Easter morning

So many of my friends are heathens like me, that it is a surprise to log into FB and discover other friends  commenting on Christian joys and sunrise services.  I used to be in sync with that.  I remember in previous years going to church and singing Easter hymns in four-part harmony, looking at the lilies by the altar, enjoying the pastels and veiled hats and really cute little girls in little white shoes and stockings with lacy tops.  I used to decorate Easter eggs and take pix of them among the garden flowers.  I created origami baskets and filled them with Whopper Robin's Eggs for the family.  I harvested spring herbs for special omelets, and I made breakfast breads with cinnamon and raisins.  I was into it.

But today I am celebrating a quieter, less domestic, less-communal sort of re-birth.  I want to bring myself back to life, and that needs to happen alone.

It's a rocky path, though.  I woke at 5 and listened to the birds singing in anticipation of the dawn.  I put on a robe and went outside:  the air was cool, springlike, almost balmy.  I felt almost too warm in my fuzzy yellow robe.  The scent of some flower drifted past on a fresh early morning breeze, a light caress.  Daphne?  Lilac?  Something spicy, something sweet, something uplifting.  I breathed it in, sensing the serenity of the morning, but my eyes were still gritty and wanted to close, so I went back to bed and had an AWFUL dream about shopping for antiques, paying $75 for a broken box, and somehow upsetting two of my sisters.  I woke up and decided to start this day differently.  D is at the beach with his men's group, I have the shedroom to myself.  I will turn things around, do some Qi Gong, some Tai Chi Chuh, make some coffee, snuggle with my dog.

And it works.  The neighborhood is quiet, and my shedroom is like a little cabin in the woods.  My urban cabin:  I love it so much.  The light streams through the skylights, and I look east over my garden while I practise and putter about the little kitchen area.  The cat leaps to the window ledge and watches me.  She doesn't seem to want in, she is companionable but not snuggly today.

I realize that what I really want is to go back to where I was 20 years ago, living in a one-room converted milk barn.  Back then, I walked across the driveway to the big house to take my shower, and it was perfect:  I figured out what the weather was and planned my clothing while I washed away the sleep.  My house felt connected to the earth and sky, and I felt connected, too.  I read A LOT and listened to music.  I went for long walks with the landlord's dog, and spent a lot of time with friends.  I put a darkroom in the landlord's laundry room.   I had everything I needed.  I was serene, content.

My shedroom feels very similar:  I start every day with a stroll through my garden.  I walk around the house to shower, do laundry, use the bathroom, watch TV, use the kitchen.   I don't need those last three, at least not often.  My kitchenette is sufficient for the basics, TV is a time and brain drain, and once the composting toilet is installed, I am set for most daily living.  The big problem is that I cannot really go back to this simpler life and still live with D.  The shedroom is too small for two, and he can't live without the amenities.  It's really a space built with my needs in mind.  He likes it, but only on limited terms.

It's been a tough spring, a tough year, a tough time all around, and not just for me.   In general, I know how lucky I have been, how supported.  I still have my home, my family, my friends, my pets, my sanity, my health, my work.  Basically.  There have been stresses on all of these, and I find myself bone-tired by 9 pm, every day.  I don't answer phone calls, I don't go to choir or music night, I hurt people's feelings, I hide from them and the consequences of my actions.  I lose track of my keys, my phone charger, and my checkbook.  (I'm still looking for my keys.)  There is no rhythm to my days, and I haven't meditated or practised Tai Chi Chuh or violin or viola da gamba since.....I can't recall when.

The home is evolving, and it's an ongoing process:  working with the new tenants, trying to keep the airbnb going, still painting the house and fixing up the yard.  There's some remodeling left to do, and some reorganizing and de-cluttering (who knew we had so many pictures?  books?  vitamins?  bottles of cortisone cream?  ditto of lotion and shampoo?)  Every day has a big project attached to it, sometimes two.   Order is slowly being wrought out of the chaos, but it feels like it's taking too long.  I yearn for a stable environment.  I miss my friends.  I miss myself.

But, I do seem to have the remnants of hope to build upon.  I have proof, in fact.  Recently I sent this message to a friend who was checking up on me:

Thanks! The sale is over and garnered almost enough income to cover vet emergencies and paint and floor refinishing! We had spent a week trying to toss things, and then left the sale to the professional and skipped town to recover. The sale was 3/24-25.

We went up to Port Angeles to visit Dave's wonderful cousins, and Carbon's laryngeal paralysis kicked in....after one hour on the way home it was so bad we stopped at the nearest clinic. 3 hours later, after several shots, and oxygen treatment, we were on our way, only to stop yet again to spend the night at a Motel 6. Total cost, for all of this, $400.

It's really scary to hear your sweet old dog panting for breath for 5 hours straight. No more road trips for her.

