What they mean.

Words. I never realized how much I prize them. The look of them; the sound of them. Where they come from; how they came to be. Why they mean what they do. I love words.

Specific words. Elegance. Passion. Art. They hold pictures. Home. Family. Friends. They hold emotion. Adventure. Faith. Live. They hold hope. Explore. Connect. Create. They hold my soul. Love. It holds everything.

Even in my art, words are vital. I love having them around me. To look at. To consider. To embrace.

I guess this demonstrates what I value. A story. How it is told. The words it uses. A person. How she describes herself. What I see in her. What it communicated. And faith. Sharing hope, asking for help, expressing gratitude… all in words.

Perhaps because I am physically separate from all of my friends and most of my family, the depth of meaning that words take on is even greater when a hug cannot be had or a laugh cannot be heard. A word can be felt. They have texture. I feel them.

Verve. Vivacity. Vivid. They are favorites, and hopefully me.

Reconnecting.

My computer had a freak out recently and left me all alone. No communication with friends, no sharing my thoughts, feelings, and opinions with you, no downloaded TV shows, no DVDs, not even mahjong or spider solitaire! Oh yes, and no online business or knowing where and how to get to my next agency job!

Usually when I disconnect for a time, it’s a wonderful reconnection with aspects of the world with which I was less engaged while computing. However, in this case it wasn’t at all like that. Because it wasn’t by choice, I was rather lost.

Is this dependence a good or a bad thing? Should I be appalled or pleased? I do have a ridiculous sort of love for this luscious laptop of mine. Possibly because I designed it’s specs myself… or perhaps because it’s red. ;)

Likely, though, most of all it’s because when I open it, I’m inviting in my friends. Sure there is a whole cyber universe to explore, but most of all it has given me, and kept me connected with, the most precious people in my life.

Have my cake & eat it, too.

After (hilariously) making yet another list of books last week here on the blog, I dove in. It was like I suddenly gave myself permission to eat dessert first.

I’m not good at that. I come from a family of good Christian Midwestern farmers of mostly Danish stock. What that adds up to is the idea that life is toil and hardship – you work very hard and maybe at the end of the day if you have any energy left, you can do something you enjoy… although even if you do, you never have idle hands! Honestly, it’s slightly psychotic, or rather masochistic. Or a bit of both.

Ingrained in my brain is the story of how my grandfather said he became a success. It was the hour before dawn and hour after dusk that he worked in the fields when everyone else was sleeping or being with family when he made his money. The rest of the time was what barely allowed them to scrape by. And he did become a success, owning several farms, apartment complexes, and more. In fact, the people at the apartments thought he was the janitor because even into his seventies he’d always be the one to do all the work when things went wrong. That’s how I remember him… with that giant ring of keys, which weighed about as much as I did back then, in work gear heading out to one or the other of his sites again.

So when I was in college, I decided to study art. But my parents made it clear I needed an “academic” major as well. I obediently obliged them. The thing is, I would end up spending all my time on classes that were tedious rather than investing some of that time in my major classes because, well, I loved doing art. Classes I would have aced I struggled with at times as a result. And now I deeply regret not taking full advantage of the facilities the art department had because once I graduated (and had the time) I no longer had access.

This disposition carried over into my finding a job/career. I’d pursue things I was interested in, but never anything that brought me bliss. Mustn’t enjoy what I do, not deep down. That was somehow wrong. So my varied professions gave me great and diverse experiences (oh my goodness – the stories!), but not real joy. There was no true satisfaction that what I was doing was something to which I felt any sort of “calling.” Therefore, I’d work extremely hard, get very good at it, then get bored. There was no passion behind it. So I moved on.

This mentality I was brought up in (toil and suffering first, pleasure last), instead of helping me progress has held me back. Not just from reading the books I’m most looking forward to, but from doing the things I’m most passionate about. From living a joy-filled, complete life.

It’s a hard thing to break out of. Truly. I’ve known about this for quite a few years, and have attempted to extricate myself from it. But it’s so pervasive in all areas of my life. Obviously it’s worth the effort. And, too, this extreme pairing down I’m doing with my “stuff” invades my being enough that I’m stripping down and purging some of the non-productive internal processes and ways of thinking and being as well. But I do wish I could simply relax and enjoy without feeling antsy, guilty, or frustrated.

When it comes to the books I have, the permission I gave myself was to read exactly what I want… not to feel the need to have read books I feel are “important” but for which I know I will honestly hate reading. Those classics that show only the depravity of life, for instance, really needn’t be read – not by me. I, quite obviously, understand the hardships life can bring; the difficulties from which some souls never climb out. I chose to dwell on and read about those who perhaps struggle, but who find a level of grace they never expected.

In that revolutionary act of permission-giving, I find I again desire to read some of the books that felt rather obligatory only days before. Perhaps in the same way when I break out of this “toil” mentality, I can find a deep joy in the very things that wore on my soul previously. I hope so. I love dessert.

The place of pondering.

I sit here on a lovely rainy day pondering. I think that’s one reason I love rain so much – the sound is restful and somehow rejuvenating and in that it gives my mind time and space to consider without the usual stresses. Well, that can happen so long as I don’t run headlong into my day, at least.

What came to mind as I listened to the trickling of the water in the drainpipes, the drops touching down on various surfaces, the swish of the distant cars as the fresh puddles shoot out from below their tires, was the Way of the Tao.

Isn’t it interesting how sometimes you pick up books at random, in a moment you want something different than what you’re in the middle of for instance, and in the end they all seem to relate? One night recently, on a whim, I picked up the tiny tome call What Is Tao? by Alan Watts. Concise as it is, it manages to effectively convey the essentials of the Tao. Having finished that, I grabbed The Tao of Pooh and now and then delved into this easy read.

The thing that most effects me about the Way of the Tao is that it is in the rhythms of nature. It isn’t the worship of nature, but is a kind of respect for nature that we whom have grown up in Western cultures can’t truly understand immediately. This is because in the Eastern cultures they don’t see human beings as standing apart or dominating over nature, but as an integral part of it, fitting right in to it. From a Western perspective, this is revolutionary.

When I started reading these two books, I was already making my way through John Muir’s My First Summer in the Sierra and No Impact Man by Colin Beavan. John Muir was a devout Christian, yet he saw the hand of the divine in nature. When speaking of poison oak and poison ivy he said, “Like most other things not apparently useful to man, it has few friends, and the blind question, ‘Why was it made?’ goes on and on with never a guess that first of all it might have been made for itself.” John Muir may never have know about the Tao, but he understood it.

