Yesterday I had a meltdown. I wept pretty much all day, in between taking care of business, driving to Santa Fe with E, running errands, working on the computer, sending e-mails, calling my realtor and my nephew.
It was a gorgeous day. The cottonwoods in the dry Galisteo Bosque cut a winding golden line across the valley floor, and the mountains rose warm and rocky into a mellow blue sky. The clouds were various: fluffy, streaky, floaty, popcorn-y It was so warm, I put on a summer skirt and lightweight top.
E was in fine form: forgetful and funny, gasping with delight at the yellow trees, talking about how the mountains are always there, asking if I had music playing in my head (yes), and then saying, "Where are we going?" "Sprint, the mall, the post office, the grocery store, the Hospice Thrift Store." "Oh yes, I need some clothes." And repeat.
I felt schizophrenic, because I would be sincerely delighting in the beauty of my surroundings and in E's joyous responses to the day, but tears would be running down my face and I would be wiping them off surreptitiously. By the end of the day my eyes were gritty and my brain was fuzzy with the chemicals of tear-based exhaustion.
I had all sorts of theories about what was going on. T had basically told me our friendship was over (yes, I know I already knew that, but hearing it from him hurt my heart.) It was a week after my wedding anniversary, and two weeks until the anniversary of my leaving D. I hadn't been taking my anti-depressants. I was worried about my attempts in maintaining connections, making sufficient money, managing my time productively. I had just completed an exhausting week of rehearsals and concerts, with 2-3 hours of travel on each day. My friend S was newly grieving the loss of a loved one. I had sent E-daughter an e-mail outlining the cost of maintaining a live-in caretaker and providing said caretaker with a livable schedule.
So, I was lonely, overloaded with responsibilities, juggling time and energy, thinking about loss.
Then, I got a call from M, who, in her New Age way, told me to get over my sorry self and enjoy my unique opportunity. I'm living with fascinating people, and I have the time to do whatever I want. She urged me to change the mental tape. Stop thinking in terms of loss and grief and look at this as a retreat and a chance to explore options. Do things I've always wanted to do (like practicing 3 hours a day). Engage in self-care: exercise, walk, eat well. Don't try to live in two places, don't try to maintain two lifestyles. Have people visit me here, create a new community, immerse myself in the experience. By the end of the year, I will know what I want to do and who I want to be. Don't waste this time grieving.
Yes.
I'm not sure I've started out properly: I spent the evening watching Netflix and YouTube, catching up on old movies into the wee hours of the morning. But, it felt good. I knitted, unravelled a ball of yarn, listened to the wind, watched the screen.
Today I practiced my Coro music and read a book by Angela Carter and applied for online editing work. The morning fluffy clouds spread and darkened, the wind picked up, and sprinkles of cold rain hit the ground. Then, the sun came out (this is New Mexico: wait 10 minutes.) I practiced my Tai Chi Chih outside and thought again about the rock pile downslope from the house. I've been wanting to take the empty space and build a labyrinth. This seemed the best time. It wasn't too cold, but it was cold enough that the likelihood of overturning a snake or a tarantula was minimal.
So, instead of learning Spanish or practicing my orchestra music, I got some work gloves and moved little rocks into circular lines, creating six concentric circles. I dug into the soil with my fingers, pulling out larger rocks and lining them up. The sun came and went. I was bent at the hips, hands dangling at the end of long arms, working the materials of the earth. No kneeling, no squatting: I was using my body comfortably, and to hell with the way it looked. I thought about M's yoga instructor, telling us to avoid back pain by not straining our bodies. I thought about S, who worked in Kenya with the Peace Corps. She came back using the Kenyan women's methods, washing the floor with her butt up in the air and her hands busily working at the ground level, head hanging loosely, watching her progress. I thought at the time, why do I let our cultural norms keep me from doing what is comfortable?
That's one of the things I want to explore.
Meanwhile, I still feel weepy. But at the moment I'm no longer listening to the weepy tape. If my body needs to cry, so be it. My mind can work on other projects.
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Musings on Friendship
Last Sunday, E and I visited the First Unitarian Church in Santa Fe. The service was about friendship. I was delighted to see Munro Sickafoose, from PDX. He's the intern minister, and he gave the children's sermon. Friends were compared to various vegetables. The kids pulled vegetables out of a huge basket, to the accompanying descriptions: eggplants are elegant and beautiful, Jerusalem artichokes are quirky and funny. I wouldn't say an onion is complex, myself, but you get the picture.
