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.

Coffee, Tea or Me

She said that my absence was like "really wanting a cup of coffee but there was only tea."  The best compliment ever--to a coffee drinker.  There are many kinds of tea that I will happily drink, but it is never an acceptable substitute for coffee.  Tea will never be my morning companion to the Today Show.  Coffee with its strength and earthiness, it has substance and an aroma that even coffee-haters can't deny.  Heavy in the mouth, coating the throat on its way down, it makes its way to the stomach where it arrives with the promise of energy.  Coffee can be relied on.  Tea is coffee's elderly aunt.  Delicate, gentle and warm it's nice, but it's the finger sandwiches or cookies served with it that complete the visit.  Tea is great when you don't feel well since it does not upset you, but it's coffee that you can turn to when you are gearing up for a challenge.  

Good Housekeeping

My mind is like my home--it's a shambles but contains almost everything I need.  The decor is a mix of function, art and legos.  It is not as picked up as I'd like it to be because I'm always too busy to clean and organize.  I prefer a clean house, but given the actual choice of cleaning or doing something fun, I choose fun.  The problem is when I really need something I can't find it.  To make matters worse I'll have a clear memory of seeing it recently.  I probably even stepped over it on the way to the bathroom.

Post-divorce Reds

Red was my post-divorce color.  It was not a conscious choice.  I needed new items for my new house, or rather my small new-to-me apartment.  I picked up a red couch, red chair, red tablecloth and placemats, red art for the walls, a red suitcase and a red case for my cell phone.  Two swingy red dresses, almost identical.  And we can't forget about the 3 red scarves.  None of these purchases were made with the words "Look at me!" in mind.  In fact, I loathe being the center of attention.  But everyone needs to at least feel like they are visible, and I had felt like a ghost for a long time.  I was apparently being drawn to this color for a reason.  I wonder if there is a shade of nail polish called Divorcee.  I wouldn't buy it though even if it were red since I feel like the word "divorcee" connotes that something is broken or missing.  I feel whole and present, and have the energy to focus my attention on my loved ones so that they never feel invisible.

Room with a View

From my seat at the table there is a great view of the back yard through the French Doors.  There are many places inside and out to enjoy the property but I think that seat is my favorite.  I focus on the scene through each of the small white window panes so instead of one large view of the backyard, it can also be viewed as about 64 small ones.  The ripped up kite at the top of the tree that none of the kids could figure out how to get down despite the hours trying in hopes of winning the award money.  The section in the tree perfect for perching on while deciding which branch to climb to next.  The tire swing.  The bright sky behind the treeline in the distance.  Animal tracks.  Ski tracks.  Little pictures of our life that are easy to study in small pieces; more likely to notice the details.  

I've been thinking about my day in much the same way.  If someone had asked me earlier this evening how my day had been, I would have said "Pretty crappy."  That was the overall feeling at least.  But breaking it down into the smaller panes changes the view.  There was a section of parenting trials and tribulations, a section of banking errors, and computer system freezing at work. There was a section of burning my lunch, sick kid, grounded from phone kid, and fixing banking error.  There was a section for eating cookies, one for a conversation with my supportive boyfriend, one for laughing with the boys while watching The Voice, listening to guitar practice and writing.  What a view.

Coffee Hour

Coffee hour at church provides inspiration that often rivals that of the sermon.  I wouldn't know how the sermon went today since I spent the morning in the kitchen making coffee.  Nonetheless, I left feeling spiritually replenished to face another week.  

One of the lessons I was reminded of was that we can't control what other people do, only our reactions.  I was enjoying having the kitchen to myself.  Brewing the fresh locally roasted coffee,  ritualistically setting out the Half and Half, sugar and tea, and choosing which cups of the motley assortment to set out. There must be other people that pick which coffee cup to use with as much significance attached to the choice as I do.  Is it a "I heart NY" day?  One of the cups that the kids painted with the UU principles?  A winter scene?  Flowers?  A plain cup that's an ugly shade of brown?  The cup that I drank from today had a woman in an office sitting at a desk with a fake nose that said "Don't ask me I just work here."  Then adults started to show up and they didn't all stay on their side of the window; some entered my sanctuary.  I was not pleased to have my peace disturbed, to have to snake around people to do my work.  Then the kids were let out of their programs and the onslaught of requests for hot chocolate started.  Worse, some took it upon themselves and spilled the sticky powdery mix all over the counters.  I was able to rein in my irritation and pulled up a stool and sat down to join them instead.  They were sweet, funny, silly and insightful as children and teens often are. 

I also had the chance to reconnect with an old friend over coffee.  He brought up the fact that people can have "fatal flaws" that can be their undoing.  Like fear, insecurity, pride, and greed.  If I were to name what my fatal flaw has been it would be setting negative illusions on myself.   Many cultures have evil connotations associated with dragonflies, but I relate to a meaning Native Americans ascribe to them.  This description of their symbolism accompanied a stone pendant with a dragonfly painted on it:  "Shatter your illusions that inhibit your thoughts and actions."  We convince ourselves of our limitations, we think that we are bound to fail at our goals so we don't even attempt to achieve them.  I've worn that pendant for over 16 years.  I often put it on specifically when I need confidence.  It has only been recently that I've taken the message to heart.  I believe it now.  Like the dragonfly whose two sets of independent wings allow him to move in any direction--we can change and go in any direction we wish.  Perhaps I'll donate a dragonfly cup to church, in case I need another place to be reminded.

