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.
Saturday, September 7, 2013
Theatrical lessons
Last night I was in my landlord's kitchen, scooping out chocolate ice cream. (I don't have a functional freezer in my casita, so she lets me use hers.) She came out to chat, and mentioned she was going to see a play: it's the 20th anniversary of a local theatre company's founding, and she has been a loyal supporter for most of that time. To celebrate, the troupe is bringing back old favorites. We chatted a bit about it, and she invited me to join her. She was leaving in 40 minutes, and had a reservation. I said, "do I need one? should we go together and assume I'll get in?" Her take on it was, "they've never been unable to find space for me."
I didn't realize what she meant until we got there.
The lobby was about 200 square feet, with 3 plain chairs in the center, backs facing inward to create a triangular seating area. A young woman stood behind a tall counter/desk to the right, and two thin long-haired arty 40-ish women in jeans sat at a table behind a short shelving wall to the left. (The wall created a sort of lobby hallway to the closed double doors to the front left. The right hand counter looked like it might be a snack bar, but instead was the box office for another theatre called The Box. The desk to the left faced The Box counter and was the box office for our destination: Tricklock Company.
At the door we met a group of 5 men and women who greeted M with hugs and a joyous "hello, how are you, it's great to see you!" She reciprocated and they formed chattering twosomes just inside the door. Three more people stood in front of the Tricklock desk, two people stood in line at The Box counter, and two young Goth women sat in the central chairs. There was no room to move. The women behind the desk both jumped up to greet our group, and when M introduced me I got a hug as well.
It was the most informal theatre experience I've ever had. You paid your money, got your parking ticket stamped, stood around waiting for the doors to open, and then wandered in. There were no programs and no tickets, and the seating was festival.
The stage was at the far end, and we walked through a dark empty space that was about twice as large as the stage. Ranged in front of the stage were two rows of 12 chairs each. The front row consisted of folding chairs with cushioned seats, the back row had regular chairs with tall backs and cushioned seats. Being a large person, I went for those. Being a small person, M steered me to the front, explaining the view was better.
Huh? with two rows, I didn't see how that would be an issue, but I bowed to her experience. And now I understood why there was no need for reservations: they just added a third row as more people came in. The final audience tally was about 35. We sat in the center, between two groups. Everyone knew one another, and when I asked Margo how she was acquainted she said, "through this theatre."
We were there for a one-woman show, Rot, acted by the woman who wrote the play. The last showing was in 2004, and many of the people present had seen it then. It was fascinating on many levels. It was a play within a play within a play. Elizabeth, the main character, is a playwright trying to write about Mary Shelley's creation of Frankenstein. She is suffering from writer's block and a failed romance, and all three of these stories are played in turn, influencing each other with humor and pathos, up to the final scene which leaves you with a question, not an answer.
Unlike a monologue, this required putting on several different personas, in several different time frames. The plot moved forward but also flashed back to the 1800s, to childhood, to adolescence, to a series of brilliantly delineated failed relationships. The characters and timeframes were conveyed through lighting, posture, music, and accents. She had a best friend Heather with a lovely New Joisey accent, and she played Mary and Percy Shelley with distinct voices and British accents.
Because of the tiny space (intimate? say rather, compressed), I felt like she was talking directly to me. And I wanted to nod my head, to convey sympathy, empathy, caring. She was going through a tough time, Mary Shelley was going through a tough time, and I'm going through a tough time. Let's have a group hug.
The final question was actually two, in my opinion. 1. How does one continue when one's true love is lost? and 2. What can one do with a personal monster that cannot be killed?
For me, though, the real question occurs 2/3 through. Elizabeth is processing the failed relationship with the married man Sam, who, she thinks now, might be The One. Heather tells her, "he's not putting as much into this as you are, it's time for you to Move On." And Elizabeth thinks, "he should have fought for it more. But he didn't care enough. WHY didn't he care enough? Why didn't he care enough? Why didn't he....care enough?"
Story of my life.
I didn't realize what she meant until we got there.
