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.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Monday, May 13, 2013
Book Fiasco!
So, I'm sitting in an echoing windowless concrete-floored hall: a parking garage without cars, practically. Booths are lined up, separated by long alternating blue and white curtains hung from metal standards. This is Day Three of the First Annual SouthWest Book Fiesta, and I am alone at our booth because this Fiesta ain't happenin'. Of the 17 visitors to our Library booth, 12 have been fellow exhibitors. I spend a half hour looking at nearby booths, and will go out again later in the day. The booths run the gamut: city departments predominate, because the city is offering the Convention Center for free. Authors and small presses are relegated to the wall areas, and large booksellers like Page One are in the center near the entrance. I stopped by the UNM Press booth and am lusting after the local cookbooks and the $60 book of old New Mexico maps. With the 30% discount, I just may get a few books.
The lovely young couple at Typod Mary chat with me while the female half decorates my exhibitor's badge. She is getting ready for Comic-Con and apparently needs to have practice simultaneously drawing and chatting. According to Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain, you need to disengage your analytic brain when you draw, so I can see how that would be a problem. Unless you are babbling, conversation usually requires some left brain activity.
Of course, it's not a problem for me, I have brought babbling to an art form. On the other hand, I can't draw. So sad when two skills can't mesh.
They are so very Portland that I feel homesick all over again. Both are sporting long brown hair, intellectually-framed glasses and casually funky clothing. He has scary zombie-apocalypse zine-type comics that L would probably happily snap up for the Library's zine collection. They are the first zines I've seen since I left MCL....I thought zines were so last decade.
I would love to transport them to a place where they would be appreciated. They are an anomaly at this event: too edgy, too young. For the most part, the individual authors are in their 70s, trying to sell their memoirs or religious enlightenment. Or both.
Just finished talking with a gent who is hawking his mystery novel. I asked for a description and he said, "Iron Chef meets the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo." He's a short fireplug of a man, with close-shaved white hair, wearing polo shirt and chinos. Fixing me with a glittering eye, his voice booming over the dull rumbling echoes of 169 vendors talking to each other, he gives me plot summary, peppered with personal craziness.
Well, it is a mystery about cooking.
He is followed by a tall white-haired man wearing a bolo tie, jeans and cowboy boots, and a broad smile. K has sent him over to get the acquisitions contact info. (I tell her later that she owes me. Big Time. She is suitably contrite.)
His book is set in Australia. The protagonists are on their 40th anniversary trip (he coyly shares a sex scene that is apparently autobiographical) and their laptop gets traded with that of a terrorist. They are being chased all over Oz by hit men with various quirks: acrophobia and cynophobia and love of kids (the Islam assassin is hoping there are no kids around when he finishes up his job and blows up the evidence.)
I am nodding like a bobble-head and my cheeks are sore with smiling. While I have years of experience talking with the socially inept, there is a special poignancy when they are trying to sell a part of themselves.
I walk the hall again. This is a very sad event. So much potential, wasted. The 169 vendors are paying $236 for a half booth, carting tons of books and swag, and there is literally no foot traffic. I say, well this is the first one, next year they will surely work out the bugs. They say, there won't be a next time unless they reduce the expenses for the vendors and make it a free event for the public. Tax write-offs only go so far: there is lost revenue and overhead in addition to the cost of the booth.
Even though I wear my exhibitor's badge prominently, along with a bright red ABC apron, I get lots of pitches. Some want to sell to me, some to the library. But one charming woman discusses archaeology and pottery with me and she asks me why I'm in NM. As per usual, I talk about jobs and green chili stew and reminisce about early visits to NM. I mention my divorce and the joy of rediscovering my old passions. We have a very similar personal trajectory, and I discover she spent 10 years working at Crow Canyon, about 5 years after my working vacation there. Apparently they've built a hogan for visitors: in my day we stayed in the main lodge and the staff lived in trailers.
At the end of our talk, she hands me the promo copy of a book on 21st century pueblo pottery: "You've looked at that several times, I'd like you to have it." My throat tightens momentarily... people are so kind.
*********
Of course, it's not a problem for me, I have brought babbling to an art form. On the other hand, I can't draw. So sad when two skills can't mesh.
They are so very Portland that I feel homesick all over again. Both are sporting long brown hair, intellectually-framed glasses and casually funky clothing. He has scary zombie-apocalypse zine-type comics that L would probably happily snap up for the Library's zine collection. They are the first zines I've seen since I left MCL....I thought zines were so last decade.
I would love to transport them to a place where they would be appreciated. They are an anomaly at this event: too edgy, too young. For the most part, the individual authors are in their 70s, trying to sell their memoirs or religious enlightenment. Or both.
***********
Just finished talking with a gent who is hawking his mystery novel. I asked for a description and he said, "Iron Chef meets the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo." He's a short fireplug of a man, with close-shaved white hair, wearing polo shirt and chinos. Fixing me with a glittering eye, his voice booming over the dull rumbling echoes of 169 vendors talking to each other, he gives me plot summary, peppered with personal craziness.
Well, it is a mystery about cooking.
He is followed by a tall white-haired man wearing a bolo tie, jeans and cowboy boots, and a broad smile. K has sent him over to get the acquisitions contact info. (I tell her later that she owes me. Big Time. She is suitably contrite.)
His book is set in Australia. The protagonists are on their 40th anniversary trip (he coyly shares a sex scene that is apparently autobiographical) and their laptop gets traded with that of a terrorist. They are being chased all over Oz by hit men with various quirks: acrophobia and cynophobia and love of kids (the Islam assassin is hoping there are no kids around when he finishes up his job and blows up the evidence.)
I am nodding like a bobble-head and my cheeks are sore with smiling. While I have years of experience talking with the socially inept, there is a special poignancy when they are trying to sell a part of themselves.
