Zen and the Art of Enormous Balls

foyer, before the show, no pictures inside allowed...

Blue Man Group puts on a spectacular show. I had watched you tube videos, but was completely unprepared for this marvelous experience. I won't go about the performance, you'll just have to get yourself to one to appreciate it, but what I want to talk about is the ending.
 
Music, drumming, lights, paper streamers running through the entire audience, and Balls. Six enormous light filled balls that fell from the ceiling and were bounced around by the paper covered, dancing audience with a music and light show that was inside and outside the balls, it was fantastic. Of course all you wanted to do was be one of the hands that touched one of the balls and sent it off again (I did, twice, it was great), but at some point I realized that all I was focusing on was getting my hands on the ball and I was missing a much bigger show.

The show where all my kids, and everyone around me was laughing, dancing and really enjoying themselves. The show where the lights, music and paper were the best time you'd ever had. The show, that in the time it lasted, was a moment when we were all joyous and together, and to see that whole picture I had to pull back my focus, for a moment, and experience what was going on around and beside me.

It was difficult, and I only managed to stop and look around me for a moment before I was lunging after the bouncing balls, but it was enough. I thought, as I paused, I need to do this in my life. Stop chasing my tail (balls? too easy, will save that for another post), stop and really look around. Be awake. Be present. Everything else is icing.  

The magic of that moment didn't last, such is the nature of moments, but perhaps the thought will be a lasting change, a reminder for me on what I can do with this life of mine.

I find enlightenment in the oddest places, but that's life I suppose, and if you're going to live it you have to be awake and be open to receive what wisdom the world has to offer you, because sometimes it comes in the unlikeliest places, say in enormous bouncing balls...

Before the storm, almost....

here comes the rain?

Four days of 80+ degree weather in March and this appears to be the start of the promised thunder storm.... or not quite yet?

Mother Nature you're very fickle this year. Could it be you're tired of our less than dignified treatment of you?

I understand.

It seems women of all types are being treated badly of late. Told we should not be in charge of our own bodies, that we lack the intelligence to make informed medical decisions, that our own morality is insufficient. If we choose to have sexual intercourse with a man, we are sluts for wanting access to birth control.


It's curious the men that we are having these sexual relationships with bear no responsibilty, nor do they have their morality questioned and the contents of their testicles legislated.

and there it goes...

I feel rather stormy about it myself.

I think women, and men, I think PEOPLE need not to speak up about this, we need to SHOUT about it, POUND drums, DEMAND to be treated with respect that is each human being's birthright. I have not brought two daughters and a son into this world to have them accept sexism cloaked in false morality.

So bring it on Mother Nature, it's time for a storm.

Just for today

Once again I'm waiting in a coffee shop, but since the weather thinks it's July and it's over 80 outside I'm drinking iced green tea instead of coffee. I'm sure it's much healthier, and I swear its iced tea and not the beer it looks like in the photo. Also, who eats mini doughnuts with beer?!

My big news - I don't have cancer. Which is good, but there is a very small (very crazy) part of me that is disappointed. Like I said crazy, but here's my thinking, if I had cancer I could get a break from being in charge of everything, I'd have the best reason in the world to just focus on myself and the rest of my world would have to step up and start taking care of itself.  I'm that tired. That tired of the juggling, organizing, debating, deciding, driving (driving, driving), and being my family's emotional safe place that the thought of surgery, illness, baldness, deformity, and possible death sound like a vacation.

Very crazy part of my brain.

My more rational self just hired a cleaning woman, and could weep at the gleeming kitchen cupboards, spotless stove and all the bathrooms being clean AT THE SAME TIME. Also, I'm having a doughnut in the afternoon and NOT feeling guilty about it.

This too will pass, and we'll be on to the next adventure. An adventure that will not be anything I'm expecting, and once again I will adapt.

Today I don't have cancer. Today is a beautiful day, and today I can handle what comes my way.  That's how I handle this crazy life I have now, one day, one coffee shop at a time.


Cheers.

"A poem begins as a lump in the throat,..."

"A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a love sickness." - Robert Frost.

Life has been, well, busy - details in previous blogs. I try to put on my oxygen mask first, I really do, but something always falls through the cracks. Things like mammograms. 

Mammograms, with ultrasounds that I'm suppose to get every six months, mammograms that my gynecologist sends me sternly worded letters via registered mail to go do - Now. Reminders that kept getting bumped by my more immediate needs. I had good intentions, I was going to book the tests, I was, as soon as I had some time. I need to go for the extra squeezy scans, and 30minute ultra sounds, and I just never found the block of time. That is until last Friday night.