The lobby was about 200 square feet, with 3 plain chairs in the center, backs facing inward to create a triangular seating area. A young woman stood behind a tall counter/desk to the right, and two thin long-haired arty 40-ish women in jeans sat at a table behind a short shelving wall to the left. (The wall created a sort of lobby hallway to the closed double doors to the front left. The right hand counter looked like it might be a snack bar, but instead was the box office for another theatre called The Box. The desk to the left faced The Box counter and was the box office for our destination: Tricklock Company.
At the door we met a group of 5 men and women who greeted M with hugs and a joyous "hello, how are you, it's great to see you!" She reciprocated and they formed chattering twosomes just inside the door. Three more people stood in front of the Tricklock desk, two people stood in line at The Box counter, and two young Goth women sat in the central chairs. There was no room to move. The women behind the desk both jumped up to greet our group, and when M introduced me I got a hug as well.
It was the most informal theatre experience I've ever had. You paid your money, got your parking ticket stamped, stood around waiting for the doors to open, and then wandered in. There were no programs and no tickets, and the seating was festival.
The stage was at the far end, and we walked through a dark empty space that was about twice as large as the stage. Ranged in front of the stage were two rows of 12 chairs each. The front row consisted of folding chairs with cushioned seats, the back row had regular chairs with tall backs and cushioned seats. Being a large person, I went for those. Being a small person, M steered me to the front, explaining the view was better.
Huh? with two rows, I didn't see how that would be an issue, but I bowed to her experience. And now I understood why there was no need for reservations: they just added a third row as more people came in. The final audience tally was about 35. We sat in the center, between two groups. Everyone knew one another, and when I asked Margo how she was acquainted she said, "through this theatre."
We were there for a one-woman show, Rot, acted by the woman who wrote the play. The last showing was in 2004, and many of the people present had seen it then. It was fascinating on many levels. It was a play within a play within a play. Elizabeth, the main character, is a playwright trying to write about Mary Shelley's creation of Frankenstein. She is suffering from writer's block and a failed romance, and all three of these stories are played in turn, influencing each other with humor and pathos, up to the final scene which leaves you with a question, not an answer.
Unlike a monologue, this required putting on several different personas, in several different time frames. The plot moved forward but also flashed back to the 1800s, to childhood, to adolescence, to a series of brilliantly delineated failed relationships. The characters and timeframes were conveyed through lighting, posture, music, and accents. She had a best friend Heather with a lovely New Joisey accent, and she played Mary and Percy Shelley with distinct voices and British accents.
Because of the tiny space (intimate? say rather, compressed), I felt like she was talking directly to me. And I wanted to nod my head, to convey sympathy, empathy, caring. She was going through a tough time, Mary Shelley was going through a tough time, and I'm going through a tough time. Let's have a group hug.
The final question was actually two, in my opinion. 1. How does one continue when one's true love is lost? and 2. What can one do with a personal monster that cannot be killed?
For me, though, the real question occurs 2/3 through. Elizabeth is processing the failed relationship with the married man Sam, who, she thinks now, might be The One. Heather tells her, "he's not putting as much into this as you are, it's time for you to Move On." And Elizabeth thinks, "he should have fought for it more. But he didn't care enough. WHY didn't he care enough? Why didn't he care enough? Why didn't he....care enough?"
Story of my life.
unwanted feedback
Several months ago, my toxic co-worker informed me that my manner is often curt. Since she went around in perpetual scowl mode herself, I thought it was a ludicrous comment. I've always worked to be approachable and generous with my time and attention, so I decided it was just one more manufactured criticism, an excuse for her ongoing dislike and niggly attacks.
So I thought.
Yesterday I was lunching with a dear friend, and he informed me that I am often rude to the wait staff. I was stunned. I love to dine out, and I am horrified at the thought that my behavior makes it difficult for other people to enjoy themselves. Besides, it's stupid to be rude to the person who handles your food.
He said my manner could be blamed on D, source of all evil in my universe. But I can't dismiss it so facilely.
Have I really turned into that hideous old lady who makes unreasonable demands and cannot be pleased? Don't I say please and thanks? Don't I smile when I make a request? Don't I look people in the eye? What is this rudeness of which they speak?
