Power Tools and Pencil Marks

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

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

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

Scratch Where it Itches

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

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

The Power in Mystery

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

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

Memory Lane

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

In the Works

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

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

Il Faut Cultiver Notre Jardin

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

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

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

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

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

Arrangements

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

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

A quote from my son's credo statement:

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