Then we got home and found Simone had an abscess. It was so bad they put in a drain. She's a tuxedo cat, and it looks like a grotesque bow tie. It stays in for 72 hours, which means an RCA victor collar and being sequestered inside. When I put the collar on her, she backed into a corner, eyes round with fright, and refused to eat or drink. We left her in the living room over night, and in the morning she greeted me sans collar and made a bolt for the outdoors. But, we've managed to keep her fairly well contained, and she's leaving the drain alone, so such is life. She really is quite sweet, and doesn't fight me too much over all this unnatural treatment.

Cost for that, $170. It would have been closer to $700, but I got a wellness plan last year when she had what has become her annual spring abscess.

Amongst all of this, I decided that, while the rooms were empty, we really should refinish the floors and paint the walls before the new housemates move in. That's tomorrow. Needless to say, we are not meeting that deadline. Cost for floors, $500. Cost for paint, $350. Will be working with the housemates to finish up.

We made $1375 on the sale. You do the math!

I spent today reorganizing the entire kitchen and clearing away the grime of 20 years, prepping for a shared kitchen. The floor guys came today, so it was the only room we could access. Fortunately, the shed room remodel is basically done, and we can sleep and rest out there. We put Carbon and Simone out there to keep them away from the chaos.

During all of it, I've been bickering with D. It makes me so sad that we don't always pull together.  This work could be fun, or at least a way to build closeness.  Instead we argue about what to do and how to do it.  The moments of consensus emphasize the disconnects, and I can't seem to focus on the positives.

On the plus side, the various changes to my homestead are wonderful, and once the final arrangements are made, it'll be a huge relief. I've needed to declutter for a long time. I really like my little shed. It's like a cabin, with a peaked roof, roses peeping in the windows, rain on the skylights, a little kitchenette, and a shuttered closet. The only thing it lacks is a bathroom. We're adding an outhouse next week, and regular bathroom stuff will be in the main house. Reminds me of my days in the milk barn on Taylor's Ferry Road. 

Still, I'm doing okay. Still interviewing for library gigs, still renting the studio for airbnb, still working on call, still wishing for a new career. Looks like innkeeper or landlord is the most likely. At any rate, I'll try not to let you all down. I hope you are right about my ability to ride this out. It's pretty exhausting right now.

Okay, so, the remnants of hope are a little tattered.

A sore throat is not poetic

I grow old, I grow old.
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Over 30 years ago, I read The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, and the words have followed me around ever since.  At the first reading, of course, I could not possibly understand what Eliot was going on about.  I had not met commitment-phobes.  I had not attended the empty cocktail parties, and I was at the beginning of my life's business of figuring out how to make a difference.  While I never thought I would live a life of passionate meaning, I did not fear that my beautiful life would be a conglomeration of dreary moments.  But now, I do fear.  I count the meaningless, passionless accumulations, and I wonder how I can get those mermaids to sing to me.

I have measured out my life in coffee spoons.

In fact, my life is measured out in pixels, not coffee spoons.  It's another age.

Today I woke up with an inflamed throat, an aching body, and a tottering step.  I got up to feed Carbon and cancel on the Wednesday walk, but then D made me go back to bed and brought me coffee, toast, and the morning paper.   The cat and dog joined me in their usual snuggly fashion.  But I couldn't stay down.

Next thing you know, I'm staring at the iPad screen, checking out the e-mail, applying for jobs, tossing a losing word at Lexulous.  Then I throw in the towel, put on a skirt, and join D downstairs.  And for the next several hours, I sit with the laptop.  Across the room, the 42" plasma TV screen is also going full blast.  My home is a pixellated hell.

I check Craigslist for convection toaster ovens and cooktops.  Troy and Brian check in:  time to tile the downstairs shower and finish work on the French doors.  The pilot light on the water heater has gone out AGAIN:  Brian relights it, but the theory is that, at long last,  it is giving up the ghost.  Several weeks ago I was wondering which appliance was going to go next.  Now I know.

In the rooms, the (workers) come and go, talking of....well, not of Michaelangelo.

D takes off for his Senior Forum for Collaborative Stories meeting. They are finding places to show I Am and facilitate discussions.  He, at any rate, is trying to make a difference.

Meanwhile, I finish the applications and sign into Spark:  Lnet needs an extra body to do some virtual reference.  As I try to help someone find a microfilm reader/printer, a window pops up.  I have 15 seconds to accept or reject the question.  It reads, simply, "help."  I ignore it, and it goes away, to return more emphatically:  "Desperately needing help with something."  It's not compassion that makes me accept it, but the fact that I am no longer helping anyone else.  But, the questioner has given up, moved on, or found the answer somewhere else.  Not my problem any more.

