On Friday, April 20, I got up at 6:30 am. I had a busy day ahead of me, with lots of driving. I was going to Dallas, OR, the county seat of Polk County, 15 miles west of Salem, which is 45 miles south of Portland. According to Mapquest, I had at least an hour and 20 minutes of driving to get there, but that didn't count rush hour delays. Since I was going to an interview at 10:15 am, I wanted to give myself plenty of time.
I left around 7:30, and got there at 9:10. This was not all bad. I had a chance to walk around the town and find the coffee shop. I noted that, right next to the library, there was a Mexican drive-thru, with handmade tamales. I promised myself to get some for D, who is a tamale fiend. (Any time we are in a town with a Mexican population, he is drawn to the women with the coolers. Speaking no English, short, middle-aged, straight dark hair straggling from rubber bands and hair nets, they are not particularly sales savvy. In fact, I am wary of street corner food, especially when I can't see the kitchen where it was prepared. At least with a food cart you can look into the operation. But it didn't matter to him. If the sign says Tamales, he buys them. And so far his trust has been justified.)
I was in Dallas for an interview, the fifth one this month. The first week of April I had 2 phone interviews: UNM and OSU. UNM invited me back, but I haven't heard boo from OSU. They were deadly dull to talk with, so I'm not sorry. Phone interviews are nerve-wracking enough when you can't read the facial cues. But there is a lot you can do to ease that, and the UNM folks were courteous enough to laugh at my jokes and explain the pauses while they wrote. Sadly, I had to withdraw my application: the job was part time with a low hourly wage, and the town of Gallup didn't seem to have much in the way of jobs for D.
The second week of April I interviewed with the City of Albuquerque. Another phone interview, and this group was also friendly. The job itself is exactly what I did at MCL, with a 50% pay cut. Since cost of living is about 18% cheaper in Albuquerque, it's a pretty big drop in pay. But I truly am in love with New Mexico, which is why I was applying there in the first place. The big skies, adobe houses, ruins, pueblos, rocks, high desert climate, sopapillas with honey and green chili stews....I could be happy there, I know.
The third week started with a drive up to Sno-Isle for my fourth interview this month, and my fourth interview there. As usual, I was more than qualified for the job. (And as usual, they didn't want me. I called them yesterday to check on the process and was told that, out of 80 applications and 9 interviews, they did not find a match, so they are re-posting the job. Lord knows what they are looking for. Someone who can balance a pile of dishes while tap-dancing and reciting Gunga Din, no doubt.)
So....Friday. I talked with the dude from the city, two upper level library employees, and a volunteer/member of the Friends. The job title: City Librarian. My experience earned me a seat at the table, but my guess is that the job will go to someone with an MLS. The woman who was interviewed before me was half my age (and therefore has half my experience), a little overweight, dressed in an unfashionable skirt outfit. She seemed pleasant and very librarian-ish. Lord knows how I seemed. I had a lot of questions about governance, stability, town finances. Nothing earth-shaking there.
Afterwards, I checked out the library. They are a store-front location, with a Senior Center at the back. Lots of wood, lots of shelves. Big tables, a reasonable number of computers, nicely separated kids area. The back entrance off the parking lot dumps you into a lobby where the giveaway racks live, as well as doors to the restrooms and senior center. I followed a possibly-homeless guy in: he went straight to the rest room and I never saw him again. The front door off the main street takes you down a long aisle, lined with 6-ft high bulletin boards and more giveaway racks. The room opens out at the end: circulation desk in front, children's area to the left behind the bulletin boards, adult fiction to the right, with magazine racks in the storefront windows. Non-fiction and computers are in the area to the immediate left of the circ desk, and the teen/media area is squished between that area and the children's section. It's a messy maze of shelving, all overflowing with books: some serious weeding and collection development would be in my future, not to mention some reorganizing. But, I like the crowded-bookstore feel, so maybe not.
I stopped by the reference desk, which is nestled behind the circulation desk, and talked restaurants. The reference lady gave a thumbs up to the tamales, and also promised me a fabulous shake from Washington Street pub, catty corner to the tamale shop. I purchase both ToGo and drove a few miles back to Baskett Slough. There I watched the geese and ate one of the tamales: still piping hot, nicely spiced, wrapped in foil and corn husks. The shake was not fabulous, but was quite acceptable, and it lasted me to Amity. I took the scenic route home.
En route, I fielded calls from D and from N. N was looking for a third carpooler to the RE overnight retreat at Menucha. I offered my services, and there was a fair amount of phone tag for the rest of the day.
