It's About Time

We homeschooled, my boys and I, through some of the primary school years. The reasons were varied.  I wanted to spend time with my children, to ensure that their individual needs were being met, and to have some control over the information and ideas they were exposed to at such an impressionable age.  But the biggest reason was I wanted freedom. Being told what to do and when to do it was oppressive to me; an affront to living our lives.  The intent was to be in sync with our natural rhythms and impulses.  Not to avoid doing work, but to do it when we were in the best state to be successful.  Just like when I would try to get up and exercise at 5:30am I couldn’t do as many repetitions with the weights as I could a few hours later.  Sometimes math is easy, and sometimes it looks like arbitrary unintelligible symbols.  At times ideas would flow for stories or art projects, other times the conditions were better for an excursion in the garden. Wearing pajamas we snuggled up on my bed with history books, retaining the information as if it were the plots of our favorite bedtime stories.

Five years ago with a divorce impending, I had to send my children to school and I accepted a job in a call center.  A position that required that every minute of my shift to be planned and accounted for, down to the time you can get up to go to the bathroom.  It was a difficult transition for all of us.  But I needed a job, newly single and a recession starting. Not long after, I was promoted to the person in charge of the schedules.  The person who hates being told what to do and when to do it, now creates the schedules for over a hundred people and monitors the results in real time.

The upside is I've learned the value of a schedule; learned that most of the world runs better if there are people where they are supposed to be and engaged in the tasks that are expected of them.  But these times still need to be bookended in freedom.  Openended time where we are living in the moment and following the path that we are drawn to. Playing, exploring new interests and talents.  I'm looking forward to the day when I'm completely in control of my schedule again.  Making the most of my time as I see fit.

Rushing

With an invisible guitar on my lap, I tried to move the fingers of my left hand as quickly as possible. It was only a minute before I felt my muscles start to cramp and fatigue.  Then I looked at down at the stage where Alex Lifeson of Rush, at age 59 had been moving his hands even faster...for almost 3 hours. Not only were his fingers moving ridiculously fast, but they were also landing exactly where they needed to be. And although he is capable of that, perhaps the most interesting part of his playing is that he can also use restraint and pauses. Musical negative space. Behind him was his band mate Neil Peart, nesting in metallic ring of percussion instruments. Neil didn't appear to be playing the instruments; rather he was a part of them. There was something in his eyes that made it look like he was in an alternate reality, experiencing the music in a private way disassociated from the thousands of people watching. Conversely, Geddy Lee was ever-present. Big smiles, peering out over tinted oval glasses, connecting with the crowd.  Moving all around the stage and hitting impossibly high notes.   

There is nothing like watching mastery—in anything really. I had a similar feeling a few weeks ago while at an air show. The Thunderbirds were performing. In machines whose very existence is a tremendous human accomplishment, the pilots push the limits even farther. In close formation, rushing at top speed, the six F-16s move as one. Their lives depend on it. Some people had earplugs in, but to me the sound of the jets added to the experience.  The noise and the vibrations reverberated through our bodies as the Thunderbirds made their passes, reinforcing the power that these pilots were harnessing. Creating beauty in this great feat of strength, endurance and timing.

More In Tune

“So I keep waiting for a glowing review of my waiting room,” said my son’s guitar teacher referring to the relatively dismal description of the old waiting room from the post In Tune.  (However I will take this opportunity to admit that I don’t believe that post adequately conveyed the fact that I think that a bleak waiting room actually is appropriate for the whole starving-artist-being-true-to-their-vision vibe.  So I may have mistakenly given the impression that I didn’t like it there.  I did.)  He was kidding, since it’s not so much a waiting room as a cozy corner of his studio.  I think of a waiting room as a place where you are just trying to find ways to pass the time while you…wait.  Whether it is the dentist office, the DMV, a courthouse--they usually all have bad art, a funky smell, magazines you would never subscribe to and stale air.  But the truth is instead of a place where you are waiting for time to pass, the waiting area for my son’s guitar lessons is now a place where I can sit and enjoy just being.  On the coffee table are magazines that I have spent my hard-earned money on, yet I don’t need to look at them since there is so much else to take in.  If I could ask a genie for one wish it would be to add 4 more hours to each day, I dole out my time jealously, yet I don’t consider the 30 minutes in this studio a waste of my time. 

A one room Cedar-shingled structure that fits right in with the rocky Maine landscape it sits on. Comfy furniture that isn’t fussy enough to have to worry about, an impressive array of guitars and audio equipment, windows letting in natural light, and photographs letting in memories.  And of course a fridge.  I liked this teacher when we were taking lessons at the other location, but I like him more now.  It makes sense.  When you see a Great Horned Owl soar over you through the trees or a seal poke his head out of the water in the surf, it is significantly more spectacular than seeing the same creatures in a zoo.  No matter how carefully the zoo was designed to mimic their homes.  Natural habitats give our true essence the space to come out and play.  To let people see what makes us feel happy and in tune with the life force.

Who Knows?

It was a disgusting feeling, something wet and slippery giving way under my foot as I was assessing potential damage to my garden.  From an upstairs window I had seen a mother turkey and her babies pecking at the ground around the sunflowers.  I ran downstairs to shoo them away into the nearby woods but when I got there I saw the mother retreating into the tree line.  But she wasn't happy.  She was making a racket and looking at me.  It was actually quite frighting.  I'm not comfortable with any beings that can't be reasoned with.  Which is why I prefer leading the teenagers in church and not the first graders.  Anyway, the wild turkey made me uneasy but I was fairly certain she wasn't willing to come back out into the open so I turned to see how much they had eaten.  That was when I made the very disturbing realization that the babies had not followed her and the wetness under my foot was one of them.  The others were balled up every few inches playing dead it seemed while its sibling didn't have to.  It appeared to be badly injured.

At first I was mad at the mother for leaving them in harm's way.  Then I was mad at myself for not seeing them.  I tried to see if there was anything I could do for the baby turkey as it raised its head and looked at me and then laid it back down.  Although horrible is was also an intimate moment.  This wild animal and I who normally would never look eye to eye in such close proximity.  I felt connected to him.  And I felt bad but not as traumatized as I would have been a few years ago.  Not from a lack of compassion toward animals.  In fact I haven't eaten a turkey or any other animal for about 14 years.   Do I think things happen for a reason?  I almost just wrote that I do.  But something stopped me.  I think that was what I thought.

Instead of things happening for a reason, I think they can be whatever reason we make from the lesson.  It makes me feel better to think that turkey was destined to meet this end, maybe to become someone's Power Animal.  Who knows.  There is a story that I don't know the origins of and too many people have blogged about it as it is but the repeating lines that a farmer states after good things and bad things happen is:  "Good luck, bad luck.  Who knows?"  Good things can happen for bad reasons, bad things can happen for good reasons.  We don't know if it is good or bad luck until it all plays out.  The best we can do is remain true to ourselves regardless of the good or bad events.  Or as George Carlin stated when speaking of something from his refrigerator:  "Maybe meat, maybe cake."  Who knows?  I wouldn't eat it either way.

First and Last Impressions

When trying to draw the contours of an object is it natural to make some mistakes--drawing things as you remember it to be rather than how it is.  To not take the time understand how the parts relate to each other in space.  It takes time and attention to observe the reality of the object.  Time and attention is hard to come by.  And when drawing or paiting it is very difficult to capture the life behind the lines; the energy inside of the contours.  The Impressionists tried to get around this by not worrying about details but capturing the tone or mood of the subject.

My friend Marjorie would have been a great subject for an impressionistic painting--she was colorful, frenetic and intelligent.  Marjorie recently suffered a massive stroke and was left unresponsive and I was glad that I was able to make it to her bedside in hospice to say goodbye.  It was after normal visiting hours and the halls were quiet and empty.  I was led into a room where a woman slept, at least I think she was sleeping.  Approaching the bed I really thought that it may be the wrong room.  This person did not resemble my friend at all.  I looked around the room for any evidence one way or the other, but there weren't any personal objects in the room.  Then off to the side I saw a little table with name tags on it from all of the organizations that Marjorie volunteered for.

Her hand was frail under mind, but I gently held it and closed my eyes.  In my mind her true nature came to visit.  A big, mischievous smile outlined in bright red lipstick greeted me.  Eyes sparkling under blue shadow; tilting her head back to peer at me through the glasses slipping down her nose.  Proud stance adorned with not quite matching patterned top and flowing skirt.  Cloth bags over her shoulders and a travel coffee mug held in her hand sloshed a little as she waved it around in animated conversation. 

Truthfully, she rarely stopped talking.  Once in a car ride she was quiet for two whole minutes.  She had just dozed off but woke with a jolt when I  panicked and yelled her name.  "You thought I was dead, didn't you!" she accused me.  And yes I had, so I responded "Well yes-- you've never stopped talking for that long before!"  Although her chatter was incessant, it was also intelligent, insightful and observant.  But unlike other people that talk non-stop she managed to listen and retain information as well.  Just when you thought she was completely self-absorbed she would pull out an obscure fact of information about you and sincerely ask about it.

