Keeping my cool. Not.

I'm typing this as I am on hold and speaker phone with HealthCare.gov.  Yes, I should have done this several months ago, on October 5, to be exact, when I stopped being covered by the City of Albuquerque's health insurance plan.  But here I am, on New Year's Eve, upping my blood pressure, ensuring that I'll NEED that champagne cocktail at midnight tonight.

I knew this would be a frustrating process, but I had no idea.

I start with the New Mexico Health Exchange website, cleverly called bewellnm.  I look at the various health plans in the Marketplace.  My choices are ick, urk, and yuck.  But, I use the nifty comparison tool, and come up with the plan that seemed least smelly.   Unfortunately, there seems to be no dental or eye care available, which is just wrong.  And there's this mystical thing called 50% of coinsurance....I have no idea what that means, so apples/oranges comparison is not possible.

Then, I go to healthcare.gov to apply.  I create a user name and password, they send me an email, I follow the verification link, log in and BOOM!  big fat nothing.  So, I click on the chat link and have a lovely scripted conversion with Jamie.  "We're sorry for your frustration and are trying to make this work for you."  Um, fine.  Get me logged in.  "We're sorry the website is not working for you."  Umm...so what do I do.  "An agent at this number will be glad to help you with your application."  aaaargh. "We know this is frustrating for you, we're just giving you options."  Fine.

So, now I call the 800 number.  In a commendably quick time, I get my agent.  Then the nightmare begins. I explain what I've done.  I explain again where the problem was.  I give my name.  Address.  Address again.  Spelled out address (v as in victor, i, s as in sam....).  Social Security number.  Birthdate.  Okay, can I put you on hold?  (Do I have a choice?)   5 minutes later, I am telling her what I've done.  I give my name.  Address.  Address again.  I say, Just what were you doing just now?  She was trying to get the online access for me.  I say, I was told you could do the application for me on the phone.  She says, oh sure, we can do that.

aaaargh.

Now comes the agonizing and humiliating process of filling out the application.  Name again.  Address again.  Birthdate again....oooh some new questions, all about income.  Umm, there is no income.  Yes, there's rental income.  Enough to cover the mortgage, so it balances out to zero.  Investments.....I guess savings counts, maybe $100 a year.  Self-employment....well, not really.  The money I get for house-sitting is basically covering living expenses, and it doesn't involve W2s or 1099s or any of those things that the IRS wants.  And this is all about my plans for 2014 taxes.  No, I don't expect the income I had in 2011.  (2011?  What's that about?)

I say, this form doesn't seem to have unemployed people in mind.  She says, it's the same form for everyone.  I'm getting increasingly flat affect and distinct as I answer the questions, then abruptly my frustration spikes and I start questioning the process.   Big mistake, it just flusters her, and she is having problems enough dealing with the pop-up windows.  BEEP!  error, error, error.  (Cue robot voice here.)

Finally she submits the application.  Two minutes later, she starts reading the results.  I qualify for Medicaid because, go figure, I'm broke.  So all that research about plans was waste motion.  I say, what if I want another plan?  She says, they won't accept you because you have no income.  I say, two years ago when I was unemployed I applied for insurance and they were happy to give me a plan and take my money.  What's the difference here?  She says, they won't accept you if you don't have income.  I say, huh?  and we go around and around.  I say, so what if I go outside this system and call  Blue Cross?  She says, you can do that, but they will still check your income.  What if I lie on my application and say I'm making $3000 a month? They will still check your income.

So, Medicaid is my only choice?  Apparently so.  And, what do I do now?  Wait for them to contact me.

Fifty-five minutes later, and I'm still uninsured.  And I need that champagne cocktail.

Sometimes I'm a domestic kind of chick

This morning we channeled the birds:  they were outside eating seeds and we were inside eating the granola that I made yesterday.  It was a lively scene out there:  close to a dozen western scrub jays dominating the feeders and intimidating each other.  But, there were other more interesting birds.  I have ID'd the ubiquitous and pushy western scrub jay, the ground-scrabbling hooded junco, stripy female house finch, red-splashed male house finch, flirty juniper titmouse, adorable mountain chickadee, plus a possible pine Siskin but probable yellow male house finch. I need a guru.

Here are yesterday's haiku on the subject:

Morning feeder watch...
The usual suspects and
One stripy chipmunk.

I put out bird seed.
Now there's a fox underneath.
I feel so guilty.

C informed me that this was NOT a Peter and the Wolf scenario:  the fox was seeking seeds, not birds.  He stood in the shade of the feeder, watching the house intently, and then nuzzled on the ground.  She's probably right.  He had rusty back and head, black under-hung mouth, and white chest.  He was very foxy!  Birds continued to swirl around the feeder, but the ground feeders had disappeared.  Eventually he took off through the scrub juniper, and I watched his movements, in and out of the trees, as he went up the hill.  His gait was not fast, but was very purposeful, a fox on a mission.