At 2:30, D had his fourth interview for a sales job: this one was at a hotel lobby near Lake Oswego, and the manager wanted a chance to Meet The Wife and answer any questions I might have. D found that to be a positive thing. I think it's a little creepy, but I did like the opportunity to check out the job for myself. So, I stopped there before going home, and then I finished baking cookies for the retreat.
While I was packing for the overnight, I got The Call: Albuquerque is unofficially offering me the job. This means that of the 5 people they interviewed, I ranked #1. They are recommending me to the City Fathers, who will take up to 3 weeks to make a final decision. Then, I get the official offer and negotiate a start time. Thus, no giving notice or planning the move yet. And then I have a 6-month probation.
Okay, so now I'm going to a UU retreat, to confabulate with my fellow RE teachers and set the course for the next year. And my brain is whirling: I don't know where I'll be next year, I don't know what I want to do next year, I don't know if I want D to come with me or stay home and mind the store. I don't know if we can pull together for such a big move. I don't know if I can even afford the move, but I know I cannot afford to reject a full time job with benefits. My unemployment will not last forever.
I can't stop to think about this right now: I have to finish packing and pick up my passenger, who teaches the 11:15 5th grade class. I teach the 9:15 class, when I am not singing, so I've talked with her before. But I don't know her well. Now I learn that she's in a scooter because of CP, and that she has two Master's degrees and is embarking upon a third. She has a lot to say about accessibility, LGBT, and minority issues. She talks about her past, present, and future. I listen, and I feel guilty for my own unhappiness and stress. This is a woman who has dealt with more problems than I can count, and she is positive and creative and forward thinking. I know you can't compare burdens, and that each of us has unique situations, and it's offensive to reduce my colleague to the status of Brave Handicapped Person Who Gave Me Perspective. But liberal guilt, with all its inherent smugness, is part of my make up. Offensive or not, that's what I find myself doing.
Upon my arrival, I drop my sleeping bag on the single bed (no bunk beds for me) in the westernmost upstairs room in Ballard: this is my place of choice. It's furthest from the stairs, and you can hear the frogs in the pond. I realize I've left the toffee and cookies back home, and the D is probably gorging on them. Oh well. I grab a chip from treat table and make tracks to the labyrinth.
Menucha, in addition to having fabulous food and views, has this really wonderful labyrinth. The walk is flat basalt stone, lined with brick. The center flower is many-colored river rock, each color delineating parts of the petals, browns, blacks, pinks, greens, rusty reds. Rose bushes circle the space, with arched entrances to the east, west, north, south. Part of it is shaded by the surrounding trees, but the center is warm with sunshine.
A young woman is sitting cross-legged in the center, surrounded by papers and books, hunched forward over them, long brown hair hanging to the ground. She does not look up as I begin my walk, slowly circling back and forth and inward, thinking about Albuquerque, my newly renovated home, the difficult relationship with D, my exhaustion and depression, my commitments to people and projects and organizations, my finances. As I approach the center, the young woman deliberately gathers up her papers, stands, and walks off the labyrinth, due east, eschewing the winding path out, looking straight ahead. I am startled: I did not mean to drive her away. But I am grateful, for now I too can sit in the center and think.
I sit, I think, I empty my mind, I feel the sun, I listen to birds and the not-so-distance shouts of people and drones of yard equipment. I get up and walk out, still thinking. I bow to the labyrinth's center and say, "Namaste."
But I still don't know what I want to do. And, after 24 hours, much fun with my fellow UUs, and two more labyrinth walks, I still don't know. I don't think I ever will.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
On re-reading Gift from the Sea
I came across Gift from the Sea several years ago, when I was visiting our cousins in Sequim. Usually, when I am visiting friends or family, I only bring along reading material for the transportation part of the trip. Once ensconced in my guest room, I start roaming the bookshelves, awaiting that serendipitous moment when the things that interested my hosts will capture me as well. In many cases, the title that grabs me is something I've read before, or something that I've been meaning to read. Agatha Christie, An Omnivore's Dilemma, A Natural History of the Senses, Into the Wild.....you get the picture. But Gift from the Sea was a true serendipitous discovery. I picked it up because I was near the ocean, visiting a house that sat on a bluff over looking the Straits of Juan de Fuca. From the opening line, I was hooked.
Yes, I agree, the beach is the place for contemplation, renewal, simplifying. From Siddhartha to Alix Kates Shulman, people have gone to water to think, to empty their minds, to figure things out. Why not me? I am not a writer, a creator, a guru, a bodhisattva. I'm just a 20th century middle-class middle-aged white American female, but I can identify. I can empty my mind with the best of them.
But actually, I cannot. I almost resent people who can meditate, people who have enough self-hood to realize that time spent within is time well spent. I will sit cross-legged in the center of a labyrinth, hands upturned on my knees, eyes closed, listening to my thoughts, waiting for a thought-gift to take back out. And my mind distracts towards the shuffling feet of other pilgrims, I think about what I need to do next, I think about the time I am wasting.