In that quiet hospice room while I was having a moment with her in my mind, our breath fell into sync with each other.  It felt like I was breathing for her, willing her to be comfortable.  I opened my  eyes and thought that maybe I could see a little of her personality in the contours of her face after all.  I won't risk trying to draw a picture of her now that she has passed on and not around for me to double check the accuracy of the lines, but I can always close my eyes and remember the bold and beautiful impression of her spirit.

Power Tools and Pencil Marks

You may be wondering if I’d fallen off of the face of the Earth.  If you were to ask my children they would say we have and landed in the middle of the Boonies.  In reality it is an artsy thriving college town of about 20,000, filled with great restaurants and only 30 minutes from a good-sized city.  I'll let them have their gripes during the transition period if they aren't actively wallowing in self-pity.  In almost all categories, this move was a step up in our standard of living. That is not to say that there weren’t a few pangs of nostalgia even on my part. 

On the day of my final move-out inspection I returned to our "old" apartment for a few items I had left behind and to check that the cleaning person had done a sufficient job.  Regardless of all of the things that I did not like about living in that smallish apartment, I can't deny that my boys and I had grown a lot in those four years.  As for me, I learned how to really be independent.  At age 40, I worked through (although did not eradicate) my fear of the dark and my aversion to sleeping alone.  I learned how to ballroom dance, studied Shamanism and began to write again.  As I walked through the apartment, I saw the plethora of holes in the walls from my fledgling attempts at drilling screws into drywall to hang art, mirrors and drapes.  I remembered feeling empowered the day that I bought my drill and other tools.  As for the boys, two of them turned into young men, and their younger brother is no longer a little boy.

Their emotional strides are recorded in my memory.  Unfortunately, my memory records things much like an old LP complete with scratchy white noise and the occasional scratch that skips part of the track.  But enough remains for me to enjoy and to recount back to them when the time comes. Their physical growth was marked in pencil in the doorway to the kitchen.  Little lines with initials and dates.  The latest marks showing my oldest at 6 foot 3 and the youngest passing the height his other brother was 4 years ago.  Whenever they were called over for a height check they would exhibit the best posture ever--seemingly gaining inches in an instant, wanting the number to be an high as possible.  Straining to grow.  It was sad to walk away from that doorway.  I thought about taking a photograph of the writing, but I knew that it would not be the same.  The pencil marks hold little value without perspective of height from the ugly linoleum floor, without the fingerprinted refrigerator covered in magnets, without the sound of growing boys asking "What can I eat?" 

Scratch Where it Itches

Making scratch drawings is easy.  I did it often as a kid.  First you take crayons and using many different colors you entirely cover a piece of paper.  I normally swirled the colors but you could do blocks as well.  Then you cover the crayon with a layer of black tempura paint.  When it dries, you make an image by scratching through the black revealing some of the colors below.  Simple process but beautiful and interesting results.  It occurred to me during a retreat this weekend, that is what our lives are like.  We start in heaven or whatever your personal idea of the "beforelife" is.  When in this place outside of time our soul essences are gorgeous swirling masses of color.  We are then covered in darkness.  We forget everything.  On the surface we appear to be a blank slate.  Then the itches begin and we scratch them.

We itch to learn, and when we scratch that itch we reveal a part of ourselves.  We itch to love, we itch travel, and we itch to grow.  More of the blank blackness is scratched away and our true form is revealed.  You may be tired of reading the word "itch" and trust me--no one wants to forget about itching more than I do since I'm currently covered in red itchy welts.  Courtesy of Maine woods black flies.  As uncomfortable as I am, I'm not really complaining because I was biten for a good cause.  I was in a ceremony designed to be a challenge and was expected to keep on task.  Everyone in my group had a different experience because everyone needs different challenges for their own personal growth.  The spirits of the universe apparently thought that assaulting me with black flies was just the distraction I needed.  It was hard ignoring them and moving past the uncomfortableness, but in the end I felt that I had passed a test--even if no one but myself was grading my performance.  Sitting here scratching at my bites, I can see the image of the person I'm striving to be start to take form. 

The Power in Mystery

It was a difficult time in my life and I needed distractions so even though he was taken, the younger guy at work was fun to look at.  It was also fun to walk by his office and wonder what his odd object was.  There was a bowl filled with water sitting on a small desk in the center of the room.  And it wasn't empty.  But what the heck was that thing.  Every day for weeks, maybe even a few months, whenvever I was on break I would peek in his office to try to figure out what it was.  One day my curiousity got the best of me and besides I thought it would be an easy way to meet the cute guy.  So this time I didn't walk by, I stopped and asked him what the thing was in the bowl of water.  The answer was  anti-climatic...it was a "Grow-a-Nerd."  A little plastic nerd toy had been the object of my intense curiousity.  It was dissapointing that it didn't turn out to be something more worthy of my interest, but the worst part of all was the loss of the mystery.  I realized that even though I did want an excuse to talk to the guy, the mystery of the random bowl was the true distraction.

Sometimes when I notice something remarkable in nature, or see a constellation that I wish I knew the story behind, I can just get on my iPhone and look up the details.  Which is really cool--I don't take that access to information for granted.  But I also think about primitive people and wonder what they thought of when looking at the same wonders that I do, and they didn't have Google to fill in the details for them.  How it is natural to see how the early people thought that Gods and Goddesses walked amoung them, creating these miracles.  They still had the mystery.  So while we've gained knowlege we've lost a corresponding amount of wonder. It may be wishful thinking but truth be told I still believe we share this world with "mythological" beings.

Memory Lane

There is a public street on my way to karate that says "Memory Lane."  There is another sign on top of it that says "Dead End:."  It's great when civil engineers have a sense of humor.  But were they correct?  Is a trip down Memory Lane always a dead end?  I wouldn't recommend driving down there in a car that is likely to break down, but an occasional short walk on foot can be good for the soul. Not only safer, when you are on foot you are likely to notice the details.  Perhaps there will be some clues as to how you ended up where you are.  As random as life can seem, just looking back can show you that the path was clear.  There may have been a few dead end lanes along the way, but even they can contain charming little cul-de-sacs.  A safe place to ride your bike and play Four Square. 

In the Works

It is almost never truly quiet.  Stop and listen and you'll hear a low buzz of electricity running through the lights, hum of distant traffic, dripping faucets, voices, or dogs barking.  The fan of this computer is making noise and now that I'm paying attention it will distract and annoy me.  Soon I'll forget about it and the sound will recede and join with the other sounds to be part of the background noise.  Until my attention is drawn back again.  That is how it works.

My father died when I was four, and he was 29.  Then Death itself became a Presence that took the place of my father's life.  It was always in the room making noise.  It was cracking its knuckles, breathing heavy, chewing with its mouth open, growling low and menacingly.  A nuisance at times--really who wants to be reminded of our mortality? And terrifying at others--I knew I was one parent away from being an orphan.  I could tune it out sometimes and even forget It was there.  But Death never really leaves and every once in a while my attention is drawn to it again.  That is how it works.   

Il Faut Cultiver Notre Jardin

I've been waiting since January to write about gardening.  I like to keep things topical and in sync with the wheel of the year, so I've patiently held off.  Now that it is late spring, gardening is an appropriate subject but I find myself hesitating.  While I clearly have an affection for metaphor, gardening metaphors are a bit tired and cliche.  For that matter,  complaining about things being cliche is cliche as well but so be it.  I'm tired, it's true. But I prefer to avoid being predictable and unoriginal.  The fertile soil of ideas once abundant in garden metaphors depleted of its nutrients by years of harvesting the same crop without rotating locations.  Sorry--couldn't help myself.  From this point on I'll write about my weekend digging in the dirt without drawing parallels to life.  Probably wouldn't need to anyway.

There are two straightish rows, perhaps 20 feet long by 1 foot wide each cut out of the lawn in the back yard.  These were left by the previous owner, a retired woman who by the state of the landscaping clearly had a lot of time on her hands.  With work, kids, and the host of other commitments I have I couldn't dream of keeping all of the land and gardens up to her standards but the vegetable garden calls to me, so for that one I make more of an effort.  It is impossible to know exactly what was there before save for a few plastic markers found buried in the dirt.  This makes things a little tricky since some plants don't like to set up shop when certain other vegetables have been.    Being close to the water the soil has it's problems to begin with.  Dry and sandy in some areas, sticky and clay-filled in others.  I did okay getting a few things to grow in my first attempt last year, and I want to build on it and improve.

The first order of business was to create a border around the plots and fill it with pine bark mulch to keep the weeds and grass at bay.  With a first spritz of insect repellant for the season, I dug right in.  I needed to pounce on the shovel like a pogo stick with all of my weight for leverage to cut through the tough layer of grass roots.  A shovel of course does not act like a pogo stick--it goes down but not back up again.  I had the hang of it but then got distracted by the call of "Nice butt!" from the distance and my feel got tangled up and I fell back.  Right onto the apparently nice butt.  Now a bit sore.  I was carefull to go through all of the sod I dug up to return the loose dirt and worms to the ground.  I even uncovered a few toads which left me wondering what kind of omen a toad portends--particularly one with only half of a face.

