Avoiding the Void

When I dared to open my eyes at night the bedposts came to life, as dark faceless creatures come to steal my soul.  There was an ax murderer living in my closet just 2 feet from where I should have been sleeping, had I been able to sleep in the face of my violent impending death.  To hide from the demon under my bed I curled up in the fetal position, making sure that not a single toe hung over the side, because that would have made me fair game.  A menacing enormous chinese dragon kite lived in my bathroom.  The active imagination that gives me so much pleasure as an adult was a curse as a child.  I was utterly terrified of the dark.  Perhaps because of all of the potential dangers it was harboring, even though the rational adult in me does not believe any of those things are present.

While I don't have an abject fear of the dark now I still have an aversion to it.  In fact, I still sleep with the light on in the hallway if I am by myself. It's not really monsters and murderers that have me spooked. It is the void.  It is the loneliness.  Because in the absolute darkness there is nothing but myself, and that is not enough.  I enjoy small bursts of quality quiet time alone, in fact as an introvert I require it.  But the dark is oppressively lonely to me.  As I've grown and become more comfortable with myself I've lost some of the fear.  That does not mean that I won't check behind the shower curtain every day, just in case.

Mainely Settled

Kentucky, Southern California, New Orleans, Baltimore, Pennsylvania, are all places I've lived.  The friendliness of the people in Kentucky, the reliability of good weather in California, the food and sounds in New Orleans...there Is something to appreciate everywhere.  All interesting adventures, but none of those places felt like home.  As soon as I was settled in, I started thinking about where I should move to next.  Just like how I wonder about what's for dinner while in the middle of eating lunch.  Until moving to Maine.  

I never would have expected to become so attached to Maine.  My wanderlust goes back to childhood, and besides I don't particularly like being cold.  There is a pull.  A force so strong that the energy of the land is palpable.  I'm enjoying the soft colors and smells of winter, and playing out in the snow.  We went snow tubing today and with the sun shining, slick paths and 80s hits playing on the speakers, it was the type of day that would be hard to beat.  Much like going too long without a kiss or a hug, in the winter I desperately miss lying on the Earth.   The beach that has retained the morning heat, fresh dewy grass on the hilly backyard or the colorful boulders and rocks along the coast.  Especially the jagged coastline rocks that look like they were forced out of the Earth.  In Shamanic traditions there is a place called the Lower World where our spirit animal guides reside.  Perhaps those fissures in the landscape were created to give us the means to visit with our teachers.  

It's Always Sunny From Where I Sit

Believe it or not I don't think of myself as the center of the Universe regardless of how many sentences I start with the word "I."  I try very hard to avoid starting sentences with the word "I" both to make my sentences seem more interesting and varied, and to prevent people from think that I'm self-centered. But now that I'm looking at that phrase "self-centered" I'm starting to think that there is nothing wrong with it.  If we aren't centered in ourselves, where should we be?  So while it is not a Leslieocentric Universe,  I think that I am the center of my own solar system.  And you are the center of yours.  And in our respective worlds we have the planets of our lives orbiting us:  our friends, our family, our jobs, our hobbies and passions.  The occasional meteor shower is sent our way to shake things up a bit.

Break a Leg

It may be a rite of childhood but I'm not quite sure why elementary schools make their students get up on stage and sing.  Its also a rite of parenthood, having to suffer through them.  I have to admit, I was reasonably entertained during last night's performance of 3rd and 4th graders, and not entirely from an anthropological perspective.  But mostly.

It starts by watching the children file in one by one.  Some very dressed up, some very dressed down.  Some looked thrilled--it was their grand stage debut.  Some looked pained as if they had bamboo splinters shoved under their fingernails.  My son fell in the middle of both.  He made sure we had all of the props needed for the evening, practiced his recorder for the "instrumental' piece, and hid his ubiquitous super hero shirt under a freshly pressed button down.  (I'm unreasonably proud of the fact that his shirt was ironed.  I iron so infrequently that I had to search the house for 20 minutes to find it.) But singing isn't really his thing.  We couldn't even figure out if he was moving his lips.  There were a few kids for whom it was obvious;  the stage was where they belonged.

There was one song that touched me, to the point of teary eyes.  They sang the song "Fireflies" which was all over the radio about 2 years ago.  I actually hate the song, but grudgingly concede that it is catchy.   Instead of watching the kids sing this number, they turned the lights off.  We couldn't see them fidgeting or how appropriately or inappropriately dressed they were.  We couldn't see whose lips were moving or not.  They belted that song out.  As a group they were on key, and it sounded like the words were correct.    I don't know if it was my imagination or not but it seemed like they sang better in the dark.  A sense of privacy may have given them the freedom to really let it out.

