Happy Thanksgiving.
This is the first year for as long as I remember that I haven't done any cooking for the big feast. I made a few breakfast items this morning but have mostly spent the day hanging out. It almost doesn't feel like Thanksgiving because I am not standing in the kitchen, my back aching, my head hurting and my feet screaming. I also won't be seeing my son today; he is working until 6pm and then going to his fiance's house for dinner. Joe and Melia and I are going to the home of our friends Mike and Celia where Mike is preparing a fabulous meal.
Realistically speaking, even if I wanted to, I couldn't possibly host or serve a traditional feast. I have been working so much that my body is protesting loudly in a variety of uncomfortable ways. I don't have the energy to cook and clean and tend to anyone's needs. Heck, I'm having a difficult time tending to my own needs. I'm not eating right or exercising enough. I feel overwhelmed daily.
But my mood is good.
I like my jobs. I love teaching. I still like running the Writing Center, but it is burning me out. I can see the wall slowly making its way toward me. I am destined to hit it and when that happens I will be forced to move on. I'm hoping that when that happens I can move onto teaching and writing full-time. I have an interview next week with another community college. So in addition to the class prep and grading I planned to do this weekend for my classes, and the formatting job I need to finish, and the family finances I have to address, and a Thanksgiving to participate in, I'm prepping for the interview.
Still, not really complaining. But I am looking forward to the end of the semester. I'm very likely going to move into a new office space. It is really long past time for me to move my freelance and creative work out of my house. I think I have decided on a location, but am still dealing with details. I'd like to be mostly moved in before Christmas, which is a week after the semester ends. Yes, I know, even when I have a break scheduled I still manage to overload myself.
One of the many things that I have learned this last few months is that I can do more work than I had thought I could. I have also been reminded just how important taking care of my body is. I physically feel pretty crappy a good portion of the time, but I know how to feel better and once I have the time I will be changing my eating and exercise habits back to what they were only a few months ago. It also reminds me that there were several years when I felt like this ALL the time. I have also been reminded that I have the power to change that, and for that knowledge I am very grateful.
I am grateful that I have trusted my own instincts and am moving forward in my chosen career(s). I am grateful that months ago Joe and I had a talk about the changes that are now taking place and we are managing to stay connected and happy together. I am grateful that my kids are great. I am grateful for my friends and extended family (even if I don't have the time or energy to spend much quality time with them).
Yep, lots to be grateful for. And lost of exhaustion that I will be grateful to be rid of in a few short weeks.
Lake Mendocino
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Friday, November 7, 2008
A New Castle in the Sky
I'm normally a fence sitter when it comes to politics.
I don't mean to say that I don't have an opinion, but my deep respect for the equally deep feelings of others requires me to keep my attitudes in check lest I fall into an all out confrontation that will serve no purpose save to piss me off, piss my friend/neighbor/fellow party goer off, and end what may likely be a relaxed social gathering. I don't believe that I can sway anyone's strong opinions with my anger or righteousness. I do believe, however, that by keeping an open mind and understanding as to why a stance is different from my own, I have an increased opportunity to share my views in an intellectual way, in a more subtle get under-your-skin kind of way. That sublty and respect for other's opinions is my personal tool for bringing about change in my little world. And yes, it has at time worked.
But goddamn if I didn't bawl my eyes out when it became clear that Barack Obama is going to be the next president of the United States of America. And frankly I don't much care who knows how I feel. I'm not attacking anyone's choices. I'm not dancing the I-told-you-so dance. I am simply enjoying the feeling of imminent change. The feeling of hope for the future of our country on levels that I can barely begin to express. I cried on election night because I am so proud of my country. I am proud that my fellow citizens were willing to take a chance on change. That sounds like such a simple concept, but really it isn't.
Change for most of us is a terrifying experience. A change in job, a change in location, or a change in relationship, all offer new hope and new ideas that mask that black abyss that is the unknown. No matter how sure we are that change is the best thing, it still holds within it things we cannot readily see. And we remain blind to so much for so long, to so much unpredictability, sometimes too much, that even within hope and happiness our terror lurks. This terror could so easily have been too overwhelming for so many people across the nation. It could have tied their hands and their minds down, tethering them, and the rest of us, to a known quantity–the status quo–no matter how much of the real terror was sitting squarely in the light of our everyday lives. Like the abused spouse who remains because the outside world is unknown and unreliable in its actions with no guarantees that change will be better, too often they remain, staying in a place that is safe if only in its familiarity.
I have a copy of the front page of the local newspaper that is entirely filled with the profile of President-Elect Obama. There is another displayed from another newspaper on the office door of a colleague . Both cause me to pause, to hold my hand to my chest over my heart and feel a sense of wonder and pride and hope. He looks eerily familiar: A young man with a young family ready to take on the mantle of one of the most powerful countries in the world. He is wearing a dark suit and white shirt with a solid color tie. He is slender and smiling. I look at it and wonder, does my generation finally have the chance for the kind of hope that hasn't been seen since before I was born? Are we, forty years later, finally ready to give a new future another chance? Has cynicism taken a long enouh vacation for us to try something new that is such a strong echo of the past?
That is certainly my hope.
I pray that it does. I also pray that the hope continues farther than the last. I pray that the new stars that are rising in politics rise far beyond their predecessors and live well into the next generation. I pray that the new castle in the sky we are building in our hearts binds with the foundation of our nation and sustains new hope and change for many, many years.
I don't mean to say that I don't have an opinion, but my deep respect for the equally deep feelings of others requires me to keep my attitudes in check lest I fall into an all out confrontation that will serve no purpose save to piss me off, piss my friend/neighbor/fellow party goer off, and end what may likely be a relaxed social gathering. I don't believe that I can sway anyone's strong opinions with my anger or righteousness. I do believe, however, that by keeping an open mind and understanding as to why a stance is different from my own, I have an increased opportunity to share my views in an intellectual way, in a more subtle get under-your-skin kind of way. That sublty and respect for other's opinions is my personal tool for bringing about change in my little world. And yes, it has at time worked.
But goddamn if I didn't bawl my eyes out when it became clear that Barack Obama is going to be the next president of the United States of America. And frankly I don't much care who knows how I feel. I'm not attacking anyone's choices. I'm not dancing the I-told-you-so dance. I am simply enjoying the feeling of imminent change. The feeling of hope for the future of our country on levels that I can barely begin to express. I cried on election night because I am so proud of my country. I am proud that my fellow citizens were willing to take a chance on change. That sounds like such a simple concept, but really it isn't.
Change for most of us is a terrifying experience. A change in job, a change in location, or a change in relationship, all offer new hope and new ideas that mask that black abyss that is the unknown. No matter how sure we are that change is the best thing, it still holds within it things we cannot readily see. And we remain blind to so much for so long, to so much unpredictability, sometimes too much, that even within hope and happiness our terror lurks. This terror could so easily have been too overwhelming for so many people across the nation. It could have tied their hands and their minds down, tethering them, and the rest of us, to a known quantity–the status quo–no matter how much of the real terror was sitting squarely in the light of our everyday lives. Like the abused spouse who remains because the outside world is unknown and unreliable in its actions with no guarantees that change will be better, too often they remain, staying in a place that is safe if only in its familiarity.
I have a copy of the front page of the local newspaper that is entirely filled with the profile of President-Elect Obama. There is another displayed from another newspaper on the office door of a colleague . Both cause me to pause, to hold my hand to my chest over my heart and feel a sense of wonder and pride and hope. He looks eerily familiar: A young man with a young family ready to take on the mantle of one of the most powerful countries in the world. He is wearing a dark suit and white shirt with a solid color tie. He is slender and smiling. I look at it and wonder, does my generation finally have the chance for the kind of hope that hasn't been seen since before I was born? Are we, forty years later, finally ready to give a new future another chance? Has cynicism taken a long enouh vacation for us to try something new that is such a strong echo of the past?
That is certainly my hope.
I pray that it does. I also pray that the hope continues farther than the last. I pray that the new stars that are rising in politics rise far beyond their predecessors and live well into the next generation. I pray that the new castle in the sky we are building in our hearts binds with the foundation of our nation and sustains new hope and change for many, many years.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Gratitude & Sorrow
It's been one year since we lost our first grand-baby.
He lived inside his mother for almost 5 months before higher powers decided that it was time for him to move on. His mother and father were both devastated. Before they knew that he existed they had chosen to be apart, to move away from a relationship that had become increasingly dysfunctional. They didn't have to recommit to each other once they knew that they were pregnant; they could have lived apart and parented separately the way many parents do. My son refused to live away from his child. His girlfriend refused to live away from her child. So together they chose to repair a relationship that they had already walked away from. They chose to move back in together. They chose to work hard in couples therapy so that when their baby was born he would not be born into chaos, anger and fighting.