In No Impact Man, Mr. Beavan talks about the day that he and his family had planned on walking across the bridge from Manhattan to go to a birthday party, but when the day came it wasn’t just raining, it was a torrential downpour. So instead, they stayed home and relaxed and just spent time together. No rushing off in a cab to do the 101 things that we all pack into our “time off” because they were on the journey of a year without making a negative impact on the environment. That day more than any other he felt how the rhythms of nature, even in the middle of one of the busiest cities in the world, is within each of us. He noticed how when we pay attention to these things, when we move within them, we are happier and more connected to the people around us, not just nature.

One of my favorite stories so far from No Impact Man was how on another day when it was raining, he was walking somewhere or other with his daughter on his shoulders. Feeling guilty that because of his choice to do this no impact challenge his daughter was having to be out in this weather. He was trying to hold the umbrella so that she would not get wet, but she was crying. Then a gust of wind blew the umbrella over and rain poured on both of them, and his daughter stopped crying. After he righted the umbrella she started crying again. After a couple of times of this he realized that she’s not crying because she was getting wet, rather she was crying because the umbrella is stopping her from getting wet. In his words, here’s his realization in that moment:

“And on this rainy day, here is what happens when I treat my body as something more than a means to transport my head, when I finally learn to treat the landscape as something more than the space that stands between where I am now and where I want to be later:

I take Isabella down from my shoulders and let her jump in a puddle, soaking her shoes and her pants. For fun, I jump in the puddle, too. Isabella laughs. She stretches out her arms with her palms facing up to catch the rain. She opens her mouth, sticks her tongue out and leans her head back. I try it, too.

When did the child in me disappear?

People are running past. They look desperate, miserable, trying to get out of the rain. What has happened to us?”

I think I’ve always kept the child in me, splashing in puddles and loving playing in the rain, for instance. But also, I am a person of the journey, appreciating the path often more than the destination. Also, I have often felt that there is no place better to find the divine than in nature. To connect with the Way of the Tao has for me been more of an understanding of how I relate naturally as well as how I move through the journey.

Reading the Tao Te Ching, the main source of understanding the Tao, is an interesting process this time around. It is causing me to question my ambition. But it is also giving me permission to find rest and contentment in this time of intense struggle with my situation and my lack.

In sharing this, I’m not saying I’ve converted to some new faith, but rather that I feel knowing about the Tao enhances and deepens the faith I have. It gives me a mind for the whole rather than a part. I see creation, not simply man, when exercising my faith. I have always had an affinity for this way, but until it was explained to me I accepted the idea of man’s domination, if uncomfortably.

I think when I started to see the world in this ancient way, I also understood how much less I need in order to feel the fullness of joy. If you know me or have been reading here for a bit, you know that I’m a purger, trying to keep myself free of so much stuff that weighs us down. But isn’t it so much a better idea to simply not collect these things so that there is no need to purge? I’m not saying strive to be an ascetic and live in deprivation, but more to be thoughtful in what you buy. To have less stuff is to have more time because you needn’t work so much to get it and you have less to clean and sort and put away. Not a bad trade.

I look forward to exploring the Way of the Tao more. I look forward to feeling the rain on my tongue and appreciating the wind on my face. I look forward to being fully present and having the time to connect wholly with those around me. I look forward, but only in that I am completely engaged now so I know whatever comes I will be the same then – engaged and ready.

Ten on Tuesday.

I thought I'd join in on this week's Ten on Tuesday. I tend to prefer when the questions are interrelated as well as on a topic that interests me, but this week's questions do touch on travel and the outdoors, so I figured I'd give it a go...

1. What two cities should be moved closer together?
Gosh. I’m not sure. I think I like the journey too much. But I think it’d be wherever I am to wherever I want to be next. Yet, that’s not right either because I’d not like Edinburgh, Scotland to be down the road from Los Gatos, California. That’d be creepy and ruin the point.

2. What was the first plane ride you took?
No idea – was way too young. I remember the first plane ride I took alone. I was seven and went on a plane from Northern to Southern California to visit my grandma and grandpa. It was so exciting to be doing this on my own that I can even tell you what the sundress I was wearing looked like (this was in the days when one dressed nicely to travel).

3. What continent would you most like to visit?
All of them. And I will.

4. What’s your favorite place to window-shop?
I don’t like shopping, really, so mostly I hunt online (and still don't much like it). Although I did a browse through REI on Saturday and enjoyed it a lot. Got me excited for hiking in nature and traveling the world – two of my favorite things. Back when I had a place to do my art, my answer would have been Home Depot.

5. What’s the least fun you’ve ever had at a place specifically tailored for fun?
Well, because I read someone else’s answer to this question, what comes to mind was when I went to this really cool event, a Mayfest, at the Tourist Club on Mount Tamalpais in Marin County last year. We had to hike down this really steep grade to get to it, and once I got down there I got an insane migraine. It was quite hot and heat makes my migraines explode. I’m miles and miles from anything resembling a place to rest, I rode with a group in a beat up SUV with no working air and no apparent shocks, and all there is available to drink is, of course, beer... which will only dehydrate me and make the pain worse. There was traditional German polka-like music replete with screeching (so it seemed to me) horns blaring, bodies everywhere in a relatively small space, barbecues heating it up more and sending smells wafting everywhere that made me feel like puking even more, and a blazing bright sun shining in my eyes to sharpen the pain up to the nth degree. I didn’t want to spoil the event for the rest of the group, but I thought I might just curl up and die somewhere. The worst was all those hours and hours later when we left, I still had to walk those several miles up that incredibly steep grade in the heat. Hell of a day. Funny thing was it was such a cool event that even in that state I wanted to become a member of the club.

6. You’re stuck on an island with plenty of food, a companion, and a relatively stress-free lifestyle. What do you say when the rescue ship comes?
It took me a long time to come up with a real answer for this. But then I remembered. Island fever. When on Maui, one of the most beautiful places I’ve visited, I realized that I’d not be able to live there very long because I would get serious island fever... mostly because I love to explore, it’s my nature to my core, and once it’d all been explored (including the water around the island), no matter how wonderful and simple my life was (which is ideal in my book), I’d go stir crazy pretty quickly. Though, I could ask the rescue ship to send us a helicopter so that when we want to we could take jaunts off the island. Then I’d not feel trapped. The other thing is, where is this island? In the middle of the Pacific Ocean thousands of miles from anything, or just off a coast somewhere so that if we built a canoe we could paddle off now and then? Also, if the island is New Zealand, I’M STAYING.

