Pandora and Yanni

I'm kind of embarrassed. Pandora thinks I like Yanni. I decided a long time ago, I do not like Yanni. His mustache is way too 1980's Magnum PI and he is way too New Age for me. So, when I enter modern piano composer Dustin O'Halloran and they play Yanni, I get confused.
It's a funny little test of prejudice for me. The Dustin station is a new one for me, and it's taking a lot of tweaking. I love piano, simple, graceful or melancholic and deep; solo piano is one of my great loves.
But I'm very particular about my music. I love a lot of styles and music is life to me. There is bad music though. Sometimes the line is real obvious. For instance, this Sunday at an event in the park. The garage band playing what I think had to have been their first public performance made me want to punch people in the face. It was so bad, I can only compare it to a billion times worse than your pet peeve. I had to leave. I was so depleted, I couldn't tune them out. From what I hear, the line was clear to many people. They were on the crap music side of the line.
The line is not so clear to me with this new Pandora station. I know what I really like, but other songs give me a not so sure feeling. That is, until I click over and see the face. The bush of black hair. The broom over the lip. I cannot enjoy Yanni. That's all there is to it. While I didn't hate the song, I had a sneaky suspicion it would be guilty by association, and sure enough, it was. Dislike. Please, do not play Yanni again. I don't care that your algorithm makes me want to hear Yanni. I don't.
Which makes me think of the bigger picture. How often does something sound okay, but there is a whiff of something we've decided we don't like, so we just decide not to like it? I've been trying to catch myself in that as I'm reading from a lot of different disciplines. It's challenging to receive things in their purest form and not through our filters, built up through years of experience.

I wish life was as easy as Pandora sometimes. You can just hit the dislike button, and it's on to the next song. In a way it is that easy. Just as one day, maybe Pandora will have the perfect Dustin station, maybe I will have a collection of thoughts and perspectives that resonate perfectly with me. For now, I read and listen and cull and collect. I need to wrap this post up and head over to Pandora now. I think a Nordstrom piano player got into my playlist.

Autumn tip toeing toward me

Without fail, Autumn makes her presence known in my life. While I'm still expecting blazing hot days, for it's always hot during the Handcar Regatta which is next week, I'm looking at the mess of pumpkins sprung from my volunteer patch and thinking of cozy nights with a book and a fire.
I've needed a day to myself for so long. A day where I wasn't cleaning my house for company, but for myself. A day to play sappy piano music on Pandora instead of my usual upbeat fare. And, after last night's humbling experience at yoga, I definitely needed a slow day. After lying in the fetal position in the class room for a good long time, someone came in and asked me if I was okay. My eyes welled up with tears, because I wasn't okay, but the fact that someone cared made me okay.
I love summer. I love to be hot and feel the sun seeping into my very core. I dream about that feeling during the dead of winter. I never want summer to end, but when Autumn comes, I can't help but embrace her with open arms.
I've already written an ode to Autumn last year. And as she approaches again this year, all the same feelings crop up. I've been struggling with some things in my life lately, and my lovely friends want to rescue me. I think in the end it will be Autumn who rescues me. She reminds me nothing is forever. She also reminds me you can't have everything all the time. No one wants a fire on a blazing hot day. At least, no one in their right mind. So, I enjoy the hot day on the river's edge soaking up the sun, and I enjoy the cool Autumn night curled up on the couch with a book listening to rain spatter on the windows. Both are good. One is no better than the other, but they cannot happen at the same time. And that's one of the many gifts Autumn brings to me. A knowing that all things happen in their time, and they are good. I need only be present.

A Rant, if you will

I usually like to keep this blog light hearted, free from judgement and full of, well, grace.
This morning, I read something that I am struggling with.
Just a couple days ago, the retailer Target released a designer line that had so much on line traffic it temporarily crashed their system. Sounds like good news, right? Our economy needs recharging.
The designer clothes are lesser quality, so can be offered at lower prices. Great. People snatched up quantities at a time, and are now selling them on sites like eBay, for 3-4 times the original price.
It's appalling to me that we are such a greedy status conscious society that we want what we want regardless. The clothes are priced so low in the first place because often, they are manufactured with slave labor.
Why don't we cut out the middle man, and the slave labor, and take our money to local crafters. Instead of owning what everyone else owns, why not buy something straight from the crafter? I was just in a yarn shop yesterday and saw the most exquisite sweaters. Sure, they don't have status conscious labels, but they were beautiful, and likely made with love and not hate.
I know, there's all kinds of arguments for capitalism and blah blah blah. I'd just like to see people care more about their fellow man than a silly fashion statement that lasts for ten minutes. I should add here, I'm as guilty as the next guy...but I am trying.
I've never asked before, but I would really like your comments.

Mean Girls or I am a Mean Girl

I just spent the weekend in Tahoe. It was a much needed girls' weekend away. I am so grateful for the opportunity to get away in spite of the fact that I barely have a job to get away from. In just 48 short hours, I stopped laughing long enough to make a few personal discoveries. I'll share one.
I am a mean girl. Ironically, this morning I stumbled across an online article about mean girls, and moms trying to raise daughters that are not mean girls. I'm thinking the parallels will be minimal; because I'm a grown up. At least in calendar years.
Here's the story. My friend and I set ourselves up on a beach on Lake Tahoe. I packed several books along, but found all I could do was people watch. I'd pick up a book, read two lines, and then a large mustache walks by and I have to make a comment. I didn't think it was a mean comment, I just observed out loud that he missed the stash bash here in town a few weeks ago. For some reason my friend interpreted it as a mean comment...perhaps that was because I had just been rolling around on the blanket having the best belly laugh over a woman's pants that left nothing to the imagination. I kept waiting for the skin tight pants to maybe release...but no, they had a grip on her in a most indelicate way. And lest you think I am super catty, (which only somewhat regretfully I admit; I am), you ought to know this about me: my most favorite person to laugh at is myself.
I had just spent a couple nights previous laughing at my complete inability to follow the dance moves in a dance class I had attended. When everyone faced left, I faced right. When everyone's hands were in the air, mine were down. And on it went. And I laughed; the whole time. I looked like a big goofy buffoon, but I could either get frustrated or laugh. I chose to laugh.
Moreover, if I have a wardrobe malfunction, I want you to tell me; and then I want to laugh about it. If I was friends with the guy who picked his nostril first with one thumb, and then the other for a good long time, I would point it out to him with a giggle and tease him; but since we weren't friends, I could only laugh from afar. The humanity. We are funny, that's all there is to it.
Maybe I also laugh because I love the underdog. I may laugh at your pants, but as I told my friend who informed me this is no excuse, I would jump in front of a train for any of the people I laugh(ed) at. It isn't an excuse, I realize. But I am a big fan of self awareness. And, I am a big fan of laughing at myself, and I am a big fan of laughing at life. What I won't laugh at is someone in pain. I won't laugh at someone who walks down the street in soiled clothes because they cannot afford to clean them. I won't laugh at someone who talks too much because they're nervous, but I will if they are arrogant. I could probably find something interesting to talk about with the lady in the tight pants, or the man with the mustache. Maybe they would find me vapid and boring. The thing is, I wouldn't rule them out as worth while people because I found something about them peculiarly funny. We may not be best friends, but we could still be the better for meeting. Everyone has a spark of life in them. Everyone. It may be buried behind insecurities or bad taste, (in my book), but it's still there. It's still worth finding.
And, if I could, and if it wouldn't horrify her, I would thank the woman in the tight pants. I still laugh at her pants winking at me. If she could swallow her pride and laugh with me, I think we could have a moment. And if it hurt her feelings that I laughed at her, I would humbly and sincerely apologize and cry with her. But laughing seems so much healthier.

My friend Art and his son Matt.

