Fascinations

I was talking with R about a possible writing project. She asked me what I feel passionate about, and I realized that I don't feel passionate. I am fascinated by many things, but passions are beyond me. That's actually an ongoing angst/regret. It's part of my Jack of all Trades personality to be interested in many things, but unable to produce an excellent product. Still, as I age and I begin to become a little expert in various areas of fascination, I find that there is a product of sorts. I have songs and origami patterns and fudge recipes at my immediate disposal, for example. And I know a bit about wines, enough to buy or order something that I'll like. To my surprise, I realize it no longer bothers me that I remain a dilettante in all areas. I think I like it that way. In fact, I know I do. It's so much less work.

M thinks we fuss too much about things like passion and purpose. In her opinion, the activity of the moment is the passion. Looking at today, my passions have been eating toast and coffee, throwing a ball for Pekoe, cuddling the dogs, knitting, tutoring, listening to music, doing laundry, watching bad TV, and writing. Hmmm.

Facetiousness aside. I do get what she means. It's like the old adage: if you want to be a writer, write. Or, to be more psychological, your choices indicate who you are, what is important to you. The energy you put into a person or project is what gives it the meaning. "It is the time you waste on your rose..." in fact. I could take that silly list of activity/passions and say that my purposes are living a comfortable life, learning, creating, teaching, sharing and caring. It's a more generic list than the list of passions, but it's more encompassing. And the purposes can remain steady, while the passions change.

So, I make lists of my passions, or rather fascinations. I can choose to waste time on them, or I can be chosen by them. I deliberately don't say that I can be obsessed by them, because, again, obsessing is not what I do. Repetition, maybe. Many show up in blogs or Facebook posts: they have not been researched or developed, because that would be work. But if one can write about sheer observations and sound bites, here's the current list, which I shared with R.

• Details in art: feet, patterns, fashions
• Clouds and the desert SW Sky
• Pterodactyls and other fossils
• Ra Paulette: Cave digger
• Waterfalls.
• Columbia River Gorge.
• Wild fires. Climate change.
• Zozobra festival and burning Man and other traditions of burning
• Dia de Los Muertos, marigold parade, etc in New Mexico
• The tradition of the luminarias /farolitos: making them, setting them out, walking the paths.
• Chimayo and other pilgrimage destinations
• Stone circles
• Andy Goldsworthy
• Beauty and the beast, variations
• Jane Austen
• Dorothy Sayers
• Georgette Heyer
• Diana Wynne Jones
• Strong girls in science fiction

It reminds me a little of Tim's 20-something to-do list: esoteric and eccentric. His included math problems and learning to speak with dolphins, so he had a creative product in mind. He was ambitious. I am not. There is so much to observe and experience, and I think that I am at the place where I'm interested in learning for learning's sake. And, it's difficult to focus on one thing. That's why I say I have no passions: what I really mean is that I have no obsessions.

That being the said, it's clear that I am, in fact, passionate about writing. In some way, shape, or form, I write every day. The question is, can I take that passion and actually create something coherent for R's imprint? I'm excited and confused by the prospect. Excited because it's new to me and has the possibility of actually being a remunerative activitiy. Confused, because I don't really know what's involved.

I'm thinking, though, that instead of writing about famous people or that earlier list of fascinations, I'd like to write about extraordinary ordinary people, people in my family, for example. Laura Ingalls Wilder is the closest model: she strung her family stories into a series of books which, while not completely factual, caught the spirit and experience of that pioneer lifestyle. All families are a product of their culture, and they all have stories that fit into the civilization's big picture. For example: women's roles changed with the advent of new careers and innovations. One result was my aunt, who, as The Flying Secretary, raced an airplane across the U.S. in the Powderpuff Derby in 1965. Women's roles were circumscribed after the War, but many had to work to supplement family incomes as the children grew older and needed more support in starting their own careers. And many wanted something meaningful to do. My Mom went back to school after we kids grew up and later took her teaching experience and love of music to start a community orchestra in a small town in IL.

