Last weekend I attended the annual chocolate and coffee festival in Albuquerque. You'd think the event was tailor-made for me, but, sadly, no. There's something about crowds of obese people, lining up for free tastes, that is.....shall we say, off-putting?
I also don't really have a palate for these things. I don't like dark chocolate, for example, so the whole 75% chocolate claim leaves me cold. I did taste the blueberry in the Ethiopian coffee, but it wasn't a selling point for me. And I was intrigued by the use of grass-fed cow butter in place of cream....it actually worked.
Still, there was very little chance to learn much or enjoy the process. I discovered that Whole Foods and the local co-op sold most of the products, which was a big "duh." I reaffirmed that chocolate-scented soap is just plain weird. You want to eat it, but you can't, and anyway, who wants to smell like chocolate? Not surprisingly, chocolate with chili and caramel with salt are still hot ticket items. But for the most part, we seem to have run out of ways expand the taste combinations. Someone capitalized on Breaking Bad by mixing waffles and turkey with chocolate. It reminded me of chocolate-covered bacon: two excellent tastes that just really don't do much for each other.
Maybe I just am not a festival kind of gal. There's a certain kitschy quality, not to mention a horde mentality. People roam around, looking for something to capture their attention, but it's all sound bites, and then off to the next thing. You can't converse with the vendors, because their eyes are roving about, and people behind you are pushing for a place. The quality offerings are rare, and there's a sad quality to those booths: no one is going to buy those things at that venue. Attendees don't even bother to gawk, it's out of their league. People with real money don't go to these festivals.
I prefer craft fairs, where you have a fighting chance of seeing something interesting, and where you get some ideas for your own work. But, it still depresses me. There are a lot of people creating a lot of kitsch, and even more people with worthwhile products that aren't selling. I remember when my friend M was selling her jellies and lavender-in-handkerchief sachets. She made the rounds of the fairs, and had a good time doing it, but it was mainly a break-even sort of thing for her.
Marketing and consumerism in general confuse me. I don't know how to market my own skills, much less a product. And I don't know how real artisans make a living in this Walmart society. But they seem to be doing so. Just today a German blacksmith was visiting the co-op, checking out the location: K wants a railing from him, but of course he can't afford it. The blacksmith said he'd think of something that was in K's price range, maybe work with a fabricator, whatever that means.
(It's funny, what a small place this is....I recognized the blacksmith from the demo I attended last summer at Chris Thompson's place.)
So the question is, how do I take something that lights me up, like chocolate, like music, like writing, and make a living at it? Do I need to? Can't I just enjoy what I'm doing, without validating it in a consumer society? It doesn't seem so. Even the non-profits for which I perform have to pay attention to the bottom line. For example, I have been recruited by the Santa Fe Chorus to swell their numbers for Beethoven's 9th. The group that I sing with, Coro de Camara, will receive $100 in return, while the regular SFC singers have to pay for the privilege. And I get no money out of it. But, because there is a product that people pay for, it feels legitimate. My other creativity does not.
Showing posts with label albuquerque. Show all posts
Showing posts with label albuquerque. Show all posts
Friday, March 28, 2014
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Hiding behind nuns
Years ago, I took a trip to Italy, starting with a few days visiting A, who was subletting a studio apartment in Rome during her first Fullbright year. She loaned me a fabulous DK guidebook, gave me advice about gelato (make sure it's made AT THE SHOP), suggested places to visit, and met me for dinner at fabulous restaurants. But the most important advice regarded Rome traffic: drivers ignore the traffic lights and your only recourse is to catch their eyes, glare, and assert your pedestrian rights while continuing to maintain eye contact.
I never had the guts to do it, so I found groups of nuns or school kids and crossed with them.
I've thought of this a lot since moving to Albuquerque. The drivers here are notorious for being drunk and/or distracted, ignoring pedestrians or actively running them down, and weaving in and out of traffic. There is no such thing as checking the blind spot or leaving an escape route or gap. There are two freeways that bisect the city east/west and north/south, and the speed limit is 65 mph, even in the heart of the city. Lane changes are abrupt, and I've watched cars essentially drive diagonally across four lanes to get to the faster lane or the right exit.