Thinking of the vagaries of computer-generated help, I decide to set up the application for Mortgage Assistance.  It's been 2 weeks since my last attempt, and I'm trying to not get my hopes up.  They say there are more openings this time around, but I've heard that before.

Okay:  all filled out, ready for me to hit the Submit button at zero hour.  I return to Spark and set up another Judge Judy.  Wow, this one features an earthquake!  It's like an original Star Trek episode:  the camera shakes up and down and people get up and start running for the doors while JJ dives under her desk. It doesn't seem real, but apparently it is.

Ooof! 10 minutes to go. I'm getting hungry, but nothing sounds good. My throat is still raspy.

Do I dare to eat a peach?

Here we go!  11:59.  The tiny heartless window pops up, informing me that there are no more funds for my county.  I expected it, since I'm early, and try again.  This time there are no funds AND the passwords don't match.   It's 12:00.  Again, no funds.  I am too exhausted to be furious.  Doggedly I try again.  And again.  And again.  And....I'm in!

Feverishly, I fill out everything I can, print up the 8 pages of information, checklists, official forms.  There is more to do but....I'M IN!

I get up to make chicken soup and settle down to watch TV and knit.  The workers continue to check in with me, and I hear the whine of table saws in the distance.  D calls several times on his errands.  I send more messages into the ether.  I read the responses.  My head still hurts.  Carbon and Simone joust for my attention, and I pet them.

The next thing you know, it's 4:30, the light is waning, the workers are winding up, and my day is over.   Finally, I turn off the TV and set aside the laptop.  I am too tired to pick up and I am confused:  where did this mess come from?  I just sat in front of glowing screens.  I made some soup and some toast, cut up an orange, peeled some garlic.  I gathered up the compost and stacked the dishes.  I brought in the mail.  WHERE DID THIS MESS COME FROM?

D blames me.  He is unhappy, because housework is his job, and I am finally holding him to it.   He says he wouldn't mind doing the work if I would just pick up after myself.  Sick or well, my natural environment is the barnyard.  Says he.

No, I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be! Am an attendant lord...

We are both searching for something and not finding it, and the small victories emphasize this.  Meanwhile, D finds consolation in the pixels that produce Hearts games, and I find consolation in my own pixels.  This, for example, found posted on Facebook.  Or this.  Or this.  There are some amazing things in the world.

Oy, now I have laryngitis. I think I'll take my cold to bed and hope for a more meaningful day tomorrow.  Or, at any rate, for a less raw throat.

And indeed there will be time.

Painting by lamplight

I asked W about getting paint at cost, and he converted it into a trip to my shed to help me finish up the job.  We were using leftover bits, all mixed together, and he was dubious.  The color, he said, was the typical apartment oatmeal.  And it was as lumpy as oatmeal.  But, he got to work with the rollers, displaying the proper style (not just up and down) and telling me about his history as an expat painter in Canada.

I had asked that the fluorescent lights be removed:  they are fine for a carpenter's shed, but not for a living space. But the new fixtures were still sitting on the counter, so I hauled in some lamps from the living room.  They shed a mellow light that stopped around knee level.  We moved them around as we worked, and eventually I tipped one over, to the destruction of the bulb within.  Time to stop.

A few days later I came in to finish the job, clambering around on ladders to get the ceiling/wall edges  and go down the peaked center.  I don't do ladders, so I was clinging to molding and ledges with one hand and quiveringly applying paint with the other.

I think I prefer painting when I can't see what I'm doing.

Olympic Fence Tossing and Divine Love

The hits keep coming.  After my traumatic week, I was feeling like things were moving forward again.  I forgot that in the past year one step forward is always followed by two or more steps back.  Yesterday was no exception.

It started out disarmingly well.  T and his aides had made a good start on the remodels.  We are turning the outbuilding (originally a carpenter's studio) into our "shed-room," preparatory to renting out the upstairs of our house.  The plan is make it into a little guest cottage for us, with an added lean-to for storing bikes and gardening tools.  We'll be sleeping out there and using it as a place for privacy, since we'll be sharing the kitchen in the main house and the open arrangement of the rooms means that the downstairs will also be a de facto shared space.

The ongoing question is, how to deal with the lack of plumbing in the shed-room?  Solution number 1:  T is adding a shower arrangement to the downstairs half-bath.  I call it the Swedish shower, because I first came across the concept when visiting Lise in Malmo.  She had a small WC, with a toilet and sink and a drain in the floor.  When the time came for a shower, the curtain (normally hooked behind the mirror) came down, protecting the toilet and linens, and the hand-held shower head came out.  After the shower, the curtain was shaken and hung back up, and Lise would "do the Pippi Longstocking thing," which consisted of standing on the towel and drying the floor with her feet.