So, I don't meditate. And, I have not had the energy to read, lately. The books are stacked up on my bedside table, and I do dip into them, but they are mainly an escape into the familiar, the methodology of my going-to-bed ritual. I read until the words blur and the book drops out of my nerveless hand. I jerk awake for a moment, set the book back, take off my glasses, turn off the bedside lamp, curl up, turn off my thoughts.
The other day, however, I picked out Gift from the Sea from my newly-organized bookshelves. It's a tiny book, so it sits in the overflow stack at the front of the spine-out non-fiction, easy to grab. I took it out to the shedroom for my night-time read, and I was hooked again. She writes about about the multiplicity of our lives, about the demands on our focus and being. Yes. I am the hub of the wheel, attention and energy focused outward. If I don't tend to the center, the spokes start wobbling, the wheel is unbalanced. There are days when I don't have the energy to tie a shoelace. Yes.
I want what she had, an island to escape to, a place to simplify the duties and demands, to true up my wheel. Where is my goddam island?!
Years ago I read an Madeline L'Engle book where the sensitive, wounded heroine escapes to a Greek island. She is surrounded by artists, fellow sensitives, who adore her and support her. It was typical L'Engle, escapist and self-indulgent. I used to identify with her heroines, but now all I can think is, what a whiny thing. Real people can't escape to islands. They have to deal with the abusive husband, work with him or leave him. They have to earn a living and do the laundry, paint the walls, walk the dog. They have to take care of business.
But isn't part of the business of life to attend to the core? Isn't there a way to find that space and time, to create that island?
I. Want. My. Goddam. Island.
Now.
Yes, I agree, the beach is the place for contemplation, renewal, simplifying. From Siddhartha to Alix Kates Shulman, people have gone to water to think, to empty their minds, to figure things out. Why not me? I am not a writer, a creator, a guru, a bodhisattva. I'm just a 20th century middle-class middle-aged white American female, but I can identify. I can empty my mind with the best of them.
But actually, I cannot. I almost resent people who can meditate, people who have enough self-hood to realize that time spent within is time well spent. I will sit cross-legged in the center of a labyrinth, hands upturned on my knees, eyes closed, listening to my thoughts, waiting for a thought-gift to take back out. And my mind distracts towards the shuffling feet of other pilgrims, I think about what I need to do next, I think about the time I am wasting.
So, I don't meditate. And, I have not had the energy to read, lately. The books are stacked up on my bedside table, and I do dip into them, but they are mainly an escape into the familiar, the methodology of my going-to-bed ritual. I read until the words blur and the book drops out of my nerveless hand. I jerk awake for a moment, set the book back, take off my glasses, turn off the bedside lamp, curl up, turn off my thoughts.
The other day, however, I picked out Gift from the Sea from my newly-organized bookshelves. It's a tiny book, so it sits in the overflow stack at the front of the spine-out non-fiction, easy to grab. I took it out to the shedroom for my night-time read, and I was hooked again. She writes about about the multiplicity of our lives, about the demands on our focus and being. Yes. I am the hub of the wheel, attention and energy focused outward. If I don't tend to the center, the spokes start wobbling, the wheel is unbalanced. There are days when I don't have the energy to tie a shoelace. Yes.
I want what she had, an island to escape to, a place to simplify the duties and demands, to true up my wheel. Where is my goddam island?!
Years ago I read an Madeline L'Engle book where the sensitive, wounded heroine escapes to a Greek island. She is surrounded by artists, fellow sensitives, who adore her and support her. It was typical L'Engle, escapist and self-indulgent. I used to identify with her heroines, but now all I can think is, what a whiny thing. Real people can't escape to islands. They have to deal with the abusive husband, work with him or leave him. They have to earn a living and do the laundry, paint the walls, walk the dog. They have to take care of business.
But isn't part of the business of life to attend to the core? Isn't there a way to find that space and time, to create that island?
I. Want. My. Goddam. Island.
Now.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Plans that gang agley
It's a very quiet afternoon. This is my second stint at the school, so when I arrived I already knew the players. I was scheduled to cover for the secretary's attendance at disaster training. Although she had already left, she had taken care of the morning attendance and left her e-mail up for the afternoon parent messages. The backup folks had started compiling the bus change slips. This is the school from whence Kyron Hormon disappeared, and no one walks to school, so there is a complicated procedure for noting down changes. Some are called in, some e-mailed. Today, a bunch of girls are going to Brownies instead of catching the usual bus. The yellow slips have been filled out, and I need to check ESIS to find out which class they are in for the last period of the day. A student will come by around 2:30 to deliver the slips to the proper classroom.
