Tea For Two Even If We Are Worlds Apart

Can something be in two places at the same time? According to quantum physics, an electron can. So what about you?

In a way, I think we already do that.

I sit here, thinking of you. I hear your voice, see your face, know how your skin feels. In my mind's eye I am doing something with you and we are together. I am walking in the idea of you even though I'm not actually there. Or am I?

Well, some people would say that if you don't know about it, I am not really there, but there are people all over the world who pay very little attention to what is around them. How easy it would be to miss an ethereal presence like this one. In Quantum physics it apparently makes a difference whether or not someone is watching what happens. A human being seems to have some sort of effect on the outcome and speaking of outcomes? I understand that an outcome can come before the action, which means that time as I know it is somehow skewed.

Science, or imagination? I don't really know, but I do know I like the idea of you and if I could be in two places at once, one would be walking with you, in one way, or another.

Emanations

Below is a poem by one of my teachers. It is his writing that caused me to begin writing My Thots back in 1998 and he still has the power to fill me with thoughts and wonder, joy and love by the simple penning of just a few words.

Here is one of John MacEnulty's "Emanations."

Secrets are walls.

Only a fool climbs those walls.

Only a fool builds them.

I know, for I am both kinds of fool.

The kindest thing we can say to ourselves is that we have been foolish.

So, in your humility, say that kind thing to yourself when you find yourself hot with the hiding fear.

My secret is out. I am a fool.

But there is a third fool I love to be: the fool who tells his secrets.

That fool, God loves, children love.

That fool loves himself, herself, loves the breeze, the sun, the day.

That fool just doesn't understand that anything is wrong at all.

That fool has given up his hiding, found his treasure, and is dancing now.

And I wished I could speak Spanish!

Well, here is what happened last night. Interesting that the local police don't have an interpreter?

August 30, 2010
A couple of incidents took place overnight in Bloomington.
Sunday night at 8:46 p.m. at 200 block of Catalpa Street, a home invasion/aggravated battery/armed robbery took place.

Initial indications are that two men pushed their way into an apartment after the door was opened; other residents heard yelling in Spanish.
Officers investigating found two people with knife wounds.
Rodolfo Villafuerte, 29, was found with a slash on the stomach and puncture wound near the belly button.
Hugo Daniel Montoya, 27, had a puncture wound on right side of back
Both, residents of the apartment, were taken to St. Joe Hospital.
Police say neither speaks English, so exact details of what happened aren't clear.
Police say they're not sure if anything was taken, and there are no suspect descriptions yet.

I Need To Learn Spanish

Dog walking can be an exciting experience. Chauncey and I usually walk later in the evening, but tonight he wanted to go out early. It was not even 8:30 when we stepped out the back door of our building and into the pine needles that cover the floor of the back yard.

Picking our way across the hard cherry looking fruit that falls off the other trees, we heard tires squealing and saw a car roar past us on the street. It is a busy street, but most of the traffic travels at a modest speed. Not this car. We barely saw it!

A few moments later a police car quietly pulled into the parking lot. I watched it and urged Chauncey over into the trees so I could see where it was going. There is a policeman who lives here, but it turns out this wasn't him, or if it was, he was not just coming home. By the time I could see the car, the officers inside were gone, but the air was filled with sirens.

We are not far from two major thoroughfares, so the sirens could be going anywhere, but something just told me they were coming here. I edged in a bit closer to the parking lot, which is huge, probably three blocks, or more, long, and wide. Chauncey was thrilled, there were trees here he'd never sniffed before. Soon, emergency vehicles entered from both ends, accompanied by squad cars, all converging in one area.

Not generally an ambulance chaser, but finding it irresistible when it was so close, I worked my way around to the office area and stood back where I could see, but would be out of line for any real trouble. People were starting to appear around the entire perimeter now. It's hard to dismiss that many flashing lights. Also a birthday party was breaking up and parents were coming to pick up their children from the clubhouse. I tried to listen to what everyone was saying.

Two young women who are my neighbors on my end of the complex were excited, wondering if they would put up police tape and how big an area they would cordon off. "In my old place, the father of some chick's youngest came and shot up her crib then her oldest's daddy came, picked her up and dumped her in front of the emergency room door. Only he didn't go in 'cause he already had five warrants out on him. Of course the cops blamed him. They taped off everything. We had to crawl under it, or step over it every time we went out."

A woman with four little girls, who were making over Chauncey, was chattering animatedly into her phone in Spanish, occasionally nodding and smiling at me. She might have been asking me something, but I don't speak Spanish and she evidently uses her children as interpreters. Unfortunately for us, the kids were more interested in the dog than anything else by this time.

The police escorted a man on a stretcher out and put him in the ambulance. He was sitting up and appeared okay to me, but who knows. I suppose you can look pretty good, but if they are hauling you out on a gurney something is wrong. Then the other ambulance roared out, sirens blaring. Looking around the parking lot, I could see people standing there, back lighted like something out of, "Close Encounters of the Third Kind." A huge area surrounded by faceless people standing in small groups peering into the distance and beginning to fade back into wherever they came from.

Chauncey and I also decided it was time to make our exit and we went home via the back pathways, moving from one puddle of light to the next until we reached our own sidewalk where the girls we had been standing by earlier, hurriedly put their huge pit bull mix back into their apartment and went back to being the strangers who never speak.

United by a few minutes of excitement, we have all retreated, once more, back into anonymity.

"Don't Think Twice That It's Alright."

So I read that a politician said, "Let's go back to traditional American values." Hmmmm....let's think about that.

First of all it is more likely political hype on his part than anything else, but even assuming it's not, how far back should we go?

Oh yes, and whose traditions do we use. There are an amazing variety of traditions in our country's past.

Along with the big questions, like how do we avoid blowing each other off the face of the earth, or why are people starving when there is food rotting in storage, or how much is peace worth, are the smaller questions like, who should be allowed to marry who, how long does one have to be an American to be a "real" one, and which colors of Americans should expect to be pulled aside and forced to prove their citizenship. Life in these United States is fraught with such complexities.

H.L. Mencken said, "For every complex problem there is an answer that is clear, simple, and wrong."

Perhaps we need to continue on a little farther before we think about going back to anything.

Dusting The Cyclone

I love my life! Who else do you know who gets to dust a Wright, R3350 Cyclone, 18 cylinder Two Row Radial Engine? Or, in other words, who gets to dust a 3, 050 horsepower engine!

I've been hosting at the aviation museum and one of the things I try to do is dust everything not in a case once every week, or two. It gives me the chance to focus on different things and learn about them while I do it. Of course I also water the flowers and do a little dead heading, harking back to my flower shop days. And I am reading a book about Russian girls who became fighter pilots during world war two, in my spare time there.

Add in the people who come in to work on different projects and the stories we share, or the visitors who drop by and share even more stories and I think I have found just about the most interesting volunteer job in the world. Not to mention that when I leave, the private part of the airport is right next door and they often have a personal jet, or two over there warming up, or being worked on.

No flying for us though. Our airplanes are museum quality and while they may fly in initially, like our F-14 did, they seldom fly out. When I get back from Denver we are having a Day At The Airport when all of our cockpits, except the F-14 will be open and people will be there to talk about them. Some of our people actually flew in these particular planes during active duty. I had a man drop by today who flew in our Huey helicopter! Some of it's missions saved a lot of lives.

The reason our F-14 Tomcat, that's a Top Gun type plane for those of you who don't know, won't be open is that there is nothing left inside of it. Part of our acquisition required the Navy to send people down to remove anything that might still be sold on the black market, because there are still quite a few of these being used in other parts of the world.