I began to feel thirsty and a little hungry and started thinking about lunch.  It turns out that we had worked well past lunch into the afternoon.  I had been digging in the dirt for 4 hours with rarely a word spoken.  I tried to think about how I had managed to pass the time since it wasn't the most exciting work, and relized I couldn't think of any thoughts that had passed through my mind with the exception of the worms.  My mind never shuts off, so while I was physically exhausted it was definitely the mental break I needed.  If we don't take care of ourselves who will?  So to end with a cliched quote from Voltaire's Candide, (but it's written in French which makes it cooler) "Il faut Cultiver Notre Jardin."

(Translation:  You must tend to your own garden.)

Arrangements

Although I would never turn my nose up at any bouquet, my favorite is when they are all the same flower.  I don't buy them very often since they don't last as long as some other flowers; but I particularly love when a dozen Gerber Daisies are arranged in a tall clear vase.   The graceful, bright green stems working hard to hold up the cheerful blossoms.  The petals radiating out like sunbeams from the center.  I don't mind if the blossoms are different colors but keeping the flowers the same variety has impact.  The personality of the flower shines through.  Arrangements with a variety of flowers can be very beautiful but the essence of the individuals is harder to perceive with the distractions of the others.

A half a dozen middle-schoolers, my middle son included, participated in a Coming of Age program that culminated with a Unitarian Universalist church service this weekend.  At the service the six young people were to read a credo statement that they had prepared to share with the congregation about what their personal belief system looks like.  In a world that normally tells youth what to believe, this small group had the challenge and privilege of declaring their very own ideas of life, the afterlife, music, dance, God, equality and family.  All six of them had uniqueness but taken together they created a united feeling of spirituality, strength and optimism.  Their limbs perhaps a little shaky under the weight of this task, they all rose to the occasion and inspired everyone who was paying attention.   Like an arrangement of Gerber daisies.

A quote from my son's credo statement:

"If you don’t enjoy what you’re doing then you’re doing something wrong. You should enjoy life and maybe not stay on the path the whole time, because sometimes you need to find your own way." 

Heart and Home

The town I live in does not have a heart.  There are many beautiful spots--sandy beaches with great waves, salt marshes teeming with life, suburban neighborhoods with kids playing outside.  The people are pretty friendly; no complaints there.  But there isn't a heart.  With no central place to gather and no distinct personality there isn't a soul. Without a beating heart there is nowhere for the soul to reside.  So we are moving.  Not yet a universally popular decision in my household, but I'm confident that they'll eventually be happy in their new home.

I've never grown roots here--neither physically nor metaphorically.  Despite their reluctance to leave, I've never gotten the impression that the boys did either.  Feeling at home in a place is a personal thing, impossible to say what draws us in more than another location.  We are moving to a place where I run into friends walking down the street, where people make and sell art, and where there are many good restaurants.  The food alone would be good enough reason for me.  And I've already grown roots there.  Spent many hours digging in the dirt.  Became blood sisters with the wood sprites, my limbs getting scratched on pine tree branches and blackberry prickers.



 

Individually

A 13-year-old that I know aptly summed up the middle school years with the following statement:  "I'm embarrassed by everything."  Then with a sheepish look before a quick exit added,  "I'm even embarrassed about being embarrassed." Perpetual embarrassment is an adolescent fact of life.  And the best strategy that the youth have come up with to minimize their exposure to embarrassment is to try to be exactly like everyone else.  Same hair, same clothes, same video games, even the same items for lunch.

The unfortunate outcome of trying to be just like everyone else, is that they become just like everyone else.  Camouflaging flaws but also hiding the interesting bits as well.  Our individuality is a gift.  We were created in all shapes and colors, with different talents and passions.  It is painful to witness the intentional homogenization.  Particularly when these kids give up the activities that they truly enjoy in order to fit in.  But kids aren't the only ones to change because of others.  It is a familiar story, when you get into a relationship you want to spend as much time as possible with that person.  Friends and even hobbies are competition for time, and in order to deepen the relationship the friends and hobbies get cut out.  Ironically, the couple looses some of the qualities that drew them together to begin with.

I did this as well.   Before meeting Scott I was dancing a few times a week, latin, ballroom, freestyle...dancing of almost every kind is my favorite thing to do.  But my boyfriend did not dance, so neither did I.  There were times that every cell in my body wanted to be out moving to music.  Without this outlet I was less "me" less of what defined me as a person.  I have other interests so it was not like I was reduced to nothing but it still nagged at me.  And then I started taking a Zumba class at work.  It was like getting a big part of myself back, and I think that is what a relationship really needs.  Not someone who can spend every minute with you, but someone who nurtures their own interests whether or not you are both engaged in them.  

Mermaid Tales

Interesting things can be heard from the front seat of a car, especially if the occupants in the back don't know you are eavesdropping.  Like this weekend's debate over what would be better...a mermaid tail or wings.  This particular conversation was between a seven-year-old girl and her nine-year-old sister, and for the record the youngest would want to be a mermaid.  Personally, I'd pick wings although I didn't hear if there were restrictions on what type of wing.  I don't think my choice would change anyway since I'm terrified of deep water and what would the point of a mermaid tail be if you didn't dive deep and explore the mysteries of the sea.  Mermaids do tend to have a gorgeous head of hair though, and I can't remember it ever looking wet.  Without legs, I would miss dancing.

Winged creatures can still dance.  We watched a couple of crazy crows bust a move out on a tree limb just the other day.  I have a fear of heights that even surpasses my fear of deep water, but the thought of having wings feels like it would eradicate that phobia.  I would love to have graceful hawk wings with a long wingspan, climbing up and soaring down, making large circles in the air.  Gliding with the air currents.  Having a bird's eye view makes the big picture is obvious, and I like to know the big picture.   With hawk wings nothing is hidden.  Perhaps it would be best to have butterfly wings, lithe and bouncy.  It would be like wearing moving works of art.  But I don't think they would suit me; I think I might prefer dragonfly wings.  Those can go in any direction and up close they look like stained glass windows, reflecting light.    

Clearly this question captured my imagination.  As children's conversations often do, even though to them it is as normal as reflecting on what they want to eat for dinner.  It has occurred to me that the reverse it true as well.  What interesting, horrifying or amusing stories are the people in the back seat gleaning from our conversations up front?  With earbuds firmly inserted in teen ears it is possible that their music isn't as loud as we may assume, or even turned off altogether.  Are they picking up facts and opinions that normally would be reserved for older conversations?  And if it inspires them to think in new ways, is there anything wrong with that?

On the Rocks

There's a place on the ocean that we go to that is stunning, even by coast-of-Maine standards.  I actually already wrote a blog post about it called "Building Cairns" which somehow was erased and I was unable to retrieve it or recreate it.  A shame because I was happy with it, but I suppose it was not meant to be.  I've tried to rewrite it several times over the past month.  Like a love letter that never gets sent because the wording isn't adequate for the emotions, line by line these attempts have been deleted.

Although it is only a short car drive from our house, it is like stepping into another world--the real world.  The world where our mundane issues don't matter at all.  The world as it was created, with nothing man made to interfere in the experience.  I almost wrote "with nothing man made to spoil it" but that didn't feel right.  There are many man made things that are beautiful and improve our quality of life but sometimes we need to strip it all away so that we can connect directly with nature and the energy that runs through it.  It is a place that at once makes you feel vulnerable and empowered.

It is necessary to walk with care.  The rocky terrain varies.  Some of the rocks with their variegated layers look more like petrified wood than stone, with grain-like patterns.  The jagged surfaces of these rocks are difficult to walk on and they can crumble beneath your weight.  Other rocks look like giant dragon eggs, smooth and glimmering silver, the flecks mirroring the shimmering ocean just beyond.  Through all of these are columns and slices of quartz pushing its way up.  In the midst of these heavy rocks and boulders are smaller stones and pebbles.  It is with these that people come and build cairns.

Cairns are towers made by stacking stones and are historically used to mark trails; help people stay on their path.  They can also be made purely for artistic expression.  Or just because. Sometimes I use it as a meditation. As I chose the stones for the base I think of ways that I'm building a foundation in my own life.  I prefer to build mine up high and out of the way.  From a vantage point of seeing the cairns in the chasm below.  My youngest son, who is often jockeying for attention, situates himself in the middle, and tries to build the largest structure he can.  An older one created a row of houses along the wall.  A sort of horizontal cairn, and made me wonder if our impending move was coming out in his creation.  One of the girls searched for signs of life in the little pools of water, while another did what I'm inclined to do--spread out and absorb the heat from the rocks.  No matter what mood any one arrived in it is drastically improved before it is time to leave.

The purpose of cairns is to be relatively permanent so that adventures can make their way without getting lost.  But in this spot the waves can knock down some of these markers.  My path is not yet clear in my mind.  I need to come across the right cairn to lead the way.

May Day

Today is May 1st.  May Day.  It is also the date that I was engaged, married and served with divorce papers.  This used to be a date that I celebrated, and then a date that I avoided thinking about.  Now it is pretty much just another number in the calendar.  Back when things were still pretty good I thought it was ironic to get married on May Day, which in addition to being an ancient pagan holiday of fertility often manifesting in promiscuity, it is also a distress call for vessels in peril at sea.