In their therapy session, a whole new world opened up for them: a world of honest, open and clear communication. They worked hard every week for months, and the work was evident to those of us who watched from the outside as they grew and matured.
When they lost their baby, they named him Rowan and layed a special brick for him to commemorate his existence.
And they stayed together. And they grieved together. The loss of Rowan helped them, as if even in death, even after he had moved onto another place and another existence, he continued to impact their lives for the better.
Last weekend these two young people who came so close to being apart, and becoming parents too young made a new promise to each other. Vince proposed, Alexis accepted and they are now planning their life together. They are talking about where they want to live, where they want to raise the children they will have sometime in the future. They are planning for their marriage. It is clear that the wedding is secondary, and that the life is the priority. All because of Rowan.
Vince gave Alexis my grandmother's ring. The ring had been stripped of its diamonds many years ago; so Vince and I found a jeweler who could repair the damage and rebuild the ring for a new generation. We filled the holes with heirloom diamonds. It is now more beautiful than it ever was.
The jeweler liked the ring that I was wearing, the one that my husband had sculpted for me. She wanted to see more of his work. We brought her photos of his jewelry and sculpture, and one wire tree. She ordered six rings and 5 wire trees. So now my talented husband the artist is creating art. He was destined to do this, but because we walked into that particular jewelry store on that particular day, his destiny has become manifest.
He would not be sculpting if we hadn't walked into the jewelry store. We wouldn't have walked into the jewelry store if Vince didn't want to marry Alexis. Vince wouldn't be marrying Alexis if they hadn't work so hard to make their relationship work. They wouldn't have worked so hard to make their relationship work if they hadn't gotten pregnant.
Our lives have been impacted in incredible ways all because of the mere existence of our first grand-baby. His life was so important and so profound that he didn't need to live for a full five months inside of his mother in order to create a ripple affect that continues on. I am so grateful that we had him in our lives, even for the all too short time he was here. I am so sad that I never had a chance to hold him in my arms.
I am so grateful that I can hold him in my heart and see the gifts that he left us.
He lived inside his mother for almost 5 months before higher powers decided that it was time for him to move on. His mother and father were both devastated. Before they knew that he existed they had chosen to be apart, to move away from a relationship that had become increasingly dysfunctional. They didn't have to recommit to each other once they knew that they were pregnant; they could have lived apart and parented separately the way many parents do. My son refused to live away from his child. His girlfriend refused to live away from her child. So together they chose to repair a relationship that they had already walked away from. They chose to move back in together. They chose to work hard in couples therapy so that when their baby was born he would not be born into chaos, anger and fighting.
In their therapy session, a whole new world opened up for them: a world of honest, open and clear communication. They worked hard every week for months, and the work was evident to those of us who watched from the outside as they grew and matured.
When they lost their baby, they named him Rowan and layed a special brick for him to commemorate his existence.
And they stayed together. And they grieved together. The loss of Rowan helped them, as if even in death, even after he had moved onto another place and another existence, he continued to impact their lives for the better.
Last weekend these two young people who came so close to being apart, and becoming parents too young made a new promise to each other. Vince proposed, Alexis accepted and they are now planning their life together. They are talking about where they want to live, where they want to raise the children they will have sometime in the future. They are planning for their marriage. It is clear that the wedding is secondary, and that the life is the priority. All because of Rowan.
Vince gave Alexis my grandmother's ring. The ring had been stripped of its diamonds many years ago; so Vince and I found a jeweler who could repair the damage and rebuild the ring for a new generation. We filled the holes with heirloom diamonds. It is now more beautiful than it ever was.
The jeweler liked the ring that I was wearing, the one that my husband had sculpted for me. She wanted to see more of his work. We brought her photos of his jewelry and sculpture, and one wire tree. She ordered six rings and 5 wire trees. So now my talented husband the artist is creating art. He was destined to do this, but because we walked into that particular jewelry store on that particular day, his destiny has become manifest.
He would not be sculpting if we hadn't walked into the jewelry store. We wouldn't have walked into the jewelry store if Vince didn't want to marry Alexis. Vince wouldn't be marrying Alexis if they hadn't work so hard to make their relationship work. They wouldn't have worked so hard to make their relationship work if they hadn't gotten pregnant.
Our lives have been impacted in incredible ways all because of the mere existence of our first grand-baby. His life was so important and so profound that he didn't need to live for a full five months inside of his mother in order to create a ripple affect that continues on. I am so grateful that we had him in our lives, even for the all too short time he was here. I am so sad that I never had a chance to hold him in my arms.
I am so grateful that I can hold him in my heart and see the gifts that he left us.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Carol Burnett & Friends & Gram
I have great difficulty accessing memories of my grandmother. I don't mean to say that I can't remember her, that isn't exactly it. Every hour, every minute, every second of every day of my life I can think of her and access a memory to share. I tell a lot of stories to my kids and friends that involve Gram. I haven't forgotten her; I can't. The problem is that when I want to write about her I suddenly freeze up and forget how we were when we bantered, how she made me laugh, how she made everyone around her laugh. How she made me feel safe wrapped in her arms. I can only get so far, and then the memories seem to drop out of sight as if they are hiding.
My standard excuse is that she is so much a part of who I am that I find it impossible to tease her out of my memories so they can stand alone in my writing. I don't now for sure if that is true or not, but it will work for now.
But if in any given moment watching TV, of all things, I catch a glimpse of Carol Burnett, the Saturday evenings of my life come flooding back. The memories are so strong that I can't seem to sit through a 30 second clip on the Emmy Awards without beginning to bawl.
Every Saturday night at 10:00 we would sit our respective seats, me on the couch Gram in her chair under her lamp, her cigarette smoke curling up into the lamp as it made its way toward to ceiling to hover above us. We watched with anticipation as Ms. Burnett walked out onto the stage in her designer dress for her opening monologue. At some point in her monologue, if memory serves, she would tell the audience who designed her dress. I have forgotten every single designer save for Bob Mackie. We got to know his designs so well that we could spot them on the Red Carpet at the Emmy and Oscar Awards. (The most outrageous outfits that Cher wore were almost always a Mackie design.)
We loved the skits that Carol, her regulars and her guest stars would act out for us. We loved the end of the show when she would sing her signature song:
I'm so glad we had this time together
Just to have a laugh or sing a song
Seems we just got started and before you know it
Comes the time we have to say, 'So long.'
Then she would tug at her ear lobe and wave and walk off stage.
At some point she explained the ear tugging. She was raised primarily by her grandmother. At the end of every show, the tug as a "secret" signal to that beloved grandmother. My goodness, I can't read or write about it without stifling the sobs that jettison up my throat. My eyes tear up and I want to sit and cry and cry because I miss Gram. I have to stop writing because–well because I can't see the damn keyboard.
*sniff*
So, do I have a point? Yes I do, in an abstract sort of way. My point is that I want to honor someone who was, and is, so important to me. I want to honor her in my writing, but I am still struggling to find a way to do that, to find a way to access the memories without accessing the tears. She touched a lot of people, so maybe the way to retrieve those memories locked inside of me is to ask some of those other folks to share what they remember about her.
Maybe.
My standard excuse is that she is so much a part of who I am that I find it impossible to tease her out of my memories so they can stand alone in my writing. I don't now for sure if that is true or not, but it will work for now.
But if in any given moment watching TV, of all things, I catch a glimpse of Carol Burnett, the Saturday evenings of my life come flooding back. The memories are so strong that I can't seem to sit through a 30 second clip on the Emmy Awards without beginning to bawl.
Every Saturday night at 10:00 we would sit our respective seats, me on the couch Gram in her chair under her lamp, her cigarette smoke curling up into the lamp as it made its way toward to ceiling to hover above us. We watched with anticipation as Ms. Burnett walked out onto the stage in her designer dress for her opening monologue. At some point in her monologue, if memory serves, she would tell the audience who designed her dress. I have forgotten every single designer save for Bob Mackie. We got to know his designs so well that we could spot them on the Red Carpet at the Emmy and Oscar Awards. (The most outrageous outfits that Cher wore were almost always a Mackie design.)
We loved the skits that Carol, her regulars and her guest stars would act out for us. We loved the end of the show when she would sing her signature song:
I'm so glad we had this time together
Just to have a laugh or sing a song
Seems we just got started and before you know it
Comes the time we have to say, 'So long.'
Then she would tug at her ear lobe and wave and walk off stage.
At some point she explained the ear tugging. She was raised primarily by her grandmother. At the end of every show, the tug as a "secret" signal to that beloved grandmother. My goodness, I can't read or write about it without stifling the sobs that jettison up my throat. My eyes tear up and I want to sit and cry and cry because I miss Gram. I have to stop writing because–well because I can't see the damn keyboard.