Basically, I am only here to answer the phone and monitor the office. This is the day for the school nurse. She has two interns, so my EMT skills are not needed, fortunately. It's a very inconvenient building for dealing with medical emergencies. The tiny nurse's office is down the hall and around the corner. The staff room, with the refrigerator and ice, is the other direction, down the stairs, and through the lunch room. Last time I was here I got a volunteer from the gym to go get ice for me so I wouldn't have to abandon the office (the Big Crime in substitute secretary land.)
The school is on the outskirts of the district, and it takes me close to 40 minutes to drive there, over the river, through Portland's industrial area, past Linnton and Sauvie Island, up the bluff. You come out of the woods into meadows with barns and scattered housing developments, and finally reach the school, two stories and a basement, lots of old wood and windows and box gardens. The office has room for a desk and me, with enough walk-around space for the teachers to reach their mailboxes by the door. My desk faces the door: the computer monitor and the window into the principal's office are to my right and the phone is on my desk to the front left. Behind me are files and the bell system.
The counter to the main hall is a few steps to my left. This is where visitors and late students check in and parents check out the early departures. The counter has a glass window which was closed when I arrived to give the regular secretary a little quiet while she worked. Two volunteers and L are standing by the window when I arrive, so it's very crowded. L used to assist the secretary: last time I was here she kept tabs on me and basically fussed over procedures on my behalf. Today she is working on the bus slips. She is conscientious, but easily flustered. I do appreciate her dedication, though. Soon they leave and I'm on my own. I open the counter window and watch the classes file past to go outside for lunch time recess. Several teachers talk about inside voices and quiet on the stairs.
The principal is also at the training. He is new this year. He'd been gone last time too, so I had already worked with the Person In Charge, one of the teachers. She checks in again and lets me know that she is mainly doing preps this afternoon, so she should be available if I need her. No one thinks I will.
The afternoon chugs along. I finish the small amount of work available to me, send students to the nurse's office for ice, read my e-mail, do my electronic puttering. The student comes by for the slips. A parent comes by to take out two of her children for an appointment. I can't locate the son: he's a 6th grader with variable 7th hour classes, and there is no information for Wednesday in his ESIS record. I am calling around when I hear the beep for an incoming call. I look at the phone monitor: it's 9-1-1. WTF?
I hang up on the teacher, tell the parent that she'll have to wait, and answer the phone. "This is 9-1-1, there is a fugitive in the area, a domestic violence situation, the FBI wants you to go on Lock Out." "Lock out? Not Lock Down?" "Correct."
I realize I have NO IDEA how a Lock Out works, and I call the PIC. She is teaching a class, and needs to find someone to cover. She asks me to make an intercom announcement, but I don't know how to do that either. I am calling the Librarian for that information when 9-1-1 calls again. "I'm sorry to do this to you, but the FBI wants you to go into Lock DOWN." Okay. I call L, and she too needs to find someone to cover. The PIC arrives, and we realize that she's going to have to go from class to class to take care of this. L arrives, and starts fussing over the intercom: she too does not know how it works, and apparently the emergency instructions are outdated. She gives me the principal's cell number while she goes to another phone to call another school for instructions. I catch him en route back from the disaster training workshop, because he has an afterschool meeting with the Site Committee: they are going to be discussing the budget and layoffs.
L returns with phone instructions, but neither of us can make them work. She calls the emergency number for PPS. Parents who have arrived before the lock-down are milling about in the hall. I go outside to check on them, and they ask what is happening. (Hell if I know.) They point to the doors, where other parents are locked out. "They aren't safe, you need to let them in. We know them, we can vouch for them." "Actually, you can't, you have no way of knowing that one of them is not the fugitive." I go down the stairs to let the parents know this is a lockdown, the kids are safe. One tall dark-haired gentleman insists on seeing his son. I say, that cannot happen right now, we are in lockdown. He is banging on the door. L lets him in, and the rest of the parents stream in behind him. Another parent asks permission to go get her son, who is in the car, and bring him back inside while they wait for her daughter to be let out of the locked classroom.
This is not how it's supposed to go, but it's not really my call. I find the emergency instructions at last, and realize there's a good reason we are told to stay away from doors and windows. It's not just about shooters.
A substitute teacher calls: he has no key to lock the classroom. I find the PIC outside the office and let her know. Parents are huddled against the office window, asking how long this is going to last, asking about buses, asking about their kids. Someone says they saw police handcuffing a man. I realize I have no contact info, and I call 9-1-1. They have been trying to reach us: we can let our people go. A uniformed officer appears with the same information. The PIC goes around to the classes with the word, and parents and students begin streaming out. The dark-haired gentleman stops by the door: "You never lock me out again, I complain to him (pointing to the principal's office), you try to lock me out again, I get in, you can't stop me."