The "Arts District" has been hosting a Sunday Salon Series this year. The last Sunday of each month, a different gallery or artist talks about their work and takes the time to answer questions. I've attended most of them, and have tried to write about what I heard and saw. That pesky little thing called self-edit has left many of my thoughts in the draft folder. Until today. The discussion veered today from technique to philosophy and I said "now you're speakin' my language." You see, I'm a frustrated artist. But I'll get back to that. I love to talk philosophy and ideas, so back to the Salon:
The presenting gallery from today, The Gallery of Sea and Heaven is part of a wonderful program. Becoming Independent is an organization that helps people with disabilities by offering support, life skills and advocacy. From their web-page: The BI ArtWorks program, in particular, provides men and women opportunities to explore their own personal creativity resulting in intuitive, outsider art that receives wide recognition in the community.
I love that there's a place for people with some sort of disability to express themselves. And, without being patronizing, I love the innocence and openness often expressed by someone who is perhaps not as hung up on social standing. And, I discovered, I love the idea of intuitive art.
There was some talk about the term "outsider art" that led to a very brief discussion of what should actually be considered art. By art, in this context, I do mean the fine arts. Barbara, who leads the program shared the story of an artist with disabilities who was entered into a competition and took top honors. When it was revealed she is not a technically trained artist, many involved were very disgruntled. Suddenly, what was good enough to garner top honor, should not even be in the running, because of her lack of training, to say the least. Of course, that was a very disappointing stance.
As the discussion progressed a chord was struck with me. One woman spoke out that art is just putting marks on paper. (Essentially), she was advocating the view that art does not necessarily need training. It spoke to me because she said she hates to hear people say they are not an artist or could never be an artist. Enter me. I think I've mentioned even in this brief blog that I wish I could paint. Well...I can paint. I can pick up a brush, and I can dip it in paint and splash it across a canvas.
My frustration comes from not being able to paint what is in my mind's eye. I see beautiful landscapes; places I want to walk, and sit under trees and slip my shoes off in. I can't replicate these pictures. Since I can't paint what I see, I don't want to paint at all. Here is where I get a little jealous. I would like to be able to explore my own personal creativity using my intuition, rather than being so fixed on an image that I think I want to express. And, obviously, (I think), that idea extends to my writing. I want to produce something, hold it up, say "look what I did," and not worry about whether or not it matches my intentions, or moreover whether anyone else likes it. Then it dawns on me, (did I mention I am a late bloomer?): If I could live my whole life this way....it's just lines on paper, what freedom! If I could let go of every preconceived notion of what life should look like, then I could really appreciate what may sometimes look more like the stick figures of life as much as the lovely Pre-Raphaelite ladies. Even as I'm about to hit "publish post" and find myself resisting, still self editing, thinking I am the only person in the world who needs these words, I remember a recent conversation. A friend shared her thoughts that she thinks she should be somewhere else in her life. Her circumstances took a sharp left and she has found herself in a situation she hadn't imagined. I'm sure it doesn't match the vision she had, but it's beautiful nonetheless.
I remember getting a sneak peek at one of the shows where art from "real" artists was displayed side by side with the Becoming Independent group. A friend wondered if I could tell who did what. Some paintings were very obviously done by trained artists, others very obviously done by a client of BI, and my favorite painting of the show; I couldn't tell. Turns out, it was painted by a client. So take my words, or leave them, but by all means; look what I did.

Life jacket please

Today was not only the longest day of the year; it was my anniversary with the hot yoga world. This I know thanks to the wonders of modern technology and automated email. I've been practicing hot yoga for four years now. Ironically, today marked day 4 of the studio being closed for repair. I thought I would die to go three days without, and as it turns out, it was extended to 4. I wish I had closed down for repair.
I don't know what I would have done had the studio been business as usual this weekend. I go nearly every day, sometimes twice to keep my overall attendance at about 29 classes per month. I might be obsessive, addicted...both. That said, I was looking at 4 days, no yoga. It was kind of scary and wonderful to think about a forced break. (Well....there are other studios) What would I do with 4 whole days?
Somehow, I made it. And, as each day passed, I wondered how I've managed to go so frequently. Yoga is definitely the rock in my day. (You know the 'ol demonstration you've seen at some feel good meeting: If you have sand, water and rocks to squeeze in a container, you've got to start with the rocks and finish with the water in order for everything to fit.) Now, granted, there are people far busier than me who have a more difficult time squeezing it all in, but this is my blog. And this is my four days:
Saturday afternoon, somewhere around the time I would be in toe stand, someone said to me, "shouldn't you be in yoga right now?" She said this as we were hefting a very heavy box over our heads and onto a second story shelf in the barn, precariously balancing on a ladder and an old pool table. Saturday was a very big clean up day here at hoarders anonymous, and I can't imagine toodling off before the job was done. It was a very long day, a dirty day and a necessary day. Sunday, I continued the clean-up/purge in my own house, and realized we really don't use every muscle in yoga. (It's part of the dialogue; we're told that we've just used every muscle, every joint and tendon.) I felt some new ones, some underused ones on Sunday....which also was Father's Day. Though my Father is gone, and I haven't made anyone else a father, I still actually had a place to be. So, another afternoon rolled around where I looked at the clock and wondered how I would have made it to yoga that day.
By Monday, I'm kind of grumpy, missing my yoga and my community. But, as I'm shoving food in my face just before I would normally be doing a breathing exercise, I'm kind of okay with being home.
Which brings me to today. My anniversary. Once again, right around the time I'd normally be leaving for yoga, I had to acknowledge that I was not; I was down in the barn, this time attending to the horses. I had a very full day and wondered how I would have managed to do all I did, and still make it to yoga.
And, here's the thing...well, two things really. Here's the less important thing: I did get some hot yoga today. Who needs to heat a room when the sun is doing such a fine job? I took my mat to the back deck, set a timer for 90 minutes, and recited as much of the dialogue in my mind as I could. Oddly enough, no matter what posture I was in, I repeated "spread your arms out to the side like a 747 taking off." Is it because that's my least favorite posture? Just a thought.
More to the point, I have mixed feelings about these last four days. They kind of feel like a freight train hit me. It seems counter-intuitive to me. I had four whole days not punctuated by the time investment of going to yoga. I had visions of hunkering down and writing all the things I've been wanting to. I had an idea I'd visit one of those other studios. I thought I'd have endless time, and in retrospect it seems like I had less, not more.
I think I'll be rolling this around in my mind for a couple days. One thing I do know; I'm ready to go back. My body misses it. I miss the people. Well, most of them. I have a new appreciation for it though. I'm going to have to work out how it is that I seem to have more time when I go to yoga. And then, if I could just bottle that I'd share it with everyone.

A Spoonful of Honey

Last evening, I was invited to a screening of a documentary. I'm not your typical gal, for good or ill. I don't get excited about an invitation to the movie theater. Listening to a heavy breather eat popcorn with their mouth open behind me, and watching the twit text message away in front of me makes me want to punch people in the face. It's true. I'm a horribly violent person.
But, transport me to a swank arts center with beautiful and quirky things to look at and the cell phone doesn't bother me so much.
The New Arts Project in Santa Rosa created a space for about oh, 30 to 50 people to view a screening of a documentary. They provided ice cold lemon water in lovely dispensers. The chairs were a bit rough, but there were not any feet dangling over the back of the chair next to me. Someone's pooch was trolling around, particularly interested in my handbag where I'd forgotten I stashed a half eaten kid's cliff bar.
The movie was Vanishing of the Bees, and it was very well done. I've heard about the vanishing for several years now, and was eager to see something comprehensive on the subject. This piece was more than comprehensive; the cast of characters ranged from down-home bee keepers with great regional accents to an earth mother goddess admonishing us to worship the feminine half of the deity and a scientist in between.
There is, as of yet, no definitive answer to why colonies of bees are just disappearing. Called Colony Collapse Disorder, entire hives, thousands of hives at a time even, are found for all intents and purposes, empty. Millions upon millions of bees are unaccounted for. More than being unaccounted for, they are lost to our crops of fruits, nuts, flowers and vegetables that are pollination dependent. The Bible speaks of a promised land of milk and honey, not corn and soy, but some Big Business thinks the answer to this is to blanket our country in mono crops of genetically modified food and resources. Not only does that idea stun me for its lack of beauty and grace; the implications strike fear in my heart. I have a friend who brought home a parasite from Africa. He's living out the painful ramifications of eating something his body was not prepared to resist. When we rely on importing most of our fruit and veg from other countries, we are at the mercy of their cost and whatever pests come along with.
Right now, the smoking gun seems to be pointing at pesticides. Can we all exhale a chorus of "duh"? The research continues, as does the fight for protection of not just our bees, but our lives. The movie was very informative about the way the EPA operates, the art and craft of bee-keeping as well as the big business end. I must admit, there was a scene which made me want to run and hide. I kind of have an idea now of what men feel like when they see other men kicked in the baby-maker.
I am kicking myself for not pulling out my notes during the movie; there were some wonderful quotes. The one that has stuck with me, from none other than Martin Luther King Jr.:
"Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly. I can never be what I ought to be until you are what you ought to be. This is the interrelated structure of reality."
I'm sitting with that thought now, as I contemplate not only the plight of the bees, but communities of people who come together in new ways to celebrate life, gain knowledge and spread goodness.
www.vanishingbees.com

Self Editing

I've been resistant to the blog, as I've edited anything I would remotely want to say, until I no longer want to say it. I feel this pressure to be funny, and yet, sometimes life is more whimsical or serious. Today, I feel a mixture of both.
Yesterday, I posted something on Facecrack as much for me as for anyone else.

