Coming to Terms...

Passion

2012-02-01T10:29:00.000-08:00

They say life is a refining process. Theoretically, the older you get, the more you have learned. The more you can apply past experience; perhaps even use what you know to create a better life, going forward. “You’re not getting older, you’re getting better.” I wish it was that simple.

Because I don’t feel like I’m getting better. I don’t feel like I’m becoming refined, or learning anything. I certainly don’t believe I’m becoming wise, which is supposed to be the reward for growing older. I feel like more like I’m…petrifying, like an ancient tree.

Maybe my case is atypical. God knows, I’ve been a couple of steps out of sync my entire life, as far back as I can remember. I wonder if I was born lacking a certain kind of emotional armor that comes as standard equipment on most people. It seems I have always felt things more deeply than most. And have lacked adequate filter to disguise my deep feelings. The double whammy. Feel too much and show too much. It hasn’t made my life easy.

I guess they call it “passion.” I have been told I am passionate…and it has not been meant as a compliment. More of an excoriation. “You’re too—fill in the blank.” Such is the lot of the passionate person living among those who are…not. This surfeit of feeling and depth of emotion are freakish, almost threatening, to those who do not possess them. We are taught to control our passion, mask it, sublimate it, beat it down.

Having come of age in the sixties and seventies, I feel like at least I was given a short reprieve. Passion was the order of the day for us hippie-types back then. Forty years ago, I felt a connection to a larger culture of passion; we wanted to feel, and we were allowed to feel. We wanted to see, and we were encouraged to see. Some of us thought it was real. We believed that the passion we felt would be accepted and encouraged. We could be who we were, and change the world. We didn’t know it was just a pop-culture fad. We didn’t know that, in ten years time, we would be hopelessly “out-of-style.” Invited to sit down, shut up, and get back in lock-step with the rest of the world toward...well, whatever we have now.

Over and over again, as the decades have passed, I’ve found my deep-feeling soul to be more of a curse than a blessing, at least when it comes to getting along with other people. In my heart, I feel right. I feel like this is who I am, and I feel no shame about it. Left to my own devices, I’m mostly happy with who I am. That’s probably why I am just as happy to spend so many hours alone. But as soon as I rub up against other people, I begin to get that “inconvenient freak” feeling. That certain knowledge that I am different, and that it makes other people uncomfortable. That the only way for me to make it peaceably through life is to either pretend to be like everyone else (and I suck at that sort of pretense) or actually BE like everyone else.

Thus, my perception of my 50+-year-old self as a fossilized tree. Once away from those brilliant years of my young adulthood, I have met with enough disillusion and disapproval over the years to douse my fire. Or at least turn it down so far that it is barely a pilot light. And it really does not make me happy. The only times I feel right anymore are when I forget myself and soar to some extreme of feeling that no one else around me—particularly not my contemporaries—seems to be able (or willing) to reach. And I always pay for it. Disapproving glances and raised eyebrows are the mildest of the consequences. Most often, I pay with a serious crash and burn, failure and alienation. I’m so fed up with dealing with the consequences that I hardly ever “show myself” anymore. I dial it down. I don’t allow myself to feel.

I suppose people like me need to learn to control their passion, or it will be the end of them. Perhaps this is why so many passionate, artistic types die young, or even kill themselves. If you allow yourself to burn so bright all the time, you’ll burn out all the faster. But I wonder…who really gets the better deal? Is living long the ultimate goal? Or is living completely, for however short a time, what we should be aiming for? Why add twenty or thirty boring years to an uninspired life? What are we really contributing to the Universe once we’ve learned to hide our light under a bushel? An interesting conundrum…

A Good Day For Running Away

2012-01-31T11:55:00.000-08:00

I knew there would have to be a grieving process involved when it came to my separation from the restaurant. I almost don’t like to call it “grieving,” given what I know others—and myself as well—have experienced upon the loss of a beloved person. But grieving seems to be the pop-culture word for it; I can’t think of another off-hand.

Oddly enough, the week I spent with my sister seems to have tipped me down toward the well of grief. Perhaps it’s because I had thought that throwing my efforts into helping someone else do something would be fun. Affirming and somehow cathartic. I didn’t know how badly I needed to experience a little success at something. Now I know. And I didn’t get that at all, last week. Quite the opposite, in fact.

So, since coming home Sunday night, I find myself constantly on the verge of tears. The week of frustration at my sister’s house has amped up the volume on that little voice in the back of my head that constantly taunts, “You can’t do ANYTHING right!” I thought I had been doing a pretty good job telling that little voice to f*** off. But it looks like the only time that voice quiets is when I am actively doing nothing. So maybe it’s true. The only thing I can do right is NOTHING.

I’m going to take today and just…do nothing. I’m going to get in the car and go over the hill to do it…but I have no plan, no objective. Well, that’s I lie. I do have an objective: To run away from the pain.

Home Improvement NFS--Wrap-up

2012-01-30T10:04:00.000-08:00

At 9:00 last night, I walked through my own front door. I wanted to kneel down and kiss the tile in the entryway—the tile my husband installed a few years back without pissing, moaning, whining and non-stop know-it-all commentary. Oh my goodness. In future, the closest I will get to gifting someone with help on a home improvement project will be a $50 Home Depot gift card.

I left you on Thursday morning, looking forward to day four of (non)work on The Project (my sister’s downstairs bathroom.) In the previous three days, we had managed to purchase, cut and prime a bunch of beadboard paneling. My personal frustration was mounting, as I am not the kind of person who sidles up to a project and meekly taps away at it for a few hours every day…for weeks on end. I dive into it and do it until it’s done.

I’ll admit, I’ve had some projects sit around unfinished when I reached a point that exceeded my personal expertise. But if I start, I always finish eventually, and usually in less than a year. Sister and her husband…not so much. Particularly on this project. This bathroom remodel has been in the works for easily five years. Many months ago, my sister ripped down all the old wallpaper and some of the fixtures, in preparation for the update.

Then she made the mistake that so many DIY-ers make, fatal to any project—she designed the space to include many projects that totally exceeded her (and her husband’s) personal ability (or desire) to complete. And swore to god that she was not gonna hire somebody to do them. This is DIY, folks… and if “Y” don’t have a clue how to proceed, it shouldn’t be part of the project. Like, if you hate working with electricity, you probably shouldn’t design paneling that will require you to move every electrical box in the room. In fact, if you don’t know how to use the pneumatic nail gun that’s been sitting in your garage for ten years, maybe you shouldn’t plan on installing paneling at all. Ya think?

But, bound and determined that she was going to have it her way or not at all, my sister made plans that had no basis in the reality of what she and her husband could accomplish on their own. And so rather than having it her way, the project had fallen down on the side of “not at all” for years. Finally, as a combined anniversary/birthday gift (for the couple who has everything) husband and I offered to help. I don’t know what we were thinking; but I wasn’t expecting to step onto a passive/aggressive minefield.

We spent five days prepping the beadboard and painting the walls in this tiny bathroom. Excruciating, really…but my sister doesn’t seem to have the stamina for a brisker pace, and I personally could only stand to listen to my BIL’s haranguing for short periods. Besides, it wasn’t MY project, and I was doing my best to reduce myself to a mindless extra pair of hands. Not easy for a person like me, who is used to managing things… I swallowed my own thoughts, opinions and criticisms so much that I literally thought I was going to explode. Wouldn’t have been so hard if we had just done the thing, and gotten it over with in a couple of days. But day after day of inching the thing slowly forward, accompanied by the BIL’s yadda, yadda, yadda, yadda, yadda YADDA was a peculiar form of torture for me.

And yet, now that I’m home looking back on it, I believe I conducted myself in an acceptable manner. I kept the promise of helping my sister get a particular aspect of the project completed (we had promised to help her install the beadboard…little knowing exactly what that was going to entail.) And we are still on speaking terms. There was a time—not so long ago—when I would have made it through about a day of this, said something stupid, started a war, and fled home in tears. I have always sucked at situations that required me to hold my tongue, keep my peace, and really think about every word I let out of my mouth. From somewhere, I acquired that ability, last week. I won’t say I was always meek, gracious and amenable; but at least I didn’t say something really offensive or freak out and run away. I consider that a personal victory.

In the end, my husband had to swoop in, like the cavalry, mounted upon the dreaded nail gun. He “helped” the BIL nail up the paneling, which meant BIL mostly fluttered around the edges looking busy while the husband crawled around doing the work. Poor hubs walked like Quasimodo by the time we climbed into the van for the ride home last night. But our contract with the devil had been fulfilled. Hopefully this experience has taught us why the term is DIY (Do It Yourself)—not DIT (Do It Together.)

Home Improvement NFS--Installment Two

2012-01-26T09:24:00.000-08:00

Today is Thursday. I have been here at my sister's house, attempting to address the task at hand, since Monday. In three days, mostly what we've managed to accomplish is an amassing of more materials that we have yet to employ. There has been a lot of shopping for paint, paneling, trim and peripherals (with side trips to thrift stores, craft stores and other assorted attention diverters, since we can't seem to leave the house without being drawn to our favorite retail therapy haunts like steel to a magnet.)

The first two days, mostly what we did was walk through the target work area umpteen times, discussing designs, plans and methods. Picture three adults (my sister, myself and the intrepid allergic-to-home-improvement husband) packed in to the bathroom like sardines in a can; sister and me mapping out our strategy, and BIL glued to our heels, regaling us with a constant stream of man-around-the-house advice. He had no plan to pick up a hammer or a paint brush, but he felt obliged to tell us exactly how we should proceed. Ad infinitum.

We finally did go out and purchase the wainscot paneling (probably the only major part of the project that has not been lying around my sister's house for years), which we then had to cut and prime. This was the only actual work we accomplished in the first two days; probably an investment of about six hours total. But for the entire time my sister and I were engaged in this labor, her husband yammered on about what we HAD TO do an how we HAD TO do it. Sister has developed a habit of pretending to listen to him while she...doesn't. I have not got that talent. He was driving me c-r-a-z-y. He hovered around us like a yellow jacket at a picnic. I so wanted to hit him with a shoe. But fear of the sting dissuaded me from action--I was in no way desirous of starting up a "family incident" (been there, done that...!)

By Tuesday evening, BIL was getting pissier and pissier, probably because he knew we were not really listening to him, and had no intention of acting on 95% of the advice he was spouting. Finally, even my sister got fed up with him, and then the fireworks went off. I thought about grabbing my shoe and joining in the battle, but on second thought decided that my other method of dealing with yellow jackets at picnics would probably be the wiser choice: Drop the chicken and run like hell!

Looks like it is time to sidle up to the Day Four of the job. Maybe we'll actually get some hammer-amd-nailing done today. Watch this space for the update...

Home Improvement Is Not For Sissies

2012-01-25T10:33:00.000-08:00

After finally getting the holidays into boxes in the garage, I was feeling bored and peevish. The weather has turned foul; we are paying now for our pleasant and mostly dry December. There was the flash snow-dump, then three days of rain which effectively erased it; with the side-effect that much of the mid-Willamette Valley was underwater for a few days. Luckily, we (so far) inhabit a relatively flood-free zone. But my little outdoor spaces were sodden and uninviting. I was trapped indoors.

I'm sure that, had I given it some thought, I could have come up with a list of perfectly good projects around the house on which I could have embarked. Handicapped by my lingering allergy to lists, I was reduced to wandering from room to room, straightening a picture here, rearranging some pottery there. Then my sister's birthday came up, and a perfect opportunity to escape my confinement presented itself.

I had promised her on her anniversary last July that, being a free woman now, I would make the trip down to her place, spend a few days and help her on some home-improvement projects she has had pending for...oh, about five years or so. The main one being her second bathroom, which over the past decade has deteriorated to the point where, at one time, she had no sink, no (functional) toilet, no paint on the walls, no towel bars or toilet paper holder (which I guess you don't need if you have no sink or toilet...) They had managed to get the toilet functional again, but that was as far as it went.

My sister, in her peculiar way, long ago designed the re-do (in her head) and amassed most of the materials. Boxes of ceramic tiles, a new vanity, a light fixture, towel bars, even a granite sink are cached away in nooks and crannies all over her property. Year upon year, the pile of materials has grown and nothing, NOTHING else has happened. I can't pretend to know the reasoning behind this. Sister and her husband have been retired for three years, so it's not as if they don't have the TIME to address the thing. Twenty years ago, they performed a major remodel on their house, building an entire family room on to the back and updating their kitchen from seventies earth-tone dark to nineties light oak and tile. One would think that with such a massive project under their belts, a simple bathroom redo would be a no-brainer. The actual fact is, apparently the job so frustrated and overwhelmed my brother-in-law that he becomes nigh unto apoplectic at the thought of taking on another, no matter how small.

So my sister decided that the only way any of this is going to get done is if she does it herself. Or, rather, with help from someone other than her husband. So that is where I come in.

And this is why I find myself in the midst of a tempest. In a teacup, perhaps, but a tempest just the same.

As we have to leave for the Home Center to purchase more materials in a few minutes, I will pause here. More later, if I'm still alive to tell it...

Ten Minutes: (Caution: This is a Rant...)

2012-01-24T09:48:00.000-08:00

Suddenly I have this urge to pack up and move away from the home we've been in for the past 10 1/2 years. I think it's a manifestation of the repressed feelings I have about closing the restaurant. I'm sometimes dismayed to realize there really aren't any good memories associated with the restaurant, to speak of. It is so odd how I have simply closed the door on that chapter of my life and feel no need to revisit it. There is nothing to revisit but heartache and struggle, so I don't go there.

Most of the time, I don't even notice that I'm "repressing" anything. But there are times when I am out and about in town, when people recognize me from the restaurant and have to go on about how much they miss us and all that...I don't need to hear it. I would like the rest of the world to participate in my closure of that particular experience. Of course, they don't know that. And it is unerringly the people who were the most annoying as "guests" at the cafe who now don't have sense enough to walk away and pretend they don't recognize me when we encounter each other at the grocery store or at another local eatery. I know...this sounds crotchety, bordering on looney tunes. But this is my ten minutes, and I'll use it as I see fit.

The demise of the restaurant isn't the only thing that inspires my desire to abandon my house. I have a "neighbor situation" as well.

Now, I am fully aware that my neighbors, to anyone else, would seem quiet and untroublesome. But I'll admit right here that I am not the neighborly sort. Living on a large, strangely shaped corner lot, we don't really have any true "next-door" neighbors; except the dead ones. If it wasn't for the cemetery, we'd probably have one more set of annoying live neighbors than we now have. I appreciate my dead neighbors more than I can say.

Still, the times are a-changin' in our little neighborhood. "Disneyland" (as I have called the left-hand backyard neighbors) mysteriously vaporized just before Christmas. My poplar trees--the ones shielding their amusement park from my bedroom window view--were late to completely lose their leaves this year. And when they were gone, about mid-December, I happened to glance out my window and notice that the jungle gym, the trampoline, the burning barrel and the chicken coop--unending sources of irritation, all--were gone. And the house was empty. Which you would think would be a good thing, no? But I, ever the optimist, cannot help but worry about the succeeding occupants. Especially since the house appears to be owned/managed by the LDS church, of which our former neighbors were members. I have nothing against the Mormon faith, but its adherents do tend to produce large broods of children as a matter of churchly duty. And, in this day and age, you can just about count on children to be undisciplined, loud, and inconsiderate. Not their fault, but annoying all the same. So I live with some trepidation that the devil I DON'T know might be even less tolerable than the one with which I had previously been forced to cope.

My other neighbors had not really bothered me overmuch until now. Until I began spending my days at home instead of working twelve-hour stints at the restaurant. And it has come to my attention that the hard-working father--who is never home because he works all the time--is the keeper of his son, his son's wife and their children. The son--who looks to be early twenties or so, does not work. Nor does the son's wife. But apparently someone in the household has made enough money to furnish the place with a state-of-the-art home entertainment system. So at any random time of the day or night, I may hear, or rather, feel, the pounding beat of Mexican rap, or Spanish language television, reverberating through my house. With all the windows closed. And these homes are not built all that close together. One pleasant December afternoon just after Christmas, I was sitting out on my side deck when they decided to crank the stereo and open all the doors and windows. I screamed over the fence (not meaning to be rude, really, but I figured screaming was the only method of communication they would hear over the music) for them to turn it down, please. Whereupon they made some derisive-sounding non-English comments and turned it UP.

I really don't want to get into bad-vibe competitions with my neighbors. But me being me, it's bound to happen. I've always been a shy, inward person. I have never been comfortable dealing with other human beings unless it was on my own terms. My experience at the restaurant did nothing to change this. For five years, I had to manage the input of a restaurant full of strangers on a daily basis. It was hard for me. I never got used to it...never got to the point where I could do it easily, much less enjoy it. so now that I'm out of that situation, I'm even thornier than I was before. If I want people around, I'll go looking for them. But if I don't, I don't want them impacting my space in any way, particularly negative ways. Which can all be summed up in three short words. I. Hate. Neighbors.

So my dream right now would be to chuck the house and go find a piece of property where my nearest neighbors are...far enough away that I don't have to see, hear or socialize with them unless I want to. Preferably a place with plenty of birds, animals and ancient trees to keep me company. I think I could be happy there.

I also know that, the real estate market being what it is, and with a $40,000 second mortgage strapped to our backs, leaving this house is an impossible dream. Better come up with an alternate plan...

The Real Danger of TMI

2012-01-19T15:28:00.000-08:00

"Television has proved that people will look at anything rather than each other." -- Ann Landers

This quote appeared on my Google home page this morning. I loved Ann Landers. I read her faithfully starting when I was about eleven years old. Eppie Lederer was a no-nonsense gal. Her down-to-earth sensibility and dry humor cut through the inflated drama of her readers’ concerns, re-prioritized their “it’s all about me!” perspectives and pointed them in the direction of common sense solutions to their problems. And I find her pronouncement on the dominant technology of her day succinct and prophetic.

I wonder what she would have thought about today’s technology? The technology that has chained any person under the age of thirty to a smart phone, iPad, laptop and/or MP3 player. Personal electronics have become as necessary as breathing to an entire generation. The obsessive dependence upon these things carries Landers’ assessment to a whole new level. Cel phone/text technology has proved that people would rather communicate with anyone rather than present company. And will slavishly employ these tools to save themselves from what must be a fate worse than death, since they will risk death to avoid it—being alone in the silent company of their own thoughts.

Human beings are complicated animals, prone to mystifying and contradictory behavior. We kill for pleasure while we prohibit “murder” on moral grounds. We enslave others while rigorously defending our own unqualified freedom. We crave community and reject it at the same time; how else to explain a pack of kids walking down the street with their noses glued to their phones instead of talking to each other? How else to explain the drive to accumulate hundreds of social media “friends,” yet not have one other person in the world who KNOWS you? I am stumped. I doubt that I’ll ever understand it.

Over the past hundred years, humans have run wild with the idea of creating technologies that will “shrink” the world. Information that once took weeks to cross the continent now travels in less than the blink of an eye. Images are instantaneous, and they are everywhere, accessible at any time. But I wonder if we’ve really done ourselves any favors. We’ve become media junkies. But I’m afraid our hunger for input has outstripped our ability to process it properly. It’s coming at us so fast that there’s no time to discern truth from lies, fact from fantasy. We select the information we choose to assimilate and construct our own individual versions of reality. As a result, the technology meant to draw the world together is actually pushing it apart.

Each of us has created our own unique sovereignty. The "facts" we adopt, the realities we create serve more to isolate us from one another than to connect us. Instead of 196 countries in the world, there are 7 billion. In many ways, we are infinitely farther from each other than we were before all this technology endeavored to bring us together. It’s true, and getting truer, that thing which Ann Landers identified half a century ago.

We would rather look at anything than each other.

Cross posted at Women On...

Snow Day

2012-01-18T22:57:00.000-08:00

So we’ve had a major weather event here. The snow that was supposed to “sock” the Pacific Northwest Tuesday night, sneaked south of Seattle and north of Portland. And landed right in my back yard. At least twelve inches of it.

Lying in bed this morning, I watched it through the little square window above my bedroom fireplace. The one through which I can see the fifty-foot fir tree that stands guard over the cemetery. It was beautiful this morning, heavily frosted in white. I knew it had been snowing all night; knew there was bound to be a heap of it out there. I got up and looked out the front window. Wow! It was gorgeous. And it was wonderful beyond words not to have to worry about it.

I was reminded of our winter from hell three years ago, when the snow kept coming and coming. The year I had to shovel the walks (and the street!) around the restaurant every day for three weeks, because our good ole landlord was vacationing in Arizona. The year the last vestiges of snow didn’t disappear until almost April, and that same good ole landlord gave me a horrendous dressing down for “ruining” his sidewalks by putting rock salt out to melt the ice.

I wonder how long it will be before I stop seeing everything through the filter of what “it” was like when we had the restaurant. I looked out at the pristine, deep white stuff this morning and wondered if this would have been the day that the Old Town Café was closed by the weather. And immediately dismissed the thought. Who cares?

Because this morning there was no restaurant to worry about. No sidewalks to shovel. No employees to call in snowbound. No wondering how long or how much the weather event was going to mess with my sales numbers. No worries at all. I didn’t even have to fret about the husband, because he (wisely) chose to telecommute rather than risk the drive into Portland. Total bitchin’ Snow Day!

So I made soup, I baked cookies, and watched the antics of the weather-challenged birds through my kitchen window. And I allowed the snow to kick my butt around the block when I went out to tackle shoveling the driveway. Husband and I are now both in need of traction, but there are clear paths to the street behind both cars that will be leaving the house in the morning. (Mine is not one of them.) All that work when there’s every chance the snow will mostly melt on its own by morning…

We had been promised 50 degrees and rain by this afternoon—the better to make history of the Big Snow of 2012. Well, not so much. But out on the neighborhood streets tonight, steam is rising from the blanket of snow itself as the slightly rising temperatures slowly dispatch it. It looks for all the world like the Wicked Witch of the West disappearing from beneath her robes... “I’m melting! Melting! Oh, what a world! What a world!”

Yes, it is quite a world. And I’m getting to know it all over again.

Monday

2012-01-16T09:21:00.000-08:00

(In view of the current circumstances, and taking into consideration my obvious lack of interesting things to say in any case, I've decided to take "Coming to Terms" in a different direction for a while. I'm going to fire off ten-to-fifteen minute stream-of-consciosness entries every day (or so) just so I can oil the works a bit. Might as well go back to using my scribbling as personal psycho-therapy, since it doesn't seem to be serving any other purpose these days...)

Woke up this morning in a peculiar state of mind. I’m getting signals from the Universe that rest time is over. Not that I have been lying around the house doing absolutely nothing…but after five years of never having a truly restful moment, that is what it has felt like. Now I have to motivate myself in the direction of earning a living…this month’s financial mini-crisis sealed that fate. I’m petrified, really. The concept of a job search scares the hell out of me on so many levels.

1.) I’m probably too old to get a job. In a job market like this one, someone my age would be fortunate to land ANY job. And I know I don’t want just ANY job. I also know I have no desire whatever to go anywhere near the field I have been in for the past five years.

2.) My resume is crap. It was crap six years ago, actually… One of the reasons I decided I needed to have my own business. I find it kind of ironic. I know I would be a better quality employee than any of the people I managed to scrape together to man my own business. But I also know that there would be no way to convince a potential employer of that. And I am lacking the self-confidence it would take to aggressively sell my skills to someone.

3.) About that self-confidence…hard to muster when your most recent experience was a spectacular, 60-month-long crash and burn at the thing you thought you should have in the bag. A job search without self-confidence is not an endeavor destined for success.

4.) I may actually BE too old to learn NEW tricks.

So I’m starting to try on the idea of getting the concession business up and running again. It’s probably my best bet for bringing in money…or at least creating cash flow. But I have to say, there are things about it that remind me waaaay too much of owning the café. The customer service part, for instance. I SOOOO hate customers. I suppose I can take comfort in the fact that at least they’re not likely to run to the internet and pen scathing reviews of a festival food booth. And even if they did, I don’t know of too many festival-goers who check "yelp" before choosing a place to eat at such events.

It’s been five months since we wrapped up our Scandinavian Festival, and I began my R & R in earnest. Seems like a long time. Or at least an adequate time. But I’m still feeling weak and bruised and timid. Especially when I’m feeling the barrel of that “you need the money” gun pressing at my temple. Kind of a crappy way to start a week.

Unhappy New Year

2012-01-14T10:41:00.000-08:00

Just when you think things are on their way up, something happens to snap you back to cold reality.

Two weeks ago, I experienced the best New Years Eve ever, due mostly to our bird-extravaganza trip across the channel to Sauvie Island.

Yesterday, I was rudely awakened to the fact that, given that one can never completely shed the influence of human beings on the natural world, I should have known better than to try to duplicate such an experience.

My sister and brother-in-law and I drove over to the island yesterday, ISO photo ops—particularly focusing on Sandhill cranes and/or tundra swans, both of which winter on the island in abundance. Not only did we not get to see any birds, we got in trouble.

We were smacked in the face with the true reality of Sauvie Island. I don’t know why I thought that land set aside by the state as a “Wildlife Area” would have been established for the benefit of the wildlife. No…this is not the case. It is set aside as a place where the wildlife are “preserved” so they can be blown to bits by people with big loud guns.

A drive around the island in winter—when the birds are in residence—will discover many roadside parking areas designated as wildlife area parking. Of course, you can’t see anything much from the car, so you get out and decide you’re going to hike to some place where you can get a better look. Ten yards in any direction from any parking place, there are big red and yellow warning signs that proclaim that the areas are closed from October to April. “For the protection of the wildlife.” Except if you have a daily hunting pass.

So if you want to hike into the interior to enjoy the wildlife or take pictures, most of the island is off limits to you when the birds are in residence. If you carry a gun and have murderous intent, the red carpet is rolled out for you. This “Wildlife Area” is maintained solely for the benefit of hunters.

I have written before of my disdain for human beings who hunt for sport. A couple of years ago, I posted a piece on “Women On” about this very thing, which drew some interesting and vehement comments from people I had never heard from before. When I get up in the morning during the winter months, and go outside to try to enjoy my outdoor spaces, I am often driven inside by the sound of shotguns popping off all over the island a couple miles away. I try to be open-minded. I try to put myself in a space where I can allow others to do things, to even enjoy doing things, that I would not do. I try to put the hunters in a “live and let live” space in my mind… Come to think of it, why should I apply that philosophy to them? It’s obviously something that never enters THEIR minds…

I was horribly reminded of this yesterday.

Sister and BIL and I pulled off the road at the same place I had taken those gorgeous pictures of the snow geese two weeks ago. We did not find the birds there this time. What we did find was two people in camo and a bunch of wooden ducks. Two people who had driven all the birds away with their murderous intent, then endeavored to lure them back with fake ducks and rubber noise makers. Two people who chose to scream at us rudely when they spotted us with our cameras. As if we were ruining their experience. Chasing away all their potential targets.

I walked in a bit farther than I had two weeks ago. I don’t know why… What did I hope to see when those two idiots had obviously destroyed the magic of the place? What I got for my trouble was the sight of a grown man pointing a huge gun at a small helpless duck, firing at it over and over—loud, thundering, horrid noises—until the poor thing foundered on wounded wings into the cornfield below. Oh my god. I could have gone my whole life without witnessing that cold-blooded murder.

When I got back to my van, some guy from the ODW was waiting for me, demanding to see my id. Apparently, even though there were no signs present identifying this field as state land, and warning non-hunters not to enter, we were in violation of…being non-hunters, I guess. I had thought we were on private land, and would not have got out of the car or walked past any “no admittance” signs. But apparently that doesn’t matter. We will probably be receiving notification of our violation and fine in the mail within a week. Could cost us $250 apiece. To learn that the rights of hunters here are tantamount and interference of any kind by “non-combatants” is not to be tolerated. Live and let live. Of course they can’t. Why would I think they could? If you are not here to kill, it will cost you.

I am sick. I am sad. The places that I believed were sacred and wild are actually shrines to murder and death. Altars designed for man to assert his violent dominion over smaller creatures.

I don’t think I can ever go back.

Ten Minute Stream of Thought...No Editing

2012-01-13T10:26:00.000-08:00

I have mentioned that what I do not want is a job. And that is still true…though I do want/need something to DO. Sitting around the house dealing with little household things is not really making my life feel worthwhile. Though I have a new appreciation for doing absolutely nothing; inspired, I’m sure, by five years of having no time to do that. I realize that one’s life needs those “do-nothing” periods of refreshment. Time without that is what leads to what we call “burn-out.” And I think I am an expert on that particular phenomenon.

So I’ve been giving some thought about What I Want To Do With My Life. And I’m coming to the conclusion that, while making money is a needful thing (especially since I have so much guilt surrounding the $40000 second mortgage we carried away from the café) it cannot be the only thing. Or even the main thing. I once read (or tried to read) a book called Do What You Love, The Money Will Come. Or something like that. Anyway, the book was full of crap, but I think I’ve finally, though the School of Hard Knocks, learned that the concept is true. But you can even leave out the “money” part. Just…do what you love. Now I have to figure out what that is.

It occurred to me that I should take my love of all things Christmas and run with it. What would be wrong with starting a Christmas shop? The stupid little voice in my head sneers, “you know those kind of things never make any money. You’ll be out of business in a matter of months.” But I’m inclined to ignore the little voice in my head…now moreso than ever. Because I’ve seen what can happen to you when you get involved in something you really don’t love…or it quickly degenerates into something you don’t love…when it’s All About The Money.

I realize now that I never loved food enough to make a go of a restaurant. I KNEW food. It was what I had been doing for most of my life. And I thought I was good enough at it to be successful. That was pretty much all about the money, wasn’t it? And in the end, that wasn’t enough. Because if you don’t love and enjoy something enough to let it BE your life, it shouldn’t BE your life.

Time now for me to start thinking outside the “success” box and gravitate toward the “fulfillment” box. I want to be happy with what I do. I want to be stoked every time I show up to do…whatever it is. The Universe has given me a unique opportunity to do this…I don’t NEED money, even if life will be a little more strapped without it. I could be happy not having the cash but loving what I do. I really could.

Perhaps My Brain Still Works...

2012-01-12T12:31:00.000-08:00

I've finally written something of which I feel I can be proud. Please go read, and let me know what you think...

Health Care Wins Another One

Come Ride the Merry-Go-Round...

2012-01-10T12:46:00.000-08:00

So what is today…January 10? The time has really flown since Christmas, hasn’t it?

Disassembling Christmas went so much more easily this year than in the past five. Though taking down the big tree in the living room was a four-hour marathon, the rest of the holiday has been peeled down and stowed away with a fair measure of order and logic. It’s possible I might be able to corral all my Christmas boxes in one area of the garage this year, instead of stowing them in any available nook or cranny from the shed to the office to the nasty crawl space under the stairs. Goodwill will benefit from a couple more boxes of pretty nice stuff that has had its day but needs to move on to another stage.

I have to admit, I feel a little under-challenged—what with putting up and taking down holiday decorations being Job One in my life for the past couple of months. On the other hand, it strikes me that I should take this opportunity to thoroughly enjoy being under-challenged, given the perpetual—and irresolvable—challenge I strapped to my back every day for five years. Counting on my fingers yesterday afternoon, I was shocked to realize it has been eight months, almost to the day, since we closed the doors of the Old Town Café. Has it really been that long? If I take a moment to examine where I am now, versus where I was eight months ago, I understand that I have come a long way—emotionally, physically and spiritually. But I also realize that my experience with restaurant ownership will leave some permanent…well, “damage” is too negative. Let’s just call it “baggage.”