There were other historical events that informed family trajectories. The Great Depression and World War II left their marks on everyone, of course. Esther, whose first husband worked at Los Alamos, left him for a woman and then temporarily left her to have a child. She lived to be over a 100; in that time frame she worked as a censor during WWII and did a similar job for 3 years in Germany after the war. Her mother supported the family during the Depression as a seamstress and a Christian Science healer. In my family, the Depression was responsible for much roaming. My grandpa played in a jazz band in Chicago during the Capone years and remembered being present for a gangster confrontation. "Keep playing," one of the gangsters growled. Dad, who as a radioman listened to Tokyo Rose, was at Guadalcanal after the Sullivan brothers got killed, and was on a troop transport that took wounded from Okinawa back to the West Coast. Mom lived through the Vanport flood. Dad went to college on the GI bill.

Then, there is the entire immigrant experience. So many stories, so many people. I remember hearing of a woman in Colorado who went crazy with the loneliness and hard work, holed up in the homestead, and held off her entire family with a shotgun. While insanity may not have been the only response, my great aunt told us that Grandma married at a very late age, mid-thirties, just to escape all the hard work of the eldest daughter on a farm.

I think I'd like to research family stories, for my family at the very least. It would be an interesting way to combine my interest in history and my attempts to find meaning in the lives that are lived around me. People have endless ways of being and creating and just living: how do we grow as a people and as individuals? How do we tell our stories, to ourselves and to others? My aunt's story is particularly tragic, of course, but it's also inspiring in its way. Her tragedy is one of mental illness within (or created by?) a stultifying society. What leads one to paranoia? What series of frustrations and attacks and sorrows brought her from the bright adventurous pilot to the ranting schizophrenic? And yet, she managed to break the mold that had been set for her, at least for awhile. She was a fighter, and it was unknown women like her who set the stage for later battles, who provided the background for the Amelia Earhearts. Not everyone can succeed, but everyone can fight.

No, I wouldn't write this for R's kids' nonfiction list. And, it's probably not possible to find all the facts of these half-heard stories. But it is possible to set that scene, that history. It's possible to find the arc of the family story. Maybe someone will want to hear it. Maybe it has meaning, in the big picture.

Preparing to be a nomad

We put 5 more boxes in his storage unit in the basement of the building, and he fingered the chicken wire that separates his space from his neighbor's:  it has come loose from the staples that moor it to the flimsy wooden framework. Well, he had warned me that I shouldn't keep anything I really care about in there.  And I won't be.  He's put my art on his walls, the art that is not replaceable, and he'll be using my TV and air purifier once I finally move for good.  I figure I have about 10 boxes left to pack up and deliver:  1 of shoes, 3 of books, 2 of dishes, and the rest of clothes and odds and ends. Belongings that I care about are going with B to her IL basement, along with Grandpa's old slant-topped blonde wood desk.  Those belongings are basically paper:  legal docs, photos, travel journals.  The violin and some music will be with me, and that's the only thing I own of value, other than the electronics:  ipad, PC, iphone, and J's camera, which technically I don't own, and which I'm still debating about bringing with me.  The idea is to travel light, after all.

As I packed up the current batch of boxes, I wondered at myself.  Why am I storing this stuff?  Most of it has been in cupboards, unpacked boxes, and closets, unused since I moved to Ranchos de Taos a year ago.  If I haven't missed it in the last year, what's the point of keeping it?  I'm guessing it's a mix of reasons.  In the last 5 years I've already weeded out things that I am missing now, and I can't bear to pare down 58 years of a life any further.  It appears that I'm nesting now that I no longer have a nest, now that my life as a nomad is 5 weeks minus one day away.  My last day of paid work is May 11, and I'll leave Taos that night, to leave my car in ABQ with G while I go north for the sister trip.  Then back to pick up the car and drive west for my summer in CA and the start of my....adventure?  escape? self-indulgence?  Depending on the day and hour, it can be any or all of these for me.

Today I glanced through a blog by a young German man who spent three years traveling:  his was a true adventure, funded by many years in a high-power job.  I wonder what he's doing now.  There doesn't seem to be much since he finished the blog in 2011 and wrote a book based on the blog in 2013.  I wonder what I'll do with my nomadic time, and where I'll end up, and what I'll do then?  It's too early to retire, really, except that it's too late to start a new career.  I can't muster enthusiasm for much of anything but what I'm doing now:  eating, reading, knitting, and packing, and, the odd job interview aside, no one seems to muster much enthusiasm for me.  Am I both too old and too young?