When I was newly divorced it felt a bit like being stranded at sea on a raft with my sons, not sure what direction to paddle in, all the while yachts filled with "complete" families sailed by with a sense of purpose and belonging.  The worst was a day at Hershey Park, where it seemed like we were the only people there without both parents.  The only ones not experiencing the park the way that it was intended, as a family adventure.  I still felt like their mother but I didn't feel that we were "a family." As we've all grown in the past few years my sons and I have seemed to have filled that hole with new experiences, inside jokes and trust.  I think I could confidently take them to a theme park at this time and not feel like they've been cheated of a family experience.  However  I won't get on the Tower of Terror with them.

I've been thinking about relationships a lot lately; particularly what constitutes a family.  I think in reality the boundaries are a lot looser than the definition of family used to determine insurance benefits.  I've been in a relationship for 3 years and while I usually refer to Scott as "my boyfriend" it does not seem to fit.  Neither does "partner" or the "person I'm dating" because we are more than that.  We don't live together but it still feels like we are sharing our lives together.  So what is that called, and why do I care?

My grandfather died a few years ago within the same week of another woman that I had known only for a weekend.  I took the news of Granddad's death matter-a-factly,  whereas I weeped for Lois.  Not that I didn't care about my grandfather, he was a smily, gregarious man who loved to dance and drink Manhattans.  He dated a handful of women all with the same name, Gertrude I think, and repeated everything.  He'd say the same sentence over and over, only changing a word or two and switching which syllable he stressed.  He wore novelty ties and sock suspenders.  Quite a character that man was.  But he didn't touch my heart, and Lois in a few short days at a women's retreat did.  And many other people have touched it as well, making it feel like I have a very large family indeed. There is no need to call mayday.

Play Acting

"We are not our stories" one of my teachers reminded me recently.  It is a lesson that I can't seem to commit to memory, much like the 9 times tables or how to conjugate irregular French verbs.  Troubles and triumphs play out during life on Earth in these sometimes awkward, limited bodies.  They are our stories, but they aren't who we are, no matter how far the drama sucks us in.  The stories that we choose to engage in are theatrical plays and we are the actors.  We choose the roles because they speak to us, entertain and inform us, or they just happen to be the only paying gig in town at the moment.  But behind the curtain we are mentally taking notes.  What works in this scene and what doesn't?  How should I do it differently the next time?  

When I'm into a book or television series I get so absorbed in that world that when I emerge from my room and speak to someone it comes out in the cadence of the characters. Garbled Gaelic when reading the Outlander books, medieval rhyming with the Mists of Avalon, using the annoying fake curse "frak" from Battlestar Galactica.  Unintentionally, thankfully temporarily, putting on a new persona.  These moments of slipping into someone else are no more who I am than the person I am when I rant about a work annoyance, or worry about every little hurt my kids while encounter.  We may feel like the sum of our stories, what we do, say and think is who we are.  Sometimes these stories feel so important to us that we feel compelled to share them, spend hours word-smithing the text to make the story seem as interesting and relevant as possible.  

Up a Tree

With long thin but deceptively strong limbs my youngest son is a natural climber.  A monkey even.  The rest of us aren't as comfortable up in the trees.  My three sons and I had the opportunity to piggyback onto a high ropes course challenge that a bunch of girl scouts were doing.  I was pretty impressed that these girls aged 10 to 16 would face this climbing challenge and zip line ride--I certainly wouldn't have as a young girl.  I didn't even really want to do it as a grown woman, but sometimes you should do things just because you don't want to do it.  I'm not sure why my two eldest agreed to do it, I'm making a mental note to ask them tomorrow.  I do know at least one of them does not feel the need to do that ever again.  Fair enough.

I wouldn't say that this was about "conquering" a fear of heights for me because I did a high ropes course a few years ago, and I faced that fear then.  I wouldn't say it was conquered though.  Approached, perhaps.  I wanted to do it again to be able to acknowledge and actively neutralize the fear. Feel the fear and be able to act anyway.  Climbing the first tree by grasping U-shaped spikes I was temporarily paralysed by doubt that I could continue.  The pegs seemed so far apart, I couldn't imagine how my children had managed.  This was not as easy as I thought it would be so with a burst of will, I resigned myself to pushing through.  This required many deep breaths.  After making my way across a tightrope which seemed to last an eternity but the video proved it was only about 2 minutes, I was at the perch ready to take off through the sunlight dappled Sycamore trees on the zip line.  In the past letting go was the terrifying part.  Trusting.  But not this time.  I felt like an owl soaring through her territory, at home and free.

Inked

We are spending the weekend in a house that looks like the "after" shot in a HGTV show.  Very nice, and the food is straight from the cooking channel as well.  My sons are a little older so I don't hover quite so much in fear that they will leave a trail of dirt, blood and food; and they do need to learn to be responsible for themselves at somepoint.  While I was a little upset when I saw the fist print of marinara sauce on the cushion of the dining room chair, I didn't feel as personally at fault as I normally would.  A slight weight lifted; I don't need to feel the guilt over every error of my progeny.  Needing something from my car, I went to retrieve the keys.  When I picked up my purse from the white apolstered chair in the guest room I found an inkspot worthy of a Rorchach test.  A pen had leaked.  If I had to interpret what the ink blot said about my emotional and reasoning functioning, I would say that it's time to worry about my own messes.

Immoderation

"Mom, what happened to the M&Ms?" This was the question my son just asked, although he probably knew the answer before I replied that I was what happened to the M&Ms.  Self control in not one of my strong suits, particularly when chocolate is involved.  We are staying at my mother's house and she keeps a bowl of M&Ms in the kitchen.  Right there on the table.  Nuts.  I asked her why on Earth she would do that and she said just to have a little something sweet for when the urge hits, and this bowl could last her at least a month.  As I try not to think of all of the dust would coat a bowl of candy in a month, even in a house that is much cleaner than mine I look at the almost empty bowl.  Not much chance of my having consumed too many dust mites in 42 hours.   My children are better generally better behaved than I am, so I'm quite certain that I've eaten the majority of the M&Ms.

Considering I just spent 3 weeks trying to lose weight and get into shape I'm not too pleased with myself, but who could really blame me?  The bowl filled with invitingly colored chocolates is at the exact height of where my hand hangs at my side when I'm passing through the room.  Almost mechanically it grabs a fistful and pops them into my mouth.  The whole event takes about 2 seconds.  No time for thinking about it, no time to weigh the options.  Instant gratification followed by instant guilt.  Not to say that there isn't usually candy of some sort at my house but at least it is in packaging, on a shelf, behind the cabinet door.  Too many steps which give me some time to come to my senses and gain some resolve.

I can say no to chocolate, but can't eat it in moderation.  All or nothing.  I've gone months on end without eating sweets, but one desert will send my on a frenzy where I eat my weight in sugar.  The ability to enjoy things in moderation is a quality that I really admire in other people.  Those freaks of nature who can take one candy from the heart-shaped box, eat it slowly and then settle back and smile contentedly.  I'd like to learn how to do that someday, maybe as next New Year's resolution, but for now I'm almost out of the woods since the bowl is nearly empty and we are leaving in the morning.  We are going to visit the other grandmother...the one who bakes cakes.

Stuck in Traffic

I wrote a post on Monday about building cairns, I'm sorry that you won't get to read it.  At least not in its original form, and not today.  I put a decent amount of time and effort into it and was pretty happy with it.  Not to mention that it was supposed to be the re-energization of my writing practice. Since I spent 12 hours in the car yesterday, most of which behind the wheel, I didn't have time to log into Lifedancer.  Imagine my surprise when I sat down to write today only to find my "Building Cairns" post had not published, and worse, the draft was missing.  Although I know that in the grand scheme of things, it was not an earth-shattering event, I was still in tears.   I hate losing anything--particularly things that can't be replaced.  Thoughts are ephemeral, especially when you have a terrible memory like I do.  Also, writing about something as it is unfolding or while it is fresh in your memory will undoubtably be different than a recollection of it later.  So for now, I'm putting it aside.

I'm trying to get over it and write something else.  It is difficult since I'm still fairly grumpy and disappointed.  I know it's all perspective and I could chose to be more easy going about it.  During our 12 hour car trip yesterday, which really only should have been about 9, there were a series of events that added time to the trip.  The first of which started with my oldest son who was in charge of reading the directions.  He decided to paraphrase some of the directions because he thought they were too long and I wouldn't be able to keep all of the information in my head.  Nice thought, but truthfully when information is included in directions it is because it it helpful, if not necessary, to know.  As it was in this case, so I missed a turn that set us in a direction that I did not want to go in.  I was really angry.  No yelling or cursing, just a lot of deep breaths.  The anger was because we were going the wrong way for a senseless reason.  Later in the day I get a phone call from my mother saying there was a fatal crash on this new route that I was now taking and several lanes were closed.  A moment later I was in back-to-back traffic and my book on tape ran out.  We moved about 5 miles in an hour and a half, but it was okay.  I didn't want to dishonor the people in the crash by being irritated for a minor inconvenience.  So I people-watched instead.