Imagine That

I made out with Marlon Brando, the hot young one from Streetcar Named Desire,  It was in a dream, but  when you wake up and remember your dreams does it feel very different than a distant memory of an actual event?  So as far as I'm concerned, I remember kissing Marlon Brando, and it was great.  People retreat into imaginary worlds to escape life or at the very least take a break from it (TV, video games, romance novels).  I prefer inviting the imaginary world to escape into my life.

Several years ago while on vacation in Disney's Animal Kingdom there was an african dance show.  I've always loved african rhythms and these particular dancers were charming and energetic.  I decided to take them home with me, in my mind, so that when I needed a lift I would have a little troupe of backup dancers. When my energy was waning in a workout, when dealing with exasperating people, or just having a bad day, I would glance over behind my shoulder and there they were.  Smiling broadly, dancing exuberantly, sending positive vibes my way.

Disappointment is in the Eye of the Beholder

People are flawed and they will eventually disappoint you.  If you let them.   Over the years I've done my share of hero worshiping, from celebrities to people I know.  They could have been a talented actor, effective politician,  insightful minister,  excellent parent or a happily married couple and I would really look up to them.  Inevitably, I would get a glimpse of an aspect of their personality or an action they had taken that did not fit with my image of them.  It would completely change how I felt about them, how I regarded their accomplishments or took their advice--even if this incongruous bit of information didn't pertain to the original reason I admired them.  If they cheated on their wife then they couldn't possible run the country; if an actor was caught cheating on their taxes I may not have watched their movies.  I was constantly being disappointed in my role models and was starting to think that everyone was just full of crap. Nice, I know.  

I wish I had an epiphany to share, an entertaining story of how my perspective changed.   The truth is I don't remember when I could see the whole person and value every part of them.  Even the flaws.  However, I do know the moment when I realized that my perspective had changed.  A spiritual, insightful woman that I admire greatly was recanting a situation where they got very upset at another driver on the road.  And this lovely, radiant being flipped the other driver the bird.  Now I'm not saying that act was admirable--she wouldn't either.  It was in that moment that I realized instead of losing my esteem she gained even more.  It is in working with our flaws that we do our best and most honest work.  And she is still lovely, radiant, spiritual and insightful.   Go figure.  

Being a graduate of Penn State, Joe Paterno was certainly a man that I admired.  He was so good at his job and loved the school and set high standards for his players.  The revelations over the past few months have been so disheartening, and yes, I wish that he had done more in the situation that presented itself to him.  But Joe Paterno was so much better than that one mistake, no matter how large.  We all are.  I met him once, and he inadvertently taught me a lesson.  I was a photographer for the yearbook and it was summer break I think in 1988.  I was spending it in Avalon, on the Jersey shore selling beach passes.  I always had a camera with me just in case.  One late afternoon the beach was deserted but I couldn't leave until 5:30.  Down the beach in a grey sweatshirt and what looked like boxers shorts walks Joe Paterno all by himself.  That was the only day all summer I left my camera at home and missed what would've been one of the photos of the year at Penn State.  I introduced myself and he was very gracious.  I've rarely been without a camera since that day.  Although a photograph would have been amazing, I still have a very clear image in my mind of that day, and that man, and I'm glad that the image has not been completely distorted. 

Sometimes "Just For Fun" is a Good Enough Reason

Does anyone remember when Buffy switched gears for a episode and instead of teenaged bloodthirsty broodiness they did a campy musical?  There is something to be said for staying true to your genre or theme, branching out often doesn't work.  But sometimes you do things just for fun.  In that spirit, I'm taking a break today from non-fictional observations.  On thursday I had my Facebook friends post vocabulary words for me to combine into a story.  These are the words these generous and creative individuals gave me to work with:  superlative; curmudgeon; gesticulation; defenestrate (modified to defenestration); apotropaic; tennis (and Bjorn Borg) ; peace; happy; orbicular; abasement; energy; prenatal; Xanadu; fortitude; Erinaceous (like a hedgehog); unitard (cracked me up and drove the story line, thank you Amy); vexing; dirigible; piqued; armistice; smorgasbord; psychotherapy; misanthrope; jalopy; acrimonious; splendid and wallop. 

Lean in closer and I'll tell you the story 

of how Bjorn Borg earned his secret glory.

One would think tennis was his bailiwick

but that was his cover, his public shtick. 

After dining at a smorgasborg his breath had quite a garlic stench

he grabbed a fistful of mints but they were prenatal vitamins instead, extra strength.

Energy surged throughout his body and new muscles he could flex,

biceps, triceps, quads and a splendid pair of pecs. 

 His double life as super hero was his new calling and true aptitude

Along with golden locks he possessed great honor and fortitude.

His uniform a unitard with BB embossed in scarlet red

and an apotropaic symbol on a band around his head.

Now armed with brawn and costumed he needed evil plans to foil.

he watched the nightly news and saw a segment on hoarding oil.