Today, when I raised the flag, I had to lower it to half mast. Another young corporal was killed in Afghanistan and I thought how sad it is that for all the good things planes are used for, and there are lots of them, like the Berlin Airlift, and sea rescues and all sorts of other things, they are also used in wars. Our young people, led by this disastrous economy and incredible poverty are still signing up and being sent over where this monster gobbles them up and spits their bones back at us.

For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. A rule that is much more than a physics lesson. Life just isn't black and white and no amount of philosophizing is going to change that.

Playmates

It is hard to describe affection in today's world of sex, sex, sex. Not that there is anything wrong with sex, just that there are a lot of relationships not built around it.

It is totally possible to respect, have fun with, adore and like spending time with, writing to, or talking with someone without believing that one day you will fall into bed together and experience mad passionate sex.

People seem to have an especially difficult time believing this if the two people involved are of different sexes, but I happen to know, absolutely and for a fact, that good friends come in all shapes, sizes and genders and I am no more a threat to one than the other.

Honestly, I have many of the same thoughts now that I had as a healthy little preschooler, but I am a lot less likely to act on them. I still believe in hugs and kisses. I still like holding hands. I love talking to someone with a like mind and I wish I did not have to worry that people would misread these actions, thinking them to be something they are not.

As sweet as it is to have a lover, I need friends in my life, good friends, more. The kind you can whisper your secrets too and know they will be heard and released without judgment, or rancor of any sort. In a culture that considers even breast feeding mothers a sexual sight, it is rare to be allowed the freedom and gift of pure friendship.

But a gift it is.

Choices

When I say that I don't understand why anyone would choose to be unhappy, I have to admit this is not quite true. As a younger person I often opted for the less than optimum choice. I don't remember if I actually realized it was that, but it is what I did, nonetheless.

I felt there was some sort of nobility in suffering, in playing the martyr and there might be, if the circumstances were correct. If my suffering would save a nation, or bring about a cure for some dreaded disease, then it would be understandable. If it is only to draw attention to my sadness, isn't there a better way? That kind of suffering is ego, not martyrdom.

My life belongs to me and I should do with it, those things that bring me a sense of fulfillment and joy. I have a responsibility to those I love, to show them the way to better choices by living my own life that way.

Sometimes depression can make it seem as if there are no choices, but there are always choices. They may not solve all the problems, all the time, but they can certainly ease the way for a better future if made carefully. Just as looking ahead while driving can avoid things like hitting a child or dog that wanders into the street, so can a decision now help avoid a problem in the future.

When my life is not going well, when I am not happy, or in fact am very unhappy, then I need to step back and try to figure out what I might change. There is always something. There are people who live in the darkest slums of Calcutta who find more joy in their lives than people with homes and jobs and food on the table here in the Heartland.

That is something to think about. Whatever it is that makes us believe we should be sad and depressed and that these acts will bring some sort of goodness into the world needs to be re-thought. Of course I understand that we are under no obligation to be joyful, or even content, but I would not choose for it to be any other way.

"The seed of the new is present in the shell of the old."

Yesterday I wrote, "I would like to think this might be a better world, but the more I think about it, the more I doubt it. In the long run, the same basic problems would probably still manifest."

I received this response. "A beautiful thot, Linda, except for the above two sentences. I think you have described powerfully an alternative universe that inherently transcends the problems we experience by our sense limited reality. It is the manipulation of these trappings that leads to greed and cruelty. By finding the deeper meanings we become more aware, more loving. The tendency of that that evolutionary process would seem to me to have to be good. If we started from where we are now and shifted to that reality there would of course be a deluge of negative energy that would flood our consciousnesses, but it would seem to me to absolutely be on the way out as we all grew within that feeling based reality."

Having thought it about it off and on all day, I think this is true.

And another thought about this is that the idea came to me because of a group of people I am involved with who I only know through the good things they do. In fact, the only things I know about most of these people are their gender, a first name and the generous acts they feel inclined to shower on people. Over the course of time, I have seen the same people do extraordinary things for others with no expectations for any kind of reciprocity at all.

If it can happen on this small level, why couldn't it happen on a larger scale?

We have become a nation of cynics and for many good reasons. Those who are supposed to be the best, to be above reproach and corruption have fallen far short of who we thought they were. The only way I see around this is to be the best person I know how to be, regardless of what others say, or do. I do know if I am legitimate. I do know if I can be trusted and if I start with me and you start with you, the seed is planted.

The Gold Standard

I see the people around me with my eyes. I only see what takes up height, width, depth and has weight. I have no sense of how warm, or cold you are except by the manifestations that appear on you. I have no idea what you are thinking except for the interpretations I might make from body posture, or facial expressions. Almost everything I know comes through my eyes, or ears. I can hear what you say, the tone you use, the timbre of your voice. Ours is a sensual world based on physical sensations.

This is how our world operates, for humans, at least. Some animals can tell more about us by our smell, but I mostly only know if you smell good, or bad to me because of hygiene, or your choice of colognes and perfumes.

I live in a three dimensional world, but what if I lived in another dimensional way?

Imagine being a creature who perceives other creatures only through their actions. You come into my awareness only after, or during the time you are doing something. The intensity of your being is conveyed to me through the intensity you put into what you are doing, and, perhaps, your motives for doing it.

Instead of tall, dark and handsome, or elegant and graceful, I sense you as benevolent, or gracious. I know you from the amount of love you put into what you are doing, or the hate you manifest doing it. To me you are not six feet tall, but five fold generous, or perhaps ice cold greedy. There are a million ways I might know this, or see it through my body's senses in another universe.

Coming through my eyes, you might be a spectrum of colors, kind of like the aura people often speak about. Or you might be a combination of sounds emanating from deep, rich, warm to high, thin, reedy. Perhaps you would simply be known by the heat you produce, or even the heat you suck away from those close by, and maybe you would even have a difference in density, like fog and clouds. However it was that I knew it was you, it would have nothing to do with anything like how much money you had, or the size of your home, or the color of your hair. I wouldn't care if you managed to circumnavigate my space, legless, or on a state of the art motorcycle, or Rolls Royce. That would all be irrelevant in this universe. There would be no personal space beyond thoughts and emotions and these would manifest to others only by how they related to other beings when doing something.

You would simply be what you did. Your attractiveness to me would depend on your true nature and while there would still be a huge spectrum of personal appeal, it would not be based on the same standards at all.

I would like to think this might be a better world, but the more I think about it, the more I doubt it. In the long run, the same basic problems would probably still manifest. As long as we remain who we are at our core, we project the same energy out into the world. It might be less hidden by the facade of bodies and money and all the things money can buy, but in the end, I am what I am and so is everyone else.

Power has a way of finding its own level and the desire for power creates a centrifuge that distorts everything until someone pulls the plug. It is the strength of my desire to manipulate the universe around me that directs my power through my actions. Humanity will continue to cycle through the same phases again and again in every shape and every form and every conceivable way. Any dreams I have of making it better can only start with me and how I respond to the pressure around me. Anything more than that is out of my control.

Still, I dream of a world where goodness becomes the gold standard.

Thriving

My life is coming together! I look at my living room and it is me! Not me making do, or me just surviving, but me thriving!

I've got a busy week coming up, lots to do and starting to get ready to leave for Denver too. Only eight more days until I see my new granddaughter.