7. Which day of the week do you look forward to most?
This is going to sound so stupid, but I love Thursdays. Always have. I can’t explain it. I don’t know that it’s the one I most look forward to, but I do love me my Thursdays. I think I look forward to the days I know I will be doing something I love doing or will be with someone I love, or be doing something I’ve never tried before... and that’s never on a specific day of the week.

8. What’s your favorite place to enjoy the great outdoors?
Anywhere in nature, I guess. I love the forest, but I also love the ocean. I’m not big on deserts, but that’s mostly because of my issues with heat ever since I got heat strokes 15 years ago. Well, that and I DON'T love dry, dusty, barren places. I love lush, green, moist... with creeks flowing through the dense trees and secrets to discover, as well as the wildlife that comes with that environment. Then, too, the sound of the crashing waves of the ocean... especially in the rain. Or if in someplace lovely (like the afore mentioned Maui), then snorkeling all day long and seeing the wonders of that sort of wildlife! I feel like nature is my temple, so entering it in any form is a way for my soul to be refreshed. (Perhaps that is why I prefer the moist, lush places... though even in the deserts I can experience this.)

9. What’s on your “to do” list this summer?
Hmm. Well, number one would be moving to Scotland. But before and after, going on as many hikes and jaunts into nature as possible. Potentially getting back to cycling. Mostly remembering to find restful moments to just partake and enjoy... whatever is around me. And continuing in my quest of purging the detritus of life – both internally and externally. Less stuff, less clutter, getting to the bare minimum externally. No more mass amounts of storage. Just my books, some quality kitchen things, and some lovely bits that bring me joy. Internally getting rid of the junk that weighs me down, that detracts from living my best life, from being as open as possible to those around me MUST GO. Freeing myself of those annoying thought processes that cause me to think “I can’t” is another big part of this detritus I’m purging. Also, to continue to find more ecologically sound ways of living, wherever I may be, and reducing my waste as much as possible. Mustn't forget, watching the Stanley Cup Playoffs.

10. Which natural disaster freaks you out the most?
I don’t really get freaked out by such things. I’ve been in intense blizzards without power, some of the worst earthquakes in recent history, and even a hurricane or two. I don’t think I’d like to have my home (such as it may be) taken out by any of them, but why dread what we have no control over? I will say that as a kid I’d have nightmares about Tsunamis. But they were cartoon-like dreams where the giant tidal wave would suddenly be overcoming the towering downtown of a big city. And there I'd be running, knowing it was useless. Interestingly, I neither lived next to the ocean nor in a big city with high rises... so go figure. But, because I love water so much I think I’d be really sad to experience its devastating powers, whether through floods or hurricanes or tsunamis. Also, I have this weird sort of feeling that if my stuff was all taken from me in this way, it’d sort of be freeing. It’d be hard because I have things from family whom have passed on, yet it’d be so releasing – I’d be able to be the nomad a really am without worry over stuff. Even if it’s stuff I LOVE. I’m a weirdo, aren’t I?

Okay, I just wrote all that, and then realized I would totally be freaked out by potential avalanche if I ever was somewhere where that was a possibility. Being buried alive is a horrific enough thought, but to do it while freezing is worse somehow. Yikes.

So there you go. A little more about me you mightn't have known.

The dream and me.

Goals are strange, often illusive things. We aspire to them, we try to tackle them, we aim for them, we fight for them, and every so often, we achieve them. Lately, I’ve been trying to determine what I need to make that every-so-often be simply every.

In saying this, I don’t mean to say that I want to have everything I ever desired. Honestly, that’d be quite cumbersome. Rather, I’ve been evaluating what the core desires in me are and then figuring out how to make them absolutes. No more “one day,” but rather, “on my way.”

Some of you know through reading here, as well as perhaps through personal interactions, that my deepest longings rest in writing and in experiencing. So, I want to travel the world not to have done the rounds and be able to say “I’ve been there,” but because I want to go and experience that culture, interact with those people, and see life from their perspective. I want the learning and growing of that; I long for the understanding of that. There is nothing deeper in me than this desire to experience every people group in every corner of the world… and to connect with them.

I don’t much care how it happens. I just know it MUST happen.

The writing is my wanting to share those comical moments when two cultures just don’t quite get the other. Sort of that “lost in translation” aspect. Not, I must clarify, to poke fun at either culture, but to show the humor in their meeting and the process of connecting. Then, too, expressing the beauty of these connections and the delight of discovery of… well, friends.

I guess my goal is sort of a cultural anthropologist on speed. Right, I do know that an anthropologist tries to observe more than interact, but still what I seek is understanding and connection on that deeper level that both embraces and transcends cultures.

This passion, this intense focus, that comes with this rather unusual goal is something that cannot be mollified or quelched. In that, however, it is isolating. Many people admire such vision and think they share it, but of these few really want it in practice, and even fewer really understand it. My family cannot really understand it. And, in truth, not understanding this means not understanding me at my core.

My dream is not the accepted “American Dream.” Even on book websites I have been called names and berated and admonished (and those are only the nice things) for these goals. The most harsh are the people that had similar divergent dreams, but fell into routine or made choices that forced them to no longer be able to easily pursue their dreams, so they chided and mocked me.

I, however, have not, will not give in to status quo. It’s a beautiful thing if that’s your dream. It’s my brother’s dream – a home of his own, a wife and a family to raise up in it, the traditional job scenario, active in the local church. I’m so incredibly joy-filled that he has achieved so much of this. But it’s not my dream. It simply never will be. I don’t like the idea of settling down. It makes my bum itch just thinking about it.

Also, I will not apologize for going for it. I won’t even apologize if I fail at it – more than once, if it comes to that, in order to attain it. Because it’s about me going for MY dream, not coming ‘round to someone else’s. And I do seek whatever means and wisdom that is out there to help me find that path to my goal. So in all this, I’m determining that this one will NOT be “the one that got away.”

The devious nature of inanimate objects.