Usually in traffic you try to figure out the best strategy, get a feel for which lane is moving the fastest.  I was in the middle one and not really planning changing lanes.  I was watching the cars pass us and then us catch back up to them.  While going 2 miles an hour you have the opportunity to peek in the other cars, coming up with quick narratives of their lives.  The sweet old Asian couple are probably off to visit their grandchildren, the business man with several suits hanging in the back seat is heading home from a long commute from New York City, the woman with the funky manicure wrapped around the wheel of her Grand Marquis was making the most of her evening, singing disco songs.  Somewhat surprisingly, everyone seemed to be taking the traffic in stride.  That would not have been the case 20 years ago before cell phones.  Most of us would have been jumping in and out of our cars trying to crane our necks to see ahead.  The unknown would have made the wait unbearable.

The Sweet Spot

Most things are difficult to accomplish if you are trying too hard or not hard enough.  The sweet spot is in the middle.  From mundane tasks like threading a needle, spiritual endeavors like shamanic journeying, or just dancing, we can be the biggest obstacle to our own successes.  Insecurity sets in or you realize how important something is to you, and it suddenly becomes infinitely more difficult.  Just like any of us could walk across a fallen log without wobbling, place that same log across a chasm and most of us would shimmy the length of it, scratching our bellies on the bark and taking twenty times as long.  Or maybe we wouldn't even try.

Sometimes I can't dance.  Like my feet are encased in cement pilings in the ground.  Like I can't hear the music well enough to find the rhythm.  And then I'll try to force it, and I feel ridiculously awkward.  What I do then is to stop thinking about it, and just do it.  Relax.  Wait for the music to break through and let it take the lead.  Other than a few bad headaches and lots of work, that is the big reason that I have not written lately.  The ideas and inspirations that used to surround me like music had become muffled and distorted.  I couldn't quite hear the rhythm of them or catch the refrain that tied them all together.  I'd sit down to write and I felt clumsy.  So I did what I do when I can't dance.  I relaxed.  And I waited for the ideas to swell up and break through to take the lead.  Tomorrow I'll write and maybe dance too.

Compost Happens

There's a bumper sticker in the parking lot at my church that says "Compost Happens."  Kind of funny, but it is true?  Strictly speaking, any food waste and yard debris left to its own devices eventually would break down.  To get good quality compost quicker takes a little effort.  Which is fine, because I get an inordinate amount of pleasure turning the compost pile.

In the fall, apple cores and post-Halloween carved pumpkins are heaped on, along with some of the newly fallen leaves.  I happily make the trudge across the snow covered lawn with vegetable scraps in the winter even though the pile is frozen and the new offerings can't yet be incorporated.  It is a connection to the garden, a way to stay in touch with nature during the  long, dark,  dormant season.  When the weather warms up and the pitchfork finally can disturb the pile, it is therapeutic exercise.  Muscles I haven't used in months stab at the heap of dirt, leaves and food in varying degrees of decomposition.  I'm reminded of the picnics, parties, and quiet breakfasts that have contributed to the nutrients, and I start planning the garden that they will be returned to.   I think of the summer sun and the smell of cut grass, and waging war on Japanese beetles.  I think of teaching the kids how to recognize when the food is ready to pick and of the soccer games and firefly hunts that it will fuel.  

Taking my foot and putting pressure on the pitchfork I try to get as far down in the pile as possible to bring the bits that have broken down more up to the top.   Working the pile over and over, mixing the dry and wet elements, mixing the more broken down bits with the new additions.  Slightly impatient, I'm trying to will the pile into the final stages, anxious to add the fertile material to the garden.  Turning the pile speeds up the process of breaking the food down, but ultimately everything breaks down for use at its own pace.  The motion is meditative.  I'm conscious of what I'm looking at, always surprised at the lack of smell, but my mind wanders.  Sometimes to gardening, sometimes to issues that are weighing on me, sometimes I've cleared my mind altogether except for the work.  With time, the things on my mind would fade and break down into harmless food.  But thinking things over breaks everything down to manageable pieces.  Providing the building blocks for healthy growth.

Forgettable

Occasionally I write these posts while the TV is on.  They probably don't end up being my most thoughtful entries, but I love NCIS and it is on all of the time.  I'm not sure that is a good thing because like an opened candy bar or a bottle of good wine, if I know it's there I'm going to want some.  There is another crime fighting show that has recently grabbed my interest though, Unforgettable.  The main character remembers every detail of every day of her life, which is fascinating to me since I can barely remember what happened an hour ago.  

While that character's memory allows her to access details to solve murders she also is haunted by memories of her past.  I never had a good memory, and it got significantly worse in college while working with photography chemicals without gloves on.  Except for painful events, those I remembered vividly and would replay them over and over in my mind.  I remembered that I was a weak girl who didn't stand up for herself.  Desperate for attention; someone who settled.  The memory of who I was was so distasteful to me that I destroyed almost all of the photographs that I had of myself as a teenager.  

At my divorce hearing the magistrate told me that I could change my name back at that time for free, if I waited I would have to pay.  I hadn't actually considered it until he mentioned it, a logistical detail that had slipped by, but it was an interesting thought.  Who did I want to be?  Right then.  Giving back my married name felt like the right decision.  I was not that person any longer, but I definitely was not the insecure, depressed doormat that I was when I had my birth name.  So did I want to take that identity back?  I briefly considered not having a last name.  That is actually how I sign my art work...Leslie.  Then I thought about how often I need to fill out online forms that had required fields.  So how often would that screw me over.  In the end, I took my "maiden" name back.  It felt strange at first like it was an old style of clothing that I could not identify with.  But eventually I dressed it up to be more current.  I don't feel distain for that young girl any longer, I feel compassion.  I wish that I could go back in time and help her find herself.  No matter what her last name was.

Speechless

If I had to chose one word to describe myself it would be "contradictory."  But even that word doesn't quite fit.  It connotes a lack of consistency which I do not think would apply.  It could allude to being confrontational, and while I don't back down I don't go looking for trouble either.  Words are imprecise; that can be a hindrance but occasionally useful.  A former boss called me the "Queen of Qualifying Statements" because if I didn't want to commit to a stance I would talk my way around it without speaking untruths.  I always try to choose my words carefully.  An example of my contradictory nature is that for someone who loves to read and write, I often find words to be an inadequate means of expression.


Ottmar Liebert is a renowned Flamenco guitarist and I had the privilege of meeting him several years ago.  His music was an inspiration to me and there was one song in particular that I loved off of his album Solo Para Ti called "Deep in Your Heart."  It was the only song with words.   I made a color drawing interpreting the song for an art class, and even though I didn't think the drawing was particularly wonderful, I liked it well enough to share it with him as a token of gratitude.  The day before, I had dropped off a letter and the artwork at the venue he was playing at, and after his concert I introduced myself.  He was quiet, but kind and gracious.  Years later I read in his blog about how he rarely ever put lyrics into his work because he wanted people to be able to interpret the music in their own way.  That made me a little regretful of my choice of song to illustrate.  He must have thought I was naive or unimaginative.  However at that earlier time, with so little life experience behind me, I don't know if I could have filled the spaces between the notes of an instrumental with my own thoughts.  


At this point in life, if I needed to truly describe myself to someone, it wouldn't be in words either.  I would tell them to listen to the song "Eddie's Gospel Groove" by Ronnie Earl and the Broadcasters.  It is a blues instrumental that starts out strong and fast on the first note and never relents.  There is a steady percussive beat in the background, and the occasional burst of intense guitar riffs.  I've listened to this song maybe a thousand times or more and have never had a lukewarm reaction to it.  Actually, I never even have had the same reaction to it.  There is no way to know how Ronnie was feeling when he composed the song, or what he intended for the listener to feel, because whenever I listen to it, it amplifies the mood I’m already in. I listened to it depressed and it took me to the brink of despair; I listened to it in a great mood and it moved me to euphoria.   I'm listening to it now.  

The Lottery

I didn't win the lottery.  You probably didn't either.  But I played.  Why not.  While it may be true that the odds are against it, someone has to win.  Just like millions of other people last night, I was making my plans for the 540,000,000.  Not investing my happiness into it but coming up with a plan of action just in case.  First of all, I would give two weeks notice at work.  I would probably be very distracted during those two weeks but I would try to do the best I could nonetheless.  I would also start looking for a big house in the town that I'm moving to this summer.  Big enough for 2 adults, 6 kids, and some pets, and maybe an "Alice" for our Brady Bunch.  On the water if possible.  I would also want a quiet space for writing and spiritual practices.  But that's pretty much it.

I was a gypsy for several years, loving each of the places I lived in but as soon as I was settled in a town I would think, "what's next?"  There were many years of vague dissatisfaction with what I was doing, or not doing as the case may be.  If I had won the lottery at that point I think it would have been a disaster.  I would have been one of those people that blows through all of the money in a few years because I didn't have any direction, but never wanted to be where I was.  Now I do, and it is a great feeling to know that if I came into a lot of money I would just like to make things a little more comfortable and free up some more time to pursue my current interests.  I guess that means that life is good, with or without 540 million dollars, and that is kind of like winning the lottery.