I am delighted to have provided some amusement for both E and me, but I also find myself in a sort of melancholy nesting mood.  This will be the first Christmas away from any family, and it's the first holiday season spent in someone else's home.  So much of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's involves food, family, and festive decor.  I have my own rituals too:  re-reading Greenwillow and The Christmas Carol, listening to Nutcracker and Messiah, singing madrigal-type carols (The Boar's Head, The Wassailing Song, The Holly and the Ivy) and other more melancholy songs (In the Bleak Midwinter, Coventry Carol.)   I usually make origami tree ornaments, cards, and wreaths, using materials I have at hand.  And, of course, I bake Spritzbakkelse and make lefse and fudge.

So, I find myself doing some of these things, to E's delight ("You are always creating things!") I am less pleased with the results, but the process is enchanting.  I love scavenging the yard for scraps of juniper, pinon, dried plants, etc.  Then, I sit amongst sappy, spicy-smelling clippings, wrapping them around and around each other, tying them off with yarn or ribbon or wire, adding spots of color and texture.  I made two wreaths a few days ago, without a form.  They are hanging from the outside house lamps, and are already sagging out of shape.  Today I clipped the dried flowers from a dead vase arrangement.  Taking the moldy stalks to the compost, I discovered two year-old wreaths.  I disinterred the metal frames from the grey-brown sticky pines and brought them inside to make a wreath for the casita and a wreath for M and C.  My guess is they will fall apart within 24 hours, but such is life.

I need red ribbon.
My hands are covered in sap.
I love making wreaths.

  

The Epod is looking festive, with the wreaths, a huge poinsettia I bought from C's school, some snowflakes in the window, some vases filled with juniper and pinon.  I've decorated the make-shift trees with ear-rings and origami.  E and I have been singing carols together, and it's cozy enough.  But, I miss the things I had back in my own home.  There's no ribbon, for example.  And no Oregon grape to add a shiny dark green holly-ish texture.  And, the huge grape vine wreath is no more.  I have no idea where the cookie press is.  The little angel chimes are in with all the ornaments, which D hopefully salvaged.  The ornaments were 30 years in the collecting, and I'll likely never see them again.  One of them was a mystery:  I found it when I was still living in the milk barn, in with the fir boughs and ornaments that I taped to the open stair posts.  It was a wooden dragon, painted green and gold.  In subsequent years, it hung from the center of my biggest wreath.  I still don't know who gave it to me.  I know I didn't buy it for myself. I know it's one of my favorite ornaments.

I miss my annual musings on the subject.  

I miss making presents for stocking stuffers.  One year I knitted little balls and filled them with rice and catnip for all the family cats.  They lasted 12 hours, which was just about right.

I miss playing music with my family, and singing carols with D's family.  I miss sitting on Santa's lap (R in his father's old red velvet Santa suit), telling him I was an excellent girl last year, and receiving my present.

I miss the domesticity of the season.

Status Update

A friend posted a Facebook status by Anne Lamott which brought several things to mind.

Musing #1....

I LOVE Anne Lamott  Why don't I read more of her stuff?  Why don't I follow her writing advice in  Bird by Bird?  Then again, why do I even attempt to write? She's saying everything I want to say, and better.  It is validating to have someone of her caliber doing what I do:  writing about the every day stuff and posting to Facebook. But, her everyday stuff has larger implications, and her whining is to mine as a Bach Cantata is to Abba.

I sometimes feel guilty that I spend so much time focusing on First World Problems.  Yes, I am in Year 1 of a divorce.  Yes, I have ten years of stress behind me,  relational and financial.  Yes, I do not know what I want to be when I grow up.  Yes, I quit my job about 3 years too early, without knowing how I will be supporting myself 6 months hence. Yes, it appears that my traveling days are over, or at least in abeyance.  Yes, it will be difficult if not impossible to lose weight and get back to my CycleOregon shape.  Yes, it is unlikely I will ever be partnered again.

But who cares?  I have food, shelter, companionship, worthwhile work to do, music to make (and the ability to do so), things to create.  I have the potential to envision and craft a new life.  The elements currently present in my life are soul-affirming:  beauty around me, savory food within me, activities that stretch or console me.  And I am aware of that every moment.   As I type I am listening to wind chimes, watching the pinon dance, seeing E's white hair glowing in the sun, rejoicing that the birds have found the seed I scattered for them, getting ready to go listen to Christmas music in a beautiful old Catholic church in Cerrillos.

So, even though "the mind is a bad room-mate," I have other room-mates that bring much delight.