I’d like to say that I have a list of things I’m going to work on in this new year. Hell flippin’ no…there is no such thing. One piece of baggage that seems to be sticking pretty close to my hip is my complete aversion to “to-do” lists. In fact, my self-discipline is in shambles. I have little appetite for making myself do anything. I find I have to set a stage and nudge myself in a direction, rather than come up with a plan complete with bullet points and a deadline. For instance, I’ve brought the treadmill in from the garage, along with all my hand weights and other fitness paraphernalia. It’s sitting right in the corner of the family room where I can see it and use it on a whim. And I’ve stocked the house with food that will give me energy and NOT add to the extra baggage. This way, I should be able to improve my general physical shape sans the Diet To-Do list. This is my current recipe for achievement. I set myself up for success, rather than formulate a concrete plan from which I am guaranteed to run away screaming. Funny how I have to trick myself into forward momentum; but if that’s what works right now, I’m not too proud to do it.

I speak of my lack of self-discipline as if it’s a benign case of the “fuck-its.” And for the most part, it is…but it has affected me in some not-so-benign ways. For example, my writing has suffered a big hit. There was a time, while the dust of the café was still settling, when I thought I was looking at the perfect opportunity to go for it when it came to the thing I’ve always loved to do best—writing. Real, intense, professional writing takes a monstrous dose of self-discipline. Exactly the thing I am currently most lacking. It figures, doesn’t it?
I mean, at the very least, all the time I have on my hands should have manifested itself into some deep and prolific blogging, right? Not so much…obviously.

Some time ago I mentioned that owning a (failing) business had had a deleterious effect on my blogging. I compared the number of posts on “Coming to Terms” during 2009 and 2010 to the years before. I had dwindled down to 42 posts in each of those two years. About a third of what I considered a “healthy” blogging number (not sure where I got that figure, but let’s just go with it.) On June 1 of last year, I looked at the number of posts I had so far for 2011, and saw I had 35. Not great…but certainly better than the previous two years. Now that I was “free,” I took a close look at the goal of 120 posts by the end of the year (that gave me seven months to come up with 85 posts.) I realized that might be pushing it a bit, but surely I could make it to 100!

I also noticed that I had over 900 all-time posts by that time; 928, to be precise. That was when the 1000-post carrot materialized in my half-numb mind. So close! Why, I only needed 72 entries by the end of the year to make it to 1000! Wouldn’t it be great if I could post my 1000th page on New Year’s Eve? Or even New Year’s Day, 2012? I was stoked…or as stoked as I could be in the condition I was in by the end of last May. And, as it turned out, I was seriously delusional. I ended the year with 87 posts. Way short of any goal, real or imagined.

To be fair, my loss of self-discipline hasn’t been the only contributor to my inability to turn my semi-retirement into a blogging extravaganza. A closer look at past years when I regularly published ten to twenty blog entries per month shows that many of those were just pictures, or memes, or other junk pursuant to the AOL journal community. Facebook has taken the place of blogging for purposes of community fluff; and rightly so. I put the good stuff…the real stuff…the creative stuff here. The writing that comes from my head, through my heart and out my keyboard. Perhaps it is asking too much to come up with ten meaningful essays a month. Especially since nothing NEW is going on in my life right now, and I’m pretty sure no one is interested in coming by here to watch me beat dead horses.

But that’s a problem, too: The part about no one coming by. At the apex of my blogging experience, I had, and very much appreciated, maybe a couple dozen regular readers. Many of those had become friends—people I would not have known had it not been for this medium. They meant the world to me. I could have happily continued using my blog as a pen-pal post office box, as well as an outlet for my attempts at more meaningful writing.

But life is about change, isn’t it? Especially life based upon 21st century technology. I don’t like to think of myself as a relic, but it all seems to move just a hair too fast for me to keep up. Ten years ago, folks facing social challenges for a variety of reasons were naturally attracted to a place where one could put one’s thoughts out there and attract the notice of others…others like themselves, ideally. The attraction for me was not necessarily the community, it was the communication. The opportunity to get my thoughts out of my head and put them out there for someone—anyone—else to see. I was instantly addicted to the readership and the communication; the community, as I have often said, came as a side benefit.

Less than five years later, we were spat out of our little place of post and giggle, give and take, challenge and comfort; out into the big, impersonal internet-at-large. While we were paddling around, trying to figure out where we were going to go with our little group, along came Facebook. The end of the community blogging experience as we knew it.

Actually, I take nothing away from Facebook. It has been the perfect place for much of the community to land. For many of those folks, it was not as much about the writing as it was about the socializing. What better place for them to end up than on “Social Media?” Truly, some forward-thinking souls identified that market and came up with the exact thing to fit the bill. My hat is off to them. But the advent of Facebook has altered my blogging experience to the point where...I’m really trying to figure out what my focus IS, anymore.

I consider myself a writer. As my readers and friends have trickled away to social media, I have steadfastly maintained that, no matter what, I will write. And I will continue to write HERE, because there is no reason not to. But I have found this: Writing to little or no audience is extremely difficult. Interspersed with the memes and the fluff in the Good Old Days, I posted some pretty impressive essays. Some of the best I have ever written. People came by, agreed or disagreed, commented in some way. It was an unbelievable high for me, to know that after decades of scribbling letters to myself I was finally COMMUNICATING. Other people were reading and appreciating what I had to say. Many of my best essays started with an idea and the breathless zeal to share that thought with my readers…my friends.

Those days are SO gone. Yes…I have a few faithful friends who come and read whenever I post. And I do appreciate you; don’t think I don’t. But it isn’t the same, is it? People read…but they don’t comment. Certainly it’s possible that my writing has deteriorated to the point where it isn’t interesting enough to inspire comment. I think that’s probably true. If that is the case, I also think it’s probably true that my writing has suffered for lack of comments. When I DO get an idea, it’s more a case, now, of sitting down and making myself write. The kind of process which, in my current condition, is more likely to send me backing away, making the sign of the cross, than buckling down and producing a worthwhile piece of writing.

This is, what, my umpteenth treatise on the positives and negatives of blogging? I’ve been doing this for more than eight years, and I can’t get through more than a couple of months without being inspired to fire off one of these. I suppose that speaks to the relative success of my blogging experience. A normal person would have demanded more satisfaction out of the medium by now…absent that, she would have been long gone. But I continue to hang in; I’m not even sure why, anymore. It’s kind of like walking the halls of an empty school. The memories are pleasant…but the actual experience is pretty lonely.

And talk about lack of self-discipline! This post was intended to be Confessions of a Yule-a-holic…and look where it went! Seems you can’t always mask what’s most on your mind…

Things of the Spirit

2012-01-06T10:52:00.000-08:00

Last night, I was inspired to a bit of envy through a friend’s blog entry. She described a vision she had for someone she knew who had experienced a loss. I have another friend who actually journeys with her Spirit Guide. And another who is able to see auras around other people.

I admit I’m envious that these women have a more advanced ability than I to perceive or even walk through The Veil. The extent of my personal contact with the mystical is that I have vaguely precognitive dreams from time to time. I wonder why I haven’t been entrusted with a more advanced gift of spiritual cognition. It’s frustrating to know that “It” is there, all around us, but I personally don’t have the ability to perceive it as other people do.

But that’s life, isn’t it? We are all given different gifts. If we were all the same, perhaps there would be more peace and harmony (or perhaps not); but we would suffer for the loss of the infinite diversity that is the hallmark of Creation.

It’s not my job to be a petulant child and whine to the Universe about the quality of gift I’ve been given. It doesn’t do to covet another person’s diamond when I’m holding a perfect ruby right in my hand. I believe my gift is Understanding. Understanding that even though I don’t personally experience something, this does not mean that other people can’t or don’t. Maybe I’m meant to be a sort of liaison between the mystical and the utterly practical; the person charged with demonstrating that the two points of view are not mutually exclusive.

It’s almost time to crawl out of the little cocoon I spun for myself after closing the restaurant. I’m peeking out with one eye, trying to determine a direction to go once I’m out. Not so easy to do when you’ve reached the (rather unsatisfactory) end of the dream you held for thirty years. But it occurs to me that in order to chose a direction, I have to determine what I want. Up until today, these thoughts have focused on material things. I want to be free of the last of the restaurant debt. I want to redecorate my bedroom. I want a covered deck. I want a beach house (might as well dream big, as long as you’re dreaming…) In the back of my mind, I must believe that kindling a desire for these things will jump-start me in the direction of The Thing I Do Not Want—a job. And the shark under those waters which I’m also reluctant to encounter: Should I decide I want/need a job, there is no guarantee, at my age, with my resume and in this economy, that I will be able to get one. Won’t that be life-affirming?

Possibly the Universe is hiding a little lesson in my sudden covetousness of cognitive abilities beyond what I currently possess. As I pondered how lucky my friend was to be gifted with visions, a thought crept into a corner of my consciousness: How much would you like to have that gift? As much as you want that covered deck or that beach house? Back in my fundamentalist Christian days, we used to call that “being convicted.” Food for thought, certainly.

I realize that I have never actually weighed material things and things of the spirit with the same scale. They have always been separate, and often conflicting, facets of life. You could never really embrace the best that one side offered without cheating the other, somehow. Perhaps the Universe is prompting me to begin integrating the two, and to choose a priority for that One Life. Wow. At my age?

Don’t think I’m not, now, trying to figure out how I can have visions AND a beach house…

Reflections on Christmas 2011: Number Three--And a Happy New Year

2012-01-02T17:19:00.000-08:00

Here it is, the second day of 2012. Already.

It’s happening. I’m beginning to brush up against the downside of the aging process. The everyday aches and pains; the capacity for the mere sight of a bowl of pasta to instantaneously expand my waistline; getting on a train of thought only to have it de-rail, mid-ride. Still, I’ve earned my stripes. I don’t believe I would trade these badges of honor for the opportunity to go back twenty years. Except for one thing: Let’s call it the “Time-Compression(ish) Phenomenon.” That quality of advancing age that makes days, weeks, months, years fly by ever faster. What I wouldn’t give to have two weeks seem like more than the wink of an eye; to have a month be long enough to plan, anticipate, execute and savor. ANYTHING.

I’ve figured out that this is why I start shaking out my Christmas spirit in October. Forty years ago…hell, even twenty years ago, the four weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas seemed long enough to do justice to the season. I could clean, decorate, shop, cook, entertain—and work for a living. There was plenty of time! Time to get all these things done and enjoy the process. While these days, it seems we’re carving pumpkins one day, roasting turkey the next, and popping open the New Year’s bubbly a couple days later. Then we’re filling out tax forms and planning how to spend the refund.

And we squeeze a Christmas in there…somewhere. Somehow. For one who craves the season as much as I do, it just isn’t enough.

So Christmas 2011 has gone from Christmas Present to Christmas Past. And I can’t say it was horrible. Too short, maybe. It was a satisfactory “transitional” Christmas—one for which the circumstances of my life differed sharply from last year’s. The Holidays of 2010 were a series of “lasts” which cast a pall over the entire season. In fact, last Christmas was so bleak that I don’t remember much about it at all.

This year, there was a welcoming of new ideas combined with the resurrection of some good old things that had been in stasis during five years of business ownership craziness. I could have allowed myself to wallow endlessly in what was, what could have been and what will never be, now, in respect to my entrepreneurial enterprise. But I didn’t go there; and for that, I give myself major brownie points. The season has been fun, and I’m ready to take down the decorations and march off into the rest of the year without whining, “Is that all there is?”

Now, on to 2012… What do I expect? What am I going to go after? What am I going to wait to come to me? Do I have a focus? Should I have a focus? What am I going to do?

The short answer: I have no idea.

I do know that after five years of having directions, desires and expectations thrust upon me by my position in a very competitive business, I’m not inclined to “go after” anything. The word “pro-active” (one of those pop-culture buzz words I have never liked in any case) has completely lost its appeal. I spent too many months pro-activating myself into situations that consistently stretched me too far and spread me too thin. I proved myself to be a terrible judge of my personal abilities, and it got me into some awful messes.

No doubt there will come a time—maybe soon, even—when the sting of these past few years will recede enough for me to once again want to go out there and get…something. But right now, I’m inclined to implore the Universe to leave whatever It wants me to do right on my doorstep…or at least at the end of the driveway.

And if my New Years Eve experience is any indication, the Universe is inclined to indulge me, at least for the time being. I was shown places of magic and transcendence not much further away than the end of my driveway.

I’ve lived almost literally a stone’s throw away from Sauvie Island for more than ten years; yet before Saturday I had not fully experienced the “refuge” aspect of it. I have stood on the dike, a hundred yards of water between me and that wild place, and listened to the island countless times. But for whatever reason, I had not gone there—a five minute drive (to get to the bridge; if I had a boat, it would be less than a minute away)—to intentionally seek out the life. The wildlife. Specifically, the birds.

Saturday afternoon, The Universe generously rewarded a timid stretch across the channel by showering me with birds.

Eagles. In fact, by the end of the day, I had seen so many eagles, I was NOT snapping off six shots of every one I came across.

Cranes, swans, ducks, hawks. And snow geese.

I’ve coveted the snow geese ever since I found a video on youtube of waves and waves of them rising up out of a marsh to be photographed by a guy in a duck blind (whose camera I totally covet.) Of all the swarms of birds I’ve personally witnessed coming and going from the island, I had never seen a flock of snow geese. If it hadn’t been for that video, I would have doubted they even wintered here. But once I saw the evidence, I had to have them.

And have them I did. We found a gravel drive that ran up to the side of an old corn field. We parked; I got out and started walking as stealthily as I could toward the crowd of birds feeding among the grasses and tattered old corn stalks. I knew what was going to happen, but I had to try to get close enough to get a decent shot.

And then it happened. The geese gave their alarm call, the ground seemed to rise up in a cloud of wings, long necks, beaks and webbed feet. The sound was incredible--a melee of splashing and wingbeats underscoring a symphony of trumpeting, honking, whistling and quacking. Hundreds of birds swirled up and over my head, and my soul rose to meet them.

I was so geeked out by the experience; I could have happily disappeared into that cloud of birds and never returned. It was glorious.

My New Years gift from the Universe. Which I consider to be a promise of more to come.

Happy New Year...

2011-12-31T23:48:00.000-08:00

Reflections on Christmas 2011--Number 2-a

2011-12-23T14:26:00.000-08:00

So I had my Solstice Fire.

I brought down my raven rattle. When he didn’t seem to produce a satisfactory sound, I wrapped my jingle-bell bracelet around his neck. Perfect!

Simply drumming or rattling does nothing for me. There had to be music. Wordless humming didn’t cut it either. So I sang. Songs. Christmas songs, ancient Advent songs, Auld Lang Syne…

I sang for my parents. For Mom, “Moon River.” And some Simon & Garfunkel. And “Time of My Life” from Dirty Dancing, her favorite movie of her later years.

For Dad, it was more difficult. He was not particularly musical, and he couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. But I hit on “You Are My Sunshine.” Dad loved to drive us all around in the car, and we often sang on those long drives. Dad always chimed in on “Sunshine”…loudly and tunelessly. Last night, I sang it for him, accompanied by my jingle bells and raven rattle.

And I did come up with a list of things that “no longer served.” Things like grudges and excesses; indulging in some things more than I should; abstaining from things I should be doing. I wrote them down on a legal pad, wrapped my plum branch in the paper, and both went in the fire.

I started my fire at about 4:00 last night. The evening was clear and cold, and it was still light out. The thought came to me that I should watch the skies as I sat by my fire. The Almighty might send me a spirit messenger. Perhaps a heron would glide in and land in my garden; or an eagle might soar overhead on its way to its evening roost. But the sky was oddly empty. Not even the normal evening “crow-time”--the mob of local crows heading up into the hills for the night--dotted the sky or broke the silence. Finally, I gave up looking. But I was brought to attention by a rattling call coming toward me from the east.

A kingfisher. He flew like a bullet right over my garden, rattling and chattering all the while.

Now, it’s not usual to see kingfishers flying over my yard. They tend to stick close around creeks or the channel; my house is not within spitting distance of the kinds of places they hang out. So I knew this sighting was special, that the kingfisher was the messenger it had been suggested I watch for.

What message might kingfisher bring? My reference book had this to say:

“Take the plunge into this project or relationship with confidence and alacrity, and let go of all doubt and fear, because it will be successful.” ( Wonderful! I could surely use a little success right now! Now all I have to do is come up with a project...)

“Get daily physical exercise that involves both cardiovascular and muscular elements.” (Not many spirit guides carry messages such as this…guess I had better take this seriously.)

And this is my favorite:

“You’re at the initial stages of a cycle of abundance and prosperity, so welcome and receive it.”

That made my day. Maybe my year!

Reflections on Christmas 2011--Number Two

2011-12-21T23:52:00.000-08:00

A shamanist friend—one who is much more immersed in the mysteries and journeys of shamanism than I probably ever will be—asked me what Christmas means to me. Being as how it IS “Christ”-mas and all. This friend knows that I have left Christianity behind and am traveling a path of alternative spirituality. I’m sure it must seem odd, then, that I post stories about encounters with animal spirit guides on the same page with pictures of my five Christmas trees and outdoor light display.

My answer takes into consideration one undeniable fact: I was brought up Christian. Not just Christian, but Catholic. It was not my choice, but it IS my history. As much a part of me as the brown eyes I got from my dad or the short legs I inherited from my mother.

In Catholic school, we were all about the “Christ” part of Christmas. Midnight Mass and fasting before Communion and the gorgeous Italian crèche with the three-foot-high figures set up in one of the side niches of the church. And of course, as all-American baby boomers, we did not eschew Santa Claus (in whom I believed until I was almost ten years old…) or presents or Christmas trees. My childhood was rich in all the trappings of the holiday season—both religious and secular. And we were okay with it. Somehow we managed to fit the baby Jesus right in there alongside Rudolph and Frosty the Snowman, yet remain aware of the “real” meaning of Christmas.

The REAL meaning of Christmas. What is that, exactly? Arguments have been made placing the actual birth of Christ on half a dozen different dates, depending upon the criteria examined. The truth is, no one really knows when Christ was born. In fact, there is no surviving historical record THAT Christ was born. So it seemed simple enough, several hundred years ago, to assign the commemoration of Christ’s birth to a holiday that was nearly universally celebrated in some way in the lands into which the Christian faith was expanding: the Winter Solstice. I have to smile when I hear present-day Christians whining about “keeping the Christ in Christmas,” when it was their ancestors who plunked Christ into a holiday where he didn’t historically belong.

But I have no real beef with Christians celebrating Christmas at Solstice. Human beings almost instinctively celebrate the promise of lengthening days and shortening darkness. One feast of light and life is as good as another, as far as I’m concerned. There’s no need for us to disrespect the customs of others, nor to compel others to celebrate as we do. The Almighty is an expansive force. I’m sure It can appreciate and include more celebrations of Creation than we have the capacity to invent. It’s when we start saying, “THIS is the right way to celebrate, and YOU are doing it wrong!” that we get into trouble.

So I don’t see any particular disconnect between my current spiritual views and my love of all things Christmas. Christmas is largely a secular, social holiday. I’m smack in the middle of my fifty-seventh experience of this cultural phenomenon. Of course it’s very much a part of me, and I see no reason for this to change. I can indulge in the decorating and the shopping and the gift-giving and the eating without feeling that I am somehow denying my spiritual direction.

Still, I have a new path that begs acknowledgment now. I am impressed by how gently the Almighty has reminded me of this. A week ago, had you asked me how or even if I planned to celebrate the Solstice, I would have replied, “Ummmm….” What with all the decorating and entertaining and party prep, I hadn’t really thought much about it. As luck (or the Almighty) would have it, my party is over, my decorating is done, shopping is accomplished and I suddenly find myself with a couple of days to just…be. And I find I’m “being” nudged in the direction of Solstice. Of considering its significance. Of pondering its elemental place in the circle of life. Of crafting my own ceremony of acknowledgment and participation in something very ancient and very deeply real.

I’ve decided upon a Fire Ceremony. The Winter Solstice fire is a North fire. It honors ancestors and teachers. I’ll build a fire on my north deck and think about my ancestors; especially my parents. Christmas is so much about family, particularly those we miss—a significant connection between the two celebrations, as I see it.

Also, the Solstice fire is a cleansing fire. One ritual has participants choosing a stick to add to the fire. The stick represents all the things that “no longer serve.” We put the torch to these things to make more room for the new, and for things of lasting importance. Truthfully, this is a hard one for me. I find myself at a crossroads, and I am undeniably burdened with a lot of meaningless junk. But I’m not really sure what no longer serves. There are times I feel that my entire life no longer serves…and then, there are times I’m afraid to let go of anything, for fear that may be the thing from which my next chapter was meant to spring.

But I have already chosen my stick; I pulled a dead branch out of my plum tree this afternoon after I raked the leaves. The branch is sitting on my “altar” now—the place where I keep my crystals and my ritual trappings. My hope is that it will absorb some of the energy of these things touched by my hands and my spirit. Tomorrow morning I’ll hold the stick and meditate on what things I will attach to it—what things no longer serve—to be burned in my Solstice fire of cleansing and remembering.

Is this the correct, or accepted, or ONLY way to commemorate Solstice? I have no idea. But it is MY way, at this stage of my journey. And I’m really looking forward to it.

Reflections on Christmas 2011--Number One

2011-12-16T08:13:00.000-08:00

How I have looked forward to Christmas 2011! The promise of an unharried, calm and cozy holiday season is the carrot for which I have reached since we made the decision to give up the restaurant, way back in October 2010. I’ve anticipated this season like a lifer unexpectedly granted parole. How I was going to revel in it! What delicious fun I would have decorating my house! The events I would attend! The shopping I would do! I foresaw hours of leisurely retail therapy, soaking in the electric holiday atmosphere at every mall, big box and local shop within striking distance. After five years of trying to squeeze fragments of a family holiday in between the constant barrage of demands that was the café, I was utterly stoked at the idea of being completely free to enjoy Christmas any way I wanted.

Ah, but those last eight months! I could not foresee what kind of a toll they would take on me. Initially, I thought I was getting off easy. I had expected to feel unbearably sad and defeated as we wound up what I had thought was going to be the greatest challenge/triumph of my life. Instead, the time went so quickly, and I was so exhausted that before I knew it, the last of our Last Mothers’ Day Brunch guests were collecting their roses and their leftovers and heading for home. The crushing sadness and defeat never really materialized. When we closed the doors, I was overwhelmingly…done.

But the actual closing of the restaurant was the task from hell. I wanted nothing more than to be finished and away from it, but I could not seem to scrape it off. There stretched before me seven weeks of cleaning, tearing down and paying bills; dealing with vendors, the landlord, the city, the cable guy, old employees, old customers, insurance companies…it seemed like everyone wanted a piece of what was left of me—which was not very much. May 8 through June 30, 2011 were the longest 53 days of my life.

Even then, I wasn’t done. I had to jump right into the challenge of three major events for the concession business. By the end of August, I wasn’t merely running on empty. I had turned the tank inside out and scraped every molecule of available energy from the lining. There is not an English word for the degree of exhausted I was.

And it’s been a slow road back. In September and October I spent my days happily accomplishing not much of anything. Sure, there was a backlog of things around the house and around my head that needed to be dealt with. But not Right Now. Nobody was holding a gun to my head to do anything, and I was enjoying my liberty with a vengeance. The end of October rolled around and I knew the day was coming when I would have to reel myself in and begin tackling Holiday Preparations. I should have been excited. I should have been revved up. This was what I had been waiting for, what had kept me going at my lowest, most overextended ebb.

But I wasn’t excited. In fact, to my surprise, I was…resentful. I wasn’t done playing. I wasn’t done doing nothing. I was not ready to take on a new “to do” list, no matter how happy or fun the things “to do” promised to be. The mere fact that there were things that needed to be done, and that there was an element of time sensitivity involved, took much of the fun out of it. I’d been living with the impossible hanging over my head for so long that I wanted nothing to do with anything even slightly resembling a deadline.

So I attached baggage to the tasks to make them meatier. Maybe “decorating for Christmas” didn’t hold enough weight to spur me to the necessary action. I made decorating a corollary of cleaning out and organizing the garage. Unfortunately, that little gimmick had exactly the opposite of the desired effect. Instead of giving me a false sense of how important the job was, it put me off it almost entirely. I’d created a little voice in my head that said, “Now you have to get this done!” and my response was to fold my arms, turn my back, stamp my foot and pout, “Make me!”

I did eventually buckle down and dig in. I shuffled through box after box of holiday decorations out in the garage, trying to figure out what had had its day and was destined for Goodwill, and what I could not part with. It was impossible. I sent away maybe three boxes out of the fifteen that filled every cranny and empty shelf space in several locations around the house. Thrown into the mix of my own 35 years of holiday excess were several boxes of things I had bought to decorate the restaurant. Augh.

We’re now into the second half of December. The Christmas cards I had determined to send (because I was going to have the time!) are still sitting in boxes in the kitchen. All the baking I was going to do has distilled down to one stale loaf of cranberry bread deteriorating in the pantry. NONE of my shopping is done—not even for the party I’m hosting tomorrow for former staff of the café.

But the decorating…by god, the decorating is done. Outdoor lights, multiple Christmas trees scattered around the house, satisfying displays of my many collections of holiday chotchkes. And I have to say, it doesn’t look half bad. But it was quite the journey. I learned that my well of creative juices has not yet recovered to the place where ideas will spring forth merrily and prolifically. I need to drop the bucket deep, and I’m never quite sure what will come up. And while patience was never my virtue, what little I had of it has completely evaporated. More than once I had to stop myself from flinging a recalcitrant string of lights out the back door, or taking a handful of tangled plastic snowflakes and tossing them into the fire.

And time, which for a few weeks, politely paused long enough to let me almost get my breath, has shifted into high gear again. Christmas will be gone in a little over a week! I have been focused on “doing” this season, really, for over a year. Now, I’ll have to gird my loins and step off into the Next Chapter.

I haven’t decided yet whether I’m relieved or completely cowed.

This is going to be another series (yay!), as I have identified a few topics I want to write about under the general heading of "Chrismas 2011." Hope you'll join me for the rest...

The Heron Story--Part Five

2011-11-30T13:02:00.000-08:00

What had begun as a lovely day had rapidly deteriorated into one of the worst I’d experienced in quite awhile, despite what I thought was a valiant effort on my part to keep some semblance of peace and balance while I processed some major life changes. Still, all day long, Mother Earth had been sending me a message, a message I vaguely acknowledged but could not assimilate. At the end of the day, alone with my thoughts in my place of convenient retreat, She could not have made it any plainer that the appearance of herons had special meaning for me.

Since I’ve begun to truly embrace the idea of shamanism, I have had notable encounters with eagles, spiders, pelicans, squirrels and crows. These were spirit guides; each of these appearances was designed to bring me a specific message. And though I have been seeking a revelation of my Power Animal, I came to the conclusion that none of these was it. Perhaps my confused and none-too-focused method of going about my quest was to blame for the fact that I had yet to encounter my Power Animal. Or maybe I was simply never destined to have an adequate connection to things beyond the visible, beyond the corporeal, to move forward on a spiritual path that was all about mysticism and realms beyond perceived reality.

But I figured Heron must have a message for me. I consulted my tomes to try to puzzle out what that message might be. None of what I read resonated with me. Nothing seemed to apply specifically to any of my most recent struggles. All the exhortations were for doing things that I already did all the time. Sometimes more than what might, to others, seem healthy. That in itself should have been a clue…

I expanded my research a bit. In a dictionary of bird totems, the first words under the heading of “Heron” jumped off the page and smacked me between the eyes:

MOST SIGNIFICANT ESSENCE: aggressive self-determination and self-reliance

Heron was not bringing a message for me. Heron was me.

"…those with this totem [need] to follow their own innate wisdom and
path of self-determination. You know what is best for you and should follow it,
rather than the promptings of others.

"Heron medicine is the power of knowing the self by discovering its gifts and facing its challenges. It is the ability to accept all feelings and opinions without denying emotion or thought...

“You are a person who does not need the security of a 9 to 5
job, pension plan, group insurance and the assurance that every day will be the
same. You are one of those rare breeds that can live on the razor's edge of
life, and have an in-born instinct about what will and what won't work for you.
You are happiest when you are exploring many things, learning many skills, and
are often known as a "jack of all trades". While this may give the impression
that you are flighty and irresponsible, quite the opposite is true. If one thing
fails you, you have an assortment of knowledge and skills to fall back on. You
are never without, and adapt into new working situations with ease.

“While you enjoy a social life, it is not a necessary part of your
existence for you are quite at home alone, with your own thoughts and devices.
You are comfortable with yourself, and have no need to be surrounded by people.
You are not impressed with status symbols, or accumulating "things", and have no
need or desire to play the game of "keeping up with the Joneses".

Heron medicine is strong and courageous. It is not afraid to take responsibility for
every aspect of life. It will never pass the buck, or deny an act or deed. It is
the totem of character and strong will, but it will never use those gifts to
bully or take advantage of others.

“It is important for anyone with a heron totem to explore various activities and dimensions of earth life. On the surface, this may seem a form of dabbling, but those with heron totems are wonderfully successful at being the traditional ‘jack of all trades.’

"Most people will never be able to live the way heron people do. It is
not a structured way, and does not seem to have a stability and security to it."

As I read, a picture began to take shape. A picture of a person whose knowledge of herself, and stubborn determination to conquer the next new thing, coupled with a tendency toward solitude and “aggressive self- reliance,” may have made her a force to be reckoned with; but may also have made her life more difficult than it might have been had these traits not been an essential part of her being.

A picture of…me. Of the “me” I realized I had always been. My mother’s favorite story about me was how, as a toddler, I used to rattle the bars of my playpen and holler “Get me out of dis darn t’ing!” Some of the earliest evidence of that “aggressive self-determination,” I would say. And I can see now, it has never changed. Or got any easier.

Many of these traits were ones I had discovered (through my characteristic—some would say obsessive—self-examination) were the very things that seemed to complicate my life almost beyond endurance. I have never felt like I was on the same page as the rest of the world. I thought there was something wrong with me. Why couldn’t I change? Be more willing to follow? Less of a maverick? Be happy with the 9 to 5, the house in the suburbs, the 2.5 kids and the two cars in the garage? Oh, my life would have been SO much easier!

Only recently have I come to appreciate that my personality—the essential “me”—has been as much a blessing as a curse. And now, seeing this image of myself in black and white, words on paper—words with a distinctly positive spin—has been invaluable. It has answered desperate questions, some of which I had not yet thought to ask.

On this day when I felt that my most recent incarnation of myself had been yanked off like a mask, exposing the hurt, confused, questing spirit who had been trying to hide herself behind it, Mother Earth offered me a most amazing gift: The gift of who I really am. The knowledge of the Animal Spirit with whom I am inextricably linked, and what that might truly mean. The opportunity to celebrate that discovery, to revel in it, to explore it for the good thing that it is.

And, incidentally, the answer to why I have been so drawn to herons, for years.

One of my reference books suggests that, once you discover your Power Animal, you should consider acquiring images or representations of it to place around your home, to remind yourself of your connection to it. I had to smile at that...my home already looks quite like a shrine to Heron.

Now I know why.

The Heron Story--Part Four

2011-11-22T08:16:00.000-08:00

In my recent travels, I’ve discovered some truly sacred places…places where the spirit of Mother Earth is so strong that even the most mystically-challenged could not help but feel her. A windy rainswept beach. A forest of gnarled, centuries-old trees. Given the time and the resources, I would have flown to one of those places. The desire to do so was almost overwhelming. But with our battle declared “over,” it would hardly have done to pack my bags and drive off alone. The option open to me was the trail on the dike five minutes away. So that is where I went.

“I’m going for a walk.” I flung this information over my shoulder to the husband—comfortably ensconced in front of the television—as I grabbed my keys and headed out the front door. Moments later, I was climbing out of the van and up the short hill to that familiar trail. I was almost disappointed that I was not immediately greeted by the four eagles I had met on that magical Sunday morning a year ago.