Here's what's on my mind: What is the story you are telling? Is it one of woe or hope? We tell ourselves stories about our lives, and the more we tell it, the more we live it. I vote to tell stories of grace and beauty. Stories of triumph and your own defined success. Stories of gratefulness for what you have and an open heart for what you are to receive.

That's a tough one for me to live by, and yet, I believe it to be true with all my heart. I remember going through something rather painful, and I got tired of hearing myself tell the story. I remember feeling this odd dichotomy of wanting people to know where I was, to rally around me and yet feeling like the more I told the story, the uglier I became.
There is room for grief in stories, I don't regret my grief; I don't regret its chapters in my life. But I don't want disappointment and dashed expectations to be the only chapters in my book.

I've also told stories about the way people have treated me, only to discover much later, that though at the moment it was wrong, in the fullness of time, it was right. She speaks in riddles. The point, at least for me, is to calm down. I don't need to play God all the time. Or ever. I just need to show up.
Show up for the beauty right before my eyes. Show up for the story that's still being written. What may seem challenging right now may actually be a gift later on.

The Not Bucket List

Have you ever thought about having a bucket list? Maybe you have already started one. Maybe you've checked everything off your list. I've been toying with the idea of a bucket list the past couple weeks. I don't know why, but it popped into my head recently that I ought to have one, and I've resisted the idea all at the same time. I've been trying to tease out my resistance, when part of the answer struck me. Via Facebook, naturally.
A friend of mine announced she'd been able to check something off her list. My first reaction to her choice was that it was certainly not on my list of things to do. But that's okay, that's why we all have our own bucket list. I'm glad she got to do one of the things she really wanted to do, even if it's not something I would make an effort to do. At the same time, given the same opportunity, I would take it, even if it's not one I would chase.
This is where my thoughts started to really percolate. If I had made a bucket list ten or twenty years ago, would I really care about the things I checked off my list that I had accomplished? Am I resistant to the list because I don't want to expend energy chasing something that won't matter in a decade? There are plenty of things I thought I wanted, and in retrospect, that is not me.
And, all of a sudden, the bucket list feels like life; and I begin to touch on my resistance. Life is nothing like I thought it would be as I imagined it 20 years ago. Not. a. single. thing. (I know, the period after every word to make a point is so tired right now, but I like it.) Part of my process as a spiritual being is to be able to embrace what is happening, and to let go of disappointment and expectation. It's useless anyway. I'm kind of glad I don't have a list of things I haven't done staring me in the face. Not to mention that I've done a lot of things I never thought I would. A thirty day challenge of Bikram Yoga would not have been on the list because I didn't even know about it even 5 years ago, and yet, I could put a check mark next to it. Calming down a gigantic angry horse also would not have been on the list, but I feel like a badass because I've done that. (My apologies to my more genteel readers, but I could not find any other word.) And, speaking of horses, riding a horse into the hills at the base of Petra in Jordan with a man who may or may not have had intentions of making me his tenth wife, also not on the list, but worthy of a check mark.
I like the idea of a bucket list. I like the idea that if we visualize goals, they are more likely to come about. I also like the idea that life is unfolding, and though it's not like I would have scripted it, it's been an adventure I wouldn't trade. I still may sit down and think about what I'd like to accomplish or see or do. It's a delicate balance: chasing dreams and living with hands and heart open wide. I haven't totally released the idea of a bucket list; perhaps, if I had one, it would contain only one item. For now I'm appreciating the free form life I'm living and tending my wide open heart. Where are you?

Be Here Now

I can't believe I'm going to drop this name in my blog: Kim Kardashian. I'm so not a fan of the new breed of (non)reality show famous people, and this post really is not about her. Nevertheless, a recent story concerning her touched on something I've already been thinking about. I heard that Prince recently pulled her on stage and then kicked her off for not dancing with him at his show. I also heard that she was Twittering about it on stage. That is not true. She waited all the way until she got off stage.....but it brought up an interesting point. We've become so obsessed with updating all our moments, we are often not really present to the moment we are experiencing. I can't tell you how many of my friends have updated their Facebook with the news that they are on a date with their significant other. Really? You're on a date? And, you're updating your status? Must be a fantastic date. (And my apologies to my recent "date" in front of whom I checked a Facebook message. I did it on purpose....)

As I was already planning on writing about this, I had to laugh when I saw the above comic this morning. (On Facebook, of course.) The constant updating reminds me of this comic. It sometimes feels like a competition to post the most commented on/liked update. It's a fine line. I do really appreciate much of what I read on these social sites. I'm encouraged, I learn, I grow. I share things because I'm on a journey and don't want to go alone, but perhaps I share to show (off) how enlightened I am.
Then, just when I'm kicking myself for being a swaggering, arrogant and evolved show-off, my mind shifts once more. Yesterday, I was walking underneath blossoming cherry trees, and the air smelled absolutely divine. I wished there was a way to post a 3-d photo and scent on Facebook. I wanted to share that moment because it felt so good, and what would have made it feel even better would have been seeing someone else enjoy the moment. (Of course I should have wished someone was there with me physically. Alas, it's too late, I think in terms of updates.)
While I am technically an introvert, I live for moments shared with other people. My fondest memories include others, and we're usually laughing or eating, or both or neither.
Sometimes, being here now is lonely. (Not so much for Kim, surrounded by Prince fans at a concert), but for others stuck in a cubicle, or home with two or three whiny little munchkins, here now screams for diversion. We've built a little techno community of updates, music, photos and all manner of diversion.
Still, I'm not going to lie, as much as this blog is intended to extend grace to myself and to others, I'm sure a good many updates, including my own, are self aggrandizing tripe, and the author would do better to actually enjoy the moment rather than trumpeting it. On the other hand, when I click over to Facebook, and see even as I write this post, my conservative Christian friend's husband is giving their 4 year old a mohawk, I smile. I'm glad she took the time to share that moment. I'll take the good with the bad; (and really, it's all good), which only proves: I've reached enlightenment before you.

I am a hoarder

I am a hoarder. It's true. I'm not proud of it. It's difficult to admit because my image of a hoarder has always been a very old lonely person reeking of urine. It's also difficult to admit because there aren't the tell tale stacks of magazines lining my walls, or newspapers tucked every where. In fact, for the most part, my home is tidy and everything has a place. Never the less, a cold hard truth is being addressed. I can't let go.
I save travel sized toiletries and cosmetic samples in case I go on a trip. Thing is, I have more than I need. Moreover, I never ever use the samples on trips. I also have this weird habit as well: whenever I buy something new, say a new lip balm, I don't finish the old one, but "save" it. I do that with lotion and toothpaste and the list goes on. Dirty. little. secret.
I've been in a new phase. The un-hoarding phase. I feel a little lighter every day. I've finished off lotions and lip balms and am watching my contribution to the land fill pile up. I've been dealing with all the odd "gourmet" items in my kitchen that I've saved for a rainy day. The weather has been rather spring like this winter, but I'm pretending these are rainy days and binging on food not normally in my repertoire.
As I go through my stashes of this n that, I feel like Templeton the pack-rat from Charlotte's Web. He would find random objects and save them, just because. I found a tooth token from a dentist I'd never even heard of in my coin box. All I can say is....well, there's nothing I can say, that's just weird.
I think this unloading mirrors my emotional life as well. I think some of us hang onto feelings and even relationships that no longer serve us. Please, don't get me wrong, I don't enter into relationships to be served. But, sometimes the give and take becomes the give and give. Life is short really. Some of the feelings I carry or relationship perspectives I have sap my energy. They just take up space, that should be filled with joy instead. I have some feelings that are like that tooth token. I don't even know where they came from, they're just weird inexplicable feelings that serve nothing. I'm working to banish them.
Some feelings do serve as guide posts to learn lessons. I'm trying to feel what I ought to feel then purge it all out, lesson learned. It's a process, and it's certainly not as tidy as a trash bag I get to put out on the curb once a week. Tidy, or not, things are moving and the results are rewarding.
I'm looking forward to the space, both physically and emotionally that will be open for more beauty and joy as I let go of all the stuff.