We sang "Lean on Me." The readings included the ever-popular "A stranger is a friend you haven't met yet." There was nothing earth shattering about any of it, but it fit my current thoughts very well. E found the service lively and the congregation welcoming, but the sermon a bit long and repetitive. I would agree with that, but I spent most of the time knitting and thinking, so the sermon was a reasonable counterpoint for me.
I'm curious about the human need to codify things, and I'm also intrigued by the theory that we are genetically coded for friendship. The minister put friendship in four layered categories: public (those people we keep running into at concerts and dog parks and libraries); social (those people with whom we make dates or to whom we gravitate during large gatherings); personal (those who listen to us kvetch and know some of our deep secrets); intimate (those with whom we build a life, share tears, share silence.) While we need all of these to create community, and we need community to live a meaningful life, we cannot manage more than a few intimate or personal friends in a lifetime, and people move from one category to the other as we grow and change.
As I said, this was nothing earth-shaking, but I found myself thinking about my current situation. E and I are both isolated from our long-term friends, and we are both coming to terms with that. The difference is that she is 98 and I am 54. She is mourning the loss of her community, but she is not really looking to build a new one here. The cooperative and some people at church will probably suffice. I, on the other hand, am still mourning the loss of Portland friendships, and now I have left my new Albuquerque friends. In addition, I am trying to figure out just what my friendship was with D, and where I go from there, and I am still trying to maintain connections with my musical and personal/intimate friends.
When I began this gig, the initial idea was to pretend I'm on a retreat or a journey: I'm living up in these hills, learning the geography, becoming acquainted with flora and fauna, taking things slowly. I spend the morning practicing tai chi chih, doing the crossword, drinking coffee. I plan to spend the afternoon practicing, drawing, writing, learning Spanish, walking, reading, doing the creative and soul-building things I have not had time to do, healing from the past 10 years of loss and difficulty. I tell myself I haven't lost my friends, I'm just on a private adventure, and I'll get back to them later.
That's all very well, but there's that darn genetic coding to contend with. I need people. I need to feel needed. I miss seeing and talking and cooking and hugging and sleeping with my friends. I miss Monday morning yoga with M, Sunday hikes with G, duets and trios with C and M, UCC choir with A, early morning walks with J, the occasional sleepover with S and N, lunch with T. And that's just the Albuquerque contingent. There are the Scrabble games with M, the dinner parties, the walks and hikes, the trips, the wine-tasting, the plays and movies, the yoga at B's, the family gatherings, the music, the work, the knitting group....so many friendships built up through the years, so many activities. All fading in memory.
So, I've been brooding. And then I listened to the sermon and I thought, yes, it's okay that my friendships are moving from more intimate and personal to social to maybe just memories. It's what happens in life. It's not physically possible to maintain tight connections with all the wonderful people who have crossed my path.
It is, however, possible to pick up where you left off, as I discovered a few weeks ago, when 3 of my advisee group from college came for a visit. B was the only person whom I have seen regularly: we have traveled together several times since our first big Europe trip after we graduated, and we see each other regularly when I visit my family at Christmas. She writes excellent long letters, shares her photographs and her thoughts, and responds to mine. I was not surprised to feel connected with her. It was different with G and C. I haven't seen them in 30+ years, and the letters and phone calls have been spotty to say the least. And yet....there they were. Lovable, quirky, fun, caring, trustworthy. Friends.
There was a lot to catch up on, but that's different from re-learning the friendship.
So....old friends. They are a treasure. They cannot be replaced; and, it seems, they cannot be lost.
But, they also aren't here. And I'm back to where I was before. Brooding, lonely. Mourning my lost friends and activities. Envious that they are continuing to build their friendships without me. Wondering what life holds for me in this next adventure. Wondering if these fledgling friendships will stand the test of time. Hoping so, but doubting it. T, for example....we met a year ago, and he rapidly moved up the friendship ladder from social to personal to intimate for a short time. Then he quickly ran back down the ladder....personal, then social, now...absent. He was there when I really needed someone, and I think I'll always love him for that. I don't need him now, but I miss him, and I don't know why he left. Where does that fit in the friendship category?