Absent such a blatant show of support from Mother Earth, I abandoned my characteristically purposeful stride and just ambled down the trail. The questions that I had wisely set aside for a time when I should be stronger and less prone to flog myself with them crowded to the front of my brain and pushed more anguished tears out my eyes and down my nose. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I do anything right, ever? Yes, the restaurant was a disaster…but how much lasting damage was it going to do to my life, to my heart, to my marriage? Why couldn’t I just shake it off and keep going? And why did my life partner seem to have absolutely no tolerance for my turmoil, nor take any notice at all of what I believed was my herculean effort to maintain a façade of sanity and control, while what I was and what I will now be duke it out just behind the curtain?

The beauty of the evening cast a sunset glow on my pity party, but I was not inclined to notice. I was in full demon-wrestling mode; I could have as easily been walking down a crowded aisle at Walmart. Then, ten yards ahead, a large, dark shape rose from the water, aimed toward the sinking sun, then seemed to change its mind in mid-air, just above my trail. The bird twisted and hovered, then silently sailed back into the dark depths from which it had come.

“Heron! Heron…hmmm. I guess it truly is Heron Day…”

I raised my head and looked around me. The sun had disappeared behind the hills in the west. There were no flaming clouds showing off blazing sunset finery, but the whole sky was suffused with a soft apricot glow. Now and then, a gull or a cormorant would fly by. In silhouette, they looked like something out of a coffee table photo atlas. There was no wind, and the voices of geese and cranes rose from their evening roosts. I didn’t completely abandon my pit of sorrow, but the heron encounter had pulled me up far enough to at least dimly recall why I had come here. For peace. For healing. I scraped a few slivers from the peace that surrounded me and buried them in my heart.

Quieter and calmer now, I continued on to the turning point—the osprey tower—turned and headed for home. I didn’t feel healed or renewed, just…hushed. I was done wrestling demons for the time being, but I was tired to my very bones. I let the evening sky wrap around me like a robe as I strode into the dusky orange light of the day’s end. A comforting light. A hopeful light. And once again, a heron appeared from the invisible depths of the channel to my left, made as if to head off to the fields to my right, then twisted, hovered, and disappeared back toward the water. All silhouetted against the Hollywood-worthy backdrop of the sunset sky.

A chill tingled my spine, a tiny firework went off in my brain.

“Okay. Herons. This is for me. I get it.”

Now I had to go figure out exactly what it was I got.

For anyone still interested, it looks like there will be a "Part Five"...

The Heron Story--Part Three

2011-11-20T06:58:00.000-08:00

The frayed edges of our bubble flapped around us. We didn’t argue, not immediately. Instead we (ridiculously) continued to get ready for our outing. We got in the car, drove north; me attempting casual conversation, him grunting one-word answers or answering not at all.

At the park, we collected the dog and headed down the hill to the trail. Continued stony silence issued forth from the husband. Finally, I sighed and said, “Are you going to be mad at me all day?” What better place to air your dirty laundry than right out in front of God and everybody?

Luckily, “everybody” was not in attendance. But God—the Great Spirit, the Universe, All There Is—was.

The walking trail at this park goes around a tiny man-made lake. We hit the trail arguing. But comfort and distraction came only a few steps into our mobile squabble.

Where our path neared the shore of the little lake, a huge heron floated up from the water, where it had obviously been fishing. It rose above us, crossed our path, crossed it again, then landed in a tree about fifteen yards away and looked down at us. This is not usual heron behavior. Disturbed, they will emit one of their characteristic hoarse croaks, gather themselves up and take themselves away to where the intruding humans are no longer in evidence. It briefly crossed my distressed mind that this one seemed more interested in being noticed, in making sure I knew it was there. After all, it could have just stayed in the water, where a mounded bank had kept it out of our view. It was odd…special. I couldn’t help but climb out of my pit of despair long enough to say, “Wow!”

Husband and I argued/walked on for another twenty yards or so, and the exact same thing happened again. Another heron rose from the shore, crossed our path just ahead of us, and lit in a tree a short way up the trail. “I am here,” it seemed to be saying.

“Wow!” I sputtered between my tears. “It must be ‘Heron Day’ at the nuclear park!”

We walked deeper into the park, and sank deeper into our conflict. I tried to explain that my prime focus the past several months had been to talk myself up, to convince myself that I had not failed. It was the only way to keep getting out of bed in the morning. And I tried so hard to keep my peace; to appear as if I was okay, going through those motions every day. All for naught, evidently. All at once, my façade of peace lay in shards at my feet, and the dam behind which sloshed five years of disallowed tears began to crack. I prepared to wash away into the crater of depression which I had heretofore somehow managed to skirt

We rounded a corner, though I was so awash in despair that I don’t know how I stayed on my feet. Scant yards ahead, yet a third heron rose up out of nowhere and flew across the trail in front of us. It, too, landed in a tree and watched us walk away. "I am still here. For you."

At a point about three-quarters of the way around the lake, we somehow managed to fashion a patch over the hole in our bubble. Husband took my hand and we walked in truce. We drove home in a more amicable silence. Once out of the car, we went our separate ways. We were done arguing, for now, but it didn’t seem important to spend any more time in each others’ immediate presence. Once again, my job was going to be to gather up the shards of my shattered peace and act as if it were no sweat at all to put it back together.

I spent the next couple of hours listening to music and playing solitaire on my laptop. This is my go-to decompression mode. It occupies just enough of my brain to keep it from diving into the depths, analyzing and re-analyzing the argument ad nauseum. The sun sank on what was supposed to be our beautiful fall day. Gazing out the window, I knew I had to get back out into it. I would go to Mother Earth. She would help me puzzle my peace back together.

Looks like this is going to be at least a four-parter...

The Heron Story--Part Two

2011-11-16T22:54:00.000-08:00

It’s no secret that, since closing the restaurant, I’ve been treading water, emotionally, physically and spiritually. Or maybe not treading water—that would take too much energy I do not have. I’ve been floating. Lying back and allowing myself to be upheld by an energy which is not my own. A force that I vaguely recognize as the Great Spirit—All There Is.

I’m aware that in the depths above which I am now floating are questions that need answers, feelings that need outlets, destinies to be fulfilled. I’m also aware that I am simply not capable of grappling with any of that…yet. I have silently communicated this to the Spirit; “Not yet. I’m not strong enough yet. I need some time.”

As if this prayer is really necessary. All There Is knows what I need, and It knows when I will be ready to do what needs to be done. But first, It has to gently direct my focus to what really does need to be done. About which, I suspect, we currently have conflicting opinions.

As I float above the tough issues, I have tried to conduct my life as if nothing is really going on. I cook, I clean. I mow my lawn. I shop, go to movies, sit and watch TV with the husband in the evening. I do the best a naturally transparent person such as I can do to mask my personal turmoil. That in itself is hard enough work, for me. And I thought I’d been doing a creditable job.

The husband and I have existed in a relatively peaceful, amicable bubble. I’ve come perilously close to patting myself on the back for my newfound ability to ignore the elephant in the room. I’d even begun to think the imposing pachyderm may have slipped out the door while we weren’t looking. I’m usually not one to indulge in such wishful thinking, but it seemed the path of least resistance—to which I am so attracted these days.

Last Saturday morning, husband and I shared a cozy breakfast, looked outside at the fine, sunny fall day, and decided to pack up the dog and take her for a walk at the “nuclear park” (the manicured grounds surrounding what used to be the Trojan power plant.) It was a perfect day to stroll through the kaleidoscope of trees and kick through piles of crunchy leaves. Also perfect, evidently, for an unexpected harpy to swoop out of the blue and rip a hole clean through our peaceful bubble. And out we tumbled, right into the lap of the elephant.

We were in the bathroom getting ready to go, and suddenly the conversation just hit a wall. Don’t remember what exactly we were discussing, but I said,

“…and that would not be good for me.”

Husband: “I’m good for you.”

I stopped dead in my tracks. My back was to him. My eyes widened. My mouth opened. Nothing came out.

I decided not to engage. I straightened, moved to go out to the bedroom, ostensibly to get something out of my dresser. He stood in the doorway. Blocking the door.

Husband: “I’m good for you. Right?”

Me: “Ummmmm...”

Husband: “Right?”

Me: “Move.”

Husband (reacting to my deliberate non-reaction ): “Not lettin’ you out until you tell me I’m good for you.”

It sounds more threatening than it actually was. He was begging for affirmation that everything was okay. That the storm was behind us and we could go back to being…whatever we were before.

And I…

Could. Not. Give. It.

I knew the thing to do was lighten the moment. Laugh it off. I could not form the words. I looked at his eyes, and tears began to sting behind my own.

Husband: “What?”

I tried. I really tried. I stalled.

“I don’t think we should really go there, dear…”

“Why?”

I struggled. I hesitated. For what seemed like long minutes. I dug deep for something to say. Anything. With all my heart, I truly did NOT want to “go there.” But as is my way, when I’m stuck for words and a response is demanded, the truth came tumbling out.

“Because we’ve just come out of a place where we didn’t even know if we liked each other. We definitely were NOT good for each other. For a really long time.”

“So?”

He backed me into that corner, with the idea of getting me to concede that the strife was over and we could now go on as if five years of acid rain on our marriage had never happened. Still, I was not meaning to accuse, not intending to assign blame. I tried to answer honestly, without freaking out, without going ballistic.

“So I think we need to concentrate on being good TO each other for awhile, and then we can talk about being good FOR each other again.”

What is it about the truth that it possesses such power to wound? I’ll never understand it, but honesty in my hands becomes more the sword of an avenging angel than the magic staff of calm and reason that I expect it to be. I hurt people with it, every single time.

The bubble had burst. The day was ruined. He was deeply wounded. And angry.

What has all this to do with herons? All will be revealed in part 3...

The Heron Story--Part One

2011-11-16T22:40:00.000-08:00

To be continued...

You Wanna Piece o' Me?

2011-11-11T08:56:00.000-08:00

Position Wanted: Burnt-out former restaurant owner with too much time on her hands and lingering debt issues looking for work. Punctual, dependable, strong work ethic. No drama. Open availability, but would prefer not to work early mornings, evenings, weekends or holidays. Position cannot require interacting with the public, other employees, or management. Current skillset evaluation indicates this person is uniquely suited to sitting in front of a laptop for hours playing solitaire. Available immediately. Please call…

Ten Things...From an "Empty" Mind

2011-11-06T23:39:00.000-08:00

I used to do these lists.

They started out as “Ten Good Things.” By nature, I tend to dwell on the negative, so it never hurt to spend a few hours a week dredging up the positives. I felt the lists nudged me somewhere toward proper balance.

Then we bought the restaurant, and…well, that was essentially the end of “Ten Good Things.” It was often all I could do to scratch up ten things that hadn’t totally sucked. Didn’t make for very edifying reading, so I didn’t bother sharing those too much. I think I might have sunk so low as to post a list of “Ten Things That Bug The Shit Out Of Me” at one point during the café days.

Recently, at the end of a rough day, I fled to the dike and wrapped myself in the soft orange light of the setting sun, stitched with silhouettes of water birds, as if it were a ceremonial robe. As usually happens when I try to empty my mind, it filled with random thoughts. Ten things.

1.) I need a name for the Source of All Things. “The Universe” or “The Almighty” sound too “New Age.” “God” has too much weird history. Perhaps “Teacher”…?

2.) When you actually live in your home, you wake up to the lingering smell of what you cooked for dinner last night…instead of what the pets had for dinner. Or rather, how they processed it.

3.) The current peace between myself and my life partner is as fragile as a hummingbird egg.

4.) Heron. Herons. Another heron. It’s Heron. I get it.

5.) If I breach this dam of tears, I could cry for days.

6.) Fall is absolutely the perfect time of year.

7.) I am precariously perched on the edge of a crater of depression. Can I keep my purchase on the rim and not fall in?

8.) I’m addicted to the wild sound of calling geese. And I live steps away from Goose Central, where I can score a fix any time.

9.) I really do like to cook. I had forgotten. Or maybe I never knew.

10.) The diet will have to wait until I am in a better head space. This should be after the holidays sometime.

Since some of these are rather cryptic, it might be worthwhile to blog about each thing separately, in some future posts...

History Lesson

2011-11-03T11:08:00.000-07:00

I think the adage “Forgive and Forget” must have been coined by a man.

The process of rebuilding my life out of the ashes of “our” entrepreneurial disaster has been a challenging undertaking for me. Our marriage became so entangled in the frustrations and failures of running the restaurant that it has been a monumentally painstaking process to separate the two. And for my marriage to survive, they do need to be separated.

Forty-eight months into the stint, I felt that the intricately knotted mass was wrapping around my neck and pulling me down into…what; I had no idea. But I knew it was dark and ugly and I didn’t want to go there. When the opportunity to walk away presented itself, my first instincts urged me to cut myself loose and run like hell from the whole mess—café, husband, and everything associated therewith. I’m convinced a lesser woman would have done exactly that. Exhausted, burned and hurt as I was, the task fell to me to extract the shreds of my marriage from the wreckage and try to piece them back together into something that was at least peaceful cohabitation, if not happily-ever-after.

Scraping off the business part of the mess has been relatively easy. I don’t have to go to the restaurant every day and try to pretend that everything is fine. As far as the café goes, it’s gone, I’m free, and I can brush off my hands and walk away. With it safely behind me, the sting of any lingering wounds will fade pretty quickly, and I can process the lessons learned at my leisure and move on.

It’s ever so much harder to try to be IN a relationship while attempting to undergo the healing/assimilating/going forward process. One needs to adopt the talents of the proverbial duck—what you see is a bird gliding serenely across the surface of the pond, but under the water, her feet are paddling like crazy.

The husband, however, doesn’t want a duck. He has no patience with a duck. He wants a phoenix. Or maybe that’s not even quite accurate, because I’m pretty sure he doesn’t believe there are ashes from which to rise. In his mind, emotional trials don’t leave anything behind. No lingering effects whatsoever. The principals involved merely forgive, forget, and leave it at that. End of story.

If life were meant to be that way, why should we have memories at all? Why not just flit from episode to episode, always surprised, never prepared? Maybe we wouldn’t be unhappy. But we wouldn’t get anywhere, either. We’d never learn anything. We’d make the same mistakes over and over. And we wouldn’t be allowed to pick what kinds of memories we get to have. If “forget” is the prime directive, we don’t get to keep the good and ditch the bad. No history is NO HISTORY. Period. Not much of a life, for my money.

In real life, if it wasn’t for my memories of the good things about our relationship, if it wasn’t for the fact that I wished to honor our HISTORY together as much as anything, I might very well have become that “lesser woman” and walked away from the whole sinking tangle of our business and our marriage. In this day and age, people do it all the time.

But I didn’t. I considered everything, past and present, and opted for us. For the marriage. For continuing the partnership with the man I fell in love with a long time ago. Good thing I didn’t forget that, huh?

Harbinger of...?

2011-11-01T22:05:00.000-07:00

This little guy showed up in my yard this morning.

I think I should be worried... The last time a woodpecker showed up at my feeder in November, we had the winter from hell (2008).

I'll have to hope that his behavior spells the difference between this occasion and the last: He wasn't actually eating from the feeder. He was eating the feeder. Or, more accurately, he was pecking holes in the post atop which the feeder is perched. And pulling out grubs, or larvae, or whatever.

Which might more accurately point toward an imminent need for a new post than impending terrible weather.

That's what I'm going to choose to believe, anyway...

Hounded

2011-10-31T13:08:00.000-07:00

This morning, I drove over to the dike to take a walk and talk to the wildlife. I had taken about a dozen steps along the graveled earthen ridge when I looked up to see a twenty-pound Jack Russel terrier about thirty yards ahead, crouching at his owner’s feet. Then, like lightning, he took off, snarling, hell bent for leather—right at me. The male half of the young couple who I assumed to be in charge of the dog (or not) laughed, made a half-hearted attempt to call off his mutt, and then just ambled forward as if nothing in the world were amiss; while I—fearing for my ankles or my butt or whatever part of my flesh the crazed little mongrel might decide to sink his teeth into—waved my arms, stamped my feet and hollered in my best “Bad Dog” mom voice, “No! Get out of here! Bad dog!”

The dog veered at the last second and trotted off into the weeds behind me. Unconvinced that the attack had been aborted, I turned to keep an eye on the little bastard; and out of the corner of my eye, ascertained that a second terrier had broken away from the people and was now also hurtling down the gravel path at me. The young couple strolled amiably toward me and looked slightly amused as I reprised my screaming, hand-waving, foot-stomping act, in two directions now, as by this time I was badgered from before and behind. I looked up angrily at the inexplicably unfazed young couple, who were by now about fifteen feet away.

“Maybe you should put a leash on these dogs!” I sputtered, still dancing and clapping to keep their pets a safe distance from my ankles.

The amiable expression disappeared from the young man’s face and he sneered at me, “Get over it!” Two leashes dangled limply from his hand.

In the ensuing few moments, he got control of his animals; acting all the while like I was some kind of head case for being so upset by his cute little dogs. Once he had the little devils safely tethered, I moved to go around the party and continue my now completely ruined walk. The young man was still looking at me like I was out of my mind.

“I have no problem with cute little dogs,” I informed him. “But when a dog comes charging at me with his teeth bared, that is not a good thing.” And I walked on.

Last I heard, he was whining something about, “Yeah, look at him!” As if his dog were so adorable and so inoffensive he could not possibly frighten a sane person.

WTF is it with people and their dogs?

I have a dog. I love my dog. But she’s A D.O.G. Not an animated stuffed animal. Not a child. Not a cute, cuddly four-legged package of fur with all the rights, privileges, needs and cognitive powers of a small human being. She doesn’t need to come into stores and restaurants with me. She doesn’t need to ride in airplanes, taxis, trains or city busses. She doesn’t need to come to crowded outdoor (or indoor!) events so she can be with me and “play” with the other dogs. She would, in fact, HATE doing any of those things and, though she does not like to be left at home, she is a lot happier there, in her familiar surroundings, than she would be if I dragged her everywhere I went.

And I would no sooner take her to one of those dangerous, germ-infested encampments of canine gang psychology—the “Off-Leash Dog Parks”—than I would incarcerate her in a cell in a dirty kennel and lace her water bowl with distemper virus.

I treat my dog like a dog. We go for rides, we go for walks, we play ball, she gets doggie treats. I don’t feed her from my dinner plate, because I don’t want her to get fat and ill—obesity is mortally dangerous to dogs. She doesn’t sit on the furniture and she doesn’t sleep in my bed. We take her to the vet, we keep her clean, we keep her free of fleas. And we love her. We cherish her, protect her and discipline her. Most people in our circle understand that our dog is a member of our family and is pretty damned spoiled. But she’s still a dog. And we respect that.

Dog owners have gone completely around the bend. They get a dog because they demand that something unconditionally love and be totally dependent upon THEM. Then they attach the poor animal to themselves by an impossibly short umbilical, insisting that the dog wants and needs to go everywhere and do everything the owner does. Not one millisecond of thought is wasted on the dog’s actual needs or preference. Or what might or might not be good for it. Humans have the bigger brains (theoretically.) Why are we not using them to understand how to truly enhance our pets’ lives, rather than building fantasies about how much they love us and need to be with us every minute of every day? Trust me—that kind of sick dependency does not come from the dog.

Then there is the subset of people that believes that controlling a dog in any way is somehow cruel or repressive. The relationship between humans and canines is not one big “Born Free” moment, people. We haven’t gone out into the woods, captured dogs and forced them into servitude. Thousands of years ago, humans and canines hammered out a mutually beneficial relationship. Each species has adapted behaviors to grease the wheels of the relationship; but though we’ve been in partnership for millennia, communication and bonding between the two species is imperfect at best. An uncontrolled dog can still pose a threat to humans…this is even more true since we have chosen to play god and breed dogs for aggressive behavior.

Dogs are pack-oriented animals. A dog’s behavior toward its pack is not an indicator of how it will treat strangers. To eliminate the fear that an encounter will end in bloodshed, dogs need to be under control when there is a chance of them coming into contact with non-pack members. If the human does not have verbal control over the dog, there had better be some kind of physical restraint used. This is known as a leash. It is not a torture device. It protects both humans and canines from the unpredictability of their behavior toward each other.

But we’re not concerned about our pets’ welfare, are we? We just want to puff ourselves up with that feeling of largesse and magnanimity we get when we let our companion run free and unfettered. And don’t nag us about the well-being of other people! If they’re frightened, intimidated or attacked by our pet, they need to “get over it.”

So now, I will either have to stop taking my walks when there is any chance that some fool with an unleashed dog is going to be claiming the territory, or I’ll to have to pack an umbrella, a walking stick, a can of mace or a grenade to ensure that I can complete my relaxing encounter with nature without fear of puncture or mutilation.

Yeah. Right.

The Call to Being

2011-10-27T11:29:00.000-07:00

For a little over two months, I’ve been swimming around in a sort of agreeable limbo. Now and then I’ll pick up something I find floating by, fiddle with it for a time, then lose interest and leave it to bob away in my wake as I paddle over to another pretty distraction. One part of me wants to stay in this warm, indulgent place forever. Another part of me—the most insistent part—is drawn to the ladder leading out of this pool like steel to a magnet. “Gotta get out of here,” grates that persistent little voice. “Gotta go. Gotta do. Need money. Need stuff. Can’t get that here…”

Up until now, I’ve pointedly ignored that voice. My wiser self takes over and I swim right past it and go trolling for the next pretty thing. But each time I pass that ladder, a shower of acid guilt rains down on my head. Perhaps it’s only a matter of time before I’ll have to get out of the pool to get out of the rain.

I’ve been drawn to the sea and the river, the fields and the forests. I know there is comfort and love there. The spirits of those places are calling me to come and sit, rest and learn. To give myself up to “being” instead of “doing.” You would think that would be easy. It’s so not. Most often I turn my eyes to the skies, the territory of the Bird Spirits; it’s to these spirits I am most drawn. And they do not disappoint me; they are always there. When I look, they appear.

But being the life-long human that I am, I sometimes don’t trust the messages I get from the Bird Spirits. Or my dependence on human language gets in the way, and I just feel like I need someone to tell me in plain English: DO THIS. And then the Universe proves that it can communicate in that way as well. This should not surprise me. Why would the Almighty have endowed me with the gift of writing if there was no transcendent good in it?

Knowing that I have been unsure of the place the Universe really wants me to be right now, It sent me this poem, which I came across in a friend’s blog:

The Summer Day
Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

Of course, the Almighty is well aware that I have no idea “how to be idle and blessed.” But it sent this assurance, in black and white, that the concept exists; and that others have identified it and lived it without going to hell.

I’m not entirely convinced that I have only “one wild and precious life.” But the one I do have, right here, right now is my immediate concern. And I very much want to know how to fall down into the grass and pay attention.

I believe I’m being given license to do exactly that.

Working On It

2011-10-25T09:09:00.000-07:00

We had a snippet of one of those difficult conversations yesterday. The ones that have been tugging at the coattails of my tongue, begging to be let out into the air whenever my life partner and I are in close quarters for any length of time…like during long car trips, or while weathering a rainy day in a shoebox. I pronounced our vacation “over” when it began to look like we might have to spend a second day in that shoebox condition. But because of where we live, long car rides are part and parcel of any time off we have together; I knew it was only a matter of time before the subject(s) weighing heavily on my mind would no longer be ignored.

This particular talk didn’t go so badly. Apparently, I’ve regained enough of my emotional equilibrium that I can almost discuss these things in a rational manner. At least, I don’t go into an instant meltdown in which I then proceed to wallow for days. Or maybe it’s just that I understand there is nothing to fix. Continuing with the restaurant meant that we would need to actually do something about the incompatibility issues that were making it impossible for us to work together. Now, all we have to do is acknowledge the issues and go forward in light of that knowledge. It’s liberating, if a little bleak. Nothing like a big, herkin’ dose of reality, served up with the time and (arguably) the energy to assimilate it.

And so it was that in my 35th year of marriage, I finally understood that the honeymoon was over. All those decades, I insisted on believing that my marriage was different. Special. More of fairy tale than of cold, hard reality. For years, I fought tooth and nail against the concept that a long-term marriage owes its existence to the ability of the principals to live entirely separately, yet under the same roof. I thought, “No. Not our marriage. Ours is about togetherness. Ours is about support and shared passions. It’s him and me against the world.” After our journey of the past five years, I get it. It’s not him and me against the world. It’s ME against the world; and him…well, he’s around somewhere. Perhaps as often on the world’s side as on mine.

What makes the situation most ridiculous is, this is really nothing new. Our very fundamental differences have been apparent for many years—certainly since the mid-nineties when it became obvious that, in a crisis, my first loyalty was to family and relationships and his was to work and fiscal responsibility. Put a gun to our heads, and I will turn to my peeps for support, while he disappears into his work. A classic mid-century male/female, Mars/Venus dynamic. But I could never accept that our relationship was so…archaic. For twenty years (or more) I’ve been inclined to pass off these differences as stress-induced temporary insanity, rather than accept them as a seminal disparity in the way the two of us are hard-wired.

So he says to me, “I feel like the blame for all this is being placed squarely on my shoulders.” And I replied, “No, dear… If anyone is to blame here, it’s me. I’m the one who has clung for dear life to the rose-colored glasses. I’m the one who has refused to see us for who we are, and refused to accept our relationship for what it is.”

Now, my task is to figure out how to conduct the rest of my life outside the romantic delusion I’ve lived in for thirty-five years. No more “Him and Me Against the World.” The trick, I think, is to cherish and nourish the “him and me” half of that equation—on whatever level our paths continue to cross—and just walk away from the “against the world” part. That seems the wisest plan. It is the only one for which I seem to have enough energy at this point.

Back from the Sacred Places

2011-10-22T17:39:00.000-07:00

Back once again, from days with the waves and the birds, and the wind and the wonders.

And the trees.

This time, I was shown a truly sacred place.

A forest. Where the trees are ancient and alive and wise.

Portraits, sculptures of Time.

And of spirits.

This one... This one--

...is me.

Growing tall out of tangled chaos.

One with the silvered shadow of her losses and heartaches. Those things that are forever part of her. Rising with her, not pulling her down. Not keeping her from living.

Sun, Rain, and Buzzards

2011-10-09T13:20:00.000-07:00

After untold hours of untold days spent mostly trapped in a windowless kitchen in the back of a small restaurant, I can’t get enough of simply being outside. My vacation consisted almost entirely of rapturous hours among the trees and the birds, the sand and the squirrels, the ocean and the mist-blown sky. For two weeks, I went indoors only to sleep (and shop.) It was heaven. Funny how I can’t stop writing about that time… I guess after not having one for five years, that vacation was quite a major event in my life. Next Sunday (our 35th wedding anniversary) we leave for another seven days camping at the coast. Though this trip promises to be a little damper, a little colder, and a little darker, I’m still excited beyond words at the prospect.

At home, I take my coffee out to my greenhouse deck every morning. A few short weeks ago, if I got up too late, I couldn’t sit comfortably in that east-facing space. I would spend the entire time with a hand shading my eyes, drenched in sweat from the hot flash brought on by the warmth of the morning sun. Still, I felt I needed to be out there soaking it up; because we all know what Oregon winters are like. I hope I stored enough vitamin D to last through until next July.

The climate has returned to something approximating normal, after Nature’s parting shot of this year’s only real summer weather in September. That doesn’t mean there aren’t things to enjoy out in my yard, even when the air is heavy with Oregon pissy rain. There are still blossoms galore on my fuchsias, begonias and “black & blue” salvia, providing my over-wintering hummers with plenty of natural forage to supplement the food provided by my feeders. I have salvia blooming right outside my kitchen window, and every morning when I’m doing my breakfast dishes, a little guy buzzes in to enjoy his own breakfast, so close that I have to tilt my head back to see him through the bottoms of my bifocals. The winter population of juncos, goldfinches, sparrows and siskins are gathering at our al fresco dining facilities, and the cacophony of the thousands of water birds arriving from their far north breeding grounds floats on the wind from the wetlands just east of here. Winters in the Pacific Northwest may be soggy, but they are never lonely.

This year has been so odd. We had a long, l-o-n-g wet winter that was not inclined to go away. There was no spring in 2011 to speak of; if we had one, it started in mid-July, when it finally stopped raining and began to climb out of the 50’s for daytime highs. It seemed like this entire year was delayed, weather-wise, by about six weeks. Anything that survived the extra months of cold and wet bloomed and ripened weeks later than normal. We had blueberries in July, cherries and peaches in August, and they are still selling local sweet corn at the farm stands, alongside the pumpkins, squash and apples.

Bird-wise, the unusual weather seems to have made this “The Year of the Buzzard.” Buzzards are the robins of the northwest. Here, the robins in winter congregate in loose little associations that are not really flocks, endlessly patrolling soggy yards and parklands for half-drowned worms; but they don’t fly south. We Oregonians become aware that the hold of winter on the land is finally broken by the appearance of the first turkey buzzard wheeling lazily above the fields along I-5.

Buzzards are so common here during the summer months that I had been in Oregon several years before I learned that they were migratory. Still, though they’re everywhere in the summer, they remain rather mysterious in that, to this day, I don’t know where they roost, where they nest, or where they go in the winter. To my knowledge, I have never seen a fledgling buzzard. They seem to appear in the spring, all fully grown, then simply vaporize sometime during the fall, to reappear the next May. This year, there were just scads of buzzards. You never saw just one. Raise your eyes, and you’d spot groups of half a dozen or more birds, circling, wheeling, picking over freshly-mown fields. I wonder if the long, wet winter provided them with such a bonanza of feeding opportunities that it had an obvious effect on their numbers.

I don’t know if it was the fact that there were so many buzzards this year, or if I was blessed with a special sight, but in the past few weeks I have actually witnessed something I had never seen before: the buzzards flying south. Admittedly, I’m outdoors way more hours a day than I’ve been in, oh, about the last 1800 (days)… And my love of all winged things keeps my eyes scanning the skies much of the time I’m outside. But this is the first time I’ve seen groups of dozens of buzzards, trailing for what must be miles, circling in southward-ranging spirals, up, up, up…until they are but tiny bird-shaped specks high overhead. Wings wide, never a flap…rising to meet the thermal winds that will take them sailing to…wherever they go.

Goodbye, my ubiquitous friends! Safe sailing, and may warm, wide fields meet you at the end of your journey. See you back here next year, dark wheeling sentinels of the summer skies!

Got a Match?

2011-10-05T23:46:00.000-07:00

It’s amazing how much paper a couple can accumulate over 35 years. Not just junk mail, but things like tax papers, ancient loan documents, medical receipts, old utility bills, Christmas and birthday cards, kindergarten art from a niece who just graduated high school… Our personal accumulation nearly fills an entire room—the fourth bedroom upstairs which we have designated as “office,” but more closely resembles a combination flea market/storage unit/dead file cellar of the IRS. On top of three decades of our personal paperwork, I have five huge boxes of papers from the restaurant, which I have been exhorted to save for seven years (oh, boy…I get to shuffle this stuff around until 2019!) And I have two boxes of my parents’ files with which I cannot seem to make myself part (Mom died almost four years ago; Dad has been gone since 1999.)

Since “retiring,” one thing that has kept me occupied is Crap Control. For five years we were too busy to do anything more than find an out-of-the-way place to shove Things That Need To Be Dealt With (Later!). I have gone through my closet and drawers at least three times in three months; once upon a time, if I managed that undertaking once a year I felt smugly accomplished. Goodwill is thinking about giving me my own donation truck.

I’ve waded into two of the three most intimidating spaces on our property: the office and the garage. But I can only bear to be in either space for about four or five hours at a time, so the work is not exactly going along at a record pace. And I haven’t yet mustered the courage to tackle Crap Zone #1: the back yard storage shed—the repository for things that haven’t seen the light of day since we moved here 10 ½ years ago. Just thinking about what could be in there—dead or alive—keeps me safely paralyzed on the outside of the shed door.

Part of the problem of dealing with trash paper is the fear associated with just throwing it in the garbage. Much of this hubbub, I’m sure, is circulated by the guys who make paper shredders. I fail to see how someone could harm me if they dug in my trash and unearthed thirty-year-old canceled checks from a long-defunct bank two thousand miles from here. But someone insists that is the case. So a box containing these very things molders on a shelf in our garage, collecting dust and whatever insects eat old paper. Bookworms?