It had already an emotional evening, and was past midnight when I was going to bed for the fifth time, and that's when I found it, the lump in my right breast, cozied up near the lymph nodes. One of the advantages of going through very stressful, emotionally draining times is that there is little energy left for panic, or guilt about lumps that you don't think were there last week? month? I looked up at my bedroom ceiling and said "REALLY?" to no one in particular.

I went to bed, too exhausted to obsess. Before I opened my eyes the next morning my first thought was "I have a lump in my breast". I checked, yes, it was still there. I spent ten minutes staring at the beige ceiling wishing I'd painted it, then I could have a colour to stare at. I thought about pretending I didn't find anything, that it was just another cyst, that I shouldn't waste anyone's time. Then I sat up and called my doctor. I told them I found a lump, they said come in this afternoon. 

I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and thought this how someone with a lump in her breast looks. I imagined myself without breasts, scars running across my chest; I imagined myself without hair. I have a lump. That thought permeated everything I did that day. I asked one of my kids to unload the dishwasher and added in my head, "and, I have a lump". My brain shouted it to each person I saw, "Dry cappuccino please - did you know I have a lump?". I was fascinated how everyone was acting like it was a perfectly ordinary day. I thought about the months I let slip by without getting that mammogram. I told myself I had been too busy, but that was only half true, I was tired of being poked at, I just wanted to go for a spell where I didn't have to wear a damn hospital gown, where I wasn't a specimen.  Then I thought I won't see my kids get any older than adolescence, and I hated myself. 

Soon enough I was in my doctor's waiting room, then after being weighed and measured I was laying down in paper gown that opens in the front being examined by my doctor. Dr. Fitzgerald is the first doctor I've had who is younger than I am, and we joke around a lot, he's seen me through a major car accident, liver failure, pneumonia, hip surgery... and we always manage to find some bit of humour to break things up a bit, so when he said you need to see a surgeon right away I thought he was joking and actually started to laugh. Then I saw his face. 

So now I have been for the mammogram, all eight views, with stickers attached and the lump marked. I've had the ultrasound that mapped it's location and size. I spent two hours in freezing rooms wearing a paper gown while technicians spoke encouragingly to me. Now I wait. On Tuesday I see the surgeon. On Tuesday I will know what my next step will be. 

Until then I think about my body, my breasts. I remember  the touch of a lover's hand and wonder if I will feel that again, about the years of nursing my children, about what makes me beautiful and what makes me a woman. 

Corpo de Mujer

Cuerpo de mujer, blancas colinas, muslos blancos,
te pareces al mundo en tu actitud de entrega.
Mi cuerpo de labriego salvaje te socava
y hace saltar el hijo del fondo de la tierra.

Fui solo como un túnel. De mí huían los pájaros
y en mí la noche entraba su invasión poderosa.
Para sobrevivirme te forjé como un arma,
como una flecha en mi arco, como una piedra en mi honda.

Pero cae la hora de la venganza, y te amo.
Cuerpo de piel, de musgo, de leche ávida y firme.
Ah los vasos del pecho! Ah los ojos de ausencia!
Ah las rosas del pubis! Ah tu voz lenta y triste!

Cuerpo de mujer mía, persistiré en tu gracia.
Mi sed, mi ansia sin límite, mi camino indeciso!
Oscuros cauces donde la sed eterna sigue,
y la fatiga sigue, y el dolor infinito.

Vente poemas de amor y una cancion desesperada - Pablo Neruda, 1924   

Body of a Woman - translation

Pablo Neruda

Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs,
you look like a world, lying in surrender.
My rough peasant's body digs in you
and makes the son leap from the depth of the earth.

I was lone like a tunnel. The birds fled from me,
and nigh swamped me with its crushing invasion.
To survive myself I forged you like a weapon,
like an arrow in my bow, a stone in my sling.

But the hour of vengeance falls, and I love you.
Body of skin, of moss, of eager and firm milk.
Oh the goblets of the breast! Oh the eyes of absence!
Oh the roses of the pubis! Oh your voice, slow and sad!

Body of my woman, I will persist in your grace.
My thirst, my boundless desire, my shifting road!
Dark river-beds where the eternal thirst flows
and weariness follows, and the infinite ache.