******************
I walk the hall again. This is a very sad event. So much potential, wasted. The 169 vendors are paying $236 for a half booth, carting tons of books and swag, and there is literally no foot traffic. I say, well this is the first one, next year they will surely work out the bugs. They say, there won't be a next time unless they reduce the expenses for the vendors and make it a free event for the public. Tax write-offs only go so far: there is lost revenue and overhead in addition to the cost of the booth.
Even though I wear my exhibitor's badge prominently, along with a bright red ABC apron, I get lots of pitches. Some want to sell to me, some to the library. But one charming woman discusses archaeology and pottery with me and she asks me why I'm in NM. As per usual, I talk about jobs and green chili stew and reminisce about early visits to NM. I mention my divorce and the joy of rediscovering my old passions. We have a very similar personal trajectory, and I discover she spent 10 years working at Crow Canyon, about 5 years after my working vacation there. Apparently they've built a hogan for visitors: in my day we stayed in the main lodge and the staff lived in trailers.
At the end of our talk, she hands me the promo copy of a book on 21st century pueblo pottery: "You've looked at that several times, I'd like you to have it." My throat tightens momentarily... people are so kind.
******************
Lunch time. There's a huge stand at the entrance selling wine and beer, but I can't do that on company time. They steer me towards the concession area, and a very sweet young man (at most 20) promises me that the Navajo taco is made with fresh ingredients and is very yummy. He has melting brown eyes and curly brown-black hair and a sincerely engaging smile. I believe him, and spend $11 on the taco and some coffee.
The sauce is cold and the frybread is cardboard. But he stops by the booth: how was it? I smile and say, "fine." Can't bring myself to say EXCELLENT DUDE! But telling him the truth? Not possible. It would be like kicking a puppy dog.
At 3:30 he comes back, sans apron and white chef's hat. I am dithery when he leaves: "He is SO CUTE!" I gush. K concurs, but is more interested in texting her husband. We have run out of library gossip by this point. I am alternating knitting with blogging.
******************
It's 4 pm, and 95% of the vendors bailed 2 hours ago. The poetry slam is still going on: they are performing for each other, and doing so with passion. Some of it is good, some of it....not so much. K says, this is ridiculous. She texts with her friend and husband and they make movie date arrangements. We pack up the two crates of brochures, SRP prizes, flyers, bookmarks, and plastic insects. The book vendors have a tougher job: we're good to go in 5 minutes. K's husband picks us up at the curb, and they circle around trying to find the parking garage entrance to drop me off (a problem I had at 9 am: you'd think the convention center would want to make the parking obvious, draw people in, make it easy for people to get there. But no.)
When we arrive at the end of the ramp, we find that all entrances have been blocked by gate, bar, and chain-link fences. I get out and walk to my car, leaving them to back down the ramp. Somehow, it seems a fitting end to the day.
Monday, May 6, 2013
Daring Greatly
I had my weekly cryfest today. Why do we do therapy? I asked. What's the point of coming in here every Monday and whining and crying at you?
She had several thoughts and questions for me, and the point that made the most sense was that we are hard-wired to be social. I need connection, I need a witness, and it needs to be a witness to my real self, not the self that goes to work or meets new people or plays the violin.
You see, all week I wear my game face. This week, it almost felt real. I was out most nights, doing things I like to do, seeing people I like to see. I folded origami and gave May baskets to people on the 1st, and I was productive at work. I heard from people, and all is well. I haven't heard any news about D, but that's no longer painful. I'm just as happy not knowing, now.
So, as I drove to the session, I thought, maybe I should call these off. It's atually false pretence: she's a Domestic Abuse counsellor at a shelter, and I'm just a middle-class chick who made bad choices and didn't have enough oil on my feathers. My husband was not an evil man, he loved me very much, and I loved him. His anger is treatable. Another woman would have ended the agony years ago, and it would have been better for everyone involved.
In a word, I was part of the problem.
And now? I'm back in a routine. I'm making plans for the future, trips and music and visits to hiking trails and spas and wineries. The finanaces are in order, and I can start paying back the people who have helped me.
So, why do I spend every Monday with tear-worn eyes, incipient headache, flat affect? What's wrong? A few Mondays ago it was so bad I was dripping tears during rehearsal. Thank GOD my stand partner was focussed on the Bruckner. But really, crying all over my violin? What's that about?
I'm going to dig into the new book by Brene Brown, Daring Greatly. Subtitle: How the courage to be vulnerable transforms the way we live, love, parent, and lead. I'm not a big fan of bibliotherapy, but maybe it has some answers for me. Or, at the very least, maybe I can learn to enjoy my weekly crying jags.
She had several thoughts and questions for me, and the point that made the most sense was that we are hard-wired to be social. I need connection, I need a witness, and it needs to be a witness to my real self, not the self that goes to work or meets new people or plays the violin.
You see, all week I wear my game face. This week, it almost felt real. I was out most nights, doing things I like to do, seeing people I like to see. I folded origami and gave May baskets to people on the 1st, and I was productive at work. I heard from people, and all is well. I haven't heard any news about D, but that's no longer painful. I'm just as happy not knowing, now.
So, as I drove to the session, I thought, maybe I should call these off. It's atually false pretence: she's a Domestic Abuse counsellor at a shelter, and I'm just a middle-class chick who made bad choices and didn't have enough oil on my feathers. My husband was not an evil man, he loved me very much, and I loved him. His anger is treatable. Another woman would have ended the agony years ago, and it would have been better for everyone involved.
In a word, I was part of the problem.
And now? I'm back in a routine. I'm making plans for the future, trips and music and visits to hiking trails and spas and wineries. The finanaces are in order, and I can start paying back the people who have helped me.