Okay.
L shuts the door to vent to me about the lack of instructions, the fact that emergency training is scheduled for next week, the fact that the dark-haired gent is a nut case. I call the principal to let him know all is well. He is 10 minutes away, and soon will be in the midst of debriefing and crowd control.
I go home and post this to Facebook:
The lockdown occurred
While the principal was in
Disaster training.
Basically, I am only here to answer the phone and monitor the office. This is the day for the school nurse. She has two interns, so my EMT skills are not needed, fortunately. It's a very inconvenient building for dealing with medical emergencies. The tiny nurse's office is down the hall and around the corner. The staff room, with the refrigerator and ice, is the other direction, down the stairs, and through the lunch room. Last time I was here I got a volunteer from the gym to go get ice for me so I wouldn't have to abandon the office (the Big Crime in substitute secretary land.)
The school is on the outskirts of the district, and it takes me close to 40 minutes to drive there, over the river, through Portland's industrial area, past Linnton and Sauvie Island, up the bluff. You come out of the woods into meadows with barns and scattered housing developments, and finally reach the school, two stories and a basement, lots of old wood and windows and box gardens. The office has room for a desk and me, with enough walk-around space for the teachers to reach their mailboxes by the door. My desk faces the door: the computer monitor and the window into the principal's office are to my right and the phone is on my desk to the front left. Behind me are files and the bell system.
The counter to the main hall is a few steps to my left. This is where visitors and late students check in and parents check out the early departures. The counter has a glass window which was closed when I arrived to give the regular secretary a little quiet while she worked. Two volunteers and L are standing by the window when I arrive, so it's very crowded. L used to assist the secretary: last time I was here she kept tabs on me and basically fussed over procedures on my behalf. Today she is working on the bus slips. She is conscientious, but easily flustered. I do appreciate her dedication, though. Soon they leave and I'm on my own. I open the counter window and watch the classes file past to go outside for lunch time recess. Several teachers talk about inside voices and quiet on the stairs.
The principal is also at the training. He is new this year. He'd been gone last time too, so I had already worked with the Person In Charge, one of the teachers. She checks in again and lets me know that she is mainly doing preps this afternoon, so she should be available if I need her. No one thinks I will.
The afternoon chugs along. I finish the small amount of work available to me, send students to the nurse's office for ice, read my e-mail, do my electronic puttering. The student comes by for the slips. A parent comes by to take out two of her children for an appointment. I can't locate the son: he's a 6th grader with variable 7th hour classes, and there is no information for Wednesday in his ESIS record. I am calling around when I hear the beep for an incoming call. I look at the phone monitor: it's 9-1-1. WTF?
I hang up on the teacher, tell the parent that she'll have to wait, and answer the phone. "This is 9-1-1, there is a fugitive in the area, a domestic violence situation, the FBI wants you to go on Lock Out." "Lock out? Not Lock Down?" "Correct."
I realize I have NO IDEA how a Lock Out works, and I call the PIC. She is teaching a class, and needs to find someone to cover. She asks me to make an intercom announcement, but I don't know how to do that either. I am calling the Librarian for that information when 9-1-1 calls again. "I'm sorry to do this to you, but the FBI wants you to go into Lock DOWN." Okay. I call L, and she too needs to find someone to cover. The PIC arrives, and we realize that she's going to have to go from class to class to take care of this. L arrives, and starts fussing over the intercom: she too does not know how it works, and apparently the emergency instructions are outdated. She gives me the principal's cell number while she goes to another phone to call another school for instructions. I catch him en route back from the disaster training workshop, because he has an afterschool meeting with the Site Committee: they are going to be discussing the budget and layoffs.
L returns with phone instructions, but neither of us can make them work. She calls the emergency number for PPS. Parents who have arrived before the lock-down are milling about in the hall. I go outside to check on them, and they ask what is happening. (Hell if I know.) They point to the doors, where other parents are locked out. "They aren't safe, you need to let them in. We know them, we can vouch for them." "Actually, you can't, you have no way of knowing that one of them is not the fugitive." I go down the stairs to let the parents know this is a lockdown, the kids are safe. One tall dark-haired gentleman insists on seeing his son. I say, that cannot happen right now, we are in lockdown. He is banging on the door. L lets him in, and the rest of the parents stream in behind him. Another parent asks permission to go get her son, who is in the car, and bring him back inside while they wait for her daughter to be let out of the locked classroom.