A bitter wind

There is a bitterly cold breeze today, yet outside my coffee shop there are Brownies selling cookies. Having vowed to purchase lots of cookies to support an organization that allows ALL girls admission, I stopped and bought cookies, and was giving this thank you card. I think I'll keep it somewhere safe.
Thank YOU Girl Guides, Ellen & JC Penny, and everyone who stands up for tolerence and love in the face of bitter words and poeple.

Sing out loud

I have discovered that, very occasionally, some of my preconceived notions, things I believed were absolute, things that were on solid ground, these notions,  have turned out to be, well, not so solid. Maybe it’s to do with my 40s, perhaps I’m going through a second adolescence, but with less acne, and a much thicker waist. I’ve given up a few bad habits that I thought I could never live without. I discovered Buddhism and UUism and embraced both. I’ve discovered that the world I was so sure of 10years ago does not exhist anymore.

my pennies, so far

Which brings me to this blog, a homework assignment. Homework from my Voice/Singing Instructor, Vickie. I am  to write about singing. Yes,  Voice Lessons. In a fit of bravado I decided to get over my own Phonophobia, get way out of my comfort zone and see if what I thought about singing, specifically mine, had any basis in fact. I have handed myself over to a woman who when she tells me to lie on the floor and hum, stick two fingers in my mouth and sing, bend my knees when I attempt high notes, or sing like Ethyl Merman, I say okay, and get into position.  Also, the best part, she gives me pennies when I do well! Most of the time I have no idea why I'm doing what I'm doing, but Vickie seems to know what  she's talking about, so I do as I'm told, which includes writing about singing.

Singing and I have a long and tragetic history. Even my own mother told me I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, that no one in our family could, it was a perverse sores of pride for us. The house I grew up in was mostly silent. My mother, the libarian filled our house with books, which was lovely, but very quiet. There was no radio playing, I don’t think we owned one, and the TV, that was tucked downstairs in the basement like a shameful secret. The record player was used maybe once a year to play classical music when company was over and my brother and I were banished. My brother, it turns out, has a marvelous voice, bass, deep, rich and in his thirties he taught himself to play guitar, banjo, ukulele and likely several more instruments. He joined a choir. I watched in amazement as this blood relative of mine brazenly expressed himself musically. Helping my children with their piano lessons was enough to convince me that I had no aptitude what so ever with musical instruments.

I might have got over my first opinion of my voice had it not been for ..... (dramatic pause, feel free to gasp) Snowy Owl! This trama to my musical ego came when I was about 9 years old and a Brownie. During a singing circle Snowy Owl leaned over and whispered that I should just "mouth the words".  That sinched it. My voice was no good. After that every comment, however slight, slide into that “best to mouth the words” crevice of my brain. I wanted to sing, very much so, but became very shy about the sound of my voice. Later I would think it ironic that I could easily remember lyrics to most songs, but would never sing them out loud unless I was alone, and the music was louder than my own voice.

I have always cringed at the sound of my own voice, not as I hear it when I speak, but if I hear it recorded. To me it sounds dreadful, heavy and nasally. I dislike hearing a recording of my voice as much as I dislike having my photo taken. The sad part is there has always been a part of me that wants to be up on stage, wants to be speaking, wants to be singing, that part of me got quieter over the years. Sadly my teenage dreams of  fame and adoration were cut off at the knees, and my performing only happened when I was alone in the car. Secretly, I would love to be on a stage, looking fabulous and singing, or acting. Secretly, because I had always seen it as some nasty trick to give me these dreams and then to make me completely unsuitable for them.  Only now in my 40s has the idea that maybe I might just give this a try popped its head up and ask to be heard.

Having kids can be a great way to get over yourself. When they were babies I sang to them, I performed their stories for them, they were my first and mostly appreciated audience. I find my best audiences are pre-verbal..They didn’t know what my mother and Snowy Owl did, that it would be better if I "mouthed the words", they were happy to have a funny mom.  As they became more discerning, I quieted down, but they are still the people I am mostly myself with. My oldest daughter, Catherine is quite gifted musically. She sings, plays piano, guitar, clarinet, contrabase clarinet, a little ukulele (my brother’s influence) and she has performed musically since she was 4years old. I was her Brownie leader, and you can bet I never told any of my Brownies to "mouth the words". With her perfect ear she seems to need to merely look at an instrument to learn it, and hear a song once or twice to learn to play it. It was with this perfect ear that she once noticed I was “a little flat” when she heard me singing, that comment slipped quickly into the “mouth the words” crevice.