I guess the real problem is that I have been unaware of my negative impact on people. I don't know how to fix a problem that I cannot recognize. There are so many things I accuse myself of, but rudeness has never been on the list.
I truly don't know what to do with this feedback.
So I thought.
Yesterday I was lunching with a dear friend, and he informed me that I am often rude to the wait staff. I was stunned. I love to dine out, and I am horrified at the thought that my behavior makes it difficult for other people to enjoy themselves. Besides, it's stupid to be rude to the person who handles your food.
He said my manner could be blamed on D, source of all evil in my universe. But I can't dismiss it so facilely.
Have I really turned into that hideous old lady who makes unreasonable demands and cannot be pleased? Don't I say please and thanks? Don't I smile when I make a request? Don't I look people in the eye? What is this rudeness of which they speak?
I guess the real problem is that I have been unaware of my negative impact on people. I don't know how to fix a problem that I cannot recognize. There are so many things I accuse myself of, but rudeness has never been on the list.
I truly don't know what to do with this feedback.
Saturday, August 31, 2013
Dream interpretation
In my memory he is walking, Astaire-like, up and down my dorm's stairwell, singing, "I'll build a stairway to paradise." It echoes strongly, and I am entranced. I love singing in stairwells.
He was a student in a required freshman class, and I was the TA. He left after that semester, but it was long enough to create a friendship that lasted for close to 15 years. Through those years, we corresponded, I visited him in Oneonta, NY, once, and he visited me in Portland, Oregon, twice. He disappeared on Oahu shortly after that second visit, and has never been found. I corresponded with his family, contributed to the memory book, and disposed of the car he had left in Seattle.
And I've never forgotten him.
But he wasn't feeling it.
Music and rhythm were part of his soul, but he never learned to read or write it. Once, on that last visit, he was washing dishes, and he began tapping the sides of the metal sink. It was sufficiently percussive for him to continue and expand into resonant hand-slapping drum beats. My cousin picked up some chopsticks and created a snare drum set on the tall wooden salt and pepper shakers and the metal stove top. I drummed on the counter with my fingertips. T provided foot percussion as she began dancing, and we all followed suit, twirling and drumming.
I began crying. I didn't know how to process a friendship that could be so hot and so cold. Maybe I wondered what mean things he was saying about me. He was confused: what had he said to make me cry? I couldn't explain.
He was a student in a required freshman class, and I was the TA. He left after that semester, but it was long enough to create a friendship that lasted for close to 15 years. Through those years, we corresponded, I visited him in Oneonta, NY, once, and he visited me in Portland, Oregon, twice. He disappeared on Oahu shortly after that second visit, and has never been found. I corresponded with his family, contributed to the memory book, and disposed of the car he had left in Seattle.
And I've never forgotten him.
*******************************
He was always prickly, always challenging, always creating. I remember I was always asking to see his work, and he would send it to me at intervals. Sometimes it was writing, sometimes other things: like the meringue from his kitchen and the squash from his garden. He was supremely fit, very comfortable with using his body the way he wanted to, regardless of time and place. Once, he told me, he was stretching out on the dance floor of a bar and was informed, "We don't do that here." He laughed, but I could tell he really didn't get what the problem was. It was a resignation to the incomprehensible foibles of the masses, not humor. While he could be light-hearted, it always came as a surprise. It was as though he could only access that part of himself under extreme circumstances. The rest of the time he was acting from memory: ah, yes, this is what it's like to laugh. And this is clearly a situation where laughter is called for, so, I'll laugh.But he wasn't feeling it.