This is not how it's supposed to go, but it's not really my call. I find the emergency instructions at last, and realize there's a good reason we are told to stay away from doors and windows. It's not just about shooters.
A substitute teacher calls: he has no key to lock the classroom. I find the PIC outside the office and let her know. Parents are huddled against the office window, asking how long this is going to last, asking about buses, asking about their kids. Someone says they saw police handcuffing a man. I realize I have no contact info, and I call 9-1-1. They have been trying to reach us: we can let our people go. A uniformed officer appears with the same information. The PIC goes around to the classes with the word, and parents and students begin streaming out. The dark-haired gentleman stops by the door: "You never lock me out again, I complain to him (pointing to the principal's office), you try to lock me out again, I get in, you can't stop me."
Okay.
L shuts the door to vent to me about the lack of instructions, the fact that emergency training is scheduled for next week, the fact that the dark-haired gent is a nut case. I call the principal to let him know all is well. He is 10 minutes away, and soon will be in the midst of debriefing and crowd control.
I go home and post this to Facebook:
The lockdown occurred
While the principal was in
Disaster training.
Easter morning
So many of my friends are heathens like me, that it is a surprise to log into FB and discover other friends commenting on Christian joys and sunrise services. I used to be in sync with that. I remember in previous years going to church and singing Easter hymns in four-part harmony, looking at the lilies by the altar, enjoying the pastels and veiled hats and really cute little girls in little white shoes and stockings with lacy tops. I used to decorate Easter eggs and take pix of them among the garden flowers. I created origami baskets and filled them with Whopper Robin's Eggs for the family. I harvested spring herbs for special omelets, and I made breakfast breads with cinnamon and raisins. I was into it.
But today I am celebrating a quieter, less domestic, less-communal sort of re-birth. I want to bring myself back to life, and that needs to happen alone.
It's a rocky path, though. I woke at 5 and listened to the birds singing in anticipation of the dawn. I put on a robe and went outside: the air was cool, springlike, almost balmy. I felt almost too warm in my fuzzy yellow robe. The scent of some flower drifted past on a fresh early morning breeze, a light caress. Daphne? Lilac? Something spicy, something sweet, something uplifting. I breathed it in, sensing the serenity of the morning, but my eyes were still gritty and wanted to close, so I went back to bed and had an AWFUL dream about shopping for antiques, paying $75 for a broken box, and somehow upsetting two of my sisters. I woke up and decided to start this day differently. D is at the beach with his men's group, I have the shedroom to myself. I will turn things around, do some Qi Gong, some Tai Chi Chuh, make some coffee, snuggle with my dog.
And it works. The neighborhood is quiet, and my shedroom is like a little cabin in the woods. My urban cabin: I love it so much. The light streams through the skylights, and I look east over my garden while I practise and putter about the little kitchen area. The cat leaps to the window ledge and watches me. She doesn't seem to want in, she is companionable but not snuggly today.
I realize that what I really want is to go back to where I was 20 years ago, living in a one-room converted milk barn. Back then, I walked across the driveway to the big house to take my shower, and it was perfect: I figured out what the weather was and planned my clothing while I washed away the sleep. My house felt connected to the earth and sky, and I felt connected, too. I read A LOT and listened to music. I went for long walks with the landlord's dog, and spent a lot of time with friends. I put a darkroom in the landlord's laundry room. I had everything I needed. I was serene, content.
My shedroom feels very similar: I start every day with a stroll through my garden. I walk around the house to shower, do laundry, use the bathroom, watch TV, use the kitchen. I don't need those last three, at least not often. My kitchenette is sufficient for the basics, TV is a time and brain drain, and once the composting toilet is installed, I am set for most daily living. The big problem is that I cannot really go back to this simpler life and still live with D. The shedroom is too small for two, and he can't live without the amenities. It's really a space built with my needs in mind. He likes it, but only on limited terms.
It's been a tough spring, a tough year, a tough time all around, and not just for me. In general, I know how lucky I have been, how supported. I still have my home, my family, my friends, my pets, my sanity, my health, my work. Basically. There have been stresses on all of these, and I find myself bone-tired by 9 pm, every day. I don't answer phone calls, I don't go to choir or music night, I hurt people's feelings, I hide from them and the consequences of my actions. I lose track of my keys, my phone charger, and my checkbook. (I'm still looking for my keys.) There is no rhythm to my days, and I haven't meditated or practised Tai Chi Chuh or violin or viola da gamba since.....I can't recall when.
The home is evolving, and it's an ongoing process: working with the new tenants, trying to keep the airbnb going, still painting the house and fixing up the yard. There's some remodeling left to do, and some reorganizing and de-cluttering (who knew we had so many pictures? books? vitamins? bottles of cortisone cream? ditto of lotion and shampoo?) Every day has a big project attached to it, sometimes two. Order is slowly being wrought out of the chaos, but it feels like it's taking too long. I yearn for a stable environment. I miss my friends. I miss myself.