Oh, we have a shredder. But, really…what a pain! It’s hardly heavy duty, and can only eat about three sheets of paper at a time. Before you can even flip the switch, you have to sort through your entire pile of shreds-to-be and remove paperclips, staples, plastic faux credit cards (inserted by junk mail circulators in order to force you to OPEN the junk mail) —anything which might stick in the mechanical craw. Then, you kneel in front of the infernal machine for hours in order to dispatch a pile that represents a drop in your personal ocean of junk paper. When you’re all done, you have a migraine from the shrill whine the thing emits while ruminating, AND you still have bags and bags of…paper! Only now it’s in the form of flyaway shreds that you will chase around and find under furniture for months. I knew there had to be a better way. And of course there is. Fire!

As my house has two fireplaces, you’d think the “burn the suckers!” paper option would be a no-brainer. Unfortunately, the upstairs fireplace is one of those hit the button/flame-on affairs, and the one in the family room has a pellet stove insert. The only things I’ll be burning in my fireplaces are natural gas and little wooden rabbit pellets. No help there. And I have a propane fire pit out on the deck, along with a gas barbecue grill. No help there, either.

Ah…but I DO have an ancient kettle grill (a 33-year-old K-mart version of a faux-Weber) that I have discovered is a capital stand-in for the noisy, messy, slower-than-snot shredder. Now, when I come away from one of my ninja-strike forays into the Crap Zones with a box of files that have been given the official thumbs-down, I grab my Bic and a long-handled tongs and adjourn to the back yard to grill some aged-to-perfection cellulose.

The last pile I barbecued was particularly toothsome: tax files from 2001 and earlier. There is just something appealingly risky about destroying those thin, yellowing sheaves that were once all that stood between you and a prison sentence. Putting the torch to them felt like personally thumbing my nose and chanting, “Nyah-nyah!” at J. Edgar Hoover. Or Doug Shulman. Or whoever.

But beyond that, it was a most cathartic undertaking. I burned some years that I would have joyfully ignited as they were happening. 1994—which began with my “dream job” blowing up in my face, and ended with major surgery and a cancer scare. 1995—probably the worst year of my life. My sister died, I had about 500 jobs (just the w-2’s for that year created a fireball that could have burned down the house). 1999—Dad passed away early that year, and another thick sheaf of w-2’s bespoke the heartache of trying to recover from that grief. It felt so good to watch those years singe and flame, blacken and turn to harmless ashes. Perhaps the unintended ritual helped, in some small way, to burn away the debris of those years that has stuck to my heart.

With about 10% of the necessary Crap Control completed, I anticipate several more bonfires before I’m finished. I might even have to look into getting myself an actual burning barrel; the kettle grill does get a bit dicey when the wind comes up and whisks things out of it before I can clamp the lid down. So if you should spot a bright orange glow emanating from somewhere in the backstreets of Scappoose, that will be me setting fire to a bunch of old papers and a few old demons.

Respect Matters

2011-10-03T22:57:00.000-07:00

This is not the first time in my life I’ve been struck with the realization that respect is all but dead in our society. Maybe in the whole world. And it could be the death of us.

But just because I understand that respect is floating belly-up in the cesspool into which our world is turning, doesn’t mean I have had any success resuscitating it in my own life. Somewhere along the line, I adopted the conviction that respect is not unconditional. Respect is not freely given; it has to be earned. Right? So it’s no wonder I’ve lost respect for…everything…and can’t find it anywhere. Since disrespect has become de rigueur, and no one seems to have any respect for anyone or anything, what’s out there that could possibly earn my respect? In the end, I’ve followed the whole world over the cliff and into the cesspool.

It has dawned on me that I have to get over doling out the gift of my reverence only to those things/people/situations I have judged worthy. Spider has taught me to respect other forms of life that I might find ugly, frightening or even negligible. It’s a good place to start, small enough for me to get my arms around the concept. And then I have to take that and apply it to people, property, rituals, traditions, religions, opinions, ethnicities, nations, tribes, disciplines, the Earth itself. Anything under the sun that I might judge unworthy, and therefore disrespect—most of the time, without even knowing enough about it to make that judgment.

Lately, I’ve become acutely aware of exactly how little respect I have for others. When I curse at another driver on the freeway, or sigh and roll my eyes at the woman who parks her shopping cart in the exact geometric center of the aisle at the grocery store, I am struck by how these small acts of disrespect spring forth from and contribute back to the growing mass of contempt upon which we are choking now. If one person, just one, refuses to add her fistful of muck to that mass, we might get at least one moment of relief. It would be so worth being that person. And I really feel that is what the Almighty is asking of me right now.

Let there be Respect on Earth. And let it begin with me.

Going Up

2011-10-01T09:50:00.000-07:00

A visual metaphor for what's happening in my life right now...

Slightly Belated...

2011-09-28T16:07:00.000-07:00

Since September 25, 2003.

From famine through feast and back again.

Good Morning

2011-09-28T09:43:00.000-07:00

It was foggy this morning. Foggy, cold and damp. The world seemed a physical weight, pressing me down into the depths of my soul. Depths which contain deep pools of anger, fear, resentment and hopelessness. The pools have always been there, I suppose. But my journey of the last five years has deepened and overflowed them.

I don’t want to go down there. It frightens me. I want to believe that purposeful rest and a drastic change of routine will cause those pools to shrink and recede. This morning’s grayness had me spiraling downward. I held my nose and prepared to dive; sat down at the computer to compose an essay of the drowning soul. I stared for a long time at the screen, the blinking cursor, and wrote…nothing. My trembling hand could not soil that pristine whiteness with even one maudlin letter.

So I exited the blank “Word” page, sighed and called up a game of solitaire.

It was a hard one. It looked like one of those that was going to take me an hour of “ctrl+z” to solve. I sighed again. I so did not want to fool around with an endless game of solitaire this morning...

But wait… A couple of smooth moves cracked the puzzle of the “hopeless” solitaire game, and I wrapped it up in a matter of minutes. I win!

And in the meantime, the sun came out. The sky is bright blue. Like the miserable gray fog never existed.

Bread

2011-09-26T12:42:00.000-07:00

One of the facts of 21st century life that helped make me an ex-restaurant owner was having to deal with the preponderance of ridiculous food fads and media driven prohibitions that are out there. It got to where I wanted to shoot the radio or TV every time another “food-borne-illness” report came out. When tomatoes killed a guy in Texas, suddenly every sandwich in the restaurant was going out with “no tomatoes” (which didn’t really bother me much, since fresh tomatoes grown outside of their normal season are gross and tasteless.) A salmonella-in-spinach scare torpedoed sales of the most popular vegetarian offering of my concession business for over a year; though we make the filling with frozen spinach (which is blanched), and the things are cooked in a 400° oven for twenty minutes to boot, you couldn’t talk folks out of their paranoia.

In the waning days of my term as a restaurant owner, the food fad that drove me absolutely crazy—and not only persists but is picking up steam—is the anti-gluten craze. Yes, I understand that the inability to digest gluten was found to be a problem for a subset of people with painful digestive malfunctions that had eluded diagnosis until celiac disease was recognized as the cause. But in the past few years, everyone with any kind of digestive complaint seems to have hit upon gluten as the source of their problems. Gluten has become the dietary devil. The demand for gluten-free this and gluten-free that borders on hysteria.

Bread has been around for something like 30,000 years, folks. Bread and bread-like products were independently developed by hundreds of cultures once human beings figured out they liked grain and it wouldn’t poison them. A food crop with a rich history, one whose cultivation symbolized the transition of mankind from hunter/gatherers to farmers, has suddenly been labeled poison by a hysterical portion of our pop-culture. Just goes to prove the kind of havoc that a lot of people with a little information can wreak.

Of course, I really don’t care if you choose to eliminate gluten from your diet. Knock yourself out, if that’s what you think is going to solve all your health problems. Because of the mysterious connection between our minds and bodies (which is the thing upon which we should really be concentrating if we want to advance our ability to heal sickness), merely believing in a particular health regimen can make it work. Like people who bury potatoes in their back yards to make their warts go away.

But, here’s the problem engendered by our fanatically entitled society: once I’ve decided that something is bad for me, I demand that the entire market place tie itself in knots to pander to my issues. If I’m going gluten-free, the whole world needs to figure out how to make it easy for me. Subway had better cough up gluten-free bread. Pizza Hut had best figure out how to make gluten-free pizza dough. Oh and, by the way, I don’t want to have to PAY more for any of this stuff…

But I digress. The whole reason I began this piece is because a couple of days ago, I had an experience that provided me with a sort of epiphany about America’s bread issues. When I left to go on vacation back in August, I decided I would take with me some extra bread I had left over from the restaurant to feed to the birds on the beach. So I grabbed it out of the freezer, tossed it in a box and threw it into the back of the pick-up. That was a month ago.

Last Friday, I suddenly remembered that I had neglected to unpack the back of the truck when I got home. There was nothing but a bunch of tools, tarps, and camping supplies back there—things that I don’t use when I’m not camping. But…oh no. There WAS that box of bread. Ewwww.

With distinct trepidation, I opened up the back of the canopy and crawled into the truck to retrieve what I was sure was going to be a mass of smelly, powdery green stuff, unrecognizable as bread. What I found was undoubtedly worse than that. Not only was the bread not moldy, it was almost pristine. It wasn’t even stale. I probably could have unwrapped a couple of slices and made a perfectly passable sandwich. It scared the hell out of me.

So I submit to the gluten-fearing American public: It’s probably not the wheat that’s screwing up your health. It’s what we’re doing to it before we eat it that makes it poisonous. And unless you consume nothing but what you have grown, prepared and cooked yourself, you are not saving yourself from anything.

The Pelican Encounter

2011-09-24T20:22:00.000-07:00

To tell the truth, I very rarely visit the Oregon coast during the summer. First of all, the quaint little towns are all packed with annoying tourists—reminding me that our beautiful scenic Oregon does not belong solely to those of us who live here year round. Secondly, the weather is often iffy in the summer—it can be dank, cool and foggy on the beach when hot weather strikes the inland valleys. Or, if the sun does shine, the wind blows a gale out of the north, making beach-walking an unpleasant, dermabrasion sort of experience. So, oddly enough, though the weather was fine and sunny during our vacation, we didn’t really spend a lot of time on any actual beaches.

A few days into our visit, my sister had looked at me quizzically as we gazed out over the ocean and asked, “What’s happened to all the pelicans?” I hadn’t really thought about pelicans until that moment, but when I considered her question, I realized we had not seen any little parades of feeding pelicans dipping in and out of the waves just offshore. Normally, they are simply…out there—a comforting constant of the seascape. What indeed had happened to the pelicans?

I remembered hearing somewhere about a brown pelican die-off (which, it turns out, was in January of 2009. Yikes! I HAVE been out of touch…) So I wondered if we were not perhaps experiencing the consequences of that event. After my sister’s observation, I found myself searching the sky for them, and I saw no more than one or two lone birds diving in and spurting out of the spray. I had come to love and appreciate the nearly constant presence of undulating queues of the big brown birds, and I was saddened to think we might see no more of them.

On the last weekend of our trip—as it happened, on my husband’s first full day with us—we decided we were going to walk on a beach, come hell, high water or sand-laden gale-force wind. We parked at what turned out to be a small spit of sand at the mouth of a creek. The wind was insane—enough for the wind chill to subtract about 15 degrees from the non-beach air temperature of near 70°. Determined, we bundled and hoodied up and sallied forth.

As we literally blew across the parking strip and gained the sandy beach, my sister pointed to the sky to our left. Fighting their way through the vicious headwind came a stalwart string of pelicans. Not in their usual location, out just beyond where the waves begin to break on the shore, but close in, above the narrow strip of beach. Right over our heads. Nearly close enough to touch. The powerful wind impeded their progress to the point that they practically hovered, stuck to the sky above us. As if to say, “Um…you were looking for us?”

I cursed that I had left my camera in the car, almost turned back to get it, reconsidered…sighed and stood in the wind, rapt, as they floated slowly over us and up the beach. They were magnificent. I even remembered to thank The Almighty for that extraordinary treat. But after we left the beach, I thought no more about it.

Until a couple of days ago, when I recounted my experience with the crows. And I realized it might be wise to consider other special encounters I’d had after my solitary campfire ritual.

Oh, yes! I thought. The pelicans! Maybe I should consult my resources about what a visitation by Pelican might mean.

And here is what I found: “This is an opportunity to forgive either yourself or someone else and release any built-up guilt or resentment.”

Ah! Pelican had showed up on the first full day I’d spent with my husband since I’d left him behind more than a week before. And I’d say there has been plenty of that built-up guilt and resentment splattered all over our relationship of late. I have painstakingly sidestepped those emotions since arriving at the place where I could achieve the necessary amount of physical and emotional restoration to deal with them. I just haven’t been able to go there.

The thing about this encounter is, Pelican’s special connection was exactly what I needed, though I did not know it until weeks later. But the work of healing and forgiveness seems to have gone ahead anyway; husband and I have been getting along much better, and I’ve been able to release much of the bitterness that has kept me distant from him even though we’re no longer separated by the chasm of the café.

So perhaps The Universe sends Animal Spirits not merely to guide, but as symbols of the work being done on our souls even when we are unaware. And as signals to those of us just discovering our connectedness to those spirits—to keep our eyes and minds open to any and every animal encounter.

Squash Watch Continued

2011-09-22T09:28:00.000-07:00

What with all my vacations and work weekends this summer, the weekly squash watch thing kind of fell by the wayside. But I know the gardeners out there are dying to know what has happened with my three hapless little butternut squash plants.

Well.... The plants themselves are thriving. This is what my "squash garden" looks like now:

But, you say, can you really call it a squash garden? Where are the squash?
Squash? I have Squash.

I have A Squash.

Here it is, two-thirds of September gone, and I have one little squash about three inches long, out of all that greenery and all those flowers.

Sigh!

But at least there IS a squash.

So we shall see how big it gets before it is compromised by autumn rains and/or frost.

Breaking News: I have discovered another baby squash, about a third the size of this one. Now I have TWO.

Cool!

Waiting for Crow

2011-09-21T22:02:00.000-07:00

What an amazing summer I had! A little more than a week into the season, the ties that bound me to an adventure upon which I had embarked with great anticipation and joy were severed irrevocably, with almost equal anticipation and joy. Tempered by exhaustion and frustration, because that venture had almost proven my utter undoing. I felt lucky to get out (mostly) alive.

For nearly three months, with a couple of unfortunate yet unavoidable lapses, I’ve gone about the business of regaining my strength—with a vengeance. If one could be said to be “aggressively resting,” that is what I’ve been doing. It wasn’t easy, at first, to shed the habit of the perpetual “to-do” list. Once out from under the never-ending, ever-increasing “Things I’ve Gotta Do To Stay In Business” list, I merely replaced it with “Things I’m Gonna Do Now That I Have A Life Again.” When that list started to weigh like a cement block around my neck, I figured it was time for a really fresh start. So I packed up my mess kit and went camping.

Not long into that adventure, I discovered I had sneaked yet another list into my baggage: “Things I’m Gonna Do On My Vacation.” When The Universe decided to rip that list out of my hands and lead me to the things I really needed, I finally got that making lists is not what I’m supposed to be doing.

It’s been hard, though. I don’t know HOW to not do anything. I was never very good at it, and then I spent five years immersed in an orgy of busy-ness. I’ve been on “fast-forward” so long, I think my “stop” button shorted out. So…yes. Do nothing? Wait for The Universe to give me what I need? It’s like quitting…something…cold turkey. Possible, yes. But neither simple nor particularly pleasant.

Even the thing I was convinced was on The Universe’s agenda for me—to study up and choose a spiritual path—turned out not to be part of The Greater Plan at all, but rather a by-product of my own inability to relinquish control. It seems I’ve been basically told to “Cool it.” The information and the guidance will come when the Spirit decides. So I have sat back and waited. But not without feeling guilty about it.

I’m never sure if my reticence to jump headlong into alternative spirituality is a result of my waiting upon the Universe, or of my own hang-ups. Though I feel drawn to animal spirits and shamanism, I’m still very much bound to not only old mainstream religion, but “fact” and “science,” as we Westerners have learned to worship them as well. It’s extremely difficult to break through half a century of “knowing” that animals don’t speak, and animals don’t have souls, and animals are somehow dependent upon the aegis of human beings for their very lives. I can look into the eyes of a crow and almost hear its message for me…and suddenly a little voice in the back of my head somewhere will taunt, “What do you think you’re doing? It’s just a crow.”

Yet I know Crow is one of my Spirit Guides, if not my power animal. Alone one night on my camping vacation, when my sister and her husband went home to take care of some business, I was determined to indulge in a ritual about which I had read, but had not yet attempted. I built a fire and enjoyed my solitary meal while gazing into the friendly flames. After I finished eating, I dug into my jewelry bag and pulled out…my rattle. An artisan-crafted ceramic rattle, carved in the shape of a crow. The books I’ve read mention rattling, drumming or chanting while meditating, to court contact with the Spirit World in general and Spirit Guide animals in particular. So I sat by my fire, closed my eyes, shook my rattle and tried to empty my mind. Tried to concentrate. Asked for a guide. Rattled and emptied, meditated and asked.

I’d like to say something magical and mysterious happened. I’d like to say that I had a dream or a vision, or that I was visited by some great insight. But mainly, I felt…silly. Sheepish. That little voice in the back of my head was having a field day. “What DO you think you are DOING? Rattling? Puh-leez!”

I was determined not to let that voice dissuade me. I kept at it, for what I guessed was an appropriate amount of time to do justice to the ritual. Until my fire dwindled to a few flickering flames. Then I scattered the coals, stowed my rattle, and went to bed. Thinking a Dream might be wonderful, but not really believing it would come. And it didn’t.

But the next day, I drove to the beach with a loaf of bread for the gulls. I got out of the car, sat at a picnic table, and was immediately surrounded. Not by gulls, but by…

Crows. There must have been a dozen, maybe fifteen. No gulls. Just crows.

Now, I’ve been throwing bread for birds at beaches for decades. And this was the first time ever that only a mob of crows showed up for the party.

I can’t explain it. But The Universe can.

And It will. In time.

I Heart Spiders. People...Not So Much.

2011-09-20T22:17:00.000-07:00

In June, I was introduced to the concept of Spider as a power animal. For one who spent the first thirty years of her life deathly afraid of any creature possessing more than four legs, embracing this possibility has been an uphill battle. When I was a kid, my older sister—who thought nothing of handling beetles, snakes, bees, frogs—used to get a huge kick out of chasing me around with bugs. I nearly fainted when she threatened to slip a grasshopper under the bathroom door I had slammed and locked against one of her onslaughts. It’s interesting to note: Now, she’s the one who screeches and stomps on spiders, while I catch them in paper cups and release them out into the wild.

My old knee-jerk “ew!” reaction upon encountering a spider has tempered somewhat since discovering the possibility of Spider as a spirit guide. I’ve certainly overcome my desire to run, screech or squish. But I still find spiders singularly unattractive at close range, and can’t deal yet with the idea of one walking on me. So I won’t share my sleeping quarters with any arachnid larger than a dime, and cannot tolerate showering with one of any size.

I’ve begun to collect stylized representations of spiders—a pair of earrings, a brooch. Things that will help me call to mind the particulars of Spider’s guidance. And, though I have a long way to go before I feel anything approaching warm and fuzzy about arachnids I encounter in my daily life, I understand their appearance and their presence have significance. In just a few short months I have made tremendous strides toward actually embracing spiders—as creatures at the very least worthy of notice and care, if not messengers carrying special wisdom for me from the Spirit World.

But, here’s the rub (and maybe it’s a large part of the lesson the Universe is ramming at me through spiders): I can’t help but notice that, though I’m making all kinds of progress in the direction of spiders, I don’t seem to be able to duplicate that success when it comes to my relationships with people. Specific people, as well as people in general. What gives?

Looking back, I don’t think I’ve had a much better opinion of humans than I have had of spiders for most of my life. Oh, yes, I’m fond of my own family (most of the time), I have had a few human friends, and I am married to a human being (I think.) Apparently, I can carve out places in my hard heart for a very few specific people. And I can care deeply for the rights of human beings in general. But when it comes to relating to strangers or acquaintances I encounter every day…most often I have no use for them. My knee-jerk reaction any time I’m required to interact with other people is to immediately suspect the worst about them; or at the very least to view them as a waste of my time, or an effort I am not inclined to make.

So, while I can read things like the article to which I linked in my previous post, and the truth of the premise can smack me in the face and move me to tears, I can’t live it. My head understands that human beings are every bit as worthy of notice and care as spiders. But I’m having the devil’s own time seeing The Spirit in other people.

I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I can fantasize anything I want about a spider and it will not do anything to disabuse me of that romantic notion. Whereas human beings can, and almost invariably do, open their mouths and say something, or act in such a way that lets me know immediately that they are what they are, and not some fairy-tale version of what I’d like them to be. I can’t make them pretty enough to be worthy of my affection and attention. I have to appreciate them for what they are. WAY harder to do that than to embrace a spider as a spiritual messenger. Apparently.

A Blessing in the Words of Another

2011-09-15T09:31:00.000-07:00

Since becoming a "woman of leisure," I have been studiously avoiding watching television, listening to the radio, even doing more than a surface scan of "news" on the internet. I just don't want to go there. The news is all bad.

This morning, I found blessing in one of the only sources of outside information I still frequent without fear and disgust: the blogosphere. More specifically, my personal "blog list."

Go read this:

Looking for Love

You will be blessed, too.

Style Out of Time

2011-09-13T17:29:00.000-07:00

I don’t know if I’ve ever shared this about myself: I am an inveterate second-hand shopper. I have been haunting thrift stores, flea markets, consignment shops and rummage sales since I pocketed my first babysitting money over forty years ago.

Buying second-hand has been the perfect solution for one as addicted to clothing, shopping, and changing jobs as I have been all my life. My closet is always packed; and if something loses its appeal or goes out of style or “shrinks,” it simply falls off the hanger and into the “donate” bag, making room for the fantastic finds from the next trip to Goodwill.

I don’t know how other cities rank on the “resale bonanza” scale, but for my money, Eugene is right there at the top of the list. There are eight Goodwill stores and probably as many St. Vincent DePaul’s (resale shops run by a Catholic charity) in a metro area with slightly more than 200,000 folks. And it seems that there is a privately owned second-hand or consignment shop in every strip mall or on every other street corner. I don’t know if my fondness for thrift stores blossomed into a full-blown love affair because I lived in Eugene for thirteen years, or if I fell in love with Eugene because I love thrift stores. Either way, we are a perfect match, Eugene and I; even though I no longer live there, I have family that does. So I visit often enough to get my resale fix.

This past weekend, I was in Lane County to attend the Coburg Antique Fair (a nearly rapturous assemblage of peddlers of old stuff which takes over the entire town of Coburg, just north of Eugene, on one Sunday every September.) And, of course, I managed to squeeze in a visit to one Goodwill Store. And I did something that, now that I look back on it, is becoming more indicative of my current incarnation of “used stuff” addiction:

Flipping through the sweaters on a well-stuffed rack, I came upon one that I knew I had owned. Now, I have taken bags to the donation site on Monday only to visit my local Goodwill Store on Friday and find my own (former) clothes tagged and ready for their next adventure. That is kind of a surreal experience. But in this instance, this wasn’t a sweater that I had personally donated. But it was an exact carbon copy of one I had worn and loved—one of my special favorites, in fact—back in the 90’s.

I have no idea how long ago I sent MY sweater away. I’m not sure if it got too small, went out of style, shrank, got holes in it… Or maybe it was during one of my mourning periods, when I tend to divest myself of anything that reminds me of a person, time or place no longer part of my life.

But I looked at that sweater, and I thought:

Wow! I used to have this!

And I still really like it!

And I have two or three of similar style in my closet right now that I bought new within the last year. (You know the old adage… “everything old is yada yada yada.”)

So guess what? I’m buying this!

I have to wonder if my second-hand habit is now enabling me to pick a part of my past and live in it.

But, no… I think it’s more the case that, if you’re around long enough, anything and everything comes back into style. At my age, I know what I like and I’ve figured out what looks good on me. I’ve earned the right to choose whatever I want and just rock it, regardless of what decade it’s from.

Haute couture is for the young. Or the rich.

Take that, Heidi Klum…

Full Moon

2011-09-12T21:35:00.000-07:00

I was born under the sign of Cancer the Crab. My “planet” is the moon.

I’m always fascinated by the soaring white, full face of the moon. Time after time I’ve tried to photograph it, but have yet to come up with a very remarkable image. But does being a “moon-child” mean that the full moon should be a time of special energy for me? I wonder.

I remember summer full moons many years ago, when I was a teen-ager; the air would be so soft and warm and the light would be so bright that my sisters and I would pad outside in our pajamas, sit on the grass and bask in the moonlight.

Those were magical nights, nights that affirmed our youth and whispered “Yes!” to all our possibilities. In those days, the path of moonlight on any body of water—even a puddle—seemed to lead to every wonderful thing the future might have in store for me. I was lucky then; I didn’t know sadness or want, hadn’t tasted real grief or heartache.

Tonight, I peer up at the full moon—tinted orange from the smoke of many wildfires in the east—and I don’t see possibilities. What do I see?

I see the coming of Fall, the season I have always loved. I love it still, but not for the same reasons as I did years ago. In my youth, Fall was more about beginnings than Spring ever was: new clothes, new shoes, a new school year; new faces to populate my life; new things to learn and accomplish. For decades after my last day of any school, I felt the newness and promise of Fall.

But now—especially this year—it’s about slowing down and cooling off; doffing the sunglasses and breathing deeply of crisper air. It’s about birds, at my feeders and returning to the wintering grounds on Sauvie Island and the marshes of the Columbia backwaters. It’s about the beautiful, protracted show of turning leaves in the Pacific Northwest; snuggly old sweaters that are the good friends of many years, soft blankets and fluffy comforters. Fall is no longer about newness and beginnings. It’s about comfort and familiarity and nesting.

I realize now that the full moon has not been a great friend to me for several years. She has taunted me with possibilities to which I could not measure up; urged me to newness I could not accept. Was it she, or was it my memory of her shining a path to my future that made me so exasperated with her? During my most difficult years, her bright face was simply a nuisance. I rolled down thick blinds and closed heavy curtains against her; I could not abide her taunting white beacon cutting into my precious few hours of barely restorative sleep.

Now, it seems we’ve come to an understanding, she and I. Tonight, she understands that I am older and tireder. Her orange face is smiling gently down on the me who is much happier thinking about comfort and familiarity than change and beginnings.

I think she and I will rest awhile before she gently begins to nudge me in a new direction.

Climbing Old

2011-09-09T15:30:00.000-07:00

It was so inviting. The tree.

Small and squat, yet its hefty trunk bespoke age. A pine of some sort; placed by The Universe through the hands of man. A park tree.

Stout branches reached almost to the ground, like stairs. Or thick rungs of a woody ladder.

I had to. Climb it.

I strode up to the tree, threw my arms around a shoulder-high branch, and lifted my foot to step up to the lowest limb.

But my foot just wouldn’t raise off the ground quite…high…enough. Who knows which muscle or joint betrayed me this time? The hip? The knee? The ankle? The toes?

The arms that couldn’t heft me up a few inches higher to compensate for my compromised lower appendages? The abs that refused to contract sufficiently to haul my butt and legs off the ground?

You have got to be kidding me. When did stepping up onto the branch of a tree that was practically lying on the ground taunting me become beyond my physical ability?

At that point, nothing short of the threat of six months in traction was going to keep me out of that tree. I grunted, strained, scraped and contorted. Finally, I stood in the crook of the lowest branch, my back jammed against the trunk, my fingers gripping the nearest handholds for dear life. Wishing I could savor the victory, but mostly feeling incredibly O.L.D.

And I knew that the simple action of dropping out of the tree was a compound fracture waiting to happen. I would have to holler for the husband to help me get down.

Indeed, I learned a lesson at Nature’s knee that day. But it was not the one for which I had gone looking.

Back

2011-09-06T10:22:00.000-07:00

I’m back.

And the only thing I can feel, that I will allow myself to feel, is that I was not ready to come back.

I still had three pairs of clean underwear left.

Lots of lightning flashes of thought shooting around in my brain. None of them that will not, when put to paper, look whiney, sad or regretful. I think I’ll just put all that on the back burner for a little while more. How much easier to do that if I were not…here.

I guess I’ll just go and unpack my wood-smoked laundry.

And plan my next escape

Getting Away

2011-08-31T15:10:00.000-07:00

Yachats, Oregon August 31, 2011

Gray jays and chipmunks are swarming around the suet cake and the seed plate. Now and then, a Steller’s jay swoops in to fill its face till it can no longer close its beak, then flies away to hide the stash; but the noisy blue and black “hat-birds” really prefer whole peanuts to the fare presented on my bird table. Another camper’s annoying mutt has started yapping…the birds don’t pay any attention, but I mentally muzzle it with its own leash, hog-tie it and throw it in its owner’s trunk.

This is Day Nine of MY vacation. Two weeks ago, with the last of the café woes and our big Scandinavian event behind us, I was desperate for rest. Husband, of course, was of a different mind. Every day, practically every moment, he had a project that needed doing. I dragged along behind him while we cleaned out the garage, emptied the truck and the trailer, tweaked the drip irrigation (all things I knew would need to be done in any case, if we were to have any chance at all of escape.) I even went out and bought a new vacuum (woo-hoo!) and did a little nesting in an effort to keep myself occupied while I waited for him to figure out we needed a vacation. Now.

But when the husband requested account numbers and passwords so he could start banging away on the year-end taxes (which don’t, obviously, need to be done until year’s end...) I threw in the towel. Evidently, I was the only one who was absolutely out of creative and functional gas. I hitched up my big-girl panties and announced, “I’m leaving next Tuesday to go camping. I figure to be gone through Labor Day. Would you like to join me for any or all of that time?” Kind of went over like a fart in church, I’m afraid.

Unfortunately, we are still in the place where doing anything together, including trying to plan or take time off, is impossible. We bicker about it and go to bed angry. Not the kind of fate I want to tempt right now. I’m too tired to be angry, too exhausted to fight. So I have put myself in “It’s All About Me” mode. I’ll make the plans, and if he chooses to join me, fine. Which is not much different from the way our lives have always been, except that I’ve always felt guilty about it. Not this time. Maybe not ever again.

We used to camp a lot, in our little 80’s motor home, when we had jobs that did not consume our entire lives, and we still found joy in being alone together. I cherish the memory of our favorite campground on the coast. The place with the creek and the pines and the birds that will eat right out of your hand, and the ocean right across the street. We’d make a fire in the morning and sit by it all day, drinking espresso and munching on goodies we had brought from the bakery I managed. We’d shell peanuts and feed the jays and the chipmunks. We’d go to the beach and throw bread for the gulls, walk for miles, filling our pockets with shells and stones and bits of driftwood. Then we’d head back to camp and perhaps burn a steak in the dark over the campfire; or we’d clean up and head to one of the little nearby towns to share dinner and a glass of wine next to a great window overlooking the waves.

This time, I packed my clothes, food, books, laptop and crafty stuff into the empty wreck of a trailer that we bought to get us and our equipment to and from events; hooked it to the loud, smelly beast of a pick-up we also acquired for the business that eventually ate our lives, and drove away alone. Headed, by god, for that treasured venue. Knowing, somehow, that it would be a place of respite and solace for me even sans my other half.

I had in mind immersing myself in writing and beading (my new hobby); reading and walking; a time to nourish my body, my mind and my creative muse. But it’s funny how the Universe knows what you need. Often, it turns out to be something completely other than what you thought you needed. Birds, chipmunks, squirrels and bunnies. Sleep and music and cooking over the fire. The cheerful company of my sister and her husband, who decided to join me one day into my solitary sojourn. Shopping and picnicking and eating pizza on the tailgate of my brother-in-law’s pick-up. These are the things I have needed. I have not needed phone service, or news, or an internet connection.