Musing #2

Facebook is usually banal, and the connections I make there are often trivial, but it is a window onto many worlds that I find interesting, invigorating, thought-provoking.  I know that my daily haiku-sometimes-mit-photo is none of those....it's more of a journal....but it's worth it to find out what other people are doing or thinking.  Living on my mountain, I am in touch with the weather and the local wildlife, but not much else.  Of course, I could just lurk and not post, but it seems if you don't post, your lurking misses out on certain posts, and people don't send things directly to you.  In other words, you are not part of the conversation. For example, Deb, who is not a friend but a person I admire who let me "friend" her, "liked" the Anne Lamott post, and her "like" appeared on my timeline because she has "liked" some of my haiku and, voila!  my mind is expanded.

Bonus:  Anne quotes a Rumi poem.  Don't we all like Rumi?  Don't we all want to think like Rumi?

Musing #3
I want to spend more of my time experiencing, and less of it ruminating.

Slower paced living

I am so lucky.  Today we are snowed in on our mountain, and everything we needed to do (individually and collectively) has been cancelled:  no school for C, no rehearsal for me, no flight in for M.  I check in with my city friends, and they are all fussing about snow plows and icy roads and closed highways.  The folks at East Mountain Library are Shoveling. The. Parking. Lot.  I don't have to worry about any of it.

That's one of the perks of being a 24/7 caregiver.  I don't have to go anywhere if I don't want to, and the only thing I have to do is keep the house warm and the food cooked.  Granted, it's a little problematic right now in the house, since we only have radiant floor heat.  The wood-burning stove is still an unfinished project, and somehow the solar heat doesn't work when there's no sun.

However, there is the casita next door, complete with full kitchen and wood stove.  So, I shovel the walks (which promptly needs re-shoveling), bundle up my friend, and install her with her book by the stove.

Then, I settle into some solid baking.  I start out with gingersnaps.  I find an Alton Brown recipe online, and recall that S swears by AB.  So, I give it a shot.

All I can say is, AB must be cooking at sea level.

However, messy and gooey as the cookies are (before I add more flour), they are quite tasty.  I approve of the addition of cardamom to the spices.  And, I have to confess that, not having a kitchen scale, I have to use the conversion formulas and cup measurements.  AB is into ounces, not cups.  I don't know why it would matter, but Gluten-Free Girl is also adamant that weight is the way to go, so there's probably some science behind it.  I don't want to blame AB and the altitude too much.

Once I am in the rhythm of cookie baking, I put together the fixings for granola, courtesy of the Tassajara Bread Book.  Since I am going to be using the cookie sheet (we only have one) for the granola, it gets set aside, once mixed.

Then, the lentil stew.  That recipe is in the Moosewood Cookbook.  Simmer rinsed lentils in stock for 4 hours.  Then saute garlic, onion, celery, carrots in butter.  Add to the lentils and simmer for another hour or so.

All I can say is, Moosewood cooks must ALSO have been working at sea level.

The 3 cups of lentils soak up the 7 cups of stock in one hour flat, and I'm adding liquid every half hour after that.  I add the saute mix after 2 hours, and turn the whole darn thing off after another hour.  A half hour before dinner I'll turn it back on and add the tomatoes and wine and spices.

Time to add another log to the fire and re-shovel the walk.  Now what?   Hmm, maybe I should rearrange the spices.  Sheesh, we have 5 containers of cumin.  Cinnamon sticks, whole cardamom and cloves....Ah, mulled wine.

We don't have apple cider to sweeten the pot, but, for future reference, Triple Sec does just fine.

And now the sun has come out, so I may try for a little sunset walk.  Forget practising, it's a snow day!

Travel kvetch

Traveling is so different now.  I don't really care when I get there, so the lines are not the issue.  What is the issue?  The quality of the wait.  I could swear everyone is a little grubbier, amenities are less amenable.  You pay for every little thing (fortunately not bathrooms. Yet.) My fellow passengers are  more Greyhound, less Orient Express.  The PA features a friendly male voice asking us to help the police officers keep us safe by reporting suspicious things.

What is suspicious?  The plastic bottle under my chair?  The bags?

However, I'm engaging in the usual rosy-tinted nostalgia.  Travel was ever problematic.  I remember on my first flight to Europe, I huddled under a blanket, trying to escape the cigarette smoke.  So, some things have improved in the last 30 years.  And, some things have stayed the same.  For example, on my way to PDX, I sent this message into the ether:  "As per usual, the Denver airport's evil spirits are alive and kicking! Flight delayed, no place to sit, echoing grayness. I have never gotten through this airport without some hitch."

Still, I'm going to look into train travel on my next trip.  Pooh on this airplane stuff.  And I mean it!

Sad snowballs

I'm back on my mountain, after a 10-day break visiting family and friends and trying to take care of some business.  I didn't see everyone I wanted to see, but I was energized and happy, and the weather was gorgeous.  Reactions to my current life fell into one of three camps.

1.  "Are you crazy?"  Move back here, live in my basement, get a job with benefits!  We miss you.

It seems black and white
But if you look more closely
It's complicated.

2.  "This is a good thing for you, an opportunity for growth."  Your health seems improved, and all the stuff back here is your past:  look to the future.  Stay in New Mexico for awhile.

