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.