I spend a lot of time driving the surface streets or the frontage road: the drivers are just as crazy, but the speeds are better, as long as it's not 3 am. (One of my student staff said an acquaintance died in an early-morning motorcycle crash. I asked if he was wearing a helmet, but apparently he was going 100 mph down Montgomery - one of my main routes home - so a helmet wouldn't have done much for him.)
There are billboards everywhere saying DNTXT, and numerous commercials about people who died or became quadriplegic because they were texting while driving. There's a big campaign to reduce distracted driving, but I don't see much evidence of success.
So, it's especially frustrating that D is totally refusing to stop talking on his cell while he drives. He says, "I've driven like this for years, I can do it, we're fine." I grab the chicken bar as he swerves towards the next lane or bears down on the slowing driver ahead of us while he wrestles with the phone.
There are no nuns to hide behind.
I never had the guts to do it, so I found groups of nuns or school kids and crossed with them.
I've thought of this a lot since moving to Albuquerque. The drivers here are notorious for being drunk and/or distracted, ignoring pedestrians or actively running them down, and weaving in and out of traffic. There is no such thing as checking the blind spot or leaving an escape route or gap. There are two freeways that bisect the city east/west and north/south, and the speed limit is 65 mph, even in the heart of the city. Lane changes are abrupt, and I've watched cars essentially drive diagonally across four lanes to get to the faster lane or the right exit.
I spend a lot of time driving the surface streets or the frontage road: the drivers are just as crazy, but the speeds are better, as long as it's not 3 am. (One of my student staff said an acquaintance died in an early-morning motorcycle crash. I asked if he was wearing a helmet, but apparently he was going 100 mph down Montgomery - one of my main routes home - so a helmet wouldn't have done much for him.)
There are billboards everywhere saying DNTXT, and numerous commercials about people who died or became quadriplegic because they were texting while driving. There's a big campaign to reduce distracted driving, but I don't see much evidence of success.
So, it's especially frustrating that D is totally refusing to stop talking on his cell while he drives. He says, "I've driven like this for years, I can do it, we're fine." I grab the chicken bar as he swerves towards the next lane or bears down on the slowing driver ahead of us while he wrestles with the phone.
There are no nuns to hide behind.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Settling into a routine
This is my 3rd Sunday in ABQ. Since D is not here to galvanize me into motion towards 1st service, I spend the morning catching up on Facebook and e-mail and LJ. S has written some hilarious posts regarding Simone's first few days with them. I laugh out loud, but am not sure if my tears are from laughter or sadness. I miss them all so much, every day.
The littlest things trigger grief and nostalgia....
Yesterday the library had its bi-monthly Read to the Dogs program. On seeing the blonde woman walk by with the perky schnauzer, my first thought is, "Oh shit, my 10th day in training, my first hour as Person In Charge, and I have to deal with illegal dogs." I go to the desk to find out how this place handles service and non-service animals and then go looking for her. I finally run her to earth in the story-time room where 3 other dogs are also settled, and I realize it's legit. Huge sigh of relief: few things are more challenging than booting a self-righteous dog owner.
From then on my one goal is to get a chance to pet those puppies. I think back to Lisa, the golden retriever from the HWD RTD program: she would flop on her side and remain so for the entire 2 hours. Then she'd come into the staff workroom, owner in tow, and lean against our knees, encouraging our pats and pets and flopping again as we converged upon her. She would have stayed all day if we had let her.
The RTD coordinator comes to the desk to give us the totals, and I express my earnest desire to meet the dogs. She says sure, and I start telling J, my desk partner, about Carbon. My tears well up again, but I am steadied by J's sympathy and then a gorgeous springer spaniel comes up to me. Her owner says, "I hear someone wanted a pet?" and I am seated on the floor, cooing over floppy ears and soft fur.
You'd think being in a new place would lessen my yearning for pets and friends. After all, the routines and spaces they occupied are gone. I shouldn't have these deja vu moments of grief. Yes, a cottage cheese carton is a cottage cheese carton, but the rest is totally different. There should be no memory triggers.