I love books. Passionately. I do NOT, however, love mass market books. You know the ones – 4” x 6 3/4”, horrid rough and dark pages, smells disgusting, frustrating to keep open (especially if it’s a long one), yellow quickly (like as you read it). I abhor them.

No really, I think they are evil. Well, since last night I do. You see, I was reading one, ignoring my sore hand from holding the nearly 800 page volume open and trying not to destroy the spine, while laying on my stomach. Because I was leaning on my elbows, I was holding it closer to my face than when I’m sitting properly.

Now, I already know that holding one of these Godforsaken volumes means that my hands get so dry touching those pages that even after I’ve put the volume down for the day, when I apply lotion, within two minutes I need more as my skin is still parched. That’s horrible.

But it’s nothing to last night. Because the book was closer to my face, I was breathing in that… shite. Apparently something – I can’t begin to guess what exactly – from the pages of the book was inhaled and imbedded in my lung. I was hacking almost all night. Whatever I did, nothing seemed to sooth it. It was like that one molecule was sucking out all the moisture in my chest. I was barking like a sea lion. The gallon of water did nothing (except make me need to pee), covering my mouth in order to breath in the warm moisture of my own breath did nothing, finally the third Sucrets allowed me to get to sleep.

I want to chuck this book and all the other mass market volumes I own at the person who came up with such an abhorrent idea. Cheap bastard. Except, I want to find out what happens in the story. I’m torn.

One thing is for sure, I’m gathering all the ones I’ve read that don’t have sentimental value and am selling them to the used bookstore. I don’t want to wake up to find that while I was sleeping the mass market paperbacks attacked and left me completely void of moisture – meaning I’m cracking everywhere so that when a breeze comes through the open window, I blow away like dust. Like I said, EVIL.

It's the little things.

A couple of interesting experiences from the last few days…

Scene One:

I was in my local Mexican hole-in-the-wall. It’s the kind where it’s clean and colorful inside, with a television always on a Spanish speaking station – that day’s show was “El Gordo y La Flaca” (the fat and the skinny). The food is truly authentic to the point that during the time I was in the restaurant for a quick lunch, easily twenty Hispanic people either dined in or took out. I was, in fact, the only white person there. That is until The Grannies.

Just as I was finishing up my amazing fish taco and horchata, three older ladies entered. One of them charged in yelling “HOLA” (she pronounced it hoe-lah). The other two scurried up behind as she said in one of the worst gringo accents ever, "¿Cómo estás?" The cook/owner kindly responded in simple Spanish, but it seemed those three words were about the extent of her Spanish vocabulary.

I went about the business of devouring more of the taco when bits of the continuing conversation wafted my way. She was explaining to her two companions what a burrito is and what a taco is. Now here in California, well, you’re just sort of born with that knowledge. Like knowing your cheeses if you’re from Wisconsin. It’s just the way of [your] world.

Still, I ate on. But I was again sucked in when one of the followers said in a British accent, “Guacamole,” (pronounced something akin to that amusement center game “Whack-a-Mole”), “that’s made with avocados, yes?” When the answer came in the affirmative, she said, “I’ll have this.” She then points to an item on the menu which is on the wall outside of the kitchen. So the person taking the order had no idea what she was referring to and just looked utterly dumbfounded when none of the three offered a further explanation as to what “this” was.

Well, that was pretty much it for me, I mean I’m sure they said and did loads of other funny things before they took their seats, but frankly I got the giggles. The three Mexicans at the next table looked at me… sitting alone… laughing... but I was giggling too hard to explain, so I vaguely gestured toward the ladies and just kept looking the fool. It was worth it. I was sorry I was done and had to be off.

Scene Two:

I was walking in the park again today. Third day in a row, fourth this week, so I’m feeling really good about it. Sunday is obviously more crowded than the other days (even Saturdays, actually). I’ve recently learned this breathing technique to do, and it’s especially good when walking. Without getting into it, I’ll just say it involves intaking all your air through your nose. Being spring, over the last few days this has been delightful. It’s a large park with a lake, and I walk the whole of it, so there are loads of lovely, fresh smells with everything blooming.

I was about two thirds of the way through the walk when, in the traffic of people on the trails, walking toward me were a man and a lady. Now, I must confess I don’t have any idea what the guy looked like because my eyes went straight to the lady’s fake boobs. They couldn’t help it, my eyes. Now, this lady was dressed like someone from Beverly Hills would dress if they were pretending to workout – all high end clothing, none of which would actually hold up to any real excerpted activity, and no actual bra underneath her purple designer spandex-with-spaghetti-strap top (yet oversized-boobs-on-tine-body are fixed in place). Her hair is big, and she’s even holding a designer water. Yet, somehow if it weren’t for the boobs, she’d not look so obviously over-done. Of course, with the exception of the boobs, having only had a glance, none of this processed until I'd passed them.

But the passing was the thing, because when I did I happened to be doing one of those big intake breaths… you know, through the nose. I sputtered and coughed, my eyes started watering. I was choking on the cloud of perfume in which she was encased. This also made me laugh – and I thought for sure I’d be found out as to why, so without really being able to breathe I rushed forward. Once breathing again commenced, I was chuckling for a while, because seriously it was an intensely pungent fragrance. I got to my turn-around point on the dam, back in the groove of the rhythm of exercise. As a turned a corner down the way a bit, there they were again. Luckily this time I could see them coming from a ways off, so I could make sure to be breathing OUT when I passed. But I still laughed.

Scene Three:

I was helping someone out with their start-up business, and ended up driving an hour away to babysit both Friday and Saturday. They were for about four hours each. It was fun (the work, not the commute); the girl is really cute. This business provides you with a basket of fun, mostly learning-related, toys and games. Yesterday, amongst other things, we built a wooden model of the skeleton of a brachiosaurus, played the memory game, and I painted her face. She loved it all, but especially the face painting.

With about ten minutes before I was scheduled to leave, she really wanted to do something from my basket of goodies again, but I explained that I was going to have to leave soon. She started crying and said she wanted her mom. Her mom, who had returned and was working in the next room, automatically asked what was wrong. Once she realized, she started laughing and left me to it. (I’m pretty sure her daughter was hoping mom would side with her and tell me to stay.) I came up with a solution that made my charge happy, but it’s pretty hilarious when someone outright cries AND wants their mom when you tell them you’re going to be leaving soon – especially when you’re at work.

How I got old.