********************************
We were driving to the family home on the Neversink, where his sister would later drown while rafting. He taught me a canon he had "written," with words from Song of Solomon. It was a droning atonal sort of song. "Until the day break, and the shadows flee, I will get me to the mount of myrrh and hill of frankinsense. Until the day break, and the shadows flee, Turn, love, young hart, on the mount of spices." I learned it quickly, and we sang it together. I don't think I'll ever sing it with anyone else.Music and rhythm were part of his soul, but he never learned to read or write it. Once, on that last visit, he was washing dishes, and he began tapping the sides of the metal sink. It was sufficiently percussive for him to continue and expand into resonant hand-slapping drum beats. My cousin picked up some chopsticks and created a snare drum set on the tall wooden salt and pepper shakers and the metal stove top. I drummed on the counter with my fingertips. T provided foot percussion as she began dancing, and we all followed suit, twirling and drumming.
*****************************
The demands he put on himself and others created beauty, but also hurt. He had a hot intense gaze and an intense conversational style. He didn't suffer fools gladly, but he was well versed in polite behavior, like bringing hostess gifts and sending thank you notes. He had no patience for feelings or for sugar coating his thoughts, especially with those he loved. Example: We had visited a friend of his and were figuring out sleeping arrangements, and he had said, "I want to sleep with you." The next morning, they were swinging in the hammock together. She was clearly enamored, he was laughing joyously. Later I commented on their relationship and he said, "She's just a friend. I'm not interested in her otherwise, she's repulsive!" I began crying. I didn't know how to process a friendship that could be so hot and so cold. Maybe I wondered what mean things he was saying about me. He was confused: what had he said to make me cry? I couldn't explain.
***************************
A few mornings ago, I woke up from an extremely vivid dream. In that dream, he had turned up here in Albuquerque. I was excited and happy, but confused. "Have you told your family?" no. "Can I tell A in Portland?" no. "Where have you been?" no answer.
He wanted to show me a house he'd found, and we silently walked 4 blocks to it. There were trees and Portland-style landscaping. It was huge and old, with hard wood floors. It had a formal dining room, kitchen with marble counters and gas stove, a living area with fireplace, and several bedrooms or office/den rooms. It was all on one level, filled with antiques, books, and art. It was a craftsmen style home, not an adobe. We had a moment cuddling on one of the beds, and I agreed that it would be a great place to rent. Then a whole crew of 20-somethings appeared. One of them was the owner, and we had tea and talked about my love of dishes. She wanted to rent to me, for sure, but apparently she also wanted to rent to the others. There were 23 people, and the house had become larger. But the monthly rent was $50K. Even divided by 23, it was unaffordable.
He had disappeared, while I was talking with the owner. I was confused and overwhelmed. Spotting a skinny door in the corner, I slunk over and discovered a steep narrow stair, going up. I shut the door behind me and climbed, emerging from the dark stairwell into two large open rooms, with skylights and walls of windows. There was no furniture, other than a reading nook with a comfy chair, but paintings filled the limited wall-space. It was a Portland house for sure, but the view through the glass was Albuquerque, with the wide ever-changing skies and adobe architecture. I felt open and free and at home. I spread out my arms and twirled.
And woke up.
What did it mean? I'd spent the day before researching an elusive article about teaching in Hawaii, which he did when he was going to grad school. And it's where he disappeared. Is that what brought him into my dream? Surely not: the real Hawaii connection is my friend L's family.
I am looking at the possibility of finding a new home and a new job and a housemate, and I'm not sure if I want to be in Portland or Albuquerque or Hawaii. So, perhaps the dream reflects that. After all, the process of selling the Portland house is almost complete, so that particular house is not in my future, nor was it in my dream.
Yet, house dreams are more about the personal interior, not the actual house, right? So...I'm seeking. Seeking home, seeking community. And lord knows, seeking was what he did best. Maybe he's there to guide me. Or does he represent the authentic me, who will never settle for mediocrity, who wants to do it all?
Or, do I just miss him?
A long vivid dream:
Tim reappeared and we found
A great house to rent.
Tim reappeared and we found
A great house to rent.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
More Nostalgia, Tree Man division
My friend J wrote to chastise me for not writing about Tree Man in my previous post. I told her that it was up to her to document that particular trip down memory lane, because she had the most interactions with him. Also, he wasn't a problem patron, he was a volunteer. And most of the volunteers I worked with were absolutely lovely people. He was the anomaly.