3. "Hmmmm."  (nodded head, non-committal expression.)

Camp Number 3 is probably allied to Camp Number 1, actually.

It's interesting how my moods are swinging since my return. Mainly, I am just going through the day. At the end of it I am exhausted, but I find myself waking in the middle of the night.  I go outside and check out the stars:  where's Orion, is there a meteor, is there a cloud cover?  Later in the cycle, I watch the sunrise.

But I'm not thinking, or at least, not consciously. So I don't feel like I'm growing or, even at the very minimum, processing.

A year ago at this time, I left D. And I had several local friends help me through that. Most of them are no longer friends, and I wonder what I did to drive them away. It makes me sad, and I feel like a user....I accepted the help assuming I could repay it some time, as friends do, but now I can't. T said that in a year I wouldn't recognize myself.  He's right, but he's also not around to enjoy it.

Complementary:
Dark, light, hard, soft, firm, molded.
But we can't be friends

Now, I know that I am so much better off than I was a year ago, but I still feel numbed. And sad. I don't worry that I made the wrong choice, but I don't know where to go from here.  And various people and events are conspiring to make me recognize how much I'm flailing.  For example....

Yesterday I took E on a studio tour through La Cienega. En route she asked me if I have any plans for my future..am I going to get training or go to school? What is my career goal? It took me aback, because I'm not planning to have a career per se, and I don't have a goal yet. Should I?

I finally remembered that she thinks I am WAY younger than I am, and she also doesn't remember that this is a permanent situation for her at least...she's not going back to Oakland.

But I was still unsettled by her questions.  One of the aspects of dementia is that she will say whatever is in her mind.  It gives me pause:  how much of what she says is being thought by other people?  Why am I not thinking of these things myself? What are my plans? Being middle-aged doesn't mean I can potter around without a goal.

Which is why I spent the afternoon's walk channeling Andy Goldsworthy. It helped improve my mood a bit, at least.

When faced with mud trails,
Don't walk them. Make snow sculptures
And take their pictures.

A trip through Utah, 1996

A friend of mine is traveling through the Southwest and posting things to FB.  I was feeling nostalgic, and serendipitously found the journal I wrote in 1996, when I was driving R to Austin.  We camped along the way. The big name places were Bryce, Zion, Grand Canyon, and Carlsbad.  Here's what I had to say about Bryce:

Left Hwy 70, following the Sevier River.  It's a sage-green, tumbling, fast-moving river - seems to have cut through the mountains, and the road we're on is squished in.  There are oval and half-moon-shaped holes in the tops of the mountains - most of it looks river-cut.  It's amazing to think of how long it took to make this canyon.

Bedtime
We're at Kodachrome State Park:  Bryce was full by the time we reached it, but we're just as glad.  This is a lovely site, in a bowl of yellow/white/golden/red cliffs, with streams trickling through, scrub pines at every site, spires, etc.  We're very isolated, yet close to the water and the bathrooms (which have HOT SHOWERS!)  Our fellow campers are quiet - we see their lights, hear some low-voiced comments, a quiet laugh here and there, some rattling dishes - all very peaceful and distant-seeming.  Crickety insects are singing.  This being both desert and mountain, the stars are incredible.

R called RB (her husband, whom we were joining in TX), and then she made a white sauce out of pancake mix, dried milk, mozzarella, and oil.  Some turkey ham and zucchini went in it, and we finished up the pasta.  We pulled out the cheap CA wine and it was pretty good.  So, we took our mugs and went for a walk in the gloaming.  There are rocks here like a miniature version of Ayers Rock - red, smooth, rounded, with oval holes in the base.  Behind them, spires climb into the light-blue, darkening sky.  I wanted to climb, but it was too late and R wouldn't let me anyway.  But it was beautiful.

Then we sat at the table and killed the bottle, while eating Chevalier Noir cookies.  Yummm.

We planned tomorrow a bit, and while R went to the bathrooms, I knit by candle lantern light and watched the stars brighten.  Then, a walk to the restroom myself, head tilted upwards identifying constellations and marveling.  R's already asleep.  I'm using her lantern to warm the tent, write, and read.  But, I'm getting tired.

Sunday
At North Campground.  Just watched the stars come out over East Rim of Bryce Canyon and got totally lost coming back.  For a completely packed campground, this is a pretty quiet one.  Lighted tents, campfires, lighted RV's looking like houses - it was like walking around a small town without street lights.  I made a right downhill when I should have made a left up - and then I began to ramble.  Found RV-land, found a bathroom, on trying to find the road I walked into a campsite with a VERY bright light.  I asked if they knew where the road was, and they pointed 2 feet away.  I got back - candle-lantern lit on table but no R - she'd gone to look for me and ended up at the campfire canyon talk, which she says was pretty hideous.  Anyway, she forgave me - said she'd been blaming herself for letting us split up at dusk.  We'd gone for a post-prandial cliff-sunset walk and ended up at the general store where she called RB and depressed him by telling him the stove was turning black.