No, I'm just too tired.

In some ways, drawing out the packing process is a good thing.  It's emotionally exhausting to find homes for this collection of objects, some useful, some sentimental, most neither.  It's best to do it in stages. But, what I really should be doing is exploring my current home, fitting in the last visits to favorite places, checking out the places I never got around to visiting: the murals at the Plaza, Fossil Hill, Millicent Rogers Museum, DH Lawrence Ranch, trails on Taos Mountain, Pot Creek, and, of course, Ra Paulette's Caves over by Ojo.  Not to mention a last visit to Ojo Caliente itself.  I doubt I'll do any of it ,though.  In addition to the incremental boxing up of my life, I still have a job, and I'm still taking classes.  Finishing those commitments is a self-respect-worthy thing.  Not only should I do it, I want to do it.

Still, I get tired just thinking about what I haven't done.  The weight of opportunities missed and days wasted is crushing at times.  But of course, there's more than that, and, looking over at G, I realize that my time has not been misspent.  I've had his growing friendship for 4 years, as well as the friendship of many other people, and I am now picking myself up and exploring options for my third act.  Five years ago at this time I was preparing for the move to ABQ, and the move happened on my birthday weekend.  I spent the ensuing five years recovering from the various losses, losses that were physical, emotional, and fiscal. This year, on my 58th birthday, I'll be playing with dogs, and enjoying Sonoma County.

There's not much to complain about.

The Vagabond Consultant

A friend asked me how to pare down possessions. Voila! I am now considered an expert! Truly, all experiences are building blocks for the next adventure. And what a wild and wacky structure is this thing we call a life.

Perhaps I will become a Vagabond Consultant in my new life. However, this blueprint is free to my readers. Enjoy!

First, you must work on your mindset. Paring down possessions must be a thing of necessity. Moving several times is the easiest way to do it. Once things are in boxes they become invisible. And, once they have been in boxes for over 6 months, they become unnecessary. The trick is to put them in the boxes saying, "I don't need these right now." Then, DON'T OPEN THE BOX! 6 months later, you take the unopened box to Goodwill and walk away with your receipt.

If you are not moving, you may not have the impetus to box things up. In that case, you need to find something else to give that necessary shove. Whatever your motivation, it needs to feel urgent and imminent. Do you have a new career that requires an office space? Do you need the money that renting a room would generate? Is your mother coming to live with you? Are you going to live with her?

These would be positive ways to effect the change. Or at any rate, they are proactive responses to life events like retirement, aging, unemployment.   However, sometimes you just snap. You quit your job, you divorce your partner, you have a breakdown. (In my case, you do all three.)  In these cases, the temptation is to walk away. And that is a viable alternative. But most of us don't have what it takes to walk away from a life, which is what the possessions represent. Sooner or later, you'll need to deal with possessions as well as emotions.

All this is just to say, you need the motivation. Just feeling overwhelmed by "stuff" is not enough. For 10 years, I wanted to create a studio and de-clutter my life. But the motivation was not there. Other projects always took priority. There never seemed to be enough time, even after I was laid off. Also, some of the stuff was not mine. There was a powerful push-back from D, who has hoarding in his blood. He wanted to keep things and to acquire more.

So, the other thing you need to do is get stakeholders on board. You must motivate others as well as yourself.

Finally, once you've established the mindset and coerced or jettisoned recalcitrant partners, you need to accept a basic fact: this will all take a lot more time, energy, and determination than you expect. It's taken me 2 years to reach my current state of living in one small room, and I'm not done yet.

Herewith, my trajectory.

I was unable to pay the mortgage in my Portland house, so I decided to rent the upstairs. That meant removing 50% of our possessions. I had an estate sale and netted around $900, including the piano. I pulled out the stuff I wanted to keep and put it in one room and left town while the estate sale professional took care of the rest. There were some casualties, of course, and some under-priced things, but it was done.

A few months later I got a job and moved to ABQ. I boxed up the books. One box came with me, 2 more were to come with friends, and the rest were to go in the attic. I did the same with dishes, craft supplies, memorabilia, clothes, CDs, DVDs, art. Some came with me, most was boxed up. Furniture was either used by tenants or put in the studio/shed. It was both harder and easier than the estate sale. What was left was stuff I wanted to keep (hard), but I wasn't telling myself that it was going away for good (easy).