In The Driver's Seat

The only things I manage to keep alive in my house are my children.  Our pets have met unfortunate and untimely demises, and plants are a hopeless cause.  Slightly overprotective, it was not that long ago that I stopped a nightly ritual of making sure they have not stopped breathing in their sleep.  Every stage from infancy to teens has its own parental terrors.  Keeping them physically and emotionally safe has been a full time job.  However, today it was my life in my son's hands.  He just got his Learner's Permit.

I think I pictured having to cajole him into driving, imagined myself giving him a little pep talk.  I pull up to pick him up from his last Driver's Ed lesson and he doesn't hesitate--he heads right toward the driver's seat.  He reached his hand under the seat to pull the lever and scooted back to give his 6'3" frame some room.  This was his first time in my car and I could see it dawning on him that my car was going to be different than the one he was used to practicing in.  He pulled out of the parking lot onto Route 1, the sensitive car jerking under his touch.  He glanced over at me and admitted that he was much more nervous with me in the car, but quickly added that I was not doing anything to cause that.  I recognized the look of concern in this face that has more than a passing resemblance to my own.  Knowing how seriously he was taking this new responsibility allowed me to slightly loosen my grip on the door.

School Lunches

When the kids start the count down to summer vacation, so do I. However their countdown is measured in days, mine in school lunches.  3 per day.  Packing school lunches has been the bane of my existence since we stopped homeschooling almost 5 years ago, or approximately 730 sandwiches ago.  171 left to go this school year.  It may not be rational to hate making lunches so vehemently when preparing breakfast isn't a chore and even dinner on a busy evening isn't too bad.  As is often the case, out of the mouths of babes, came a plausible answer.  My son, who was nine at the time, pointed out that while the meals that I'm cooking for a sit down meal are more work, I have the pleasure of watching them enjoy the food that I made for them.  With the school lunches I don't get to hear their appreciative slurping or them asking if there is more food.  I don't get to have the instant gratification of making my sons happy.  And as they say the way to a man's heart after all is through his stomach.

Last June I read an article in some woman's magazine that was written by a woman who had just packed her last school lunch since her youngest graduated high school.  It was a touching article and I actually get teary every time I think about it.  I also feel guilty.  I'd really like to be the mom that enjoys doing this daily act of maternal benevolence.  At least I did until when I thought I would be commiserating with a fellow parent over the banality school lunch packing, she looked at me incredulously and asked, "You mean they don't pack their own lunches?"  A ray of hope appeared and I accosted several other parents as they were leaving karate class with their respective broods in tow, and many of them had similar responses.  It turns out a lot of kids make their own lunches.  Who knew?!  Of course, I made my own school lunches as a child but I don't think I enjoyed it much then either.  I probably thought if I did a bad enough job my mom would take over, so as a result some of my fifth grade lunches contained ham and M&M sandwiches, and in my thermos a little bit of every beverage in the fridge, resulting in an orange juice-Pepsi-milk shake.  I have 2,621 more chances to embrace the lunches.  If not, I'm afraid in eight years I will be writing an article of regret over not packing them food made with love.

Happy Endings

Like many other adults and teens, I'm reading the Hunger Games.  I had tried to read it before, even though the plot was too morbid for my taste, but the opening pages did not grab my attention.  With so many interests and obligations competing for my time, I decide early on with a book if it is worth it.  Not peer pressure, but the need to keep up with cultural references was the reason I picked it up again last night.  This time I was able to get farther into it, in fact I'm looking forward to reading it when I'm done here.  The theme of sacrificing yourself for a young one that you love strikes a chord with me.

Parenting is terrifiying.  There are so many things that I wish I could shield my children from experiencing.  From small annoyances like a skinned knee, bad grade on a test, loosing a $20 bill, to big heartbreaks and disappointments such as a divorce, death, and soul-crushingly unfulfilling careers.  But like Dory said in Finding Nemo:  "Well you can't not let anything ever happen to him.  Then nothing would ever happen to him.  And that wouldn't be any fun for little Harpo."  We all came into this world to experience life; not just the fun and easy parts of it.  I'm sure that I'm  in good company when I say that the best parts of my life now, would not have been possible without going through pain to get there.  That  will inevitably include watching my children battle these challenges as well.  Hopefully it will all conclude with some great stories and a happy ending.

Spring?

For the first time in 44 years I am not ready for spring.  Typically by now, the bare branches and brown grass have worn out their welcome.  Normally, the sarongs that I wear all summer long would be beckoning to me from the drawer that does not get opened for 9 months of the year.  Any rise in temperature should be sending happy hormones pumping through my veins.  Not this year.

With only enough snowfall to get me out on my new skis twice this winter, even in Maine the season was a non-event.  I never even got stuck at the bottom of an icy hill once this year in my crappy car; while it was a biweekly event last winter.  There weren't many reasons to hole up at home in front of a fire.  Perhaps that is why when it was time to be inward, still and introspective, I was energetic, creative and expansive.  And now, just when the birds are singing, quite loudly at the moment, I'm tired.  For weeks I've been exhausted and starved.  Eating everything in sight and sleeping much longer than usual.  My mind has been too quiet.  Like a bear preparing for hibernation just at the time it should be venturing out.

There was a story on the news about apple orchards being at risk of losing much of their crops because of the unusually warm weather.  The fruit mature too early or another frost can come and damage them at a crucial point in their development.  One owner of an orchard said that similar conditions a few years ago caused him to drop from his average yield of 40,000 bushels to merely 3,000.  Can people also be stunted in their development if they are out of rhythm?  If so, I wonder if there are any fixes to get back to the natural order of things.

The Skirt Off Her Hips

Maybe it was because I was an only child.  Maybe it was because I lost my father at a young age and was lonely and self-absorbed with insecurities.  Maybe I was just a spoiled brat who had an epiphany at age 11.  Regardless, I clearly remember the exact moment when I realized that everyone else has their own thoughts, completely independently of me, and it was in the fifth grade.  In particular, I was thinking that a cute violin-playing fourth grader was probably not thinking about me that sunny Saturday afternoon.  If he did have a thought about me it probably involved how annoying I was.  The good old days before stalking got you expelled.  There has to be research out there quantifying the average age we are when we realize that we are not the center of the Universe, and reason for all other beings to exist.  11 years old sounds a bit on the high side.  My 10-year-old has me beat; for sure.

This morning, I was actually on track to have a good day.  Lunches were made, breakfast wasn't a hassle, my hair was even dry and it was looking like I'd have enough free time to actually put on make-up before getting to work.  That's where I was wrong.  I had given my middle son a twenty dollar bill which he proceeded to lose within 5 minutes, somewhere between the dining room and bedroom.  He was very upset and hard on himself.  Then I heard the 10 year-old say that he found the money under the table.     But that wasn't true.  The original twenty had fallen out of his brother's pocket upstairs. I found it on my bed.   So by now we had two twenty dollar bills, two upset boys and one late mother whose hair in the meantime frizzed out and circles were darkening under her eyes.  Aaaarrghh.  It turns out that the younger brother had planted a twenty under the table to make his brother feel better about losing money.  When the original one was found he slipped the other one back into his wallet.  So sweet.  Maybe it's because he is the third child, a position that is impossible to be under the delusion the world begins and ends with you.  It's not the first time that I've seen an altruistic side to him.

That wasn't the only act of generosity I witnessed today.  The other was toward me when a friend literally gave me the skirt off of her hips simply because I really liked it.  Now, I protested at first and tried to convince her not to give it to me, but she is not a woman who takes no for an answer.  It turns out that I'm twice her size so I can't keep it anyway, but I was touched by the gesture.  Gratitude is a state that I've improved on a lot as an adult, I'm content with less.  But what I'm feeling gratitude for today are the people in my life that aid in my growth, and the knowledge that being grateful for something that you have is important, but so is recognizing when there is someone out there that would appreciate it even more.  I wonder what my grade-school crush is thinking about today.

Hand in Hand

A sound from the hallway roused me from my sleep a few minutes before the alarm was set to go off.  I rolled over and snuggled behind the handsome man sleeping next to me and rested my hand lightly on his side.  I was hoping I wouldn't wake him up but I couldn't resist a few moments of contact before starting one of my typically hectic days.  He stirred, briefly covering my hand in his, and fell back to sleep.  For fifteen cozy minutes I was at peace.

I don't take these moments for granted; far too many of my mornings are spent with a sweet warm cup of coffee instead of my man.  But I always know when the next time I'm with him will be.  Four years ago I was waking up every morning alone.  The worst part about it was not knowing when the next time I would have human contact would be.  Any kind.  A kiss, hug, even a handshake at that point.  I was feeling affection deprived.

That's when I came across the Chinese chair massage therapists in the mall.  A dollar a minute.  My back was very sore, I could definitely justify a 20 minute massage.  The therapists did not really speak English but the person working on me had a very nice presence.  He was very tall, great leverage for massaging, and he was not afraid to put the pressure on.  He intuitively knew my problem spots and quickly dispatched them.  He worked on my glutes and thighs too.  But then he took my arm and bent it around my back to position the muscles correctly. To keep my arm that way he lightly pressed the palm of his hand to mine.  Some people may have been unnerved by someone massaging their butt and thighs in public, but it was that light touch of our palms that almost made me cry.