Still, I do find that the new routines are not that new, and the new space is not that unfamiliar. We now have our second load of possessions in place, so there are familiar paintings and photographs on the walls, the bed and bedside tables are the same, we have the same dishes and clothes. The things we forgot (how can we live without the knife set? or the computer speakers?) merely accentuate the familiarity of the rest of our surroundings. My thoughts go backward, not forward, as I set up my home and routines. Yes, it's all one big memory trigger:
Sunday, church at 9:30, then an afternoon exploration. Monday, the day to take care of business. Tuesday through Saturday, work (the same routines and resources as any public library, just enough differences to keep me on my toes). Start the day with a half hour in the fitness center. Come home to a half hour at the pool. (Okay, these are new.) Help with dinner, do dishes, watch TV and knit. Go to bed and read.
Somewhere in the middle of this, I try to fit in e-mail and business, but I find myself avoiding both. The Internet is only bringing me grief right now: there's usually a message from someone telling me that I've dropped the ball or that I owe money or that I'm going to be sued (that's the upstairs renter), or that the house is falling apart or, or, or.... The fun posts on Facebook just make me aware of the fact that I am alone and broke, that I am disconnected from my joy.
However, there is hope. Today I squared up to the computer and found that I could deal with the ongoing tenant strife and move on to the good stuff. I didn't fight with D about money during today's phone call. In the past week I found myself enjoying my commute. The area is becoming familiar, the roads are not too crowded, and I like what I see. The Sandia foothills rise above me, beautiful against the big blue sky. The open spaces and parks and arroyos cut into the subdivisions and strip malls, reminding me that this is the high desert. I look forward to seeing the arroyos fill with water: Bear Canyon (Arroyo de Osos) is inches away from us, and I wonder if it can really contain a flash flood.
This is not home yet, but I can see the possibilities.
The littlest things trigger grief and nostalgia....
- I finish scooping out the carton of cottage cheese and look for Carbon: one of her joys in life was taking the carton between her teeth and carrying it to a special place, lying down and worrying at it until the last delicious sour milk drop was licked up. Then she'd leave it in the middle of the room for us to trip over.
- Last night I was reading in bed, and I felt so lonely without her warm bulk pressed against me, her snores and twitches testifying to a satisfying dream life. The loneliness is intensified because D is in PDX, finishing up packing and business, in between hosting CA friends and going wine tasting. Usually both pets would be keeping me company in his absence.
- Small creaking noises make me look for Simone, the usual source of unexplained sounds. I look for her to come in through the non-existent cat door, for her to be curled up on the couch when I get up, for her to join me during a bout of insomnia.
There's more....
Yesterday the library had its bi-monthly Read to the Dogs program. On seeing the blonde woman walk by with the perky schnauzer, my first thought is, "Oh shit, my 10th day in training, my first hour as Person In Charge, and I have to deal with illegal dogs." I go to the desk to find out how this place handles service and non-service animals and then go looking for her. I finally run her to earth in the story-time room where 3 other dogs are also settled, and I realize it's legit. Huge sigh of relief: few things are more challenging than booting a self-righteous dog owner.
From then on my one goal is to get a chance to pet those puppies. I think back to Lisa, the golden retriever from the HWD RTD program: she would flop on her side and remain so for the entire 2 hours. Then she'd come into the staff workroom, owner in tow, and lean against our knees, encouraging our pats and pets and flopping again as we converged upon her. She would have stayed all day if we had let her.
The RTD coordinator comes to the desk to give us the totals, and I express my earnest desire to meet the dogs. She says sure, and I start telling J, my desk partner, about Carbon. My tears well up again, but I am steadied by J's sympathy and then a gorgeous springer spaniel comes up to me. Her owner says, "I hear someone wanted a pet?" and I am seated on the floor, cooing over floppy ears and soft fur.
You'd think being in a new place would lessen my yearning for pets and friends. After all, the routines and spaces they occupied are gone. I shouldn't have these deja vu moments of grief. Yes, a cottage cheese carton is a cottage cheese carton, but the rest is totally different. There should be no memory triggers.
Still, I do find that the new routines are not that new, and the new space is not that unfamiliar. We now have our second load of possessions in place, so there are familiar paintings and photographs on the walls, the bed and bedside tables are the same, we have the same dishes and clothes. The things we forgot (how can we live without the knife set? or the computer speakers?) merely accentuate the familiarity of the rest of our surroundings. My thoughts go backward, not forward, as I set up my home and routines. Yes, it's all one big memory trigger:
Sunday, church at 9:30, then an afternoon exploration. Monday, the day to take care of business. Tuesday through Saturday, work (the same routines and resources as any public library, just enough differences to keep me on my toes). Start the day with a half hour in the fitness center. Come home to a half hour at the pool. (Okay, these are new.) Help with dinner, do dishes, watch TV and knit. Go to bed and read.