Moon Sister

My friend called me Moon Sister.  I had assumed it was because the first time I met her we had a bonfire under a full moon.  It was a wonderful night, we were far off of the grid so even with the full moon all of the stars were bright.   We were all mothers of young children, and no matter how much we loved them we were glad to be off together, exploring the fact that we were more than just mothers.   We composed silly songs.  We carefully made our way down a dock on Lake Nicatous and the five other women tried to help me see my first shooting star.  I had never laughed that long and hard.  I'm sure some of it was the power of the full moon.  It always leaves me a little off-kilter, sometimes in a good way and sometimes not.  It can be hard to concentrate when she is around.  Much like a beautiful woman.

As an adolescent I would look up at the full moon.  It was a reminder of the Universe and our little place in it.  Gravity felt like an illusion and it would be easy to float up in to the sky and visit with the Woman in the Moon whose features I could make out so clearly.  Smiling at all of us who noticed her with love and compassion.  Inviting us to come out to play.  Full Moon was in attendance for many of my most memorable nights.  Driving from the hospital with my newborn son, his 2 year old older brother excitedly exclaimed, "Da Mooooon Da Mooooon!"  He knew.  Full Moon was our escort home.  The years that I lived on the beach I visited her almost every time she arrived.  She was a confidant, a witness, a sister.  

Although the name fit for many reasons, I eventually found out why my friend called me Moon Sister.  One evening I heard her talking with a woman and she said, "You know there is a giant owl behind you, right?"  And this woman said, "Yes, of course, that is (she named him but I don't remember the name)."  Now, the woman with the giant owl was Micmac and the Native American culture is more in touch with spirits and animal guides so this question was answered matter-of-factly.  Being raised White Anglo-Saxon Protestant you would think I would have been at least a little skeptical.  But I wasn't.  I asked my friend if she always saw things like that.  She told me that when she meets someone she can see their Spirit Guides.  She does not usually mention it to people because most people would think she was crazy.  I was disappointed that she had never told me who she saw with me, so asked her if I didn't have one.  She said, "Of course you do!  That is why I call you Moon Sister.  The smiling face of the Full Moon follows you everywhere."

Seriously

The hardest part of trading my old Nissan Quest was giving up my bumper stickers and my favorite one said, "Why take life seriously?  It isn't permanent!"  This message took on completely different meanings depending on the day.

You can ask the question straight, "Why take life seriously?" and the answer "It isn't permanent" can be a straight answer.  Or sarcastically, "Why take life seriously? It isn't permanent."  If you believe that this is our one shot at life on Earth then you better take it seriously.

Maybe we get more than one chance at life. Like going to school.  Our first few lives are grade school, learning the fundamentals.  We start to get the more challenging material in middle school, and work on figuring out who we are and what we want to be.  The high school years are spent going deeper into subject matter and learning to deal with distractions.   At the end of each life we get to spend summer break with our loved ones.  Relaxing, assimilating what we learned over the life and then preparing to go back to school with new clothes and a different syllabus.

Why take life seriously?  I really don't.  It isn't permanent so I'd rather play and learn.  Life should be fun. Seriously fun.

Happy Numbers

According to the laws of mathematics, the number 44 is what is called a "happy" number.  Wikipedia has this to say about happy numbers:


"A happy number is defined by the following process. Starting with any positive integer, replace the number by the sum of the squares of its digits, and repeat the process until the number equals 1"


For example:  
44 is happy because 
4²+4²=32

3²+2²=13

1²+3²=10

1²+0²=1

44 is also happy because it is the age I will be tomorrow.  And for some reason I'm really excited about it.  I like how the number sounds, how it looks, and  how it feels.  It feels like me.  

When I was 12 I looked and felt much older than my age.  I could walk right into the casinos in Atlantic City with impunity.   When I was 40 I looked and felt much younger than my age, which made being a newly single mother of three a slightly awkward experience. All of a sudden 44 feels right.   Like the number "1" that determines if a number is happy or not, I feel whole and independent.  

Working With Paint

You can't have a fear of commitment and work with watercolor paints.  Watercolor paint is hard to control where is goes and once it touches the paper mistakes are hard to deal with.   Oil pants are more forgiving.  You can continue to work with blending the colors and changing strokes.  You can keep the painting a work in progress, changing your mind until it feels done.  Even after oil paint dries, if you aren't satisfied with the results you can simply paint over the image like the first try didn't ever exist.  It has been a long time since I've made art.  When I did, I preferred to work with colored pencils--they are able to be erased.  Whatever medium you chose it is important that you understand its nature so you aren't trying to work against it.