I have also not needed, as it turns out, solitude, time to think, or time to hone my creativity. Alone time brings me much too close to things from which I need distance, and I haven’t possessed enough creative energy to draw a smiley face, much less write anything worth wasting the time over. Being here alone would have been maudlin, frustrating and boring, and I’m so glad the Universe made sure I got what I needed instead of what I thought I wanted.

My sister and her husband have sprinted back over to Eugene to take care of some business, leaving me alone long enough to think too much and bang on my laptop for a few hours. I’ll take my slightly sandy computer out to civilization and try to find somewhere I can get a drink and an internet connection, so I can post this. I need to get off my butt and out of my head or I’m going to be in trouble.

And the husband arrives tonight, turning the last five days of MY vacation into OUR vacation. We’ll see how that goes. I’ll try to leave myself open to getting out of it whatever the Universe thinks I need.

Clinging and Releasing

2011-08-21T22:44:00.000-07:00

Twenty years and three houses ago, we yanked our (then) living room out of the dark-paneled, cave-like seventies and heaved it into the nineties, with vaulted ceilings, skylights, and pastel wicker furniture right out of the south-Florida ambience of “The Golden Girls.” The coffee table we chose to complete the ensemble consisted of a massive piece of beveled tempered glass perched atop a white plaster and burnished metal altar that we eventually came to call “the ark of the covenant;” because that was what it looked like. In our smallish living room, it was the perfect combination of big enough to be functional, but transparent enough to take up no visual space at all. Perfect!

But almost immediately, that table’s glow of perfection began to fade. For one thing, glass-topped furniture and a houseful of pets do not mix. What in another home would be a neat, sparkling element becomes a multi-spotted housecleaning nightmare in mine, speckled with everything from kitty footprints, dog-drool and hairball remnants on top to multiple nose-prints on the bottom. Daily scrubbing might keep the thing presentable…but in a household where the human inhabitants have rarely been known to spend more than about 25% of their waking hours, that was a no-go.

And the magical property of the great sheet of glass to “take up no visual space” was a double-edged sword. Every shin that spent more than a couple hours in my living room became painfully aware that my “invisible” coffee table was anything but insubstantial.

Over the next twenty years, we moved three times, acquired and switched out at least four suites of living room furniture (since everyone knows that the furniture assembled for a certain space will almost certainly not work in another.) Oddly enough, the one piece that followed us everywhere was that gigantic, inconvenient and un-hygienic chunk of glass. We ditched the “ark of the covenant” almost immediately, but the glass proved handy. You could plant it atop any chest or trunk and, voilá, a custom-made coffee table. It was the perfect accessory for the shoestring budget home decorator; and so it was carefully packed and trundled from house to house. (Not that the thing would break if you lit a stick of dynamite under it…)

I truly believe that objects absorb some of the energy of the lives and events to which they bear silent witness. That piece of glass “knew” my sister, gone sixteen years now. It held decades of Christmas ornaments, staged on it between packing box and tree and back again. Half a dozen lovingly remembered pets had slid across it or stared quizzically up at me from beneath it. It was part of the story of our home; and though it has been monstrously inconvenient in my current tiny living room—its eternal spots highlighted brilliantly by the morning sun pouring in an east window, and its invisible girth barking nearly every shin attempting to navigate the traffic pattern through the room—there it remained.

About a year ago, I began half-heartedly keeping an eye out for a replacement: Something more twenty-first century. Something that could do double duty as a table and a footrest. Something that took up less than 25% of the width of the room.

Yesterday, we found it: a tufted leather storage ottoman on sale at Costco. Finally…no more sunlit paw-, nose- or puke-prints. No more limb-numbing collisions between bone and glass. No more crab-walk ooching between the furniture and the coffee table. Just a sleek, padded leather rectangle situated primly in front of the loveseat, inviting feet, glassware and bark-free navigation through the newly-opened space. Perfect!

I pulled the gigantic, heavy slab aside and slipped its replacement into its place of honor. That unwieldy piece of glass, heavy with memories, stuck to my hands and my mind as if it were glued. It had to go. I knew it had to go. I have nowhere to put it, and in any case, it had become more a pain than a treasure. And yet… Could I not put it somewhere? Should I not wrap it up and slide it against a wall in the garage; save it…

For what? The Second Coming? I shook my head, opened the front door and slid it out to the husband, who loaded it into the van for its trip to the Goodwill donation site. I watched it drive away, relief and dismay playing tug-of-war across my heart. I am mourning that piece of glass. Silly. The things you cling to in life.

Three months ago, the thing I thought I most wanted to do—the thing I truly believed would give my life a degree of happiness, fulfillment and sense of accomplishment that it had previously utterly lacked—came to an end. I had sunk five years’ worth of every creative atom I possessed into it. It eventually literally became my entire life. But I couldn’t make it work. It didn’t make me happy. It didn’t fulfill me. And I certainly didn’t accomplish anything. So I walked away. No clinging, no crying, no regrets, no fond memories. A clean break, no “what-if’s”, no mourning.

Apparently, my five-year foray into restaurant ownership made a less lasting impression on me than a forty-pound slab of memory-laden tempered glass. I was not even tempted to wrap up that restaurant and put it in my garage in case I changed my mind about it later.

Funny. The things you are more than willing to release from your life.

I do wonder a bit what my things—the things I cling to, the things I release—say about me. But, you know? I don’t really feel as if I’ve made the wrong choices.

Squash Watch Week 3/4

2011-08-18T15:49:00.000-07:00

I'll bet you thought I gave up, didn't you? Or that the poor little things themselves had given up?

No...nothing so undependable or dramatic. It's just that I was away all last week doing our Scandinavian thing in Eugene.

I was forced to, once again, entrust the lives of my squash plants to the intrepid husband. This time, I tried to make as many provisions as I could for their protection before I left them alone. I bade the husband purchase timers for the irrigation. I snuggled an additional sprinkler close to their feet--the back-up plan in case the drippers failed. I Miracle-Grow-ed them, patted them on the heads, and left town.

And crossed my fingers.

So...how do they look?

They're obviously not dead. Not even the worse for wear, I'd say. In fact, they have decided to try to look a bit more like squash plants. See how they're actually beginning to spread horizontally across the ground? The only thing they're missing is flowers. Which means, of course, that a harvest is still questionable.

Down in Eugene, I had an attack of "squash envy..." My sister already has an acorn squash the size of a softball on her vine. Of course, hers were planted in a timely manner in an actual garden before they were half-dead...

In any case, I have live squash plants. And they're at least a nice green thing filling up a space that would have otherwise been a strip of weed-riddled dirt.

Keep your fingers crossed that we see a flower or two by next week!

Reckoning

2011-08-17T09:38:00.000-07:00

Now I am finally on the other side of all my business obligations for the year. I’m walking into that light at the end of the tunnel. Stepping into that place of rest and refreshment toward which I have been stretching my neck since last October.

So why do I feel like crap?

There’s no question that the event we just finished took a lot of starch out of me; a commodity of which I am down to my last paltry grains, in any case. It was a busy week, sometimes crazy-busy, and we did well. Record sales, in fact. But it wasn’t very fun. I was not in my happy place. I would have liked to have sailed through this event with grace and gratitude; I had planned on doing precisely that. Instead, I felt out-of-sorts and cantankerous. Nothing seemed to go smoothly and I was impatient with everyone.

Luckily, my crew was comprised of my family, who seem inclined to cut me plenty of slack. So we’re still speaking to each other. I suppose I should follow their lead and cut myself some slack; but I’m not leaning in that direction. I’m in “Beat Myself Up” mode right now, and I’m indulging in a bit of wallowing.

Here I am, on the threshold of the opportunity to do anything I want (within reason.) Why am I feeling sad and intimidated? Maybe it’s because the shadows I have not allowed to fall on me, because I needed every lumen of light and life to get me through this ending, are able to close in on me now. The thoughts I wouldn’t—couldn’t—entertain, the ones having to do with failure and heartbreak and wasted time, are encroaching and filling up the space vacated by Things That Have to Get Done.

There’s no outrunning them now. No “I’ll just get involved in this project and I won’t have to think about that.” All the garbage, all the deferred emotion, is right where I can see it and touch it. Daring me to deal with it.

And it kind of scares the hell out of me.

Finding My Way

2011-08-08T10:36:00.000-07:00

Not all arts are created equal. Some, like cooking or acting, are essentially social activities—think Mama Celeste spreading her arms and exclaiming “Abbondanza!” to the crowd at her dining table. Others, like composing music or painting, are intensely personal. Ninety-five percent of the creative process takes place inside the head of the artist, where no one else can see or help, or even unravel the mysterious mechanics of it.

I am a writer. My talent is one of those inward, solitary pursuits. I’m uniquely suited for it: I am fine by myself, even crave time alone with my own thoughts. I don’t like to be bossed; nor do I particularly care for being the boss. I work best on my own time, at my own speed, without distraction or interruption. I’m a deep and obsessive thinker. So, as it turned out, my brand of creative muse did not transfer well to an outward, social art. I don’t know why I thought it would.

I honestly thought that I could be successful with my own restaurant. I believed that, being of a creative bent, I could succeed at any endeavor that called for creativity. In the end, I proved myself utterly wrong. Not just because I was unsuited for sociable art. There was also the matter of passion. I knew and freely admitted that food was not my passion. I should have known I was setting myself up to fail.

Because we right-brained types are passionate. We are not low-key…we don’t fade into the background and make do with whatever pabulum life presents to us. That passion affects everything we do; even when we are not making use of our True Gifts. Because of that, I couldn’t be satisfied with running a restaurant that was just “okay.” Pretty decent, in fact, under the circumstances. But it was not great. It wasn’t even good (to my standards); and that, ultimately, drove me crazy. And I could not, by force of my own will, turn it into what I needed it to be to make me happy. I didn’t have the magic. I didn’t eat, sleep and breathe it, couldn’t go to that transcendent place where we artists are most complete. The result: Five years spent misdirecting my passion and spinning my wheels.

Awhile back, during my first year of restaurant ownership, I wrote something to the effect that I had chosen the restaurant as the outlet for my public creativity because I was too protective of my real passion. I truly believed there was no way I could ever put my real work out there, to be judged by the general population. I felt I could never disrespect it enough to tweak it or homogenize it in order to sell it. I would end up destitute, if the rejection didn’t kill me first.

But my effort to make a living by pouring all my creative life-force into something that was not my true gift failed miserably, and I’m left sitting at the end of a long detour that took me nowhere. Perhaps not nowhere, exactly, but certainly not to a place of joy and fulfillment. The place one finds oneself considering she should, by all rights, BE by the time she has reached her sixth decade of life. Or at least have been close enough to hear the music from the party.

In some ways, my attitude toward my talent has been formed by the society in which I live. Life is all about making money, isn’t it? What good is artistic fervor? Is it likely to put food on the table? When I was young, back in the days when it was time for me to decide what I would Do With My Life, there was no question that a Liberal Arts degree and a dime might buy a cup of coffee. Tacitly discouraging the college option, my parents pressed us girls to learn those great staple skills relegated to women in the 20th-century workplace: typing and shorthand. Get a “good” office job. “It’s a foot in the door,” my dad always said. As if a female foot in that door would have got anything but trampled by the crowds of men pushing through it.

Not that any of that mattered to me. My typing was miserable; shorthand was laughable to someone whose penmanship was erratic to the point of illegibility. (It seemed my mind was always going faster than my hand could follow…) But I got a job, because that’s what you did back then. Mine happened to be in a local high school hang-out pizza parlor. I enjoyed a modicum of success there. I did well. I made friends. I made money. And I clung to that industry for the next thirty-eight years. It was safe. It gave me an identity. It bought what I needed. It gave me a “pass” to keep me from going off in pursuit of what I really loved.

I have finally, I think, reached the expiration of that pass. I’m fifty-six years old, and I’m sitting on my suitcase with my head on my fist, wondering how now to get back to the right road, or at least a righter road, without wasting too much more of the time I have left. Which could be forty years, for all I know.

What I do know is that there has been a sea change in the way I view my talent, my intimate relationship with the written word. Yes, there are still a billion and six writers out there, a billion and five of whom are probably more successful than I could ever dream of being. And yes, the pressure to profit from one’s talent is still there—if anything, to a greater extent than ever existed when I was young. Everything is “extreme” now, isn’t it? It’s not just a matter of making a living doing what you love. You have to strike it rich; if you don’t make it straight to Oprah’s Book Club, you cannot possibly call yourself a writer.

Maybe I’m lucky; because at this point in my life, I’m perfectly willing and able to call “bullshit” on that line of thinking. I AM a writer. And my understanding of that fact, after half-a-lifetime of keeping it in my back pocket or waving at it from afar, is that I write because it is what I do. It is who I am. It is the part of the Great Spirit of the Universe that has been entrusted to me.

And you don’t treat that lightly. You approach it with awe and reverence, with joy and anticipation, with faith that the Spirit that is of you and in you will be sated simply through the act of recognizing, honoring and using that gift. It’s really not important that the general public understand or accept the words. My job—my joy and fulfillment—is to write them.

Squash Watch--Week 2

2011-08-04T10:38:00.000-07:00

I'm almost ashamed to post this picture...

I'm afraid my procrastination has not done my poor little squashes any favors. They've been in the ground two weeks now. And the best I can say for them is that they haven't died.

In my defense (and to their extreme detriment, I fear) I was out of town most of last week. I trusted their care to the Intrepid Husband. He did keep them alive. Barely.

You may see in this picture that they have now acquired drip irrigation tubing around their little feet. Husband applied this for me last night...so maybe that will make up for his lack of solicitousness last week. Unfortunately, I had to mess around with the tubing after he ran it, and in doing so, I knocked the one flower off of plant No. 2. *#@&!!!!
However if you look closely at plant No. 3, you will see another flower that should open in a day or two. I have high hopes for it...I promise, I will not touch it!

The squashes and I appreciate your positive energy. That must be what is sustaining them, because I'm sure doing a piss poor job of it. Keep it up!

Backsliding

2011-08-01T08:38:00.000-07:00

For a few days there, I thought we were headed in a positive direction. I suppose I want so badly to believe that the strife is over and we have begun to put real distance between ourselves and this rough spot in our road (rough spot? How about bottomless pot-hole?) that I get overly optimistic when I see any glimmer of hope.

Evidently the habit of attacking each other whenever we are under stress has become too ingrained. It is our knee-jerk reaction whenever we encounter anything other than glass-smooth sailing. One theory that has been whirling around is that, faced with a situation that makes us need to yell at someone or something, the only “safe,” or acceptable place to direct that negative emotion is at each other. You can’t go around screaming at strangers, or dressing down your in-laws, employer, employees, or co-workers. So all that garbage gets dumped on the person who is supposed to love you enough to take it.

Problem is, I really can’t. Take any more. After five years of processing more garbage than the local landfill, I’m buried. I suspect he is, too.

One bad thing is, with this lingering heel problem—the final fillip from that rathole café—I haven’t been able to do much walking. And walking helps me work through what I need to process. Ignoring my throbbing foot, I took a long walk yesterday morning; I did some productive ruminating.

I realized, for like the umpteenth time in my life, that you can’t change anyone but yourself. I can talk, leave, threaten, cajole, stand on my head, but there’s no guarantee the husband is ever going to change the way he treats me. He could…but I can’t count on that. I have a couple of choices here, but one of them is NOT getting him to act differently. It is I who has to make changes.

I have to accept that who he is now and how he relates to me now are facts. He is what he is. And then I have to decide whether to stay in the relationship based on that information. If I choose to stay, my job is to figure out how to forge an acceptable, peaceful relationship with the man I’m married to NOW…not the one I thought I married, nor the one to whom I would like to be married.

Yes, I am going to have to make changes. Rough times ahead, to be sure. Because another thing I’ve learned over the years, as a corollary to “You can’t change anyone but yourself,” is that changing yourself is about as easy as getting toothpaste back into the tube.

Oh, I don’t dispute that I have changed over the course of our married life. In fact, these last five years have been extremely formative. And not in a good way, I’m afraid. Which is, I’m sure, a large part of why the husband’s attitude toward me has shifted so drastically. I am a very different person than the one who stepped off into the unknown territory of entrepreneurship. So the husband either does not know how to, or has chosen not to, relate positively or lovingly to the person I am now.

So now, for the sake of peace in the household and sanity for both of us, I have some work to do. There are coping skills I need to master; I need to learn the art of negotiating—or not, as the situation demands. And I—who have freely admitted all my life that patience is not my virtue—have to divine a hidden well of that commodity and immerse myself in it. Somewhere, I have to find patience with the husband, and patience with myself. Without it, I’m afraid all my ruminating and planning and clarity will get me nowhere.

Squash Watch

2011-07-27T11:19:00.000-07:00

Every year, come hell or high water, I plant flowers in containers to adorn my outdoor living spaces. I’ve been doing it since we bought our first house in Oregon twenty-six years ago, when I fell in love with fuchsias and begonias and all the lovely plants that did not thrive in the Midwest. I remember coming home from late shifts at the bakery and watering hanging baskets in the dark. The neighbors would stop and exclaim, “Your flowers always look so beautiful!” Though I didn’t necessarily do it for the neighbors, it was always nice to know I had one of the more remarkable gardens on the block.

Even in the midst of all the fourteen–hour “Café Days,” when I barely had the time or energy to enjoy my outdoor spaces, much less decorate them—I carried on with that tradition. It was probably even more important during those frazzled years, to carve out the time to do something calming and joyful. And then sit back and watch the show until the November frosts or rains did their damage.

This spring, I was more eager than ever to get my hands in the dirt and plants in the ground. As it happened, neither the weather nor my energy level was particularly conducive to that undertaking. Spring weather actually arrived about three weeks ago. And though I wasn’t working those fourteen-hour days after May 8, my remaining commitments took up more of my time and depleted life-force than I had foreseen. Early season buying sprees—my eyes were definitely bigger than my oomph—had resulted in dozens of plants that had to go somewhere; they couldn’t spend the season moldering away in cardboard boxes on the deck (though many a plant had suffered that exact fate during the Café Days.) Despite the crummy weather and other challenges, I managed to get most of the plants properly situated by the time the County Fair came along.

One of the things I envisioned in this year’s early spring pipe dream was a vegetable garden. After all, I was going to have nothing but time, I reasoned as, in a fit of addle-brained impulse buying, I plunked three beautiful little squash plants into my wagon at the nursery. Butternut squash. Calling to mind the astonishing vigor of the only member of the squash family I had ever cultivated—zucchini—I figured that these guys should be a no-brainer. They would grow like crazy with little or no help from me; and, unlike zucchini, they would store well into the winter, so I wouldn’t have to worry about what to do with them immediately upon harvest. Perfect!

But, oh…the trials those poor little guys have been through! First, they lived in the greenhouse for awhile, because as of the end of May, we had not yet stopped having frost. After about three weeks in there, they had to be summarily relocated, as they were getting cooked when the sun did come out, and I was afraid I would forget about them and that would be the end of them.

I repositioned the planting box I had in mind for them. I bought dirt and weed fabric to go in it. Around that time, I lost my momentum. The poor little squash plants sat on the deck, surrounded by a parade of annuals that came and went as I found and arranged pots. I continued to water and fret over the little squashes, but they started to dwindle. They grew spindly. They got mildew. For whatever reason, I just couldn’t get the mojo to assemble that planting box.

Finally, last week, I looked at them and said, “Now or never.” Realizing that I was never going to get that box together, I took my poor, sad looking little squash plants and hollowed out places for them in an empty strip along the fence, where I had planned (for about the last six years) to extend my shrub border.

They’ve been in the ground for about a week, now. I have been very solicitous about watering them. Even gave them a shot of Miracle Grow. And let me just say, they…haven’t died, which is probably saying a lot considering the condition they were in when I planted them. But they haven’t grown much, either.

So, here’s my plan, dear readers: Once a week, I’ll post a picture of them. We’ll watch them grow (or not) together. Any good thoughts or positive energy you can send their way will be appreciated.

Anyone want to take bets on whether we’ll actually get a harvest out of this?

Picture The First—July 27, 2011

Looking Backward, Going Forward

2011-07-25T19:53:00.000-07:00

Honestly, I can’t remember the last time that I posted twice in the same day. Most likely it was pre-café. Or possibly when my mother was ill back in 2007. Over the past five years, there have been months when I didn’t post two blog entries. The “Blog Archive” on my sidebar tells a story, doesn’t it?

From a high of over two hundred entries in 2004—the heyday of AOL J-land, evening out to an average of 120 or so per year for the next four years. Ten posts a month; continuing right on, I might add, into “café days.” Until 2009—when I took the restaurant to “the next level.” Forty-two entries in a whole year. Followed by 2010, when the bottom fell out. Another 42-entry year. True, I was writing for two blogs by then—“Terms…” and “Women On.” Still, the work was taking its toll.

I well remember the times I would come home from the restaurant utterly used up, wanting to write about it; I would sit in my chair, turn on my laptop…and play solitaire. So many nights I just didn’t have a creative atom left in my body; I could hardly pick out which pajamas to wear, much less string more than a dozen words together to form a coherent thought. It just added to my feeling that my life was slipping away from me…that I was being taken over by a force that was neither healthy nor nurturing. But I DID write. I never completely abandoned it. And what I wrote was, for the most part, passably decent. Even good, at times.

Because writing is, you know, my thing. Years ago—and I was looking for this in my archives, but I couldn’t find it—I wrote that restaurant was my work, but writing was my passion. I could do the restaurant thing; I was good at it (or so I believed); so I chose it as my career. Because putting it out there, even if the unthinkable happened and I failed at it, would not be as devastating as if I tried to live off my real passion—my writing—and failed. I didn’t know if I could handle it if I put everything into my writing and ended up getting chewed up and spit out by the world. What would I have left?

Well, the unthinkable has happened. As a restaurateur, I fell flat on my face. The culinary world did indeed chew me up and spit me out. It was…a great learning experience, if nothing else. I will feel blessed if “learning” is the most lasting damage I take away from the experience. But I have to wonder…did I set myself up to fail? I freely admitted that the restaurant was not my passion. How did I expect to work so hard for so long if the work itself was not feeding some deep need? In the end…I didn’t have what it took to grab greatness out of the jaws of mediocrity. We did “okay.” But okay wasn’t good enough.

So now I am left with a part-time concession business and (it is to be hoped) the continued good fortune of my husband keeping his job, which we thought was going away, to keep the wolves from the door.

And a Power which seems bent on making sure that I find no joy in any restaurant-related pursuits. And regularly sends me spiders…that animal spirit which signifies the gift for writing and the uniquely feminine perspective.

If I add all these things together, what answer should I be coming up with?

Integration

2011-07-25T12:26:00.001-07:00

Seems like I still need to write about my transition from frazzled business owner to woman of semi-leisure. That is, after all, what I know right now…and one of the rules imparted early on to neophyte writers is “Write what you know.” I shall, however, endeavor not to whine…

Three weeks ago, 99.9% of the physical baggage of the café was trundled out the door by a Portland restaurant supply house. I sorted out about half a pick-up load to be taken home—some frozen foods and dry goods that did not get used, selected pieces of equipment and smallwares that I guessed would be useful going forward with the concession business. It looked like a pitifully small collection, next to what we sent away. But integrating it into my kitchen and/or the storage space in our garage has proven tediously challenging.

I’ll admit that part of the challenge has been that I just don’t want to look at this stuff right now. I want to set it aside long enough for the bad feelings associated with it to lose their sting, and deal with it when I get around to it. But, you know, you can’t just leave it crammed in the back of the truck and the trailer. Especially when those two vehicles will be needed for our event coming up next month. So I had to once more snuff my burning desire to get away from all things café related, suck it up and get to work. But I wasn’t happy or nice about it. And, of course, we picked the hottest day of the year to mess with it. (I understand that our “hot” would be laughable to the rest of the country this year. Still, it was stuffy and muggy and would have been a day much better spent at the beach or in the woods or anywhere else doing anything else. And I am supposed to be ON VACATION!)

The thing that has been problematic about stowing these things is their sheer size. When one works in a commercial kitchen with gigantic appliances, fifty linear feet of shelving, under-counter storage galore, plus an 80 square foot dry storage closet, one doesn’t worry too much about where to put a 2 ½ gallon stock pot or a twenty quart mixer. The pot doesn’t fit in any of my kitchen cabinets; the mixer weighs about 200 lbs. and rides on a rolling dolly. The pot is currently taking up half my kitchen stovetop; the mixer was shoe-horned into the garage alongside the two ovens, eight freezers, two heated display cases, two hotboxes, three pan racks, folding tables, rolling carts, et cetera, et cetera, ad infinitum already stored there for the concession business.

I spent about an hour yesterday afternoon trading out my years-past-dated, household-sized jars of spices for the ones I salvaged from the café. Most of these will be used in production for the events we still do. But some—for instance, a 14 oz. container of fennel seed, nine inches tall and three inches wide—would last me and six other home cooks until the next millennium. I have no idea what I’m going to do with it. But I physically could not throw it away. Guess I’ll have to research great fennel seed recipes.

Which brings up another problem: Cooking.

I am used to BIG—pots, utensils, containers, appliances, sinks. Now, let me just say that we didn’t buy our house ten years ago based on the merits of the kitchen. It is tiny and awkward, but we didn’t cook or entertain that much, so kitchen size was a non-issue for us. After five years preparing lots of meals for lots of people in a commercial cooking space, I find my little kitchen woefully inadequate. There is no counter space for prep, the task lighting is atrocious, my fridge (which seems to be the only design that will fit in the awkward space allotted it) can hardly hold a gallon of milk, much less a seven-quart container of…anything. When I try to cook or bake using my home-sized appliances and utensils, I feel like I’m playing Suzy Homemaker with my Easy-Bake Oven. It’s frustrating to the point where I literally cannot cook.

And I want to cook. I actually enjoy it, when I don’t have a gun to my head and a million other things to worry about. So I’m desperate for a space to indulge that passion. I can’t see us having the money to re-configure our current space. Maybe I should apply to one of those shows on HGTV, like The Ugliest Kitchen In America. “Dear HGTV: I am a retired restaurateur in dire need of a kitchen makeover…” Problem is, my kitchen isn’t really ugly. It just…sucks.

Those life lessons just keep streaming, don’t they? This week, I’ve learned that you never simply walk away from anything in life. You take it with you, it becomes part of you. Some things are assimilated more readily, more joyfully than others. It’s not always easy. Still, you have to make room in your “new” life for pieces of the “old” life; the ones you want to keep, and the ones that will go with you whether you want them or not. Those bits—wanted or otherwise—are what make a life. We would be so much less without them.

The Stats Don't Lie

2011-07-23T19:21:00.000-07:00

Here at blogger, we all have been given a little “stats” view upon which we can click from our dashboards. We can use it to check hits (by the hour) on our blogs, where the hits are coming from, what “google” searches are bringing us readers, that kind of thing. I admit, I’ve become mildly addicted to the “stats” page, just as I was to my hit counter at the old AOL J-land. These days, almost no one comments…seems like it just isn’t done anymore. So the only way to know if people are still interested is to check with the stats. (I should follow this with a declaration that I really don’t care if anyone reads…I write for myself—and blah, blah, blah. But y’all know that’s kind of a crock, so why waste the “ink?”)

The past few days, my stats page has been telling me a story, one I should have known without being told. Many of my recent posts have been, basically, vents—rants, whines, bitchfests, call them what you will. And my stats have been in the toilet. Then I cough up a post with a picture AND a cat, and suddenly I have readers again!

I get it. Everybody is tired of hearing me whine about my life. Even I am tired of whining about my life. I’ll admit, when I am feeling particularly lost, writing about my hurt and frustration helps me…what? Purge the demons? But, today at least, I’m feeling like it’s probably time to quit beating that dead horse for awhile.

I’m not quite up to mounting my political soapbox, yet (to the immense relief of most of my readers…) So it’s time to concentrate on something else.

Okay. Clean slate. Here I go.

Um…

Give me a minute to change gears, would ya? I’ll get back to you!

Tired Old Cat, Tired Old Camera

2011-07-21T21:09:00.001-07:00

Those of you who have been with me awhile may remember "The Boys of Summer 2009." That was the year my mother's spirit sent me cats to protect, to worry over, and, I suspect, to take my mind off my own troubles.

Two of those boys are still with us. The picture below is of Orangie, who of course we do not call by that name anymore. His name has morphed from Orangie to O.J. to O-Ja-Moje to Mojay to Mojito... Nowadays, I just call him "Mo."

We have no idea how old Mo is... The vet told us it's difficult to tell with cats. He could be five or six...he could be ten or twelve. My feeling is that he's not a terribly old cat...probably the same age as "the boys" (Alvin and Theodore, whom we took in back in 2004 when they were but tiny weanlings...) But Mr. Mo lived by his wits for two years, fending for himself in the neighborhood, with no real home until he came to live with us. That can age a body some...so he has his issues.

This afternoon, I caught him dozing on the dining room table, using my old Minolta as a chin rest. Note the strapping tape on the camera--a couple of bounces off the concrete floor at the cafe broke the hatch to the battery compartment. It seems like all my favorite old cameras, at some point, end up held together with tape. My Mamiya--my very first SLR, which I bought with my tax refund back in 1975--looks very much the same.

Tired Old Cat, Tired Old Camera:

Happy Birthday to Me

2011-07-20T11:31:00.000-07:00

The County Fair commitment is completed, and we’re still standing. That’s a good thing; because the way it looked a couple of weeks ago, not only might we not be still standing at the end of the fair, but we might not even be married. Long-term relationships…they are anything but easy. Sometimes it’s hard to say whether we love each other or hate each other. The line between the two gets to be so thin it’s almost invisible through bifocals…

Two weeks ago, I was so done with the battling. I need peace and comfort right now, and my own home was not providing that for me. Quite the opposite. Strife—spoken and unspoken—has haunted us since months before we closed the restaurant. It was in fact one of the reasons we closed the restaurant. But, as it turned out, closing the restaurant did not instantaneously make things all better between us…surprise! When preparing for the County Fair stirred up all the bad juju that swirled around us in the last few months at the café, I knew I simply could not do it anymore. I told the husband that, after our August event, I was going to need to get away for awhile.

That was a desperate move. But I felt like I was in the same place with him as I had been with my sisters after my dad died. There was so much sadness, so much hurt; we couldn’t talk about it, couldn’t work it out, and couldn’t ignore it. The only thing I could do was to take myself out of it; because being in the middle of it and trying to fight my way out wasn’t solving anything. We moved away; eventually, time and distance did the healing work of which our own clumsy hands were making such a mess.

So it has been with the husband and me. Since trying to talk about our issues always degraded into accusations and bitterness, I did the only thing I could think of to do: I wrote him a letter. It said a lot of things, but ended with:

“We…chose every day, for many years, to be the one upon
whom the other could always depend. But right now, we are not choosing that.
We’re choosing to hurt each other, to chafe at the bonds of our relationship, to
concentrate on the bad and forget the good. And talking about it, working it
out, does not appear to be an option. Perhaps we need some distance. Perhaps
time away from each other will help us see what there is to come back to. I
think it may be our only option. Because what we have going on right now is not
the way I would choose to spend the rest of my life. Would you?”

Which brought about the actual conversation. Wherein I told him that I had not been kidding when, in the weeks just before we closed the café, I mortally offended him by talking about going on a retreat or going to Europe without him. Because, as our most recent behavior indicated, I really did need to get away. And he was one of the things I needed to get away from.

“Where will you go?”

“I don’t know. Not to live with my sisters. I’m not dragging them into this. And I don’t have any money…”

“So what are your other options?”

“Maybe I can get a seasonal job somewhere that offers room and board. Or I can look into a volunteer opportunity. But I just need to…go.”