I even enjoyed the laundromat today. I'm learning that for me it pays to go before I am overburdened with too much wash. So, there I was, sitting on a stool, reading my book, with a cool drink I brought from home, and I looked up at the industrial strength washers in front of me to see what appeared to be a kaleidoscope. In the center was a magnificent combination of brilliant turquoise, reds and yellows, surrounded by deep dark blue. After a while it spun out into swirls and I thought, "This must be a quilt." But it wasn't and it never again came up in the same intriguing pattern again. It was just a load of brightly colored laundry that happened to do something quite beautiful and I happened to be looking when that happened. A woman came over and asked everyone something in Spanish, which went right over my head and then my clothes were dry. As I was leaving two little toddlers with their hair up in pigtails giggled and ran out the door in front of me. There was a busy parking lot out there and no one seemed to have noticed them except for me. Turning to the room I said, "You have two escapees who just left." Wondering if anyone would even understand me, but not to worry. Their mother, who was on the phone, evidently understands English just fine. She made a mad dash for the door and grabbed them both, plopping them back into the little barnyard like place where the other babies sat playing on the floor. She smiled, thanking me and I left.

I came home, walked Chauncey and here I am, ready to write my thots and then go to bed so I can be up early and off to the YWCA tomorrow. Life seems so simple.

I hope it stays this way for a while. A minimum of fuss and time to do whatever needs to be done. This is my idea of the good life.

Bare Love

How little we know of the far-reaching effects a simple comment can have in someone’s life.

Nothing is as searing as the intimation that one is not acceptable. So the elderly and imperfect learn to stay to themselves, keeping a distance between them and a world they know perceives them as less than desirable.

In the biological world where youthful beauty and health is attractive due to its ability to procreate and create big healthy babies, this love of immature beauty is understandable, but in today’s world where many prevent procreation, it becomes pointless. Our standards of beauty need to be rethought and perhaps even revamped.

Those slightly faded eyes and that beautiful white hair are lovelier because of the heart that lies beneath them. Withered arms and bulging waistlines backed by an understanding of youth’s youthfulness bring unbelievable amounts of comfort into the world. This is a beauty that must be grown and nurtured for a lifetime.

It is time to teach our youngsters to revere the enduring love and kindness they find in this world, because it is more rare than even the Byzantine Vases they will read about in school. Better than becoming a millionaire by thirty, imagine becoming wise enough to see through the charades that surround us on every side and reach deeply into each person who comes near us in order to feel their human-ness and love.

Caring for someone only to fulfill one’s obligations is not enough. Clean beds and food on the table without loving respect is like placing a dagger in someone’s heart and just pushing it in slowly enough that you hope no one notices.

It is murder no matter how you look at it. Believing it is acceptable for any reason defines who you are.

I Am Home

Well, I didn’t feel boring today, not at all. I felt sick. Sore throat, slight temperature, achy, upset tummy, generally blah, most of the day.

I got up, walked Chauncey and went right back to bed where I tossed and turned and had those peculiar sweaty dreams that come with these sort of things.

I dreamed that my friends moved into an upscale neighborhood in my town and I went to visit them. Their house was an amazing maze of staircases and rooms with little nooks and crannies tucked in everywhere. Of course I was trying to get to a particular place and couldn’t do it. That is standard fare in my dreams when I don’t feel well. I keep doing something over and over, but never achieving what I want. It’s that kind of foggy, slow motion struggle that becomes nightmarish after a while. Eventually I was able to tear myself away and go looking for my friends.

One of them was in the kitchen making dinner, and I found myself in one of the little nooks with the other. It was a small landing surrounded by an open railing and a staircase going downstairs. We sat facing each other and he told me how happy they were to finally have a home of their own and that he had flown them here in his small airplane.

I was excited and told him that I could show him a place right behind the house where he could land it. Of course it wasn’t an officially sanctioned place, but if he was careful, he should be able to use it anyway and it would be so convenient!

He said he was surprised how easily he had remembered how to fly and I told him it must be like riding a bike. Once you learn how, you never forget. Now he wanted to fly his friend around the town, but was afraid to push it. I gave him an encouraging hug just as he began to climb down from the little loft area we were in and my right shoulder, which is very limited in movement since my real move, was caught in an excruciating position that woke me up (for real.)

The good news? I woke up feeling better and starving for fried chicken! So I hopped in the car and bopped down the road. I wasn’t sure where the local chicken place was, but everything is close here and in less than two blocks I could smell the chicken. It’s funny how a smell brings back memories and I was immediately transported to my mom’s kitchen.

At home, sitting in my recliner, Chauncey at my feet looking reproachfully at me with his big eyes, I ate my chicken and at 9:33 PM had an epiphany! Leaping out of my chair, I rummaged in the closet and unpacked two frames I brought from North Carolina and hung one on the wall over the fireplace. It is the first thing I have put on the wall besides curtains and it seemed to magically alter the entire atmosphere.

I am home.

I feel boring, oh so boring, I feel boring and ....

Funny how I can go along, perfectly happy with the way things are going and then someone asks me what I do for fun. Suddenly I feel very boring.

I haven’t gone on any adventures for a while. Well, my life has been an adventure, so I didn’t need to put myself out there to find any others.

I don’t really have a best friend here anymore; so there is no one to call up on the spur of the moment and say, “Let’s go do this, or that.” And I am not particularly good at making plans.

Plans feel like obligations and obligations are like water balloons filling up minute by minute. Before I ever get around to tying them off and throwing them, I am overwhelmed by their weight and wish I’d never thought of it.

Still, I haven’t really noticed being lonely. I still see people every day, talk to people and keep up with correspondence via email. And, I have years of experience just entertaining myself.

I am one of those odd people who really like being with me. There are a bunch of things I enjoy doing all by myself. I know people who really need others around to feel fulfilled, but as much as I love certain people, most of the time I feel obligated to entertain people when they are around and I actually need quite a bit of alone time if I am going to be creative. My muse is often the silence.

When I am with someone I want to focus on him or her, on what we are doing. When I am alone, I am free to focus on other things. There is a balance to both of these and I think my fulcrum is just farther to one side than many people.

As long as I am not boring myself, I guess things are about as good as they get.

After The Candles Are Blown Out

People have an incredible need to spread bad news.

I went to one of my volunteering jobs this week and as we were going down the hallway one of the women mentioned that she had been talking to Mary Smith, not her real name. Still getting used to being here where I know so many people I exclaimed, "Oh, I used to play bridge with her years ago! She was married to Tom Smith, right?"

We only had a few steps before separating, but that woman managed to share Mary's affair with another man, her divorce from Tom, and how she had lived through a long debilitating disease with the new man before he had an unexpected heart attack while fishing one afternoon.

I know she had two children who must be grown up by now and probably has grand children too, but the main information this woman wanted to share with me was "Poor Mary's tragic life." Then she stepped out of my life and into her classroom.

What is it about doom and gloom that attracts people? It used to be called gossip. Now it seems to be material for reality television. The sleazier and sadder the news, the more some people seem to relish it.

I can remember being a teenager in college and longing to be part of life's drama, but after a few years of it, I realized that the drama is the smoke left after the candles are blown out. I prefer the fire and the light.

What's wrong with making the best of something? In my own life, even when things have been pretty bad, the good things still out weighed the bad and when I noticed that, I felt much better. People who swooped in and commiserated with me without urging me forward just made me feel weak and worse.

I love the hugs and sympathetic words, but I don't want pity and I can't imagine anyone else really wanting that either. At least not if they understand what pity is. Pity focuses on weakness. Love sees the weakness and helps find the strengths. There is a huge difference.

