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.
Showing posts with label crying. Show all posts
Showing posts with label crying. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Monday, July 9, 2012
Schizoid Sunday
I woke up to the scents of coffee, bacon, and toasted bread product. D had been up for hours: he drove out to watch the sun rise, explored Juan Tabo, and then sat in the parking lot outside Einstein's bagels, waiting for them to open. He bought cinnamon raisin bagels and honey schmear. He toasted them to perfection, spread the right amount of schmear, made coffee, fried up some pepper bacon to the level of crunch I prefer (just this side of dead, please), put it all on the tiled tray, and sashayed into the bedroom.
He did decline to bring me the paper, and when he leaned over to give me a kiss he spilled coffee over the quilt. But these are small things. It was a lovely way to wake up.
We had a semi-leisurely morning before getting ready for 9:30 church. The ministers are apparently taking the summer off, as is the choir. So the service is run by congregants, and the music is provided by various small groups. Today's music was jazz standards, e.g., Irving Berlin, played by a clarinet and electric jazz guitar duo: quite lovely but I wanted to be sitting in a dark club, sipping on a nice red and holding D's hand. It seemed more than a little odd to be sitting in a pew, looking out past the altar area into the sunny nature garden, trying to create a reverent mood.
The homilies centered on the concept of "service as a spiritual practice." I pondered: I spend most of my days working in a service profession, and it has never felt spiritual to me. In fact, quite the opposite: after a day spent fielding other people's stresses, I feel drained and useless. Yes, I mainly enjoy my interactions with public and staff, but there is so much that doesn't work, both inside and outside the library. I want to fix it, but I can only attend to the problem directly in front of me, and I can only use the tools I've been provided. It does keep me posted on the cultural and societal norms and it does connect me to my community. But I don't think you can count, "Please God, don't let him come back," as a real prayer.
The other day, I watched as a new colleague reprogrammed a hot pink second-hand Nook for an octogenarian who had purchased it as a gift for his granddaughter. My jaw dropped when he handed her the gift bag and tissue paper, and it hit the floor when she wrapped up the Nook, flourishing the paper with a professional swirl and saying, "Let's add another one to make it look more luscious." And she didn't blink an eye when he gave her the leftover wrappings to bundle up for him. This does not constitute service, IMHO, nor is it a spiritual act. It was a stunning display of lack of boundaries, and a clear indicator of the dearth of connections and social services: didn't he have any family to help him?
I thought about that. I thought about the other colleague chasing after the young man who set off the security gates trying to steal a book. Why steal a book? There are no fines, he can keep it for months without repercussions. What caused him to fall to that place where it seemed easier to walk off with free materials rather than fix the problem with his card or do whatever was necessary to participate appropriately in a community institution? Why did my colleague feel the need to safeguard property at his own personal risk? Was he at risk? Was this service? Wouldn't true service be to find the young man some assistance? What do you do, when confronted with needs and boundary confusion that seem insoluble? How do you serve appropriately?
I don't know the answers, but I did decide it's time to find an animal shelter and serve there. It will be a true spiritual act to walk a dog and pet a cat, I think. At any rate, it will feel good.
After church, we had planned to get some sun by the pool, and then drive up to Las Golondrinas for the Santa Fe wine festival. Sadly, things didn't work out that way. The derailment began when I checked D's i-Phone for the address of Rebel Doughnuts: more grease and fat and carbs were needed before we could even think of the next step. En route to the map app, I found a text to D from K and an e-mail to me from B, and learned that all hell was breaking loose back in my PDX house. This put me into a deep funk, which I shared with D. Although we did get the doughnuts, I was unable to enjoy the weird ones (Rebel Doughnuts is Albuquerque's version of Voodoo Donuts.)
Clearly the first order of business was to try to attend to the situation, long distance. While I wrestled with e-mail, D began planting the tomatoes and basil and peppers he had purchased on Saturday. He discovered he did not have enough soil or pots for the job, and was on his way to Smith's. Ever the budget-minded person, I suggested we try the thrift stores on Menaul. While we did find Re:Tail to be a pleasant thrift store, no one seems to donate planters or gardening equipment. I found some much-need curtains for $4, and served my furry friends in that way, but after 2 fruitless hours of exploration, we ended up back at Smith's. It was frustrating: D loves to shop, but I don't, and neither of us wanted to be roaming the strip malls on a beautiful Sunday afternoon.