Making Myself Share

I have been woefully uninspired to actually write lately. What's more, I've had lots of stories I tell myself about my life and the world around me, but I haven't wanted to share them. I've censored myself feeling like the things I'd like to write about are too elementary, too naive too full of angst or too full of those you had to be there feelings.
Life has been really satisfying lately, but who wants to read about how excited I am to be outside picking up horse poo in unseasonably beautiful January weather? I relish my time in the barn, with the doors wide open. Rain, or shine, I find myself immersed in rain drops or bird calls, and am filled with joy.
I've been thinking on several ideas lately, in the solitude of the barn. One subject was clarified a little more for me today, through conversation with a friend, and for that I am grateful.
I've heard the term "no regrets" bandied about a lot lately, and I had to really sit on it. At the same time I was still sitting on the idea of no regrets, I stumbled across an affirmation someone I admire very much wrote: Please love yourself. Forgive yourself and know there is no thing really to forgive. You have done nothing wrong.
I thought I could understand this on one level, but on another level, I couldn't wrap my mind around it. At the time I was presented with these ideas together, I was walking with someone through a deep pain, caused by someone's wrong actions toward them. I was stuck on the person in the wrong.
I've wrestled with these two seemingly disparate thoughts for a while now. The thought that we have done nothing wrong, and the state many people are in. How is it that we can have done no wrong when people are desperately hurting?
I have come to realize, these words, these ideas are not to free people from owning their actions or from loving one another, but to free people to love one another.
It is not our place to worry about other people's actions, it is our place to worry about our own Being. Here's my theory: if we live in regret, we are likely to continue to make the same choices we regret. If we live in the place of hurting others, we are likely to feel so badly about ourselves we cannot help but continue to hurt others.
Don't get me wrong, the ideas of no regrets and you've done nothing wrong are not permission for those who live to step on other people; they are the truths of redemption. We can be redeemed. We are redeemed. When we move forward in redemption, we are granted a new choice each moment. We can choose to live more fully and openly. When we shed the guilt of regret, we can step out in love, and at the end of the day, all you need is love, love; love is all you need.

The Requisite New Year Post

I made no resolutions for the New Year. The habit of making plans, of criticizing, sanctioning and molding my life, is too much of a daily event for me.
~Anaïs Nin

I borrowed the above quote from my friend Connie and of course from Anais Nin. It really speaks to me this year. I keep thinking I need to take stock of the year, and make plans for the next, and I just can't. Or, I already have; all through the year.
I realize that no amount of blank pages in the new year will change anything in my past. Perspective can change the past though. I can either look back and hurl 2010 out on its back-side, or I can walk humbly each day, one foot in front of the other and thank 2010 for all its hard lessons.
If I put so much pressure on January 1 to be my answer to all things that ailed me in 2010, then how will I feel when I flub for the first time? Which, in my life, will be about 15 minutes after I wake up on January 1. I am fallible. I am human. I say things, do things, don't do things....it will take me no time at all to write something on my blank page that I wish I could erase. There is no eraser. And, if there were an eraser, the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind shows me I don't really want an eraser.
I know of someone who wishes very much there was an eraser for all the horrible things she has done and said, and worst of all written and shared, because someone has shared them publicly. I have thought a lot about her terrible situation, and been so happy that there isn't an accounting of all I have said and done for anyone to see. That said, there actually is a public accounting. It is the character we have that people see. No matter how much we try and veil our actions and thoughts, they show up on our face and in our eyes. So, as I look forward to 2011, I know it's really not a blank page. There is already so much written on my face. It is my prayer that throughout this next year, and all the rest of my life I would write love over and over.

Choosing to backtrack

I needed to get gas on my way home tonight. I like to buy the cheapest gas. At $3 something a gallon, cheap is desirable. There's a cheap station a few blocks in the opposite direction from the way I'd go home, and there's another station almost directly on a possible path home. For some reason, I chose the station in the direct path. Seems reasonable, right?
Here's the thing: the direct path isn't the most direct path. It's just one that doesn't entail any backtracking. It does entail going into the heart of downtown, and navigating through several lights, and lots of traffic. The other station, the one out of my way, is just one right on red away, and then right onto the freeway after I've gassed up. It's really quite simple.
So, why am I even talking about this? Because I wondered, as I was traveling through town at a snail's pace, why I hadn't just gone a few blocks out of my way, to the easier station?
And then, as I am wont to do, I wondered how often I push forward, when perhaps a little backtracking is in order? How often do I get mired in what seems like a straightforward position only to wish I'd gone back, or held back?
Why is there such a stigma, (at least to me) on going backwards? Why is it a bad thing? Why always the pressure to be moving forward?
Perhaps what we sometimes need to hear is, it's okay to backtrack a little. Maybe there are places in our life where with one step back we'll actually move forward a lot more efficiently. I probably would have saved myself 10 minutes had I backtracked to the gas station away from home. Where in my life can I save something as valuable as time by taking a step back?
That's my question for today.

Continuing thoughts on seeing the good

I've been pondering the events of a recent yoga class. There were two women in the front row I'd never seen before. Their behavior was so bad, for a moment, I was transported back to Junior High. Never did I think I would hear a grown women mouthing back to a teacher, "but I wasn't the one who was talking," petulant and defiant, when she was asked to move by the teacher. Mind you, this yoga is quiet, no talking, (certainly no moaning or chanting) and really, no whining. I guess she didn't get the memo.
That said, I was extra peeved when the woman moved across the room and stepped on my towel, where in one hour I would be putting my face. I don't care if you think you are the bees knees, keep your dirty germ boat feet off my towel. It's not that difficult. And the final straw was when I went looking for my boots after class, and discovered she had dropped her stinky, sweaty/wet mat right on top of them. It wasn't personal. It was just more of her inconsiderate behavior.
I was so disgusted, I was tempted to go on a jag about how awful people are. Then I thought about how many people were in the class. Out of about 25 people, only a handful were terrible. As I said in my last post, if we look for the good, we will find it. While I think it's very important to look for the good in people; in this case, I had to stretch it out, and look for the good in the group. It was reassuring to remind myself most of the people next to me in yoga are lovely. Most of our classes pass without incident. Most of the time, I am met with a smile, and a heart felt "how are you?" I love my yoga family. Instead of dwelling on how awful this particular woman's behavior was, and feeling pessimistic about society, I'll reflect on the wonderful people that come and share their (positive) energy.

Finding what You are Looking For

I was on a mission. The truth of a person's character became very important to me. I had at my fingertips this person's own words, shared in supposed anonymity.
It was important to me on one hand to vilify this person, and on another hand, it was important to only deal in the truth, and on the third hand, it was important to me to embrace the possibility this person was actually a very nice likable person. (Who knew I had 3 hands!)
Here's what I found. No one is all good, or all bad. Duh, right?
As I waded through the dialogue, I grew to like this person, and to have compassion on her situation. Isn't that crazy? I set out to prove to myself her character is shady, and instead wanted to give her a hug and tell her it would get better. And the third hand is the reason why. I did find terrible things about this person. My suspicions were confirmed. But, I left myself open to the possibility of her goodness, and I found that too.
Last night at yoga, someone mentioned to me that he needed to stop caring so much about what other people do that irritates him. Here here. I need more of that too. How does the saying go? When I point a finger at someone else there are three pointing back at me. I do believe we need to assess people, and not put ourselves in harm's way. Outside of that, we need to see the goodness in people. Even if they've wronged us, be it a minor irritation or a betrayal, they are not all bad. So, I think if we approach people, looking for their goodness, we will find it. And how much more beautiful the world is when instead of reacting in irritation, we bask in goodness.

Wait

This morning, I woke with a thought in my head to do something I knew in my heart would be rash and ill advised. I knew from a conversation last night, that I ought to wait, and see; but in the early dawn hours when thoughts are more heart and less logic, I thought I could not.
I spent my morning wrestling with this thought. Then came the email alerting me to a new posting of another blog I just yesterday subscribed to. The title: Still Waiting. The words caused my heart to palpitate a little more quickly. I read the blog, and tried to settle into the place of active inactivity. The place of waiting in peace. I thought perhaps it was a message meant just for me.
Then, my phone rang. I had an unexpected conversation with an old friend. The message wasn't just wait; but contrived to make what I so dearly want to do somewhat of a mute point. So, now, I have the message about waiting, and I have the message that what I want to do, I ought not.
And finally, a guilty pleasure, Dr. Who continued the dialogue in my mind. Not the should I wait dialogue, but the synchronicity dialogue. I flicked on the DVD while I ate lunch in hopes of distracting myself. Watching the last episode of the last season, the Doctor refers to his companion as the girl who waited. And like a string of pearls, each thought hugged the next and brought me full circle.
I'm still fighting with whether or not I can or will wait. I'm still struggling with my heart and my head. My goal is to wait in peace.
But I'm marveling at the way God speaks, and laughing that even an episode of Dr Who spoke an affirmation to me about which direction to go. And, I'm still waiting, with open arms and an open heart. And while I wait, I'm grateful that answers come from magical places, and we are expanded in waiting. As a pregnant woman expands and gives birth, waiting sometimes gives birth to life.