So, why do I spend every Monday with tear-worn eyes, incipient headache, flat affect? What's wrong? A few Mondays ago it was so bad I was dripping tears during rehearsal. Thank GOD my stand partner was focussed on the Bruckner. But really, crying all over my violin? What's that about?
I'm going to dig into the new book by Brene Brown, Daring Greatly. Subtitle: How the courage to be vulnerable transforms the way we live, love, parent, and lead. I'm not a big fan of bibliotherapy, but maybe it has some answers for me. Or, at the very least, maybe I can learn to enjoy my weekly crying jags.
Measuring my life 17 syllables at a time
Every day, as I go through the routines, feel the feelings, see the sights, walk the walk and talk the talk, I find myself creating sound bite descriptions of the experience. A new friend asked me if all my Facebook posts are haiku, and I said, well, some are pictures. But, yes. I decided long ago that my life was not worth posting, but maybe I could turn the banality into an exercise in creativity. And, I have such a need to let people know I'm alive and kicking. I get such validation from the little comments and "likes." Ah yes, I think, even my boring life means something to someone. They care enough to say, yeah, I read that. I know you're alive, and that knowledge makes me happy.
And, when I gather together a few weeks' worth of pix and haiku, I realize, yes, I did do something besides eat, sleep, wash dishes, and schlep books.
Many of my posts talk about the beauties of New Mexico. Before I moved here, I knew I loved the high desert, with the big skies, amazing clouds, and fascinating rock formations. But I didn't realize that this dusty old city, full of strip malls and chain link fences, would also be beautiful. It's true that some neighborhoods are depressing, with the garbage and cars and dogs lurking behind fences, scattered on yards of orange-brown dirt. But most feature southwest architecture and xeriscaping, cats and dogs, and friendly people.
The Sandias daily draw my eyes to the east. I walk around the neighborhood and watch the sun rising behind them, etching them against the lightening sky and staining the clouds pink and yellow. Driving home from work, I watch them change colour from magenta to blue-green-grey-brown. In the winter, I look for snowfall. In the summer monsoons, I look for grey clouds and rainbows. Recently, I have found a hiking buddy, so I am walking into them, getting up close and personal. But they are always part of my day, whether I'm exploring them with my feet or my eyes.
To the west, I see the varying colors of the Bosque. Right now, it's becoming greener and greener. Earlier in the year, it was a hazy greyish white: the cottonwoods without clothes. In the fall it was lacy and golden. But it's always a strip of wildness in the middle of the city. A brown house-covered grassland rises beyond it, with an abrupt line where the houses end and the mesa begins, the dark rocks of extinct volcanoes punctuating the horizon, the sky above filled with clouds, or empty blue, the sunsets glowing with the pinks and goldens of a desert sky.
So here are the haiku that chronicle my environment....
Driving in to work....
View to the west: stripes!
Blue on top, then brown, then green.
Spring in the Bosque.
Driving home from rehearsal.....
My now-weekly hike with G....
Then there are the mishaps, frustrations, and joys of the day....
On my way to a meeting, in front of an intersection full of people.....
Stepping back, I fall,
Winded and supine. What will
The third mishap be?
Driving in to work......
Misuse of car roof:
I pick up coffee mug shards.
Will they cause flat tires?
Listening to Allclassical.org in my office....
Dancing inside and
Smiling outside, regardless.
The Royal Fireworks.
Starting my day.....
No fresh coffee left,
So I used yesterday's dregs.
Shopping avoidance.
Adrenalin rush....
Black coffee bean in the sink,
Looks like a cockroach.
I got up early
For a doctor appointment.
Now he's running late. :(
I juggle morning
Ablutions, housework, email:
Burnt toast smells so good.
Waiting for the next bulletin from E (yes, all is well)....
Does it help at all
To worry about others?
Healing thoughts to Don.
The job is a continuing struggle. My coworkers are passive aggressive when they are not downright hostile, and my manager wants me to assert myself. Not an unreasonable expectation, and I'm actually bewildered as to why it's so difficult to just say: sorry that's the way it is. Do it and stop kvetching. But there are good days, and I tend to chronicle those
I spent 2 hours learning about this year's summer reading program, culminating in a 15 minute session learning how to make duct tape sheets. Our teacher is the duct tape queen. She was wearing a pocketed apron with ties, multi-colored and multi-patterned, very flexible and sturdy. But all I could think was, does it breathe?
What I learned this week:
Cardinal rule of duct tape...
Do not rescue it.
(I doubt I'll ever
Have the patience to create
Things out of duct tape.)
In lieu of reference work (there is very little of that), I have started doing the other fun part of the job: outreach and story times. My co-workers are unimpressed and make sure to let me know it, but the kids and the teachers give me full props.
Sharing pop up books
With attentive third graders:
Focusing on joy.
I love my job, but
I'd really like to trade in
My coworkers. Now.
En route to work but
Contemplating an escape.
Adventure beckons!
Then, there is orchestra and music in general: I am beginning to take advantage of the myriad concerts and opportunities, and I'm loving it. Sometimes I go along, and sometimes I bring a friend. Always, it's a joy.
Our conductor is endlessly amusing: he loves the music and tries to convey it, but he also gets that we're amateurs, and he does so with grace.
Humane conducting:
"Strings, adapt....they need to breathe."
Sounds reasonable.
My stand partner wrote
"Terror!" at the beginning
Of the last movement.
I ushered at a fabulous concert by Vasen and met some of the local folkies, one of whom works at the co-op which I did not know was so near to my house:
Got the sheet music.
Now I just need to find me
Some Swedish fiddlers.