Somewhere in the middle of this, I try to fit in e-mail and business, but I find myself avoiding both. The Internet is only bringing me grief right now: there's usually a message from someone telling me that I've dropped the ball or that I owe money or that I'm going to be sued (that's the upstairs renter), or that the house is falling apart or, or, or.... The fun posts on Facebook just make me aware of the fact that I am alone and broke, that I am disconnected from my joy.
However, there is hope. Today I squared up to the computer and found that I could deal with the ongoing tenant strife and move on to the good stuff. I didn't fight with D about money during today's phone call. In the past week I found myself enjoying my commute. The area is becoming familiar, the roads are not too crowded, and I like what I see. The Sandia foothills rise above me, beautiful against the big blue sky. The open spaces and parks and arroyos cut into the subdivisions and strip malls, reminding me that this is the high desert. I look forward to seeing the arroyos fill with water: Bear Canyon (Arroyo de Osos) is inches away from us, and I wonder if it can really contain a flash flood.
This is not home yet, but I can see the possibilities.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Walking the labyrinth
On Friday, April 20, I got up at 6:30 am. I had a busy day ahead of me, with lots of driving. I was going to Dallas, OR, the county seat of Polk County, 15 miles west of Salem, which is 45 miles south of Portland. According to Mapquest, I had at least an hour and 20 minutes of driving to get there, but that didn't count rush hour delays. Since I was going to an interview at 10:15 am, I wanted to give myself plenty of time.
I left around 7:30, and got there at 9:10. This was not all bad. I had a chance to walk around the town and find the coffee shop. I noted that, right next to the library, there was a Mexican drive-thru, with handmade tamales. I promised myself to get some for D, who is a tamale fiend. (Any time we are in a town with a Mexican population, he is drawn to the women with the coolers. Speaking no English, short, middle-aged, straight dark hair straggling from rubber bands and hair nets, they are not particularly sales savvy. In fact, I am wary of street corner food, especially when I can't see the kitchen where it was prepared. At least with a food cart you can look into the operation. But it didn't matter to him. If the sign says Tamales, he buys them. And so far his trust has been justified.)
I was in Dallas for an interview, the fifth one this month. The first week of April I had 2 phone interviews: UNM and OSU. UNM invited me back, but I haven't heard boo from OSU. They were deadly dull to talk with, so I'm not sorry. Phone interviews are nerve-wracking enough when you can't read the facial cues. But there is a lot you can do to ease that, and the UNM folks were courteous enough to laugh at my jokes and explain the pauses while they wrote. Sadly, I had to withdraw my application: the job was part time with a low hourly wage, and the town of Gallup didn't seem to have much in the way of jobs for D.
The second week of April I interviewed with the City of Albuquerque. Another phone interview, and this group was also friendly. The job itself is exactly what I did at MCL, with a 50% pay cut. Since cost of living is about 18% cheaper in Albuquerque, it's a pretty big drop in pay. But I truly am in love with New Mexico, which is why I was applying there in the first place. The big skies, adobe houses, ruins, pueblos, rocks, high desert climate, sopapillas with honey and green chili stews....I could be happy there, I know.
The third week started with a drive up to Sno-Isle for my fourth interview this month, and my fourth interview there. As usual, I was more than qualified for the job. (And as usual, they didn't want me. I called them yesterday to check on the process and was told that, out of 80 applications and 9 interviews, they did not find a match, so they are re-posting the job. Lord knows what they are looking for. Someone who can balance a pile of dishes while tap-dancing and reciting Gunga Din, no doubt.)
So....Friday. I talked with the dude from the city, two upper level library employees, and a volunteer/member of the Friends. The job title: City Librarian. My experience earned me a seat at the table, but my guess is that the job will go to someone with an MLS. The woman who was interviewed before me was half my age (and therefore has half my experience), a little overweight, dressed in an unfashionable skirt outfit. She seemed pleasant and very librarian-ish. Lord knows how I seemed. I had a lot of questions about governance, stability, town finances. Nothing earth-shaking there.