I tend to avoid "Sad Sams," those people who revel in sadness, but I am overwhelmed by the goodness of those who reach out again and again, helping others find their footing and move forward on their own.

Time To Shed Some Armor

I am still kind of tentative about my new home. Sometimes things seem so good that I can't believe they are true and that bothers me, because in my experience, if something seems that way, it probably is.

Yet, I wonder if my expectations have been a bit jaundiced by life too. I'm sure they have. I was working on a story yesterday and found myself writing, "Maddy had long since decided that she preferred to live alone rather than risk living with the knowledge that she was not quite up to snuff. Knowing that she was no longer a nubile young lady of twenty five, she still did not want to be reminded of it on an ongoing basis."

It's possible I've put on a little armor here and there. The too bright smile meant to deflect the stony stares of modern day Medusas. The pride that keeps me working and lifting long after my muscles have ripped themselves from my bones. I need to shed some of this stuff and just enjoy what's happening.

And what is happening is wonderful. The people here offered to help me move my stuff in, but I didn't want to impose, so I refused their help. They offered to bring heavy packages over from the office and hang curtain rods for me and I am learning. I let them. I'm not used to people doing things for me and especially not as quickly and with as much good will as I am discovering here.

Part of me is so grateful it is almost pathetic and part of me keeps wondering when the other shoe will drop. I don't know why that is. I do things for other people just because I want to, why wouldn't others do the same thing?

Can it be possible that the people around me are as good as they seem? I want to believe this. It is the way I want the world to be, but I keep waiting for the evil step mother to reach out through her mirror and throttle me. I suppose, like everything else, it is just going to take time.

Dog Interrupted

I went to the park again today.

Armed with my camera and a vague idea of what I was looking for, I knew for a fact that I needed some photos for a group I am in called A-Z Photos. I was unhappy with some of the pictures I already had and I needed an x. My son mentioned that almost all playgrounds seem to have xylophones of some sort any more, so that was my main focus.

Chauncey doesn't care why we go to the park. He just loves being there. All the people and dogs, water and trees are covered in smells that are as fascinating to him as my favorite novels are to me. Today he was engrossed in an especially juicy scent around a very old tree by the miniature golf course. Since he has to stand relatively still while I take pictures from one angle and then another, I usually let him take his time, but sometimes he just takes too much time. That was my opinion today.

Chauncey was dawdling. He sniffed the roots one way, then the side of the tree. He ran around it to the other side and went into little paroxysms of joy and finally ground to a stubborn halt with his nose to the ground. I stood there patiently watching him for a bit, then my mind drifted off to the scenery around me as I contemplated whether or not any of them would make a good shot. Finally deciding that neither they, nor the light in this area were what I was looking for I gave a little tug on Chauncey's leash. What happened next was hysterical.

He stopped what he was doing, and looking up at me, gave an audible sniff, as if highly affronted. Then he sat down and just looked at me and I knew what he was thinking! "Do I pull you away from your book just when you get to the best parts? Do you really need to go right now, because this part is fascinating and I really would like to finish it before we go traipsing off to get more of your silly pictures."

I had to yield. It was just way too funny and eventually he was ready to go find the paddle boats where he had to wait for me. I tried to angle the camera lens through the fence, but eventually had to climb up on a park bench and shoot over it in order to get the shot I wanted.

And Chauncey? He just sat there patiently waiting on me, his big brown eyes staring at me in disbelief.

Follow Those Bread Crumbs

I am always reading emails about how to be happy, or successful, or some other state of being that requires me to be something I think I am not already. The information is not generally bad, but I wonder just how useful it really is? Anytime I begin believing that I must go outside of myself to be happy, or content with myself, I am asking for trouble.

It seems to me that the most important thing a human being can do is to be content with who they are and I mean in a deep down, this is the way I was born understanding of their own needs. When I tell my grand daughters they already have everything they need, I mean it. Each one of us is entirely different, no matter where we come from, or who people tell us we are. Only my own senses can truly gauge how close I am to myself.

I don't know how to explain when I know I am on the right track. Contentment and joy are like light, they come in a gazillion different shades and intensities. My sense of well being increases with some more than others. These are the ones I want to pursue and it seems to me they are also the ones that are the best for me.

Other things do not provide that full bodied feeling of satisfaction. They may start out feeling good, but eventually something darkens that joy. There are a gazillion of these too. Everything from over indulging in necessary things like drinking, eating, shopping, or taking medications, to over doing other things like too much running, or working, or giving, yes even giving can be over done, can cease to bring contentment, or feel fulfilling. Once it becomes a driving force of its own, I am no longer at the center and I become lost in it. When it stops feeling really good, I need to modify it in some way.

It is a natural thing to want to be around others of like minds, but if those minds are only commiserating with each other, if they are mostly sharing their problems instead of their joys, things are not likely to get any better. Joy is generally the result of successes. It becomes the bread crumbs leading back into the sense of well being we are born with.

Not everything is fun, but fun is an excess. Some tasks, like education, or saving money, or cleaning things up, are a necessary means to an end, but eventually if life is not filled with more pleasant things than unpleasant ones, it makes sense to admit I am on the wrong road. It is not enough to do something out of duty. It needs to be done out of love. If I can't find the love in each action, I need to look at it and ask myself why?

Being human I have a tendency to become defensive and try to justify my actions, but that is for the world. I cannot fool myself. In the long run only I know if I am truly content, or just going through the actions. Why settle when it is possible to have so much more?

It only makes sense to put some quality time and thought into being a happy, contented human being whose life balances a little more heavily on the joyful side, but remember that the fulcrum is inside, not outside.

The Question

Today I noticed that everything is raising my hackles. It doesn’t matter what it is, I perceive it as annoying, or threatening, or indicative of much more than it is in some way.

People don’t move fast enough when the light turns green and I think that there should be a test to see who is allowed to drive with other people in the car, or who should be allowed to talk on their phones when they drive. I see litter lying around and fantasize about fining people based on the percentage of their income in order to get their attention. I wonder if the dog is walking under my feet on purpose. It is a wonderful mix of anger, creativity, and paranoia that I recognize, but am not sure where it is coming from.

The first solution is to stay at home, inside. Of course that isn’t possible, so the flights of angry fantasy continue. Nothing works right. I catch the dog leash on the door knob, then on the staircase. I stub my toe on a crack in the sidewalk and later on a stick in the ground. I am clumsy.

I realize that I haven’t eaten yet today, or taken my medicine and when I go to do either there are clumsy mishaps. I am off kilter, out of balance.

My stomach is just a bit off, my digestive track is roiling, and I am exhausted, but when I decide to take a nap my body aches no matter which way I lie. And it finally dawns on me that maybe I am coming down with something. This should simply be an, “Aha!” moment, but it isn’t.

Now I need to decide if this is real, or if I am just looking for a reason not to do something I have committed to. The symptoms are real of course. They stem from either a real bug of some sort, or a mental bug that is trying to tell me I am off kilter.

I know that I am a bit off course. That is bound to happen every now and then. Trying new things is a necessary part of expanding my experiences and finding out where I belong. Not everything is always going to be the right thing for me. In fact, there is one volunteer job that I will be quitting as soon as my current obligations to it end. I’ve already let them know that and it is not a problem, but could it be this that is provoking me this much?

It could. I’ve never been very good at doing things I don’t like, or believe in. It is an annoying, but true part of being me. However, I am not the only one whose opinion matters and I agreed to do this particular job until the end of August, so I will.

If I am really sick. That would change everything, for tomorrow at least.

Arghh! Life! How complicated it can be sometimes.