The conversation mostly ended there. He went to bed. And I stayed up and cried for a few hours.

But going forward, there were some noticeable changes. Subtle, but definite. During the fair, I was an exhausted, stressed-out mess. The husband, to his credit, did his best to support and relieve me. (Had he done otherwise, I’m sure we would be headed for divorce court. But I appreciate it, nonetheless.)

And then came my birthday. Upon which he completely stunned me by taking the day off to spend doing whatever I wanted to do. You have no idea what a concession this was for Mr. “My-Job-Always-Comes-First.” I woke up yesterday morning at 5:45 (the time he’s usually heading out the door) and there he was, snoring at my side. I gave him a shot with my elbow and said, “Hey…aren’t you supposed to be going to work?”

He said, “No. I took the day off. I’m your present!”

Wait. What’s that sound? Is that a flock of pigs flying overhead?

We didn’t do anything extraordinary. He didn’t take me to the symphony and then wine and dine me at an expensive restaurant. He didn’t pop a box of diamonds out of his pocket. We just…hung out. With my sister and her husband, no less, since they were passing through Portland on their way back from a trip to the Midwest.

It was special, though. Special that he knew this was the one thing he could do—the one gift he could give me—to let me know he got it.

I still may be striking out on my own for a couple of days, weeks, or months after our event in August. But…I think there may be hope for us yet.

Broken Record?

2011-07-18T11:07:00.000-07:00

I know this blog is starting to read like a one-note symphony. My head seems to be stuffed with end-of-café issues. I suspect it’s because, immediately after the fact, I set all that aside and concentrated on resting and recovering. Unfortunately, no amount of rest seems to be enough. That became obvious last week, when my venture at the County Fair turned into an eight-day post-traumatic flashback.

It’s no surprise to anyone who knows anything about trauma: part of the recovery process is bringing the underlying issues to the surface and dealing with them. I thought that I had worked through those issues enough to get away with it. I had intentionally set the negative emotions aside and constructed a laundry list of all the reasons the cafe had not succeeded—from the economic climate to the scarcity of cooperative vendors. Things over which I had no control, and about which I had no clue going in; and proved to be more of a challenge than I could face alone. I thought I had constructed an iron-clad case against labeling the demise of my business venture a personal failure. Good and logical reasons, all. Very rational. But, apparently, rationalization is not the same as dealing.

Today, I feel as if I am right back at square one when it comes to the ignominious end of “living the dream.” Exhausted, sad, and desperate for something that will provide me with some personal validation. If the last eight days were a test, I failed. Miserably. I fell right back into the same destructive patterns I had developed over five frustrating years of being over-challenged and under-helped. So it’s time to stop wondering why everything I do turns to shit, and start owning my role in the excrement metamorphosis process. I’m sure it’s considerable.

And tomorrow is my birthday.

I so want it to be a day of celebration of where I’m going; rather than a tear-sodden reflection of where I’ve been. I don’t want to spend the day feeling sorry about where I have been the last five years. I want to see it as a learning experience; pack up the lessons and move on. If only it could be that simple.

Considering the call to balance I’m feeling on my life these days, I suspect that tomorrow will be—needs to be—a combination of joy and sorrow; anticipation and regret. Giving one more emphasis than the other will not move me in the direction I need to go.

The Universe Intervenes

2011-07-15T22:20:00.001-07:00

After what I've done to myself this week, I think I have a better understanding of the dilemma of a schizophrenic. When the treatment makes you believe you're cured, you go off the meds and fall back into the snake pit. Or maybe I'm an addict; the kind who convinces herself that one tiny little tumble off the wagon will not land her back in the gutter.

Maybe I was just too tired, too strung out, in the days immediately after we decided not to renew our lease, to understand the pure rightness of that course. As the days went by and the reality of the choice set in, I should have seen exactly why I was not unhappy about leaving it all behind. I didn't understand the peace I felt. I appreciated it…but I didn't get it. Why wasn't I looking back at even one moment of the experience with a nostalgic tear in my eye?

It was because I was done. Not just exhausted, frustrated, and not getting any richer. DONE.

The one thing I understand now, after resurrecting the whole restaurant owner experience on a small, temporary basis (evidently WAAAY too soon after euthanizing it) is that I hate it. I hate the work, I hate the dining public, I hate having to deal with employees, I hate what the stress does to me. I hate the constant problem solving; the incessant worrying about how to put more butts in the seats. All these things that were once exhilarating challenges--dragons begging to be slain, victories waiting to be won--have become nothing but assault and battery. I throw my hands up, duck and wait for the next blow.

I. H.A.T.E. I. T.

This is not something that a few days, months, years of R & R is going to cure.

It is absolutely time—and then some—to put my restaurant career behind me. I sincerely believe that is what the Universe wants me to understand. I am being told to stop and wait—patiently—for guidance. The Universe will be faithful, if I open myself to It.

Unfortunately, patience has never been my virtue; and the combination of my inbred Old World Catholic guilt and Protestant work ethic are struggling tooth and nail for dominance of my time and psyche.

Work is part of my identity. Which is a large part of the problem, I suspect. I don't know who I am if I'm not working. I do know who I don't want to be. I don't want to be a burden, financial or otherwise, on any other person—family, husband, whoever. I don't want to be useless, and I don't want to take advantage. I don't want to depend on anybody.

But truly…I think the frustrating non-success of my little County Fair venture has been the voice of the Universe telling me to sit down, shut up and pay attention. To appreciate the living I receive—through the auspices of a partner who loves to be employed, needs to be employed, and will be employed whether he has me to support or not—and start stretching into the realm beyond the material.

I am being told—none too subtly—to move beyond "I need to make a living," to "I need to live."

So, 'round about next Monday morning, I'm going to get right on that. With immeasurable pleasure.

When It Comes Right Down To It...

2011-07-14T22:11:00.000-07:00

Standing in the kitchen at the fairgrounds today, about midway through my second of four fourteen-hour shifts, I looked at my sister and I said:

"Well, I think doing this event has taught me one thing once and for all."

"What's that?"

"I really don't want to do this anymore."

Yep. That's it. I think the Old Town Cafe might have completely purged the food service bug right out of my system.

I have got to find another line of work...

Retirementis Interruptus

2011-07-11T08:11:00.000-07:00

Seven weeks do not a retirement make.

In fact, I haven’t even really had the seven weeks. Yes, it’s been that long since I said goodbye to the café. And, darn it; I was looking forward to a rest. Long days of doing just exactly what I wanted and nothing more. Sleeping in, playing in my garden, writing Important Essays. Cooking for just myself and the hubs. Long walks with dog in tow. Finally learning how to use my camera.

But no… I’ve had a damned “to-do” list strapped to my back that I just can’t get out from under. Production for the concession business. Cleaning out and cleaning up the restaurant space. An event in Astoria. Juggling final payments out of the dwindling café funds. The only thing in the past two months that has even vaguely resembled “retirement”—and the rest and solitude for which I am so desperate—was my stolen week in Seaside.

Why I accepted the offer of a concession space at the County Fair this week, I have no idea. The proposal came at a time when I was feeling poor and wondering exactly how the bills were going to get paid, so I jumped on it; though, in the back of my mind, I knew I didn’t really want to do it. Partially because, rather than the completely different fare our concession business normally offers, what we are doing at the fair is basically creating a smaller, short term-version of the Old Town Café. Chosen favorites from the OTC menu and fresh baked goods. Lots of groceries, lots of labor intensity. I even enlisted the aid of three of my former employees to help me run the place.

And the husband. THAT was a can of worms that didn’t need cracking.

When we first started “our” business back in 2002, we assumed a lot, based on our relatively harmonious long-term relationship. We assumed we would be partners. We assumed we could work together amiably. I assumed that, since I would be the one with more hours to invest, I would take the lead in organization and planning, and he would step in and help when needed. Well, you know what happens when you assume. The reality is, if he can’t own it completely, he’s really not interested in committing to it. He wants to be involved only when he wants to be involved. This was a recurring source of irritation to me in the concession business. When it came to the restaurant, it was deadly. Literally. That lack of consistent commitment on his part was one of the major factors in the demise of the Old Town Café.

I have no idea why I “assumed” his commitment and cooperation with this venture at the fair. Honestly, if nine years of running up against the same brick wall doesn’t teach you anything, what’s it going to take? So it wasn’t enough that I had to reluctantly drag myself out of my so-far non-retirement to do this thing I wished I’d never promised to do. I didn’t even get a chance to straighten my shoulders, paste a smile on my face and sally forth with at least the pretense of a positive attitude. Because before we knew it, the husband and I were at each other’s throats, just like in the darkest days of our restaurant tenure. A flashback like that I SO didn’t need. Like a giant ugly hand appearing from out of nowhere, it squashed me like a bug.

As always, we endured two or three really rocky days, patched things up, and are now able to at least be civil to one another. But I SO don’t want to do this anymore. Ten years ago, I made a decision to get out of the workplace because I was always so miserable working for other people. I believed he supported me in that. But the strife between him and me has made it so that I am every bit as miserable trying to work for myself. It might not be possible, within the context of our relationship, for me to be self-employed—doing anything, even if it has nothing to do with him and doesn’t require him to help me in any way—without stirring up that pot of anger and resentment. And even if I accomplished that, even if I created something that was completely my own and he had no part in, the fact that I HAD to would very likely take all the joy out of it. But there it is.

Oh, well. Seven more days to get through at the fair, and then I can get on with my retirement. Oops…no, we have our big event coming up in mid-August. No retirement in the offing between then and now, I’m afraid.

But September. Ah, September. I can hardly wait…

Caution: High, Narrow & Slippery

2011-07-10T22:49:00.000-07:00

A warning about the balance beam that is life:

One false step, and you’re face-planting into the mat.

Guess I didn’t use enough chalk…

The Importance of Balance

2011-07-07T14:27:00.000-07:00

What the world needs now…is not love sweet love. What we need is balance.

“Balance: 3.) harmony; a state in which various parts form a satisfying and harmonious whole and nothing is out of proportion or unduly emphasized at the expense of the rest.”

I am probably ultra-sensitive to this fact since I let my own life get so out of balance. What started out as the exhilarating challenge of realizing a dream quickly descended into an all-consuming obsession with the work and the worries and the insanity.

I remember trying—for about the first three weeks, it seems—to maintain something that resembled my “old life.” But as I became inundated by the pure magnitude of what I had gotten myself into, I became convinced that “total immersion” was probably the only way I was going to get control of the café. I watched my old life and its priorities disappear like a diamond ring down a shower drain. Keeping my house clean, my lawn mowed, my flowers watered? Tracking what I ate and when? Walking the dog, petting the cats, feeding the birds? Being with family, being with my husband? All these things that made up the fabric of what I had thought was a non-life became expendable; fluff for which I had no time or energy. All of my focus, all of my resources, swung ‘round to be centered on one thing: the restaurant. One of my sisters called the cafe “the job that ate your life.” Indeed. It took about 48 months of sloughing off part after part of my old self and penetrating deeper and deeper into a maze that I ultimately realized I was never going to solve, to make me understand that I had had a life, once. And I wanted it back.

Now, I’ve chucked the café and thrown myself into the work of reclaiming my life. I revel in getting out of bed whenever I feel like it; I happily grab hold of some project that has needed doing for, say, five years or so, and bang away at it until it’s done, even if it means staying up half the night or missing a couple of meals. Or I sit and do nothing. Because I can. I’ve utterly thrown over self-discipline for a kind of bohemian schizophrenia. I do whatever I feel like whenever I feel like it. Truthfully, it was kind of nice for awhile, but I’m beginning to realize that this is not right either. I’ve swung too far in the opposite direction from the unrelenting barrage of challenges that comprised my life for five years. It’s hard to feel like you’ve accomplished something when you really don’t have to do anything. And I’m still out of balance.

So it’s easy for me to see what’s going on in my life as a microcosm of the rapidly degrading culture of the United States of America. Everything is “Extreme.” There is no balance.

The halls of Congress have become a 21st-century Coliseum; an arena which hosts spectacle after spectacle in the Clash of Ideological Titans. Not a moment’s thought is wasted on the efficacy of forming a “satisfying and harmonious whole.” It’s just two enemies hammering away at each other, neither willing to settle for anything less than all the marbles. Government? Legislation? Providing for the common good? Meaningless. It’s all about winning. Though I’m not sure either side has any idea what the prize is supposed to be.

And every two years, the hapless voting public, convinced by the puppet media that they have been duped, abused and led to the brink of disaster by whichever party has laid claim to a tenuous upper hand, mindlessly stampedes as far as it can cringe in the opposite direction. The scales tip way too far the other way, never pausing at anything approaching the middle. Balance loses out again. And, thus, so do we all.

Balance. How do you sell it? It’s not a sexy concept. It’s not excessive enough for today’s American consumer. In fact, it’s entirely the opposite. How do you sell calm, reason, harmony—these things for which our society is so desperate—in a world where “extremeness” has become everything?

I wish I had the answer. I’m having a hard enough time finding balance in my own life, surrounded as I am by a society constantly pushing toward too much. I can only hope that the world will tire of “extreme everything.” History proves that the pendulum will swing the other way. Slowly and steadily, I hope, as tough as it will be to wait it out. If only we could get that pendulum to stay in the middle once it gets there. Or at least restrain its tendency, of late, to swing about quite so wildly.

Cross-posted at "Women On..."

The Wrap-Up (one of many?)

2011-06-30T11:57:00.001-07:00

The past week has, so far, been filled with (poisoned by?) café issues. With all of our production for the concession business completed (we had our first event two weeks ago, and sales were encouraging), and the end of our lease bearing down upon us, this has been the week to concentrate on disassembling and cleaning. And, just like every single task ever associated with the place, it has not been easy, quick, or even remotely fun.

Despite my crawling around on my hands and knees, wielding scrub brushes, steel wool and metal scrapers, the kitchen floor stubbornly remains spotted, stained and, in places, encased in a thin layer of grease which seems to have chemically bonded with the cement. Every sink and floor drain is permanently discolored by mineral residue from years of assault by Scappoose water (and we drink that stuff?) The dining room floor looks like the building might have been used as a garage for the past sixty months. In short, the clean-up job has been a microcosm of the way things have gone for me with that damned place from Day 1.

Perhaps my problem is—has always been—that my standards are just too high. At any rate, they consistently surpass my abilities. The end result of that equation has been that I have spent the past five years never having true victory over any challenge. "It's good enough" or "It will have to do" became my mantras. Truly, things probably were good enough; perfectly wonderful, in fact, for everyone else—the customers, the employees, the vendors, the landlord—but they were never where I wanted them to be. My tenure at the café became an exercise in finding out exactly how frustrated and unfulfilled I could get before I simply…imploded.

So, once again, "good enough" is going to have to do. I have to remind myself that the place had been operating as a restaurant for over a year by the time I got it. So any notion I might have had of whipping it back into pristine, looks-like-new shape was probably a pipe dream anyway. It's not trashed by any means, and it certainly looks acceptable enough to anyone who wants to put another eatery in the space. If Mr. Landlord wants to delve into the scary chemicals and pure intense elbow grease it's going to take to make the space sparkle and shine like new, he's welcome to have at it. He's ten years younger than I; presumably he can get it done without crippling himself. I personally am practically in need of traction at this point.

This evening, we will take Mr. Landlord on a tour, hand him his keys, dust off our hands and drive away. This will be the end, for good and all, of the "Old Town Café" chapter of my life. I will not have to absorb one more kick from that place that has been abusing my posterior with steel-toed boots for waaaay too long.

There WILL be a ceremony. I got into a conversation on Facebook last night with a couple of former employees, and ended up planning a spur of the moment Old Town Café "funeral." Several of us are going to meet up in the parking lot outside the building tonight. We'll set off some fireworks and say a few words. I should have saved a box of wine glasses or coffee cups…we could have smashed them on the sidewalk!

Then, maybe we'll go down the street for pizza. Or go sit at one of the other restaurants in town for two hours, have a meeting and drink water (inside joke…) It should be fun. If anyone shows up. Which, knowing my employees as I do, is pretty much a crap shoot.

Goodbye, café! You won't have ME to kick around anymore. A Nixon-ism. Appropriate to the termination of a futile venture, n'est ce pas?

Goodbye, Stuff.

2011-06-24T12:27:00.000-07:00

As I sit here and watch the past five years of my life being hauled out the side door and loaded into big trucks, I don’t feel…anything. Well, that’s not precisely true. I feel embarrassment. The place is filthy. Not remotely in a condition that I would have liked anyone to think I tolerated my establishment. But five years of trying to run the place perpetually understaffed and overworked, with no time or energy to do the “extra cleaning” myself, and employees that we were lucky to have deign to show up for their shifts, much less put out any extra effort in the direction of more than the minimum required, have left the place looking pretty sad. Once all the equipment is out of here, I’ll be left staring at spotted walls and scummy floors. My final obligation will be to try to restore them to some semblance of acceptable before turning over my keys on the last day of June.

But melancholy, or regret about the way things turned out? Not really. It was such an endless slog, and I worked so hard and got so nowhere in 59 months that I feel absolutely no sadness as the equipment goes rolling out the door. It’s like each piece gone is one less link in the chain that kept me bound in slavery. I can only think of it in terms of the dollars that will be going back into my bank account in exchange. And then I will be able to pay off the rest of my obligations and have done with the experience for good.

Only one debt—the small second mortgage we took out on our house—will follow us beyond the doors of the cafe. We’ll have to cough up $400 a month, for roughly -ever, in exchange for the opportunity to “live the dream.” I don’t know. Many people pay a lot more than $45,000 for higher education. In fact, I would have been out more than that if I had chosen to go to culinary school. And with my chef school diploma in my hand, I would not have possessed one hundredth of the valuable (though hard-earned) experience I have under my belt as I walk away from five years of running my own business.

I did have one moment, as I pulled my artwork off the walls in the “back corner,” when a mist of tears threatened to undo me. I put myself in “don’t-think-about-it” mode, and the tears dried up almost immediately. Honestly, I don’t know why that one action bothered me. Maybe because I wish the whole experience had been more about playing with pretty things than busting my butt, working like a sweat-hog, and waiting for the next round of manure to contact the oscillator.

Eight days from today—after the last of the grease has been scraped off the kitchen floor, and the last spot of marinara has been scrubbed off the wall behind where the food warmer used to sit—will be the first day of the rest of my life.

Bring it on!

Seeing the Light

2011-06-22T14:53:00.001-07:00

I've never in my life been one to fit the mold. Any mold. In grade school, I was often teacher's pet, though I did not belong to one of the pastor's "pet" families (these would be the ones with money with which to make large contributions to the church.) In high school, I was a liberated hippie chick…who never touched drugs, alcohol, or members of the opposite sex. Once out of school, I set my sights on being independent, free, answerable to no one…and married at twenty-one. And then became a born-again Christian who could never reconcile herself to Ronald Reagan or fundamentalist politics.

Which is the journey which brought me to be WHO I was, WHERE I was, this past weekend: A WASP/Catholic/one-time Fundamentalist, married to a Polack, catering a Scandinavian Festival, toting my books on Celtic Spirituality and the Medicine Wheel. Still going wherever the road takes me, without much regard for who else might be going, or how they chose to get there.

For the most part, I've found other people to be more often a source of annoyance, pain or frustration than acceptance, strength and community. I am constantly shocked and dismayed at the selfishness, violence and self-delusion of which human beings are capable. There are times I think I could do without them altogether. There are times I think the Universe could do without them altogether. And yet…

Through my recent reading, I have come to believe that creation IS God. Creation is an expression of the Almighty, brought to being through the light of that Power. And the Light of the Author of the Universe exists in every one if Its creations. From the smallest amoeba to the most solid sheet of bedrock, the Creator is in everything. God is truly In The Details.

Yet, if that's true, the Creator's light is no less in every human being than it is in every other being. Then I have to wonder: What's happened to it? Why do we seem not only to be without that Light, but to have consciously and religiously chosen not to acknowledge Its existence in our fellow creatures? Why are WE the ornery, renegade pains-in-the-ass among the Creator's works?

Is it because we think we know? Everything? Anything? Is it because we've taken these great creative brains we've been granted, and used them to separate us from the Almighty, rather than to bind us to It? We can, and do, construct such elaborate fantasies…to the point of constructing a remote "God" in our own image; one who embodies all the strengths and frailties of the human psyche, and inflicts them helter-skelter upon the hapless human race. We have chosen this over recognizing and nurturing the "God" within ourselves. Our religions now have us born dark and evil, riddled with sin, from which only the light of a far-away God can redeem us. When did we stop understanding that we share the inner light of the Creator with every other bit of creation? What caused us to make that choice? How did we get so far off track?

I don't pretend to know what happened millennia ago. I haven't even a theory, really, about what could have made us turn away from the Light inside ourselves, the signature of the Creator that we share with all other creatures and things, and decide that power is embodied exclusively in something far away and outside ourselves. But it seems to me that, lately, it's a matter of living down to our own expectations.

There is a theory in Child Development circles that a child will rise to the level of expectation put on him/her. Can the same not be said of the human race? If we believe that we come into this world lost and evil, separated from the Divine, are not we then predisposed to behave as such? Are we not then going to identify first the evil in ourselves and in other creatures, and spend our lives struggling to rise above that state? If that's all we ever ask of ourselves, isn't that all we're going to do? Certainly in my own lifetime, I've seen the damage that diminishing expectations can do. Once upon a time, say, forty or fifty years ago, there were expectations of decorum, courtesy, respect and deference that have disappeared over the past four decades. Watch television for three hours on any given night and see what we are left with. It is not encouraging. And it's only getting worse.

I despair for humanity, because I think we may have lost it. The Big It. But then again, just because you don't see something, even steadfastly refuse to see it, does not mean it's not there. The Light is there. The Spirit is there. We are connected. To each other. To everything else.

I can only acknowledge that in my own mind, my own life.

And hope that an increasingly effective number of others will do the same.

What IS Our Problem…?

2011-06-21T10:31:00.001-07:00

This past weekend, we enjoyed the hospitality of the Clatsop County Fairgrounds, where we sold food to attendees of the Astoria Scandinavian Midsummer Festival. This was our tenth year as a vendor at this event. They like us, we like them, and we always come away with some money in our pockets (and various goodies from the other vendors…)

Like many small county fairgrounds, this facility is located well outside of town, kind of in the middle of nowhere. But the surroundings are lovely—rolling hills, towering firs, pasture land and bubbling creeks. And the barns and outbuildings are populated by an array of wild creatures during the fifty-one weeks of the year they are not being used for livestock. My favorites are the swallows.

This year, there were several swallow nests under the eaves of the rest room building, to which we head off every morning to shower during our stay. I was enchanted by the little faces peering out of the mud-lined portals. The latest crop of youngsters was fledging—flying and swooping about the grounds nearly as skillfully as their parents, but still returning to the safety of their compact nurseries under the eaves to snuggle and rest between forays into the wide, wide world.

I could have stood and watched them for hours. Soaring, darting, chattering, enjoying their buggy meals which they acquired on the fly. As I craned my neck and shaded my eyes to follow their antics, I could feel my whole body smiling.

Sunday morning, I walked out through a depressing mist to the shower building. I looked up to the point of the roof, seeking the cheerful company of the swallow families. Instead I saw…nothing. Nothing but a pile of broken bits of mud nests on the ground beneath the place the little avian condo community had been located.

Fortunately, there were no eggs or nestlings destroyed. And the fledglings could find safety in the eaves of the nearby barns.

But I just have to ask…

Why? What is it about human beings that we are so thoughtless, so blasé, about destroying life that isn't human? More and more, I am coming to understand that creation—all things wild and wonderful about our planet—IS God. When we destroy something that seems small, insignificant, and inconvenient to us, we literally spit in the eye of the Creator.

And if the Creator was inclined to the anger and desire to punish that our puny religions so often ascribe to It, the human race would have been toast long ago.

But, honestly… I'm not too sure we won't, at some point, try the patience of the Universe beyond its capacity to endure and forgive…

Spider Power

2011-06-08T11:11:00.001-07:00

There's an embryonic "Retirement To-Do List" floating around in the fluid of my brain, but I have not allowed it to land anywhere or begin to take any kind of real form. I won't even acknowledge the tiny prickle of guilt I feel about aggressively not accomplishing anything. I know I have things to do and places to go. But I also know that I don't have to do them or go there now. And I fully intend to stretch out this time of deliberate aimlessness to the nth degree.

Of most immediate concern is my intention to discover and explore my personal spirituality. In those last difficult weeks at the restaurant, I clung to my neophyte beliefs like a drowning rat to a floating timber. I'm convinced my little rituals gave me the peace and the balance I needed to get through that situation with my mind and my body still intact, battered and exhausted though they were. So I know there is power and truth there; power and truth that beg further exploration and devotion. And…I'm gonna get on that. Soon. Ever faithful, the Universe continues to show me things, even though I'm not disciplining myself to go out looking for them.

I've written of my desire to identify my power animal. I asked for a dream; and I thought perhaps I hadn't asked with enough conviction. Because, though crows and eagles and squirrels have showed up in my waking life, my dreams have been singularly devoid of animal characters. I thought. Then I realized there had been a dream rather dramatically featuring a non-human creature. I dreamed of spiders.

It was not a good dream, either. (Is there such a thing as a good dream about spiders?) It was creepy and shuddery. I dreamed I backed into a great, thick mat of tough, sticky spider webs, and that they (and their inhabitants) stuck to my hair and my back. And I was running all over the place asking people to brush these things off me, and nobody would touch them. Eeyuck…!

When I got to thinking about it, I realized the dream must have some significance, but I did not have a clue what that might be. Truthfully, the possibilities were too disturbing to contemplate. I filed the dream into the back of my subconscious. But the Universe was not giving up on the message.

Like most people, I have a history with spiders. I used to be deathly afraid of them. I couldn't sleep if I knew there was a spider anywhere in my house, much less in my bedroom. And I couldn't kill them, either. I would sic one of my sisters or my mother on the eight-legged offender. After I married, arachnicide became my husband's responsibility.

But in the Pacific Northwest, spiders are everywhere; once you relocate here, you begin to realize that anything that isn't moving will have a spider on it in less than an hour. So you had better get over your arachnophobia or you will be terrified to immobility. And then you will have spiders building webs on YOU within the hour. Honestly, moving to Oregon proved to be somewhat of an aversion therapy for me. Spiders are so ubiquitous that you just learn to live with them. Of course, that doesn't mean you get to like them, or anything quite so cozy as that.

So, yesterday, I decided to do some planting on my front deck. And, this being Oregon, I knew that I would probably encounter an array of multi-legged fauna in the course of this endeavor. I'm actually fine as long as I don't touch them with my bare hands or have them crawling on me. I wear gloves and go about my business, alert to the possible necessity of encouraging a fast-moving creepy crawly to creep elsewhere. So I dug, and hacked, and watered, and swept up last year's moldering debris. Gradually, I became aware…of one of the biggest spiders I had ever seen, clinging to the siding behind the planter box. Legs un-scrunched, she would easily have measured three inches from toe to toe (do spiders have toes?), at least four times larger than most spiders I had met in my life. I stopped my sweeping and bent over to examine her with a mixture of scientific curiosity and horror-movie fascination. She was so big, she became more than "just" a spider. She was a being. A creature, with a soul.

"All right madam," I said to her. "You just stay right there where I can keep an eye on you, and I won't bother you."

We spent the next hour companionably not going anywhere near each other. At the end of that time, I thanked her for not crawling on me, and she silently expressed her gratitude that I had not drowned her or poked her with a stick. And we went our separate ways.

But in the course of that hour, I contemplated animal spirits, and how not all animals are perceived as noble or majestic or smart or magical. Just because spiders are spiders, and our western culture comes complete with pathological spider-aversion, this does not mean they are evil or ugly or soulless or negligible. The Universe wanted me to know that ALL life is precious, and ALL life is connected, whether that other being is soft and furry, cute and cuddly, or black and spiny, all legs and fangs.

So what has this amiable encounter with a giant spider to do with my quest for my power animal? Well, according to the reading I have done, any time an animal or the symbol of an animal shows up in your life at least three times in a short period of time, it is carrying a message to you from the spirit world. The dream and the planting party constituted two encounters with spiders within less than a week. The third would come that very night as I headed for bed.

As I emerged from the bathroom after brushing my teeth and donning my pj's, a largish dark spot high on the very white wall of our bedroom caught my eye. Sure enough, up near the crack between the wall and the ceiling squatted yet another largish arachnid. Not nearly as remarkable as my friend on the front deck, but big enough that I knew I didn't want to share my sleeping quarters with her.

Normally, I would deal with these issues myself, but since she was out of my height-challenged reach, I bade the husband to dispatch her. So, armed with a plastic cup and a flimsy piece of cardboard (I told him he needed to fold it in half…!) he clambers up on the ottoman and prepares to do the deed.

Husband claps the cup down over spider. Success! Spider is running around frantically inside the glass, not pinned or squished under the rim. Husband waits until her panicked revolutions reach the bottom of the glass, slides the cardboard between spider and wall. Another victory. Spider is still frenetically mobile, indicating that once again, husband has avoided injuring her in the process of capture. Unfortunately, in the course of transferring spider capsule from wall to hands and stepping down off the ottoman, the operation falls apart and spider tumbles from her enclosure to the top of my dresser., where I have assembled the paraphernalia I use for my smudging ritual. Including the velvet bag I put these things in for travel. Which is where the spider has softly landed, and has stayed put long enough for husband to rediscover her and clap the glass back over her.

And so Ms. Spider is gently transported, atop the turquoise and beaded velvet splendor of my sacred bag, down the stairs and out the front door, where she is deposited on the deck and encouraged to "go be a spider."

Trudging back up the stairs after the completion of that delicate operation, I smiled inwardly, in a chagrined sort of way. Okay, so my day had pretty much been All About Spiders. Spider as a Power Animal? I shuddered. What would that make me? Some kind of ghoulish Transylvanian priestess? It behooved me to commence a literature search to see what this might mean.

First, I consulted my reference book: Steven Farmer's Animal Spirit Guides. In this book, Farmer lists a couple hundred animals and gives an accounting of what power these animals might have and what messages they might bring from the spirit world. I reluctantly thumbed through the book looking for "Spider," half hoping I would not find it. But, there it was, and what I read surprised me:

"If Spider is your Power Animal: …You're in touch with and express a very powerful feminine creative force, whether you're male or female. …You have a knack for writing, with the ability to weave words together in new and creative ways, often affecting others profoundly with their magic."

Zap! Right between the eyes…

At the very least, this encouraged me to dig a little deeper. An online search taught me that Grandmother Spider is featured prominently in shamanic lore. She is said to have carried on her back, in a basket woven by her, the gift of Fire, which she then presented to the People. Other stories have her web binding all things together and forming the foundation of the Earth. Obviously, the ancients revered spiders, as they revered all life. They certainly didn't see them as something to be screamed at and stomped on!

So what does all this mean to me? Is Spider my Power Animal? Is she simply bringing me a message? If so, what is it? I'm not jumping to any conclusions quite yet; but I guess I could do worse than to walk with an Animal Spirit associated with a strong feminine creative force and a knack for writing. Right now, I'm quite taken with this little tidbit I unearthed in my literature search:

"Spider's message to you is that you are an infinite being who will continue to weave patterns of life and living throughout time. Please do not fail to see the eternal plan of creation."

I'll content myself with contemplating that for awhile.

Marriage as Shoes

2011-06-02T01:01:00.001-07:00

Twenty-four days since the end of my career as a restaurateur. I've spent the time resting, sleeping (I took a two-hour nap this afternoon….aaahhhh!), nesting, fussing a bit with the ending-of-the-business details, and putting distance between myself and the husband at any possible opportunity.

My feelings surrounding the un-success of our venture, as they relate to my business-/life-partner, are complex and not altogether sanguine. I haven't really wanted to confront them (and him), so I've made it a priority to make myself scarce. I feel like I need to clear the fog of exhaustion from my brain, and the pool of unshed tears from behind my eyes, before I can take on these issues with any hope of improving—rather than destroying—what's left of our relationship.