Last night I attended a party for a long-time friend who moved out of state and was back for a visit. It was a decade birthday, so quite a do. It was lively – body shots were had (not by me).

On the way to the party I was thinking about how when we’re young, we tend to watch all the movies that are considered greats, for instance. We lap up everything. We’re at a party and we’ll drink whatever is on offer – and likely lots of it. But there comes a point where one says, I really couldn’t give a rat’s arse about that film, academy award nominated or not. It’s not my thing. I’ve definitely reached that point.

So now fast forward to the actual event. Wow. Crazy happenings, lots of “WOOOs” were yelled out over the blaring party-dance music in the back yard of that high-priced suburban neighborhood. This isn’t a bad thing at all – this friend is a true party girl, and it suits her – carefree, flamboyant, youthful. She’s serving her famous “Panty Rippers,” a concoction so strong for a fruity drink as to be dangerous to drink around open flames, and she’s bouncing from group to group, challenging some to do Patron shots, jumping into the arms of her best friend’s new beau and flashing the rest of the party in the process, chatting and flitting, and honestly somehow doing it all with everyone feeling delighted and joyful – including family. That’s how she is.

Now, I have been as brazen and wild and rambunctious. In fact on occasion when we’ve been together, I’ve even outdone her. By a lot. It’s a complete blast to cut loose and just be. Bold. Brash. Ballsy. Confident and fun-loving.

In fact, there were to be further celebrations tonight with a smaller group of ladies taking on a local hot spot and I was invited. At first I thought it’d be great. But then I realized… all this – the party scene – it just isn’t me any more (not that it ever was – I just dabbled). Now, I’m not saying I won’t ever want to get wild and crazy (this was me), but honestly just now it sounds horrid – at least in that way.

As an aside, last night was also the first time I’ve worn heels since my ankle surgery back in October. Previous to going under the knife I quite literally wore crazy-high heels every day (lowest heel was 4”). EVERY DAY. I only owned one pair of flats aside from my sports shoes, and had only worn them on a handful of occasion. I thought heels were the most comfortable thing in the world. Honestly! Until last night. Holy crap! That was rough! Of course, I *did* choose my absolute highest heel – with a platform as well. At any rate, thinking of traipsing all over the area hot spot again in heels wasn’t the most appealing possibility!

So back to my mini-revelation. I was considering on the ride home how I may have inadvertently gotten OLD. I mean, as I write this, instead of being out on the town, I’m sipping a favorite red wine while listening to classical music after being rather domestic all day, doing laundry while suffering through last night’s recorded hockey game then indulging myself in the delights of both creating and eating an exquisite homemade risotto and to-die-for chocolate mousse. And I’m contented (especially my stomach). What’s worse is that I’m looking forward to going to the Farmer’s Market tomorrow and doing more of the same tomorrow evening. (Cooking, chilling.)

I want to think that I’ve just discovered how my dimensions have changed and am embracing them, but really… classical music over popular music at the club? Chill-out evening over a night out? How old is THAT?? Still, somehow it marking me as old doesn’t make me want to jump back to the other way. I’m glad I don’t feel that youthful compulsive need to drink whatever is going. I’m willing to try things, and have a diverse palate, but at the same time I know what I prefer. If it’s not the trendy thing going, and most often my drink selections aren’t fashionable, I don’t care. It’s what I like.

One more thing that is related to this insight is that recently I have been honing in on what I really want from my life, determining that the things that detract from that goal need to be set aside. Spending money to follow in my girlfriend’s wake as she parties the night away, not really getting to visit properly with her at all, isn’t helping me toward my goals. If it were about getting to connect with her, then absolutely I’d be there… but who connects on deeper levels at a club?

I confess it is disheartening to think that I’m not as fun and playful as have been my trademarks. At the same time, it’s really nice to truly know what brings me joy as well as that I can maintain my focus to achieve my goals. So in my dotage, I guess I’ll know myself well. Ugh. I guess my only hope is found somewhere in these two quotes:

We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. — Anaïs Nin

My self-confidence comes from the fact that I have discovered my own dimensions. It does not behoove me to make myself smaller than I am. — Edith Södergran

That said, I hope I can manage tonight without the Ben Gay and Metamucil. Might need the walker, though.

What we have.

I want to start this post out by saying that this is NOT me preaching at you, this is me sharing my astonishment and expressing my realizations at how the way I live my life effects the world.

I’m so ashamed. When I actually consider my weekly trash output, I’m so ashamed. I’m someone who has always been, shall we say, ecologically conscious. I remember in the mid-80’s, for instance, long before recycling was touted, much less readily available, and being ecologically minded was PC (long before there was such a thing as PC), I would cart around my empty Coke cans in my bookbag to bring them home to recycle (meaning then later taking them out to a recycling center as home pick-up was unheard of). The last few Christmases I only shopped with reusable bags. Good things. Valuable things. Things I should and will continue. But what about all the trash I was outputting? Recycle or not, why am I using so many things for no more than a few minutes and trashing them?

By now some of you might be wondering what I’m on, as in what I’ve been ingesting mentally. You would be right to assume there was something. In a round about way, an online girlfriend opened up my world. It was a simple link posted on Facebook. A movie review, actually, and one that was just so-so. But she recommended a website, and as she is someone I admire and whose opinion I value, I checked it out.

No Impact Man. Heard of him? He’s that weirdo in New York City who tried to live, along with an 18 month old daughter and his reluctant wife, with no environmental impact for a full year. I was interested in practical ways I could live a more ecologically friendly life – simple things like when I made the resolution at the beginning of the year to only ever use recycle bags, otherwise I must carry the items without anything or simply not get them. Extreme? Perhaps. (Or at least to some.) But, though I’ve been far more ecologically sound than most of those in my neighborhood, I’d never taken that real step of making it an absolute. So far it’s been incredibly easy to live by. But I digress.

Through this simple post by a girlfriend, I discovered many things. One of the most impacting was the short video call “The Story of Stuff.” Wow. I mean, WOW. It really makes you think about what you buy… and even why you buy it. Even more, it opens your eyes to SO MUCH about the process of making, about how we became a consumer society, and so much more. Beyond that video, I discovered other products and possibilities as to change and how I can conserve.