Planting completed and the house put in order, it was time to move northwards. The drive up was beautiful, but marred by disharmony between partners, the second time in the day. Or was it the third? However, the wine festival was fun: booths of wines, crafts, and foods, plus a stage of very loud hip hop, fortunately far enough away from most of our activities to provide festive, not intrusive, background music. We were there in the last 2 hours of the festival, and you could tell the vendors just wanted to be gone, but they were gracious enough. For $13 apiece, we got a tasting glass and free tastes at all the wine booths. We discovered some nice wineries near Albuquerque and plan to visit the tasting rooms in the near future. Most of the vineyards are in the Deming area, down by the southern border, so some day we may take a overnighter to the area: check out Trinity site and then drown our sorrows.
Dinner at Maria's in Santa Fe, and then a silent drive home: we can't seem to go more than 2 hours before a bone of contention arises. And instead of burying that bone, we worry at it. Stupid: it doesn't do anything but hurt our teeth, metaphorically speaking.
Once home, I found another e-mail from PDX. My home has been designated a pest hole, myself "white trash." Or at least my yard, which has always been a jungle and still has stashes of junk left over from the March remodel and J's painting work. It also appears that none of the leases and agreements that I have in place are holding up, and that will mean loss of vital income. But I don't want to fight it. Some of the unhappy renters are friends, and it costs money to defend against suits from those who are not. I am so weary of trying to keep on top of everything with limited budget, skills and time. I understand for the first time how people can leave cars up on blocks for months at a time. It seems that for every step forward, I get pushed back two. I have been trying so hard to take care of business, but my efforts are clearly inadequate to the task. It seems I haven't hit rock bottom yet: I need to lose my house and the rest of my friends in addition to my job and my savings and my self-respect.
Maybe I just need to embrace my white trash self.
I tried to read and meditate and get back some of the good times of the day, but it was all too overwhelming and schizoid. I bounced back and forth between joys and sorrows, and it took several hours to finally reach the middle ground of sleep.
And now I'm trying to figure out how best to spend the rest of my weekend. I have a lot of business to attend to, but am not sure there is any point to it. I posted this to FB:
Lisa says "yup." I think I'll follow her advice.
He did decline to bring me the paper, and when he leaned over to give me a kiss he spilled coffee over the quilt. But these are small things. It was a lovely way to wake up.
We had a semi-leisurely morning before getting ready for 9:30 church. The ministers are apparently taking the summer off, as is the choir. So the service is run by congregants, and the music is provided by various small groups. Today's music was jazz standards, e.g., Irving Berlin, played by a clarinet and electric jazz guitar duo: quite lovely but I wanted to be sitting in a dark club, sipping on a nice red and holding D's hand. It seemed more than a little odd to be sitting in a pew, looking out past the altar area into the sunny nature garden, trying to create a reverent mood.
The homilies centered on the concept of "service as a spiritual practice." I pondered: I spend most of my days working in a service profession, and it has never felt spiritual to me. In fact, quite the opposite: after a day spent fielding other people's stresses, I feel drained and useless. Yes, I mainly enjoy my interactions with public and staff, but there is so much that doesn't work, both inside and outside the library. I want to fix it, but I can only attend to the problem directly in front of me, and I can only use the tools I've been provided. It does keep me posted on the cultural and societal norms and it does connect me to my community. But I don't think you can count, "Please God, don't let him come back," as a real prayer.
The other day, I watched as a new colleague reprogrammed a hot pink second-hand Nook for an octogenarian who had purchased it as a gift for his granddaughter. My jaw dropped when he handed her the gift bag and tissue paper, and it hit the floor when she wrapped up the Nook, flourishing the paper with a professional swirl and saying, "Let's add another one to make it look more luscious." And she didn't blink an eye when he gave her the leftover wrappings to bundle up for him. This does not constitute service, IMHO, nor is it a spiritual act. It was a stunning display of lack of boundaries, and a clear indicator of the dearth of connections and social services: didn't he have any family to help him?
I thought about that. I thought about the other colleague chasing after the young man who set off the security gates trying to steal a book. Why steal a book? There are no fines, he can keep it for months without repercussions. What caused him to fall to that place where it seemed easier to walk off with free materials rather than fix the problem with his card or do whatever was necessary to participate appropriately in a community institution? Why did my colleague feel the need to safeguard property at his own personal risk? Was he at risk? Was this service? Wouldn't true service be to find the young man some assistance? What do you do, when confronted with needs and boundary confusion that seem insoluble? How do you serve appropriately?