Three years ago I attended the VdGSA West Coast Conclave (and I hope to pull together time and money to do it again this year.) One of the classes was about singing and playing at the same time. Being a beginner, I needed a break from the intense concentration of learning where to put the bow, how to translate a new clef to a new string arrangement. So, I just sang. The instructor was a fun and talented man from NYC, a member of the group Parthenia. I've been receiving their news-mails ever since, and was delighted to discover that they would be in ABQ, performing Renaissance songs and dances, along with the poetry of John Donne and W Shakespeare. I could not find a companion to join me, but it was so not necessary. The church was a beautiful echoing Episcopalian edifice, with a center patio space, stone walls, marble floors, glowing glass. I felt at peace, and once the music started I was transported.
I arrive early,
And go into the cloister
To walk the labyrinth.
I listen to hushed
Conversations, swallowed by
The echoing hall.
Renaissance poems,
Songs, and dances make a most
Excellent mixture.
Driving home, I watch
The music made visible:
Clouds above mountains
Finally, there are the intangible moods. I have become more serene lately. I am depending more on myself for my happiness, and, while I miss my friends and grieve over loss, I am content to plot my own course without reference to other people. Connections are still important to me: I am human. But the despair seems to be going away. At any rate, I now seem able to save up the tears for my weekly therapy session. Which is now imminent.
Visiting a new friend, sitting on his deck looking at the mountains....
To walk or to lounge?
Inertia is powerful.
I watch the hawk soar.
The occasional moodiness and insomnia: I try mediation but it doesn't always work.......
Rhythmic ocean waves
Cannot drown insistent thoughts.
Cursed insomnia.
Weary, flat, and stale...
No! I am not Prince Hamlet!
But I am quite tired.
Chaos in the world (Boston Marathon)......
What are my fellow
Commuters thinking about?
A town in lockdown..
Psychic disconnect:
Appalling things happen, but
I wake up happy.
And so it goes. One haiku at a time, I'm chronicling my life.
.
And, when I gather together a few weeks' worth of pix and haiku, I realize, yes, I did do something besides eat, sleep, wash dishes, and schlep books.
Many of my posts talk about the beauties of New Mexico. Before I moved here, I knew I loved the high desert, with the big skies, amazing clouds, and fascinating rock formations. But I didn't realize that this dusty old city, full of strip malls and chain link fences, would also be beautiful. It's true that some neighborhoods are depressing, with the garbage and cars and dogs lurking behind fences, scattered on yards of orange-brown dirt. But most feature southwest architecture and xeriscaping, cats and dogs, and friendly people.
The Sandias daily draw my eyes to the east. I walk around the neighborhood and watch the sun rising behind them, etching them against the lightening sky and staining the clouds pink and yellow. Driving home from work, I watch them change colour from magenta to blue-green-grey-brown. In the winter, I look for snowfall. In the summer monsoons, I look for grey clouds and rainbows. Recently, I have found a hiking buddy, so I am walking into them, getting up close and personal. But they are always part of my day, whether I'm exploring them with my feet or my eyes.
To the west, I see the varying colors of the Bosque. Right now, it's becoming greener and greener. Earlier in the year, it was a hazy greyish white: the cottonwoods without clothes. In the fall it was lacy and golden. But it's always a strip of wildness in the middle of the city. A brown house-covered grassland rises beyond it, with an abrupt line where the houses end and the mesa begins, the dark rocks of extinct volcanoes punctuating the horizon, the sky above filled with clouds, or empty blue, the sunsets glowing with the pinks and goldens of a desert sky.
So here are the haiku that chronicle my environment....
Driving in to work....
View to the west: stripes!
Blue on top, then brown, then green.
Spring in the Bosque.
Driving home from rehearsal.....
The moon casts its glow.
I share it virtually
And feel so alone.
Going for my bi-weekly walk with J and E.....
In the time it takes
To find my camera phone
The clouds change colour.
Taking a picture of a cat on a stoop......
Oblivious (or
Indifferent) to humans,
Watching the sunrise.
My now-weekly hike with G....
Today's hike: boulders!
And juniper and cactus.
And just enough wind.
Doing laundry at a friend's house, sunset time, I take a picture of a delicate lacy tree shadow:
Pic from a freezing
Cold evening. Even walls
Are beautiful here.
Doing laundry at a friend's house, sunset time, I take a picture of a delicate lacy tree shadow:
Pic from a freezing
Cold evening. Even walls
Are beautiful here.
On my way to a meeting, in front of an intersection full of people.....
Stepping back, I fall,
Winded and supine. What will
The third mishap be?
Driving in to work......
Misuse of car roof:
I pick up coffee mug shards.
Will they cause flat tires?
Listening to Allclassical.org in my office....
Dancing inside and
Smiling outside, regardless.
The Royal Fireworks.
Starting my day.....
No fresh coffee left,
So I used yesterday's dregs.
Shopping avoidance.
Adrenalin rush....
Black coffee bean in the sink,
Looks like a cockroach.
I got up early
For a doctor appointment.
Now he's running late. :(
I juggle morning
Ablutions, housework, email:
Burnt toast smells so good.
Waiting for the next bulletin from E (yes, all is well)....
Does it help at all
To worry about others?
Healing thoughts to Don.
The job is a continuing struggle. My coworkers are passive aggressive when they are not downright hostile, and my manager wants me to assert myself. Not an unreasonable expectation, and I'm actually bewildered as to why it's so difficult to just say: sorry that's the way it is. Do it and stop kvetching. But there are good days, and I tend to chronicle those
I spent 2 hours learning about this year's summer reading program, culminating in a 15 minute session learning how to make duct tape sheets. Our teacher is the duct tape queen. She was wearing a pocketed apron with ties, multi-colored and multi-patterned, very flexible and sturdy. But all I could think was, does it breathe?
What I learned this week:
Cardinal rule of duct tape...
Do not rescue it.
(I doubt I'll ever
Have the patience to create
Things out of duct tape.)
In lieu of reference work (there is very little of that), I have started doing the other fun part of the job: outreach and story times. My co-workers are unimpressed and make sure to let me know it, but the kids and the teachers give me full props.