But most of all, and especially after hunting down a copy of the book No Impact Man, I found out just how much waste I am putting out there every day. It’s astounding. I, for instance, had only recently started using handkerchiefs now and then, more as a novelty and a convenience in cold weather. But when I realized that the thousands and thousands of tissues I still use and translate that into trees, I was floored. How about paper towels? It’s so easy to pick up a rag for the dirty jobs and a dishtowel for the drying jobs that might cause me to normally reach for a paper towel.

But then one of the resources pointed out feminine hygiene products. Um. Yeah. Not getting into too much detail here, boys, but I must say I was astounded that there WERE these options. How come I’d never heard of them before now? I’m THRILLED not to have to ever worry about running out. I’m psyched that will not have to spend all that money yearly on products – ever again. For the lifestyle of living abroad and travel which I’m working toward, knowing that wherever I am what I need will be available by the mere fact that I have all I need always with me is revolutionary. And, then also it’s great knowing that I’ll never, ever again add that kind of waste to the environment. (Never mind that I won’t be putting bleached and not toxin free – none are, nor are such things regulated – paper-based wads inside me.) Girls if you are curious to know what I’m talking about, check out DivaCups and LunaPads. Mine are on their way!

So far I’m about a third of the way through the book, and I’ve not yet gotten to the big changes he (they) made. Like TP alternatives. Like only food produced within a certain distance from them. Like… well I don’t know as I’ve not gotten to that yet! But what I do know is that all my take-out waste is absurd; that when I ate at that restaurant last night, it would have been easy enough to have a cloth napkin in my bag so as not to waste the paper; that cutting back – especially my trash output – actually isn’t hard at all.

Most of all, what I’m realizing is that my grandparents had the right idea. Okay, my grandmother was a hoarder in many ways – not like those horrendous shows you see on TV with all the filth, but in the never-throwing-things-away sort of scenario. We cousins still joke about the Styrofoam platter that had the duct tape down the middle, which was used ever time we visited. The water used to rinse our plates had to be taken out and used to water the plants outside in the Nebraska heat. That idea of “waste not, want not…” the idea of being grateful for what you do have, these are good tenants to live by.

[Those positive psychologist have] discovered that happy people spend a lot of time being grateful for what they have and savoring their experience. They don’t rush through “now” to get to later. They don’t make taking care of themselves or their families something they have to get over with so they can get to the good stuff. Instead, they insist that this moment, whatever it is, is the good stuff. – Colin Beavan, No Impact Man

So their idea then, my grandparents and their generation, was that if we treat what resources we have as precious, we understand how this life is precious, too. We have less “need” for things because we are so full up with blessings for what we have in front of us. If that’s archaic thinking, bring on the Ben Gay and Metamucil.

(No offense, gang... but could YOU resist this picture??)

And so it goes.

I confess I did end up watching The Academy Awards last night. As I said, I really wasn’t all that interested, but thought I’d fast forward to the acceptance speeches. Then that opening happened and I just kept watching. *Sigh.* I disappoint myself. (Kidding.)

I was a little astounded that I predicted every single winner, including the more obscure which I didn’t list in that last post. That’s most certainly a first. Of course it helps that I was able, through the more illicit bits of the internet, to actually see most of them. Also, and most of all, because I finally acknowledged the politics of the entire process instead of going just with my heart.

On the “yes-yes-yes!” side: I think it was really exciting that we had for the first time a woman director win. I thought Sandra Bullock showed extraordinary poise, grace, humility, graciousness, and humor - her speech made me almost glad she won. I loved all the dedications to those who serve in the armed forces. I enjoyed how they again introduced the top actors and actresses. Seeing some of the clips made me excited to see some of the other films I hadn’t gotten around to watching yet which is nice for a change. I thought James Taylor doing the memoriam was lovely. And it was my year for dresses as there were so many RED ones! Hooray! I thought Gabourey Sidibe’s confidence was wonderful. The tribute to John Hughes was nice. Lastly, Neil Patrick Harris was great!

On the “not-so-much” side: Bridges speech, man, was not all that groovy, man. (His wife is still a stunner, though.) I was terribly disappointed that District 9 didn’t get some of the periphery awards (though as I said, that’s what I figured). I wish Streep had done it, darn it. I also would have liked it if more winners were gracious and witty like Bullock or heartfelt like Waltz and Bigalow (and Bullock). Wish we could have had another Roberto Benigni moment… this show was a bit dull, wasn’t it?

Some questions: Who makes up the seating chart? I want that job! How on earth did those dancers manage to fly like that? No really, HOW? How precious were the nervous winners? Why is it that although I recorded the show a half hour over what they allotted, I still didn’t get the speech for best picture?

I had some other witty observations, but I can’t recall now. Perhaps that’s a good thing for you! I will say it was a nice show overall because it wasn’t so over-the-top. But I was still glad for the fast forward button.

I guess Hollywood just doesn’t impress me anymore. I used to love the glamour and keeping up on the films and such. Now I’d rather focus on the latest language I’m learning or go for a hike or watch a hockey game than pay attention to any of that. Give me a scifi over a serious drama or a kid flick over the critic’s choice any day! Yet films can give us insights and perspectives into things we might never have been exposed to otherwise, and that’s something to value, particularly if it’s done well and unbiased.

In all my blustering about not being into the Academy Awards here, I’m sure I’ll again at some point in my life consider what my acceptance speech would be were I to win. It’s just a part of having a dream, even when it’s not actually a Hollywood dream… and I plan to keep dreaming!

What it's really about.

A good friend of mine has been trying for ages to get me to check out a website called CouchSurfing. It’s this fantastic site for… well I was going to say for travelers, but really it’s for people who want to connect with individuals from other places and cultures. Obviously I finally took a look – and signed up straightaway.

When filling out the profile, I really liked that they had a section for “Teach, Learn, Share.” Under the premise that surfing isn’t just about a place to sleep, but about an exchange, they gave a place to share any sort of special knowledge or insights you might have.

So when I got to that section, the following is what I shared…

When I was simply crossing a park in Athens on my way to someplace ancient, carting my bag as well as some leftovers which were meant for my supper, I came across three homeless men. The only three I saw in that country, I believe. They spoke to me, eventually in perfect English, with respect and politeness they tried to induce me to stop for a moment. I'm a girl, traveling alone in my first foreign country in a shrouded area at dusk. What did I do? I stopped. Sure there were things I wanted to see, places I wanted to go, but this was after all truly Greece right here in the park.

