers and followers know I like a lot of song lyrics, and "Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite" plays (virtually) in my ears right now. No, I did not jump into 2010 " . . . over men and horses, hoops and garters, and lastly through a hogshead of real fire." Unlike" Mr. K(ite)", I entered the new decade presenting the world with no challenge whatsoever.
Unlike "Messrs. K and H", my production was not second to none. Instead I went quiet on New Year's Eve. Not using words. I'd already written my post. Then I stopped talking, mostly. It was noticed. "What's going on, Les? You're nearly silent." "Nothing, homes. Year ending. Year beginning." There's also the fact that my life broke into its two separate pieces (so far) at the holidays. It does still color things, somewhat.
I become contemplative at year's end. What good things have happened? What happened that I'd never want to repeat? What can I do (what's within my own power) to draw nearer where I want to be? What can I do to make someone else's burden lighter? What can I do to make the time I was privileged to spend here meaningful? Although I shut my mouth and listen to the voices inside my head during this one hallowed season, I don't always land on definitive answers to all the questions. I try.
Oh, and have I mentioned that immediately upon the close of the holidays comes the first week in January when both my mother and my daughter have birthdays? The rest of the year is a skate in the park, dear reader, after getting through its beginning.
Twenty years ago at this moment, I was very pregnant. This pregnancy had astounded a large number of people, as we'd hoped to have a child for nearly 20 years. All the fertility treatments failed us and we'd moved on to other fixations. When I became ill at pretty close to 40 years of age, we were concerned because it simply wouldn't go away. My family doctor finally threw his hands in the air and said, "Pleeez, I'll run the $2 pregnancy test . . . , " and it came back very positive. At 6:18 p.m., in La Mesa, CA, on this date, my daughter was born. Giving birth to a human being is undoubtedly the most profound thing I've ever done. And I got the best one because I waited the longest. I've been asked why I don't rave about her excessively (there's that word again) on my blog. Easy answer. She doesn't want me to, despite being very rave-worthy. If she wants to be presented in a blog, I imagine she'll start her own, as she is a fine writer and artist.
So, "20 years ago today, Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play" and 20 years ago today, I had a child who isn't a child any more. I've spent some time both up and down as I've contemplated this number of years and what has become of us all. I admit it to the reader, I spent a day or two with my chin dragging on the concrete. This happens to me sometimes during these weeks. They burden me more than I can express.
And then, Mother Badger sent an e-mail so much like a blog post, I'm going to start applying pressure to her to publish. Like this little rock is going be able to move that hard place, but I shall be heard. And then I had a moment of lightning bright clarity: if I asked someone with whom I share a problem (it's not just my problem) to help me find the way, I'd be carrying less on my narrow shoulders. He came up with something brilliant! The wheels were put into motion today. If I carefully explain how much a camping date circled on the calendar means to me, one is established! I don't care how far ahead it is ~ it's there to be seen. "Going camping again, Les?""I am, homes!" Las Vegas has become startlingly mild while much of the rest of the country suffers in cold. I don't wish anyone else ill. I just enjoy the warm sunshine. I'm humbly reminded that one doesn't have to go it alone. It's OK to say, "I need help. I don't know everything. I can't do everything alone." And then the clouds part.
In my ears right now: I already told you at the start of this, "Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite." I believe I'll post it on my sidebar.
Something that charmed me: I returned to work and the phones are jangling non-stop. I'm no longer used to it. My arms windmill as I take the information and book the jobs we need so desperately. What? They were all waiting for after the holidays? It's not like we're having a fire sale! I'll take them anyway I can get them, and I've been damned flirtatious!
I did something most unlike myself during my Solstice Fairy gig. I took out the camera that has gone everywhere with me for years and . . . I took some pictures with it. No longer the digital accessory, that Sony was employed for the purpose it was intended.
Solstice at Grandmother's house, after the remodeling and landscaping were completed.
The solstice outing to the dunes was a most wonderful holiday get-away. Things were a bit different this trip. Shorts taken, but not worn. The skies not quite the same as every other time. New things to see, old landmarks gone missing. Conversations made while being pulled into the most marvelous of campfires. Observations made while climbing in the dunes. "Hey, cat prints -big cat! What do you think, cougar?" Soon we observed there are at least two, and possibly three, cats. Some of the footprints are smaller than others. They appear to hunt together, one following the other, until their tracks diverge. Perhaps some bird flew off at a tangent, or a small mammal changed course and appeared worth following.
I found time to think and consider things. I weighed a few matters in my head, trying to land on how much more time and energy I will throw at them. And I realized on the ride home that I've got through "the holidays" without any negative energy or events. It is a challenge for me and not only did I get through, I walked upright. I even managed a very difficult personal situation during the holidays to the extent that I feel very good about it, very strong.
And so, I will spend a day reading all the blogs, making my comments, and then I will proceed to write and tell what I am compelled to set out.
In my ears right now: Steve Earle & The Del McCoury Band ~ The Mountain. It was requested of me as a holiday gift. The beauty of that is one gets a free burn of the CD! It is very good and features a little input from Emmylou Harris, Gillian Welch and Iris Dement. Enough said? I recommend it.