Some beautiful hikes today - first at Kodachrome Basin Panorama Loop. (We woke up freezing cold, and everything we'd left out on the table was soaking wet, even my bag of knitting.) The panorama hike was a cross between John Day Fossil beds and Ayers Rock.  At the last we climbed a hill and had the whole basin spread out below us.  R left 1st, and I was alone, high above the earth, an intermittant cool breeze making the only sound.  Perfect peace.  I met 3 German lads on the way down and recommended the climb.

Lots of Germans at Bryce, too.  We're flanked by them.  An elderly couple in a van (which R covets:  "They look so cozy") is directly adjacent.

We mainly drove around to various viewpoints, did a few short hikes.   Wind was very cold.  We had sweatshirts but were still wearing shorts.  Lunched at a viewpoint and shivered.  Tomorrow I hike in slacks, I think.

Mmm, wind roaring in the pines, very nice, time for sleep.

Monday, early pm
Today I'm unable to breathe in the scent of sun-warmed juniper and bristle-cone pine to which I've been growing fondly accustomed.  I woke up to R rushing me from the tent to see the sunrise before the sun got buried in the rain clouds.  There was just a thin line of clear blue before the gray cumulonimbus stuff started.  We reached the rim, too late it seemed.  So, back to the site to take down tents and make breakfast.  As the coffee was brewing, the little weasel of a sun popped up.  The camp host in his little golf cart was driving by picking up expired registration tags and he asked us what we were looking at.  I said, "the sun" and he said "what sun?" like he'd never heard of such a thing.

After breakfast, while Rhonda was changing in her tent, I saw a little puff-chested bird, white and black, with a black mask, dive onto the table inches away from me, peck for the non-existent food, and dart back up to a low branch of the overhanging pine. He did this several times.  No fear of me.

We stopped by the store for a rain poncho for me, and set off down the Queen's Garden Loop.  It was terrific to be down amongst the hoodoos, winding in and out along the valley floor.  We came back via Navajo Loop, a lung-bursting ascent.  The monsoon held off until the very end, when a little fear of heights and slippery trails added to my breathlessness.

Back at the store porch for lunch.  The clerk who sold us ponchos was there with coffee and cigarette.   I said, "Look at this piece of junk you sold me," and pointed out the split hood.  He offered to give me a replacement, and seemed very serious.  The thing only cost $2.99;  one doesn't expect great things from an essentially garbage bag mit hood and snaps.

It's amazing to me that I went through this area close to 20 years ago, and now I'm living here.  It's all still there:  stars, rocks, skies, peace.  Clearly this is what I've wanted for years.

Domesticity in the mountains

A few days back, I wrote about the trauma of removing a squirrel from the Portland house. Now, I don't really believe in Bored Angels, but Something was clearly paying attention to that. How else do I explain the presence of a mouse in this house?

Yeah, I know, I live in the wilds, I should just be glad the foxes and mountain lions aren't besieging me. (To any Bored Angels....LA LA LA LA LA LA LA!)

However, it's always a little tricky figuring out an effective and sustainable way to deal with these issues. One point of living out here is to co-exist peacefully with the wildlife. Rodents in the house are a problem, though. There was a recently documented death from Hanta Virus in Santa Fe. C says that it's caused by exposure to mouse feces, and mainly affects people harvesting pinon: the mice have nests in the bushes. But, we have mice in the woodpile and they do get in the house, and we have to deal with them. The accepted method is a jug of water. This being desert country, the mouse is attracted to the water, falls into the jug, and drowns. C checks the jug (which lives on the kitchen counter in the main house) and tosses the mouse corpse out for the resident snakes. Or, in winter, the coyotes. So, a few days ago I sent this message to E and C (E being the house owner, and C being the Co-op expert on practical life skills.)

Thought I'd let you know, D saw a mouse running the perimeter of the living room. (Why do I never see these things?) I've put out a jug full of water, but so far there are no corpses.
Also, I've been hearing a knocking/rapping sound most mornings, but when I open the door I see nothing. So today I went around the side of the house and caught a glimpse of a woodpecker, pecking at the peak underneath the eaves on the west side of the house (above the door to "my" room.) It was huge, with speckled body and flashes of red. D said she saw a pileated woodpecker in the trees outside, so that's probably the same bird.
What shall I do? Is it causing damage, do you think?
 
C's Reply:
No damage by flicker/woodpecker. They are always around and create no damage -- they are looking for bugs and will roost each night under EB's eaves as they are deep and protective. They've been here for 7 years and can't do anything truly harmful. It's rather comforting to see them nestle in during cold weather. If they are primarily tan and have red underneath their wings, they're flickers.
Be sure to put the glass/ jug of water on a low bookshelf against a wall, with some way for a critter to climb up and do a swan dive-- a stack of books or something like that. It may take a few days but it should work
My reply:
Got it. Thanks for the reassurance. Are flickers speckled? Will check the bird book. Re: mousy... I haven't arranged the diving platform properly, and it's skittering around the bathroom, but tomorrow I'll put my engineer's hat on.