After some conversation around a burning trash barrel by a park bench, they insisted I eat with them - & were insulted when I pulled out my own food. First of all, the food they shared was phenomenal - the churches made sure they were very well fed, so it was one of the best meals I had in Greece. But then chatting with them I discovered that one of them had worked for years at one of the most famous restaurants in New York. He told me about serving all the famous people of the 60's & 70's and who really had been magnificent and who had been horrid. Another had been a merchant marine & told of some thrilling adventures & travels as well. The third told shyly of the love of his life, whom had eventually died after many years of joy together. We all talked and laughed into the wee hours.

In the end, I discovered the one who had lived in America had recently inherited a tiny two room flat, and knowing I hadn't yet found a bed for the night, insisted I stay at his place. The other two explained they were homeless by choice. They enjoyed this life, even on cold January nights like that one. Indeed, they were some of the most contented people I'd ever met. I'll never forget any of them nor those hours around the rubbish bin fire where they, each one, enriched my life.

Never discount the little moments. Take every opportunity to embrace life, but even more to experience the people around you, whatever their status. Don't miss the people for the place; don't miss the now for the past; don't miss the beauty in front of you for the dust on it's shell.

There is so much more to that story, like how horrid my host’s home smelled because he had recently painted it… and they put crazy stuff in their paint there. I believe I may have experienced something akin to an acid trip. I mean, I wouldn’t know because I’ve never dropped acid, but… it was SOMETHING. In that neat, sparse room were there REALLY bed bugs, or was it all part of the hallucination?

Still, great people, great experience, and many, many great stories… all because I stopped for people most pretend don’t exist.

The wondrous spectacle.

“…in what other place does the queen of silence show us more splendour…” - François-Xavier Garneau

With all lights out, I sat in front of a giant LCD LED HDTV with the surround sound turned up to decibels never before reached in this household to fully experience the festivities of the opening ceremonies of the 21st Winter Olympic Games. I mean, this is a one-night-only live show on which was spent 35 million dollars and the likes of which New York and Las Vegas shows can’t compare. With this killer system, it was nearly like being there… except I was in my robe instead of one of those white poufy parka-mini-skirts the help had on! And I didn’t get to bang a drum, darn it.

The lead up to the event included a wonderful reflection on Canadian-American relations and a lovely segment about carrying the torch near the arctic circle. Even the premier of the new version of the song “We Are the World,” recorded to benefit Haiti relief, was moving. But the main event was just getting underway!

I loved the visuals and the lead in with the sights of Canada and the snowboarder heading down the mountain and… into the arena. Really a great way to showcase the country’s beauty. One observation I had early on was when the Royal Canadian Mounted Police were carrying in the Canadian flag. I was slightly surprised and not a little impressed that of the eight holding the flag, five were women. It’s not the typical idea of an RCMP, but rather an exciting one I think. What an honor to be chosen, too, regardless of sex.

Watching all the athletes in their procession, I observed that there really are a lot of beautiful people in this world. Really. I thought the colorful giant paisley print pants of Azerbaijan get the award for most daring outfit, far outstripping the Bermuda shorts of the (duh) Bermuda delegation. I thought Russia’s jackets were by far the nicest looking. (But then, if you don’t yet know, I adore red!) I was excited that there was a woman competing for Iran for the first time in the Winter Games – AND she carried their flag.

But most of all I was moved when the dancers stopped and the audience gave a standing ovation for the entrance and procession of the Georgian delegation. Such a truly tragic – and horrific – thing to loose such a young teammate (21) the day his dreams were to come to fruition. Kudos to both the Chilean and Croatian delegations for wearing the black armbands as a sign of respect. How sad that none of the bigger countries, or at least all the other lugers, didn’t follow suit.

As to the ceremonies themselves, I was delighted. So many things stand out. That 16 year old Nikki Yanofsky singing their national anthem – wow! The entire fiddling & tapping sequence was outstanding, exciting, and inspiring – fully my kind of thing, and so much energy! k.d. lang was utterly amazing singing Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” (I’ve never been a fan of hers, but that one performance caused me to want to be one.) And that slam-poet Shane Koyczan was phenomenal. Made me wish I was Canadian. Nearly. “…Don’t let your luggage define your travels – each life unravels differently…” Fantastic!

And then there was the torch lighting. But it’s a little hard for me to comment on it, as I was watching it via DVR (so as to skip commercials all night), so it cut out during the extended delay they had waiting for… I don’t know what. I missed it entirely – and was incredibly irked about it! Four and a half hours, and I miss the finale! I’m hoping it will eventually be posted online, but no luck so far.

I know it’s a bit silly to go on about this, but really it’s so thrilling to this child-like soul. I love the competition and the sport. I love the stories of overcoming personal struggles to just BE there. (Like that athlete from Tajikistan who didn’t qualify, but they let come be a part of it just for the experience – he won’t compete. He’s that country’s only athlete.) I love the spotlight on a city and country – in this case one of my favorite cities to which I’ve ever been. And I do love the pride of country that comes forth. It’s going to be a great two weeks.

For better or for worse.

It’s the middle of the night and I’ve just finished “one of those days.” At the same time, it wasn’t all bad… it just left me melancholy and feeling a bit hopeless.

The good bits? For the first time in a really long time I had someone who listened and told me they were sorry and how much what was happening sucked. To individuals that have always had that, please TRUST ME, count your blessings. The last time I had a far, far worse situation I had a “good friend” tell me in the moment of crisis to just stay away then… at least that was the kindest bit of what they said. It is the most wonderful thing when something yucky happens to have someone listen then simply say, “That completely sucks, I’m so sorry!” So for that I’m overwhelmingly grateful.

The other nice thing was that another person whom hasn’t always made things easy for me actually came to my rescue – graciously. Usually this person has to let me know how much they are sacrificing for me and how I’m putting them out, but today she simply helped. It felt almost miraculous.

Still, the day seemed to want to twist me about his finger (the evil days are generally male… the truly depraved and vicious ones are obviously female). He wanted me to cower. With so many negative things piling up and his fierce vigilance at trying to bring me down, a simple conversation where I perceived that someone of importance in my life didn’t have faith in me for that which I’m striving toward was "the thing." You know, the tipping point. The day got his way. I crumbled.