There were two suspect leaders, men with an acrimonious rapport

An Erinaceous curmudgeon from rebuilt Xanadu, and a vexing misanthrope from the Jersey shore.

They were to attend a peace keeping meeting in the Hague

To sign an armistice, the details vague.

That evening the man from Jersey sent an oddly friendly invite

And the other accepted, curiosity piqued, wanting insight.

No superlative can describe the fight that ensued

when the meeting between the two men grew inexorably rude.

With a final gesticulation of exasperation the Jersey man performed the act of defenestration.  

With a wallop he ejected his political foe out of the 30th floor penthouse window. 

Bjorn in his dirigible waiting just below,plucked the man from the air and saved him that fate,

then hurried to catch and detain the villain before it was too late.

His weapon of choice orbicular laughing gas bombs, aside from his winning smile

shot from tennis cans at the hip, guaranteed giggles for a square mile. 

When the gas wore off and the Jersey man was sure he'd lost the fight.

He hung his head in abasement, ashamed of getting caught if not contrite.

Then Bjorn, our happy hero, handed the man over to authorities

climbed into his jalopy and drove himself to his psychotherapy.

The End.  ;)

The Sound of Snow

Fresh fallen snow, a bright day, a handsome man, a brand new pair of  skis, and a camera--everything I thought I needed for my first attempt at cross skiing.   If it had been a movie I would have thought that the snow that was still lightly falling was fake.  The flakes were the perfect size, not so small that it just looks like haze from a distance, not so big that they grabbed all of your attention away from the rest of the scene.  The mechanics of skiing weren't as difficult as I thought they might be but it was probably good that I'm recovering from a knee injury.  The imposed limitation likely kept me much more careful than I'm normally inclined to be.  My companion was creating the trail ahead of me so I could follow in his tracks, my only job was to stay in the grooves.  

There were many sights along the way and they were worthy of stopping to appreciate as well as photograph, but it was the sounds that were the overwhelming mood-creator of the day.  So quiet, as we are fortunate to be "in the boonies." No traffic or people to run into.  The skis gliding across the snow, and the poles crunching in and out of the crusty under-layer from a previous ice storm.  I knew right then, that was what I'd want to write about today.  The few times that I really felt like I was getting in that zone where you aren't thinking but doing, and the rhythmic sound of the skis and poles.  Occasionally the wind chimes would bring me back like a hypnotist giving the return signal.  Instead of my camera today I wish that I had a recorder to capture the sounds that I'm inadequately describing in words.  

My son asked me the other day if I had to be deaf or blind what would I chose.  It was an easy answer at the time--I can't imagine not seeing my loved ones or the colors in the sky.  But today I was reminded of the other senses that make our lives more beautiful as well.  

No-thank-you Bites

Children have an advantage over grown-ups.  Most of them have parents insisting that they try new things because it is good for them.  Learning the clarinet, playing with their third cousin once removed with the perpetually runny nose, eating their broccoli.  Especially when it comes to food.  However, the motives may not always be altruistic.  Personally I got sick of making cheese tortellini every day for two years and was glad when my oldest son expanded his culinary horizons and now at 15 voraciously consumes everything from brussel sprouts to Saag Paneer.  One mother of a particularly picky eater would make her daughter take "No-thank-you bites" whenever they were eating at a friend's house.  She would have to make a good faith effort at a bite of an unfamiliar food and if she really did not like it she could say "No thank you" and her mother would slip her something more palatable.  As adults we either need to find our own means of motivation or we will go through the rest of our lives never experiencing the vast range of tastes and textures available to us.

It's impressive when an adult pushes themselves past their comfort level.  One friend wanted to spend her 50th birthday on a "Monkey See Monkey Do" rope course.  Several of us accompanied her and a few of us, myself included, were afraid of heights but climbed it anyway out of love and solidarity.  It was great.  Definitely scary, but that made the accomplishment of finishing it all the more worthwhile.  There is a blog that I follow called Picky Niki (http://pickyniki.wordpress.com) and the author's goal is to try a new food every day for a whole year.  She is on Day 69 today--not one of the more interesting choices, 3 bean salad. I wrack my brain weekly thinking of something to make for dinner that we haven't eaten every week for the past 4 years (especially with 1 picky eater still in the house) so how on Earth can someone come up with 365 new things to eat?  What really keeps me reading her posts every day, is to know more about a woman who is making herself take her own "No-thank-you Bites."

Give Me a Break

I couldn't think of anything to write about today, but I think I figured out why.  It is during break times that my mind makes connections between things.  Like taking a shower or a ride in the car--the mind is busy but not really engaged.  It is free to explore.  I did take a shower by the way but I rushed through it trying to get to work on time.  And my commute to work is not long enough to be inspiring.  Perhaps I should move farther away.