single-mindedness is not always best

I've been trying to download some music from my computer onto my iPhone for months now. Every time I try, the syncing process gets to a certain point, and then the iTunes program freezes. On a side note, my computer is a dinosaur, and we are entering an ice age here. I have been so single-minded in my attempt to upload some songs onto my phone, that when the prompt box came up telling me the computer detected a camera, would I like to download the pictures, I found it an irritation, and always hastily closed the box.
Then, something, who knows what, happened. I had to do a system restore on the phone. Something went seriously wrong in my attempt this time. My phone just showed a picture of a usb cord and that was all it would do. I had to drive to the Apple store in the mall, (I detest the mall), and have a hipster kid restore my phone to its original settings. "What does this mean?" I ask the Mac Pro. Everything is going to be wiped, he says. Gone. Pictures, text messages, everything. I nearly cried. There were a few photos that were irreplaceable to me.
I looked around the store in a daze. I coveted the shiny new computers that would have let me upload songs to my phone without this heartache.
As I shared what had happened with a friend, she encouraged me that my photos must be backed up on my computer; and then it hit me. What had been a nuisance to me, would you like to download those photos now, would have saved me my precious photos. If in my haste to get to the thing I wanted at that moment, I had taken a moment to preserve the thing that was even more special to me, I would not have lost it all. Which begs the question: How often do we find the important things in life just an irritation, and quickly shut them down? It's an obvious analogy, isn't it? Yet it hit me like a ton of bricks. There was a simple directive to me, which had I just taken a moment to process, would have saved me some grief. Moreover, I still could have tried to do the thing I really wanted to do. What simple but very important directives am I hastily shutting down, in my impatience to get to the thing I want in that moment? What am I sacrificing in my haste and single-mindedness?
Epilogue
I ruin my whole analogy by sharing this little tid-bit, but, well, who cares, you get my point, right? All was not lost. When I had the courage to plug my phone into the computer again, (at a time when I could shoot down to the Mac store should I need to), I discovered something. I was just plugging the phone in to experiment with downloading the one picture I'd taken in the aftermath. This time, when I saw the prompt asking me what to do, I said by all means, download and save the pictures, and quickly. Then, I found to my surprise that when I synced the phone to the computer again, I got my pictures back. And my text messages. Everything. Phew. Needless to say, I immediately saved the photos in a file on my computer, (that I actually knew how to get to). The other moral of this story is that I am not a computer nerd. Even if I put on a pair of skinny jeans I'm going to look and be lost in a Mac store.

Spring Fever in Autumn

Spring ought to begin taking some lessons from Autumn. Don't get me wrong; I love Spring. Flowers blooming, spring rains, the weather warming up and the earth is about to be abuzz with activity after a long winter's slumber are all lovely things. People get antsy to get out, and supposedly, love is in the air.
Autumn is when I really fall in love though. With my self, that is. Not my ego self, but my Self self. The one who is in need of grace every moment of the day. The one who can't keep one thought without another clamoring for attention. Every activity takes on new life. A cup of tea in the fall is more than just tea, it's a ritual. The light is different, as I gaze out the window, the sun has begun a different dance. She skirts around the earth a little more lightly.
What is it about a chill in the air, a different light and Autumn smells that totally changes my psyche? The world seems like such a beautiful place and I am seated at her table in the fall. Is the Harvest symbolism so ingrained in my psyche that Autumn represents harvesting all that the universe has conspired to teach me throughout the year? Is it that I'm collecting gratefully each thought like a cherry tomato perfectly ripe and bursting with flavor? Are my branches heavy with the fruit of observation and realization?
All I know is, life is beautiful, and when I greet Autumn warmly at the door, I usher in my perfectly ripe self. Don't worry, I don't think I've arrived. I'll slumber through the winter and start all over again next year. Next Autumn, I will be surprised anew at this love affair, and sit in wonder at the fullness of life.

Typewriters and jumbled thoughts

This morning, I read something that made me laugh. It also sent my thoughts churning about something I've already been giving a bit of thought to. I'm reading Writing Down the Bones, a little handbook of creative writing, if you will. The author's intro suggests different mediums for writing, and the possible implications for each. Perhaps a small handy notebook while being convenient will also limit your thoughts. Writing outside the margins on lined paper will perhaps give you freedom. And then, the typewriter. That thing in a museum, that will make your "block black letters reveal a little something else about yourself."
And then, she mentions the "Macintosh." Not the Mac. It is at this point I realize I have just entered a time capsule. She dreams about using a computer, where there is a thing called "wrap-around" and you don't have to hear the ding of the typewriter. Does one get used to the ding of a typewriter? I wouldn't know.
It's all very surreal to me, as this morning's news announced the possibility that the Postal Service will be increasing the price of a stamp by another 2 cents. Soon, a stamp will be 50 cents. Half a dollar. Equivalent to the price of a gallon of gas 30 or 40 years ago. I remember when I used to write letters to my friends and family. I would gather my note paper, and carefully write out my thoughts, as there is no delete button with pen on paper. Now, I know I'm not the first person to wax poetic about this, but I'd send my letter, and then wait. Sometimes only days, sometimes weeks.
I think about what information I brought to a letter. I wasn't writing the Great American Novel, so the letters would contain high-lights of my goings on; just enough information to keep the friendship informed.
Now, we can communicate with 5 different people in 5 minutes. The landscape has very obviously changed entirely. Now, instead of buying a book of stamps for however much they will be, we pay for internet service. Now, instead of addressing a letter, Dear so and so, we share what's on our mind in a newsfeed, or we twitter or tumblr. We both share too much and too carefully craft a persona on line; the me we wish people to see.
I think of all of this in conjunction with writing. A writer needs to practice writing daily. It is not usually, unless you are JK Rowling, something that one just does. Just as an artist sketches, a writer must write just to write, with no real direction. So, I wonder what kind of impact this instant communication has on writers, and readers as well. I can spend hours on the computer following blog trails, and come away feeling like I was really enriched, or as if I'd wasted quality time. I can also sit down and bang out an email full of stories I otherwise may have not communicated via the written word. I wonder if the emails are actually good training for the writer in me, or if they stunt my creativity. I also wonder if our soundbites of information makes us antsy and perpetually moving, when maybe what we need to do is sit and be. Just be.
I obviously do not have the answers today. I know I will be thinking on these things, all the while being grateful there wasn't a single ding in the writing of this blog post, oh, with the exception of the ding of my i-phone informing me I'd just received an email.

Half Moon Pose

We have this pose in Bikram Yoga called the Half Moon Pose. (Ardha Chandrasana) It comes early on in the series. The name is derived from the posture itself, to lean your body in such a way as to look like a half moon. (Duh, right.)
I have had quite a journey with this particular posture. It seemed at one point in time that I had the best half moon, until I realized I was doing it wrong. Now, it's so so. I've had to recalibrate it so many times. Before it was the best, (which it never really was), it was the worst. Seriously, the worst. I began the yoga with a damaged body. I'd jammed my back so many times, I didn't realize I was completely crooked. So, I'd do this posture completely out of alignment. I'd just fold right in half. Hips here, arms there. I was so proud of myself, until I realized, I was the one folding in half. Over and over the teachers say don't fold in half.
Here's where I'm going with all this. The dialogue can be confusing. And it makes me wonder how it applies in life. See, when new students come, they hear lean to the right, and they lean to the right; arms projecting forward, because that's our bodies' natural inclination. Somewhere in the dialogue, the teacher says your body is to look as if it could slip between two panes of glass. But then, to guide the new students who are hunching forward, the teacher says something that seems contradictory, if you are already slipping between two panes; the teacher says to lean back. The problem is, the ones who are meant to hear that don't, and still stand in this weird awkward hunched forward position. On the other hand, there's a whole group who think the direction is for them and wind up in some weird sideways back-bend. Very few hear the instruction to be able to slip between two panes of glass, or if they hear it, leave it at that.
And so I wonder, how often do we follow something, an inclination, an instruction, hearing what is meant for someone else, and wind up in some weird back bend that was never meant to be? Seems like life is like this one single posture. It's a series of recalibration and paradigm shifts. I guess the important thing is to listen and to translate what is important to disregard, and what is important to apply.

nearly a year...