It's hard to not take the loss of a friendship personally. I always wonder what I did to drive a friend away. Currently it's obvious: I've physically left friends old and friends new, and I have not maintained the virtual connection. But that doesn't cover all the losses. In my past, I assumed that the closer people got, the more likely they were to find out how very unlovable and irritating and just plain burdensome I am. And, just when I felt comfortable enough to say, "this is a friend, this is a lover, this is a trusted other," the gods (bored angels, if you will) would hear it and take the friend away. I still have that fear niggling in the background. I am afraid to ask for time or caring, afraid that I will appear needy. I'm still a twelve-year-old, waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the loss, prepared for it, but always hurt when it comes.
Simultaneously, the rationale mind is chiding me: this is not a personal thing. The Other has his/her own demons, problems, needs. You have very little to do with his/her decisions and actions. Your job is to be a friend to yourself, to grow, to become a trustworthy, likable person. Loss comes with the territory, and not everyone you need will need you back. In fact neediness is not something to foster on either side.
That being said, I realize one reason why I miss D. He was the only person whose need for me was boundless, who would never leave. It wasn't good for either of us, of course, and I'm not even sure he liked me, but he certainly cared. Oh how he cared. And for the first time, I was the one doing the leaving.
I thought about this the other day, and then the whole concept was brought into sharp focus when my friend S lost his ex-wife. She was his D: needy, charismatic, demanding. "If you really loved me you would...." But she was also his best friend, the love of his life. They never stopped communicating after the divorce, and he fully expected to be there for all the important passages of of her life. So, her sudden death in another country left him full of guilt and grief. He wasn't there. It was not right.
How does one let one's friends know they matter? How does one maintain connections through separate lives, duties, and distances? How does one continue to grow friendships while fostering the old ones? How does one grieve the loss of a friend without feeling guilty about the sins of omission and commission?
I listened to S talk, held him while he cried, cried with him. I didn't have any wisdom or emotional salve for his grief. I was present, and that was enough. And that's when I finally come to recognize why I am still brooding about D, and about my absent friends. I cannot be present for them, and I want to be.
That day he woke up
In a world that did not have
His best friend in it.
We sang "Lean on Me." The readings included the ever-popular "A stranger is a friend you haven't met yet." There was nothing earth shattering about any of it, but it fit my current thoughts very well. E found the service lively and the congregation welcoming, but the sermon a bit long and repetitive. I would agree with that, but I spent most of the time knitting and thinking, so the sermon was a reasonable counterpoint for me.
I'm curious about the human need to codify things, and I'm also intrigued by the theory that we are genetically coded for friendship. The minister put friendship in four layered categories: public (those people we keep running into at concerts and dog parks and libraries); social (those people with whom we make dates or to whom we gravitate during large gatherings); personal (those who listen to us kvetch and know some of our deep secrets); intimate (those with whom we build a life, share tears, share silence.) While we need all of these to create community, and we need community to live a meaningful life, we cannot manage more than a few intimate or personal friends in a lifetime, and people move from one category to the other as we grow and change.
As I said, this was nothing earth-shaking, but I found myself thinking about my current situation. E and I are both isolated from our long-term friends, and we are both coming to terms with that. The difference is that she is 98 and I am 54. She is mourning the loss of her community, but she is not really looking to build a new one here. The cooperative and some people at church will probably suffice. I, on the other hand, am still mourning the loss of Portland friendships, and now I have left my new Albuquerque friends. In addition, I am trying to figure out just what my friendship was with D, and where I go from there, and I am still trying to maintain connections with my musical and personal/intimate friends.
When I began this gig, the initial idea was to pretend I'm on a retreat or a journey: I'm living up in these hills, learning the geography, becoming acquainted with flora and fauna, taking things slowly. I spend the morning practicing tai chi chih, doing the crossword, drinking coffee. I plan to spend the afternoon practicing, drawing, writing, learning Spanish, walking, reading, doing the creative and soul-building things I have not had time to do, healing from the past 10 years of loss and difficulty. I tell myself I haven't lost my friends, I'm just on a private adventure, and I'll get back to them later.