Afterwards, I checked out the library. They are a store-front location, with a Senior Center at the back. Lots of wood, lots of shelves. Big tables, a reasonable number of computers, nicely separated kids area. The back entrance off the parking lot dumps you into a lobby where the giveaway racks live, as well as doors to the restrooms and senior center. I followed a possibly-homeless guy in: he went straight to the rest room and I never saw him again. The front door off the main street takes you down a long aisle, lined with 6-ft high bulletin boards and more giveaway racks. The room opens out at the end: circulation desk in front, children's area to the left behind the bulletin boards, adult fiction to the right, with magazine racks in the storefront windows. Non-fiction and computers are in the area to the immediate left of the circ desk, and the teen/media area is squished between that area and the children's section. It's a messy maze of shelving, all overflowing with books: some serious weeding and collection development would be in my future, not to mention some reorganizing. But, I like the crowded-bookstore feel, so maybe not.
I stopped by the reference desk, which is nestled behind the circulation desk, and talked restaurants. The reference lady gave a thumbs up to the tamales, and also promised me a fabulous shake from Washington Street pub, catty corner to the tamale shop. I purchase both ToGo and drove a few miles back to Baskett Slough. There I watched the geese and ate one of the tamales: still piping hot, nicely spiced, wrapped in foil and corn husks. The shake was not fabulous, but was quite acceptable, and it lasted me to Amity. I took the scenic route home.
En route, I fielded calls from D and from N. N was looking for a third carpooler to the RE overnight retreat at Menucha. I offered my services, and there was a fair amount of phone tag for the rest of the day.
At 2:30, D had his fourth interview for a sales job: this one was at a hotel lobby near Lake Oswego, and the manager wanted a chance to Meet The Wife and answer any questions I might have. D found that to be a positive thing. I think it's a little creepy, but I did like the opportunity to check out the job for myself. So, I stopped there before going home, and then I finished baking cookies for the retreat.
While I was packing for the overnight, I got The Call: Albuquerque is unofficially offering me the job. This means that of the 5 people they interviewed, I ranked #1. They are recommending me to the City Fathers, who will take up to 3 weeks to make a final decision. Then, I get the official offer and negotiate a start time. Thus, no giving notice or planning the move yet. And then I have a 6-month probation.
Okay, so now I'm going to a UU retreat, to confabulate with my fellow RE teachers and set the course for the next year. And my brain is whirling: I don't know where I'll be next year, I don't know what I want to do next year, I don't know if I want D to come with me or stay home and mind the store. I don't know if we can pull together for such a big move. I don't know if I can even afford the move, but I know I cannot afford to reject a full time job with benefits. My unemployment will not last forever.
I can't stop to think about this right now: I have to finish packing and pick up my passenger, who teaches the 11:15 5th grade class. I teach the 9:15 class, when I am not singing, so I've talked with her before. But I don't know her well. Now I learn that she's in a scooter because of CP, and that she has two Master's degrees and is embarking upon a third. She has a lot to say about accessibility, LGBT, and minority issues. She talks about her past, present, and future. I listen, and I feel guilty for my own unhappiness and stress. This is a woman who has dealt with more problems than I can count, and she is positive and creative and forward thinking. I know you can't compare burdens, and that each of us has unique situations, and it's offensive to reduce my colleague to the status of Brave Handicapped Person Who Gave Me Perspective. But liberal guilt, with all its inherent smugness, is part of my make up. Offensive or not, that's what I find myself doing.
Upon my arrival, I drop my sleeping bag on the single bed (no bunk beds for me) in the westernmost upstairs room in Ballard: this is my place of choice. It's furthest from the stairs, and you can hear the frogs in the pond. I realize I've left the toffee and cookies back home, and the D is probably gorging on them. Oh well. I grab a chip from treat table and make tracks to the labyrinth.
Menucha, in addition to having fabulous food and views, has this really wonderful labyrinth. The walk is flat basalt stone, lined with brick. The center flower is many-colored river rock, each color delineating parts of the petals, browns, blacks, pinks, greens, rusty reds. Rose bushes circle the space, with arched entrances to the east, west, north, south. Part of it is shaded by the surrounding trees, but the center is warm with sunshine.