I don't know the answers, but I did decide it's time to find an animal shelter and serve there. It will be a true spiritual act to walk a dog and pet a cat, I think. At any rate, it will feel good.
After church, we had planned to get some sun by the pool, and then drive up to Las Golondrinas for the Santa Fe wine festival. Sadly, things didn't work out that way. The derailment began when I checked D's i-Phone for the address of Rebel Doughnuts: more grease and fat and carbs were needed before we could even think of the next step. En route to the map app, I found a text to D from K and an e-mail to me from B, and learned that all hell was breaking loose back in my PDX house. This put me into a deep funk, which I shared with D. Although we did get the doughnuts, I was unable to enjoy the weird ones (Rebel Doughnuts is Albuquerque's version of Voodoo Donuts.)
Clearly the first order of business was to try to attend to the situation, long distance. While I wrestled with e-mail, D began planting the tomatoes and basil and peppers he had purchased on Saturday. He discovered he did not have enough soil or pots for the job, and was on his way to Smith's. Ever the budget-minded person, I suggested we try the thrift stores on Menaul. While we did find Re:Tail to be a pleasant thrift store, no one seems to donate planters or gardening equipment. I found some much-need curtains for $4, and served my furry friends in that way, but after 2 fruitless hours of exploration, we ended up back at Smith's. It was frustrating: D loves to shop, but I don't, and neither of us wanted to be roaming the strip malls on a beautiful Sunday afternoon.
Planting completed and the house put in order, it was time to move northwards. The drive up was beautiful, but marred by disharmony between partners, the second time in the day. Or was it the third? However, the wine festival was fun: booths of wines, crafts, and foods, plus a stage of very loud hip hop, fortunately far enough away from most of our activities to provide festive, not intrusive, background music. We were there in the last 2 hours of the festival, and you could tell the vendors just wanted to be gone, but they were gracious enough. For $13 apiece, we got a tasting glass and free tastes at all the wine booths. We discovered some nice wineries near Albuquerque and plan to visit the tasting rooms in the near future. Most of the vineyards are in the Deming area, down by the southern border, so some day we may take a overnighter to the area: check out Trinity site and then drown our sorrows.
Dinner at Maria's in Santa Fe, and then a silent drive home: we can't seem to go more than 2 hours before a bone of contention arises. And instead of burying that bone, we worry at it. Stupid: it doesn't do anything but hurt our teeth, metaphorically speaking.
Once home, I found another e-mail from PDX. My home has been designated a pest hole, myself "white trash." Or at least my yard, which has always been a jungle and still has stashes of junk left over from the March remodel and J's painting work. It also appears that none of the leases and agreements that I have in place are holding up, and that will mean loss of vital income. But I don't want to fight it. Some of the unhappy renters are friends, and it costs money to defend against suits from those who are not. I am so weary of trying to keep on top of everything with limited budget, skills and time. I understand for the first time how people can leave cars up on blocks for months at a time. It seems that for every step forward, I get pushed back two. I have been trying so hard to take care of business, but my efforts are clearly inadequate to the task. It seems I haven't hit rock bottom yet: I need to lose my house and the rest of my friends in addition to my job and my savings and my self-respect.
Maybe I just need to embrace my white trash self.
I tried to read and meditate and get back some of the good times of the day, but it was all too overwhelming and schizoid. I bounced back and forth between joys and sorrows, and it took several hours to finally reach the middle ground of sleep.
And now I'm trying to figure out how best to spend the rest of my weekend. I have a lot of business to attend to, but am not sure there is any point to it. I posted this to FB:
Since there is no way
I can get ev'rything done,
Shall I do nothing?
Lisa says "yup." I think I'll follow her advice.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
"What do you want to do with this?"
Two months ago I received a statement from my 401K. Since I left MCL in April, 2009, I have had access to that money. It halved in value during the recession, and I also had been using it to cover D's debts, my tripled mortgage, and a joint lifestyle that was beyond my means. In the past year the trickle of funds became a hemorrhage. Now, it's almost gone.
