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.