My Remo drum needed to be decorated and the type of paint required was acrylic.  Acrylic paint has the same consistency of oil so I wasn't too concerned about technique.  However, the drum is special to me so I was a little nervous I would wreck it.  I carefully plotted out the design and started at the bottom where I was planning to represent the ocean.  I liked how the color looked--it was hard to tell from the sample exactly how it would turn out and as an added bonus the light could still show through the drum head.  However the paint dried much faster than I anticipated so I had to commit quickly and decisively.  The water actually came out better than I hoped it would--the variations in the amount of paint were similar to the ocean with patches of darker and lighter areas.

A teacher of mine was an accomplished artist.  She had the right temperament and steady hand to work with watercolors.  Some of her works were large and detailed and I would marvel at the perfection of them particularly knowing how difficult the medium is to work with.   But not everything came out as she planned.  One time she was working on a painting with cool muted that was almost complete.   There was a spot of red paint from another project that got on her hand without her knowledge and when she went to put one of the final strokes on her painting, the red transferred from her hand to the paper.  She was understandably upset  Her painting ruined and a lot of time "wasted."  A few days later she glanced at the paper and realized that while her original idea was not going to happen she could work with what she had.  She changed the red dot into a little person hanging from the scene and it added visual interest and whimsy that was missing from her vision before.

Arachnophilia

Spiders terrified me.  Even the skinny little harmless ones that were prolific in my mother's otherwise spotless condo.  One of my chores was dusting the chrome and glass tables and I came upon these aberrations of nature way too often.  When Bubble Yum was rumored to contain spider eggs it was enough to make me switch to Trident and leave my bubble blowing days behind.  As an adult I mentioned my arachnophobia to a friend and he ever so helpfully informed me that we have at least one spider within 5 feet of us at all times.  I should have been reassured.  I'd made it through 33 years without any of these omnipresent creatures crawling into my ear and laying eggs, or administering a bite filled with flesh-eating poison.  Instead I was more freaked out than ever.  In my defense I lived in Maryland, and there were local horror stories of nasty Brown Recluse spider bites that I don't believe were urban legends. 

To the best of my knowledge there are no harmful spiders indigenous to Maine.  A few may sneak in with produce from time to time, but not often enough to induce panic or worse yet reproduce and set up camp.  I would have moved to Maine much sooner had I known about that key selling point.  However, I still had a visceral reaction to spiders.  Until I learned a song.  The wise woman that I wrote about yesterday taught me a song and part of the refrain was:

We are the flow
We are the ebb
We are the Weaver
and we are the web.

Over the next few days I'd walk down the beach where the water meets the sand and I'd sing that song to myself.  It resonnated deeply within me.  About the rhythm of life and how we are what controls the tides in many ways.  About how we alone have the power to design our lives and we alone live in what we create.  Just like a spider.

Not long after I found one in the garden next to my house.  She had spun a flawless orb web between two Day Lily stalks.  Her body was about 3/4 of an inch in diameter and her colors were slightly menacing.  I was nervous around her but felt compelled to visit her every day.  Her web was always perfect and she sat (if you can call what spiders do as sitting) in the center of the home she had created for herself.  About a month had gone by before one day I went to check in on her and she was gone.  She never returned, and I missed my daily visits with her.  In that time I grew not only to love her and the beauty she created but to appreciate all spiders.  At least the local ones...I don't think I'd be overly fond of the dinner plate sized spiders in the Amazon. 

Wise Woman

She wanted me to gaze into her eyes for a full ten minutes without breaking eye contact.  I'm not one of those people that has a hard time making eye contact but the prospect of doing it for ten minutes was intimidating.  It was during a weeklong workshop on the relationship between different religions and how they present a moral imperative for taking care of the Earth.  We had already covered Christianity, Judaism, and Native American faith systhems.  Buddhism was the subject of this day, and this exercise was to help us gain empathy for others, particularly those that we didn't especially like (this has come in pretty handy over the subsequent 10 years).  I say "we" but it was actually just "me" as I was the only participant to show up that day, probably because it was a glorious summer day at the beach.  But the waves didn't have as much pull on me as the workshop leader.  She was intelligent, compelling and I felt there was a lot I could learn from her.  However being the only other person there made this "gazing" exercise all the more uncomfortable.

She had long graying hair, and I'm guessing that she was in her late forties or early fifties, and as I said before, she was beautiful.  As we started the exercise and I gazed into her eyes, her image morphed into that of the stereotypical gnarled old crone.  Decidedly not beautiful.  My eyes were drying out so I had the valid excuse to break eye contact to rub them occasionally, but each time I returned to her face she was the crone once again.  Surprisingly the ten minutes flew by.  She asked me if I had anything to share about the experience and I said no.  I couldn't bring myself to tell her that she kept changing into an ugly old hag.  I obsessed over it for the rest of the day.  A nagging part of me knew that I should have told her the truth. 

The next afternoon I was talking to her and she confessed that she was struggling with aging.  Not because she didn't want to grow older, but because she didn't feel like she was ready to be an "elder" or wise woman in the community.  She didn't consider herself worthy of that honor yet and was disappointed.  I finally told her what I had seen the previous day.  That when I gazed at her during the meditation I had seen the image of the wise woman, that it was her true self.  Sometimes our job is to just pass on information without judgment.