Sex Not Equal to Sadness

My son told me today that his health teacher taught their class that they should never "have sex" they should always "make love."  The teacher followed this up with, "Sex always leads to one of two things: sadness or poor decisions."  My response:  "If that were true there would be a lot of depressed people walking around."   It is a hard job she has; I sympathize with the difficult task she's been given.  She's trying to keep them physically and emotionally safe, and I appreciate that.   Encouraging good decision making is a good thing.  However I think that trying to shape a particular attitude about sexuality is intrusive.

Even though I put quotation marks around the teacher's statements, it is probable that these quotes aren't entirely accurate.  They are filtered through a 13 year old boy's brain.  It's likely he heard the word sex and then every ninth word after that.  But I'm concerned about the message that is getting through, regardless of the original wording.  There is absolutely nothing wrong with having sex.  It can actually be a lot of fun, and it does not mean that you do not love or respect each other if you'd rather have sex than make love, at least some of the time.  You can show your love other ways like making them ice cream sundaes and hand holding in the movies.   I'm pretty sure the only sadness the next day would be wondering when the next time will be.  I'm not in a hurry for any of the boys to rush into their sex lives, but I don't like the fact that a woman is already putting rules on what it should be like.   They will have enough women trying to do that in the years to come.  No pun intended.






   

Chickadee Dee Dee

I'm not the first person to be compelled to write about springtime, nor will I be the last.  I'm probably not even the first person to write the previous sentence.  Robert Frost, Robert Blake, Shakespeare all wrote eloquently of springtime so what could I add that they did not already cover?  Nothing, but it does not matter since I have no choice.  The only thoughts in my head are of spring.  Specifically all of the birds that seemed to know it was coming before me.

The male Black-capped Chickadee, state bird of Maine, is the herald of life after winter. There was one perched on the bare branches of a tree outside of my office last week.  Although I heard him before I saw him.  Today was almost warm, just breaking 60 degrees--40 degrees warmer than I week ago, and it was sunny.  I walked around the perimeter of my office building, continuing my search for life and found a single purple flower up against the concrete foundation.  I also saw that the trees were not bare, they had smallish fuzzy buds which I petted like a rabbit foot for luck.  If the luck works It will be another 20 degrees warmer next week.

The second harbinger of spring is the willingness of my sons to take a walk with me.  For an hour, we were able to hang up our winter coats along with our cares and traipse outside.  Meandering down the windy street we daydreamed semi-realistic hopes for a home in the future, and not so realistically planned our defense strategies in the event of a zombie apocalypse.  I'm thinking that early spring with the good visibility of bare trees would be an asset when avoiding the walking undead.  But the birds just might give us away.

Sunrise, Sunset

You notice the beauty of the sky in the morning.  The colors draw your eye up, and curiosity keeps them there.  The tone of the day can be set in those moments.  Friendly fluffy clouds, dramatic dark clouds, or clear cloudless skies.  It's exciting to have a fresh start ahead.  

Then the whole day speeds by and we don't notice the sky again until the colors return.  The mystery is over at that point.  We know what kind of day we had.  We can enjoy the vibrant colors of the sun setting either in celebration that a difficult day is ending, or in contented reflection of a day well spent.  But without the colors and the dramatically lit clouds, was there much of a reason to look up?  

When our kids are babies we notice every little nuance in their behaviors, we have the honor of witnessing most of their milestones:  sitting, rolling over, eating solid foods, walking and talking.  As older children, they continue these daily advances but we only notice a fraction of them.  And at a certain point the milestones that they are achieving normally aren't meant for their parents eyes.  

Eventually the days wind down and colors return.  There is something intimate about sunset.  The lighting is soft and indirect, like candlelight.  A time for honesty and self-reflection, until the sun has gone completely away.

Full of Hot Air

I hate blowing up balloons.  They taste strange and powdery.  It hurts your cheeks to blow then up and can be tiring if the balloon is large and thick.  Tying them off is awkward and can pinch your fingers.

People are like balloons.  If they aren't filled up enough they are too soft and won't rise.  They are sad looking and lack purpose.  If they are filled up with too much hot air they have the potential to burst and are disconcerting to be around.  When a balloon is filled up the right amount, it is light, buoyant and achieves the size and shape it was meant to have.

I once knew a gloriously wild woman who first introduced the concept to me of the importance of filling up the right amount of space in the world.  Some people probably thought she took up more space than was due to her, with what my boyfriend would refer to as witch hair, and a certain flair for the dramatic as she walked with her head held high.  I wouldn't agree.  She was simply comfortable in her own skin and that can be intimidating.  Filling up your own ballon does not prevent others from doing the same.  If anything, it is an invitation to join in.  The more balloons the better at this party we are all invited to.

Guilty

I'm feeling guilty about not posting on here every day.  But perhaps slightly less guilty than I would feel subjecting people to the mindless drivel that I would produce if I posted what I wrote when I'm exhausted.  I have been writing, and I've been thinking about writing, which was really was my goal.  But I need to find some bursts of mental as well as physical energy to write anything worth reading.

I've been exhausted all week--it's no wonder since I go strong 5:30 am-11:30 pm.  However I'm not the only one complaining of fatigue; many of the people at work have been saying the same thing.  Maybe it's because we are starting to come out of hibernation.  Feeling groggy like coming out of a nap. Woken up by the sound of Chickadees, hopping from bare branch to bare branch sounding much more awake than me.  I squeeze my eyes shut and try to remember the dream I was having, and start to plan the spring.

Cloak of Invisibility

Scientists are on their way to inventing a cloak of invisibility like in Harry Potter.  They've invented a synthetic fabric that can allow light to bend around an object, and if light is not bouncing off of an object then it can't be seen.  So the question is, are there objects around us that are already doing this?  Are there things right next to us that we can't see, simply because the light is not hitting it?  Like spirits or an alternate parallel universe?  Is it the same thing as the tree falling in the forest, if there is no one to see it is it not there?

Gratitude

The children in my life know not to ask for anything in the morning until they can see the bottom of my coffee cup.  They exhibit either great patience since it is a considerably large cup, or self-reliance if they give up and eventually take care of their own needs.  The youngest eventually caught on that I was refilling it when they weren't looking.  The rest of the day I'm at their disposal, I probably even do a little too much for them, so it isn't an unwillingness to cater to them, I just really need that morning ritual for both the quiet centering time as well as the caffeine.  After that I'm generally in a good mood and ready to start the day.  My good mood today however is oddly specific.  It is a good mood with a theme--gratitude.

Eating my eggs this morning I thought of the chickens that hopefully were relatively comfortable in their job of providing protein.  I was grateful for the boyfriend who bought the more expensive cage-free eggs since he knows that it is important to me.  And that isn't the only thing that he's done for me even if he personally thinks it may be silly if not downright nutty; like the time he took my crystals outside in the freezing cold night so that they could soak up some full moon energy.  Listening to the little girl across the table from me chomp on buttered toast, while I enjoyed the same, I could see the wheat in the field on a warm sunny day, even though the view through the window today is dreary.  The wind that pollinated the field and the fresh water and fertile dirt all a part of making our breakfast possible.  The farmer, baker, truck driver, cashier all playing their roles to get food on the table for us to enjoy.

Truthfully, if I were reading this I probably would be gagging a bit.  At times I can get a bit cynical of public displays of gratitude, wondering what the motivation is.  Like a child coming up and giving you a big hug and saying I love you right before asking for a hot fudge sundae.  That may have been unfair though.  Assuming I've finished my morning coffee the next time I hear of someone raving about how grateful they are, I will take their comments at face value, and take the opportunity to revisit everything that I am grateful for as well.

Almost Perfect

Perfection is desirable during brain surgery and synchronized swimming.  Other than that it is the flaws that make life interesting.  Sure,  it would be great not have cellulite or to be able to sing on key.   My nose is bent and I have a distracting mole above my eye.  There is a tooth that snags my lip when I smile.  I truly dislike all of these things but for better or worse, they are a part of me.   Not much is actually perfect in life, and that is actually a good thing, because perfection is boring.  There are no surprises in perfection.  

I used to know someone whose whole life was chasing perfection, and even with considerable talents and advantages he was never happy.  He was an accomplished violinist but would only let me hear him play with his orchestra, not alone where I could actually hear his individual sound.  His house was gorgeous on first glance, but the facades were artificial.   He kept his girlfriends at arms length and after their inevitable break up he would write beautiful and poignant romanticized accounts of their relationship.  The idea of everything more perfect than the reality.  I'm concerned that in this quest for the perfect relationship, he's missed out on authentically wonderful ones.

I'm paying an exorbitant amount of money for braces for my son, so I do believe some things are worth trying to "fix."  But it's important to know when to enjoy what you have while still striving for improvement, not perfection.  Except if you are a brain surgeon or a synchronized swimmer.  