You’d think that by my age I would have solved all these little inconveniences, but obviously I have not.

Happy Birthday Spencer!

Sometimes there are people in the world who are just intriguing. Now, while all of us are lovable and most of us are talented in some way, there are people in this world who just stand out a little more and Spencer is one of those people.

I share this feeling with quite a few others who still seem to enjoy the thought of him even after he has virtually disappeared from sight for nearly a year now. Don't ask me to explain, or elaborate on this more than I already have, because if you don't know Spencer, you will not be able to appreciate him anyway.

And if you do know him, or know of him, you already know that he could easily be the one that Vertical Horizon wrote that song about.

"He's everything you want
He's everything you need
He's everything inside of you
That you wish you could be
He says all the right things
At exactly the right time
But he means nothing to you
And you don't know why."

So here's to Spencer. Happy Birthday!

The Illusion Of Being With You

How often have I written of you, and to you, simply for the illusion of being with you?

My compatriot in so many thoughts, the one whose ways light a candle for some of my highest actions, I wonder if you have any idea who you are?

Would you recognize yourself as the little boy who grows up to be my hero? Are my reflections on you anything like those you see in your mirror?

You and I think so much a like that I know you must wonder, but do you really know? I know how close I have come to telling you, but conscience draws that line in the dust that must never be crossed. One false step and the line becomes a barbed wire fence, forever barring me from these silly little joys of mine. I dare not deny myself these pleasures, because sometimes they are all that lies between me and the harsh reality of a world that is not so kind as you are.

And you are the epitome of kindness. Were there a mythological god called Kindness, he would have your face and do your deeds in a world where these simple acts are so rare. He would laugh with boyish joy the way you do and adore his hero as perfectly as you do yours. He would stand up for what he believed and suffer those slings and arrows in a heart that burns only to live and let live in a world where that is still only a dream. And he would find a way to step into this world, disguised as someone no one expects these things from.

And so, while I write for the illusion of being with you, you are no illusion at all, but I shall still just call you Kindness.

I Am What I Believe

Life is the ultimate art form. Each moment is shaped by what I think and how I respond to that thought. Of course there are outside influences too, but ten people with the same outside experiences will all come up with slightly different ways of dealing with them.

What I think has a great deal to do with how I perform. I am my greatest limitation and my greatest muse. I believe that we live our lives according to where we really, deep down inside of ourselves believe we belong. There are many extenuating circumstances, but honestly, if I believe I am a victim, I will act like a victim. Likewise if I believe I am courageous, I will find my own way of being that. It isn't the same for any of us. Our canvases are different, our choice of mediums infinite and there is always the humidity and possibility of natural disasters to deal with, but they only alter the end, not the journey.

The adventurer approaches life one way, the religious person another, someone else, still another. All may go into a church, but how they do it and what they take away defines who they are.

Life is a series of moments and my canvas will be filled with rich colors, depicting those moments when the company was good, the moment fascinating and the feelings intense, because these are the things I value deeply.

Mirror Mirror Very Small

A friend gave me a small mirror several years ago and told me I needed to learn to accept and love the person I saw in there. It was a very small mirror that mostly allowed me to see my eyes and nose and sometimes my mouth if I held it right. I learned to deal with that, but when my sister came to visit and wondered why I didn't have any larger mirrors around I tried to pawn it off as a lack of vanity.

Of course the truth was that I simply didn't want to see myself as others saw me, or as I perceived them seeing me. It really is a pretty hypocritical thing when I think about it. I look at you and I love you just as you are for what you are. It has nothing to do with your clothes, or your weight, or your skin tone. Most of the time I am blissfully unaware of these things in those I love. Why would I think you are any different?

I really hate the aging process when it boils down to how I look, but I do like who I am much more now than I used to. I now have a mirror hanging near my front door that I check as I go out, and sometimes even coming in. It still shocks me sometimes, but I am getting used to me. Much more so than when we took the kids to Disney World and I saw this woman standing in line near where I was. She was wearing an outfit just like mine, even carrying a purse like mine, but she was old and she was too heavy and I thought how dowdy she looked. It nearly ruined my vacation when I realized I was looking in a mirror.

I am part of that generation who wasn't going to trust anyone over forty. When I was sixteen, that is. Now I would love to be forty. When I was nearly forty eight I took a water class at the YWCA and one of the women referred to me as that little girl in the back row. Now I understand that. People in their forties often look very young to me. Older people still look old. I just don't realize that they are my age.

Most of the time I do not feel old and I am not a silver back with arthritic joints yet, but I am also no longer a girl. I am just at that awkward age when I am too old to be young and too young to be old and I guess I better enjoy it while it lasts, because experience has proven time and again that all things pass.

Now that I have a mirror in the front hallway I see what I am sending out into the world with my eyes and not just my head. It's a step towards reality and true acceptance, but sometimes it is really hard to look at that and be confident. Inside I am still trim, slim, tall and sleek with long dark hair and big eyes. Outside, not even close.

What I need to remember is that inside I am so much more than I used to be and anyone who doesn't care for that, isn't someone I should be hanging out with anyway. I want to be around people who keep me thinking and involved. I need to feel connected to people I respect and who I feel respect me. I need so much more than looks now and I need people who also need that.

So, I look in the mirror, then suck it up and brave this new real world of maturity because it can be really interesting. And I really have no choice.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

The day I moved in I passed an Indian gentleman and his two young children walking down the steps of our apartment building. It was apparent that they lived above me on the third floor. Smiling at the children I said, "Isn't it a pretty day to be outside? Hot, but beautiful." The children looked at me, big-eyed and silent, saying not one word. Not even acknowledging my remark. Their father did the same.

My sister gave me the oddest look, but she didn't say anything either.

I am used to living under my son's house and hearing my grandson's feet tearing across my ceiling, so it was no problem to hear these children doing the same thing. In fact, I have kind of enjoyed it. In North Carolina I sometimes heard voices, or the sound of guitars playing too. Here there is no sound except that of tiny feet running, jumping and sliding across the floors and every afternoon at three o'clock the rhythmic sound of springs squeaking as if someone is jumping on the bed. Some days are louder than others, with incredible bumps and bangs that almost seem to jar me as much as they might be shaking up their creator. But they remind me of my grandson and I like hearing them.

At the party the other night I commented on them to our apartment manager and she gave me a curious look. Today I saw her come up the walk with one of her maintenance men and I heard them going upstairs. I thought that perhaps there was a problem with one of the apartments up there. I could not hear them once they were up there, which seemed a little bit strange, but I thought they must be in one of the apartments not over mine.

A few minutes later there was a knock at my door and there she was looking a little disturbed. "Have you heard the people upstairs today?" She asked. I told her I had heard them earlier and asked why.

She asked me to accompany them upstairs where she unlocked the door and I stood there aghast. Inside was a completely gutted room. No carpeting, no furniture, wires sticking out of unfinished outlets with a layer of dust covering everything. It was the picture of desolation, or perhaps construction yet to be finished and I thought how difficult it must be to live amidst all this with small children. Turning to our manager I made a comment about that.

She pointed to two sets of footprints in the dust and said, "Those are my prints and," pointing to the man next to her, "These are John's." It took a few moments, but the truth slowly dawned on me.

"What happened to the family?" I asked feeling slightly odd.

"No one has lived here for three years." She walked into the apartment and stood there looking queerly at me. A young man from India lived here with his two young children, but they were killed in a car accident July 14th, 2007 and we've yet to finish remodeling this unit. There are so many others ahead of it. I was afraid we had intruders, but you can see no one has been in here except for us." Her eyebrows rose quizzically as she waited for my response.