*sniff*
So, do I have a point? Yes I do, in an abstract sort of way. My point is that I want to honor someone who was, and is, so important to me. I want to honor her in my writing, but I am still struggling to find a way to do that, to find a way to access the memories without accessing the tears. She touched a lot of people, so maybe the way to retrieve those memories locked inside of me is to ask some of those other folks to share what they remember about her.
Maybe.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Now the Work Really Begins
Yes. I'm in.
The signature came through (not without a few hassles of course). I will be teaching not one, but two college courses beginning next week. Suddenly I have to put two syllabi together, plan 15 weeks of class meetings for both classes, fill out a stack of paperwork for HR*, get my fingerprints taken and a TB test done and buy a parking permit. All before Tuesday. Today is Friday.
This is an emergency hire situation. I believe that everyone involved understands that some things won't be done before Tuesday. The four books for one class are ordered and three of them are already in the bookstore. The three books for the second class are ordered and will be in the bookstore next week. Oh, I forgot to mention that one class is on the Santa Rosa campus where I currently run the writing center. The other is in the evening in Petaluma where I live. Yeah, I'll be a very busy little bee until mid-December. I am not complaining. But for a couple of days I wasn't sleeping well at all. My brain would not turn off.
I am very excited. This week I was able to sit down and work with a few students in the writing center, which is simply my favorite part of the job. It felt so good to interact with them and their writing. Staying where I am feels like the right place to be. That may change. When or if it does the change will be okay and I'll move on.
For now, it is so very nice to feel good about being where I am.
*The stack of HR paperwork says that it must all be completed and returned no later than 5 days before I begin work. The paperwork came to me yesterday, so according to the directions I should have had it back to them yesterday afternoon. Yeah right.
The signature came through (not without a few hassles of course). I will be teaching not one, but two college courses beginning next week. Suddenly I have to put two syllabi together, plan 15 weeks of class meetings for both classes, fill out a stack of paperwork for HR*, get my fingerprints taken and a TB test done and buy a parking permit. All before Tuesday. Today is Friday.
This is an emergency hire situation. I believe that everyone involved understands that some things won't be done before Tuesday. The four books for one class are ordered and three of them are already in the bookstore. The three books for the second class are ordered and will be in the bookstore next week. Oh, I forgot to mention that one class is on the Santa Rosa campus where I currently run the writing center. The other is in the evening in Petaluma where I live. Yeah, I'll be a very busy little bee until mid-December. I am not complaining. But for a couple of days I wasn't sleeping well at all. My brain would not turn off.
I am very excited. This week I was able to sit down and work with a few students in the writing center, which is simply my favorite part of the job. It felt so good to interact with them and their writing. Staying where I am feels like the right place to be. That may change. When or if it does the change will be okay and I'll move on.
For now, it is so very nice to feel good about being where I am.
*The stack of HR paperwork says that it must all be completed and returned no later than 5 days before I begin work. The paperwork came to me yesterday, so according to the directions I should have had it back to them yesterday afternoon. Yeah right.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Anticipation
Waiting.
I feel like I have spent a great deal of my life waiting.
I'm not talking about waiting in line, I don't often have the patience for that, I'm talking about waiting for things in life to happen.
I spent way too many years waiting for my parents to come get me. And chunks of time waiting for boys to call. And years waiting for my hubby to stop napping and help take care of things around the house.
There are sometimes when waiting is easy because I turn off my brain and space out. This skill is reminiscent of childhood and sleeping during long car rides to make the time go by faster. I go into a self imposed waking sleep mode when waiting for doctor's appointments or for time in a day to pass before a special date.
I feel like I've been waiting for my professional life to start since I finished graduate school. Initially there were very legitimate obstacles in my way, like dying parents and grief. And in all honesty, things have been moving, albeit very slowly, in the right direction.
This weekend I am waiting for one more signature on one piece of paper that will allow my department to hire me so that I can teach a college course. In theory, the signature is a formality, almost certainly to happen with little or no struggle. Nice theory, but I have been through disappointment at this job and know better than to assume all will work out as planned. I tried very hard not to get high on excitement, I know better. But it's hard and my brain simply won't stop planning classroom assignments and activities. It is impossible to space out or go into a waking sleep mode because I have other things to do. Consequently I can't turn my brain off.
In the meantime, the anticipation is killing me. And it's exhausting. Will I know on Monday? Tuesday? Good God, I hope so.
I feel like I have spent a great deal of my life waiting.
I'm not talking about waiting in line, I don't often have the patience for that, I'm talking about waiting for things in life to happen.
I spent way too many years waiting for my parents to come get me. And chunks of time waiting for boys to call. And years waiting for my hubby to stop napping and help take care of things around the house.
There are sometimes when waiting is easy because I turn off my brain and space out. This skill is reminiscent of childhood and sleeping during long car rides to make the time go by faster. I go into a self imposed waking sleep mode when waiting for doctor's appointments or for time in a day to pass before a special date.
I feel like I've been waiting for my professional life to start since I finished graduate school. Initially there were very legitimate obstacles in my way, like dying parents and grief. And in all honesty, things have been moving, albeit very slowly, in the right direction.
This weekend I am waiting for one more signature on one piece of paper that will allow my department to hire me so that I can teach a college course. In theory, the signature is a formality, almost certainly to happen with little or no struggle. Nice theory, but I have been through disappointment at this job and know better than to assume all will work out as planned. I tried very hard not to get high on excitement, I know better. But it's hard and my brain simply won't stop planning classroom assignments and activities. It is impossible to space out or go into a waking sleep mode because I have other things to do. Consequently I can't turn my brain off.
In the meantime, the anticipation is killing me. And it's exhausting. Will I know on Monday? Tuesday? Good God, I hope so.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
That's The Thing About Vacation
It's re-energizing.
I wish now that we had planned our vacation earlier in the summer. Last year, for so many reasons, we ran–sprinted–out of town in mid-August to escape the death and destruction that was plaguing us. This year we very civily looked at the calendar and chose dates according to what seemed to work around the rest of our life.
My goals for this summer break (I am not scheduled to work from the end of May thru til about mid-August) were to write creatively and work on marketing myself as a freelancer. In hindsight I realize that I didn't really schedule time to relax or feel. This was a foolish plan because I knew intellectually that I wasn't able to deal with all of my emotions and grief from last summer's losses last summer and would likely have a difficult summer emotionally. (I just can't seem to give myself a break!)
I was off work over spring break and accomplished a lot, and it felt really good. I assumed, erroneously it turns out, that with more time off over the summer I would accomplish that much more. But I felt un-inspired, un-productive, unhappy. Everything felt a bit heavier. Thoughts that would normally flit through my brain instead stayed much longer than necessary and swirled around and around creating a tornado of air and nonsense. On the outside everything slowed down to an excruciatingly slow pace. Movement was more difficult, and I began to feel discouraged about working out, writing, cleaning, working, most things.
I really started to wonder if I needed to change anti-depressants. All too familiar feelings of my lack of worthiness as a writer, co-provider and life partner began to mount. I found myself excited about less and less of the activities in my life. Even packing for Sea Ranch wasn't a big thrill. It was helpful to wrap my mind around the organization aspect of meal planning and shopping, but when asked if I was excited about going on vacation I could honestly that no, I wasn't.
Maybe it is as simple as getting away from the day-to-day, from the familiar, because getting away felt so good. Breathing in the sea air felt restorative. It was as if the air that flowed into my lungs had special molecules of renewal attached to them. The stars above had the nicest things to say amidst their twinkling. Being alone with my favorite people outside of the day-to-day routines at home and work was just lovely. We could just be, or laugh, or talk, or enjoy a movie or music together. Sitting on a bluff or the beach watching the waves crash against the rocks, it is easy to get lost in the waves, they have their own soothing rhythm that pulls my mind away and it goes wandering off without a care, traipsing lightly over the foam and the sand, weaving in and out of the clouds, happy to be.
While we were there I started a new essay, blogged almost regularly, and began to reassess my work area at home. It was clearly time for a change, which I have since made. I moved my desk downstairs and out of the bedroom. I feel a bit exposed down here, but for now I think that is the point, not to be holed up in a corner feeling inadequate.
Now that we are home the heaviness is gone. I am working out regularly again, I am looking forward to going back to work. I updated my website and added some lovely testimonials from past clients. I am mulling the kind of ad copy I need to write to expand the freelance side of my writing and editing. And I'm still blogging!
Thanks to a week away, I feel recharged. That's the thing about vacation…
I wish now that we had planned our vacation earlier in the summer. Last year, for so many reasons, we ran–sprinted–out of town in mid-August to escape the death and destruction that was plaguing us. This year we very civily looked at the calendar and chose dates according to what seemed to work around the rest of our life.
My goals for this summer break (I am not scheduled to work from the end of May thru til about mid-August) were to write creatively and work on marketing myself as a freelancer. In hindsight I realize that I didn't really schedule time to relax or feel. This was a foolish plan because I knew intellectually that I wasn't able to deal with all of my emotions and grief from last summer's losses last summer and would likely have a difficult summer emotionally. (I just can't seem to give myself a break!)