Out of the Closet

Snow day!  Which means even though I'm in bed for the night but still wearing the nightshirt I slept in last night (although I did slip on a pair of jeans to move my car for the plow truck) I had an extremely productive day.  A snow day is almost like a bonus day--sort of like Leap Day should be.  Now that I think of it Leap Day should be a national holiday, observed by doing everything you've really wanted to do but just don't have the time.  For me that was clean the bathroom, start an online course on the Power of Intent because I want to make the most of my time (ironically I started the course 6 weeks late) and tackled the younger boys' closet with their assistance.

Their closet is not used for clothes, it is where board games, toys, costumes and several boxes of lego sets live.  There were many cloth grocery bags filled with random objects, some once-loved and have been MIA for years, others cheap broken gadgets from birthday party grab bags.  Most of the process of cleaning out this closet consisted of playing with the loot.  I kept trying to remind them of the purpose--a pile to keep, a pile to give away and a pile to toss.  The ratio ended up closer to 10-1-1.  By the end of the afternoon, there was a sense of order, at least the threat of a lego avalanche was less likely.  A mental inventory of toys and activities was refreshed in their minds. Fire hazards abated.

My first shamanic journey was about 6 years ago.  At the time I just thought it was going to be a relaxing morning, since I did not believe that my mind could break away from this reality and visit with guides from the spirit world.  On the contrary, within seconds of the drumbeat starting I was in a beautiful other place meeting animal guides and dancing from dawn until nightfall around a fire.  When my companions left I looked into the sky and the constellations came to life.  One that looked like a grandmother gave me advice.  It isn't often that stars want to give you words of wisdom so I was enthralled.  But mostly all she said was. "You need to clean your house."  Although that advice was somewhat anti-climatic, she was correct.  When the house is in order, our minds can be in order, and our spirits will follow suit.

Tanked

The fish in the aquarium don't seem bothered by the fact that they are going back and forth in the same small tank, minute after minute, day after day.  Their scenery rarely, if ever, changes.  I feel a little guilty watching them, thinking they are being tortured.  They aren't.  As far as I know, their capacity for thought does not get to the point where fish can understand the limits of their tank.  However the lynx in a relatively large man-made habitat looks frustrated and tormented.  The energy built up in their muscles so much that you can see the tension when they walk.  They pace back and forth but unlike the fish, the lynx's eyes seem troubled and aware of its circumstances.  It would be easier to be blissfully ignorant of my troubles, but if I'm ever going to get out of this habitat it will take the restlessness and strength of the lynx.

Zooming In

Walk, eat, sex, sleep, walk, eat, sex, sleep, wash, rinse and repeat.

I went to Montreal on a mini-vacation in hopes of being intellectually and creatively stimulated; instead it was all about physical sensations.  I tried to be inspired.  I looked at everything with an artist's eye, stole away for some alone time with my journal, and stayed alert during conversations for interesting bits of information.  The city wanted to be felt rather than observed.  Complying, I inhaled the aromas, ate wonderful meals and washed them down with velvety red wine, felt my cheeks grow cold in the wind and legs fatigued from walking, and connected to the spirit of the people.

My youngest son had requested that I photo-document my trip to Montreal.  It was a reasonable request and since I love taking photographs it wouldn't put me out at all.  I was spoiled in college with access to Penn State yearbook department's SLR Cannon with motor drive and any lens you could ever want.  At football games in Beaver Stadium, I could zoom in for details on the players sweaty faces, use the motor drive to shoot every split second of a play, or use a wide angle lens to capture the size and scope of almost 90,000 spectators.  (Except for the day that I forgot to load the film.)  On this trip I only had the camera on my iPhone 4.

His request was not ignored, but I rarely found a shot that would have translated well in a photo.  He wanted to see these pictures so that he would know what my experiences were like, but I knew that couldn't happen.  In a photo he wouldn't be able to see my feeling of accomplishment when the waiter understood my French, or the youthful indignation of the parade of protesting college students, or the softness of the linens on the freshly made bed. There were a few shots that I found interesting, and captured them for posterity even without being able to chose the lens length.  A few minutes ago I took a look at them and found that the button had been turned to video, so many of the photographs I had taken were actually little videos.  I played them back.  Each video started with the image that I thought I was shooting and then swung to the phone being placed in the side pocket of my purse; some blurry images were visible at the top.  Audio was recording.  Most of the clips captured me and my boyfriend talking with a susurrus of French voices in the background.  And laughing; I didn't realize how much we laugh.

Walk, eat, sex, sleep, laugh, ...

Birdbrained

Driving, I heard a racket overhead.  Countless birds making their voices heard up on the telephone wire.  Across the line, taught and filled with tension, birds from left to right were all talking over each other.  Together, a collective voice of discontent.  Individually, they all had different gripes and solutions.  The line below them, a conduit for communication and connection, didn't seem strong enough to support them all. The birds only had contact with the others that were right next to them.  They held loud conversations with their neighbors, never hearing what the others down the line had to say.

Souvenirs

The timing of my road trip this week is fortuitous.  The flow of ideas has been sluggish and there is no better antidote for mental constipation than travel.  While my mind does tend to wander during my daily commutes in the car, sometimes even happening upon interesting topics, I do miss the days when I would take the train to work.  Trains are romantic.  The sight of the tracks going off in both directions until you can't see where they lead, but you can imagine.  The whistle,  a harbinger of adventure.  The rhythmic sound, rocking you side to side.  The conductor walking up and down the aisle punching tickets.  The tickets, proof that you are going somewhere, anywhere.  But you know that you've been accepted into the train culture when he pretends to punch your ticket every few days.  Being Miss. Law and Order I was somewhat bothered by this deception but also flattered to be quietly invited into their commuting fraternity.

There is something about being in motion that invites reflection and conversation.  Whether it was a conversation I was participating in,  eavesdropping on or projecting onto a fellow passenger from my imagination, I learned something new every day on the train to work.  At the end of the week on the Friday afternoon trip to our respective homes, we would meet in the dining car for a drink.  It was a good rhythm to the week.  While I don't take the train to work now I have a similar rhythm in that every Friday after a week of working I meet my boyfriend and over red wine we catch up.  Process all that has happened since we last saw each other and make plans for the future, whether that be the next hour, weekend, or year.  These plans usually involve food.

We leave for Montreal in about 36 hours, and I'm excited to be visiting somewhere new.  Exploring and eating, eating and exploring, and many hours in the car to talk and think.  I'm not certain if I'll be writing when I'm away, but I'm looking forward to seeing which experiences that I can bring back with me.  While my children might get trinkets from my travels, you will get souvenirs.

What Should I be When I Grow Up

So far, I feel that professionally I've failed.  I've never had a job that was particularly interesting, challenging or financial rewarding.  That isn't to say that I haven't learned anything in these positions, and I've definitely made great personal connections.  Enough money has been earned to get by.  Do I lack drive?  No, not really, and I'm a conscientious worker.  Out of pride and a sense of responsibility I try to do a good job, no matter what the job is.  Career choices is a hot topic at the moment as my two oldest are teenagers and are starting to have to be conscious of what the future can hold for them.  The younger of the two is 13, and he is particularly horrified by the thought of ending up with a job like I have.  

Part of me can't blame him, I'm required to be in an office building with questionable air quality and almost no natural light.  I have to deal with annoying situations on a daily basis.  There is very little room for creativity.  To a 13 year old, I can see how my life could be considered unadulterated hell.  It's not.  Quite the opposite in fact, I'm very happy.  Maybe not ecstatically so from 7:30am-4:00pm Monday through Friday, but even then it could be much worse.  It's a good company; I have a wonderful boss and the days are busy.  So I find myself trying to strike a balance with him, telling him that your job does not have to be what gives you fulfillment in life.  Friends, family, hobbies and other interests can do that too.   But it would be nice if the 8 or so hours he will spend at work made him happy too.  So I also encourage him to think about what he likes to do and help him find ways to pursue those interests.  Encourage them all to do their best and try to get good grades, but in the end their successes in school and ultimately at work are not the only measure of a good life.

How did I personally get off to such an unremarkable professional start?  Part of it was indecision.  I enjoy so many things and did not have any obvious talents toward one or another.  So what to chose?  The problem is when you don't make a choice, the choice is often made for you, or worse all options are eventually taken off the table.  Since I did not have a passion for a career I stepped out of the job market to focus on what I did have a passion for--raising and homeschooling my three boys.   I don't regret that decision at all because I believe those years were instrumental in shaping them into the  kind, intelligent and funny young men that they are.  Those years were probably instrumental in shaping myself as well.  

It is no longer acceptable to me to not actively participate in the direction of my life.  And while I still enjoy so many things that it is hard to choose one, I've come up with another parameter.  There are some things that I enjoy "having done," I am proud of the outcome or the accomplishment but don't particularly enjoy the process.  Like drawing or painting, I liked having made art much more than I enjoyed making the art.  Recently it has hit me that with writing I genuinely enjoy the process.  Thinking about topics, putting ideas down, changing them, and trying to tie up loose ends and correct mistakes.  The next time the "what should I be when I grow up" conversation comes up with the boys that will be my advice.   Don't hesitate--choose to spend your time doing something that you enjoy.