It doesn't matter that it's been nearly a year since I've written in this blog, as I'm the only one who currently reads it. I am making myself sit and write, as I can't seem to do anything else. As I go through the motions of the day, I sometimes find myself reflecting on how another blogger wrote about a similar thing, and how much more glamorous it seemed in words. I don't think putting into words is going to make dumping the last of my very large bag of frozen beans into a steamer pot just to get rid of them any more glamorous than it already isn't.
I find myself hungry all the time, and I realize, it isn't really a hunger for food. (Though I try very hard to ingest all manner of food and the like to quell said hunger.) Wanting very much to maintain my current pant size for financial as well as vanity reasons, I shove baby carrots in my mouth like a form of second breath.
This has got to stop.
I've been job hunting for far too long, and at times find myself completely paralyzed and unable to read another job posting. I need to revise my resume, but that same hunk of cotton in my head that falsely tells me I'm hungry also tells me I can't. Yesterday, my cousin posted a quote by Eleanor Roosevelt. "You must do the thing you think you cannot do." She prompted me to revisit the quote as I begged for motivation to scrub toilets and showers. My response was that I had read the quote earlier, and it inspired me to write a book, go to England to work on a movie and the like.
Now, if I could only apply it to resume tinkering, job scavenging and perhaps just writing a blog post let alone a novel; perhaps then I could do the rest of the things I think I cannot do.
Like, make a difference in the world. Oh yes, big leap here. My said hunger above is not a hunger for food, or even for romantic love; it's a hunger for Love. God love. I don't just mean a warm fuzzy feeling that He loves me; I mean something infinitely greater. I mean His Love that touches all. Sometimes I get frustrated with the amount of navel gazing that goes on in my life, and I perceive to go on in the lives of those around me. Of course we get frustrated in our lives. Sometimes our careers crash and burn, or never get going, the laundry never seems to get done, s/he just doesn't understand me; all things that make you go hmmmm. What if the whole world stopped, and collectively all 6,808,700,000 of us (Wikipedia, 2010) decided to just wallow in our pain and frustration? I kind of instantly saw an image of hell in my mind. What if half that number stopped and held the hand of the other half? It's still kind of a frightening picture to me, because even though it's nice to stop and hold some body's hand, there'd still be 6,808,700,000 people sitting around holding hands.
Where am I going with all this. To be honest, I don't really know. I suppose I am looking for balance. There's always going to be people who honestly need someone to walk with them through a difficult time, whether it be an entire country like Haiti needing help to rebuild after tragedy, or one very old woman alone at a retirement home. My soul hungers to both feed and be fed. Sometimes I really do need someone to hold my hand, even if the hand holding takes the form of a good long laugh at a bar. Other times, I want to be the hand holder; but I think here's where the real hunger lies; I want to hold some body's hand far away, outside my circle of comfort. If His love reaches very nook and cranny of the universe, then I want to be a part of that. I'm not sure how or what that will look like. I suspect it may be related to Dostoevsky's remark "beauty will save the world." Alexandr Solzhenitsyn's nobel lecture in literature begins to make heads or tails of the thoughts whirling in my head. In truth there is beauty, in truth falshoods are exposed. When falsehoods are exposed, they begin to lose their power.
When I see the beauty around me, I am not tricked into falsely believing the lie that the world is ugly. There are ugly things in the world, things we must expose to the truth. The Truth is, His love will save us. Sometimes it will be expressed in the soft light of breaking dawn. Other times it will be expressed in a late night vigil by a hospital bed. Feast on His love seems to be the answer, now where to pull up a chair?

Kittens!

Yesterday I picked up Mama Cat and her 6 little ones. See how smug she looks in the overexposed photo above? She is a dear little mom.

When I found myself pet free, I started looking into dog rescue and volunteer situations that would be a good way for me to ease myself back into having a pet. I'm a little commitment shy at the moment, so this is the perfect fit. I signed up about a month ago, went to a training meeting and waited for the phone call. I'm available pretty much 22 hours a day. The first several phone calls all came during the 2 hours I cannot answer the phone. I was so disappointed to miss out.

Finally, the timing was just right and I have a very large litter with a very small mother.

I brought the family in the house, set them up in a corner, and opened the door. I expected a feral cat who wouldn't dare to venture out until I was well out of the room. I could not have been more mistaken. She came right out to say hello. She brushed her head against my leg and chatted me up. For the next hour she took a break from her babies and indulged in scratches from me and a very large meal. We're old friends now.

The babies are not so sure of me yet. They're still pretty devoted to mom. Every so often I can get them to swat at my finger or scratch one under the chin.

I must be crazy. I thought they'd fit in a corner and not take up too much space....they've overtaken my front room. There's the crate, the food, the cat box(yuck) and the barricade of pillows so the curious kittens don't stray too far away and get lost in the "big"house. So much for my tidy home.

But, I'm happy to be doing this. I hope each of these babies goes to a really good home, and that all the squeezing I give them prepares them for their future families.

My previous post

Was kind of heavy....so, just to lighten things up, I am now the proud owner of a camera. I have wanted a camera for a very long time. I did acquire it a week too late. Last week, as I looked out my window, the field was awash with lupine, a vivid purple which is such a lovely contrast to the grass that was still a bright green.

That's okay though. I'm sure there will be plenty more photo opportunities. Like this one:

Aaarrrrgh

This week's news was disturbing, (as usual), and had one sort of happy ending. My Mom and I spent Easter Sunday together, driving up the coast and drinking in the glorious beauty outside. Inside, we were talking about this n that. We finally decided no more current events, because it's all bad news. One thing we discussed in particular is the issue of recent pirate attacks on the sea. In one instance, pirates were holding an American ship captain hostage for ransom. The sort of good news is that he was rescued by Navy Seals. The "sort of" is because we just ratcheted up the stakes for negotiations in regard to future attacks.

In the car I said, "Mom, why do I like Disney's Pirates of the Caribbean so much, when I really hate what pirates do?" Or something along those lines....A part of me honestly felt guilty for contributing to the glamorization of pirates.

We threw out the name Johnny Depp, laughed and steered the conversation elsewhere.

For some reason, an answer popped into my head last night, as random thoughts often do. I realize there is a lot of social commentary hidden in such a child's tale. Perhaps smarter people than I wrapped their minds around this long ago.

The character Will Turner, in Pirates of the Caribbean, is a pirate by birth. In the beginning of the film he does not even know this about himself. Elizabeth Swann knows this. She keeps a medallion she took from Will when he was plucked from the Sea and passed out on the deck of the rescuing ship. This medallion indicates that he is associated with pirates. Pirates are a lot who are guilty by association, even if that association is simply birth. Elizabeth was gracious enough to look past this, and even held a sort of fascination for pirates.

I thought about the way we move about in society. More often than not, it seems that we stick to our own kind. There are instances to be sure of people breaking free of their lot in life and exceeding expectations. Will Turner is one of those characters. He took the news of his identity and used it for good. He was thrust into a situation, and acted with integrity. Jack Sparrow, on the other hand, chose a life of piracy. Though his actions and choices are a bit more shady, he still occasionally operates in a selfless manner for the good of others.

So where did I go with all this? It's the age old story. Sometimes, we like to root for the underdog. More than that, I think on some level, we like to see people move outside of what is expected of them, because we are encouraged even if only subconsciously, that we can then do the same thing. These thoughts comforted me.

Then, I realized, on some level, we are all pirates, hijacking other people for our own needs; whether it be lashing out in anger, manipulating, lying, bragging et al...Whenever we put our selves first and make others pay for our own desires, we are acting no differently than the pirates today.

The beauty of it is that we can move outside of that and learn to live with honor. And, I can keep enjoying my Disney movies guilt free.

I have a resident squirrel

I feel so blessed that when I sit in front of my computer to work, I look out onto a hillside with a sweeping tree line. There is a ranch fence just feet away from my panoramic window, which once kept horses in. The horses are long gone, but a squirrel now uses it as his thoroughfare. Instead of seeing folks in suits and whatnot breezing by with Styrofoam cups of coffee, I occasionally make eye contact with a very fat squirrel. I wonder which one of us is more unsettled.

I have long had a desire for a fish pond. Rabbits, squirrels, raccoons, deer, bobcats, coyotes, hawks and cougars are not enough. I need gold fish. I stumbled across a plastic tub the other day in the refuse pile, and decided it would do. Though it's not a glamorous rock pond with natural curves and grace, it will hold water, and therefore fish. I dug a hole and dropped the tub in, hoping to surround it with rocks and lessen its perfect roundness. I have to cover it with wire because of the aforementioned raccoons. It's a project; I love a project.

I dragged my mom to the local pet store, and bought a starter five. At 15 cents a pop, I don't feel guilty in this recession splurging a whole 75 cents. A little food and plants, and I'm on my way. Every morning, I eagerly step out to my back deck to see if they've survived another night. So far, so good. Though I'd still like to adopt a furry pet, for the time being, my little five put a smile on my face.