And here I am in my 40s, and in so many ways I worry less and less about what I think other people think of me, and I started paying attention to what I actually thought and liked about myself. This appeasrs to have been a slippery slope thought wise because not only have been taking voice lessons for months, carefully storing every precious ‘good job!’ penny Vickie has given me, but I’ve taken two acting workshops, one classic and one improv, both of which I loved, and plan to do more of. I also took up a martial art, Hapkido, and work my butt off at it am pretty good at it, go figure. My 37year old self would not recognize me at 47.

How I saw myself (in reality it was full length flannel)

There was a turning point that came from a marvelous corrupting influence in my life named Jo, who after singing beside my quiet mummerings in church told me to speak up, that I could sing if I wanted to. What craziness was this? As an aside this woman has managed to worm her way into many of my preconceived thoughts forever changing me, for the better. So there she stood, 6” shorter than me in some flowing garmet, practical hair and stunning voice, a person who has looked her demons in the eye until they blinked and then got on with her life.  A person who hardship has molded into a wiser, more compassionate and beautiful person. She is the sort of person if she told me something, I believed her. Someone who when she spoke you listened to, if you had any sense. This person was telling me to sing. So, a few years ago, because of Jo I did the unthinkable; at our Saturnalia talent show I got up in front of an audience and sang.  Okay it was with about ten other women, all with strong voices, and we were in pajamas so the focus wasn’t completely on me singing. Still, I had a small argument with myself over it, the "mouth the words" part of my brain was saying you have no business being up here with these women you big poser, you should mouth the words for everyone’s sake. Then I would hear Vickie and Jo who gave nothing but positive reinforcement, how could not listen to them? So we performed, and were a smashing success. Afterwards I off handedly said to Vickie, you know I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, or some other preprogrammed message from the nasty crevice. Her response? “I didn’t notice”. This was Vickie, who is all things musical, how could she have missed my dissonant performance? Was it possible I wasn’t a complete flop?

Since then I’ve done some singing workshops, a bunch of chanting and have sung out loud, in a group. Now, with Vickie I’ve sung out loud, on my own with only a piano. An experience I thought I would never have. I don’t always match pitches, and I've been  known to warble a little when I run out of air, but on the whole, I'm not a compete flop, or even a partial flop which all on his own is remarkable.

I'm not up on stage singing, yet, but it is on my bucket list. Right now I'm content to trust the process and see where I end up. Thanks Jo. Thanks Vickie.

How I wait

Another meeting, another coffee shop. This time with tea, camomile, which is nice with the rain and the cold outside and no runners opening the door inside.  There's the addicts out huddled in the rain for a smoke, but they are not sending cold gusts my way.

I drive. A lot. Outpatient therapy, groups, meetings, appointments... I'm getting better at sitting quietly waiting in coffee shops inbetween trips. I remember hearing 20years (?30years) ago that the next big hangout was going to be coffee shops, I think it was Drew Barrymore who said it, I thought that was nuts. Of course then I wasn't interested in being any place I couldn't get a drink. Ironic now.

It seems sitting here with my tea that I am still, and all the world swirls around me. I like that. There's a basketball game in the "Gymatorium", a Food Bank being set up ( I'm in a church coffee shop this time), a lively debate going on behind the fireplace, and the meeting, of course, up the stairs and behind the closed door. That's why I'm waiting this time. Tomorrow it will be the coffee shop by The Education Center, Thrusday and Friday back to Outpatient, and that's my life now.

It's not so bad, really.


oh, and the picture, this is what happens when I blog from my phone

Winter Dance

Last night Lizzie went to the Winter Dance at school, it was her second dance, but her first with a date.

Bloody runners

Seriously, its COLD out there, wouldn't you rather be sitting at one of these tables sipping coffee instead of standing around them and constantly opening and closing the front door freezing the rest of us? In the words of my daughter Catherine who is trying to swear less, but still get her point arcross - "SHUT THE FRONT DOOR" , I'm sure you can translate. Or better yet, be home in bed, or up by a lovely fireplace? I don't get it. Of course this comes from someone who breaks boards over her head and spends 4 days a week in a grueling Hapkido school.
I woke up in a 57degree (13.5C) home, went out to a 17degree (-8C) car to drive my son in for his last (crosses fingers) detention. I love my quiet introvert time, but I would prefer to be warm and still puttering around in my pjs, coffee steaming from my newly purchased Dragon Mug. It's my year, Dragon that is, and I wanted my own commemorative (no spell check when you blog from your phone) mug.
Time to go back out in the cold and pick up my lad, the runners are gone, so I'm slightly warmer, and we can't have that. Soon I'll be in front of my own fire. That will be nice.