I had none.

Of course this is all made up, well at least the last few paragraphs, but wouldn't that make a great ghost story?

Diversity

I took myself to the zoo Sunday. I actually went to the park to take pictures for my new photo group and I actually was supposed to have company, but that fell through. It was hot, it's been hot a lot here lately, but it was so hot that I had trouble focusing my pictures because my eyes were burning from the perspiration. Still, I had a great time. There is much to be said for going to the zoo alone on a hot day to take photographs. No being nice and dawdling where I wasn't interested. In fact, I barely made it through my list of desired pictures before my energy gave out and I went home.

Tonight I went alone to a party where I didn't know anyone. It's the first time I ever did that, but it was actually kind of fun. Now I have to admit I have crashed a party, or two, but only with a friend. Tonight the party was for our apartment complex. I've really never been a party person, or animal, or whatever it is that makes people ache to go out and mingle with a bunch of people who are simply socializing and not playing cards, or doing some specific thing, but it seemed like the thing to do, tonight.

I don't know any of my neighbors here, but the people in the office apparently know me by sight and name! I hope that is a good thing! The heat index was 107 again today, so having a pool party was a good choice for those who wanted to put on suits and dive in. However, mingling with a bunch of thirty somethings in a pool is not my idea of a really ideal situation at my age, so I stuck to the club house. We had a choice of various Indian and American foods. Everything from hot dogs and hamburgers, or brats, to navratan, kurma and naan. It was all surprisingly good. We also had drawings for prizes like $100 off this month's rent and some other nice things.

I figured I'd be brave and just show up and make the best out of whatever happened. I walked in and the Director and her assistant welcomed me. I filled a plate and looked around. The first table was all speaking Spanish, quite fluently and since mine is very limited, I moved on to the next one. The people here were conversing in some Indian dialect I'm not familiar with and that table was full anyway. Looking around I realized I was a distinct minority. That intrigued me! Here I was in what I dreamed of as the perfect mix of Americans. People from India, Mexico, China, Japan and various and sundry different races were all living here and meeting in this little complex at a party.

Sometimes, in a similar situation, I will find myself naturally falling in with some group, talking about a subject we all are interested in, but with so many diverse languages this didn't happen tonight. I finally spotted a woman who appeared to have some things in common with me. We were both over forty, both dressed much the same with basically the same foods on our plates and there was room at her table. I asked if I could join her and to my relief she answered in full blown American, so we could talk and talk we did!

She turned out to be a comedian and actress who has been in several films, does stand up and has both a five year old daughter and a twenty year old daughter. She was funny and vibrantly alive, and very entertaining, which is a good thing, because it was one of those rare occasions when I was with someone who could out talk me! I did throw in a few lines here, or there, but she never really responded to any of them. She just went right on doing stand up sitting down, but I honestly enjoyed it.

I spent about an hour and a half then made my excuses and went home. I was tired. Earlier in the day I took a group of three year olds on a tour of the museum and then ran some errands. The tour was fun and the children loved it all, especially trying to match the pictures on the lanyards I gave each one, with the tail of the plane it looked like. I felt very much at ease, but I know I was a little up tight, because when I went out to unlock the Huey helicopter, I did unlock the bar across the door, but I forgot to actually open the door and the children got to watch me wrestle with it. Helicopter doors, at least on the HU-1s do not open easily.

Life is good. Neither my grandmother, nor my mother, ever had the opportunity to try all these things!

Someone's At The Door

I am asleep, dreaming that I am inside an old gas station trying to go home. My friend's dog, Bosco, is there and so is an older teenage boy. He tells me to go ahead and take the car in the bay, but as I go out there he flips off the lights and it is dark. I hear the dog growling and see his shadow silhouetted on the wall. It looks like a huge German Shepherd, not Bosco, and I am frightened, but I pretend to be bold and tell him to get in the car, which he does. I discover I have to back the car, which is an old 1953 Chevy, backwards and then around a corner because the boy opened the wrong door.

Then the car runs out of gas and dies, but I hear my mother inside, so I leave the car and go back in. I explain to her that I was coming home to babysit, but I didn 't have a ride and she is angry. She says, "Well, you do now. Let's go." I remember I left the dog in the car and it is very hot. I want to go let him out. I open the door to the bay and my mother sees a waterfall in the distance. She really wants to go see it and the boy agrees to take her, but now when I look out the door I see buffalo standing all over the place between us and the waterfall. I remember how dangerous they can be and don't want to go, but my mother taunts me and teases me. I tell her I will wait in the gas station, but the boy's sister arrives and says it will be fine, she will help me. I can't see how that will make any difference with buffalo and now I see we will also have to "go under water," is what I tell her, but she points out we only have to wade through the water.

The boy goes first, followed by my mother and I follow with his sister close behind me, holding my hand. He reaches out to help me step off the step into the bay and onto a large motor sticking up out of the water. Then I step from the motor onto a white contraption and I am surprised at how easily I am balancing and doing this when the girl behind me slips and falls into the water, dragging me with her. The boy and my mother turn and go on. The girl splashes around in what is now a dusky room and dark waist deep water before getting her balance. Then she grabs me by the waist and, holding me from behind begins to push us both forward, telling me to use my hands to help push the water out of our way. It is slow and awkward going and I am trying not to think about water snakes, or angry buffalo when my dog, Chauncey, in real life, really growls and sort of wakes me up.

I hear someone knocking like a child might in that old familiar pattern, boom, boom, duh, boom, boom. I listen as it is repeated, louder and think it must be someone visiting one of the neighbors, but it is persistent and finally I am totally awake. As I walk into the living room I think that this solves the question of whether or not I would hear them when they came to put in my new air conditioner, I have been concerned about someone just walking into my apartment if I am sleeping. I am surprised they are working this late. I think maybe it is a quick and easy thing to do and they just want to get it done, but it is after ten P.M. I hear a voice say, "Alright, open up. Now!" I remember there is a peep hole in the door and look through it. I've never really used one before and it is hard to see anything. All I can see is the shape of a man out there. He yells at me again and I can't quite understand him, but for some insane reason I crack the door open and there is a police officer!

He asks if Joshua somebody is here and I tell him no, but he asks again and takes a step forward. I back up, see my own reflection in the hallway mirror and am startled. The policeman says the man he is looking for is a fugitive and he has a warrant for his arrest. I tell him I live alone that no one else is here and he asks when I moved in. I tell him and he says that this man lived here before. I feel like I ought to look concerned, so I say some crazy thing like, "Oh my..." and look behind me as if I think he will appear in the room. The officer immediately assures me there is nothing to be concerned about and I am aware that this is the response I wanted. He leaves.

Now I have time to wonder at my weird behavior and thoughts and the danger of opening that door without asking who it was. I cannot go back to sleep, so I do the next most logical thing? I take the dog out for a walk!

"Love Is A Many Splendored Thing"

I don't know anything that is more diverse than love.

Self love, which we are born with, seems to be the rarest and most fragile. Like fine old glass with its wavering reflections of light, it seems to become brittle, break and disappear before we even make it into our teens. Then we spend the rest of our lives aching for it.

It might be this ache that spurs us on towards the all the other loves, kind of like whatever it is that draws the salmon back up stream.

We are expected to love our families and most of us do, no matter how good, bad, dysfunctional, or extraordinary they are. Loving our home, whether that be a building, or town, country, or just the feeling that comes when we are together with those we rely on, seems to be another commonality.