That's why I think summer vacations are a great idea for kids.  After 9 months of learning they can spend three months playing and relaxing but their subconscious minds are putting it all together.  Keeping what it needs and coming up with new ideas. I think long breaks are a great idea for grownups too but I'm not sure how to personally swing it.  Even so, eventually, all vacation would restrict creativity as well.  You need to strike a balance between diversity and routine.  I'm going to go take a break and hopefully tomorrow I'll have more to say to show for it.

Easily Distra...

There was a single frame comic in the free magazine they gave to Curves members of a woman holding up a placard which said "Easily Distra..." Like the woman who could not stay on task long enough to finish her sign, it does not take much to divert my attention.  An enticing fragrance, annoying repetitive sound, itchy tag, beautiful sunset can distract but I often enjoy the little paths I'm led on during the course of the day.  As long as I can get my work done, the kids fed, my blog written what harm is done?  I respect the people that can keep the beat steady--the bass player, the drummer, the conductor.  It takes a special kind of focus, or at least the ability to split focus.  And without that steadiness everything would crumble, and the interesting distractions would be lost in the debris.

Spring is a Day in June

Spring is in March, summer starts in June, the winds change autumnal in September and it certainly is winter-like in December.  At least it was in Pennsylvania where I was raised.  It’s comforting when things generally happen when they are supposed to—you can often count on a white Christmas, egg-hunt-friendly weather is almost guaranteed for Easter and the potato salad will certainly go bad in the oppressive heat at Independence Day barbeques.  I did not particularly like winter as a child since I hated being cold, the trees were bare and the snow by the side of the road was perpetually dark gray.  It seemed to go on forever (“forever” to be said in a disgusted tone, emphatic stress on the “ev” syllable).    Of course that wasn’t the case, and in comparison to the many other places I’ve lived, winter was pretty much the length as promised by the equinoxes and solstices.  In Maine, it is an entirely different story.  In Maine, winter actually almost does go on forever (“forever” to be said neutrally, without emphasis since it is merely a fact of life up here…and a fact of life which keeps this state traffic-free for 9 out of 12 months).

I’ve lived in Maine for almost 10 years—a fact that was very surprising to me when I just counted the years out on my fingers.  It still seems like I’m a newcomer.  I believe the rule is that your parents have to be born in Maine for you to be considered a Mainer, but only actually Mainers can look at the rulebook so I’m not sure.  Which leaves my youngest son out even though he’s been here since he was 5 months old and it’s all he knows.  I should ask him whether or not he considers himself a Mainer.  I digress—the real topic today is the rhythm of the year.  And this year, I feel completely out of sync.  Even by Maine standards.

The first 6 years in Maine were spent in a house underneath tall pine trees on a secondary dune.  It only took about 2 turns through the wheel of the year to be able to detect and anticipate the subtle annual changes in landscape.  The snow melted in late March early April, and then the leaves of the Canadian Mayflower pushed up through the soft layer of brown needles. The tiny white Starflowers quietly came and went in time for the fragrant Lilacs and Lilly-of-the-Valley to take command of spring.  Spring, which in Maine lasts for about a day in the early part of June and then unceremoniously dumps you into summer.  Short but sweet, summer in Maine is worth the wait.  In late August/early September, autumn gives a preview of gusty cool winds and chases the tourists away (not that we don’t enjoy the company in the summer).  It is always sad to see the first tree start to change color but once in the middle of autumn it is hard not to embrace the crispness and vibrancy until the snow returns and blankets everything.  But winter in Maine is not dreary, the snow by the side of the road does not took as dirty as in Pennsylvania mostly because it is consistently laying a fresh coat.

It snowed on Halloween, it snowed right before Thanksgiving, but there was barely any snow for Christmas.  Not that snow controls everything, but there is something very “off” about this year.  Instead of feeling quiet and introspective, I’ve already got spring fever.  I’m antsy.  I want to get moving.  I’m trying to embrace all that winter has to offer, but it isn’t coming naturally this year.  It is concerning that my one day of spring will arrive without adequate preparation; that the energy of summer won’t be appreciated without first fully experiencing the stillness of winter.

3 Red Scarves

Not ever wanting to be caught without absolutely everything I need, I tend to create large bags of stuff and cart them around with me wherever I go.  To work, to my boyfriend's house, running errands--I'm loaded down with bags.  Not to mention my purse.  In  my medium-sized purse alone in addition to a wallet and check book I probably have 3 containers of dental floss (which you would think means that I floss more than once or twice a week but really just means I've never taken them out after the dental hygienist pushed them on me), 2 and a half pairs of earrings, 2 month's worth of mail, a guitar tuner and 1 container of Chapstick that I can never find when my lips hurt.  When these large bags take over my dining room, the trunk of my car or make it impossible for me to navigate around my desk at work, then it is time to go through them and put everything away.  Invariably I find lunch boxes with food that I forgot to eat during that month, magazines that I meant to recycle, and gym clothes that I've been looking for.  Yesterday, in order to free up some of these bags for their original purpose (grocery shopping) I cleaned out the collection of bags in the corner of the dining room.  And yes, I found half of a smelly yogurt parfait, about 10 magazines, a cute black shirt a friend gave me because it was too big for her and 3 red scarves.