I was off work over spring break and accomplished a lot, and it felt really good. I assumed, erroneously it turns out, that with more time off over the summer I would accomplish that much more. But I felt un-inspired, un-productive, unhappy. Everything felt a bit heavier. Thoughts that would normally flit through my brain instead stayed much longer than necessary and swirled around and around creating a tornado of air and nonsense. On the outside everything slowed down to an excruciatingly slow pace. Movement was more difficult, and I began to feel discouraged about working out, writing, cleaning, working, most things.
I really started to wonder if I needed to change anti-depressants. All too familiar feelings of my lack of worthiness as a writer, co-provider and life partner began to mount. I found myself excited about less and less of the activities in my life. Even packing for Sea Ranch wasn't a big thrill. It was helpful to wrap my mind around the organization aspect of meal planning and shopping, but when asked if I was excited about going on vacation I could honestly that no, I wasn't.
Maybe it is as simple as getting away from the day-to-day, from the familiar, because getting away felt so good. Breathing in the sea air felt restorative. It was as if the air that flowed into my lungs had special molecules of renewal attached to them. The stars above had the nicest things to say amidst their twinkling. Being alone with my favorite people outside of the day-to-day routines at home and work was just lovely. We could just be, or laugh, or talk, or enjoy a movie or music together. Sitting on a bluff or the beach watching the waves crash against the rocks, it is easy to get lost in the waves, they have their own soothing rhythm that pulls my mind away and it goes wandering off without a care, traipsing lightly over the foam and the sand, weaving in and out of the clouds, happy to be.
While we were there I started a new essay, blogged almost regularly, and began to reassess my work area at home. It was clearly time for a change, which I have since made. I moved my desk downstairs and out of the bedroom. I feel a bit exposed down here, but for now I think that is the point, not to be holed up in a corner feeling inadequate.
Now that we are home the heaviness is gone. I am working out regularly again, I am looking forward to going back to work. I updated my website and added some lovely testimonials from past clients. I am mulling the kind of ad copy I need to write to expand the freelance side of my writing and editing. And I'm still blogging!
Thanks to a week away, I feel recharged. That's the thing about vacation…
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Seaweed and Sea Lions
We took the puppies out for a much needed walk, and to find a beach for them to run around on. There are several beaches in the private Sea Ranch area, and interestingly, they all kind of look alike. They are all at the bottom of a rather high bluff, the only way to get down to the surf is via man-made stairs. There is always an alcove to the right of the stairs, full of various sizes of rocks, and often enough a large log which is a useful resting place. There is also tons of seaweed that has washed up on the shore.
The seaweed lurks just off the coast like a wild sea garden. One of our houseguests wondered if it was piles of garbage. Other than the occasional bulb I came across as a kid visiting the beach (and the stuff wrapped around my California rolls), I know very little about what looks like an alien creature floating in the water, lurking in plain sight. They resemble a giant octopus or squid in that there is a head and tons of "tentacles." But unlike what I imagine a live creature to do, they simply float, their "heads" sticking up out of the water, and move at the whim of the tide.
During another walk we found ourselves in a grove of trees, many of which were clinging to the bluff that surrounded a small inlet. We were sure that we were watching a seal bobbing up and down in that little area, maybe contemplating exploring one of the tiny water-made caves that we could see. We watched this thing for quite awhile before we realized it was not a sea lion head, but a seaweed bulb. This realization came just after we noticed that the mass underneath the head had several extra limbs.
We did manage to see some real, live sea lions while walking along a stretch of open bluff. They were cute and had what appeared to be normal amount of body mass, and only one tail.
On the second beach we found were piles of seaweed that had washed up on shore. And they smelled. The smell was akin to rotting flesh. Thankfully the beach was just wide enough that we could get some distance away from the largest piles, Molly and Teddy cavorted and played a bit and hubby and I sat on some large rocks. Teddy seems to love being near the ocean, but he also gets nervous when he is there more than a little while. Molly tends to go with the flow more. We sat for awhile on a pile of rocks until a family came down the stairs, with their dog on leash. Two pre-pubescent boys and one young girl proceeded to explore the bottom of the bluff and let the waves wash over their feet while mom held the dog on a long leash.
They were at the opposite end of our little alcove of a beach, so we watched them for awhile, keeping Molly and Teddy on-leash. Things got a bit dicey when all three kids were knocked down by a wave they weren't expecting. There are signs posted all along the bluffs that the surf is very dangerous, so we watched the kids more carefully hoping that they would stay further away from the water's edge. Ultimately their exploring and bravado turned to simply playing catch with water, which you always win unless you wait too long before running back up the beach as the waves move to nip at your heals.
On the way back to the stairs, we stumbled across a dead baby sea lion. It had been on the beach the entire time, and was the reason for the rotting smell. It was a light brown, the exact same color as the other driftwood that was strewn about. I suppose we just assumed that it was a piece of wood when we first walked passed. It is surprising that the dogs didn't notice it before we did. Even more surprising is that we didn't step on it when we were walking over the rocks and piles of seaweed. That would have been a very nasty surprise. Although it looked like a log, you can bet it didn't have the same texture, nor the strength to hold our weight.
The seaweed lurks just off the coast like a wild sea garden. One of our houseguests wondered if it was piles of garbage. Other than the occasional bulb I came across as a kid visiting the beach (and the stuff wrapped around my California rolls), I know very little about what looks like an alien creature floating in the water, lurking in plain sight. They resemble a giant octopus or squid in that there is a head and tons of "tentacles." But unlike what I imagine a live creature to do, they simply float, their "heads" sticking up out of the water, and move at the whim of the tide.
During another walk we found ourselves in a grove of trees, many of which were clinging to the bluff that surrounded a small inlet. We were sure that we were watching a seal bobbing up and down in that little area, maybe contemplating exploring one of the tiny water-made caves that we could see. We watched this thing for quite awhile before we realized it was not a sea lion head, but a seaweed bulb. This realization came just after we noticed that the mass underneath the head had several extra limbs.
We did manage to see some real, live sea lions while walking along a stretch of open bluff. They were cute and had what appeared to be normal amount of body mass, and only one tail.
On the second beach we found were piles of seaweed that had washed up on shore. And they smelled. The smell was akin to rotting flesh. Thankfully the beach was just wide enough that we could get some distance away from the largest piles, Molly and Teddy cavorted and played a bit and hubby and I sat on some large rocks. Teddy seems to love being near the ocean, but he also gets nervous when he is there more than a little while. Molly tends to go with the flow more. We sat for awhile on a pile of rocks until a family came down the stairs, with their dog on leash. Two pre-pubescent boys and one young girl proceeded to explore the bottom of the bluff and let the waves wash over their feet while mom held the dog on a long leash.
They were at the opposite end of our little alcove of a beach, so we watched them for awhile, keeping Molly and Teddy on-leash. Things got a bit dicey when all three kids were knocked down by a wave they weren't expecting. There are signs posted all along the bluffs that the surf is very dangerous, so we watched the kids more carefully hoping that they would stay further away from the water's edge. Ultimately their exploring and bravado turned to simply playing catch with water, which you always win unless you wait too long before running back up the beach as the waves move to nip at your heals.
On the way back to the stairs, we stumbled across a dead baby sea lion. It had been on the beach the entire time, and was the reason for the rotting smell. It was a light brown, the exact same color as the other driftwood that was strewn about. I suppose we just assumed that it was a piece of wood when we first walked passed. It is surprising that the dogs didn't notice it before we did. Even more surprising is that we didn't step on it when we were walking over the rocks and piles of seaweed. That would have been a very nasty surprise. Although it looked like a log, you can bet it didn't have the same texture, nor the strength to hold our weight.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Under a Blanket of Stars
We sat on the back deck last night, turned all the lights off in the back part of the house, closed the blinds that cover the sliding glass door, bundled up under a blanket and lay back on our reclining chairs to watch the stars. There are no streetlights in the neighborhood where we have rented a house, and obviously the omission was part of the building plan. Only the occasional car drove driving one of the roads nearby, its headlights dimming the stars a tad. I didn’t go camping as a kid, but I do remember seeing a lot of stars in the sky even at home, even more when visiting friends who lived out in the country. What is lacking in those memories is the awe that we felt last night.