Of course, this was not the end of it. I arranged a diving platform of sponges and brooms in the bathroom and the next day I saw a mouse curled up in the jug. I was equally triumphant and dismayed: I so prefer the idea of a live trap.
A diving platform
And a pitcher of water: Non toxic mousetrap.
(I feel awful, though.)
A few hours later I nerved myself to deal with the corpse, and went into the bathroom, only to see it looking up at me, with its bright beady eyes and furry face. It looked like Ernest Shephard's illustration of the Water Rat.


I dithered a bit, and finally put the jug outside, tipping it over. When I next looked, the mouse was gone. I confessed to C, who said, "That's one lucky mouse." We both assume it will return, and I'll have to deal with it again. So, now the hunt is on for a deeper jug.

I told this story to S, who said they used a big plastic waste basket with 6 inches of water. Apparently, some time in the past, they found a mouse and put a yellow Sharpie dot on its forehead. The mouse, now named Yellow Head, continued to effect entry into the house and they continued to release it into wild until they finally found the entry point and blocked it up. As S said, "That was one useful mouse."

I don't think I have what it takes to do this.

Irritability

I woke up in Albuquerque and drove home in the dawn.  The sunrise was lovely further south:  feathery golden clouds outlining a sharp ridged blue-black mountain range.  Then the clouds got thicker, with wispy coverage down the slopes, and the mountain's outline went dim, merging into the clouds, which extended into the sky.  The rising sun kept climbing, trying to get above cloud cover, continuously edging it with gold, but finally the clouds won. By the time I reached home, we were socked in, the temp was 33 degrees, and the wind was whistling through the top story, where the windows are shut but not bolted.  (They will remain so until someone with a tall ladder comes by.)

This is fine with me:  I'm trying to take care of business in the house, and that bloody sunshine keeps dragging me outside.  Unfortunately, stormy weather brings out the worst in E.  "Don't you think we should bring in those chairs?"  "No, they've lived outside for 3 years, they are fine."  "But they'll get wet."  "And then they'll dry:  it just takes a short time."  "I think they should come inside."  "They are fine outside, there's no room inside."  "Just put them in front of the door."  "That's in your path to the bathroom."  "I'm going to bring in the chairs."

I put aside the crossword puzzle and bring in the chairs.  One is against a wall in the living area, the other in the shower part of the bathroom.  It actually looks okay, but I'll have to move it every time I take a shower.  And of course, there will be a chair shlep every time we want to sit outside.

Back to the crossword puzzle.  "We're running out of toilet paper."  "No, we have 8 rolls, I checked yesterday."  "We should get more toilet paper."  "We're fine for now."  "I guess E can buy some when she gets here."  "That's 8 days from now, there's no way we'll be using a roll a day."  "I think we need to buy more toilet paper."

To distract her from this topic, I set her up to read and reply to email.  That keeps her fairly occupied, with only occasional interruptions.  "I've lost everything I typed!"  "No, it's right there, see?"  "Oh, yes....but what's that?"  "It's the letter you're answering."  "Where's my letter?"  "Right there."

In between, I try to fix the cord to the Mac.  It is almost completely severed, and tape doesn't fix it.  So, I bring the laptop next door to recharge, and then start up the Dell.  And every time I try to open a site, I get the wheeling symbol that says nothing is loading.  I click on the reload button and go to the next site.  And click on that reload button.  And then back.  And then click.  And then close the window and try again.  And then click on the reload.  And....

I can feel my jaw clenching.  E gasps and calls my name, with a rising note of panic:  "I've lost the letter!"

At this juncture, a person with access to her wise mind would put on jeans and go for a walk in the now cloudless day.  But instead, I go into my room and start going through mail and papers and desk drawers.  I find a stack of things that need to be taken care of:  bills to pay or dispute, Cobra to be answered, the Sprint iPhone to be returned, receipts to be recorded and filed, tax info to process.

What have I been doing for the past month?  Clearly, not taking care of business.

It's all sorted and put away, still undealt-with.  E has successfully emailed her letter, and I'm trying to get motivated to do something productive or creative.  Or at least, non-irritating.

When the heart speaks, take good notes

This is NaNoWriMo, and once again, I am NOT writing a novel.  But, it's only right that I should pay attention to the stories that I am not writing.

E tells me about life in the depression.  She was born in 1915 and grew up on a farm. They had a horse and buggy.  She did the family ironing, including her father's shirts, using a flat iron heated on the wood burning stove.  They moved to the city of Bakersfield when she was 8.  Her father couldn't get carpentry job, and moved out.  Her mother supported the household because she was very good with the needle and "could make a poor figure look good."  Her mother was also a Christian Scientist.  After the war she lived in Germany.  She's been married twice, once to a chemist who worked in the radiation labs and played viola.