Gratified

Several years ago, I was depressed. I was studying environmental science, and surrounded by people who spent half an hour washing dishes with the water running the entire time; even walking away from it to collect pots and pans throughout the kitchen. The utter thoughtlessness of it horrified me.

Commercials were getting under my skin too. A distant cousin to the Stepford Wives was appearing on my screen. Back in the 50's, it was all plastic and space age looking appliances. The new push for "homemade cookies" you take out of the freezer and plop on a tray thereby making you a good mom, or the snack sized over packaged everything saddened me. What kind of a world are we creating?

Thankfully, the book I wanted to write is being blogged all over the place. I've stumbled on a wealth of blogs calling women to the life I've dreamed about. This life touts the merits of not only homemade cookies, but homemade bread as well. It used to be that your shiniest newest gadget and scads of Tupperware was the simpler life. Now days, it's producing your own food in a garden, baking and all the opposite things that have been heralded to simplify ones life.

I am so gratified to these people who are reinventing the world we live in. They are taking back what Madison Ave tried to steal, and it is good.

The Pope, condoms and Africa

I still haven't figured out where I want to go with this blog; but something struck me so today, I just have to write about it.

On a trip in Africa, Pope Benedict XVI says condoms are not the answer to HIV and AIDS. Please tell that to the countless orphans who have lost both their parents due to AIDS.

Why is it so easy to solve a problem in theory, but not in actuality. AIDS is not the result of people not abstaining from sex, as the Pope recommends. AIDS is the result of sexual actions that occur for a variety of reasons by which merely applying the platitude to practice abstinence is not going to stop the problem. I apologize for calling abstinance trite. Abstinace can be an amazing thing, a calling in fact.

Therein lies the problem; if someone has not heard the calling to practice abstinance, why then will that resolve the problem? We all know that there is a risk of being killed while driving in our cars, but because we need to get from a to b, we take that risk. Why is the Pope not addressing "a to b"? As I mentioned earlier, people engage in sexual acts for many reasons. Why not make it a practice of first meeting people right where they are? Just as we buckle up to make our journey in our cars a little more safe, why not encourage people to be just a little safer as they travel from a to b, and from that point encourage them to maybe drive from a to c...and maybe eventually they will start walking or riding a bike.

Transformation takes time. It is easy for some to lay down the law, and traffic in black and white ideas. It is another thing all together to recognize we cannot ask people to take action based on ideas they are not surrenered to.

As I deal with people on a day to day basis, I hope I can give them grace as they use the tools they are familiar with to get from a to b. And perhaps offer them new tools along the way.

loved by many

Sunday was a very sad day here. I had to part with a sweet little companion named Twiggy.

I wish the photo showed her beautiful blue eyes, which were crossed, which so endeared her to me.

I inherited her at the ranch. She belonged to Suzanne who passed away when Twiggy was just a baby girl herself. Over the years, there's been many cats who have come and gone, but Chief Wiggums, as Caroline called her out lived them all. She was the most tenacious cat ever. A little slip of a thing, all the bigger manlier cats cowered in her presence.

She was a little bit like a dog, in that she greeted me when I came home with Siamese meows. It was a very sad day when she and I didn't communicate very well, and when I thought she'd gotten out of the way, and she thought I stopped, I ran over her with my car. We raced to the vet, and that girl lived on. One would never have known, except her right hip jutted out a little more than her left after that. I kept her in the house, carefully supervised for 2 months after that. Before the accident, there were times I couldn't get her out of the house. After her 2 months of confinement, she was so mad. The first thing she did when I finally let her outside was to run up to the big house and climb up to the roof. I think she wanted to be good and sure everyone knew she was fine, and nothing was going to hold her back.

I did discover through that visit to the vet that she was in the beginning stages of kidney failure, and they didn't think she would live that much longer regardless of the accident. She lived over a year more. Long enough for Caroline to return from Scotland and spend a little more time with her.

She charmed nearly everyone who came around. Some people couldn't help but just laugh at her crossed eyes. She had that curious cat habit of finding the least cat friendly person in the room and jumping on their lap. She was convinced that she belonged there, and somehow, she did. One scratch under the chin, and her motor was running. Everyone has a pet that is the sweetest best most wonderful pet; but she really was a special girl, and has a big fan club to prove it.

She was such a part of the fabric of my life. It's odd to come home, and not be greeted. I was very blessed to have her. I think she's somewhere happy now, eating as many cat treats as she wants, catching mice and generally charming the heavenly host.

Family

I know, I know, I missed Christmas by about 2 months. A Christmas scene came up yesterday, and prompted some thoughts. I was watching the new PBS adaptation of Oliver Twist. I'm sure most know it's the story of an orphan who endures terrible hardship and abuse to be reunited with the family he was not even aware existed, even as they were not aware he existed. The closing scene for this particular adaptation showed Oliver in the coziest family setting playing the piano with his Aunt, (I think) and his Grandfather looking on with a Christmas tree in the background.

Why did this strike me so? I Think Christmas represents birth, just as much as Easter. Young Oliver was rebirthed into his family, and into life.

I thought about my own experiences with Christmas. I've always had to battle with my Mom a little bit to set Christmas aside, make it special. To her it's just another day. If there is ever a time to come together as a family, and bask in warmth and loveliness, it is Christmas. It is the send off of last year, and the advent of a new year. Not that our lives really should be measured in years, but I do believe we humans need to set aside times to reflect, to settle down, to start anew and to enjoy one another. So, I wonder how to achieve that Christmas feel more often, without diminishing the absolute joy of the calendar Christmas season.

I don't know why, but when I saw the family setting in the movie, the sheer enjoyment the characters so obviously had in one another, I got an image in my head of men in white t-shirts watching sports, women fretting and a hustle and bustle that lacks meaning and purpose. I compared it to the warm cozy image in the movie, and guess which I prefer? Of course, I realize, it's a movie. It's easy to look cozy and together when an army of people decorate your "house", dress you, prepare the "food" and create the details of the overall picture. I realize we live in a real world with limits on our time and resources. I do believe what I really keyed in on in the scene, was as I mentioned before, the pure enjoyment of the family.

I hope that I can cultivate that in my own life. Though there won't always be a cozy fire, or sparkly Christmas tree; I hope that I can truly enjoy the moments that come my way, that I can be prepared to appreciate the best in life.

Erised

I was reading an aritcle by someone I find very thought provoking the other day. The particular article I've been pondering was written in response to fears in some Christian groups that the Harry Potter series is dangerous. They suggest it promotes witchcraft. He makes a distinction between the actual occultic world, and fantasy. I appreciate that distinction. I appreciate any time a distinction is made which enhances the subject. More than just distinguishing the books as fantasy, and not necessarily a handbook to witchcraft, he fleshes out some bits of the story that are quite wonderful.

What I have really been pondering is the mirror of Erised. In brief, it is a mirror which when you look into it, "it reveals the deepest most desperate desires of our hearts." I've been walking around with the name Erised in my mind, because as Haack pointed out, Erised spelled backward is desire. I know if I looked into the mirror, I would see something, and it would not be God. I yearn for both: to desire God with all my heart, and at the same time, I yearn for the images I would see in the mirror to be fulfilled. Haack quotes Dubledore's explanation to Harry this way also, "The happiest man on earth would be able to use the Mirror of Erised like a normal mirror, that is, he would look into it and see himself exactly as he is." That makes my heart palpitate.

It's the paradox of life I think; looking in the mirror and seeing only a reflection, and looking in the mirror and seeing God. How can we both be happy in our position, and as well hope for more. And, more importantly, how can we keep that which is greater than all above all? How can we be both satisfied, and move forward?

The other interesting connection is the association of the mirror of Erised to the greek god of strife and discord, Eris. The supposed association between the mirror and a god is yet another reason to shun the books according to some. For the sake of calling a spade spade, Haack points out the mirror is actually called Erised and not Eris, similar but not the same. The interesting thing to me is that strife and discord is often the product of untempered desire. So, the association does work for me. That said, how often do we do that in our life? We take the tiniest association, and turn something into an entirely different thing. How often do we miss the beauty of something, because we are quick to judge. I think, had I decided the Potter books were handbooks of evil, I would have missed out on some great imagery to take and use in my own life. And I would have missed out on a great story that speaks to me. 

wrapped up and cozy

Lately, I have felt very blessed. I may have mentioned my big picture window before; it looks out to the hills. Whenever I sit at my computer, I am entertained by jack rabbits and deer frolicking in the clearing below the tree line. I feel so grateful to have this experience. One day, when I have access to a digital camera, I will download pictures of the actual view.