But, I do seem to have the remnants of hope to build upon. I have proof, in fact. Recently I sent this message to a friend who was checking up on me:
Thanks! The sale is over and garnered almost enough income to cover vet emergencies and paint and floor refinishing! We had spent a week trying to toss things, and then left the sale to the professional and skipped town to recover. The sale was 3/24-25.
We went up to Port Angeles to visit Dave's wonderful cousins, and Carbon's laryngeal paralysis kicked in....after one hour on the way home it was so bad we stopped at the nearest clinic. 3 hours later, after several shots, and oxygen treatment, we were on our way, only to stop yet again to spend the night at a Motel 6. Total cost, for all of this, $400.
Still, I'm doing okay. Still interviewing for library gigs, still renting the studio for airbnb, still working on call, still wishing for a new career. Looks like innkeeper or landlord is the most likely. At any rate, I'll try not to let you all down. I hope you are right about my ability to ride this out. It's pretty exhausting right now.
Okay, so, the remnants of hope are a little tattered.
But today I am celebrating a quieter, less domestic, less-communal sort of re-birth. I want to bring myself back to life, and that needs to happen alone.
It's a rocky path, though. I woke at 5 and listened to the birds singing in anticipation of the dawn. I put on a robe and went outside: the air was cool, springlike, almost balmy. I felt almost too warm in my fuzzy yellow robe. The scent of some flower drifted past on a fresh early morning breeze, a light caress. Daphne? Lilac? Something spicy, something sweet, something uplifting. I breathed it in, sensing the serenity of the morning, but my eyes were still gritty and wanted to close, so I went back to bed and had an AWFUL dream about shopping for antiques, paying $75 for a broken box, and somehow upsetting two of my sisters. I woke up and decided to start this day differently. D is at the beach with his men's group, I have the shedroom to myself. I will turn things around, do some Qi Gong, some Tai Chi Chuh, make some coffee, snuggle with my dog.
And it works. The neighborhood is quiet, and my shedroom is like a little cabin in the woods. My urban cabin: I love it so much. The light streams through the skylights, and I look east over my garden while I practise and putter about the little kitchen area. The cat leaps to the window ledge and watches me. She doesn't seem to want in, she is companionable but not snuggly today.
I realize that what I really want is to go back to where I was 20 years ago, living in a one-room converted milk barn. Back then, I walked across the driveway to the big house to take my shower, and it was perfect: I figured out what the weather was and planned my clothing while I washed away the sleep. My house felt connected to the earth and sky, and I felt connected, too. I read A LOT and listened to music. I went for long walks with the landlord's dog, and spent a lot of time with friends. I put a darkroom in the landlord's laundry room. I had everything I needed. I was serene, content.
My shedroom feels very similar: I start every day with a stroll through my garden. I walk around the house to shower, do laundry, use the bathroom, watch TV, use the kitchen. I don't need those last three, at least not often. My kitchenette is sufficient for the basics, TV is a time and brain drain, and once the composting toilet is installed, I am set for most daily living. The big problem is that I cannot really go back to this simpler life and still live with D. The shedroom is too small for two, and he can't live without the amenities. It's really a space built with my needs in mind. He likes it, but only on limited terms.
It's been a tough spring, a tough year, a tough time all around, and not just for me. In general, I know how lucky I have been, how supported. I still have my home, my family, my friends, my pets, my sanity, my health, my work. Basically. There have been stresses on all of these, and I find myself bone-tired by 9 pm, every day. I don't answer phone calls, I don't go to choir or music night, I hurt people's feelings, I hide from them and the consequences of my actions. I lose track of my keys, my phone charger, and my checkbook. (I'm still looking for my keys.) There is no rhythm to my days, and I haven't meditated or practised Tai Chi Chuh or violin or viola da gamba since.....I can't recall when.
The home is evolving, and it's an ongoing process: working with the new tenants, trying to keep the airbnb going, still painting the house and fixing up the yard. There's some remodeling left to do, and some reorganizing and de-cluttering (who knew we had so many pictures? books? vitamins? bottles of cortisone cream? ditto of lotion and shampoo?) Every day has a big project attached to it, sometimes two. Order is slowly being wrought out of the chaos, but it feels like it's taking too long. I yearn for a stable environment. I miss my friends. I miss myself.