Bedtime Buckets

An iPad is a marvelous thing.

It's portable, fun, functional, and if you are not ready to go to sleep and the book you're reading is too damn depressing, an iPad fits nicely on your lap in bed and lets you write blog posts from it. Normally I go on endlessly when I blog, but I'm tired and don't know how to add pictures yet, so this will be a brief and basic, bare bones blog about my Bucket list (sorry couldn't resist the illiteation).

I'm not sure where the term Bucket List came from, but I like the concept. Mine is small right now, in items, but it will evolve as I do; grow and shrink as I add to and accomplish from it.

So here it is, in no particular order, as of bed time, 5minutes before February 21st, 2012:

1. Do something to make the world more beautiful ( thank you Lupine Lady)

2. Spend time in: France, Italy, Greece, Ireland, Scotland, and Australia to start - see what is wonderful in every place.

3. Visit London again, stay longer, see more.

4. Live by the ocean, for as much of my remaining life as possible.

5. Swim with dolphins, more than once, and not in some cheesie tourist trap.

6. Become accomplished at horseback riding. Own my own horse.

7. Have a Gallery Show of my art.

8. Have my writing, and my poetry published.

9. Sky dive with Catherine.

10. Fall hopelessly in love.

11. Sing in front of an audience.

12. Paint on HUGE canvases in my own light filled studio.

13. See whales in the ocean, touch them.

14. Have National Geographic publish my photos in their magazine.

15. Meet David Whyte and thank him.

16. Meet Viggo Mortensen and thank him.

That's it, so far. Seems naked to post it without pictures, but I'm going to do it anyway (I'm in a brazen sort of mood).

Goodnight, Goodmorning, and Blessed Be.

People Don't Behave, or Is There Another Adult in the House?

Runners are irritating.

Not in general, just specifically at 7am Saturday mornings at my downtown Starbucks, where a large group of them commune before heading out en mass for their morning mutual endorphin rush. They don't buy coffee, who needs it with utility belt loads of little Goo Gell bottles strapped around their Spandex bound bodies in a manner that would make Batman jealous? One by one their gang accrues, the front door constantly opening to admit yet another Spandex garbed member. My seat by the window gets a constant chilling breeze, which on it's own is not so bad, but my extra dry cappuccino in the lovely porcelain cup lightly sprinkled with chocolate is cooling at a faster rate than I would like.  This is suppose to be my morning getaway. When I have to drive my son in for his early Saturday morning detentions, something that is fast becoming a weekend tradition for us, I like to find something soothing for me to do while I wait to pick up my increasingly truant boy. Having long been on a first name basis with his guidance counselor and the school social worker, this year I am adding his Dean to my frequent call and email list.  So, when I arrive, at 7am to what is suppose to be a quiet escape in a coffee shop to mull over my overwhelming parenting responsibilities it would be nice to do so without a parade of Spandex covered backsides.

I am not, strictly speaking, a single parent, but I am the one that organizes, delivers and cares for most/all aspects of each of my three teenagers busy lives. I keep things running smoothly, but with an exponentially increasing load I have become exhausted with being the one in charge, the one who bears the brunt of their frustrations, and the one who has, bit by bit, given up chunks of my life to make sure my family is taken care of. I sound like an overwrought soccer mom. I'm not. My kid's extracurricular activities are a drop in the bucket, what is spreading me thin is the four nights a week of  three hour outpatient therapy with the 30 minute drive there and back that I take my son to, the 3 meetings a week he also goes to, the life coach and social worker appointments, the continuing dialogue with his teachers, counselors and Dean, and yes, I get him to Hapkido 2 or 3 times a week. And this does not include dealing with the defiant, difficult, manipulative and confusing behaviour at home that comes with living with a newly recovering addict. This is just one of my children. My worries for the other two would likely feature more prominently in my mind if I could manage it. As it is my oldest is becoming the stunt mom for my youngest, getting her to appointments and activities. My oldest, who is spending her first year of college at the local junior college and living at home; something I thought was a huge failure on my part, has become a lifesaver for me these last 6 very difficult months. So. Is it too much to ask, that when I find 2hours for myself, abet early on a Saturday morning when I really could use the sleep, for my sanctuary not to be overrun by endorphin junkies?  This is a place for caffeine junkies, a place where I can purchase a 500 calorie pumpkin scone and pick all the icing off while I scribble madly in my journal. The place for $200 running shoes, TMI Spandex and utility belts is the park around the corner, go there and do your pre-run cluster, and leave curmudgeonly me to my warm quite cafe.