That's all very well, but there's that darn genetic coding to contend with. I need people. I need to feel needed. I miss seeing and talking and cooking and hugging and sleeping with my friends. I miss Monday morning yoga with M, Sunday hikes with G, duets and trios with C and M, UCC choir with A, early morning walks with J, the occasional sleepover with S and N, lunch with T. And that's just the Albuquerque contingent. There are the Scrabble games with M, the dinner parties, the walks and hikes, the trips, the wine-tasting, the plays and movies, the yoga at B's, the family gatherings, the music, the work, the knitting group....so many friendships built up through the years, so many activities. All fading in memory.
So, I've been brooding. And then I listened to the sermon and I thought, yes, it's okay that my friendships are moving from more intimate and personal to social to maybe just memories. It's what happens in life. It's not physically possible to maintain tight connections with all the wonderful people who have crossed my path.
It is, however, possible to pick up where you left off, as I discovered a few weeks ago, when 3 of my advisee group from college came for a visit. B was the only person whom I have seen regularly: we have traveled together several times since our first big Europe trip after we graduated, and we see each other regularly when I visit my family at Christmas. She writes excellent long letters, shares her photographs and her thoughts, and responds to mine. I was not surprised to feel connected with her. It was different with G and C. I haven't seen them in 30+ years, and the letters and phone calls have been spotty to say the least. And yet....there they were. Lovable, quirky, fun, caring, trustworthy. Friends.
There was a lot to catch up on, but that's different from re-learning the friendship.
So....old friends. They are a treasure. They cannot be replaced; and, it seems, they cannot be lost.
But, they also aren't here. And I'm back to where I was before. Brooding, lonely. Mourning my lost friends and activities. Envious that they are continuing to build their friendships without me. Wondering what life holds for me in this next adventure. Wondering if these fledgling friendships will stand the test of time. Hoping so, but doubting it. T, for example....we met a year ago, and he rapidly moved up the friendship ladder from social to personal to intimate for a short time. Then he quickly ran back down the ladder....personal, then social, now...absent. He was there when I really needed someone, and I think I'll always love him for that. I don't need him now, but I miss him, and I don't know why he left. Where does that fit in the friendship category?
It's hard to not take the loss of a friendship personally. I always wonder what I did to drive a friend away. Currently it's obvious: I've physically left friends old and friends new, and I have not maintained the virtual connection. But that doesn't cover all the losses. In my past, I assumed that the closer people got, the more likely they were to find out how very unlovable and irritating and just plain burdensome I am. And, just when I felt comfortable enough to say, "this is a friend, this is a lover, this is a trusted other," the gods (bored angels, if you will) would hear it and take the friend away. I still have that fear niggling in the background. I am afraid to ask for time or caring, afraid that I will appear needy. I'm still a twelve-year-old, waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the loss, prepared for it, but always hurt when it comes.
Simultaneously, the rationale mind is chiding me: this is not a personal thing. The Other has his/her own demons, problems, needs. You have very little to do with his/her decisions and actions. Your job is to be a friend to yourself, to grow, to become a trustworthy, likable person. Loss comes with the territory, and not everyone you need will need you back. In fact neediness is not something to foster on either side.
That being said, I realize one reason why I miss D. He was the only person whose need for me was boundless, who would never leave. It wasn't good for either of us, of course, and I'm not even sure he liked me, but he certainly cared. Oh how he cared. And for the first time, I was the one doing the leaving.
I thought about this the other day, and then the whole concept was brought into sharp focus when my friend S lost his ex-wife. She was his D: needy, charismatic, demanding. "If you really loved me you would...." But she was also his best friend, the love of his life. They never stopped communicating after the divorce, and he fully expected to be there for all the important passages of of her life. So, her sudden death in another country left him full of guilt and grief. He wasn't there. It was not right.
How does one let one's friends know they matter? How does one maintain connections through separate lives, duties, and distances? How does one continue to grow friendships while fostering the old ones? How does one grieve the loss of a friend without feeling guilty about the sins of omission and commission?
I listened to S talk, held him while he cried, cried with him. I didn't have any wisdom or emotional salve for his grief. I was present, and that was enough. And that's when I finally come to recognize why I am still brooding about D, and about my absent friends. I cannot be present for them, and I want to be.
That day he woke up
In a world that did not have
His best friend in it.