I'm still unemployed and so is D. My unemployment runs out in June, and the vacation rental apartment is bringing in half what it did last year. While I have cut travel and entertainment expenses by two-thirds, my mortgage cannot be reduced and I am paying over $600 a month in health insurance.
I face the truth: I can no longer afford my home or my lifestyle.
To stave off foreclosure, I either need to find a new source of income or sell my home. I cannot face the latter yet. Since the job search is looking bleaker every day, I have to find income somewhere else. I decide on more radical measures. Although I've reduced my living expenses as far as I can and still remain married, I have one more option available to me: I will rent my home, live in the vacation studio rental, and downsize my possessions.
I start planning the downsize. Step 1 is a heads' up to family and friends. Is there anything in my possession that they have coveted or treasured over the past few years? It's theirs. Do they know of anyone looking for a nice home, complete with live-in landlords and pets? Bring 'em on. Etc.
The support comes pouring in. I receive names of potential house-mates and professional estate sale managers. I get offers of help, a breathtaking gift of money, affirmations, condolences, and advice. I feel loved. I close my eyes to the emotional reality of this process, and I dive in. I tell myself that this is what I've needed for years, a chance to de-clutter and get out from under my possessions. I have let the sheer mass of things and responsibilities overwhelm me, and nothing gets done. Now I will be able to find what's left and spend my time productively. Or so I hope.
I begin a modest remodel to create a viable living space so I can continue to live in my home. I locate a renter for the upstairs. The revised plan is to live in the downstairs, sleep in the newly refurbished shed, and share the kitchen with the renter. The downstairs bathroom now has a shower.
The downsize is a bigger problem. D is a hoarder, and I am not far behind. We realize that we cannot face the choices inherent in managing a moving sale, and I cut a deal with an estate sale professional. For 35% of the take, she will take care of everything. We painfully decide which rooms will be off-limits during the sale and which large pieces of furniture will be sold. She begins contacting dealers and valuing our possessions. We start the even more painful process of deciding about the "little stuff."
From the start it's a nightmare. There is so much. I have lived here close to 20 years, Dave close to 7. The remodel is still happening, and that slows down the process of moving stuff. We start piling things up, but I really don't want to handle it all twice, nor to live out of boxes. I want to go through the house, choose what to keep, and put it all away in the non-sale rooms. D wants to go through and decide what to toss, and what to sell. It's a radical difference in mind-set, and our discussions are accompanied by bouts of frustration, anger, hysteria, screaming, and tears. I won't say who provided which, but I do start making plans to be gone during the sale itself.
Although I am adamantly not answering D's constant question, "What do you want to do with this?" I cannot escape the reality. I am doing more than selling off possessions. I am jettisoning my life. I have been a musician, artist, craftsman, traveler, reader. Soon I will no longer have the means to be any of these things, or at least not at the previous level. I am selling sheet music and CDs, instruments, darkroom equipment, frames, yarn, craft supplies, paper for origami, junk for "found-object" art, material and scraps, books, luggage, maps. I have also been a friend, lover, daughter, sister, niece. Everywhere I look I see gifts and memorabilia from these beloved people. Soon I will only have my memories. Some of these things are worth real money, some only carry emotional value, but all are worth more than any price the professional will put on them. Do I really want to trash my life?
I cannot be totally ruthless: I put snapshots and letters into boxes which I stash in the attic and under the stairs. Some day I will have to cull these as well. But 90% of the rest must go now. My wall space, closets, drawers, and table tops are going away, and I cannot store all the art, dishes, and clothing.
The last two weeks have been spent walking from room to room, sitting at dressers, piling things into bags and boxes. It's a little schizophrenic: in the rooms dedicated to the sale, I am bagging and tagging things I want to keep. In the rooms that will be off-limits, I am bagging and tagging things I cannot keep. D keeps forgetting which process goes with which room, and then he keeps forgetting that the stuff I'm leaving in drawers or stacking on surfaces is going into the sale. He says, "What do you want to do with this?" I say, "Put in the sale." He says, "Who would buy that (paperclip, broken glass, cord to lost electronic item)?" I say, "That's up to the professional." He says, "What do you want to do with this?"
I snap. I don't want to do anything with "this." I don't want to sell my memories. I don't want to sell junk, I don't want to sell valuables, I don't want to determine which is which. I want to pack a small bag and walk away, move in with my cousin in London, curl up in a fetal position. But, then I discover my expired passport. If I had snapped two weeks earlier, I could have taken that escape route. Now, I'm trapped in the U.S. Besides, I don't really want to leave my husband. I just want him to stop asking me, "What do you want to do with this?"