Unfortunately, he's not making much of an effort in that direction. While I feel that I have lightened up remarkably in the past three weeks, he doesn't seem to have released one bit of five years of pent up tension. He's still wound as tight as a python around a rat, and he's about as willing to ease up as that python would be to let loose of his dinner. And I have no idea why.

Which has led me to contemplate, lately, who we are, individually; and what there is left of shared interests, goals, desires, habits, needs—to keep us bound together. What drew us together in the first place? Was it a common love of…anything? If it was, what happened to it? Is there anything that we both enjoy and value anymore?

I know our relationship was never based on how alike we are. We found in each other things that we were lacking. We each have strengths that negate the other's weaknesses. Under ordinary circumstances, we complement each other; under stress, apparently, not so much. We handle stress in completely different ways. I'm not sure I could even describe the specifics; but I do know that the whole experience has served to drive a wedge between us that is, evidently, going to be very difficult to extract.

Do we still love each other? How do you define "love" in the context of a relationship that has spanned three and a half decades? Certainly, our love is vastly different now than it was in the beginning. The fire and spark have been replaced by security and habit. Which is not necessarily bad. It's entirely appropriate, at a certain age, to prefer the comfort of an old pair of Easy Spirits to the flash and glitter of a brand new pair of Gucci stilettos. After the debilitating drain of the past five years, I'm absolutely ready to sink back into the well worn, familiar shoes of our marriage. The problem is, I'm not sure we haven't kicked, scuffed and abused the poor things so much that they won't keep out the rain.

Getting Back to “It”

2011-05-25T23:38:00.001-07:00

The time away at the beach house was wonderful and restorative, but when I got back to town, I knew I had to get back to it. Whatever "it" is, now that it is not sixty-hour weeks, endless headaches, heartaches and a constant barrage of shit hitting the fan. "It" could be shopping, hitting the gym, joining a quilting club, reading the classics, commencing a secret social life that involves hanging around in bars and flirting with…well, I don't know what actually would be available to someone of my age and physical appearance. Couldn't go there if I wanted to, I suppose. But, the thing is, I am not doing any of these things. I'm…nesting.

Monday, I started tearing apart my bedroom; so I could put it back together in some semblance of order. A little re-arranging, a little going up and down the stairs with gigantic heavy pieces of furniture. Dispatching dust bunnies containing hair of pets that have been dead since 2007. Trying to suck up those dust bunnies with a vacuum that has been dead since 2007.

I attacked my side of the closet, weeded through on a "Goodwill" tear, and reduced the inventory by one third. By day's end, I had just barely got the room re-assembled enough to sleep in it. But the bathroom and his side of the closet were still…nearly uninhabitable.

These two areas—our conjugal bathroom and his side of the closet—have been passive/aggressive battlefields for about two years now. Ever since I realized that the husband was not willing to be my helpmeet, no more so on the home front than at "our" business. At the restaurant, I knew I had to figure out how to mollify him, sidestep him, manipulate him (somehow…which I suck at, by the way) in order to get the help I needed from him. But at home…it was all I could do to pick up after myself. If he couldn't clean up his own messes—wash and put away his own damn clothes, scrub his own damn sink—I was not going to do it for him. If I could somehow have not made or changed the sheets on his side of the bed, I would have done it. I was that fed up.

So, this morning, I tried to look at my newly fussed-over bedroom with satisfaction and pride, but the filth in the bathroom and the insane disorder on one side of the closet would not let me. I knew I was going to have to swallow my pissiness and Just Do It. And so I did. To the tune of another six hours spent hanging, folding, dusting, scrubbing and sweating. The condition of his sink and his side of the vanity was not to be believed. Seriously…it almost made me sob, to think he was willing to wallow in that kind of muck just because I refused to clean up after him. That is so not who we are…not who we ever have been. I couldn't help thinking, "How the hell did we get to this place?"

Be that as it may, it has been a kick just to…fuss with my stuff. MY stuff. To be able to put something somewhere without worrying about whether someone is going to whine, "I don't want that there. It works better for me HERE." Or whether it will get put back in that place after it is used. Or whether I will be able to find it again when I go looking for it. The control freak in me—the one that I constantly had to beat into submission at the restaurant—is having an absolute field day.

I figure it will take the better part of the rest of the summer—or longer—for me to pull my household back from the brink of disaster and reassemble it into a place that is restful, happy, and routinely maintained to my standards—which are not overly high, mind you. They just disappeared entirely when I "lived" at the restaurant, and I have to re-establish them. Honestly, it's like I've been away for five years, and I'm just coming back to my life and my home and…everything. There will indeed be plenty to keep me busy for quite awhile.

Rested Rambling

2011-05-23T10:37:00.001-07:00

The house itself was a charmer. It was a cedar-sided 1920's summer cottage, with all the requisite add-ons and lean-to's; the inside walls painted a pristine beachy cream, with sage green accents. Someone had put a lot of thought and love into the updating, from the vintage-looking linoleum flooring to the old claw-foot tub (NOT a reproduction) to the absolutely amazing '60's range in the kitchen. The place was spotless, cheery and supremely welcoming, due in part to not being weighed down by 21^st-century "must-haves" like granite counter tops, high-tech lighting and exotic hardwood flooring. The minute I walked through the door, it felt like home.

And, boy…was it quiet. A resort town on weekdays during the off-season is more ghost town than boom town. Even though those summer houses are built nearly on top of each other, there is only about 25% occupancy mid-week non-summer. I could nod and smile at the few folks I encountered on my daily walks with the dog, rather than fending off an overdose of human interaction by keeping my hood up and my eyes on the sidewalk. Mandatory socialization with large groups of people was right there on top of the list of things I was on holiday from, so that worked out perfectly for me.

I basked in the little luxuries in which I have not had time to guiltlessly indulge for ages. Composing an outfit, rather than throwing on whatever had floated to the top of the clean laundry pile. Paging through a magazine while nibbling my leisurely breakfast, instead of scarfing down a piece of bacon and a few swallows of yogurt in a vain effort to provide my body with enough protein to keep me on my feet for the next twelve hours. Strolling down the aisles at the grocery store, dropping things into my cart as the inspiration struck me. Not fretting about the needs of the cats or the dog or the husband or the restaurant or the customers. Just…me. It was paradise. Perhaps the Rapture had happened after all. Oh, yeah…I forgot. I'm not invited to that particular party.

Speaking of which…I would like to report that I spent hours and hours engaged in voracious spiritual research. But that wouldn't be entirely truthful. I brought a couple of books, read exactly one chapter. Still, I think the time was productively spent, because I needed a few days to just…empty myself. Throw away the junk, some of which had to be ripped from its moorings, and then take time to let the wounds heal. This change of mind, heart, spirit and direction is not something that is going to allow itself to be scheduled and formulated. So saying, "I have five days to get as much done on this as I can" is not exactly the way it's done.

I read, I contemplated, I began to open myself. Which, as it turns out, is kind of like opening a live clam: a lot harder than it looks, and not best done with a hammer, a screwdriver and a stop-watch. It's easy to get frustrated; easy to say, "This is just too much. I can't worry about this right now." But, I think, once you've made the commitment, once the Universe has taken note that you are yearning for it, it doesn't leave you alone.

One of the things with which I have been concerned lately is animal spirits. I feel so drawn to shamanism, animalism, call it what you want. I find it impossible to believe that the Universe put all these non-human creatures on this earth just for us to look at, dominate or destroy as the mood strikes us. It's not such a stretch for me to consider that animals, possibly because they lack what we think of as powers of higher thought, have maintained a close connection to the Almighty which humans long ago rejected in favor of their own machinations.

I believe that animals can speak to us—not using our limited human language, but in ways we forgot long ago. And that if we sincerely seek them out, they will walk with us, even guide us, between the real and spiritual worlds. I've given a lot of thought to power animals, and made some timid, half-hearted moves in the direction of finding my power animal. Trust me, this is a difficult transition for one who was raised in traditional western religion, and has only lately come to see the folly therein. Even so, I think the Almighty is gently coaching me in the right direction. Though I didn't necessarily apply myself to in-depth spiritual research during my "retreat" week, I nevertheless believe the Universe was trying to show me something.

I came to notice that, during the entire week, I walked with crows. Crows were on the beach. They were in the neighborhoods where I walked. They swooped and perched along the roadsides where I drove. Images of crows were everywhere—even in the shops I visited on my touristy buying sprees. I'm beginning to think the Universe is doing the spiritual version of hitting me in the head with a brick. It's got my attention, anyway…

Which brings me back to the thing that didn't happen over the weekend—the "Rapture." Thirty years ago, when I was wrapped up in all that "born again Christian" stuff, we had folks in the church that were absolutely fanatic about "End Times" scripture. They pored over it, they analyzed it, they contemporized it (one of the creatures John mentions in the Book of Revelation is a giant locust…it was the opinion of our resident End Times scholars that this was how a first-century observer would describe a helicopter…) All this analyzation and obsession was directed toward convincing everyone that the End Times were here and that Jesus would be back any day now, so we'd better look sharp.

I'm sorry. Not to dis anyone else's beliefs—if that's what causes you to live a "good" life and harm no one, who am I to argue; but my spirit just does not bear witness to that whole idea. I think it's the ultimate in blind human egotism to believe that the Almighty would destroy the entire planet and everything on it simply because It decided to bring an end to the experiment of human habitation thereon. We don't own this planet. We are intrinsically a part of it, as it is part of us…but it isn't ours.

I don't know what the future holds for human beings and the planet to which we are connected. I know we are currently engaged in aggressively fouling our nest, and if we don't change our ways, something pretty dire is likely to transpire. But I don't think "the Rapture" is it. I can't think of any human beings that are so spiritually pure that they would be whisked away to safety while the planet roils and tears itself apart beneath the rest of us. And if there were such people, I'm pretty sure they would not be fundamentalist Christians. Way too much negative spiritual baggage there, I'm afraid…

For me, the answer is to reconnect with the planet and the spirit from which I was brought forth. And though I don't believe in evangelizing my personal choice, I will say that it wouldn't be a bad thing if more people pointed themselves in that direction.

What To Do…?

2011-05-18T10:24:00.001-07:00

Here I am on my little beach-house getaway. Actually, the house isn't so little and it's not ON the beach, but it's close enough. It's bright and clean and pleasant, and it has a hot tub. And it's not MINE, so I don't have worries about weedy gardens, leaky windows, peeling paint or spotty carpets spoiling my time of rest. On the list of things I had to get away from for a few days (which included the husband, Scappoose and the crazy cat who lives in my bedroom) GUILT was right there on top.

I'm nothing if not a child of the faith in which I was raised. At least, the culture thereof. And we all know what a huge role guilt played in mid-century Catholic upbringing. I don't usually mind so much. Guilt can cause one to take action on things that need to be done…things that otherwise might be sacrificed to the ever-lurking sloth-monster.

Although, in my case, it's not so much laziness as control-freakness that sabotages my ability to get things done. I hate to have to do anything. My tendency is to set my feet and balk like a mule when presented with something I absolutely must do. I always get around to it, and I usually get it done under the wire, but not without running away from it as long as I can get away with it. That was one thing that made owning my own business such a joy. There was always a behemoth of a list of things that I HAD to do. There was no balking and there was no running. There was just the lead weight of a ten-ton "to-do" list welded to my back. In the end, I think it just…squashed me.

So, that's what I'm here to get away from. To-do's. I have nothing TO DO today except whatever the hell I want to do. If I want to take a three-hour nap in the middle of the afternoon, that's what I'll do. If I want to play solitaire for an hour, I'll do that. If I want to pack up the dog and take her for a walk on the beach, I'm all over it. If I WANT to make dinner for myself, I'll do it. If not, there is an impressive array of eating establishments within walking distance, where the folks will be happy TO DO for me.

Right now, I want to do some shopping at the outlet mall.

See ya!

Be Not Afraid

2011-05-15T21:38:00.001-07:00

Go outside some cloudless night. Somewhere where the light pollution doesn't block out the stars. A lake. A clearing in a forest. A prairie.

Look at the stars. See the thousands, millions? Think of the distances. Imagine the size…the eternal vastness. Our own solar system. Our own galaxy. Galaxies beyond. So huge. Be overwhelmed.

I have done this; and felt defeated by the hugeness. Shrunken to nothing by the unthinkable distances. Cold and miniscule and desperately insignificant. Sad. Frightened. Lost. Inconsolable. I've had to physically turn aside the feeling; to keep from collapsing in upon myself.

All I've known of human religion has provided no consolation for that sensation. Quite the contrary. Religion constantly reinforces our smallness, our weakness, our ineffectiveness. The better to control us with, I suspect. Fear. Find it, grow it, exploit it.

That fear no longer resonates with me. I don't want to be afraid. I shouldn't be afraid. But the Universe is so vast, so huge, so powerful. What does it care about me?

Two days ago, I discovered the words of an Eskimo Shaman. Words that burrowed straight into my soul and extinguished my fear.

Najagneg, Inuit shaman and guide to an early 20^th century Danish explorer, explained that Sila—the great Being of Strength, the Soul of the Universe, "has a voice so fine and gentle that even children cannot become afraid. What he says is: Be not afraid of the universe."

I am ready…

A Few Steps In…

2011-05-14T22:56:00.001-07:00

Almost one week into "retirement." Which hasn't really felt like retirement. There is still a heap of things to do pursuant to the closing of the restaurant. And beyond that, the mountain of personal things that have been left undone for five years—from decent housecleaning to gardening to tending my spirit—looms like Mt. Hood behind and above its squatting green foothills. General tiredness—which I don't expect to abate for many weeks—still makes it difficult to formulate a plan and start moving in any direction.

Besides, I'm SO over tending a list of things ten miles long that I need to/will never accomplish. I refuse to engage in that sort of exercise when it comes to my wide open life, which, for the first time in 59 months, is truly and incontrovertibly MY OWN. Right now, I'm not up to more than figuring out what to pack for my vacation in Seaside, which begins in roughly 36 hours. And even that is not getting a very thoughtful or thorough effort. Whatever I bring, fine. What I forget, I'll do without or go buy another one.

Reading material is one thing I must not forget. I've finally finished Yearning for the Wind, and have moved on to another Tom Cowan title: Shamanism as a Spiritual Practice for Daily Life. Where Yearning read like a memoir, or a collection of anecdotes, this new book is meatier and much more in-depth, like a textbook. I have only made it through the preface and introductory chapter, and I've already encountered much to ponder.

Primarily, I feel that shamanism, as Cowan describes it (so far) speaks very specifically to where I am and where I want to go, spiritually. The idea that there is a spiritual realm where we might be able to walk, that there are helping spirits with whom we may develop relationships…basically, that there is a bond between our reality and the spirit world that Westerners have not only forgotten, but actively shunned; these things make sense to me. And they call me to explore them.

Cowan, in fact, professes that shamanistic practice, like any spiritual practice, changes and molds itself to the time and culture of those seeking to explore and apply it. For 21^st century Americans, for example, he surmises that the goal is to develop "an American brand of shamanism that honors our notions of independence, eclecticism, self-expression, and pragmatism, [yet] finds ways to temper American traits that tend to undermine shamanic thinking, such as excessive rationalism, materialism, mindless consumerism, and the unrelenting need for management and control."

That last—the unrelenting need for management and control— I see as: a.) something of which I am plainly and religiously guilty; b.) something which I definitely should forego if I'm seeking peace and balance in my life ; and c.) something which will be a tremendous challenge to relinquish. I am a control freak. Moreso, I imagine, than I really understand. I do understand that this has been a source of unrelenting strife and heartache in my life. I'm ready to let it go. But I know it won't be easy.

So, yes…I know that two books (by the same author, yet) do not a credible journey of spiritual discovery make. But that doesn't mean I shouldn't glean the good stuff from whatever I encounter. Is there, after all, some reason to ration enlightenment?

It's About Time

2011-05-09T07:55:00.000-07:00

A fifteen hour day, followed by a thirteen hour day. Piled on top of the chronic fatigue brought on by all the events of the past twelve months (Chef quit almost exactly one year ago today—the beginning of the end, so to speak.) But for that, we were rewarded with our highest sales day EVER. A positive note upon which to close the book, if there ever was one…

I packed up the money, turned off the lights, drew the shades and locked the door without too much emotion. Saluted the place as I drove away, with only an annoying mist in my eyes...brought on more, I think, by the exhaustion than by any real sadness.

As I dragged myself through my front door, the only coherent thought I could form was that it will be months before I am this tired again. Rather than tomorrow night…

Yes, I was surprisingly dry-eyed during the process—saying goodbye to good customers, hugging the girls before they left for the last time, locking the doors and driving away.

Do you want to know what finally brought on the tears?

The dawning realization that now I have Time.

Time to do something. Anything. Or nothing.

Time. I’m going to wrap it around me like a new fleece bathrobe. Snuggle into my life and just BE for a couple of days.

What an extravagant luxury! I feel like I’ve won the lottery.

Running on Empty

2011-05-07T12:40:00.001-07:00

The last pan of pumpkin bars. Baked, frosted and quickly disappearing to customers who know they’ll never get another one.

Out of: Turkey. Tuna. Salsa. White bread. Link sausage.

Gas. Energy. Inspiration.

Oh, and we have reservations for a full restaurant tomorrow. Mothers’ Day. Our last hurrah.

Hurrah? Right now, I can hardly squeak and wave a finger.

Think good thoughts for me.

Until tomorrow, around 3:00 pm.

Carried by the Wind

2011-05-02T22:31:00.001-07:00

As I conduct my spiritual research (I am still on Yearning for the Wind…almost finished!) there have been certain passages that speak more personally to me than others. In one chapter, Tom Cowan recalls a Chippewa saying that I have adopted as my personal mantra. You will now find it lovingly inscribed on the bottom of my sidebar:

"Sometimes I go around feeling sorry for myself; and all the while I am being carried by the wind across the sky."

This particular sentiment speaks to me on so many levels. On the one hand, I have a real penchant for going around feeling sorry for myself. I have honed that to a fine art, over the years. Add to that my fascination for all things "bird," and you have an admonition that, it seems, the Universe custom made for me. An invitation to turn myself inside out. A call to raise my head from my personal hog wallow and understand that I am, indeed, being carried by the wind across the sky, as free and as blessed as any hawk or crow upon whom I have gazed, rapt and a tad envious, as it soared high over my head.

Now, I have been writing about how surprised I am by my lack of bad feelings associated with the end of my business venture. Truly, I never would have guessed I would be looking forward to Sunday with such peace, and such an understanding that this is but the end of a chapter in my life, NOT the end of the world. Unfortunately, there IS a fly in the ointment, in the person of the Intrepid Husband. It seems HE is the one experiencing all the withdrawal symptoms…from an undertaking to which he never chose to completely commit.

Go figure.

So, earlier this evening, as he began a litany of all the things about the end of our café life that are making him crazy (that he is allowing to make him crazy), I thought it might be helpful to share my precious bit of Chippewa wisdom with him.

After a pregnant pause, he looked at me and asked, dead serious:

What does that mean?

I did my best to explain it to him. I felt a bit as if I was digesting Shakespeare for a 12-year-old. After which he seemed to get it, but I could tell he had no concept of how to apply it to himself, nor any intention of wasting precious time trying.

Leading me to wonder, as I often do these days…

Who is this, really…this man next to whom I sleep every night? And what have we been doing for the past 35 years?

Something For Which We Have All Been Waiting...Or Not

2011-05-01T22:11:00.000-07:00

OSAMA BIN LADEN IS DEAD: NPR

While I understand there is no way that this event can go unmentioned on any blog to which I contribute my thoughts...

I need to confess:

My first reaction was not "Justice has been done."

My first reaction was not "An evil man has been removed from this earth."

My first reaction was not "Glory Hallelujah!"

No.

My first reaction was, "Oh My God. It will be SOOOO interesting to see how this plays out for the president in the next few days."

I am at once hopeful...

...and hiding under my bed with my fingers in my ears.

Events of the past decade have led me to be almost certain that the media, politicians, pundits, and people of this great country are on the threshold of a Great Opportunity... to make total asses of themselves.

If only it could be some other way.

(Cross-posted from "Women On...)

Community and Gratitude

2011-04-24T17:29:00.001-07:00

This entity, this blog, would never have come into being without the original "AOL Journal" concept, launched onto the (then considerably smaller) Internet Sea back in 2003. I stowed away on that ship almost the minute it hit the water; eventually, I became brave enough to venture out of my hiding place on board and sidle up to the community that had established itself and grown there. Here on this ethereal page, I have repeatedly analyzed the schizophrenic attraction of internet relationships; and subsequently, lamented long and hard the demise of our original "AOL j-land" community.

Oh, blog "communities," continue to thrive. But they are based upon specific things, common interests such as religion, politics, careers, ethnicity, hobbies… whatever. "Journal Land" was singular in that it was a community tied together by nothing more than the place itself. And what a tremendous place it was to learn and to grow. I "met" great friends there, of diverse interests and far-flung geography. Friends with whom I continue to communicate, though not as intimately as during those extraordinary days of the infancy of internet society.

About the same time as I reached for my dream of owning my own business, two of my close j-land friends also grabbed hold of similar brass rings in their own lives—which events were all well-documented in our respective blogs. Three souls connected by those strong yet mysterious ethereal ties, set about to achieve the goals of a lifetime. Each believing, at the outset, that she was embarking upon the path of true fulfillment.

Five years down the road, we find ourselves…somewhere. A place that is not entirely where we believed we were headed when we started out. Observers not in the know might venture that we had failed; we did not achieve the desires of our hearts. We are not lying back upon our laurels, satisfied, fulfilled. But, oh…what we have learned. And are learning still. We are, in fact, accomplishing what life is all about: Growth.

In my own situation, I can only be humbly grateful for the perspective this loosely-yet-tightly-knit community has given me on the events of the last five years. Because I am certain that, absent the firsthand knowledge that things don't always work out for everybody (not just me)…I would, right now, be paralyzed with doubt and self-loathing. Time and time again, in my solitary and circumscribed little life, I have run head-on into barriers, or failed miserably at some undertaking, and come away with the myopic conclusion that, "I suck at everything." (If I had a dollar for every time I've wailed, "I can't do ANYTHING right!" I'd be a rich woman.) But this time, THIS time, I have been allowed to share similar learning experiences in lives of people I care about. So, the closing of my restaurant becomes, rather than a mortifying personal failure, simply another example of life happening to someone who stepped out and took a risk; who reached for a prize, and ended up with…a prize, perhaps—but not the one that was the original target.

So I thank these two friends; you may or may not know who you are. You are so special to me.

We have learned, in our parallel universes, that you can't not. Write. Live. Learn. Grow.

May we continue to inspire one another.

The Last Lap

2011-04-22T09:36:00.001-07:00

The older I get, the more I am struck by the necessity to cherish each day as it comes, to live each to the fullest, to appreciate and savor NOW…and under no circumstances—fair wind or foul—to wish the days away.

And therein lies the battle being fought in my mind and heart right now: There are seventeen of those pesky little buggers (days) between me and a long rest on a warm sandy beach. The days promise to be full enough—I have two "events" this weekend, plus a Mothers' Day Brunch to plan, execute, and survive. I think I can make it. I think I can…

But if I listen to the little guy in the red suit with the forked tail and the horns, the one who is sitting on my left shoulder whispering in my ear, I can hear, "Why not just close it up now? Who will it hurt? Why should you toss away two more weeks of your life on top of the 220 you've already dumped into this venture which…has not been exactly a success?" Oh…that little demon is making a lot of sense right now.

But no…I won't do it. I'll see this thing through to the end. Hoping the Universe will grant me deafness to that pesky little voice, and little joys and victories to keep my head above water until I reach that beach. My feet are almost touching the bottom, now…

Spring is Here…?

2011-04-18T11:12:00.001-07:00

The weather has been atrocious this spring in the Pacific Northwest. We had record rainfall in March…something like 27 days of rain out of the month's 31. And it was COLD rain…often not much warmer than the mid-forties in the valleys, and lots of snow in the higher elevations. I suppose there is the argument that 2/3 of the month of March is still officially winter; but even in winter we can generally expect a few sunny days here and there.

April has not started out to be much of an improvement. We've had rain, hail, thunderstorms and everything in between. (Though I can't quite figure out where the t-storms are coming from; those are supposed to result from the clash between cold air and warm air. What warm air, I beg to inquire…?) The days when it actually doesn't rain, the sun sort of peeks out for awhile, but as soon as it seems it might actually provide a few BTU's, the clouds roll in and the sun goes into hiding.

Forget working in the garden. The garden soil is the consistency of gumbo. Really c-o-l-d gumbo. Not good for sinking my poor arthritic fingers into, and not good for small plants to dip their tiny roots into. So the greenhouse is filling up with plants waiting for conditions to improve.

Yet, though it seems we're stuck in winter, Nature's cycle continues. The flowering trees bloomed late and sporadically, but bloom they did…wasting the display of their finery against a roiling grey sky. Daffodils bravely provided bright spots in the landscape when the sun would not. My hydrangeas, shrubs and Japanese maples are stubbornly leafing out in the cold and gloom. And, of course the grass is green and growing again, but it's too wet to mow it. Walking in my lawn is like treading on a gigantic sodden sponge, ankle deep in overgrown grass.

The parade of bird life goes on no matter what. The grosbeaks that have been with me all winter (and have managed to pack away about 160 lbs of sunflower seed) are still raiding the feeders by the dozens several times a day. The junco population is dwindling, as the hardier ones begin to make their way to their summering grounds in the hills and mountains. New faces (beaks?) have made their appearance in my backyard scene: We have a white-crowned sparrow, and the rufous hummingbirds are back, battling the over-wintering Anna's for domination of the feeders. (This year, however, the male Anna's is not giving up without a fight!)

This morning, as I roamed the yard filling the feeders, I heard the calls of a large flock of Sandhill cranes as they spiraled higher and higher, looking to catch the thermal airstream that will carry them back to their breeding grounds. As I waved goodbye to the cranes, a chipper little "orca-bird" dipped and spun over my head, and the wave became a salute to the return of the swallows.

And so it goes. And soon…SOON…I will have the luxury of more time than I have had in a really LONG time, to snuggle close to the breast of Mother Earth and lose myself in her heartbeat.

What Not to Say…

2011-04-15T09:18:00.001-07:00

Over the past couple of decades, I've noticed the advent of two parallel yet warring tendencies when it comes to human interaction.

On the one hand, there's the "Say Anything" trend. This is in direct contrast to the (apparently) outdated maxim that "Silence is Golden." American society seems to detest silence, to the point where we now must fill every moment of our lives with some kind of noise. Most of which issues forth from someone's mouth; without even allowing for a second or two of pause to THINK about whether that utterance might be useful, welcome, or even appropriate. (In fact, in the case of most of our 21^st-century media noise, the rule would be "the less appropriate the better.")

Gaining popularity alongside this phenomenon has been what I'll call the "Thin-Skinned Movement." People take offense at anything and everything. First, we no longer ignore perceived slights. We don't waste time or moral fortitude focusing upon the intent of someone trying to console, encourage or commiserate with us. If they don't say exactly the right words at exactly the right time, we throw up our hands and fume, "What the *&#@ is the matter with them?!?" Secondly, the new rule is that there is no such thing as a verbal gaffe or an unintentionally inconsiderate misstatement. We scrutinize every word—especially of any public figure or entity—searching for things that insult or annoy us. (You'd think we could put our time to better use…?) Then we make a very public and very messy stink about it, loading up the courts with lawsuits and endlessly escalating the generally antagonistic atmosphere that exists everywhere you turn.

Come to think of it, who knows that the "Thin-Skinned Movement" wasn't indeed spawned by "Say Anything?" It's no longer de rigueur to think before we open our mouths, or even to just shut up. Skin endlessly pounded by verbal barrages might tend to become somewhat thin, I suppose…

My feeling about all this is that we should just chillax and figure out how to get along. If we don't, it's going to be a short and mine-filled road to hell for us and our society-at-large. We need to get over this "It's-all-about-ME" attitude that we have so lovingly embraced, and go back to basics like "Do unto others as you would have others do unto you," "Love your neighbor as you love yourself," and "Before you criticize your brother, walk a mile in his moccasins."

Now, however, I find myself in a situation where, as the word gets out about the café closing, I'm going to be the target of all kinds of attempts at advice, consolation and commiseration. In my chronically exhausted and stressed-out state, it will be an interesting (to say the least) study to see how well I can walk the walk. For instance, when a little old customer reacts to the news by advising, "Hey, you should sell out to old Frank over there. He needs something for his wife to do," I should probably NOT respond with, "Oh…he wants to kill her?" (Yes, this actually happened yesterday… I really need to slap myself upside the head for that one.)

I think that I will probably be doing a lot of hiding out in the kitchen for the next three weeks… J

The Next Installment

2011-04-13T09:21:00.001-07:00

Already almost two weeks into the month of April, and I haven't posted anything. My life right now is entirely centered on the café and getting out from under it. And probably no one is really interested in hearing much more about the ups and downs of this particular endeavor. But then, hey…I don't actually write for an audience any more, do I? So, to hell with it. Here's the next chapter in the continuing saga.

I could never have expected things to play out the way they have. Six months ago, I was exhausted, sad, beaten and humiliated. The decision not to renew our lease, not to continue on with the café, was an act of capitulation. Surrender. I had lost. "It" had won (whatever "It" was…Life? Old Age? My own inner demons?) The idea of slogging through another half a year of all the hard work it would take just to bring my responsibilities associated with the place to a clean and logical close, made me want to dissolve and disappear into a crack in the floor. I felt like I was in a pit at the foot of a mountain I had to climb, but I didn't even have enough energy left to tie my shoes.

Time is generally not kind to me, these days. It sometimes drags me along in its wake in a most undignified manner, sometimes leaves me completely in the dust. It has let me know in no uncertain terms that it is going fast and there is not much of it left to grab onto. And it is slippery, like a greased pig.

But in this instance, Time's tendency toward "fast-forward" has been a gift; an unexpected ally. Every hour, every day that I spent, either cowering under my fears or putting my head down and bulling my way through the daily grind of running the place, got me closer to…where I was going. Yes, I did have to steel myself to tie those damn shoes and start climbing out of the pit and up the mountain. But with every step I took, it seems like Time lowered the mountain by three feet.

So, here I am. Less than four weeks left. Not only am I still alive, but I feel like I'm walking briskly on level ground, the mountain reduced to no more than a speed bump about fifty yards down the road.

I thought I would be devastated, when the time came to actually lock the doors. I thought, "What a sad and dreary end to what I always believed was my life's fondest dream!"

But it's not turning out that way.

Though we haven't made an official announcement, we have more or less let the word leak out that we will be closing next month. When I told my hair stylist (her salon is right across the street) her reaction was, "Oh, that's terrible! I'm so sorry!" And the words, "I'm not!" jumped immediately, almost unbidden, from my lips. One of her girls was at the counter yesterday, and said to me, "I hear there's sad news…" To which I quickly replied, "Sad? I'm not sad! I can't tell you how sad I'm not!"

All I can think is, if I play my cards right, I will have the entire month of July off. OFF. All to myself. I'm already plotting (cheap) ways to thoroughly enjoy that time. Camping. Gardening. A retreat. Maybe a train trip somewhere, all by myself. (One of the slightly sad but ultimately liberating lessons I am taking away from this experience is that I AM myself, and not half of a couple—as I have seen myself for, oh, about 35 years now.) The prospect is more tantalizing than anything I've experienced in a Really. Long. Time.

Nope. I am not sad. I am stoked.

Next adventure, here I come!

Research

2011-03-29T09:30:00.001-07:00

I've mentioned that I need to spend more time doing research on my chosen spiritual path. The very idea of that sort of research is somewhat of a conundrum, as I thoroughly believe that one's spiritual journey is unique to oneself, and needs to be honored as such. Still, human beings throughout history have steeped themselves in spirituality; embarked on the journeys; seen and experienced marvelous mystical things. (And some…not so much.) The challenge is to tap into those whose journeys and discoveries speak to my own spirit, without adopting someone else's experience in toto as THE One And Only Way. In my humble opinion, that is where the human race has consistently gotten itself into big trouble.