The sky looked–cluttered; it didn’t look clear, it looked freckled. And there was just enough cloud cover to add a dimension of wispy opacity in a non-pattern, as if to add texture or softness to a blanket. The stars were so close that it was like looking up at a blanket that had been thrown over the earth as a protective barrier. I like the idea of a protective barrier keeping us safe even in the daytime. The stars are out there even in the daytime, we just can’t see them, so the blanket is there all the time keeping us safe. Safe from the unknown. Maybe safe from ourselves
I had forgotten that stars twinkle. Oh sure, intellectually I know that Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star is titled such because of the natural phenomenon. I just don’t actually think about it, or didn’t until last night. They did more than twinkle, they shimmered; they invited my eyes in for a closer look and then seemed to move, sometimes in a line, sometimes farther away, sometimes closer. Startled I would bring my focus back down to earth and blink only to see that the stars had returned to their original positions. They were teasing me, playing games from millions (or billions) of miles away, dancing around in the sky overhead, obviously delighted to be free up there in the night sky. Free to be seen, free to twinkle, free to shimmer, free to be part of a lovely, soft blanket we could wrap ourselves in just before we fell asleep.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
An Affair to Remember
Remember that first feeling of falling in love? Maybe the first time that you made love with that new special someone? Remember how it smelled fresh and new, how soothing the touch was on your skin. That's how the air in Sea Ranch, California felt to me last night. I sat out on the deck off the hexagonal house we are renting and looked out at the crashing waves of the ocean that were lit by the stars. The wispy tendrils of the clouds danced among those stars twinkling above my head.
It's as if I could inhale all of the physical and emotional into my nostrils and hold them there. It felt decadent and wholesome. The sea air mingled with the breath of the pine trees and filled me with a sense of calm. Serenity. For a brief moment, the air was my lover, the breeze was his arms embracing me.
The wet kiss on the mouth-that was a dog.
This year we brought our puppies, Molly and Teddy. And they love Sea Ranch. They love the yard that holds oh so many fascinating scents, and the deer that watch us pass by while on our evening walks. We haven't yet introduced them to this portion of the ocean, in mid-Northern California. We are above Fort Ross and well belong Fort Bragg.
Northern California coasts are notoriously cold and windy. The water is certainly cold, and yesterday's breeze sounded from the inside of the house like a minor hurricane, but the wind wasn't cold and the sun still shone and it was just lovely. This morning there is some fog rolling in and it looks like it might obscure the sun for the day. Even then, we are so close to the ocean that we can hear the waves roll and crash. For a water baby (I was born under the sign of Cancer the crab) this is like coming home. Like an affair to remember. So, my Irish coffee and I (cup #3 for the morning) are going back out on the deck now.
It's as if I could inhale all of the physical and emotional into my nostrils and hold them there. It felt decadent and wholesome. The sea air mingled with the breath of the pine trees and filled me with a sense of calm. Serenity. For a brief moment, the air was my lover, the breeze was his arms embracing me.
The wet kiss on the mouth-that was a dog.
This year we brought our puppies, Molly and Teddy. And they love Sea Ranch. They love the yard that holds oh so many fascinating scents, and the deer that watch us pass by while on our evening walks. We haven't yet introduced them to this portion of the ocean, in mid-Northern California. We are above Fort Ross and well belong Fort Bragg.
Northern California coasts are notoriously cold and windy. The water is certainly cold, and yesterday's breeze sounded from the inside of the house like a minor hurricane, but the wind wasn't cold and the sun still shone and it was just lovely. This morning there is some fog rolling in and it looks like it might obscure the sun for the day. Even then, we are so close to the ocean that we can hear the waves roll and crash. For a water baby (I was born under the sign of Cancer the crab) this is like coming home. Like an affair to remember. So, my Irish coffee and I (cup #3 for the morning) are going back out on the deck now.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Meet Willie Brown
Former San Francisco Mayor, Speaker of the California Assembly, and author Willie Brown was promoting his new book, "Basic Brown: My Life and Our Times" at Sonoma State University this evening. I've read that he is flamboyant, self-centered, intelligent, and well-versed on his favorite topic: Willie Brown. All of these things proved to be true. And more.
Willie L. Brown, Jr. is a study in human contradictions. On one hand he is adamant that anyone working as a public servant in political office has only one bottom line to adhere to, serving the best interests of the people. This means that self-serving takes back seat. He also has a tendency to speak of himself in the third person. He never uses the royal "we," but he does talk an awful lot about Willie Brown–by name. He is clear that his role as speaker was to make other members of the assembly look good. He is also clear that he is and was a power broker behind the careers of many high-profile politicians, many currently in office.
He is highly intelligent and not shy in sharing his insights and his analysis. He does not, however, claim to be the cleverest man around. That honor goes (in Willie Brown's opinion) to former California Attorney General Jerry Brown.
My 21-year-old son was my companion. We were the second and third youngest people in the audience. I would put the average age of the attendees at 65 or higher. I took my son because he has an interest in politics. When Fidel Castro stepped down and handed over the reigns of Cuba to his brother, my son had been out of town that day and hadn't heard the news until it was several hours old. He then called and chastised me for not keeping him apprised of this momentous event. We talked for 20 minutes about the potential long-term impacts nationally and internationally of the shift in power. Every other young person (under the age of 25) that I spoke with today didn't know who Willie Brown was. I knew that my son would be interested in spending an evening immersed in political discourse.
The discussion eventually moved to the current presidential race. Brown claimed that Obama has been able to side-step the race issue, but that Hillary Clinton was definitely a victim of gender bias. He seems very clear that if the two were on the presidential ticket together that gender and race would no longer be an issue and that McCain would be left in the dust. He also referenced Doris Kearns Goodwin's book, "Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln" as a potential primer for Obama to follow Lincoln's lead of assembling a cabinet, in advance, of rivals and supporters alike to assure good council for the presidency.
All in all it was an interesting evening, and I would imagine an exhausting one for the guest of honor. He began his day in Montreal at 2:00 a.m. our time. He then flew to New York before returning to this coast and arriving at SSU. The program began at just past 7:30 and when we left at 9:30 or so he was still signing copies of his book. I'm not sure I could survive that kind of day, especially given that it is not be an unusual schedule for him. The man is 74-years-old and has far more stamina than I do.
Willie L. Brown, Jr. is a study in human contradictions. On one hand he is adamant that anyone working as a public servant in political office has only one bottom line to adhere to, serving the best interests of the people. This means that self-serving takes back seat. He also has a tendency to speak of himself in the third person. He never uses the royal "we," but he does talk an awful lot about Willie Brown–by name. He is clear that his role as speaker was to make other members of the assembly look good. He is also clear that he is and was a power broker behind the careers of many high-profile politicians, many currently in office.
He is highly intelligent and not shy in sharing his insights and his analysis. He does not, however, claim to be the cleverest man around. That honor goes (in Willie Brown's opinion) to former California Attorney General Jerry Brown.
My 21-year-old son was my companion. We were the second and third youngest people in the audience. I would put the average age of the attendees at 65 or higher. I took my son because he has an interest in politics. When Fidel Castro stepped down and handed over the reigns of Cuba to his brother, my son had been out of town that day and hadn't heard the news until it was several hours old. He then called and chastised me for not keeping him apprised of this momentous event. We talked for 20 minutes about the potential long-term impacts nationally and internationally of the shift in power. Every other young person (under the age of 25) that I spoke with today didn't know who Willie Brown was. I knew that my son would be interested in spending an evening immersed in political discourse.
The discussion eventually moved to the current presidential race. Brown claimed that Obama has been able to side-step the race issue, but that Hillary Clinton was definitely a victim of gender bias. He seems very clear that if the two were on the presidential ticket together that gender and race would no longer be an issue and that McCain would be left in the dust. He also referenced Doris Kearns Goodwin's book, "Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln" as a potential primer for Obama to follow Lincoln's lead of assembling a cabinet, in advance, of rivals and supporters alike to assure good council for the presidency.
All in all it was an interesting evening, and I would imagine an exhausting one for the guest of honor. He began his day in Montreal at 2:00 a.m. our time. He then flew to New York before returning to this coast and arriving at SSU. The program began at just past 7:30 and when we left at 9:30 or so he was still signing copies of his book. I'm not sure I could survive that kind of day, especially given that it is not be an unusual schedule for him. The man is 74-years-old and has far more stamina than I do.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Sneaky Stuff
Grief often cleverly disguises itself as other emotions. It is a trigger for reactions; it blows them up bigger, and often nastier, than in they would be in their natural state. And unless you are really aware that grief is the underlying cause, you can get into trouble. Who am I kidding? Even if you know that grief is messing with you it wreaks the same havoc internally, just the same. The good news is that I am pretty aware that grief is an underlying cause of many of my recent emotional reactions. The bad news is that the reactions and feelings are still there and not necessarily controllable.
Case in point–I applied for a job that I "should" get. I work at a community college, in a temporary classified position (that I love). I applied for an adjunct teaching position, or more specifically, to be in the adjunct pool. Because I already work 30 hours a week, I would only be allowed to teach one 3 unit class per semester, at most. Logically, I'm not sure I really want to teach right now. I also have a growing freelance business and only have so much time and energy to go around.