Developing favorite colors, songs, and other personal preferences is often so intimately attached to love that we have learned to say, "I love green!" When in fact, it is sort of strange when I think about that, loving a thing, because I think of love as procreational, but I guess it is a shared love of things that can be the stepping stones leading into it and the products that emanate from us once we find it.

I also think of love as a living thing. Starting out small, as just a general sort of caring. Becoming all consuming when nothing else matters. Evening off and maturing as I realize that love means so much more than hearts and flowers and fireworks in my heart.

There comes a point where love means putting those I love ahead of my own wants and desires. A time when I set limits, even make the ones I love cry sometimes, out of a love that wants the best for them.

And there is a time when I am willing to change in order to grow more fully into a larger and even more fulfilling shared love. A time when it doesn't matter when I go to bed, or what time I eat, or even what I wear. It only matters that what I am doing lifts me up and holds me to a light like a prism, bringing out all my most beautiful parts.

The possibilities are endless.

I Will Remember

How many times have I stood, or sat somewhere and thought, I will remember this? Times when I wanted to remember every detail, every minuscule moment from its colors, to its scent?

My first conscious memory of this was when I was three years old, playing house in the living room of my parent's home in Champagne, Illinois. I saw myself in the mirror and I thought, "I am three years old. This is me! I want to grow up and have a little girl just like me and I will live in a white house with pink shutters." I actually have memories before this, but this is the first time I wanted to remember a moment. I was a much loved first child and grand child. All I knew at this point in my life was love, so it is reasonable to believe I couldn't imagine not loving me.

The next consciously chosen moment I was in first grade and I was so proud. I thought, "I will always remember tonight and Daddy walking me to my very first open house! Some day I will go to college just like he did and maybe he will remember this too."

At ten my father remarked about something ten years prior to that date and I thought, "Imagine remembering something ten years ago! Someday it will be ten years from now and I will remember this moment. Here, standing in my bedroom door on a spring morning of 1960 when I couldn't remember ten years ago!"

There have been others, I seemed to always be aware that time was passing, that each moment was worth remembering, but some stand out more than others. I remember meeting a boy in the lobby of my dormitory and thinking, "This is an important night. I will never forget the way this boy's face looked as I walked out of the elevator." I didn't either. I married him two years later.

I remember going to pick up a little girl who ran out shouting, "My Angells are here, my Angells are here!" It was a very special day because she was my first foster child and I wanted to remember every detail, having no idea that I was meeting my daughter for the very first time.

And I remember looking down at the blond haired, blue-eyed baby the social worker placed in my arms thinking, "This is my son! I will never forget this day." I remember everything from his warm baby smell to the way his tiny fingers wrapped around one of mine and the awe and surge of love that coursed through me.

And the day the doctor lay my youngest son on my stomach and I saw that mass of black hair, those frantic little arms flailing around and those feet kicking like an Olympic swimmer, I knew I would never forget that moment, a moment wrapped in hospital smells and the tears in his father's eyes.

Life's moments are memorable. How many times have I stood in the window watching my children walk down the driveway, going to catch the bus and thought I will remember this day. And I do.

But there are also other moments like the day my mother came to visit on her 58th birthday and as we walked down that same driveway I thought, "Some day I will remember this day when Mom and I just walked down here talking like it was any other day." And I do, I remember every word we shared, but because it was the last time I really ever talked to her.

I treasure all these moments from the past and so many others. They are the monumental stepping stones in my life, the things that defined who I was and who I would become. There will be others as time goes on. Mile posts whose importance is really unknown until later when I am able to look back on them and remember what I thought in those actual moments when it occurred.

Some people read the same books over and over and others watch the same movies. In this same way, I play these little vignettes in my mind. They come out of the blue, like multi-dimensional movies that leap from the past and play themselves out as intensely as if I were on the Holodeck of the Enterprise and I am still profoundly touched. Good, bad, but never indifferent, they shape the future in ways that cannot be ignored.

And I do not ever want to ignore them

Beware Who You Invite In

I have an assortment of things I do to protect my computer from "bad stuff." I use Mozilla firefox, I have NoScript, I even use LastPass, but none of these can protect me from myself. I highly recommend all of these things if you have a computer and use the Internet.

Of course I would also suggest you send your spam to a separate folder, not open mail from sources that are unfamiliar to you, contact your bank and personal financial places yourself (in other words do not trust emails that ask for information in their name) and beware of forwards.

There are a million things waiting at your internet door like vampires, just waiting to be invited in and once that happens they become a real pain in the neck, or other anatomical places.

"Have no part of that which does not please you." by John MacEnulty

I am a dyed in the wool writer. It is my best form of communication.

I don't like to bargain, or barter. I don't like to discuss money. I despise conflict and I have always done my best to avoid all of these things when I can. Should any one of them become the center of my life, I am ready, willing and able to check out. I do have a strong sense of what is tolerable and what is not and even though I might hesitate, I will eventually act to change the intolerable, but it won't be easy for me.

Lately I have found myself dealing with things I would have avoided like the plague in the past. Simply because I have to. I really believe that line in the "Love Prayers" that says, "Have no part of that which does not please you. Clothe your thoughts in beauty that you will love them." If I can't love my own thoughts, how can I love anything else, because they are the filter through which all else flows. Therefore it follows that I must make adjustments in my life if I am going to frame it with these words.

I won't lie. Moving from my son's to my sister's, to my daughter's to a hotel before settling here was not easy and doing it in a three month period was pretty dramatic. Add a dog and a limited amount of money to that and it was down right scary sometimes. I found myself doing things I have avoided all my life in order to get where I am today. Talking to landlords and apartment managers, jumping through hoops to get the volunteer jobs I needed, even getting the blood tests and tb tests that were required, I just did it. It meant talking to people in person, overcoming my fear of needles, and selling myself to people who were likely to reject me.

I just went out and did what I have always told my children, or friends, or family to do -- and by golly it works! I understand how difficult this is, now that I've done it myself, but I probably did it the same way other people have done it before me. Out of necessity! Almost in a trance like state sometimes, putting one foot in front of the other and going from step one to step two, I made it this far.

Looking back I can say that it wasn't as horrible as I thought it would be, but that might be because I was so terrified that I couldn't think about it too much. It was one of those things that just had to happen, like getting a polio shot when I was eight and had no say in the matter. Sometimes life asks us to do the impossible and everything changes, because it turns out not to be impossible at all.

I managed to step out of my comfort zone and talk and barter and put my foot down, separating myself from the things that did not "please" me and that gave me the freedom to surround myself with things I believe in very strongly and love and find extraordinarily satisfying.

I am simply a woman with thoughts and dreams and ideas about how I want my life to be, if I can do this, so can you. It just takes time and perseverance. Lots of perseverance!

In Spite Of The Fact

Life is one of those ridiculously unpredictable things.

Growing up I thought I knew just what would happen. I would grow up, get married, have children and when my children grew up I would be a grandmother who made cookies and sat around in a rocking chair knitting something. I don't know why I believed all that, or even why I wanted it. I think it was just such a dyed in the wool sort of expectation that it never occurred to me that anything else could happen.

Now some history behind all of this that should explain why I had no reason to expect these things to happen this way. First of all, my own grandmother was the ultimate liberated woman, rearing three sons and a daughter after my grandfather died. Except for her butterscotch pies, which were to die for, she wasn't much of a cook. I recall her hockey puck hamburgers with their charred little layers crumbling like soot in my mouth. I don't even know if she could sew buttons on, my great aunt was the domestic one in their household, but I know she never knit anything unless it was a broken bone. She would never have been able to sit still long enough to rock any chair and she was far too busy to care. She was always working, running a business and making sure that all the ends in her life met neatly at the end of each row.