I've heard all of these stories so very many times, I could easily write a novel about it.

Then, there are my own stories.  I have travel journals for any trip that lasted more than a week (unless it was a Christmas trip home.)  I have the journal I kept when my sisters and I visited our 93-year-old aunt, shortly before she had to move out of her home.  There's my first trip to Europe with B, right after college.  The trip to Australia with K, where I met R.  The 2nd trip to Europe with B.  The trip to Italy to visit A and then meet up with V in France. Another France trip with V.  A third France trip, followed by a boat ride through the Channel Islands and a train ride up through Wales to Cumbria:  the Millennial Goldsworthy trip.  The visit to Yorkshire and London when my niece was studying abroad for her junior year.  Mexico and Hawaii with D.  Ad infinitim.

But now I'm not doing much external traveling.  This blog has been chronicling the internal journeys for the last few years, and I'm not sure how much more of that I want to think about.  Recently I sent extremely despairing letters to friends, even more despairing than the blogs I've been writing, which my friends and family also read.  It might be useful to have the journals to look back on, but what's the point in worrying people who love you?

When my sister E retired (early), she started keeping a journal.  It's more a date book than a journal:  she wanted to be sure that she had some sense of accomplishment, now that her life was no longer going to be scheduled around a work week.  My friend H (writer/reader extraordinaire) posted Lynda Barry's description of the 4-minute diary:

Why is it so hard to keep a diary?

IT ISN’T!

Keeping a diary is much easier if you limit your writing to four minutes each day: two minutes spent writing a list of what you remember from the day before and then two minutes making a list of things you saw.

I do a version of that, by posting pix and haiku regularly to my facebook account.  It's a way to let myself and others know that I'm alive, and that things are basically okay.   

C says I'm a writer, and have always been one.   But I think that I'm really a frustrated storyteller.  I'm not good at it, and I need a patient audience.  D used to interrupt me constantly, and then I'd be silenced and go pouting off to my morning pages or blog and spew out my thoughts, complete with a dose of whine.  That's not writing, though.  It's processing.  I need to feel like I'm alive, like I'm doing something.  I need to feel like I'm connecting with someone.  So, I blog, and I post, and I look for the comments and the "likes" and I re-read what I wrote a year ago and I think....have I progressed at all?   

At one time I kept my morning pages religiously, and I also ticked off activities from the online record, Joe's Goals.  These were more private:  only I saw them.  The morning pages were often laundry lists of things I needed to do, as well as things that made me feel bad about myself as well as rants about D or about work.  The goals were things like walking, knitting, origami, writing letters, tai chi chuh, practising, drinking 8 glasses of water, crafting, lifting weights, yoga....a mix of creativity and self-care.  It was like giving myself gold stars.

Now I'm at a place where work does not distract me, but I have nothing to say.  The stories really do depend on an active life.  So....let's see about that four minute diary.

• D came in at around 5:45 with tales of wrecks and horrible traffic in Santa Fe.  I determined to take 599 to rehearsal.  
• M gave me keys to the SF office and we talked about early music, the coop, and caregiving.  She said that it took a friend of hers a full year to get the caregiving organized for his parent, and that he wound up with two full-time caregivers.  Another friend had 4 caregivers.  All for one person.  It's a darn expensive proposition.
• I got the code to 1st presbyterian church back door, so next time we rehearse there I don't have to stand in the cold until another person arrives.
• Driving to SF in the dark featured a beautiful crescent moon.  After rehearsal, it was low and yellow on the horizon.

Okay, that's over two minutes.

• I saw the moon.
• I saw Venus, bright over the mountain as the sun set.  The mountain was blue-black and craggy.
• I saw rocks and dirt as I dug out rocks and continued to create the labyrinth.
• golden sun, blue sky
• a spider, drowning in the shower water (I took it outside, crumpled and dead looking on a magazine.  It was gone 20 minutes later
• dust on a picture
• lots of zits on my face.  :(

And that's over two minutes, too.  I seem to remember a lot of banal things.  But, it is proof that I am alive, I guess.  

Mighty hunter cats

I just heard from a friend who was up in the wee hours, monitoring her cat who was chasing a rat around the living room.  It sounded like a children's rhyme:  there once was a lady who watched a cat who chased a rat who hid under a hat which sat on the mat....

It also reminded me of a late night I spent with Bunji, my beloved tuxedo cat who died about 8 years ago (right before Simone came into my life.)  I had been lying on the low maroon corduroy couch, reading by the light of a table lamp.  The lamp was set on an old locked trunk which my cousin found many years before and lugged into the house to serve as an end table.  We never found out what was in it:  it was brass-cornered with teal-green metal sides.  The trunk was a little shorter in length than the couch, and was lined up with the couch's front edge, thus leaving a little gap by the wall.