A young woman is sitting cross-legged in the center, surrounded by papers and books, hunched forward over them, long brown hair hanging to the ground. She does not look up as I begin my walk, slowly circling back and forth and inward, thinking about Albuquerque, my newly renovated home, the difficult relationship with D, my exhaustion and depression, my commitments to people and projects and organizations, my finances. As I approach the center, the young woman deliberately gathers up her papers, stands, and walks off the labyrinth, due east, eschewing the winding path out, looking straight ahead. I am startled: I did not mean to drive her away. But I am grateful, for now I too can sit in the center and think.
I sit, I think, I empty my mind, I feel the sun, I listen to birds and the not-so-distance shouts of people and drones of yard equipment. I get up and walk out, still thinking. I bow to the labyrinth's center and say, "Namaste."
But I still don't know what I want to do. And, after 24 hours, much fun with my fellow UUs, and two more labyrinth walks, I still don't know. I don't think I ever will.
I left around 7:30, and got there at 9:10. This was not all bad. I had a chance to walk around the town and find the coffee shop. I noted that, right next to the library, there was a Mexican drive-thru, with handmade tamales. I promised myself to get some for D, who is a tamale fiend. (Any time we are in a town with a Mexican population, he is drawn to the women with the coolers. Speaking no English, short, middle-aged, straight dark hair straggling from rubber bands and hair nets, they are not particularly sales savvy. In fact, I am wary of street corner food, especially when I can't see the kitchen where it was prepared. At least with a food cart you can look into the operation. But it didn't matter to him. If the sign says Tamales, he buys them. And so far his trust has been justified.)
I was in Dallas for an interview, the fifth one this month. The first week of April I had 2 phone interviews: UNM and OSU. UNM invited me back, but I haven't heard boo from OSU. They were deadly dull to talk with, so I'm not sorry. Phone interviews are nerve-wracking enough when you can't read the facial cues. But there is a lot you can do to ease that, and the UNM folks were courteous enough to laugh at my jokes and explain the pauses while they wrote. Sadly, I had to withdraw my application: the job was part time with a low hourly wage, and the town of Gallup didn't seem to have much in the way of jobs for D.
The second week of April I interviewed with the City of Albuquerque. Another phone interview, and this group was also friendly. The job itself is exactly what I did at MCL, with a 50% pay cut. Since cost of living is about 18% cheaper in Albuquerque, it's a pretty big drop in pay. But I truly am in love with New Mexico, which is why I was applying there in the first place. The big skies, adobe houses, ruins, pueblos, rocks, high desert climate, sopapillas with honey and green chili stews....I could be happy there, I know.
The third week started with a drive up to Sno-Isle for my fourth interview this month, and my fourth interview there. As usual, I was more than qualified for the job. (And as usual, they didn't want me. I called them yesterday to check on the process and was told that, out of 80 applications and 9 interviews, they did not find a match, so they are re-posting the job. Lord knows what they are looking for. Someone who can balance a pile of dishes while tap-dancing and reciting Gunga Din, no doubt.)
So....Friday. I talked with the dude from the city, two upper level library employees, and a volunteer/member of the Friends. The job title: City Librarian. My experience earned me a seat at the table, but my guess is that the job will go to someone with an MLS. The woman who was interviewed before me was half my age (and therefore has half my experience), a little overweight, dressed in an unfashionable skirt outfit. She seemed pleasant and very librarian-ish. Lord knows how I seemed. I had a lot of questions about governance, stability, town finances. Nothing earth-shaking there.
Afterwards, I checked out the library. They are a store-front location, with a Senior Center at the back. Lots of wood, lots of shelves. Big tables, a reasonable number of computers, nicely separated kids area. The back entrance off the parking lot dumps you into a lobby where the giveaway racks live, as well as doors to the restrooms and senior center. I followed a possibly-homeless guy in: he went straight to the rest room and I never saw him again. The front door off the main street takes you down a long aisle, lined with 6-ft high bulletin boards and more giveaway racks. The room opens out at the end: circulation desk in front, children's area to the left behind the bulletin boards, adult fiction to the right, with magazine racks in the storefront windows. Non-fiction and computers are in the area to the immediate left of the circ desk, and the teen/media area is squished between that area and the children's section. It's a messy maze of shelving, all overflowing with books: some serious weeding and collection development would be in my future, not to mention some reorganizing. But, I like the crowded-bookstore feel, so maybe not.