Sharing pop up books
With attentive third graders:
Focusing on joy.
I love my job, but
I'd really like to trade in
My coworkers. Now.
En route to work but
Contemplating an escape.
Adventure beckons!
Then, there is orchestra and music in general: I am beginning to take advantage of the myriad concerts and opportunities, and I'm loving it. Sometimes I go along, and sometimes I bring a friend. Always, it's a joy.
Our conductor is endlessly amusing: he loves the music and tries to convey it, but he also gets that we're amateurs, and he does so with grace.
Humane conducting:
"Strings, adapt....they need to breathe."
Sounds reasonable.
My stand partner wrote
"Terror!" at the beginning
Of the last movement.
I ushered at a fabulous concert by Vasen and met some of the local folkies, one of whom works at the co-op which I did not know was so near to my house:
Got the sheet music.
Now I just need to find me
Some Swedish fiddlers.
Three years ago I attended the VdGSA West Coast Conclave (and I hope to pull together time and money to do it again this year.) One of the classes was about singing and playing at the same time. Being a beginner, I needed a break from the intense concentration of learning where to put the bow, how to translate a new clef to a new string arrangement. So, I just sang. The instructor was a fun and talented man from NYC, a member of the group Parthenia. I've been receiving their news-mails ever since, and was delighted to discover that they would be in ABQ, performing Renaissance songs and dances, along with the poetry of John Donne and W Shakespeare. I could not find a companion to join me, but it was so not necessary. The church was a beautiful echoing Episcopalian edifice, with a center patio space, stone walls, marble floors, glowing glass. I felt at peace, and once the music started I was transported.
I arrive early,
And go into the cloister
To walk the labyrinth.
I listen to hushed
Conversations, swallowed by
The echoing hall.
Renaissance poems,
Songs, and dances make a most
Excellent mixture.
Driving home, I watch
The music made visible:
Clouds above mountains
Finally, there are the intangible moods. I have become more serene lately. I am depending more on myself for my happiness, and, while I miss my friends and grieve over loss, I am content to plot my own course without reference to other people. Connections are still important to me: I am human. But the despair seems to be going away. At any rate, I now seem able to save up the tears for my weekly therapy session. Which is now imminent.
Visiting a new friend, sitting on his deck looking at the mountains....
To walk or to lounge?
Inertia is powerful.
I watch the hawk soar.
The occasional moodiness and insomnia: I try mediation but it doesn't always work.......
Rhythmic ocean waves
Cannot drown insistent thoughts.
Cursed insomnia.
Weary, flat, and stale...
No! I am not Prince Hamlet!
But I am quite tired.
Chaos in the world (Boston Marathon)......
What are my fellow
Commuters thinking about?
A town in lockdown..
Psychic disconnect:
Appalling things happen, but
I wake up happy.
And so it goes. One haiku at a time, I'm chronicling my life.
.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Medical reference
Last night I was at another UU SipNSup: the monthly get-together of strangers, where each couple is assigned a dish, and one of the couples plays host. This was my third. The first is chronicled in an earlier blog (in which we try not to talk of pornography), the second was at T's apartment and I was co-host.
On this occasion, the host home was a lovely adobe with xeriscaping outside, waterfalls inside, tiles, fireplace, glass blown hanging lamps, open kitchen with a bar, and a view of the Sandias. It was a stone's throw from the Embudo Canyon trailhead. The host was of Norwegian descent, from International Falls (my mother's birthplace), so we talked about Minnesota and a Norse heritage for a bit.
One of the other guests sings soproano in the choir, so I knew her by sight. Turns out she's a working musician, as are her four kids, and she is on the verge of her annual trip south, this time to Bogota, to teach violin for 2 weeks. She's been doing this for 15 years, and has lived all around the world.
Two other guests were both doctors in private practise, and we had a rousing discussion of the potential effects of Obamacare. The CPA husband of the gynecologist was fairly quiet for most of the everning, but, as I told T, there were 4 mouthy broads at table (that included me), and it was difficult for anyone to get a word in edgewise.
As per usual, I was impressed by the variety of life experience around the table, and fascinated by the paths people take. And, also as per usual, I felt unaccomplished and unexperienced. I want to tag along on their adventures. I want to join Dr. T's daughter in Tanzania, working at an AIDs clinic for children. It would be hard and depressing, but it would be worthwhile. But I lack the practical skills that would make me an asset, and I lack the youth and strength for the grunt work.
So the wish is eager, rather than lasting. And, I'm pretty sure that I need to avoid big change for the time being. I really need to be satisfied with absorbing the body blows of the last few years, months, and days. I need to enjoy quieter adventures. As Mole discovered, I am a simple creature of the fields and hedgerows, which hold enough adventure, in their quiet way, for a lifetime.
Nothing makes that clearer than the way my body betrays me. Last week it was the patella-bashing (still sore, especially on stairs, but doing nicely thank you.) Last night it was a sudden onset of nausea, profuse sweating and dizziness. I left the table and sat in the living room, but, threatened with increasing nausea, tottered into the bathroom where I lay on the cool tiles and felt simultaneously feeble and ridiculous.
T eventually came to the bathroom door: "K-lou, are you okay?" Umm, no. He made my excuses and drove me home. I crawled into bed and fell asleep, waking at 5:30 am. I started googling my symptoms, even though I know I should use authoritative databases and, in my professional capacity, I speak sternly to peole who used DotCom medical sites. But, it was early in the morning, I was groggy, and google was easy to use.