Eventually they leave, nearly freezing me with the door held open for the mass of them to exit. They'll be back, red faced and, smug and steaming sweat from their moisture wicking active wear into my drama free coffee drinking refuge, where I have come to get away from all things annoying (read: people who do not behave the way I would like). I do not say anything as I look up sulkily from my coffee foam at the irritating  runners; they are a safer target for my frustrations. The thing that sends me running (ironic word choice) from my warm bed out into this cold morning so I could be anywhere but home, where I could be somewhere where I'm not the one who has to "mend lives", where I could have a moment before I am drawn back by their "pitiful cries" is sitting in a detention room at the school now, are at home in warm beds, is NOT here, except that I bring them with me. Like the Ghost of Christmas Present, they are the pitiful things clinging to my legs that I constantly carry. The runners have not had me out of my bed after midnight driving around in my pajamas searching, they have not dumped all their collective angst on me, they do toss thoughtless comments my way, that is why it is easier, right now, to spend my frustration on them. They are just as oblivious to the good I try to do, to how I work myself to stuporous exhaustion, that if I eat, I do it standing while accomplishing other tasks, to the fact that I am driving, always driving, just as oblivious to this as my family.

The Journey

by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice--

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

"Mend my life!"

each voice cried.

But you didn't stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do--

determined to save

the only life you could save.

It was pointed out to me recently that "we carry our burdens alone, and if we are really lucky, maybe with a friend or family member". This idea has been bouncing around in my head and more and more, and I realize it is true. That I am alone in this, to wish for it to be different is to invite disappointment; expectations are just resentments waiting to happen after all. For all intents and purposes I have no extended family, and the friends I have here are busy with their own lives. This makes me sad but also relieved. If I am alone, I can stop putting on the "Happy Mask", can stop having the 30second "how are you coping conversations". I can put my head down and 'chop wood and carry water', or as it translates in my life, drive, feed, organize, counsel and "mend their lives". I hope I will be softer from this suffering, I hope this will not make me brittle with resentments from unrealistic expectations. One day this will change, everything does, and I will be changed as well. One day I will walk out on that road. One day I will be able to see the stars, to hear my own voice. One day, I hope.


 I hope. 

intolerable random ramblings of a vain wannabe

I would like to say I'm a wonderfully tolerant person, but I can't.


If that were the case I could write about intolerance from the lofty perch of one who could cast the first stone. This not being the case I will write about intolerance from my down in the gutter looking at the stars position. Naturally (ironically?) I am most intolerant of intolerance, but aren't we all? If the world would just see things my way it would be a much happier place, right? I think I am probably not the first to think this, also I think that world full of people who spend too much time on their hair, are severely directionally challenged and find anything to do with accounting horrifying would be a scary place indeed.


So let's leave my intolerance for intolerance behind, and get to what drove me to write this today. People who are able and allowed to indulge in unreasonable fears and behaviours. That sounds just a little bitchy, so let me 'splain. I have a friend who won't drive on an expressway. No big deal, except instead of taking alternate routes, this person has other people do all the driving for them. Another doesn't want to grow up, wants to stay home with their mom and never have adult responsibilities. Wouldn't that be nice? I know a few who didn't learn to drive, also fine if you live in the city and rely on public transportation. None of them do, they all expect to be driven by family and friends. Why does this make me nuts? I suspect it's because I have never been allowed to indulge in such behaviours. If I wanted to get somewhere I got myself there, I have been living completely on my own since I was 17years old, no summers at home, only brief holiday visits. I would have loved having someone take care of me, so perhaps I resent those who have managed to get others to take care of them?