He was in his late 30's I believe. He wore jeans and flannel shirts and had long unkempt mousy-brown hair, parted in the middle, hanging down in a fuzzy, straggly mass. He had a pitted, pale face, and looked a little like he'd lived in his parent's basement since his teens.
Actually, it turns out it was his brother's basement. And he was volunteering because he had no work history. According to J, his income from the previous 10 years was through sales of marijuana. You gain a lot of interesting experience, of course, but I can see the difficulty of explaining the work gap, not to mention codifying the skills on the resume or job application
Entrepreneurial Sales, Agricultural. Self-employed. 1979-1989
He was in his late 30's I believe. He wore jeans and flannel shirts and had long unkempt mousy-brown hair, parted in the middle, hanging down in a fuzzy, straggly mass. He had a pitted, pale face, and looked a little like he'd lived in his parent's basement since his teens.
Actually, it turns out it was his brother's basement. And he was volunteering because he had no work history. According to J, his income from the previous 10 years was through sales of marijuana. You gain a lot of interesting experience, of course, but I can see the difficulty of explaining the work gap, not to mention codifying the skills on the resume or job application
Entrepreneurial Sales, Agricultural. Self-employed. 1979-1989
- Business skills
- Able to organize and schedule shipments
- Able to keep financial records, set up payment plans, make change
- People skills
- Able to inspire trust and confidence through maintaining confidentiality and providing a quality product.
- Able to grow a business.
- Reason for leaving: competition and government regulations. Desire for a more stable job.
Anyway, he was volunteering for the library to gain some skills and job references that would look credible on a resume. His job was checking in the huge book drop, which was also one of J's jobs, so he spent a fair amount of time chatting her up. To be fair, she's very good at chatting with just about anyone, so he may have just succumbed to her conversational charms.
He worked for a few months and then stopped showing up. I asked the Volunteer Coordinator about him, as I didn't have a phone number. I'll always treasure her answer. After saying that he was a bit sketchy, was living with his brother and had no job history or obvious skills, she said, "He's the type we can use, so I referred him to you." Really?
We never did get him back, nor did we want to, but shortly thereafter J ran into him on the Johnson Creek bike trail. It's a heavily wooded trail, a swath of creek land that cuts through the SE Portland residential area and later links up with other trails. It is fairly heavily used, but because of the trees it feels lonely and isolated. She said he was just sort of hanging out, and told her that he'd been kicked out of his house. She asked where he was living and he said, "Found a tree." Totally creeped out, she hopped back on her bike and pedaled away.
So, he was an interesting character. But he wasn't a problem, per se. And, as I said earlier, most of the volunteers were lovely people. Many were students, looking for the community service credit. For several years we had a mother/daughter team: the mom was a teacher, the daughter a high school student. Both were intelligent and creative, and writing a reference for the daughter was one of the biggest pleasures I've had. (She was awesome, so the reference was just a little bit of icing.)
My dear friend B was a volunteer before she was hired by the system and then moved on to become an electrician. Another woman was from Sierra Leone: she was an elegant and beautiful black woman with a luscious and exotic French accent. Later I ran into her and she loaned me her Pema Chodron CDs. I believe she is living in Canada now.
While not all volunteers were as exceptional as they were, most are pretty interesting people. The reasons for volunteering are as varied as the people themselves, and only a small percentage have obvious mental issues, far fewer than the percentage of problem patrons. At one point I was supervising close to 40 volunteers, and it was one of the easy and rewarding parts of my job.
I think I'd have to say the most rewarding volunteer experience was with the highly functioning autistic kid from the nearby high school. He was doing a work study sort of program (I worked with a lot of interns, too), and he spent most of the school year shelving and shelf-reading for school credit instead of pay. He was very quiet, tall and good looking. He looked at you intently with round shining eyes out of an expressionless face, and he was detail-oriented and an excellent worker. After graduation, he got a job at the convention center, which was a pretty cool gig for any young man. Lots of great shows and games take place there. He came in to the library to show me his badge and thank me for the reference and the work experience, and I almost cried. He was so proud.
I don't think he'll end up living in a tree.
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