So, we can shower and cook in the main house, but those late night bathroom trips will be a bummer, especially during the rainy months. We have researched composting toilets, the kind that look like regular toilets but don't flush.  Instead, the waste is stored and compacted beneath the bowl.  A fan dries it out, and also vents it to prevent odors.  Reportedly, you only have to empty out the composted waste once a year.  We thought to put it in the lean-to, out the newly-installed western door.  However, I did not want to spend $1500 on it, if it didn't really do the job.  So, I took a trip to M's eco-village to see how the low-tech method works.

M's friends waxed eloquent about the flaws of the commercial composting toilets.  Reportedly, they are not odor-free, and you still have to compost the waste in bins.  They recommend the Loveable Loo, which is basically a wooden box with a toilet seat and cover, and a bucket inside.  It looks like an old-fashioned outhouse toilet (not like the chemical ones they have in campgrounds now.)  You toss in wood chips after use.  D says, this is the 21st century, I do not want an outhouse on my property.  But I say, it costs $200.  Or we can have T and company hammer it together for even less.  So, that's the discussion.

All is still moving forward, when I come home from my field trip to see my control-freak neighbor talking to the Spanish-speaking help.  I get that sinking feeling in my gut.  Every time someone does work in the vicinity of his house, he starts making trouble.  Sure enough, "Do you have a permit for this?  I want to see it."

I'm thinking to two years back, when another neighbor had done a remodel.  Mr. Control Freak didn't like it because the tree that used to be centered between their properties was now asymmetrical.  And I guess there were actual code issues.  Mr. CF reported the neighbor to the city.  The city found no wrongdoing.  Mr. CF sued the city.  They were absolved.  Mr. CF sued the investigating entity.  The neighbor said Forget It and moved to Arizona, planning to sell his house.  Victory for Mr. CF, but that wasn't good enough.  Early one morning the neighborhood was woken up by an dull thud, followed by the arrival of several fire trucks.  Someone had planted an incendiary device in the empty house.  We all think it was Mr. CF, and there certainly seemed to be some investigation into that possibility.

The neighbor and Mr. CF had joint ownership of the driveway and strip of ground that run along the west side of my property.  Mr. CF is very jealous of the property line and has always refused permission for roofers and other people to use the driveway during my various remodels.   Although the strip of ground has no landscaping and is basically moss-covered earth, he is very protective of that as well.   He also has been in control of the cedar fence that goes along the property line.  During my 20-year tenure, that fence has come down three times, because he doesn't ground the posts in cement, and they keep rotting.  This last time, he refused to let the neighbor replace the fence.  So the neighbor, who wanted the fence replaced to aid in selling the rebuilt house, got my written permission to build the fence on my property.

Mr. CF was livid, but couldn't do anything to stop it.  The sections of old rotten fence were left in our yard, and we were slowly chopping it up for kindling.  It wasn't much good for anything else, but Mr. CF wanted it.  He had his brother, who lives directly behind us, ask me about it.  I said he was welcome to come into the yard and take it, which he did not.

So, that's the background.  And now, it's starting again, with us.  He says I have no right to be building onto the shed.  I think, great, he's going to go to the city and complain about our little lean-to and our non-permitted remodel.  He is going on and on about the fence and how the underground concrete is leaking over to his property and how he wasn't consulted on the fence and, and, and....  I say, What Do You Want?  He says, I want the fence moved.  I say, I'm not talking to you any more and go inside where I collapse into tears of frustration.

This gets D into the act.  Although I ask him to not get into a pissing match with Mr. CF, D goes outside.  They do their little dance.  D pretends to be innocently overseeing the work.  Mr. CF goes up  into his face to complain about the fence.  D gets hot.  He says, "Strange things happen to houses in this neighborhood."  Mr. CF says, "Are You Threatening Me?"  D says, "No, I'm Just Sayin'."  Mr. CF says he wants his valuable pressure-treated wood from the old fence.  D stomps to the pile of rotten wood and starts heaving old fence sections over the new fence, SLAM, onto Mr. CF's strip of ground. It's a violent process, but ultimately D's adrenalin rush gets the job done, and he is actually a little proud of his strength.  We decide he can compete in the Fence Tossing events for the next Olympics.


I am now waiting for Mr. CF to complain that we littered onto his property.

But, it being Sunday and all, I'm also thinking about the concept of agape.  I actually have a deep compassion for Mr. CF.  He is clearly a miserable human being.  I can't even comprehend the unhappiness that drives him.  While I do not like his capacity to make people around him miserable, and I think that he is actively malevolent, I wish I could figure out how to take my compassion and interact with him in a divinely loving way.  Not for his sake, because I don't think he is capable of benefitting from it, but for my own.  I truly want to believe that a soft answer turneth away wrath, and that Buddhist principles have value.  I don't want to be angry at another human.

However, there are days when a primal scream seems the only possible response.