When I returned a year later, knowing that I was going to sell the house and remain in a small apartment in NM, I put most of the memorabilia in my aunt's garage, along with some family furniture (like the immigrant trunk and grandma's spinning wheel.) The dishes and art went into other friends' basements, and I mailed clothes and some memorabilia to myself. I did not open up the boxed books, but the rest I did, and that was agony.

Some friends took a few things. The books went to Goodwill. Some furniture is still sitting around the house, awaiting disposal.  And, of course, D had retrieved his boxes, which constituted a good half of the stuff.

I still have to deal with the stuff in basements. First, I must accept that I'm a vagabond. Then I will ask my friends to have a yard sale or bring my stuff to Goodwill or sell it on Craigslist. And I'll have my aunt send letters and journals and pix: a box a month. I'll scan them and then dispose of them.

It's a mind game process, for sure. But it's well worth it. I just spent the weekend in ABQ, in my old casita/studio apt. It felt so Zen, empty of all the stuff I had crammed into it. That's where I want to be, eventually. Possessions just make me tired.

Yes.  I am a vagabond.

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.

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.

Fragile

10/4/13.....I wrote this some time ago, posted it for an evening, decided it was too whiny, and took it down.  Today, after writing about my next steps in this weird journey of mine, I decided to glance through old posts. It was sort of an attempt to see just how I got to this place.  Now, this post gives the context better than any of the others.  I've been spiraling for years, it seems.  It appears that it's time to stop spinning and just be for awhile.  Be a musician.  Be a friend.  Be a caregiver.  Be lazy.  Be broke.  Be there.

Here's the context............................

Last night I attended a performance of the Santa Fe Chamber Music Festival, one of their four Albuquerque run-outs.  It was excellent:  the auditorium acoustics were exceptional, and the players were simultaneously physical and sensitive.  And they played Brahms, which always works for me.  My companion is a fellow violinist, and she knew everyone in the audience it seemed, except for the woman with the intrusive perfume, sitting next to me.  She also had the chutzpah to spot 2 other seats, 3 rows ahead of us, and make plans to shift us there:  at intermission we moved to a place where I could breathe.  At the end, we were both jazzed and dazed by the performances.  We parted ways, promising to get together soon for duets and future concerts.  The future was enticing, full of promise.

It was also the first day in months that I was not exhausted at 2 pm, yawning at 3, and barely able to keep my eyes open at 4.  In fact, I was energized by L's visit the night before, and happy in my life.  I was re-applying myself to the search for a new job in a new place, and I was also figuring out how to continue to connect to the good things in my life here.

So, what happened over night?  When the alarm woke me at 6:45 am, I was prepared to start my routine.  Check out the e-mail and facebook, stretch, walk, shower, make coffee and toast, go to work, pick out the books for the daycare visit.  I read for a bit and then put away the ipad, poised to rise.  And then I realized:  all I wanted to do was sleep.  I didn't feel disgust for the job, I didn't feel stressed or want to avoid anyone or anything, but I didn't want to go in.  With very little pondering, I called in sick, asked J to call the daycare and cancel for me, and I went back to bed.

Except, I couldn't sleep.

So, I've been puttering all day.  Make bed, put away L's air mattress, rearrange the space, wash dishes, drink coffee.  The computer cord doesn't work, so I fuss about getting it replaced.  I finish a book. I notice that the cord started magically working on its own, and I call off the replacement and start editing pix and finishing up my blacksmith blog.  I hear from my realtor:  another roadblock to selling the house.  I talk to the lawyer.  T stops by with a DQ blizzard and keeps me company for a bit.  He leaves and I start reading another book and editing some more pix.

And....I don't want to do anything.  I feel twitchy and at loose ends.  I want to call in sick again, not because I'm physically sick, but because I'm sick of my scheduled, repetitive life.  Yet, I don't have anything better to replace it with, look at how I've spent today.  90 percent of success is showing up.  So I keep showing up.  I keep doing what I'm paid to do, people are generally okay with what I do, how I do it, who I am.  Why am I seriously considering not showing up?