Secondly, I didn't really learn to knit until my husband taught me after we were married. I wasn't interested in knitting. I was more inclined to read books, or study house plans and then try drawing my own, always looking for something more unique and efficient. Or, I was playing the piano, or some other instrument, dreaming about becoming a great musician in spite of the fact that I was nearly crippled by stage fright. Of course I also collected rocks and dreamed about great archeological adventures and living in a wild and untamed place, completely reliant on my own abilities to provide for myself and my family, in spite of the fact that I would not walk around the block alone because of neighborhood dogs! And in spite of the fact that I barely ever went to a church, I even had a period where I wanted to be a cloistered nun, or more particularly, a saint.

Shortening this story let me say that I did grow up, get married, acquire children in various and sundry ways and I am now a grandmother. I'm not much of a cookie baker, but my recliner does rock and I have knit a few things during the course of my lifetime, mostly for lovers and seldom anything but scarves. I spend my time writing and looking for more interesting pursuits than rocking and I have found many through the years.

Life is just too short not to enjoy the adventures that present themselves. Who knows, maybe, some day, I will be a chair rocking, sweater knitting, grandma who finally gets into baking cookies, but I'd like to make my own chair and learn to card wool before I do it.

There Is No Skipping To The End

I love a good story. The idea of someone falling from grace, suffering, struggling, eventually paying the price and rising from the ashes is a theme that turns me on. There are as many ways to struggle up that proverbial hill as there are people and so the possibilities are endless. No one gets to the top alive. The top signifies that the game is up, there are no more obstacles and that doesn't happen until death removes the player from the game. The game itself still goes on.

There is no shame in the occasional stumble, nor even in the long hard fall. What happens next defines the players. The learning curve is in direct proportion to the success rate. People willing to adapt and adjust their life styles and techniques have an easier time, but everyone eventually stops playing. Some just quit before their time is up.

I was beginning to think I was one of those people, but I am glad to say I am not.

I thought I was being called to follow the time honored tradition of walking off into the snow and waiting for the great spirit to come get me, only to find myself drop kicked back into the game. It was a jarring experience that left me a bit stunned in the beginning, but it really didn't take too long for me to take up my old positions.

I'd forgotten the story and, more importantly, I'd forgotten I was one of the main characters. In movies and novels, everything happens in abbreviated time spans, but in real life it can take years and there is no skipping to the end to see what happens. It has to be enough that something is happening and I want to be part of it.

So I'm back in the game, listening to the refs blow their whistles, watching the other players as they move and trying to learn the new strategies as they come up, but that's what it's all about.

Summertime

August heat breathes heavy on the land, huge hands holding everything down like clay too wet to shape.
I step out the door to walk the dog and throw myself into this miasma, almost expecting to find myself floating.
We move slowly, the dog and I. He raises his nose, sniffing for hidden pleasures.
I crinkle my nose too. Traces of the woman who came before me lie on the top levels,
Her musky sweetness wavering like a flying carpet in the heat currents above my sidewalk.

I can barely see. The water in my eyes is burning, tearing up, dripping down my nose in tiny rivulets.
A waterfall cascades down my back and I feel my shirt molding itself against me.
I am human mache, turning from skin and bones into water and mush, a project by Lady Summer,
Done on a hot August night in the heartland,
On a night too hot to breathe, when arms and legs succumb to heaviness and almost cease to move.

Woman and dog swimming, superannuated and slow, sucked down by currents of torpidity
Exhaust from the cars swarming around us, bile rising in my throat.
The dog's tongue begins to loll from the side of his little black lips
And we turn back, struggling to climb out of this pit
Hoping to crawl out before it is too late.

Stepping into the foyer and climbing the steps, I am amazed at the coolness.
Places once too hot to bear become an oasis of shivery delight, a place of hope and salvation.
Back in the apartment I peel the clothes from my body one layer at a time,
Sweat slick skin seeming to have bonded permanently with each one.
I do not envy the dog his heavy fur coat.

If it were mine I would shave the hairs from my skin without flinching,
But instead I throw myself into the shower
And what once seemed tortuously cold is now a welcome respite.
Summertime, clutched in the misty eyed bosom of the heartland.
And all I can think of is winter and how I ache for her frosty glare.

"If I could save time in a bottle..."

Do I have too much time on my hands? How do I answer a question like this?

I am supposing that someone who asks this question is making a judgment call about the way I use my time.

How do I quantify and qualify which hours of my day are time well spent? I am assuming that time well spent is never "too much time."

Must I be paid for my time, or does it count if I simply do something that is useful? Is a volunteer's time as well spent as an employee's? Must my time involve service, or are there other worthy ways of using it?

Is the creative person's time as well spent as the professional's, or the person doing manual labor?

Time is cumulative. Every second leads to the next. I cannot be who I am today without all the time that came before today, so I think the answer to this question is, no. I do not have too much time on my hands. I barely have enough to do the things I believe are important.

How about you?

That Much Happier

I like to make the cards I send out.

Not because I have any great artistic skill, but because it is a way of weaving love into something tangible. It is a chance to do something like knitting someone a hat, or scarf, but on a smaller, less intimate level.

Making a card means that I begin thinking about what I will do days, even weeks, ahead of the event. Ideas will come and go in random little spurts until suddenly I know what I want to do. Then comes the fun part. I begin cutting and pasting, making patterns, or trying out different ways of putting things together, all the time thinking about the person it is going to.

I realize that some people look upon them as childish, or less than, simply because they are not printed in four colors on shiny card stock and sold at retail outlets with matching envelopes. But then neither are Monets, or Van Goghs, not that I am in a class with either of them, but I'm closer than any mass produced thing could ever be.

My cards are one of a kind. Every flaw is put there by my own hands. Every bit of over the top glitter, or paint is a sparkle that reminds me of you. You may not get a kick out of them, but I do and I guess that is why I make them. They make me feel good and they allow me to feel closer to you when I make them.

And if you just happen to get a kick out of one too? Well, then I am just that much happier.

Tolerance

I am tired of causes. Not that there aren't good ones, even great ones out there, but being true to a cause seems to narrow the focus of some people so much that everything else pales beside it. I'm not a big believer in absolutes, they are pretty volatile and unstable things in my opinion. My father once told me that we have the extremists on both ends so most of us can meet in the middle somewhere. That is the best reason I can think of for having them.

I find life moves right along whether I believe in it, or not. I don't really believe in war. I think it just forces the loser underground until another time when there will be another war, but I also know that if you held a gun to the head of one of my children, I would do whatever it took to annihilate you first. So much for being a pacifist. I hope I'm never put in that position.

The way I think the world would be best and the things I am actually willing and able to do are separated by huge swaths of reality.

In general I have discovered that most people really aren't as different from me as I might like to think. When it comes down to the real nitty gritty, we love our families and communities and do things because we find a good in them that satisfies some primal part of us enough to justify the blood, sweat and tears they cause. With a very few exceptions, most people could stand a little more tolerance. It's not until I spend some time with a person, work side by side with them, eat with them and get to know their children that I really know who they are. Then I am often surprised at how much we have in common.

I am also sometimes surprised to discover that the best thing we can do is give each other enough space so our paths don't cross too often, but even that is not a bad thing, because, except for some of those people who hang out on the distant fringes, there needs to be room for everyone.

The exceptions are the reason someone invented shears and someone else invented a honing stone. There are not enough degrees of separation to merit hate based ideologies on either end.