I tried to process, but get angry when I can’t get past the self flagellation, so I thought escape was a good idea… in the form of organization (my go-to for feeling in control again) and a film. I chose, at random, Up in the Air. A movie about a man who had made an art of pairing down – great right? I’m working on that daily! – and a life of travel – so my goal! – only to discover that it’s all really about connections with people, and he didn’t actually have any. *Sigh.* Yes, let’s make me feel that much more crappy about my life and where I’m heading.

So. How do I then proceed? I’m a person who loves connections, but have never had one that… held out. I’m okay with that. I will continue to enjoy them for however long and on whatever level they are extended. Would it be nice to have one last? Most definitely. But in the mean time, I have to try to go for my dream, one step at a time. Even if it means I may be further isolating myself. I hope that’s not where this leads, but I will pursue regardless.

I’ll survive today’s adversity in large thanks to a lovely connection I have with a great person who knew to say, “I get it and I’m sorry.” I must have faith that my life will be graced with a few others that will also know how to listen and care – whom I can be there for as well. Lastly, I have to believe that whatever others think, I REALLY CAN.

Now to just get my heart to own all that… perhaps sleep is a good place to start. Thank you for indulging me in this reflective rant, and, well, good night.

Timing is everything.

I was accused recently of being a bit depressed and negative in my posts. Thing is, I wasn’t. I’m not. (And I don’t like that my wit seems to sound sad.) So when I began to ruminate on the following as something to muse on here, it seemed fitting…

In the last few days I’ve had this overwhelming sense of gratitude. It encompasses me completely as I think about certain people in my life. But even more, I’m awed by the timing of things.

Remember Toughguy? Well, our families have known each other on the periphery for more than 20 years. Life continued, we stayed separate. Fast forward to now. Out of the blue Toughguy and I connect online. We start talking, usually daily. We seem to understand each other on certain deeper levels. As we share ourselves, the strange connections come to light.

First of all, he is actually living in the exact same room I did when I lived in the Seattle area. Eerie, right? He only moved up there recently, though, and before that he lived not even two miles from me. We frequented the same supermarket and liquor store a block from my house. We ran the same back roads at the same time of day. We relaxed at the same park. And we never noticed one another.

But had we met then, I don’t believe I would have been able to connect in the same way I can currently. The process of healing, of life, brought me to be open NOW. So it took all the missing each other to find each other at the right moment… likely for both of us. As a result I have this rich, and I believe abiding, friendship. That’s really an amazing thing.

The same thing with my friend Sky. We’ve been close for a couple years now, but when she came along it was right on the heels of two people I deeply cared about walking away from me for reasons I never quite understood. But at that time, she and I both needed what the other had to offer – unencumbered acceptance, which is to say, true friendship.

In that, I believe I helped her through some dark times, but I KNOW she saved me. Put me on the path to mindful health. How incredible is that? Had that friendship come earlier, I might have been tied up with those other two people and she might have been lost in the all-consuming day-to-day of a job she hated (and had just left when we met). But we connected at that moment when we both were… ready.

It’s inspiring. But mostly, it’s just humbling. I’m so grateful. I’m so blessed.

The following story...

So to follow that last post up, I have to say that I began reading Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman today. I’d been wanting to for some time and had finally collected a copy of my own this weekend. Early on, he says this (page 13):

“Richard had noticed that events were cowards: they didn’t occur singly, but instead they would run in packs and leap out at him all at once.”

How disappointing not to be the first to come up with this idea. Even more, it is depressing that he said it so much better and more succinctly. And then, too, how queer that we used the same turn of phrase.

I must confess a further strangeness in that it is only after reading the comment posted by Miss Eliza on that last post which prompted me to begin reading this book at this moment. It’s a bizarre sort of whirlwind of connections, which is underscored by what was contained in Miss Eliza’s comments, and of which I will now repeat here:

This reminds me of a post I read on Neil Gaiman's website today, it's the real truth that should be universally acknowledged:

Strange moments of juxtaposition that make you feel like you're living in a novel:

It had been the kind of day that meant I never quite got to look at the post. After dinner I opened the various packages on the kitchen table.

The first thing I opened was a secondhand copy of The Inner Hebrides and their Legends by Otta F. Swire, and I opened it to a random page and read, "...the third of May, when the Devil and his angels were cast out of heaven (and therefore 3rd May is a day on which no important undertaking should be begun and on which it is unpardonable to commit a crime)..."

That's interesting, I thought. I could put that in a story, the next time I need a date of ill-omen. I put the book down.

I opened the next envelope. It was huge, and came from Bloomsbury books in the UK, and contained – well, what it contained was on the note accompanying it, which said, in tidy handwriting:

Dear Neil
I'm delighted to enclose proofs of the Bloomsbury edition of "Instructions" (to be published on 3rd May).
With best wishes,
Madeleine

That's a bit heavy-handed, I thought. If I were writing this, I'd drop the 3rd May date in on something that happened tomorrow, to give everyone reading a chance to forget.

Real life is so strangely written, sometimes.

To add one more oddity, this book seems to be about this very thing - odd occurrences and connections that lead us to the most unusual situations... sometimes even to the incredible and unbelievable.

"...big ball of wibbly wobbly timey wimey."

On how things happen.

Have you ever noticed how nothing happens on it’s own? It’s like a conspiracy of occurrences. Whether good or bad, they run in packs and gang up on you.

I mean, sometimes I’d rather have the lovely things dolled out here and there rather than coming all at once so that you rarely get to enjoy one thing fully. When it’s a painful thing, of course, it’s worse because there is no time to recover strength before the next blow hits.

Why is it, for instance, that I will literally go months without a man taking any real notice, then when I become interested in one I have them crawling out from all sorts of strange places. Some of them are rather tempting and others are, well, anything but, yet there they all are ringing me in the middle of a nice dinner out on my own or texting me sexy things that would normally be quite delightful in different circumstances or from the man I’m wanting.

Or how about when you’re down you get tackled again, then piled up on? Like me recovering from ankle surgery and finding problems with three other places in my body during recovery, not to mention cramps and migraines pairing up on me. Lovely. How about I just get hit by a truck? Again, I mean.

Then there are those rather rare days where the wonderful moments all roll in on top of each other, everything being delicious and delightful. It’s such a fantastic day, but then it is done, and the next day grinds on and on.

I wish we could confront these events and tell them to quit being so cliquish; to make friends with events that they have nothing in common with now and then. But I guess they get what they want and they want tribal attacks. Bastards.