I found webMD and about.com and other reasonably authoritative sites, but I gravitated to the one wherein people detail their symptoms and other people share similar stories and they all say, "I've had this condition for YEARS and no one can find out what's wrong," and some people say it's gall bladder, and some diabetes, and some heart attack. And you can still produce gallstones, even if you've had your gall bladder removed, and GO SEE A DOCTOR, and good luck.
hmmmm
Then I found Real Diagnosis, where you can list your symptoms and get matches with possible diagnoses. So, I either have a heart condition, diabetes, meningitis, or syncope (which is a fancy word for fainting.) I ruled out wine allergy. The whole thing reminded me of Three Men in a Boat, where J reads a medical diagnostical manual, discovers he is sickening for EVERYTHING (except Housemaid's Knee) and crawls over to his doctor friend who prescribes "beer, steak, and stop reading things you don't understand."
So, I posted the following to Facebook:
Researching symptoms
In the wee hours. Tenebrous.
Not recommended.
And I went back to sleep.
On this occasion, the host home was a lovely adobe with xeriscaping outside, waterfalls inside, tiles, fireplace, glass blown hanging lamps, open kitchen with a bar, and a view of the Sandias. It was a stone's throw from the Embudo Canyon trailhead. The host was of Norwegian descent, from International Falls (my mother's birthplace), so we talked about Minnesota and a Norse heritage for a bit.
One of the other guests sings soproano in the choir, so I knew her by sight. Turns out she's a working musician, as are her four kids, and she is on the verge of her annual trip south, this time to Bogota, to teach violin for 2 weeks. She's been doing this for 15 years, and has lived all around the world.
Two other guests were both doctors in private practise, and we had a rousing discussion of the potential effects of Obamacare. The CPA husband of the gynecologist was fairly quiet for most of the everning, but, as I told T, there were 4 mouthy broads at table (that included me), and it was difficult for anyone to get a word in edgewise.
As per usual, I was impressed by the variety of life experience around the table, and fascinated by the paths people take. And, also as per usual, I felt unaccomplished and unexperienced. I want to tag along on their adventures. I want to join Dr. T's daughter in Tanzania, working at an AIDs clinic for children. It would be hard and depressing, but it would be worthwhile. But I lack the practical skills that would make me an asset, and I lack the youth and strength for the grunt work.
So the wish is eager, rather than lasting. And, I'm pretty sure that I need to avoid big change for the time being. I really need to be satisfied with absorbing the body blows of the last few years, months, and days. I need to enjoy quieter adventures. As Mole discovered, I am a simple creature of the fields and hedgerows, which hold enough adventure, in their quiet way, for a lifetime.
Nothing makes that clearer than the way my body betrays me. Last week it was the patella-bashing (still sore, especially on stairs, but doing nicely thank you.) Last night it was a sudden onset of nausea, profuse sweating and dizziness. I left the table and sat in the living room, but, threatened with increasing nausea, tottered into the bathroom where I lay on the cool tiles and felt simultaneously feeble and ridiculous.
T eventually came to the bathroom door: "K-lou, are you okay?" Umm, no. He made my excuses and drove me home. I crawled into bed and fell asleep, waking at 5:30 am. I started googling my symptoms, even though I know I should use authoritative databases and, in my professional capacity, I speak sternly to peole who used DotCom medical sites. But, it was early in the morning, I was groggy, and google was easy to use.
I found webMD and about.com and other reasonably authoritative sites, but I gravitated to the one wherein people detail their symptoms and other people share similar stories and they all say, "I've had this condition for YEARS and no one can find out what's wrong," and some people say it's gall bladder, and some diabetes, and some heart attack. And you can still produce gallstones, even if you've had your gall bladder removed, and GO SEE A DOCTOR, and good luck.
hmmmm
Then I found Real Diagnosis, where you can list your symptoms and get matches with possible diagnoses. So, I either have a heart condition, diabetes, meningitis, or syncope (which is a fancy word for fainting.) I ruled out wine allergy. The whole thing reminded me of Three Men in a Boat, where J reads a medical diagnostical manual, discovers he is sickening for EVERYTHING (except Housemaid's Knee) and crawls over to his doctor friend who prescribes "beer, steak, and stop reading things you don't understand."
So, I posted the following to Facebook:
Researching symptoms
In the wee hours. Tenebrous.
Not recommended.
And I went back to sleep.
Monday, April 8, 2013
Everything has a price
Yesterday I got back out into the Sandias, this time on the south side. Lots of pine, lots of juniper, lots of rocks. Some switchbacks, but not too bad. I only had to stop to relieve cardio-pulmonary distress a few times! It was nice to have some trees, but it's still New Mexico. The dusty-spicy pine smell had no hint of moisture to it, and where in Oregon there would have been streams, here there were dry, rocky creek beds.
Oh, I lie, there was also this Waterfall!
You don't see the water? well, it's there. sorta.
The pace my companions wanted was just about right for me, too. And all in all, it was a good hike, until we started the downward slope. I was doing fine with the scree and the occasional boulder, I thought, but then my foot slid and I landed, patella first, on a rock. You know how sudden pain makes you queasy? I sat there, holding my knee, breathing in, breathing out, while the others stood around. I felt moisture on my hand and realized I was bleeding. B pulled out a bandaid, and G offered water and ibuprofen. I said thanks to the former, and no to the latter, and pulled up the pant leg to assess the damage: a straight small, deep cut, starting to well up with dark red blood. Fortunately, the pants were not ripped, and there was no obvious dirt. I blotted the blood, applied the bandaid, and got to my feet. We had another 45 minutes to an hour to go.
The hike remained lovely. We stopped at the cave for me to convert my hiking pants to shorts and apply a new bandaid that would not be rubbed off as I walked. S took some pix of the "Travertine Waterfall," and as we walked on, we pondered: just what IS travertine? I dimly recalled seeing travertine tiles when I was doing my remodel, but couldn't remember much but that it's a stone. Duh. (I looked it up later in the car, but suffice it to say, we were all wrong in our guesses.)