Why do I want people to 'suck it up' and 'get over it', to 'grow up and wear their big girl panties'? Have the hardships in my life made me just a bit nastier? Maybe. Or maybe I was born with an innate dislike of complacency in ideas and in actions, of luxuries in thought. So am I more enlightened, or am I hopelessly locked in the cycle of Samsara, attached to my own ego and desires? More of the latter I think, my own jealousy and my infantile ego having a grand time with my psyche. My own angst rooted in my longing to have someone who wanted to take care of me. My mother had her own problems, having an unplanned child with a man who would turn out to be a less than ideal partner being one of them. Growing up with a mother who did not love her was another. In the end I think she loves as best she can, but she only knows the external appearances of love and not the agony and the ecstasy of the actual emotion. My marriage died in a large part because of my trying to mold my husband into someone he was not. He is not nurturing person, now that we have moved past most of the hurt and the resentment I can see the ways he tried to care for me, and I can also see how incapable I was at receiving it. It takes a while, but it is possible to teach a child that they are unlovable. It takes much longer to show someone that they deserve love. So I sit here today longing for someone to say "let me take care of you", and knowing that I would turn them down flat if they did.

I am jealous of wealth. I think partially because I have never known a time in my life where money wasn't a struggle, or a source of fear. I have lied to my children about why the water isn't working, or why there is no electricity. I humbled myself asking for more time to pay bills, turned down or been excluded from events with my wealthier friends. My real problem is, I think, is believing that having money immunizes you from the constant struggles of everyday living. My issue with complacency rears it's head again, I've struggled dammit, and so should you! In my head I know money does not bring happiness, and can bring the opposite. In my heart I'm still the little girl looking in at the happy family that she is not a part of.


I think I would be happy if only I had more money, if only I could get divorced, if only I had a cleaning lady (actually I think this particular 'if only' I would really enjoy...), if only I could get a divorce (why don't I? I need the health care benefits), if only I lived in my dream house by the ocean, if only I had a studio.... etc ad nauseam.  But the trick to being happy is not looking for outside things to make me happy, the way to be happy is to be happy with what I am doing, right now. Happiness, it's an inside job. The less I seek externally and the more I focus internally the happier I will become. My ego has a conniption fit at the very thought of this.


Back to my intolerance. Would I really be happy if one day the world actually aligned itself with my desires? If people actually behaved the way I wanted them to? Maybe for a week, and then I'm pretty sure I would invent new ways to be dissatisfied.   


Astrologically speaking, being a Leo and a Dragon doesn't help. I have come into this life with an innate desire to be indulged and adored. My life thus far has been a series of exercises in getting over these notions. Raising three teenagers can quickly get you over the notion that you are adored (oh how fondly I remember the days when they were little and I was perfect...). Living in a forever limbo relationship with my estranged, soon to be ex, separated (you pick) spouse and having a mother who can turn from pleasantly superficial to excruciating cruel in a heartbeat has kept me from wallowing in wanton daydreams of the good life.
I do indulge myself, and am mostly over the guilt, (yes I do dye my hair, my vanity does not include grey hair), but feel awkward and guilty when someone tries to indulge me, and sometimes I'm darn right nasty about it  ..... "thank you, I'll get it myself..." I can open my own damn doors, but secretly I want you to open them for me, poor guy can't win.
So where do I end up tolerance wise? Most days I'm pretty good; somedays I'm practically Zen like, and the occasional day I'm miserable and looking for something outside myself to blame. I generally get over that pretty quickly, so, I guess, I'm human. Just like everyone else. 

what? no lasagna?

My son has a chronic illness, two actually. This summer and into the fall one became progressively worse. It affected every aspect of his life, school, friends, family and increasing aspects of mine and my daughters lives. I'd like to add that by this summer I'd already spent 3years with different professionals, put my son through hours (and hours) of testing, became an unpaid professional advocate of all things Graham.

After many attempts by various professionals and unsuccessful outpatient treatments it was decided to hospitalize Graham to gain control of his condition. He was in hospital for 34days. I drove the 50 minute drive there and back twice a week. I spent a lot of time in the car. Our whole family spent a weekend at the hospital and in a hotel for a family education weekend to prepare all of us for what our new home life would be like.

Graham's condition runs in both families, mine especially. It killed my father, has hurt my brother, and I live with it daily. Genetically speaking having three kids was a bit like spinning the roulette wheel, I could look back now and think I was irresponsible knowing the odds were at least one would inherit this disease. At the time I didn't think about it, and even with the knowledge I have now I would still want each of my kids, just the way they are.