Let's be clear, I feel qualified to be a part of the adjunct pool. I applied for the full-time position a few months back, but didn't get an interview. And I was really, truly okay with not getting beyond the paper screening for that one. But teaching part-time would give me more experience and more chance of full-time work later. And honestly it seemed like a given that I would at least get an interview. Everyone in the department that I spoke with shared their assumption with me that I would. Some even offered to help with with interview questions in advance.
But I didn't get an interview for the part-time position. Instead I received a very gracious phone call from someone on the hiring committee (my boss in my temporary position no less) who assured me that I had very stiff competition and that the hiring committee thinks very highly of my work.
I have to be honest, that hurt. I was really pretty devastated. It felt like a personal rejection. In the back of my mind I had considered the adjunct pool to be a fall back place if I my current job is not made permanent. In a sense, it was my safety net. It was a side door to take me where I want to go, just down a different corridor. Fear washed over me, along with the anger and hurt of rejection. I felt as if I was on much shakier ground than I had realized and that the chances of falling, of truly failing to make a living, were much greater than I had thought. So I cried the bitter tears of someone who feels useless and worthless.
I assumed at the time, and still do, that I was upset in large part because of the grief that is lurking around me. I could vocalize that potentiality, but I didn't really believe it in my heart.
A week later, the hubby and I planned to take a power walk with the doggies around a local park for some good exercise, then head downtown and have a quiet dinner together. A date night. It sounded wonderful. Hubby fell asleep on the couch as soon as he got home from work. Okay, I thought, so we didn't need the power walk. He woke up an hour or so later, and by this time I was really, really hungry. He said that, yeah, he wanted to go out and get a bite to eat, he just needed to finish up a quick posting on a website bulletin board he participates in, then he'd be upstairs to change and we'd go. I needed to do a couple of things upstairs as well, the timing seemed okay, so off I went to do my stuff and wait for him.
An hour later he came upstairs. An hour! I was furious and felt many things, lots of anger, crankiness from being way too hungry, and really offended that our date was so unimportant to him. I caught myself thinking that I just couldn't stand to be rejected again, especially not by my honey.
Ah, there it was. I knew it as soon as it entered my head. I was reacting to the non-job. The non-job reaction was, in large part, grief related. Damn, that grief just tucks itself in and spreads like tiny poisonous tendrils. The really frustrating thing is, that despite understanding this on an intellectual level, emotionally I just can't shake the feeling of rejection from the job situation. I feel wary now of any pleasant overtures from my colleagues. I no longer believe with any certainty that my temporary job will ever be made permanent. And I am extra sensitive to any rejection, perceived or real. This is especially problematic as I am trying to get my work published. I always sending essays out hoping they will get picked up, and I'm trying to find representation for a book. I haven't been able to bring myself to submit anything for weeks.
The hubby and I ended up going out for a nice, albeit late, date. It was nice, but it took more than an hour for us to feel good with each other.
Blah. Stupid grief. It is really sneaky stuff.
Case in point–I applied for a job that I "should" get. I work at a community college, in a temporary classified position (that I love). I applied for an adjunct teaching position, or more specifically, to be in the adjunct pool. Because I already work 30 hours a week, I would only be allowed to teach one 3 unit class per semester, at most. Logically, I'm not sure I really want to teach right now. I also have a growing freelance business and only have so much time and energy to go around.
Let's be clear, I feel qualified to be a part of the adjunct pool. I applied for the full-time position a few months back, but didn't get an interview. And I was really, truly okay with not getting beyond the paper screening for that one. But teaching part-time would give me more experience and more chance of full-time work later. And honestly it seemed like a given that I would at least get an interview. Everyone in the department that I spoke with shared their assumption with me that I would. Some even offered to help with with interview questions in advance.
But I didn't get an interview for the part-time position. Instead I received a very gracious phone call from someone on the hiring committee (my boss in my temporary position no less) who assured me that I had very stiff competition and that the hiring committee thinks very highly of my work.
I have to be honest, that hurt. I was really pretty devastated. It felt like a personal rejection. In the back of my mind I had considered the adjunct pool to be a fall back place if I my current job is not made permanent. In a sense, it was my safety net. It was a side door to take me where I want to go, just down a different corridor. Fear washed over me, along with the anger and hurt of rejection. I felt as if I was on much shakier ground than I had realized and that the chances of falling, of truly failing to make a living, were much greater than I had thought. So I cried the bitter tears of someone who feels useless and worthless.
I assumed at the time, and still do, that I was upset in large part because of the grief that is lurking around me. I could vocalize that potentiality, but I didn't really believe it in my heart.
A week later, the hubby and I planned to take a power walk with the doggies around a local park for some good exercise, then head downtown and have a quiet dinner together. A date night. It sounded wonderful. Hubby fell asleep on the couch as soon as he got home from work. Okay, I thought, so we didn't need the power walk. He woke up an hour or so later, and by this time I was really, really hungry. He said that, yeah, he wanted to go out and get a bite to eat, he just needed to finish up a quick posting on a website bulletin board he participates in, then he'd be upstairs to change and we'd go. I needed to do a couple of things upstairs as well, the timing seemed okay, so off I went to do my stuff and wait for him.
An hour later he came upstairs. An hour! I was furious and felt many things, lots of anger, crankiness from being way too hungry, and really offended that our date was so unimportant to him. I caught myself thinking that I just couldn't stand to be rejected again, especially not by my honey.
Ah, there it was. I knew it as soon as it entered my head. I was reacting to the non-job. The non-job reaction was, in large part, grief related. Damn, that grief just tucks itself in and spreads like tiny poisonous tendrils. The really frustrating thing is, that despite understanding this on an intellectual level, emotionally I just can't shake the feeling of rejection from the job situation. I feel wary now of any pleasant overtures from my colleagues. I no longer believe with any certainty that my temporary job will ever be made permanent. And I am extra sensitive to any rejection, perceived or real. This is especially problematic as I am trying to get my work published. I always sending essays out hoping they will get picked up, and I'm trying to find representation for a book. I haven't been able to bring myself to submit anything for weeks.
The hubby and I ended up going out for a nice, albeit late, date. It was nice, but it took more than an hour for us to feel good with each other.
Blah. Stupid grief. It is really sneaky stuff.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Anger versus Pain
Sometimes anger is empowering. When it gets me off my butt and on the phone to set a problem right (generally a consumer type problem, like my daughter's replacement phone arriving broken), then it is a good thing. When it pulls me out of a really bad headspace, like when I was feeling very victimized and sexually harassed by a student at work, then it is a good thing.
But when I am angry at someone who died, who technically isn't around to argue with, it can be very frustrating and painful. Not such a good thing.
Last night I felt my bio-dad very strongly. Before he died, I believed that I could reach out my emotional feelings and touch base with him, even though we weren't speaking and hadn't in many years. We didn't have conversations when I put out those feelers, I just kind of touched base, checked to see if he was still there, or maybe wished him a happy birthday. I admit, I rarely if ever felt him reach back, or reach for me on his own. Although when he did, I generally rejected it, so who knows how often he may have tried.
Shortly before he and my bio-mom died (see the posting from last summer for the details), I stopped feeling either parent. They left a strange kind of empty place, and actually took some negative stuff with them (like my very strong aversion to tattoos). I felt a bit lighter, but I also knew that it meant they were either dead or dying. A few days later we got the call that my bio-mom was indeed about to succumb to lung cancer.
Once they were both dead, however, they came back into my consciousness stronger than ever before, save for maybe when I lived with them both as an infant. It felt as though they planted themselves on my chest, wishing to stay closer than ever in what I believe is an attempt to be with me in a way they couldn't when they were alive. They didn't want to leave me in death. And this made me angry. Where the hell had they been for the last $)+ years? Why, now that I can finally be free of the head trips that they could take me on with little or no effort, did they insist on hanging around? It quickly became clear that they wanted to prove something. Perhaps now that the physical restraints of this world have let them go they can finally be with me. To hell with that.
This is where feeling anger isn't terribly empowering. It feels like a constant fight, a constant attempt on my part to stand my personal moral ground, to insist that they stop wanting forgiveness and acceptance from me. I don't feel like they have given me what I need in return. They haven't taken away my pain, they haven't reversed the feelings of abandonment that have plagued me my whole life, and the resulting feelings of worthlessness and inherent badness that too often reduce me to a mess.
So when I felt my dad last night, so strongly, it hurt because I kind of miss him. He may have been a sporadic presence in my adult life, but we had our moments. We had a handful of really nice moments. If I miss anything about him, the real him, I miss those moments. And while he was asserting himself so strongly last night, it felt as though he was making a case for me to forgive. To forgive both himself and my mom. Talk about pissing me off! I am not ready to forgive her. Or him. They hurt me in ways that I can't begin to describe. I carry around these buttons and triggers that get tripped on all the time, buttons and triggers that they helped me construct, but haven't been around to help me dismantle. So I spent an evening arguing with him in my head. (yes, it may be all in my head, but that is beside the point)
I feel that if I forgive, then I am negating the value of my own feelings, that I am letting go of the right to feel pain, of the right to acknowledge that what they did was wrong. If I forgive, my pain no longer matters. I am not ready to devalue my feelings like that just yet.