It's down to zero hour. I have stopped talking about why we are doing this, why we need to let the professional do her job, why we cannot keep taking things back out of the sale. D has stopped saying, "But we might use this." He snatches up one last pile of games he cannot bear to lose, and finally he's done. I wander around the rooms, looking for the mates to 4 shoes. I cannot find them, and I hope they have not been swallowed up by the bags that are in the dumpster I've rented. I do find D's "Rogowski box," a handcrafted wooden piece of art, given to him for his first wedding, and I rescue it. I know this should not be in the sale. But there is so much else. Did anything else inadvertently make its way to the sale tables? Conversely, is there anything else in the off-limits room that could be sold? I decide that this way lies madness, and I limp down the stairs (I tweaked my knee shoving heavy boxes with my foot.)
Now I am up in Port Angeles, staying with cousins while hordes of strangers tramp through my house, my life, and my memories, devaluing it all in the interest of getting a good deal or a quick sale. I have been trying to not think about it, and my worry over Carbon makes that easy. Her laryngeal paralysis kicks in during times of stress, excessive heat, or excitement, and she spent the entire drive up here panting without cessation, sides heaving, laboring after oxygen. I don't know which stressor is coming in to play, but I am facing the fact that yet another loss is imminent. I sit with my arms around my sweet old dog, sobbing. I don't know which loss I am weeping for, but I do know that grief will not disappear with my things.
I'm still unemployed and so is D. My unemployment runs out in June, and the vacation rental apartment is bringing in half what it did last year. While I have cut travel and entertainment expenses by two-thirds, my mortgage cannot be reduced and I am paying over $600 a month in health insurance.
I face the truth: I can no longer afford my home or my lifestyle.
To stave off foreclosure, I either need to find a new source of income or sell my home. I cannot face the latter yet. Since the job search is looking bleaker every day, I have to find income somewhere else. I decide on more radical measures. Although I've reduced my living expenses as far as I can and still remain married, I have one more option available to me: I will rent my home, live in the vacation studio rental, and downsize my possessions.
I start planning the downsize. Step 1 is a heads' up to family and friends. Is there anything in my possession that they have coveted or treasured over the past few years? It's theirs. Do they know of anyone looking for a nice home, complete with live-in landlords and pets? Bring 'em on. Etc.
The support comes pouring in. I receive names of potential house-mates and professional estate sale managers. I get offers of help, a breathtaking gift of money, affirmations, condolences, and advice. I feel loved. I close my eyes to the emotional reality of this process, and I dive in. I tell myself that this is what I've needed for years, a chance to de-clutter and get out from under my possessions. I have let the sheer mass of things and responsibilities overwhelm me, and nothing gets done. Now I will be able to find what's left and spend my time productively. Or so I hope.
 |
| The Master Shedroom |
The downsize is a bigger problem. D is a hoarder, and I am not far behind. We realize that we cannot face the choices inherent in managing a moving sale, and I cut a deal with an estate sale professional. For 35% of the take, she will take care of everything. We painfully decide which rooms will be off-limits during the sale and which large pieces of furniture will be sold. She begins contacting dealers and valuing our possessions. We start the even more painful process of deciding about the "little stuff."
From the start it's a nightmare. There is so much. I have lived here close to 20 years, Dave close to 7. The remodel is still happening, and that slows down the process of moving stuff. We start piling things up, but I really don't want to handle it all twice, nor to live out of boxes. I want to go through the house, choose what to keep, and put it all away in the non-sale rooms. D wants to go through and decide what to toss, and what to sell. It's a radical difference in mind-set, and our discussions are accompanied by bouts of frustration, anger, hysteria, screaming, and tears. I won't say who provided which, but I do start making plans to be gone during the sale itself.
Although I am adamantly not answering D's constant question, "What do you want to do with this?" I cannot escape the reality. I am doing more than selling off possessions. I am jettisoning my life. I have been a musician, artist, craftsman, traveler, reader. Soon I will no longer have the means to be any of these things, or at least not at the previous level. I am selling sheet music and CDs, instruments, darkroom equipment, frames, yarn, craft supplies, paper for origami, junk for "found-object" art, material and scraps, books, luggage, maps. I have also been a friend, lover, daughter, sister, niece. Everywhere I look I see gifts and memorabilia from these beloved people. Soon I will only have my memories. Some of these things are worth real money, some only carry emotional value, but all are worth more than any price the professional will put on them. Do I really want to trash my life?