I stopped by the reference desk, which is nestled behind the circulation desk, and talked restaurants. The reference lady gave a thumbs up to the tamales, and also promised me a fabulous shake from Washington Street pub, catty corner to the tamale shop. I purchase both ToGo and drove a few miles back to Baskett Slough. There I watched the geese and ate one of the tamales: still piping hot, nicely spiced, wrapped in foil and corn husks. The shake was not fabulous, but was quite acceptable, and it lasted me to Amity. I took the scenic route home.
En route, I fielded calls from D and from N. N was looking for a third carpooler to the RE overnight retreat at Menucha. I offered my services, and there was a fair amount of phone tag for the rest of the day.
At 2:30, D had his fourth interview for a sales job: this one was at a hotel lobby near Lake Oswego, and the manager wanted a chance to Meet The Wife and answer any questions I might have. D found that to be a positive thing. I think it's a little creepy, but I did like the opportunity to check out the job for myself. So, I stopped there before going home, and then I finished baking cookies for the retreat.
While I was packing for the overnight, I got The Call: Albuquerque is unofficially offering me the job. This means that of the 5 people they interviewed, I ranked #1. They are recommending me to the City Fathers, who will take up to 3 weeks to make a final decision. Then, I get the official offer and negotiate a start time. Thus, no giving notice or planning the move yet. And then I have a 6-month probation.
Okay, so now I'm going to a UU retreat, to confabulate with my fellow RE teachers and set the course for the next year. And my brain is whirling: I don't know where I'll be next year, I don't know what I want to do next year, I don't know if I want D to come with me or stay home and mind the store. I don't know if we can pull together for such a big move. I don't know if I can even afford the move, but I know I cannot afford to reject a full time job with benefits. My unemployment will not last forever.
I can't stop to think about this right now: I have to finish packing and pick up my passenger, who teaches the 11:15 5th grade class. I teach the 9:15 class, when I am not singing, so I've talked with her before. But I don't know her well. Now I learn that she's in a scooter because of CP, and that she has two Master's degrees and is embarking upon a third. She has a lot to say about accessibility, LGBT, and minority issues. She talks about her past, present, and future. I listen, and I feel guilty for my own unhappiness and stress. This is a woman who has dealt with more problems than I can count, and she is positive and creative and forward thinking. I know you can't compare burdens, and that each of us has unique situations, and it's offensive to reduce my colleague to the status of Brave Handicapped Person Who Gave Me Perspective. But liberal guilt, with all its inherent smugness, is part of my make up. Offensive or not, that's what I find myself doing.
Upon my arrival, I drop my sleeping bag on the single bed (no bunk beds for me) in the westernmost upstairs room in Ballard: this is my place of choice. It's furthest from the stairs, and you can hear the frogs in the pond. I realize I've left the toffee and cookies back home, and the D is probably gorging on them. Oh well. I grab a chip from treat table and make tracks to the labyrinth.
Menucha, in addition to having fabulous food and views, has this really wonderful labyrinth. The walk is flat basalt stone, lined with brick. The center flower is many-colored river rock, each color delineating parts of the petals, browns, blacks, pinks, greens, rusty reds. Rose bushes circle the space, with arched entrances to the east, west, north, south. Part of it is shaded by the surrounding trees, but the center is warm with sunshine.
A young woman is sitting cross-legged in the center, surrounded by papers and books, hunched forward over them, long brown hair hanging to the ground. She does not look up as I begin my walk, slowly circling back and forth and inward, thinking about Albuquerque, my newly renovated home, the difficult relationship with D, my exhaustion and depression, my commitments to people and projects and organizations, my finances. As I approach the center, the young woman deliberately gathers up her papers, stands, and walks off the labyrinth, due east, eschewing the winding path out, looking straight ahead. I am startled: I did not mean to drive her away. But I am grateful, for now I too can sit in the center and think.
I sit, I think, I empty my mind, I feel the sun, I listen to birds and the not-so-distance shouts of people and drones of yard equipment. I get up and walk out, still thinking. I bow to the labyrinth's center and say, "Namaste."
But I still don't know what I want to do. And, after 24 hours, much fun with my fellow UUs, and two more labyrinth walks, I still don't know. I don't think I ever will.
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