I laughed and said to my youngest son, "That's weird.  Look--I have 3 red scarves.  Who needs 3 red scarves?"  So he responded with a reasonable question, "Did you buy them all yourself?"  I told him that I did not, that they were all gifts.  And for a second that is what I really thought, but looking at the 3 red scarves hanging on the coat rack, memories of their origins came flooding back.  The one I bought from a friend that was making them out of felt for a fundraiser, the soft thickly knitted one was from when I returned a gift that did not fit, and the fancier one was a gift--but I just as easily could have bought it myself.  There is something about a red scarf in winter that is irresistible to me.  Visual as well as physical warmth to help get through the long winter in Maine.

Negative Space

I caught myself thinking “I used to be an artist” today.  I really did think I was past that stage—I even used it as the main theme of the “about me” section of this blog just 2 days ago.  We can’t really control what we think— the thoughts come so rapidly.  We can immediately retract them though and since they are in our own head no one else is the wiser.   (Unless we admit to it later in a blog.)  I was driving at dusk today with the sun having already dropped under the horizon and the soft colors in the sky were reflecting in the ice-crusted snow like a placid ocean.  The trees in the distance appeared black in contrast; each limb defined clearly.  A long row of tall white pines, a few well-shaped oak trees, gangly bare birches.   The individuality of each tree was made all the more apparent by the negative spaces between the branches.  If I was still an artist it would be a scene I would love to paint.  I pulled over in front of the same farm where these moments always seem to happen, and took a few photographs for reference.  Just in case.

Many years ago, I took an adult continuing education class with an amazing teacher named Helen Siegel, and we did learn to draw.  But more importantly she taught us how to see.  One of the assignments was to draw objects, not by looking at them directly but by drawing the negative space around them.  The main way to get to know something is to look directly at it and study the details, but it is not the only way.    Stepping back and seeing the object in relation to others.  Seeing how it interacts with its environment.  Seeing what is missing around it.  The negative space.  

Tag! You're it!

We are supposed to wear name tags at church.  Visitors or people just checking the place out get the white rectangular stickers to write their own names on.  Members of the congregation are provided plastic circular buttons that you can insert any image you want behind your name.  If you are not particularly artistic there is someone that can do it for you if you provide some direction on what you might like on your button.  There is a display case to leave your button on so you don’t need to worry about remembering to bring it every Sunday.  I’ve spent a lot of time over the years looking at the display case; looking at how each person chose to represent themselves.  Some are people I haven’t met because they go to the other service but I get an idea of who they are based on their button.  An author with a book, an artist with paint supplies, outdoorsy people with outdoorsy scenes, a person that identifies as Quaker with an oatmeal logo….

After several years of being a member, I still wrote my name on a white rectangular sticker each Sunday.  If I wore any name tag at all.  This probably annoyed people because it is a Unitarian Universalist Church therefore very concerned about the environment and I was wasting resources.  The fact is I really appreciated the fact that other people were wearing name tags.  I have a horrible memory for names so nametags are very helpful.  It makes it easier for people to build relationships taking the pressure out of trying to remember names, and the images can provide conversation starters.  There were three reasons that stopped me from making a name tag for myself:  (1) I kept losing the materials to make them, (2) sometimes flying incognito under the radar is nice, and (3) I couldn’t commit to an image.  I’m not an author, but I write.  I’m not an artist, but I’ve made art.  I wouldn’t call myself an outdoorsy person but I love to hike and garden.  I’m not a Quaker, but I like many of the things they stand for and I briefly attended one of their schools. 

Even choosing the color and font was stressing me out.  I was so afraid of encapsulating a projection of myself that was inaccurate.  Concerned that the relationships I formed at church might be skewed by the name tag I created.  I considered making a whole bunch of them and like clothes picking the one that seemed to fit the day.  In the end I found a photograph of a lit candle and wrote my name in black pen across it.  The image represented the flaming chalice which is a symbol of my denomination.   This seemed to solve my conflict since I wasn’t really pigeonholing myself, just simply paying homage to the church.  After several years I created a nametag, but a year has gone by and I have yet to remember to wear it.  