I cannot be totally ruthless: I put snapshots and letters into boxes which I stash in the attic and under the stairs. Some day I will have to cull these as well. But 90% of the rest must go now. My wall space, closets, drawers, and table tops are going away, and I cannot store all the art, dishes, and clothing.
The last two weeks have been spent walking from room to room, sitting at dressers, piling things into bags and boxes. It's a little schizophrenic: in the rooms dedicated to the sale, I am bagging and tagging things I want to keep. In the rooms that will be off-limits, I am bagging and tagging things I cannot keep. D keeps forgetting which process goes with which room, and then he keeps forgetting that the stuff I'm leaving in drawers or stacking on surfaces is going into the sale. He says, "What do you want to do with this?" I say, "Put in the sale." He says, "Who would buy that (paperclip, broken glass, cord to lost electronic item)?" I say, "That's up to the professional." He says, "What do you want to do with this?"
I snap. I don't want to do anything with "this." I don't want to sell my memories. I don't want to sell junk, I don't want to sell valuables, I don't want to determine which is which. I want to pack a small bag and walk away, move in with my cousin in London, curl up in a fetal position. But, then I discover my expired passport. If I had snapped two weeks earlier, I could have taken that escape route. Now, I'm trapped in the U.S. Besides, I don't really want to leave my husband. I just want him to stop asking me, "What do you want to do with this?"
It's down to zero hour. I have stopped talking about why we are doing this, why we need to let the professional do her job, why we cannot keep taking things back out of the sale. D has stopped saying, "But we might use this." He snatches up one last pile of games he cannot bear to lose, and finally he's done. I wander around the rooms, looking for the mates to 4 shoes. I cannot find them, and I hope they have not been swallowed up by the bags that are in the dumpster I've rented. I do find D's "Rogowski box," a handcrafted wooden piece of art, given to him for his first wedding, and I rescue it. I know this should not be in the sale. But there is so much else. Did anything else inadvertently make its way to the sale tables? Conversely, is there anything else in the off-limits room that could be sold? I decide that this way lies madness, and I limp down the stairs (I tweaked my knee shoving heavy boxes with my foot.)
Friday, February 24, 2012
False Hope is Corrosive
I spent another day getting the runaround from various institutions and crying. I am now officially ready to throw in the towel, which I suspect is the goal of all involved. There are so many people in need, they have to have a way to winnow people out. But they don't want to appear unhelpful. So, they start with random rules. They advertise services and promise they will help people.....if they are eligible. The eligibility requirements are truly head-scratchers. Why does it matter when you last refinanced your house? (That's the one that winnows me out.) Or how much you owe? Or how much equity you have? Need is need.
If you can get past the eligibility requirements, they then set up a process to winnow you out. I've already described the mortgage assistance boogie, but there's a further twist: even if you do get to apply, there's no saying you will actually be accepted into the program.
Essentially, you are running through a maze. You keep running down blind alleys. Then, you see a run that ends in a doorway, the door held open. You see green fields, seascapes, mountains: whatever symbolizes freedom. You run towards the door and just as you reach it, WHAM! it's slammed in your face. And a voice says, turn around and try the other tunnel....see, there's a door there, it's going to open in 2 hours, just sit by it. Ooops, you're sitting next to the wrong door, it's never going to open. Try that door over there. Repeat again in 2 weeks. And again.
It's just plain mean. It would be better if I spent my time focussing on what I can do for myself, not on these phantom promises and false hopes.
So, next time I get ready to whine about my sad state of affairs, I will breathe deeply and think about what is working in my life. I will think about chocolate, fresh bread, the scents of rosemary and lavender, good books, classical music, strong hugs from people I love, making s'mores at the fireplace....there are so many things to bring joy, and few of them require much effort to acquire.
As Scarlett says, "Tomorrow is another day."
If you can get past the eligibility requirements, they then set up a process to winnow you out. I've already described the mortgage assistance boogie, but there's a further twist: even if you do get to apply, there's no saying you will actually be accepted into the program.