We stopped again for a water break, and looked for fossils in the rocks. Mainly they were unremarkable dots and specks, paleolithic bugs. Neat though. Then, towards the end of the hike, we re-passed the spiral and cairn that I had spotted on the way up. The light was much better for photographs at this point; late afternoon is always my favorite time for photographing rocks.
l have a new pedometer, from the StepItUp Albuquerque program at work. So I can say, definitively, that we walked 12,861 steps, or 6.48 miles.
The cut started bleeding on the drive back to G's, and he was unhappy that his pack did not have the requisite first aid supplies. Spring is the time to get the gear back in order, but you usually try to do that before the accidents. He also said, "next time I'm making you take the hiking pole," and he's going to loan me a 3-liter water pack in addition to my little water bottle. So, there will be a next time at least. And even though I'm a liability as a friend and hiking partner, it seems that these three think I'm worth it.
When I got home, finally, I cleaned off the sweat/salt from the hike and put neosporin on the cut. It was still oozing blood, and I freaked out and called L (my medical expert sister.) She was mainly concerned with tetanus, ("You know you should have a current shot, don't you?"), but otherwise was a soothing presence in my ear. I bandaged it up, cancelled on the potluck I had planned to attend, and got out a good book for the rest of the day.
Today the cut has scabbed over, but the patellar area is very sore: I may have bruised the bone. The flesh doesn't seem to be the problem, and there isn't much flesh there anyway. This is frustrating: now that I have hiking partners, I want to HIKE! And we have a nice one planned for next Sunday. Grrrr.
I hate limping around. I hate being pitiful. I wish it were possible to just do things without fallout and pain. Why can't I just enjoy what I have without paying some sort of price? But, right now, that seems to be my life. Losing balance, losing friends, once step forward, 2 steps back, and a big ass pain in the patella.
Harrumph.
Oh, I lie, there was also this Waterfall!
You don't see the water? well, it's there. sorta.
The pace my companions wanted was just about right for me, too. And all in all, it was a good hike, until we started the downward slope. I was doing fine with the scree and the occasional boulder, I thought, but then my foot slid and I landed, patella first, on a rock. You know how sudden pain makes you queasy? I sat there, holding my knee, breathing in, breathing out, while the others stood around. I felt moisture on my hand and realized I was bleeding. B pulled out a bandaid, and G offered water and ibuprofen. I said thanks to the former, and no to the latter, and pulled up the pant leg to assess the damage: a straight small, deep cut, starting to well up with dark red blood. Fortunately, the pants were not ripped, and there was no obvious dirt. I blotted the blood, applied the bandaid, and got to my feet. We had another 45 minutes to an hour to go.
The hike remained lovely. We stopped at the cave for me to convert my hiking pants to shorts and apply a new bandaid that would not be rubbed off as I walked. S took some pix of the "Travertine Waterfall," and as we walked on, we pondered: just what IS travertine? I dimly recalled seeing travertine tiles when I was doing my remodel, but couldn't remember much but that it's a stone. Duh. (I looked it up later in the car, but suffice it to say, we were all wrong in our guesses.)
We stopped again for a water break, and looked for fossils in the rocks. Mainly they were unremarkable dots and specks, paleolithic bugs. Neat though. Then, towards the end of the hike, we re-passed the spiral and cairn that I had spotted on the way up. The light was much better for photographs at this point; late afternoon is always my favorite time for photographing rocks.
l have a new pedometer, from the StepItUp Albuquerque program at work. So I can say, definitively, that we walked 12,861 steps, or 6.48 miles.
The cut started bleeding on the drive back to G's, and he was unhappy that his pack did not have the requisite first aid supplies. Spring is the time to get the gear back in order, but you usually try to do that before the accidents. He also said, "next time I'm making you take the hiking pole," and he's going to loan me a 3-liter water pack in addition to my little water bottle. So, there will be a next time at least. And even though I'm a liability as a friend and hiking partner, it seems that these three think I'm worth it.
When I got home, finally, I cleaned off the sweat/salt from the hike and put neosporin on the cut. It was still oozing blood, and I freaked out and called L (my medical expert sister.) She was mainly concerned with tetanus, ("You know you should have a current shot, don't you?"), but otherwise was a soothing presence in my ear. I bandaged it up, cancelled on the potluck I had planned to attend, and got out a good book for the rest of the day.
 |
| Yes, it doesn't look like much |
I hate limping around. I hate being pitiful. I wish it were possible to just do things without fallout and pain. Why can't I just enjoy what I have without paying some sort of price? But, right now, that seems to be my life. Losing balance, losing friends, once step forward, 2 steps back, and a big ass pain in the patella.
Harrumph.
Monday, April 1, 2013
Endings and Beginnings
A few weeks ago my landlady invited me to an "endings" ritual, to punctuate my divorce, to honor the feelings and the past, and to look to the future.
It was very kind of her to recognize the anti-climax and emptiness I was feeling, and to offer me a way to deal with it. I accepted, not knowing what she had in mind, but trusting in the intent. It was a night after work, so we planned for 7 pm. I got home and decided to bake some chocolate chip cookies as thank you offering. Or rather, a cooky: the toaster oven doesn't really accommodate cookies, so I put the whole batch in a pie plate. It doesn't cook evenly, so the bottom was burned. But you can't really go wrong with butter, chocolate, pine nuts, and brown sugar, right?
M's house is a lovely adobe, with a fireplace and wood floors. We sat in the living room, on a two-person couch, facing the western windows into the garden. She had a tri-fold votive screen, which held 12 votive candles, and it was on a table about 5 feet away from us. We each had a glass of water, and a box of kleenex nearby.
She started with a short meditation: close your eyes, think of a joy, focus on that sensation. I can't remember what joy I thought of: friendship? snorkeling? waking by the ocean? chocolate chip cooky? but it was actually hard to choose and focus on it, which was a nice revelation.