The Ride to Work

There is a farm that I pass a few times a week.  Well, I normally pass it, but I’ve also stopped by the side of the road to take photographs of it.  I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve taken down my license plate number just in case.  I stopped when an early summer storm was brewing and the chickens were hiding under the coop beneath a sky filled with dragon clouds.   When the Christmas lights lit up the enormous tree hanging over the road and when a full red moon hung low over the pastures.   One gray morning on my way to work I stopped to shoot the dew covered weeds in the meadow.  Everything looked muted that morning, there was a dense fog—the type I dreaded that I would see every day in Maine but it actually happens very infrequently.  The sun was just making its way over the hill so the few trees in the background were somber silhouettes.  Queen Anne’s Lace blossoms were the tallest in the foreground; some were opened wide and flat, others in a tight ball.  What would make two of the same flowers right next to each other greet the day so differently?  

Socks

I would say the hardest part about trying to write every day is coming up with something to write about.  Except in the shower.  I thought of so many ideas this morning in the shower that I made the whole house late this morning.  This would have been almost acceptable if I had been able to keep those thoughts in my head until I had the time to jot them down.  But I didn't.  And it's late and I'm tired so you are getting a post about socks.

My boyfriend's mother gave me socks for Christmas.  I am always barefoot, and they are a family of people who like to wear shoes.  Sometimes her face looks pained with concern as she glances at my naked feet and comments about how cold the floor is in the basement where the ping pong table is.  Feeling the ground beneath me is comforting.  Makes be feel stable.  I think I play ping-pong better that way.  (Not really I still stink.)  Even at work I tended to wear crusty old mismatched socks hidden under my sexy black boots.  Who would know.  But now that I've been wearing pretty gray socks with pick patterns--soft and just the right amount of thickness--they kind of make me happy.  I think I might make a habit of wearing them.

At the end of Pablo Naruda's Ode to Socks he says it better than me:

The moral of my ode is this:
beauty is twice beauty
and what is good is doubly good
when it is a matter of two socks
made of wool in winter. 

Lifedancer

You often have to give your email address out-- at the doctor's office, children's schools, cashiers when signing up for rewards programs.  My email address has the phrase "lifedancer" in it and often the person collecting the information looks up and says, "Oh, are you a dancer?"  Sometimes the tone is curious, sometimes skeptical if they've taken notice of my age, often they just want to talk about dancing..."My sister is a dancer she performs at..."

No activity gives me more joy than dancing.  However that is not why I identify with "Lifedancer."  About 8 years ago I was in the middle of a physical and emotional crisis.  I was very sick and depressed for a few weeks, but when the symptoms started to improve enough to leave the house I went shopping.  I happened upon a deck of tarot cards that had beautiful artwork and were large and circular which seemed unusual and very feminine.  The deck was called "Daughters of the Moon" and I've always been drawn to the moon so I bought the cards.  Every day during my recovery from that point I would draw a card from the deck and each day the card seemed to mirror how I was feeling.  Until one day, when I not only physically felt well, but was also in a very optimistic and energetic frame of mind I chose "Shakti, Life Dancer."    (If you are familiar with tarot in a traditional deck it would correspond to "The World.")

One of the lines that the author of the book that accompanies this desk is:  "The ecstatic life-dancer creates the rhythmic pattern of life, revealing that all endings lead us to new beginnings." When you are dancing you must finish one step in order to take the next.  Usually when you start dancing you are familiar with the song and generally know what steps you are going to be taking.  Sometimes the music changes though and then you need to chose whether or not you want to learn the new dance.  You can even chose to create your own music.  

So when the receptionist or cashier confirming my email address asks, "Oh are you a dancer?"  I usually just smile and reply, "Yes...are you?"

The Secret

"Write a secret down.  Something that you’ve never told anyone else.”  That was the assignment one day during a week-long poetry workshop that I was participating in.  We were to write our secrets down, they would get mixed together and we could use the secret that we randomly picked as inspiration for a poem.  The secret that I drew was about sneaking into our camp’s dining hall and eating whipped cream from the container.  It was a really fun poem to write since the subjects I usually fell into were so serious.  A good friend of mine admitted later that it had been his secret.  I was glad that I didn’t know that beforehand since I would have written the poem an entirely different way, but I was also glad that is was his because it gave us a shared experience.

Although I didn’t know her, I vividly remember the woman who wrote about my secret.   I remember what her voice sounded like as she read her work.  Sincere and timid--she didn’t consider herself a writer.  It was one of the most moving pieces that I’d ever heard, and I would do anything to have a copy of that poem now.  But at the time I couldn’t admit to my secret.  My secret was:  “I fall in love almost every day.”

I had been married for about 14 years at the time, and my husband ran the camp where this workshop was being held.  I thought that people might get the wrong impression of what I meant.  Like I had a wandering eye.  People still might, but it does not really matter any more.  There are very few people that I feel accountable to at this point, and I think those people get it.  Get me.  So it is okay, and five years later I feel comfortable taking my secret public.  I fall in love almost every day. 