Essentially, you are running through a maze. You keep running down blind alleys. Then, you see a run that ends in a doorway, the door held open. You see green fields, seascapes, mountains: whatever symbolizes freedom. You run towards the door and just as you reach it, WHAM! it's slammed in your face. And a voice says, turn around and try the other tunnel....see, there's a door there, it's going to open in 2 hours, just sit by it. Ooops, you're sitting next to the wrong door, it's never going to open. Try that door over there. Repeat again in 2 weeks. And again.
It's just plain mean. It would be better if I spent my time focussing on what I can do for myself, not on these phantom promises and false hopes.
So, next time I get ready to whine about my sad state of affairs, I will breathe deeply and think about what is working in my life. I will think about chocolate, fresh bread, the scents of rosemary and lavender, good books, classical music, strong hugs from people I love, making s'mores at the fireplace....there are so many things to bring joy, and few of them require much effort to acquire.
As Scarlett says, "Tomorrow is another day."
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
"You don't play the violin"
We were in my living room, practicing for the first time. We had been asked to provide background music for the church book sale, the Friday night "members-only" event. She had located the music, waltzes and reels bound into a spiral notebook format. Some simplified Strauss and Lehar, some American fiddle classics I recognized from music nights at A's. It was transcribed for cello and violin, both parts on the same page. I had looked through about half of it: easy stuff, I could sight-read it all, if not play up to tempo. I made a copy for myself, sent her a few pieces of my own music, and we set up the first rehearsal.
The night did not start out well. I've been in more of a funk than usual, fighting with D, making piles of clothes that no longer fit my fat body, planning the downsize and remodel, doing housework, lying on the couch knitting and watching Judge Judy, Leverage, and NCIS reruns. Yesterday I did get out for an early morning walk and meditation (more about that another time.) And I planted the bagged, bare-root natives I had picked up on Saturday, praying that the upcoming storm would water them back from the dead. The day was not a total loss, but I was still in a funk.
So, I was unprepared for the rehearsal I myself had set up. Looking through my e-mail, I came across hers: "Where's your address, oh there it is, see you in a few hours." Oy. I sent a quick reply: "Sounds good, give me a call when you get here and I'll come out to light your way." The path lights have been burned out for months, just one brave little bulb to fight the darkness and show the way. And, we have a guest in the front studio, which seems the obvious entry point.
Sure enough, she comes to the front door. I'm set up, practicing in the living room, and I hear a knock at the communicating door to the studio. Our guest calls to me that I have a visitor. I heave aside the second communicating door (soon to be attached properly), and am just in time to see K's back as she disappears out the front gate. Grabbing a flashlight, I scurry out front, calling her name. She is nowhere to be seen. I wait a bit, calling and looking.
I'm back in the living room, searching for her phone number, when I hear another knock. This time, I bow to the inevitable and let K in through the studio. Our guest is gracious (she is on her way out for the night.)
We get set up, and the first hint of trouble arises: she insists that I use her electric tuner for each string. I have never used a tuner. I usually get the A and then tune the strings to each other by ear. I wrestle with the tuner. It tells me I'm sharp when I think I'm just right. I work my way up and down the strings, trying to figure it out. Apparently the problem is that I am not bowing properly. I am given a little lesson in bowing.
We start playing. I am sight-reading, just wanting to get a sense of the piece, and I am missing notes and rhythms. She is interrupting to make me do it right, she is telling me how to bow, how to play, how to match her style. She asks if I know 3rd position or can find a way to not cross strings so much. This is all basic stuff. I feel like a fourth grader with an impatient teacher. I say, let's try one of the waltzes. Oy, this one has notes high up on the E string. I am missing them. We struggle through and she says, "This isn't going to work. You don't play the violin."
Now, I am not enjoying playing with her, so I don't understand what happens next. I feel a warm tingling pain deep at my core, like I've received a body blow without noticing it and am now dealing with the aftermath. I give a wobbly smile and say, "Okay, I understand." She goes on about how she likes me personally, but she's a performer and I am not. I mutter something about having played since 4th grade and mention my 30 years' experience playing in orchestras, and she waves that aside: she is a professional and cannot work with an obvious amateur. I say again, "I understand," and she says, "Are you going to cry when I leave?" I say, "Probably."