I have managed that for years, and I'm like Jane Eyre, "I tired of the routine of eight years in one afternoon. I desired liberty; for liberty I gasped; for liberty I uttered a prayer; it seemed scattered on the wind then faintly blowing. I abandoned it and framed a humbler supplication; for change, stimulus: that petition, too, seemed swept off into vague space: "Then," I cried, half desperate, "grant me at least a new servitude!"

T would say I'm tempting the bored angels again.  What is the point of a new servitude in a new place? I have a reasonably well-paying job, I'm living within my means,  I like New Mexico, I have friends, acquaintances, activities worth doing.  I've had enough change in that last few years to last a lifetime.  A new job is just a distraction from the real issue:  I don't like who I am.  I won't go into the self-hating litany (why give voice to it?), but it's there, nattering monotonously.

I turn on music to silence the thoughts while I continue to edit pix from my iPhone.  Listening to "Fragile," I think about D.  He sang it at our wedding, while I sang "My ship." Now I think, what odd choices those were.  It's almost like a foreshadowing of the collapse of our marriage. I sang that all the jewels in the world meant nothing without my own true love.  Dave sang that we (and our love?) are fragile.  And here I am, without my love, without a lover, without the beauty and joy.  Fragile.

People I saw in Portland talked about how strong and healthy and happy I seemed.  I wish it were true.  I'm so tired of this game face.

Good luck, Bad luck: who knows?

Today Angela led meditation at church.  She started out reminding us of the old story about the Chinese farmer who didn't believe in luck.  It all starts with a horse.  (It's always a horse.  Or a horseshoe nail...)  The farmer does all his work with that one horse, and one day the horse runs off.  The neighbors say "what bad luck!" and he replies, "Bad luck, Good luck, who knows?"  The horse returns with a herd of wild horses.  They neighbors say "what good luck!" and he replies, "Good luck, Bad luck, who knows?"  And on and on.  The son breaks his leg trying to tame one of the horses.  Then, the broken leg keeps the son from being conscripted into the army.  It can been an endless story, because, as in real life, there's no real punch line.  One can't judge an event, because the context is too fluid.  Even if you have the benefit of outside observers, they are also caught up in the here and now.  Good luck? Bad luck?  Good choice, Bad choice?  Who knows?  It takes the historian to make the judgment, and even that gets skewed by factors like who won the war.

I am reminded of the year I was getting to know D.  One of my dearest friends had a Come To Jesus lunch meeting with me.  She talked about the crazy choices she made after her husband died, and she wondered if my father's recent passing might have something to do with my attraction to D.  I said, well, in some ways, yes:  he has lost both parents and he understands what I am going through, and he is supporting me emotionally.  So, was I making a good choice or a bad one?  She clearly thought the latter.

Like the farmer, I didn't know.  I had no idea if my choices were insane or inevitable. Who knew?  I recognized the problems with the relationship, in fact I whined about them incessantly.  My poor long-suffering friends.  When I finally made the choice to marry D, it was clear that the choice was neither good nor bad: it was a recognition of a fait accompli.  In fact, I didn't really make the choice.  I suddenly came to the realization that he had been in my life for several years, and that we were talking about long term plans. This was clearly the man with whom I wanted to spend the rest of my life.

6 years later, I had an equally abrupt realization that it was over.

And now I'm pondering.  I think the outside observers (the neighbors) would say I'm having a good phase right now.  But I'm not so sure. I'm happier, and sadder.  I'm more self-sufficient, and more lonely.  I'm settled, and transient.  I'm inert, and restless. I'm still figuring out what I want to do in life.  Was leaving D good or bad?  Who knows? I'm hopeful it was good, but in the end, it doesn't really matter.  It's part of my story now, and it will influence my future in ways I cannot begin to foresee.

Meanwhile, I need to finish the meditation that Angela has started, to pay attention to what I am feeling, physically, mentally, emotionally.  To curl up around those feelings and breathe.  And then, to let them be.