With the checkout person who has the bright genuine smile and interesting story, with the gardener who makes our space beautiful, with Geddy Lee because he is so comfortable in his own skin and sings crazy-high notes.  With my children because they are growing into remarkable men, with my boyfriend because we keep finding more things to like about each other.  With elderly people walking down the street holding hands.  Feeling connected to all sorts of people, enjoying all of the small and large interactions.  I fall in love almost every day.  

Vigilant Coziness

I have a lovely young woman in my life that surprised me one day by saying, “You always sit curled up like a cat.”  There were two things remarkable about that statement.  That she was right and that she noticed.  I had not really thought about it much until she said that, but it is true.  When I sit in a chair I pull my legs up, snuggle in tight usually with a throw blanket and settle in.  Like a cat I like to be vigilantly aware but cozy.  At work there is a spot where the sun shines in through large panes of glass.  When I need to get a break for a few moments I sit there on the concrete floor propped up against the wall.  Hidden in plain sight, quietly soaking in the sun.

 

Preteen girls are busy.  They are immersed in the job of getting to know themselves, navigating social ins and outs, doing homework and other extracurricular activities.  So for a very busy young woman to take the time to notice something about me that I hadn’t really noticed myself really struck me.  In fact I’m surprised when I find out that anyone has really paid attention to me.  Or to anyone else for that matter.  We all have so much going on in our own lives.  When is the last time that you’ve really looked at someone closely or long enough to be able to make an insightful observation?    This particular young woman is a talented writer and artist so imagine that her innate curiosity contributes to her successes.  Gives me something to think about when I’m curled up in the sun tomorrow.

Love By the Book

In late August of 1979 I decided it was time to get myself a boyfriend.  Not one to wait around for things to happen I picked up a Bell Telephone book and isolated the white pages.  I closed my eyes, opened the book up to a random page and pointed.  I opened my eyes to reveal the name of the person that would be my first love interest.  John Anderson*.  Sounded like a good match.  I realize the flaw in my plan was that an 11-year-old would not have a telephone number listed under his name in the phone book but I trusted the Universe nonetheless. 

A few weeks later I was in homeroom on the first day of school and the teacher was calling out roll call.  The first name read was "John Anderson.”  He actually went by Jonnie.  And yes, whether by fate or by design he soon became my first "boyfriend."  I don’t remember much about our relationship except that our first kiss was on the bus on the field trip to Harrisburg.  But our first “French” kiss…well that was an event and it seemed like most of the sixth grade knew it was going to happen before I did.  And many of them watched.   It was during a showing of the animated version of “The Hobbit.”  It was disgusting…no offense to Jonnie.  I don't think that my reaction had anything to do with his technique.  I just was not prepared for what a tongue actually would feel like no matter how many times I watched Joanie kiss Cha Chi on Happy Days.  It was slimy and bumpy like sea urchin sushi.  I don’t remember kissing him again.  I may not have.  But somehow, somewhere along the way, kissing became my favorite pastime. 

I met my current love interest (and hopefully my last) in a slightly less random way but it still felt like an invisible hand giving me direction.  Considering his last name is that of an animated character I have to wonder if I had opened the phone book to his name would I have trusted the Universe and sought him out?  Or would I have turned to a new page and pointed to a someone else?  Who knows.  But luckily I was given a little more information to go by, because he is a great match for me and turned out to be an excellent kisser.

*name changed to protect the very innocent.

In Tune

My 13 year old son had his first guitar lesson this evening.  All of the chairs in the waiting area were mismatched and were of varying degrees of comfort.  I tried three of them before I settled in.  The lighting was harsh and the walls, trim and floor were all different shades and tones of grey.  It was not particularly clean and on the “coffee” table which was missing all of its drawers were random pages of a few of the city’s free papers.  None of the stories that were visible were compelling enough to pick up.  So to pass the time I listened to the different lessons going on behind closed but not soundproof doors.  The adolescent boy in room 7 started his lesson finger-picking “Oh Shenandoah” which was a surprising choice but sweet and simple.  His father, sitting in one of the seats that I had passed on was tapping his foot, presumably to what he thought was the rhythm, while making notes in the margins of a Business school text book.  I could hear bits and pieces of my son’s conversation with his new teacher although he was in room 8 so a little farther away.  I was happy to hear how comfortable he sounded.  They started in on learning the first 4 chords of Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” A relatively easy beginning but with a satisfying alternative rock sound.  Something that he will likely want to practice so that is good!

I was a little younger than him when I started guitar lessons—I was 12 but I was going on 26.  I had a crush on my teacher but I think it had very little to do with him.  I had just seen a Rex Smith movie called “Sooner or Later” in which a 13 year old falls in love with her 17 year old guitar instructor and  I thought it was terribly romantic.  I did like playing the guitar and I was fairly competitive with myself—I really wanted to figure out the songs before the following lesson.  The problem was, no matter how solidly I could play the song alone at home, the second I got to the music store my hands would sweat so badly I could not even hold a pick.  Rhythm and technique also went right out the window …well metaphorically since there was not a window in the 5’x5’room.   And even though my guitar teacher probably never knew I learned “Stairway to Heaven” so well that 32 (really?) years later I use it to tune guitars.