I am struggling with the awkwardness of getting this woman, whom I like, out of my house. She wants to regain a social footing. "Can I see your house? D is so proud of it." No, you cannot see my house, it's in disarray, we are packing for an estate sale and prepping to move out. She has forgotten about my unemployment and is shocked: "You read about this happening to people, I didn't realize you were One Of Them." The tears I have been forcing back break loose.
This is a nightmare.
But I still don't understand the visceral response. I haven't played violin for several years now, other than little get-togethers with friends. I've never pretended to be a professional. I've never, I thought, had my ego attached to being a musician: it's just something I do, something I love, something I am. I've always had talent enough to get through, and usually that's enough for me. Work at it? Not me. So why did her words strike at my core? Why did I spend the rest of the evening curled around the aching spot in my chest? Why am I crying this morning?
I think I am just tired of the body blows.
The night did not start out well. I've been in more of a funk than usual, fighting with D, making piles of clothes that no longer fit my fat body, planning the downsize and remodel, doing housework, lying on the couch knitting and watching Judge Judy, Leverage, and NCIS reruns. Yesterday I did get out for an early morning walk and meditation (more about that another time.) And I planted the bagged, bare-root natives I had picked up on Saturday, praying that the upcoming storm would water them back from the dead. The day was not a total loss, but I was still in a funk.
So, I was unprepared for the rehearsal I myself had set up. Looking through my e-mail, I came across hers: "Where's your address, oh there it is, see you in a few hours." Oy. I sent a quick reply: "Sounds good, give me a call when you get here and I'll come out to light your way." The path lights have been burned out for months, just one brave little bulb to fight the darkness and show the way. And, we have a guest in the front studio, which seems the obvious entry point.
Sure enough, she comes to the front door. I'm set up, practicing in the living room, and I hear a knock at the communicating door to the studio. Our guest calls to me that I have a visitor. I heave aside the second communicating door (soon to be attached properly), and am just in time to see K's back as she disappears out the front gate. Grabbing a flashlight, I scurry out front, calling her name. She is nowhere to be seen. I wait a bit, calling and looking.
I'm back in the living room, searching for her phone number, when I hear another knock. This time, I bow to the inevitable and let K in through the studio. Our guest is gracious (she is on her way out for the night.)
We get set up, and the first hint of trouble arises: she insists that I use her electric tuner for each string. I have never used a tuner. I usually get the A and then tune the strings to each other by ear. I wrestle with the tuner. It tells me I'm sharp when I think I'm just right. I work my way up and down the strings, trying to figure it out. Apparently the problem is that I am not bowing properly. I am given a little lesson in bowing.
We start playing. I am sight-reading, just wanting to get a sense of the piece, and I am missing notes and rhythms. She is interrupting to make me do it right, she is telling me how to bow, how to play, how to match her style. She asks if I know 3rd position or can find a way to not cross strings so much. This is all basic stuff. I feel like a fourth grader with an impatient teacher. I say, let's try one of the waltzes. Oy, this one has notes high up on the E string. I am missing them. We struggle through and she says, "This isn't going to work. You don't play the violin."
Now, I am not enjoying playing with her, so I don't understand what happens next. I feel a warm tingling pain deep at my core, like I've received a body blow without noticing it and am now dealing with the aftermath. I give a wobbly smile and say, "Okay, I understand." She goes on about how she likes me personally, but she's a performer and I am not. I mutter something about having played since 4th grade and mention my 30 years' experience playing in orchestras, and she waves that aside: she is a professional and cannot work with an obvious amateur. I say again, "I understand," and she says, "Are you going to cry when I leave?" I say, "Probably."
I am struggling with the awkwardness of getting this woman, whom I like, out of my house. She wants to regain a social footing. "Can I see your house? D is so proud of it." No, you cannot see my house, it's in disarray, we are packing for an estate sale and prepping to move out. She has forgotten about my unemployment and is shocked: "You read about this happening to people, I didn't realize you were One Of Them." The tears I have been forcing back break loose.
This is a nightmare.
But I still don't understand the visceral response. I haven't played violin for several years now, other than little get-togethers with friends. I've never pretended to be a professional. I've never, I thought, had my ego attached to being a musician: it's just something I do, something I love, something I am. I've always had talent enough to get through, and usually that's enough for me. Work at it? Not me. So why did her words strike at my core? Why did I spend the rest of the evening curled around the aching spot in my chest? Why am I crying this morning?
I think I am just tired of the body blows.
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