Friday, October 4, 2013
It's my midlife and I'll crisis if I want to
Today is my last day of government employment. After 30 years in library management and public service, I will be self-employed. I'm insomniac, scared, sick to my stomach and....relieved. I don't know what I'm going to do in the long term, and I don't know if the short-term plans are realistic, personally or financially; but I do know that I've been whinging about my job and my life for far too long. It's time to start acting on my dreams.
A few months ago I asked the Universe for the perfect house-sitting gig. A month ago, the Universe responded. I will be taking care of the 98-year-old mother of a musician friend of a friend. E-mom is in good health (no need for drugs, able to walk and read and make her own bed) but frail, and her short-term memory is shot. She needs to have someone around 24/7 to make sure that she doesn't wander off, leave stoves burning, or otherwise harm herself. E-daughter travels for her gigs, and is only home for 5-9 days a month. They recently moved to a musicians' cooperative in the Ortiz Mountains, near Cerrillos NM.
I spent the last 10 days of September scoping it out. I applied for a leave of absence, but didn't expect to have it okayed, since it's not my Mom and not my emergency need. And I found out yesterday that, indeed, they will not okay it. So...this is it. I'm truly moving on.
In those initial days, most of my time was spent working on my taxes and going through papers. And driving E-mom to the doctor, to church, to Great Clips; shopping for groceries, cooking meals, unpacking, getting to know the co-op members, beginning to love my new home. The stars, the sunsets, the hummingbirds, the ever-present view of mountains and clouds, the peace: if only there were an ocean, it would be the home of my dreams.
The pace is slow: I start out with 40 minutes of Tai Chi Chih, followed by the NYT crossword and a cup of coffee on the back patio (aka, portale.) Then I log E-mom into her gmail and help her through the process of finding new messages, reading them, and writing back. I do my own projects, bobbing up to help her find the correct delete key. I finally cover up the numpad with a piece of paper, but she peeks beneath it to get confused again by the fact that the delete key there doesn't work.
Lunch is usually a salad or fruit and cheese. "I only eat two meals a day you know." "Yes, this is just a snack." The afternoon is for errands or more sitting around the house, reading, writing, cleaning. I bake a cake, make some bread. I try to locate a backup caregiver so I'm not stuck here 24/7. This is one of the things that E-daughter was unable to take care of before she left, and it has the entire cooperative irritated. They do not want to be my backup (and they can't be: they work and are often gone themselves), nor do they want me to be stranded and burned out within in a month.
Dinner is technically not my concern: it's cooked by coop members in turn and eaten communally at the casita/main house. But, I'm here, I have time, and I like to cook. Or rather, bake. So, I'm involved in that as well. And I'm enjoying the people. They are friendly, talented, supportive. One of them recently bought a tenor viol and promised me the use of it, along with some lessons and consort playing. You can't get much better than that, although I'm a little trepidatious: these are professional musicians after all. But they are kind, too.
The day ends back at the "pod" for some reading. A hug goodnight, and it's bedtime.
If I didn't feel like I needed to remain connected to my ABQ friends and play in musical groups, it would be an ideal retreat and time for healing. But, I do need to remain connected (don't I?), and I do need some alone time, other than the time I spend asleep. So, the big recurring problem is daily personal time. How do I get my exercise? (I want to walk in these mountains.) How do I manage to attend rehearsals and concerts? (It's a 45 minute commute to Santa Fe for the choral group, and 90 minutes to Albquerque for the Orchestra. And a 2-3 hour rehearsal in between). When will I be able to spend time with my boyfriend? Will I ever get laid again? Will I ever meet a love of my life? Do I want to?
I have to be realistic about these questions. But right now, it seems like this is what I need: a quiet life, a few congenial companions, a beautiful place to live. Maybe I should just drop the musical groups and attempts to maintain my friendships. They don't really need me or miss me. Although G stopped by for an afternoon, it's not something I can ask of people regularly. So, perhaps this is just another moving on. I left my friends in PDX, now I'm leaving my life in ABQ.
I've been back in ABQ for a few days, finishing up at work. Today is my final walkthrough (you walk through City Hall with a piece of paper and various departments sign it and take away your keys and computer accounts and insurance benefits and city ID, and then you are not allowed to go back to your job site.) It feels unreal: I'm no longer at home in my partially dismantled casita, I no longer have projects to do at work. I am finished with this phase of my life. And although the Director came by yesterday to make sure I really want to do this, and to give me a hug, I don't feel like anyone will miss me. C'est fini.