You should not get the idea that I play often.  The frequency I’ve opened my guitar case over the years follows the Fibonacci sequence.  After my guitar teacher quit to play tennis I probably did not pick it up again for 13 years, then 8, 5, 3, 2, 1, 1, and that brings me to now.  I’ve been inspired a few times this year and have taught myself a few songs.  What I’ve found interesting is that every time I’ve picked it up I’ve been better not worse no matter how much time has gone by.  I keep have to relearning where the chords and notes are, but what I lacked as a young girl, confidence and forgiveness, has grown through the years and that has made the difference between strumming series of chords and playing a song.  Now, I’m still probably better by myself than when I have an audience, but a lack of self-consciousness and the courage to make mistakes is key to unlocking our true potential.

Puzzling

There is something about putting a jigsaw puzzle together which appeals to my need for order.  I can actually hear people snickering but it is true—under this chaotic whirling vortex of crazy hair, post-it notes, candy wrappers and children—there is order.  Well at the very least there is the desire for order. 

I’ve never watched the process in which other people do puzzles so perhaps I’m not unique in my technique.  The very first thing that I do is go through the entire box and separate out all of the pieces that have straight edges.  Completing the perimeter is a way of getting a sense of accomplishment early in the process which gives you confidence to go on.  Once you close up all of the sides you also have a better idea of what you are dealing with.  Even though the measurements are written on the box the actual size always comes as a surprise to me. 

The next step differs depending on the puzzle.  If there are several discrete objects which look different enough then I’ll go back to the box and sort by color and set upon putting the different sections together. These are another series of little victories to keep you going, and eventually they all fit together and make sense as a whole.  I was about to go into the process of how I put together a puzzle that looks entirely uniform like the migraine-inducing Where’s Waldo pictures.  But the truth is I would never buy one of those puzzles.  If it all looks the same—if each individual piece lacks individuality—I would quickly grow bored or crazy. 

What if before we are born into this world we are briefly shown our puzzle box?   Maybe we were given a quick glimpse of the completed picture, the dimensions and how many pieces we have to fit in.  Our task is to figure out how to make all of the pieces work. 

Occasionally, when I think of how old I am (almost 44) and I think about how I’ve not lived my life the way I feel it was meant to be lived, panic sets in.  My chest hurts.  I can’t breathe.  My pulse quickens.  I feel overwhelmed and guilty by my failure to waste this precious chance that we are all given at birth.  In life you can’t start by framing out the picture.  That is my problem.  I really want to know where the edges are.  But instead I’ve been fitting together the pieces that are easy to find matches for.  The home with the kids section, work session, life with the boyfriend section, karate section, friends and family section, spiritual work section, and I suppose now the writing section.  I enjoy all of those pieces and do feel they are all accomplishments in their own way—but it does not feel even close to the complete picture yet.  Am I missing entire sections or have I just not figured out how the sections I have are supposed to make a whole?

Wish for the New Year

Sitting on a bench near the top of a mountain sat the Creator.  He was tending a roaring fire.   The light radiating from him burning just a little brighter than the flames.  I had sought him out to ask what blessings I should be passing on to my friends and family for the New Year.  What would be the most useful gift.  He didn't answer right away.  He smiled and picked up a long stick with a marshmallow on the end and put it over the fire.

I watched the marshmallow gently brown over the dancing fire.  He was clearly better at me than making S'mores.  This summer I bought the jumbo sized marshmallows thinking that for kids bigger is better.  But the jumbo marshmallow wouldn't cook through all of the way so the center was cold and too firm and the outside was burned because I was not patient enough to gently roast it and thrust my stick deep into the flames to speed up the process.  The 4 small Hershey bar pieces and 2 graham crackers were over-shaddowed by the unwieldy, messy and awkward jumbo marshmallow.   Now a treat is a treat and we enjoyed them for sure, but still.  When I snapped out of my flashback he had finished putting together two S'mores of the ideal ratio and handed me one.  It was amazing.  Warm, gooey, full of interesting textures and familiar tastes and smells.  In companionable silence we ate and watched the flames.  Although the metaphor for flames dancing is so overused it feels cliche to use it.  But I can't think of any other word to describe them.  For me dancing is the ultimate expression of joy, being one with all of the senses, full of energy.  Honoring life with abandon.


He took a moment to lick the stickiness off of his fingers and then turned to me.

"Send them the wish of playful reverence," he said.   "The way to honor the gift of life is to enjoy it.   Find the balance of ingredients.  Be messy.  Have fun."


Happy New Year!