Discombobulation

My daily routine has been disrupted, and suddenly I want OUT.  I realize that I have been a civil servant for over 30 years, minus that brief 18-month hiatus (but even then I was working on call for a library.)  This is not a new realization, I whine about this all the time.  But for some reason, it feels more visceral than usual.  I'm almost ready to march into the Administrative offices and say, "Enough! Genug!" I am not visualizing it, I can almost feel myself doing it.  I smell that fug from the sewers and unwashed customers.  I see the beige, square architecture.  I blink in the fluorescent lights, I walk up the stairs, noting the art posters on the brick walls.  I skirt the doors to the offices, which are always locked, and open the swinging gate into the Customer Service office, smiling and nodding at T who is talking on her headset with some disgruntled customer.  I circle the offices, looking for the Assistant Director who is the most appropriate recipient for my message.

But I'm not sure if I want to Just Leave, or if I want to do something different.

On some level, I want to create my own job with the Library, one that utilizes my creativity, one that does not have me clocking when I arrive at my desk and when I leave for lunch and when I come back. This week's schedule is perfect:  work a Sunday, make up the time by starting late, leaving early, visiting schools and daycares.  I am active, and I am seeing different people and doing different things. I am not working 8-hour days.

But, I'm still clocking my time, mentally.  And therein lies the problem.

I am tired of working at someone else's schedule to someone else's specs.  I love the work I do, but I want to do it on my own terms.  I want to work with people who inspire me or at the very least entertain me.  I don't want to spend 40+ hours a week with unlikable people with whom I share no interests or goals.  Well, that's a bit harsh:  they are likable on their own turf, and we do have a few interests in common.  Not enough to get through 8 slow hours, though.

The last few days have been full of conversations and events that are somehow melding into one big decision:  should I go or should I stay?

1.  On this morning's walk, JR was talking about the commencement address she listened to over the weekend:  all about making your own opportunities.  Is it too late for me to do that?  The address was directed at people beginning their careers, and I am close to ending mine.  I could actually retire in one year, but probably should wait for 5.  And then I have close to 30 years more in which to live, work, love, and play.  What opportunity can I create for that time frame?   What skills or affinities do I want to employ?

There are so many options.

2,  Yesterday I was helping J cut down her dead tree. The sun was hot, but the breeze was cool against my sweaty bark-and-resin-covered skin.  The scent of juniper was sweet in my nostrils. It reminded me of how much I liked archaeology:  the combination of physical and mental activity was just about perfect. We talked and were silent; we clipped, sawed, broke branches. I was absorbed to the point of dizziness....oh that was lack of water and food.

I like it when I forget about those bodily needs, but my body doesn't.

J suggested I take my love of travel and become a tour guide.  Apparently there's a place in San Francisco that offers a 15-day course and then promises to place you.  At the very least, it would be a fun working vacation.  I enjoy those.

Actually, I want to be a travel writer or a wine importer:  travel to various wineries, write about them, buy up the stock, and bring it home to share with my friends and family.  How do I create that opportunity, I wonder?  Just visualizing or putting it out to the universe is not enough.  I've been doing that for 25 years.

3.  A woman who was on the interview panel for UNM-Gallup last year contacted me yesterday.  She is interviewing for a job with ABC, and we are meeting for coffee afterwards.  I wonder:  should I have accepted the UNM 20-hour position?  Or, should I have accepted the position at Aztec, a year before that?  Should I have never left MCL?  Should I have stayed in PDX?   As I think through those choices, I believe they were the correct choices at the time. But things are different now.  I don't think I want to move back to PDX, but I don't necessarily want to stay in ABQ.  It seems to me that what I really need to be doing is jettisoning the safe routines and the familiar surroundings.  I don't need the cushion of a civil service job:  I have a reasonable retirement.  I don't need possessions:  I have pared down my lifestyle.  And, I don't need to live in any particular place:  I have left my old friends, and my new friends won't miss me.

4.   J mentioned that I am used to having far more money than she ever had....a reality check.  M  is stranded in Asia, looking for work:  out of money, out of luck.  That is not my case, nor, despite the last year, have I ever hit rock bottom.  Am I too smug in my ever-cushioned comfort zone?  Should I be glad I have a job, any job, without fussing about being ful-fucking-filled, for god's sake?!

5.  Yesterday was the first Monday in 6 months that I did not spend sobbing and regretting and self-flagellating.  Am I well?  Ready to move on?

But what do I want to do instead? I kinda miss being a basket case:  it was easier than synthesizing experiences and thoughts and coming up with a goal.

What I need to do is get ready to go to work.  Today at least.