This gap is important to the story.

Around 10 pm I got up, turned off the light and began to move towards the stairs.  Then my brain processed what my eyes had seen as I looked down at the light:  a round furry grey-brown object, wedged between the trunk and the wall.  Reluctantly, I moved back to the lamp and turned it on.  There, motionless, nose in the corner, was a medium-sized squirrel.  I thought back a few nights, when I had noticed Bunji crouched at the far edge of the couch, which was too low for him to get under, nose and eyes to the space between couch and floor.  I thought, great, he brought the squirrel into the house, it went to ground under the couch and died in the corner.

Bunji was actually in the room with me, and Yo-cat was upstairs.  I pulled out the trunk to get at the corpse, which then leapt into life, dashing past me across the room, to settle beneath the couch over there.  Bunji chased after it and began scrabbling under the couch (this couch is further off the ground).  I quit gasping for air and grabbed him, shutting him into the music room.

Then I stood and pondered the situation.

Here's the layout:  low maroon couch against the north wall of the living room.  Large opening, approximately 8 ft wide, into the foyer. Music room to the west of the foyer. Open stairwell as the north wall of the foyer, with doorway on the east side of that wall, at the bottom of the stairs, leading into kitchen.  Pantry on the west side of the kitchen, with a bathroom/darkroom opening to the north.  Water heater closet in the bathroom.  Back in the living room, another couch (which the squirrel is under) along the south wall.  Doorway to outside porch on the east wall, close to the entry into the foyer.  The maroon couch has a long narrow back that never got attached:  it's propped against the wall, on top of the couch proper.

I decided that my best course of  action was to keep Bunji shut up in the music room, shut Yo-cat into the upstairs bedroom, and try to herd the squirrel out the front door.  I positioned the detachable couch back along the opening into the foyer, propped open the front door, and took a broom.  One swipe under the couch and the squirrel shot out, running straight towards the barrier which he hit full tilt, vaulting it in one smooth acrobatic motion, disappearing towards the kitchen.

Following the squirrel, broom in hand, I observed him leaping from island to counter top, and I realized:  there is no way to herd a squirrel.  I called B, who said, "what do you think I can do?"  She suggested a live trap.  I dithered, and she got in her car and came over with some black sunflower seeds to help lure the squirrel out.  When she arrived, the squirrel was nowhere to be seen.  We eventually realized he'd gone into the bathroom, and thence into the walls, via the (sadly) open door to the water closet.  B commiserated with me, left the seed, and went home to her well-earned rest.  I shut the door to the bathroom, freed the cats, and went to bed (but not to rest:  I had a SQUIRREL in my house!)

Next day I called the live trap folks.  When they discovered that my house was over 100 years old and the squirrel had access to the walls, they informed me that I was doomed:  the squirrel would die in the walls and smell up the house and there wasn't a thing I could do about it.  But I went over, got a trap (at $20 an hour), baited it, and returned to the bathroom.  As I placed the trap on the floor, I looked up at the darkroom shelf and saw two beady eyes peering out from amongst the beakers of chemicals.

Half an hour later, I heard the trap gate slam shut.   I brought it outside, opened the gate, and told the squirrel to run free and warn his friends to stay away from this house of horror.  A few minutes later, I went back.  Squirrel was gone, story was over.

Bundled Up

As long as there's sun

We'll take our chances outside,

Thank you very much.

Projects

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

*******************************

 



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.

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

• 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.

A half century of "shoulds"

Two weeks ago I posted a whiny blog, which I thought better of the next day.  It's safely in my draft folder, and my apologies to anyone who saw it before I tidied away.  But that doesn't mean I'm not still feeling whiny.  I miss having a regular companion, and I don't feel like I've replaced the job of caring for D with any worthwhile activities.  As I whimpered in my weekly therapy session, I'm not living a productive life.

She asked, in her contemplative therapist voice, "and what would that look like?"

I was stumped.

I muttered something about my creative friends, and she pointed to my knitting.  Well, no, that's not creative or productive, that's just keeping my hands busy. "Uh Huh," she said noncommittally.  I said, I should be doing more, losing weight, focusing, connecting, taking care of business.  "Why?"  Because....I SHOULD!

Therapists are irritating sometimes.

However, it turns out it's not the goals she's taking exception to, but the "negative self-talk."  Is there anything that cannot be phrased more positively, without the S word?   Well, what about cleaning the house, not living in squalor?  "Why not?"  Because....I don't like it.  Okay, I get it.  Not "I should," but "I want to," or "I choose to."

Semantics, I say.  Not really, she counters.  It's the difference between putting yourself down and making a conscious choice.  So, here's the challenge.  Is there anything that is a legitimate "should?"  And if not, how do I put aside a lifetime of framing my life in terms of negativity and other's expectations?  Is it possible to eradicate a half-century of "shoulds?"

And Should I?