A few months ago I asked the Universe for the perfect house-sitting gig. A month ago, the Universe responded. I will be taking care of the 98-year-old mother of a musician friend of a friend. E-mom is in good health (no need for drugs, able to walk and read and make her own bed) but frail, and her short-term memory is shot. She needs to have someone around 24/7 to make sure that she doesn't wander off, leave stoves burning, or otherwise harm herself. E-daughter travels for her gigs, and is only home for 5-9 days a month. They recently moved to a musicians' cooperative in the Ortiz Mountains, near Cerrillos NM.
I spent the last 10 days of September scoping it out. I applied for a leave of absence, but didn't expect to have it okayed, since it's not my Mom and not my emergency need. And I found out yesterday that, indeed, they will not okay it. So...this is it. I'm truly moving on.
In those initial days, most of my time was spent working on my taxes and going through papers. And driving E-mom to the doctor, to church, to Great Clips; shopping for groceries, cooking meals, unpacking, getting to know the co-op members, beginning to love my new home. The stars, the sunsets, the hummingbirds, the ever-present view of mountains and clouds, the peace: if only there were an ocean, it would be the home of my dreams.
The pace is slow: I start out with 40 minutes of Tai Chi Chih, followed by the NYT crossword and a cup of coffee on the back patio (aka, portale.) Then I log E-mom into her gmail and help her through the process of finding new messages, reading them, and writing back. I do my own projects, bobbing up to help her find the correct delete key. I finally cover up the numpad with a piece of paper, but she peeks beneath it to get confused again by the fact that the delete key there doesn't work.
Lunch is usually a salad or fruit and cheese. "I only eat two meals a day you know." "Yes, this is just a snack." The afternoon is for errands or more sitting around the house, reading, writing, cleaning. I bake a cake, make some bread. I try to locate a backup caregiver so I'm not stuck here 24/7. This is one of the things that E-daughter was unable to take care of before she left, and it has the entire cooperative irritated. They do not want to be my backup (and they can't be: they work and are often gone themselves), nor do they want me to be stranded and burned out within in a month.
Dinner is technically not my concern: it's cooked by coop members in turn and eaten communally at the casita/main house. But, I'm here, I have time, and I like to cook. Or rather, bake. So, I'm involved in that as well. And I'm enjoying the people. They are friendly, talented, supportive. One of them recently bought a tenor viol and promised me the use of it, along with some lessons and consort playing. You can't get much better than that, although I'm a little trepidatious: these are professional musicians after all. But they are kind, too.
The day ends back at the "pod" for some reading. A hug goodnight, and it's bedtime.
If I didn't feel like I needed to remain connected to my ABQ friends and play in musical groups, it would be an ideal retreat and time for healing. But, I do need to remain connected (don't I?), and I do need some alone time, other than the time I spend asleep. So, the big recurring problem is daily personal time. How do I get my exercise? (I want to walk in these mountains.) How do I manage to attend rehearsals and concerts? (It's a 45 minute commute to Santa Fe for the choral group, and 90 minutes to Albquerque for the Orchestra. And a 2-3 hour rehearsal in between). When will I be able to spend time with my boyfriend? Will I ever get laid again? Will I ever meet a love of my life? Do I want to?
I have to be realistic about these questions. But right now, it seems like this is what I need: a quiet life, a few congenial companions, a beautiful place to live. Maybe I should just drop the musical groups and attempts to maintain my friendships. They don't really need me or miss me. Although G stopped by for an afternoon, it's not something I can ask of people regularly. So, perhaps this is just another moving on. I left my friends in PDX, now I'm leaving my life in ABQ.
I've been back in ABQ for a few days, finishing up at work. Today is my final walkthrough (you walk through City Hall with a piece of paper and various departments sign it and take away your keys and computer accounts and insurance benefits and city ID, and then you are not allowed to go back to your job site.) It feels unreal: I'm no longer at home in my partially dismantled casita, I no longer have projects to do at work. I am finished with this phase of my life. And although the Director came by yesterday to make sure I really want to do this, and to give me a hug, I don't feel like anyone will miss me. C'est fini.
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