Then we opened our eyes and thought of an ending or a loss that we wanted to honor. We took turns, speaking of the event or the thought or the person, and then going to light a candle. Speak, rise, strike the match, light the candle, sit back down. In my case, grab a kleenex. When the candles were all lit, we blew them out, and those endings were sent upward with the smoke. We continued to speak more thoughts, light more candles. We talked about joyful losses: loss of weight, loss of anger, loss of unreasonable expectations. We talked about grief: loss of husband, loss of father, loss of self, loss of home. We talked about endings: end of a job, of a lifestyle, of youth, of middle age. All of which leads to beginnings.
She usually does this ritual during the dark of the moon, to help honor the past time and look forward to the new beginnings. I was reminded of the solstice celebration at T's, 2 years ago back in Portland. There, we started in darkness and lit each others candles and spoke a word for winter. The growing light and the sense of community were equally palpable. This was a more intimate ritual, with just the two of us, and it went deeper in a way. It began the process of letting go. I have been talking about losses in this blog, but I haven't been letting them go. I've been stuck in the grieving process.
Today, I came right up against the perils of being stuck. I have feared that I didn't have the wherewithal to find myself again, and I have feared losing my friends in the process. I have feared that I am not worth the time or the stress, that the more I reached out, the more I would drive away the help. And that is coming to pass.
It's probably a good thing to realize, viscerally, that the healing has to come from myself, and that others can do little to help. You can't replace 30 years of connection in a few months, and while those distant connections are real and deep and strong, they can't be there for you every day, or even every week. And neither can the new connections. Their support is of a different nature, and the trust and depth are embryonic, maybe stillborn. For the daily bread, I have to grow my own yeast, bake my own loaves. I have to do it alone.
And crying is bad for my sinuses.
Yesterday I walked in the hills with a new friend. We talked, we were silent. I touched the amazing rocks, I sniffed the piny juniper and the spicy woody willows, I watched the white fluffy clouds in the brilliant blue sky, I listened to the wind in the junipers, with the deep silence behind the sound. As ee cummings said, "how could tasting, touching, seeing, hearing, breathing, any -lifted from the no of all nothing- human merely being, doubt unimaginable You." I spread my arms to the soft cool breeze, I was full of joy, full of the moment. And that is as real as my grief and my tears.
I just wish I experienced it more often.
It was very kind of her to recognize the anti-climax and emptiness I was feeling, and to offer me a way to deal with it. I accepted, not knowing what she had in mind, but trusting in the intent. It was a night after work, so we planned for 7 pm. I got home and decided to bake some chocolate chip cookies as thank you offering. Or rather, a cooky: the toaster oven doesn't really accommodate cookies, so I put the whole batch in a pie plate. It doesn't cook evenly, so the bottom was burned. But you can't really go wrong with butter, chocolate, pine nuts, and brown sugar, right?
M's house is a lovely adobe, with a fireplace and wood floors. We sat in the living room, on a two-person couch, facing the western windows into the garden. She had a tri-fold votive screen, which held 12 votive candles, and it was on a table about 5 feet away from us. We each had a glass of water, and a box of kleenex nearby.
She started with a short meditation: close your eyes, think of a joy, focus on that sensation. I can't remember what joy I thought of: friendship? snorkeling? waking by the ocean? chocolate chip cooky? but it was actually hard to choose and focus on it, which was a nice revelation.
Then we opened our eyes and thought of an ending or a loss that we wanted to honor. We took turns, speaking of the event or the thought or the person, and then going to light a candle. Speak, rise, strike the match, light the candle, sit back down. In my case, grab a kleenex. When the candles were all lit, we blew them out, and those endings were sent upward with the smoke. We continued to speak more thoughts, light more candles. We talked about joyful losses: loss of weight, loss of anger, loss of unreasonable expectations. We talked about grief: loss of husband, loss of father, loss of self, loss of home. We talked about endings: end of a job, of a lifestyle, of youth, of middle age. All of which leads to beginnings.
She usually does this ritual during the dark of the moon, to help honor the past time and look forward to the new beginnings. I was reminded of the solstice celebration at T's, 2 years ago back in Portland. There, we started in darkness and lit each others candles and spoke a word for winter. The growing light and the sense of community were equally palpable. This was a more intimate ritual, with just the two of us, and it went deeper in a way. It began the process of letting go. I have been talking about losses in this blog, but I haven't been letting them go. I've been stuck in the grieving process.
Today, I came right up against the perils of being stuck. I have feared that I didn't have the wherewithal to find myself again, and I have feared losing my friends in the process. I have feared that I am not worth the time or the stress, that the more I reached out, the more I would drive away the help. And that is coming to pass.
It's probably a good thing to realize, viscerally, that the healing has to come from myself, and that others can do little to help. You can't replace 30 years of connection in a few months, and while those distant connections are real and deep and strong, they can't be there for you every day, or even every week. And neither can the new connections. Their support is of a different nature, and the trust and depth are embryonic, maybe stillborn. For the daily bread, I have to grow my own yeast, bake my own loaves. I have to do it alone.
And crying is bad for my sinuses.
Yesterday I walked in the hills with a new friend. We talked, we were silent. I touched the amazing rocks, I sniffed the piny juniper and the spicy woody willows, I watched the white fluffy clouds in the brilliant blue sky, I listened to the wind in the junipers, with the deep silence behind the sound. As ee cummings said, "how could tasting, touching, seeing, hearing, breathing, any -lifted from the no of all nothing- human merely being, doubt unimaginable You." I spread my arms to the soft cool breeze, I was full of joy, full of the moment. And that is as real as my grief and my tears.
I just wish I experienced it more often.
 |
| To honor Easter I resurrected two joys: Hiking and Thai food. |
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