Something that charmed me: I love finding a marsh - wetlands! - in Death Valley. It just doesn't easily compute for me. Yet, there it is. We heard frogs croaking and waterfowl chirping. There it is, just like last time. Just like next time.
After a really long day Tuesday, I sat down at the computer instead of packing for holiday camping as I'd intended to do. I noodled around on blogs and left my mark wherever I was moved to write. I checked my e-mail inbox almost as an afterthought. After all, the BlackBerry had not breeeeeenged me to attention, announcing incoming. However, the network had been acting oddly all afternoon after the wind began to roar, so I decided to take a look. Therein awaited a true treat ~ Mother Badger sent the chattiest e-mail in a long time and she made me laugh out loud in the privacy of my own home.
As she is wont to do, Mother Badger had been perusing blogs. She doesn't comment on the blogs, but makes her statements and asks her questions privately, through e-mail. So she dished with me about being "Les, the ex-Limes" and she claims she has entire generations of trigger points for her body worker to go after. I shall soon attempt to one-up her by sharing a statement Stephanie once made: "Leslie, basically your complete left butt cheek is a trigger point." Well! By the way, this week Stephanie went after the tibialis anterior muscles for a real treat. Let's just say that she found a number of trigger points commensurate with the number of miles I walk and it was a pretty unpleasant experience. I'm big on using Lamaze breathing techniques to ease discomfort - hey, it worked for me during childbirth which was about half as difficult as these leg trigger points. But that's not what I meant to talk about. I meant to say that I went to sleep Tuesday evening, grinning with delight over Mother Badger.
The view from my office deck as I arrived at work. Yes, those faint lights on the horizon are the fabulous Las Vegas Strip.
Wednesday morning I was pensive as I walked my miles. I have managed to keep an even keel across these holidays, mostly by trying to do many things differently. Westerman, who advises me about many things, counseled me to avoid certain people and certain subjects and to put some things on the back burner just for a month. He reminded me I needed to get more sleep and eat well. Every single day. I've tried to do that.
The view from my office deck after the coffee brewed.
What we dreaded has come to pass. The holiday season in which we got no crush of business. Down on the ground you see a couple of my war wagons. We used to have more home dudes than war wagons and there was a spirited competition between the homes to claim ownership of a particular chariot. Everyone wanted #3 - it has a great sound system. No one wanted #12 - it's the oldest in the fleet and behaves that way, too. We're smaller now, but still standing. Some days it feels as if I talk to more out-of-work carpet cleaners than potential customers. "Sorry, we're a bit slow ourselves right now." The vendor who sells us our cleaning products tells us weekly about the demise of yet another small business, and that vendor has reduced staff, as well. Sometimes I book a job and the customer will say, "You're the only company that answered the phone. The others are disconnected or the phone just rings." Yes, well, they've had to close their offices and the carpet cleaner can't hear his cell phone ringing while he's cleaning carpet.
I'm not depressed or panicked, but I am very concerned for what has happened to all of us, all working class Americans. I'm fed up with reading that the recession is over and then reading that reports of the recession being over are overly optimistic. In the last few days I have talked with potential customers who go far beyond the usual "pain in the butt" or "odd". Yesterday and today I spoke with one man and one woman whom I would classify as genuinely, certifiably batshit crazy. I didn't become annoyed by them. I reminded myself how stressful the whole world seems right now and it's the holidays, to boot. How do I know what they might be suffering? The technicians radio from almost every job now, to say, "This is a really sad situation." Husband lost his job, house is foreclosed, people are sick and can't afford medical care.
It's time to get ready to go away for solstice. I'm going to set everything down for just the few days and breathe deeply, feel the sun on my skin, dance in the solstice moon. It will take an effort to let it be for this short time. Sometimes the dance of guessing and second-guessing takes on a life of its own. I want to have a crystal ball. I want to know how it will all end. I want to know what's waiting just outside the tunnel. I want to feel confident and secure.
It is time to ready my little birdies for the long weekend and make several trips with packages to my car. It is time to make the special foods to be transported to the dunes. It is time to lay down the things that make our days difficult and find some brief respite. Soon I will sleep on the ground in heavenly peace. For just a little while. And when I come back, I will feel refilled, refueled, refreshed.
In my ears right now: True deal, Erin O'Brien's fault again. Who knew I was so suggestible? Love the song. It invites twirling dance with a long, flowing skirt. I agree the viedo is unremarkable. This is about the music.
Something that charmed me: Despite my trying to swear off the Christmas Nazi stuff, I made a 2:30 a.m. trip to Wal-Mart this morning. I'll confess the details in some other post. Another woman and I kept coming across one another in the aisles. She stopped to take off her coat. She draped it across her cart and I noticed she had her sweater on completely inside out. Not slightly mismatched buttons or a collar turned up. Label flapping, big bumpy sweater seams showing, inside out. I waited until there was no one else in the aisle with us and I mentioned it to her quietly. Hey, I'm a woman who'd want to know if I was trailing toilet paper from the back of my slacks or wearing my sweater inside out. "Mind your own damned business, you bitch." Yow. You know, I need a break.