In response to my need, my dear friend Jackie offered to send me some reading material. She asked me what I was interested in researching, and I, having no idea where to start, said "Pick something!" A few days later, a copy of Tom Cowan's Yearning for the Wind arrived on my front doorstep. It describes itself as "Celtic reflections on nature and the soul." So that is where I have started.

Though the book is a bit simpler and…what's the word I'm looking for? Shallower? …than I would have hoped, it does contain one or two interesting concepts. The one I'm particularly attracted to is Cowan's (and, I assume, ancient Celts' before him) definition of "the soul." Or, perhaps not so much a definition (for who can define that?) as a description.

Cowan makes an assertion that is altogether new to me, and yet, when I think about it, it makes perfect sense. He claims that our bodies live inside our souls, rather than the other way around. That our souls are actually part of what I will call the Universal Soul. Part of The All. And we, for the time we exist as humans, live inside of that.

I describe it lamely. Here is what he has to say:

It seems we have a choice. To believe that our souls are hidden inside our bodies where, we hope, they will be protected until we die and they are whisked away to heavenly safety. Or to believe that our bodies, minds, egos, and personalities are temporarily living within the soul, and that this soul exists to fill the entire universe. The first alternative usually implies that God is transcendent, somewhere in the heavenly realms, and we are in exile here on Earth, waiting to be released from this valley of tears. The second implies that God is right here, in the wind, sea, stars, flowers, storms—and the arm of God is around us. God walks in our footprints even as we step into God's. We are already with God, and God is with us.

What a liberating concept this is, to someone who not only grew up with that first alternative an unquestioned "fact" of life, but who spends much of her time feeling trapped inside her own head! Imagine that your soul surrounds you. That it goes before and stretches behind you. That it is the first to arrive and the last to leave wherever you go. That it touches everything you touch before your hand or your foot or your head gets there.

I have tried—and I can only do it for short periods of time—to walk around feeling my soul surrounding me. Knowing that it touches people and things before I physically do. It's difficult to describe the expansiveness, the acute awareness that this brings about how we not only affect other people and things, we are part of them, and they are part of us. It's almost too much to comprehend; and certainly daunting for a person as introverted and solitary as myself. Even so, it feels right. And it calls me, on a visceral level, to understand it and live it.

Another really fascinating aspect of this theory is the answer to the question of where does your soul go when you die? The answer to that being, "Nowhere…because it never left."

"As for death, I can't wait to be the hummingbird, can you?" *

*Mary Oliver: "Long Afternoon at the Edge of Little Sister Pond." See my sidebar.

Resolution

2011-03-28T12:48:00.001-07:00

As “The End” (of the Café) draws near, I have to admit, it’s getting easier to deal with. The Universe seems to be guiding me, dropping blessings, small and large, when my resolve falters. I don’t think I’m meant to slink away from the place and go hide under a rock, as I first thought. In the past few weeks, the victories and failures of the venture have been highlighted for me in such a way that I’ve been able to digest the information, identify some lessons learned, and begin to plot a path beyond the experience. I’m not feeling nearly as wounded and defeated as I did when I decided to walk away from what I thought was the fulfillment of my fondest dream. And for that, I am grateful.

Oddly enough, the internet—this forum with which I have conducted an intense love/hate relationship since the early days of AOL—had a hand in despoiling the thing for which I had yearned for so many years. The freedom and anonymity of the internet have presented 21st-century business owners with an entirely new challenge. What could, in a society that maintained any understanding or respect for the concepts of courtesy or fairness, be a valuable tool for service businesses, has turned into a vile cesspool of “you don’t want to go there if you value your sanity.”

The presence of an anonymous forum for public criticism has completely poisoned the customer service dynamic. Disgruntled patrons no longer need to express their dissatisfaction in person to a server or to management. They don’t write letters of concern to business owners. They instead have embraced the internet with a vengeance, and use it to trash any business that has not met their every expectation. The goal here is not to resolve a problem…not to give a business an opportunity to make amends to an offended client. It’s all about revenge; all about punishing a business that is perceived to have fallen short. Today’s businesses must learn to Be Very Afraid of the guest who has had a bad day and walks through the front door itching for a fight.

Bad internet reviews are routinely snarky, rude and laden with just plain meanness. And often personal. After stumbling upon a couple of reviews that attacked me personally, I was beyond ready to lock the doors and swallow the key. I was mortified by that level of very public humiliation, against which I had no opportunity to defend myself.

It translated to double failure for me: Apparently, I did not possess the skills (personality?) needed for success in customer service; AND I was not tough enough to deal with negative feedback. This was a major factor in my decision not to sign up for another five years of fun and games.

It bothered me most, I think, that I was not tough enough. I thought that I was probably over-reacting to something that was not as big a deal as my stressed-out, chronically exhausted psyche was making it out to be. I had, after all, not heard other business owners complain about how the Bad Internet Review situation was causing them to lose sleep.

Recently, though, it has come to my attention that it IS a problem, for all businesses, large and small. In fact, I discovered there is a service called “Reputation.com” that (for a fee, of course) assists businesses in removing poisonous reviews from the internet.

I picked up a thread in an “Ask Amy” column in last Friday’s Oregonian that actually made me feel better. Justified. Relieved that the issue is not all in my head. Apparently, an earlier letter to Amy had dealt with an instance where a company had terminated an employee based on a negative “Tweet” posted by a disgruntled customer. The letter I read was written by a customer service manager of another company in response to that situation ; and it expresses all the horror and frustration I have been feeling. (And made me understand that perhaps I don’t have it as bad as I thought….) You can find the entire letter here: Ask Amy March 25, 2011. But here are a few of my favorite highlights:

I am a customer service manager, and I have noticed in recent years that angry customers have become increasingly more confrontational, militant and aggressive…
Bad customer service certainly exists and shouldn't be tolerated, but more and more I am seeing customers who come in looking for a fight, wanting to post that scathing review, wanting retribution for an unknown or yet-to-occur transgression…
My co-workers and I have had angry customers take our pictures with their camera phones, threatening to have us fired, and some people will post those photos with hateful commentary — and even our names — on their Facebook and Twitter pages.

Thank god no one has pulled the picture-posting thing on us. Yet.

But it’s probably just a matter of time.

However, I now understand that this situation, this development, this new obstacle in the service business landscape is not necessarily proof that I suck at what I do. It’s not going to chase me away, convinced I’ve failed at something I believed was my fondest dream. It’s simply a part of doing business that, being the mid-century relic I am, I had not foreseen when I finally got the chance to live my dream.

And, here’s the thing: This is a battleground of 21st century culture upon which I choose not to engage. It is not a positive or life-affirming place for me (or anyone, for that matter), and I need to walk away from it, shaking the dust from my hands and feet as I go.

And I won’t feel the least bit ashamed or defeated in the doing.

Landing

2011-03-22T19:30:00.001-07:00

There is one thing that worries me about the conclusion of the "Café" Chapter in my life... One thing among many, really; but this one thing hangs a little more heavily than some of the others. It's the unsettling prospect of falling back into my own head.

Though I have been in the midst of what would seem a necessarily social occupation, I have, nevertheless, been isolated. Neither fish nor fowl in my own pond…not on a level with anyone with whom I rub elbows every day. A servant to the customers; and somewhere hopelessly outside the scope of the girls who work for me. (And yoked to a partner more prone to leave me to my own devices than to steady me when I stumbled…) Nevertheless, I have had to socialize; had to truck with a myriad of people and things out in the wide world. It was at once frightening, frustrating, and very good for me.

Because I know what it is to disappear inside my own head. To have no one to share, not only my deepest thoughts and desires, but any thoughts, no matter how mundane or frustratingly shallow. Better, I think, to feel maddened by a moderately unsatisfactory level of interaction than to be relegated to no interaction at all. I have been there, splashing silently in those dark waters.

Ten years ago, I began the long, slow journey out of that place. Starting and stopping, casting about for hand- and footholds that disappeared or didn't exist at all, climbing up three feet to fall back ten. And then I stumbled, quite by accident, upon a community I hadn't dreamed existed; experienced an acceptance and a level of sharing for which I would never have ventured to yearn. It was late 2003, and on a clueless whim, I floated my first email to the general ether. Two hundred twenty-three words posted at a new site created by America Online: the infant AOL "Journal Land."

There followed five years full of experiences that, at my advanced age (I was 48 years old when I penned my first journal entry) I would have thought were well behind me. I made "friends" all over the country. I discovered that I still could—and did—grow as a writer. I took the chance, crawled outside my own head, and was richly rewarded with friendship, interaction, growth—community.

Unfortunately, that community suffered the faddish fate of most landmarks in our ever-shifting, schizophrenic pop culture landscape: It burned brightly for a short time, then fizzled and disappeared when the "members" of the community abandoned it for the Next Big Thing. That "thing" being social networks like MySpace and Facebook, then Twitter and beyond. It seems that the public opted for quantity of social interaction over depth. So much better to have three hundred "friends" with which to share what you ate for breakfast, rather than a dozen or two with whom you could bare the secrets of your soul.

I was left behind by the mass exodus. And here I am, still, because there are yet some good things about writing in this place, and I am not inclined to quit. Occasionally, I will be rewarded by a thread of interaction reminiscent of the halcyon j-land days. I look upon those as a side benefit, now, to my residence here in the Land of Blog. They would be meager rewards, indeed, if they were the only reason I wrote here.

Facebook? Oh, yes…I have a page. I opened one, closed it, and then opened another. I planned it as a way to keep tabs on the "j-land" friends about whom I still care, but who no longer blog. And also as a tie to far-flung family members. In the end, I have concluded that Facebook has not adequately fulfilled either of those needs. Because, I suppose, that is not its function. I admit, I'm a bit mystified as to what its primary function truly is. But I understand that I am hopelessly on the outside of…whatever that is.

In a way, my absorption into the world of running a business helped me to weather the demise of my other world, the other place that provided all the connection, interaction, frustration and reward that my quirky, introspective soul could handle. Now, with the café going away as well, I know for a certainty that the platform from which I launched myself into that venture longer exists. Where am I going to land?

Savages

2011-03-13T22:59:00.001-07:00

I was a Catholic school brat. We learned "Church" right alongside reading, writing and 'rithmetic. As tiny first-graders, with the barest grasp of those secular subjects, we sat on hard pews, knelt on lumpy kneelers, steeping in the various rituals and dogma attached to our parents' religion.

Lent was a particularly long and somber season. We were subjected to story after story about Our Lord's suffering and death. (Stations of the Cross, anyone?) A few months earlier, Christ had been a sweet baby wrapped in white cloth snuggled into a box of hay; armies of angels had crowded the skies to sing about him; important Kings had traveled far to visit and lavish him with gifts. Now he was a grown man trudging morosely toward his grisly death. Whipped and stripped and crowned with thorns; beaten and derided, skewered and stabbed. It was a lot for a little tyke to absorb. But absorb it we did, dutiful little sponges that we were.

There was one aspect of the Passion Story that, even as I grew from that overwhelmed six-year-old to a much more worldly-wise adolescent, never quite resonated with me. How could it be that Jesus had ridden triumphantly into Jerusalem to cries of "Hosanna!" and "Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!" and a week later, stood before the Roman governor while the crowds in the streets roared "Crucify him!"

It made no sense. People do not act like that. But, hey…it was a long time ago. The people were ancients. Savages. Nearly Neanderthals. They didn't know how to act in a civilized manner. Not like we do now. This was the only possible explanation. So the story got filed into my mind somewhere between "ancient history" and "fairy tale."

I'm fifty-five years old, now. Much as I often cannot believe it myself, I've lived a lot of years. Seen a lot of things, in comparison to people twenty or thirty years my junior (yet, on a scale of all there is to see…hardly a glimpse of anything.) Some of the things I have seen I would rather not have seen. They have caused me to understand things I would rather not know. But they are what they are.

Just being a witness to the level to which human interaction has sunk over the past decade…seeing what we can, will, and do say and do to one another, I can say without reservation that human beings are still every bit the "savages" we might have been two thousand years ago. Perhaps more so, because we have had two millennia to observe and learn from our abhorrent behavior; yet we deliberately choose hysteria and mindless violence time after time.

I can almost hear those words resounding from every television, radio, computer, i-phone…name your media device. And in every hall of every local, state and national house of government. As loud and as chilling as in the dusty streets of an ancient city.

Crucify him!

Respite

2011-03-09T08:07:00.001-08:00

After a couple of weeks where the best things got was "bearable," and the worst was nearly …not, I seem to have arrived in a better place. Actually, it's more like the better place arrived on ME. I certainly haven't done anything special. I just feel like the Universe has dumped a ladle of grace over my head.

Sunday, we catered a 60^th-anniversary party at the restaurant. I had taken the reservation back in January, SO against my will. The holidays were over, Valentine's Day was soon to be a memory, and I had my mind on grabbing a scalpel and beginning to cut, carefully, one by one, the physical and emotional ties binding me to the café. Trying to get as much of that separation accomplished and possibly even on the way to healing before the actual event. I did not want that process interrupted by the care and attention it takes to pull off one of these big parties.

But as much as I wanted to, I could not manufacture a good reason to turn it down. It was nothing we couldn't DO, and why not bank a few more dollars before the end? So we took the gig, and I filed it into the back of my mind, determined not to worry about it. Fat chance. Though Valentine's Day took Stress Out Priority over it, I know the anxiety of this event has been simmering on the front burner ever since the morning of February 15^th.

Well, it's over now. And it was a great success. Mostly because the people were probably the nicest group of folks I have ever met in my life. That in itself was a bucketful of grace. I have so given up on the public. Daily, I am smacked in the face with how selfish, demanding, high maintenance and just plain rude the American consumer has become. To have the restaurant full to bursting with people who were just NICE, was a blessing, almost a cleansing. It literally drove away the dark cloud that has hung over me and my restaurant for so long. I could not be more grateful for that.

Monday afternoon, I stopped at the café (it was supposed to be my R & R day after the big party) and ended up having to work an hour to help them out of a jam. I took a lady's food out to her and she said to me, "I have to tell you, you do such a good job decorating this place. It just looks great…" What? Someone was actually saying something nice to me? I couldn't really believe my ears. "Well, thank you!" I managed to sputter through my shock. But she went on:

"I'm so glad you guys are doing well. We really need a place like this around here…"

I thanked her again, a thank-you tinged with the slightest mixture of guilt and "too late!" The thought occurred to me that it would be very nice indeed if I could feel like I was leaving the café somewhere near the top of my game, rather than slinking away in disgrace with my tail between my legs.

And then, yesterday, I had two squirrels in my back yard. And I went shopping and found some cute clothes for the body I have now (losing those lately-attained stress pounds can wait a few more months—until I'm safely on the other side of this transition.)

All in all, a more than satisfactory first couple of days…of the rest of my life.

Rambling

2011-02-28T09:58:00.001-08:00

I realize that, a few months from now, the entire context of my life, as I've known it for the last four and a half years, is going to disappear. I'm going to have to reinvent myself, start over; base my life on…something else. A tremendous opportunity, I suppose. And at the same time, overwhelming to the point of inducing paralysis. Even now, I'm feeling the frayed ends of my life starting to flap in the breeze. So much of what I do is centered on the restaurant…how could it not be? Withdrawal from that entanglement bordering on obsession is going to be a long and painful process, I suspect.

Here's an example: I've always loved to shop…it's a form of relaxation for me. (Luckily, I generally know enough not to buy everything that strikes my fancy.) During the Café Years, I have been so tied to the place that I couldn't shop nearly as much as I would have liked. And if I did get the chance to enjoy a stroll through a shopping mall, I inevitably ended up buying something for the café… a piece of art, a kitchen gadget, a jokey gift for one of the girls. Now, that entire focus is gone. A cute coffee-related poster or a great price on an immersion blender can literally bring tears to my eyes. I have to turn on my heel and walk away from things over which, six months ago, I would have caught my breath and cooed, "Oh, this would be perfect for the restaurant!" or risk embarrassing myself in the middle of a crowded store.

There are people out there who seem to have unlimited ability to start over. I have friends who are older than me, yet seem always able to look forward to, and even muster a breathless anticipation for, the next adventure. If anything, their age is a minor disadvantage to be noted and dismissed. Up until now, I may have been that way. But this experience has left me extraordinarily exhausted and…used up. Some possibilities for future livelihood are floating around in my consciousness, but I'm too tired…and too sad, just now, I think…to wrap my arms around anything specific, to make real plans, to entertain real dreams.

In fact, if I let myself think about it too much, I would probably start crying and never stop.

And I still have a restaurant to run, for at least the next sixty-two days. Which is why I have to just keep my eyes looking ahead (but not too far ahead) and keep putting one foot in front of the other until I get into the clearing…that place which is not cluttered with tables and chairs and grills and ovens and needy but nasty members of the consuming public. I need to focus on extricating myself from my current livelihood with the least possible amount of outward angst. (This should be easy. Like peeling a turtle.)

And then…take it from there.

Power Animals

2011-02-20T22:47:00.001-08:00

I know that wherever my spiritual odyssey takes me, animals will be with me. I've always loved animals; somewhere around the middle of my life, I realized they were becoming increasingly important to me. As my human connection has dwindled and shrunk, animals have filled the gap and become my family…my community.

So the concept of animal spirit guides does not sound at all far-fetched or fantastical to me. It seems very possible and real, and probably already an intrinsic part of my life's journey. All I need to do is open myself fully to the concept; consider what the animals and birds appearing and re-appearing along my path might be trying to communicate to me.

Being more or less of a neophyte at all this, and not having the time or the mental wherewithal to do justice to a real study of shamanic spirituality, I've done just enough reading to…confuse myself. I recognize that I've been visited by animal spirit guides in the past; but I am feeling called, now, to identify my "power animal"—that animal which represents my connection to all life, my qualities of character. My power.

Over the years, I have felt drawn to many animals…mostly birds, actually. Cardinals. Geese. Herons. Cranes. Most recently, the bald eagle. And I think each of these has been or is one of my spirit guides. I kind of hoped that one of them might be my Power Animal. Most particularly the eagle. Because I understand that Eagle visits me at times of particular need in my life. But, no… The book I have on the subject explains the attributes of one whose Power Animal is Eagle:

You're a very spiritually evolved individual and a born leader, and people gravitate quite naturally to you.

Okay…no.

So. How about Heron?

You're always willing to look at yourself with detachment in order to see the truth of your inner workings.

Well, maybe. Ideally, that's what I would like to be, but I don't think I'm there yet.

Let's look at Goose:

The majority of your activities are centered on your home, community, school or church.

Nah.

And so it went with every animal I was attracted to or had felt some affinity with over the past months.

And then, I noticed that this particular author has included less traditional animal spirits in this book. For example, most shamanic spirituality discounts domestic animals, since they are already "in service" to man. But here in this book, we have horse, and donkey, and dog.

And cat.

You're introspective and listen to your own internal guidance more than others' advice.

You're independent, sometimes to the point of doing exactly the opposite of what others expect or want you to do.

Your most creative work is done at night.

At times you come across as rather self-absorbed, seemingly oblivious to those around you.

Bingo!

In truth, I need to meditate, possibly even ask for a dream, in order to discover my Power Animal. I need to do some serious study and research, instead of fifteen minute internet searches and relying on this one book as my manual of shamanic spirituality.

But it really will not surprise me if "Cat" does turn out to be my Power Animal.

And I would happily live with that.

A Day

2011-02-10T23:26:00.001-08:00

Today was such a day. It had everything. Magic. Sweetness. Confrontation. Ugliness. In the end, lessons learned and moments of weakness overcome.

I learned what my priorities are—what they need to be, going forward.

A little woodpecker told me that it was the right thing to do, to go into the restaurant a little later, to take the time to run to the store and replenish my bird seed supply. No, he doesn't eat seeds. But he stopped by just to say, "Look. I'm pretty!"

Mr. Mojohowitz let me know that it met with his approval that I had procured a new carton of kitty cream on that same short shopping excursion. I left the house filled with love and hope for the day.

An ugly encounter with a customer, not twenty minutes after my arrival at the café, popped my hopes for the day like an over-inflated helium balloon. From full of promise to flat and empty, lying on the floor at my feet, in a matter of seconds.

I so fervently wanted to lock the doors forever, then and there; the fact that I knew that not to be feasible soured my mood and turned me to stone. I was miserable and I didn't care who knew it. I wanted to wallow.

But…I reached into my pocket and gripped my crystal—the rose quartz carved in the shape of a heart. And the thought came to me that everything is not about me; and so I sucked it up, slapped on a smile and sallied forth, for the benefit of those who would have to work side-by-side with me in my tiniest of kitchens.

I pretended to care. It's hard.

Today, the Universe showed me where my peace is. And where it isn't.

And left me once again counting the days.

One hundred and ten.

Maybe less, if I can work things out right.

However many, it won't be a day, a moment, too soon…

News That Makes Your Head Ache

2011-02-08T21:43:00.000-08:00

Here's the big newsbomb of the day: Due to some kind of renovations, seat-shuffling, or temporary seating arrangements that were not completed by game time, Cowboys Stadium in Dallas was, apparently, not adequately prepared to honor all the tickets sold for Sunday's game. You know. The Big Game. The one I'm not allowed to use the name of because the NFL has that moniker copyrighted.

Anyway, some 1250 fans—holders of tickets for which they had shelled out $800 a pop, not to mention travelling and hotel costs—arrived at the stadium for the game to find they literally had no seats to sit in. Alternate seating arrangements were scared up for about two-thirds of these folks. Leaving 400 or so out of luck. Bummer. Big bummer, to be sure.

Certainly, the NFL owes these folks something. A refund on the ticket price. Re-imbursement for travel and lodging costs. Maybe season tickets on the fifty yard line of their favorite home field for life. At a cost of peanuts to the money-generating behemoth of the National Football League, they could go a long way toward smoothing the ruffled feathers of the fans involved.

The league, however, seems to be offering no more than an official, "Sorry—our bad!" and free tickets to next year's championship game. Huh? What if my team isn't playing in next year's game? If I'm a die-hard Cheese-head, why would I want a free ticket to see, say, the Bears and the Giants duke it out in 2012? Duh.

In return, some of the fans are intent on taking this to their own level of hyper-stupidity. One Pittsburgh Steeler fanatic was so po'd by the goings on that he has decided to hire a lawyer. And to try to draft others of the 400 or so affected fans to join him in a lawsuit. From the CNN.com story:

Rush has now started suesuperbowl.com, one of at least two websites for fans
mulling possible lawsuits over the seating issue. He said he is obtaining legal
counsel and is urging affected fans to get in touch. So far he has heard from
about a dozen people, he said.

"We're still figuring out what our rights are, whether damages come into play or not," he said. "This is more than just a breach of contract. ... This was a very traumatic experience for a lot of these people."

Where do I start?

1.)I submit that anyone who would pop for an $800 ticket, plus the travel and lodging costs, to personally witness a bunch of astronomically over-paid and over-promoted adult men elevate a kid's game to the level of kill-or-be-killed blood feud, already has more money than sense. They don't need a windfall from the NFL.

2.)Damages? What damages? Do you still have both arms, both legs, all your fingers and toes, and all the brain cells you had the day before you went to the game? Are you able to get up in the morning, go to work, play golf, swig a brew or two at your local pub, kiss your wife, hug your kids? Damages? Give me a break.

3.) And this one most of all: "This was a very traumatic experience." Traumatic? You have to be kidding me. Do you have a clue what real trauma is? Trauma happens when airplanes fly into big buildings, or when you watch your nine-year old get shot in the head by rabid border-control fanatics, or when you drive a jeep in Iraq, waiting for the next roadside pile of rubbish to explode and send you to kingdom come. Trauma. If you can manufacture a crippling case of PTSD out of losing your seat at a football game, you also have more issues than any amount of money is ever going to fix.

Go ahead. Be bummed. Be pissed. I'd be pissed. I'd want my money back, and then some. Maybe a few "gimmes" from the guys who were so focused on squeezing every dollar of profit out of the event that they oversold the damn stadium (nothing, by the way, that the airlines don't do every hour of every day.)

But let's not raise this thing to the level of lingering emotional damage and trauma. Get your refund, get a few coupons, and GET OVER IT!!!

And to the NFL—surely you have enough loose bills lying around that you can figure out how to put a smile back on the faces of 450 righteously disaffected fans. Put one of your seven-figure-salaried marketing executives on that, will ya?

Negotiations

2011-02-07T00:25:00.001-08:00

There are times when things seem almost bearable. When it looks like everything might just work out. Like I might come out of this thing with my marriage at least intact, if not stronger for the experience. I've learned to lower my sights, some…

Last week, the kettle boiled over—the one containing the mélange of heartache, frustration, battered ego and loneliness; the one I've been trying to control by turning down the flame daily, by increments, beseeching it not to do that thing. To no avail. I am nothing if not completely consistent in my inability to mask my feelings, to live as if the elephant in the room wasn't merely huge, but had not fouled the entire block with its elephantine…emissions. Completely counter to the Universe's urging on the subject, I could no more "leave him alone" than I could have walked away if he lay bleeding on the sidewalk. The husband, not the elephant.

So as we sat down to dinner at our favorite Chinese restaurant, against my own better judgment, I went on the offensive. I was, by god, going to drag the thing out into the open and poke it. I don't even know why, since we've had the conversation numerous times, and it always ends the same: everything is MY fault and he never does anything wrong.

The "discussion" went on well into the evening. In the restaurant over dinner. In the car all the way home. From our favorite chairs in the growing twilight in the family room. My sister came home and we smiled and exchanged pleasantries and enjoyed a companionable dessert together. Then she went to bed and we ripped right back into it without missing a beat. Quite a performance. We should put it on YouTube.

I didn't have an agenda, didn't expect a resolution of any kind. I just knew I couldn't hurt in silence and solitude anymore. It was poisoning my whole life, not giving me a minute's peace, and it had to go somewhere.

But, lo and behold, I think he finally heard me. I said something—and I don't really know what—that made him get it. Maybe it was when I wondered why in god's name he stayed with me if I was such a source of irritation and evil in his life. Maybe it was when I told him that I really thought that what everybody in my life needed from me was for me to just disappear. Maybe it was when I apologized yet again, and reminded him that I had apologized time after time for being a total bitch to him. I knew I had f'd up. I admitted it. I apologized. And he never heard me.

Until this time.

I'm not going to say our marriage has undergone this miraculous metamorphosis, but…things have improved, some. He doesn't run away from me every chance he gets. He does the little things he used to do all the time, back in the olden days—like get me a bowl of ice cream or a glass of water if I'm in the middle of something I don't want to put down. He kisses me goodnight, even if I've been in bed for hours and am snoring like a buzz saw when he comes up. He offers to help at the restaurant, and doesn't roll his eyes and act like I'm flogging him if I ask him to wash a few dishes or smile at a few customers.

So, at the moment, life may not be perfect, but I don't feel like I'm dragging myself through every day with one hand clapped over my mouth and the other hitting myself in the head with the claw end of a hammer.

Could be worse…

Now You See Her…

2011-01-25T14:09:00.001-08:00

Last night, I watched a couple of installments of a show called "Disappeared" or something like that, on some obscure cable station. These were stories of folks who had simply vanished. No foul play detected, no trace or trail left behind. They were just gone, leaving perplexed family and friends to puzzle about their whereabouts. Forever, presumably.

On the drive home from a slightly disappointing "girls' weekend," wherein I was hoping to have some enjoyable bonding time with my sisters (not so much…), I thought about the stories on that show. And realized how appealing the idea of disappearing really is.

I find myself in a position that is so abhorrent to me that I can barely stand to think about it. I am a gaping pit of neediness. I need a direction. I need a purpose. I need closure of this business enterprise that I have royally fouled up. I need to figure out what my life is going to be all about once that is done with. I need someone to talk to about all of this. I need someone to hear me.

I hate being needy. Like most people, I think, I would so rather be needed. No one needs anything from me right now. Well, that's not strictly true. What they need from me is…to leave them alone. To suck it up and get through this and quit whining. To not burden them with my struggles.

What they need from me…what all the people closest to me would appreciate the most, I often think, is for me to…

Disappear.

Hardly something one can really DO, I suppose. And there is the fact that, if one were to attempt to disappear, one's past, paranoia, and problematic personality would follow one wherever one tried to hide.

Sigh!

Guess that's not really a plan then, is it?

Dangling

2011-01-18T09:35:00.001-08:00

I've been attempting to maintain my peace since approximately last October. Some days, it all goes along on oiled wheels. Some days, actually most days, not so much.

Back in November, when I had that eagle visitation on the dike, I felt so assured. So directed. So ready to go on to the next thing. The unfortunate thing about spiritual assurance, at least in my world, is that it never seems to last. I don't know what the Universe would have to show me or give me that would cause me to finally get it, once and for all. Maybe you're never supposed to get it. Maybe life—at least on this plane—is all about wanting it, needing it, searching for it. The Universe gives us just enough of those "ah-ha" moments to keep us moving forward.

All I can say is, I hope I get another of those moments soon. My peace, assurance and direction are eroding daily. My relationship with the husband is definitely fragile and crumbly around the edges. Turns out, "leaving him alone"—as Terri predicted—is proving to be very challenging. Actually, it's not even so much the part about leaving him alone, it's the reciprocal part: I leave him alone, and he leaves me alone. Utterly. Which leaves me completely without any kind of a support network—however incomplete or imperfect—to help me get through this thing. This dissolution of the dream. This firing of myself from the job I always thought I wanted, the challenge I always thought would make me whole, because I realize I suck at it.

Sometimes, when husband and I are alone together, I lose my resolve and "casually" mention my feelings about what I'm going through right now. And he…changes the subject immediately, or fails to respond at all. As if he hadn't heard me. Our existence together has degraded to pleasantries and necessary communications only. The elephant in the room is practically sitting in our laps…indeed, it has its trunk around my throat. But we don't talk about it. This evidently works just fine for one of us. For me, it's deadly.

I don't know how long I can keep it up. I keep telling myself: Only x-number of months, weeks, days… As of today, it's four months and fourteen days. I can do anything for four months and fourteen days.

Right?

Getting Squirrely

2011-01-12T09:15:00.001-08:00

I am so excited!

Went out to fling some sunflower seeds into the feeders this morning (the grosbeaks are voracious!) and spied a special visitor:

Now, I know that just about anyone who feeds birds in their back yards HATES squirrels. And I also know that I am never one to adhere to popular opinion…

I LOVE the little buggers! Yard pets, tree rats, whatever you want to call them. I have always valued their presence at my backyard buffet as much as the birds'. Squirrels are funny, smart, and endlessly entertaining.

Ten years ago, we moved to The Land Of No Squirrels. Our home is built in what was once natural grassland. Any trees that are around here were put in with or after the houses. Which has meant that critters who like mature trees—like squirrels and raccoons—have been noticeably absent. And, oh, how I have missed "my" squirrels!

Evidently, our development is aging enough to bring a gradual change to the wildlife population. Squirrels!

I felt that this was such a special gift that I decided to consult a book I recently purchased: Stephen Farmer's Animal Spirit Guides. Here's what it says about Squirrel:

IF SQUIRREL SHOWS
UP, IT MEANS:

Get ready for coming changes by
lightening your load, clearing out and giving away any goods or material
possessions that no longer serve you.

The best way to deal with the
challenging situation that's before you is to confront it head-on and be totally
honest with your feelings and thoughts.

Be extra vigilant and cautious right
now, and be willing to avoid or escape any threatening situations.

Prepare for the future by gathering and
storing extra food, water, clothing, candles, and money for possible later use.

Although you're actively and
aggressively pursuing your goals right now, you need to balance this pursuit
with more socializing and play.

Hmmmm….