This post is entitled anger versus pain. Sometimes they are mutually exclusive, sometimes they are two sides of the same issue. Sometimes anger can empower and reduce or soothe the pain.
Today, at least, they are battling it out inside me.
But when I am angry at someone who died, who technically isn't around to argue with, it can be very frustrating and painful. Not such a good thing.
Last night I felt my bio-dad very strongly. Before he died, I believed that I could reach out my emotional feelings and touch base with him, even though we weren't speaking and hadn't in many years. We didn't have conversations when I put out those feelers, I just kind of touched base, checked to see if he was still there, or maybe wished him a happy birthday. I admit, I rarely if ever felt him reach back, or reach for me on his own. Although when he did, I generally rejected it, so who knows how often he may have tried.
Shortly before he and my bio-mom died (see the posting from last summer for the details), I stopped feeling either parent. They left a strange kind of empty place, and actually took some negative stuff with them (like my very strong aversion to tattoos). I felt a bit lighter, but I also knew that it meant they were either dead or dying. A few days later we got the call that my bio-mom was indeed about to succumb to lung cancer.
Once they were both dead, however, they came back into my consciousness stronger than ever before, save for maybe when I lived with them both as an infant. It felt as though they planted themselves on my chest, wishing to stay closer than ever in what I believe is an attempt to be with me in a way they couldn't when they were alive. They didn't want to leave me in death. And this made me angry. Where the hell had they been for the last $)+ years? Why, now that I can finally be free of the head trips that they could take me on with little or no effort, did they insist on hanging around? It quickly became clear that they wanted to prove something. Perhaps now that the physical restraints of this world have let them go they can finally be with me. To hell with that.
This is where feeling anger isn't terribly empowering. It feels like a constant fight, a constant attempt on my part to stand my personal moral ground, to insist that they stop wanting forgiveness and acceptance from me. I don't feel like they have given me what I need in return. They haven't taken away my pain, they haven't reversed the feelings of abandonment that have plagued me my whole life, and the resulting feelings of worthlessness and inherent badness that too often reduce me to a mess.
So when I felt my dad last night, so strongly, it hurt because I kind of miss him. He may have been a sporadic presence in my adult life, but we had our moments. We had a handful of really nice moments. If I miss anything about him, the real him, I miss those moments. And while he was asserting himself so strongly last night, it felt as though he was making a case for me to forgive. To forgive both himself and my mom. Talk about pissing me off! I am not ready to forgive her. Or him. They hurt me in ways that I can't begin to describe. I carry around these buttons and triggers that get tripped on all the time, buttons and triggers that they helped me construct, but haven't been around to help me dismantle. So I spent an evening arguing with him in my head. (yes, it may be all in my head, but that is beside the point)
I feel that if I forgive, then I am negating the value of my own feelings, that I am letting go of the right to feel pain, of the right to acknowledge that what they did was wrong. If I forgive, my pain no longer matters. I am not ready to devalue my feelings like that just yet.
This post is entitled anger versus pain. Sometimes they are mutually exclusive, sometimes they are two sides of the same issue. Sometimes anger can empower and reduce or soothe the pain.
Today, at least, they are battling it out inside me.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Consider yourself warned
I've never actually been one to journal in any kind of consistent or regular or honest manner, so blogging has been a bit of a stretch for me. While anyone who knows me will agree that if you want to know something about you me all you have to do is ask, and likely I'll hand over more information that you really wanted, I simply don't assume that the whole world wants to know my business. Nor do I assume that putting down my most personal private thoughts is a safe thing to do in any form, yet I am a memoir-ist. Go figure.
Back to my point.
In a few short weeks the anniversary of Miriam's death will be here. This has begun a sequence of grief related responses in my house. A few weeks later will be the anniversary of my mother's death, then my father's.
Last summer simply sucked.
And dealing with the losses was not easy nor simple. So I did what I could, put my head down, and moved forward. Apparently it is time to look up again, face my surroundings, my feelings, my fears and my grief.
A blog seems as good a place as any to do that.
I am a fairly inconsistent blogger. A handful of wonderful people check it fairly regularly (according to site meter), but there is rarely anything new.
The plan from today forward is: to write what I am feeling, good or bad, about the people that have been lost to me, and to my extended family, and just how much it hurts or how much I need to process, or whatever the hell I need to write.
This is cyberspace and the possibilities for reading my blog are infinite. This is cyberspace, after all, and the probability of many reading this blog is infinitesimal.
So consider yourself warned.
Back to my point.
In a few short weeks the anniversary of Miriam's death will be here. This has begun a sequence of grief related responses in my house. A few weeks later will be the anniversary of my mother's death, then my father's.
Last summer simply sucked.
And dealing with the losses was not easy nor simple. So I did what I could, put my head down, and moved forward. Apparently it is time to look up again, face my surroundings, my feelings, my fears and my grief.
A blog seems as good a place as any to do that.
I am a fairly inconsistent blogger. A handful of wonderful people check it fairly regularly (according to site meter), but there is rarely anything new.
The plan from today forward is: to write what I am feeling, good or bad, about the people that have been lost to me, and to my extended family, and just how much it hurts or how much I need to process, or whatever the hell I need to write.
This is cyberspace and the possibilities for reading my blog are infinite. This is cyberspace, after all, and the probability of many reading this blog is infinitesimal.
So consider yourself warned.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
American Grafitti comes back to town
There is a “Salute to American Grafitti” planned in my hometown next weekend. It is three days of nostalgia. There will be Classic cars, 50s costumes, cruising, music, and more. It is a celebration of the innocence of the post World War II years, before JFK and King and Malcom X and RFK were assassinated. Theirs were deaths that would change the nation for generations. This party will be about the decade before all hell broke loose.
Yes, by all means, let us celebrate a decade of oppression, conformity, and the ever-present, underlying terror of nuclear war. Let’s root for Joe McCarthy’s Communist hysteria, black-listing, and the loss of civil liberties. We should dance with joy in celebration of our country’s first “police action” in Korea, that lovely warm-up to Vietnam and Iraq. Everyone was supposed to fit into neat little boxes. Giving birth was practically a national pastime and mom stayed at home taking good care of those babies as they popped out, and found immense satisfaction in caring for her home, washing dishes, scraping shitty diapers and waiting on her husband hand and foot. Dad was at work; the kids were at school or playing nicely in the front yard on the newly mown grass. The teen girls were readying themselves for matrimony, and hey, if they don’t find one by the time high school was over, college might be a good place to fsnag a man. There was even a box for a rebel, as proven so well by James Dean. More than one at a time meant gangs. Come to think of it, even gangs were conformists; they all wore the same cool clothes.
No one was gay or unhappy and certainly not different. It was just normal to practice bomb drills, and build fallout shelters.
An all out salute to the 1950s lifestyle depicted in the film American Graffiti is really ironic. It is a film that takes place in 1962 and was filmed in 1972, but the style is all 1950s. The need to alter our perception of history is palpable. The need to believe that we once truly lived in a simpler time is understandable. It may have been simpler then, but it certainly wasn’t safer. Not really.
But I suppose that there were good things to remember, even if we have to squint to see them, to make the frame as small a possible to keep the ugliness out of our line of sight. There is joy in most every sorrow; somewhere in there we humans have managed to survive, in part I believe, because we can find enjoyment, laughter and love. And I suppose that as much as anything, the salute to the movie and that time in history is really a salute to the good that did exist.
Isn’t that, after all, what nostalgia is?
Yes, by all means, let us celebrate a decade of oppression, conformity, and the ever-present, underlying terror of nuclear war. Let’s root for Joe McCarthy’s Communist hysteria, black-listing, and the loss of civil liberties. We should dance with joy in celebration of our country’s first “police action” in Korea, that lovely warm-up to Vietnam and Iraq. Everyone was supposed to fit into neat little boxes. Giving birth was practically a national pastime and mom stayed at home taking good care of those babies as they popped out, and found immense satisfaction in caring for her home, washing dishes, scraping shitty diapers and waiting on her husband hand and foot. Dad was at work; the kids were at school or playing nicely in the front yard on the newly mown grass. The teen girls were readying themselves for matrimony, and hey, if they don’t find one by the time high school was over, college might be a good place to fsnag a man. There was even a box for a rebel, as proven so well by James Dean. More than one at a time meant gangs. Come to think of it, even gangs were conformists; they all wore the same cool clothes.
No one was gay or unhappy and certainly not different. It was just normal to practice bomb drills, and build fallout shelters.