But, I do seem to have the remnants of hope to build upon. I have proof, in fact. Recently I sent this message to a friend who was checking up on me:
We went up to Port Angeles to visit Dave's wonderful cousins, and Carbon's laryngeal paralysis kicked in....after one hour on the way home it was so bad we stopped at the nearest clinic. 3 hours later, after several shots, and oxygen treatment, we were on our way, only to stop yet again to spend the night at a Motel 6. Total cost, for all of this, $400.
It's really scary to hear your sweet old dog panting for breath for 5 hours straight. No more road trips for her.
Then we got home and found Simone had an abscess. It was so bad they put in a drain. She's a tuxedo cat, and it looks like a grotesque bow tie. It stays in for 72 hours, which means an RCA victor collar and being sequestered inside. When I put the collar on her, she backed into a corner, eyes round with fright, and refused to eat or drink. We left her in the living room over night, and in the morning she greeted me sans collar and made a bolt for the outdoors. But, we've managed to keep her fairly well contained, and she's leaving the drain alone, so such is life. She really is quite sweet, and doesn't fight me too much over all this unnatural treatment.
Cost for that, $170. It would have been closer to $700, but I got a wellness plan last year when she had what has become her annual spring abscess.
Amongst all of this, I decided that, while the rooms were empty, we really should refinish the floors and paint the walls before the new housemates move in. That's tomorrow. Needless to say, we are not meeting that deadline. Cost for floors, $500. Cost for paint, $350. Will be working with the housemates to finish up.
We made $1375 on the sale. You do the math!
I spent today reorganizing the entire kitchen and clearing away the grime of 20 years, prepping for a shared kitchen. The floor guys came today, so it was the only room we could access. Fortunately, the shed room remodel is basically done, and we can sleep and rest out there. We put Carbon and Simone out there to keep them away from the chaos.
During all of it, I've been bickering with D. It makes me so sad that we don't always pull together. This work could be fun, or at least a way to build closeness. Instead we argue about what to do and how to do it. The moments of consensus emphasize the disconnects, and I can't seem to focus on the positives.
On the plus side, the various changes to my homestead are wonderful, and once the final arrangements are made, it'll be a huge relief. I've needed to declutter for a long time. I really like my little shed. It's like a cabin, with a peaked roof, roses peeping in the windows, rain on the skylights, a little kitchenette, and a shuttered closet. The only thing it lacks is a bathroom. We're adding an outhouse next week, and regular bathroom stuff will be in the main house. Reminds me of my days in the milk barn on Taylor's Ferry Road.
Then we got home and found Simone had an abscess. It was so bad they put in a drain. She's a tuxedo cat, and it looks like a grotesque bow tie. It stays in for 72 hours, which means an RCA victor collar and being sequestered inside. When I put the collar on her, she backed into a corner, eyes round with fright, and refused to eat or drink. We left her in the living room over night, and in the morning she greeted me sans collar and made a bolt for the outdoors. But, we've managed to keep her fairly well contained, and she's leaving the drain alone, so such is life. She really is quite sweet, and doesn't fight me too much over all this unnatural treatment.
Cost for that, $170. It would have been closer to $700, but I got a wellness plan last year when she had what has become her annual spring abscess.
Amongst all of this, I decided that, while the rooms were empty, we really should refinish the floors and paint the walls before the new housemates move in. That's tomorrow. Needless to say, we are not meeting that deadline. Cost for floors, $500. Cost for paint, $350. Will be working with the housemates to finish up.
We made $1375 on the sale. You do the math!
I spent today reorganizing the entire kitchen and clearing away the grime of 20 years, prepping for a shared kitchen. The floor guys came today, so it was the only room we could access. Fortunately, the shed room remodel is basically done, and we can sleep and rest out there. We put Carbon and Simone out there to keep them away from the chaos.
During all of it, I've been bickering with D. It makes me so sad that we don't always pull together. This work could be fun, or at least a way to build closeness. Instead we argue about what to do and how to do it. The moments of consensus emphasize the disconnects, and I can't seem to focus on the positives.
On the plus side, the various changes to my homestead are wonderful, and once the final arrangements are made, it'll be a huge relief. I've needed to declutter for a long time. I really like my little shed. It's like a cabin, with a peaked roof, roses peeping in the windows, rain on the skylights, a little kitchenette, and a shuttered closet. The only thing it lacks is a bathroom. We're adding an outhouse next week, and regular bathroom stuff will be in the main house. Reminds me of my days in the milk barn on Taylor's Ferry Road.
Still, I'm doing okay. Still interviewing for library gigs, still renting the studio for airbnb, still working on call, still wishing for a new career. Looks like innkeeper or landlord is the most likely. At any rate, I'll try not to let you all down. I hope you are right about my ability to ride this out. It's pretty exhausting right now.
Okay, so, the remnants of hope are a little tattered.
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