I've long been processing the purpose of this blog, and as yet, it is still mostly just my own ramblings to myself. One thing I've long wanted to do is write a book about living simply. Now I see, I needn't. I've found wonderful blogs of women picking up the mantle of simple living. When I need inspiration or a distraction, I wrap myself up in the lives of women who are doing such great things, and I feel cozy.

I was laid off this month, but somehow, I'm not in a panic. I think it is due in part to the fact that times are tough for everyone, and I know how to live simply. The up/downside of being unemployed is that I have lots of time to think and process. Thus, my online journal of sorts.

Experimenting

I'm experimenting with my blog. I have been reading other blogs lately which inspire me. It's been raining today, even hailing. We desperately need it. Thus, a watering can image, in irony of my not needing to water today.

odd things

Two things struck me today. Actually, many things, but I'll stick with two first.

We don't listen anymore. We don't read, we don't let space be empty. We fill it. I was reading a thread on facebook about a friend sending her daughter to pre-school. There were several comments between women, and the Mom shared a lot of information about this experience, including how much her daughter has enjoyed pre-school over time. The final

comment was a question, asking if the girl liked pre-school.

It reminded me of the time I was spending the weekend in a cabin in the snow with friends.

A group of us had descended upon a grocery store late at night to pick up some odds and ends. We were all drunk on life really. We stumbled upon the "toy"section which for some reason was funnier than anything ever in our lives. I may have pee'd my pants.

When we got back, we had to explain to those who stayed behind just what they'd missed. I was so caught up in how funny everything was, that even though I watched my friends imitate the battery operated creepy toy gorilla, when they were done, I yelled out "do the gorilla!" Somewhere midway through them repeating what they'd just done, (laughing at my stupidity under their breath) it dawned on me that I sat there taking in the exact same story only moments ago, and it just hadn't registered in my brain until that moment.

I think that's how we are in life. We're so busy caught up in our moments, our wants, our needs, our whatever, that we miss what's happening in the moment.

Meanwhile, I glossed over an interview of sorts by a country music star. (Hypocrite, aren't I? Glossing instead of reading.) He made comments that he wouldn't be sharing details about his wedding because it's private. He doesn't understand how people can sell pictures of their wedding or babies, because those things should be personal. While I agree they should be personal, I don't see how pictures makes them less personal; unless of course, you are of the belief system that your image on film steals your soul. Granted, it creeps me out that people would sell their pictures, but if the proceeds go to a good cause, how can you argue with that?

Then I got to thinking why there is even a market for these personal things. One thought came to mind (today). It may be related to the above story about how we don't listen anymore. Aside of the glamour; the exotic travel, and endless clothing budget, I think the ordinary person is drawn to celebrity, because it's a way of connecting without really connecting. We can watch a couple date, marry, give birth and divorce all without having to do anything. We can see photos of their fashion dos for inspiration and feel smugly better about ourselves when they look like they've been awake for 72 hours. We can watch their relationships rise and fall without ever having to be on the other end of the phone wondering with a sobbing person where it all went wrong. We can look at baby pictures because these people have become an extension of our selves; and who doesn't love a baby? (If it's not your own of course.)

I have no problem with someone doling out pieces of their lives, even for money. Because, at the end of the day, no one really knows what Brad and Angelina say to each other under the covers and behind closed doors. I think there's still loads of things the two of them share that the masses aren't allowed into. I don't see a difference between a picture of their baby, and an interview about an album. It's all the stuff the mill knows we the people eat up. So, I guess what I am trying to say is I have a problem with people who choose a career dependant upon other people's interest in them, and who give interviews, but knock the publicity of others. It it's any group that I find unsavory, it's the one I belong to; those who are fascinated by other people's lives. Perhaps if I filled less space with all that, I'd have more space to listen.

pink raft

This past weekend was, how shall I say it? Not what I expected.

I go through phases of feeling friendless. Though, truth be told, I have many wonderful friends. Distance, children, jobs and sheer flakiness keep us apart. This past Saturday, all those things came together in a way that resulted in: I had no plans. So, I made a plan. If I plan to sit by the pool all day reading my pile of books, then I am actually doing something. So that was it. The plan was made.

I packed up my books, put on an old ratty swimsuit, foregoing a shower, as it would just be me. I read for a little while, warming up under the sun. Then, I pulled out my new pink raft I'd just picked up at the drugstore. Truth be told, it is the first raft I have ever bought. I have always relied on the kindness of others for my rafting needs. I blew that thing until my cheeks were stinging and I was light headed. Just as I put my new pink raft in the pool, and readied myself to join it, I heard cars pulling up the drive.

Family members of the home owner, and entourage had decided to utilize the pool; again. (They'd already taken over the 4th of July.)

There I was, not really in a position to be seen. I scurried home to make myself slightly more presentable. I returned to the pool, not quite knowing what to do with the rest of my day. I sat and tried to make conversation....which lasted about 5 minutes. I wasn't really part of the group. All manner of negative things popped into my head. I won't repeat them. I will say I am terribly jealous of the niece, who had a lovely wedding in her 20's, married to a great guy and they've just recently added a daughter to their household. She has everything I have ever dreamed of; so when her husband jumped in the pool and lounged on my new pink raft, it was too much.

I said good bye, and slunk down to my cottage with a little Eeyore cloud following me. I tried to read, but reading on my couch on a lovely summer day felt so, well, uncomfortable. Then I dozed a little. Finally, I called a friend in the city, and though we had plans for Sunday, we switched things up and decided I'd drive down and have dinner with her, the new boyfriend and his visiting friend.

Off I went, with some nebulous plan of dinner with friends and strangers. About 20 minutes into my drive, I get a phone call. Can I pick up the guys on my way into the city? They've biked over the Golden Gate Bridge and missed the ferry by minutes. Um, sure. I'll pick them up. Two men I've never met, and two bicycles. I would fit them in my car; along with the bag of clothes I brought not knowing what kind of evening to dress for, the blanket, towel, sleeping bag and pillow that seem to permanently live in my trunk, because you never know when the camping bug will hit. Oh, and about 6 jackets and sweaters that never made it back in the house. And some books. Somehow, after much tugging and such, we latched the trunk and were on our way.

Some very scandalous driving later and a rendezvous to pick up the friend, and we wound up at a crepe house, eating copious amounts of food. It was a lovely evening. I forgot about my new pink raft and savored the moment.

Kellogg made your kid fat

Kellogg made your kids fat.
What kind of a world do we live in that Tony the Tiger has more power over kids than parents?
I just read an article on the net that Kellogg is going to reformulate their products to have more nutritional value. This in respone to the threat of a lawsuit from parents and advocacy groups. Don't get me wrong, I think sugared cereal is the devil. It just seems like the world is out of control, that's all. People's entire careers are based on manipulating young minds to buy their product. And then when that works, another group of people make a career out of suing those people.
Where are the parents in all this? The branding works because kids are sitting in front of TVs hours on end. They're soaking in whatever advertisers want them to; and oh, they're bored out of their minds and eating to pass the time.
I do think it's good that there is some regulation in advertising. It just makes me sad that we're a society of babies that need our hands held and blame everything on someone else. Maybe if parents spent some time with the kids instead of parking them in front of the tube, maybe, just maybe they wouldn't get to be obese. Why don't those advocacy groups that sue advertisers sue parents for being lazy and neglectful. Oh, right, where's the money in that?

If only I were a camera

This was a weekend full of photos. Too bad I am not a camera, nor do I own one, nor could I have always had it out in enough time to catch all the sights of this past weekend.
It was a lovely busy weekend of concerts outside, trail clean-up, and perhaps a cocktail or two.

How do I tell you about the woman who brought her hula hoop to the concert in the park on Saturday? Do I tell you it was the biggest hoop I have ever seen? Or perhaps I should mention she was wearing white mom pants which harkened back to the 70's, which is, I think the last time someone actually brought a hula hoop out in public. She was tall and lean, and could really move. Like on a pole kind of moving. But, isn't a hula hoop a kids toy? I'm confused.

Somewhere else in that sea of humanity, there was a little boy and a little girl, about three years old each. They were dancing together, and it looked like little adults courting. Where did they learn to dance like that? Pocahontas?

I waited for our small town's rock-n-roll loving, amateur public access video maker to do his customary high kick, but I waited in vain.

The next day, I went to hear a community band on the square with some friends. After the concert, we had a round of cocktails and caught up on life. The cocktails and the cold sent us to indecision bench, where we sat for an hour watching the tourists go by. You basically have not lived until you see a big old truck with an Australian Shepherd hanging mostly out of it, wearing pink goggles and a bandanna tied around her neck like a little old, how shall I say this without causing offense? Little old lady. Someone in my group may have pee'd her pants. I can't say for sure.

My kingdom for a camera.