An all out salute to the 1950s lifestyle depicted in the film American Graffiti is really ironic. It is a film that takes place in 1962 and was filmed in 1972, but the style is all 1950s. The need to alter our perception of history is palpable. The need to believe that we once truly lived in a simpler time is understandable. It may have been simpler then, but it certainly wasn’t safer. Not really.
But I suppose that there were good things to remember, even if we have to squint to see them, to make the frame as small a possible to keep the ugliness out of our line of sight. There is joy in most every sorrow; somewhere in there we humans have managed to survive, in part I believe, because we can find enjoyment, laughter and love. And I suppose that as much as anything, the salute to the movie and that time in history is really a salute to the good that did exist.
Isn’t that, after all, what nostalgia is?
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Favorites
In the move "High Fidelity," John Cusack's character has running lists of favorites: five most memorable breakups, top ten songs in some category–you get the idea. There are so few things in my life that rank as the number one favorite of anything, that I have often felt left out or discussions or a sense of camaraderie with folks.
I remember trying to pick a favorite color, I must have been 12-years-old. Lots of girls around me chose blue as their favorite color, that choice was made especially easy because we all wore jeans most everyday, and jeans go with just about anything, especially other blue clothing items. This was long before I understood how to listen to my own heart or head about what I really wanted, but I did know that it wasn't a good idea to pick blue just because the majority did.
I chose orange, not because it looked particularly good on me, not because I had tons of stuff that I had collected in my life that were all orange, not because I truly believed it was the prettiest color around. In fact, I think the only reason I chose orange was because I owned a T-shirt with a clever saying on it that happened to be orange. This was long before I understood that some colors work better with my complexion than others. Regardless, it wasn't long before I gave up orange as my favorite. I eventually understood that greens, reds and blacks look best on me. I love the deep green hills of my hometown in the winter, most reds look great with my complexion, and while whites make me look pale, blacks accentuate my positive physical attributes.
For a time my favorite movie was the most recent Star Wars film. Then my favorite was the Rocky Horror Picture Show; the fact that I saw it twice a weekend for more than a year had some influence on that decision.
I have had crushes on famous folks, some lasting longer than others. There was the long term obsession with Bobby Sherman, the occasional actor. Who didn't like Sylvester Stallone right after Rocky, or Mark Hamill in 1977? Although and as I matured I preferred Harrison Ford. But no one person or place or movie or color or food has managed to find a way into my regular thoughts and stay there for any length of time.
This is an advantage on occasion: I gave birth to 2 children, they are both my favorite.
There is the occasional exception: I am married to my favorite husband. I live in my favorite house.
I love a good steak, and the minestrone soup at Negri's in Occidental. I thoroughly enjoy my extended family and most of my kids' friends. But no real favorites.
My daughter once asked me when I was the happiest. My reply was right now, right this moment. I am happier now than I have ever been. Each day is better than the last. I suppose that means that my life right now is my favorite. That is a distinction that I can live with.
I remember trying to pick a favorite color, I must have been 12-years-old. Lots of girls around me chose blue as their favorite color, that choice was made especially easy because we all wore jeans most everyday, and jeans go with just about anything, especially other blue clothing items. This was long before I understood how to listen to my own heart or head about what I really wanted, but I did know that it wasn't a good idea to pick blue just because the majority did.
I chose orange, not because it looked particularly good on me, not because I had tons of stuff that I had collected in my life that were all orange, not because I truly believed it was the prettiest color around. In fact, I think the only reason I chose orange was because I owned a T-shirt with a clever saying on it that happened to be orange. This was long before I understood that some colors work better with my complexion than others. Regardless, it wasn't long before I gave up orange as my favorite. I eventually understood that greens, reds and blacks look best on me. I love the deep green hills of my hometown in the winter, most reds look great with my complexion, and while whites make me look pale, blacks accentuate my positive physical attributes.
For a time my favorite movie was the most recent Star Wars film. Then my favorite was the Rocky Horror Picture Show; the fact that I saw it twice a weekend for more than a year had some influence on that decision.
I have had crushes on famous folks, some lasting longer than others. There was the long term obsession with Bobby Sherman, the occasional actor. Who didn't like Sylvester Stallone right after Rocky, or Mark Hamill in 1977? Although and as I matured I preferred Harrison Ford. But no one person or place or movie or color or food has managed to find a way into my regular thoughts and stay there for any length of time.
This is an advantage on occasion: I gave birth to 2 children, they are both my favorite.
There is the occasional exception: I am married to my favorite husband. I live in my favorite house.
I love a good steak, and the minestrone soup at Negri's in Occidental. I thoroughly enjoy my extended family and most of my kids' friends. But no real favorites.
My daughter once asked me when I was the happiest. My reply was right now, right this moment. I am happier now than I have ever been. Each day is better than the last. I suppose that means that my life right now is my favorite. That is a distinction that I can live with.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
This Guy Walks Into a Bar …
I once had a friend who called me everyday at work and began the conversation with the opening line of a joke. The joke was always the same, "This guy walks into a bar…" He never got passed the opening line, however, because I would start to giggle, which made him laugh, and we went from there. I never heard the entire joke, he had begun it once while sitting in a movie theater during the movie Re-Animator as a way of helping me cope with the disgusting and highly stressful moments at the climax of the movie.
Yes, I was younger; back in those days most things that made me laugh were some version of an inside joke, a shared experience. You know, those moments where something quite ordinary is funny as hell, and you can recreate the humor of the moment with a friend, even if you can't recreate the story for someone else, they to be there.
The laughter that is the byproduct of inside jokes, shared experiences and all things silly is what keeps us alive. If we have no other fun at all at high school reunions, we enjoy rehashing four years of the teacher who sat in the back of the classroom in the dark sipping from his flask while the history students watched yet another boring and historically accurate movie. Or the day at lunch when my best friend and I "shared" orange drink for a makeshift marriage ceremony as a response to reading Henlein's Stranger in a Strange Land. This was not the same lunch period when the above mentioned orange drink came out my nose, the direct result of a clever quip made by the boy I had a crush on. Many times a laughing jag was sparked by a burrito that I couldn't get into my mouth passed the rubber brands on my braces.
Lately the folks I share laughing experiences with include my own kids. They are making their way into young adulthood, and the hubby and myself are blessed that they are including us in their journey.
For her 17th birthday party, our darling daughter requested a dinner party–a complete sit down at the diningroom table with plates and silverware and beverages kind of dinner party. AND Mom and Dad were invited.
The guests began to arrive around 6pm, we served dinner shortly thereafter and proceeded to laugh ourselves silly for the next four hours. Solid. The one liners were zinging across the table ("That's what she said!") along with stories, banter, laughter, presents, cakes and condoms. Yes, condoms. The girls were putting them on their heads and blowing them up. Those things really do "swell" to quite a size before popping. Knowing that actually makes me feel a bit more secure about the statistics of failure. So does the fact that the kids are so comfortable with condoms before putting them to the intended use, that they can play with them without embarrassment or the need for disgusting or overly graphic jokes. Yes, I have pictures. No, I'm not posting them here. The pictures don't do the evening justice. You had to be there.
Yes, I was younger; back in those days most things that made me laugh were some version of an inside joke, a shared experience. You know, those moments where something quite ordinary is funny as hell, and you can recreate the humor of the moment with a friend, even if you can't recreate the story for someone else, they to be there.
The laughter that is the byproduct of inside jokes, shared experiences and all things silly is what keeps us alive. If we have no other fun at all at high school reunions, we enjoy rehashing four years of the teacher who sat in the back of the classroom in the dark sipping from his flask while the history students watched yet another boring and historically accurate movie. Or the day at lunch when my best friend and I "shared" orange drink for a makeshift marriage ceremony as a response to reading Henlein's Stranger in a Strange Land. This was not the same lunch period when the above mentioned orange drink came out my nose, the direct result of a clever quip made by the boy I had a crush on. Many times a laughing jag was sparked by a burrito that I couldn't get into my mouth passed the rubber brands on my braces.
Lately the folks I share laughing experiences with include my own kids. They are making their way into young adulthood, and the hubby and myself are blessed that they are including us in their journey.
For her 17th birthday party, our darling daughter requested a dinner party–a complete sit down at the diningroom table with plates and silverware and beverages kind of dinner party. AND Mom and Dad were invited.
The guests began to arrive around 6pm, we served dinner shortly thereafter and proceeded to laugh ourselves silly for the next four hours. Solid. The one liners were zinging across the table ("That's what she said!") along with stories, banter, laughter, presents, cakes and condoms. Yes, condoms. The girls were putting them on their heads and blowing them up. Those things really do "swell" to quite a size before popping. Knowing that actually makes me feel a bit more secure about the statistics of failure. So does the fact that the kids are so comfortable with condoms before putting them to the intended use, that they can play with them without embarrassment or the need for disgusting or overly graphic jokes. Yes, I have pictures. No, I'm not posting them here. The pictures don't do the evening justice. You had to be there.
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