People knew my son was in hospital, that I was going back and forth twice a week, that his father was out of the country for half of the admission. Early on I had someone invite me out for tea just to confirm that he was actually in hospital. That cup of tea was the last I heard from that 'friend'. She had her gossip and didn't need me for anything else. We've had pitying looks, forced smiles and people purposely not looking. I've seen the fear/relief that is wasn't their child/family who was suffering. That fear kept many people distant. My daughters were particularly courageous, and faced this head on. We did have some actual friends who showed genuine concern, one even showed up with cookies and just listened, that gesture still brings tears to my eyes when I think about it.

My daughters became more self sufficient, and more than once had to step up into a parent like role. My ability to do my job decreased, and forget any social life. Yet during all these months no one ever showed up at our door with the standard pan of lasagna. We didn't receive any cards, Graham only received cards and notes from us, one friend and my brother (my mother reluctantly sent a formally worded typed letter, after I asked several times).

In one way it was a relief not to be in charge of Graham's care, but that came with guilt, and the knowledge it was only a temporary reprieve.

Graham came home mid December, horribly behind in school and 10days before final exams. He had 16 hours a week of outpatient treatment (add 4hours of driving time to that) he had to attend. His time was school, homework, treatment, sleep with room for nothing else. Catherine and Lizz were on their own 4 nights a week. Still no lasagna, no casseroles, baked goods or cards. I asked for help, and a few very kind people came to help with the driving a couple of times a week, help I truly appreciated.

Now, if Graham had cancer, or been in a terrible car accident people would have been lining up to help, our freezer would have been full of food, and I would have been able to openly grieve for the healthy son I had lost. There would have been gifts, prayers, cards, phone calls and support for my family.

Graham doesn't have cancer, and he has not been in an accident. My son is an addict, and there are no cards, balloons or special stuffed animals for addicts. Despite the fact that addiction is recognized by the American Medical Association as a Disease. Despite the fact that Insurance companies and medical doctors all treat it as a DISEASE, addiction disorders carry a shame and stigma that they don't deserve.

Six years ago when I got sober I did it in secret because I couldn't deal with the overwhelming shame, failure and judgement. I had watched my father die from this disease. Still some friends found out, one of them refused to let me drive her child to my daughter's birthday party. For the next few years I was 'watched'. The only place I found compassion was with a group of my peers. People who had been through hell, and were supportive and compassionate because of it.

So now I watch people judge my son and I want to scream. I want to shake them until their prejudices fall out of them. I want to point to the number of people who have died, not from a moral failing, but from a deadly disease, but it's no use. People are afraid, and it's easier to to believe that if you breastfed, if you never spanked your child, if you read them the right books, had them in the right activities that your child would be safe (did all of those, thought that myself). That if you only applied a little will power that this sort of thing wouldn't happen. It's easier to be afraid and blame, to see addicts and alcoholics as 'other' people, people that lack will power, people that are weak, dirty, dangerous and not worthy of compassion.

I can't talk about how afraid I am, how powerless to fix my son I am, so I smile, I nod and keep my chin up, and I write, I write pages and  pages, and the occasional blog.

Twelve Things You Were Not Taught in School About Creative Thinking | The Creativity Post

Creativity is paradoxical. 


To create, a person must have knowledge but forget the knowledge
must see unexpected connections in things but not have a mental disorder 
must work hard but spend time doing nothing as information incubates
must create many ideas yet most of them are useless
must look at the same thing as everyone else, yet see something different
must desire success but embrace failure
must be persistent but not stubborn 
and must listen to experts but know how to disregard them....

Twelve Things You Were Not Taught in School About Creative Thinking | The Creativity Post: "You do not see things as they are; you see them as you are."

'via Blog this'

Indispensable, Desirable, Lovely Frills

My next step is to categorize things from "My Ideal Day" under one of three headings: Indispensable, Desirable or Frills. So, here goes...

INDISPENSABLE

• art
• writing
• good coffee and chocolate
• quiet mornings and evenings
• kids, dogs, cats
• meditation
• physical activity
• creative, dynamic colleagues
• ethically, environmentally, socially relevant work
• housekeeper/organizer/assistant
• clean, comfortable, organized home
• studio space
• continuing education
• ethical food
• located near water

DESIRABLE

• latest and greatest computer and camera equipment
• more spacious home
• separate studio space
• photography/writing road trips
• TWO family vacations
• gallery space
• generous monetary compensation

FRILLS

• art student
• art shows
• ocean front home
• coffee shop
• horses

Exercise 9: My Ideal Day

My Ideal Day....

I wake early and quietly in my big luxurious bed. My lover is either up and gone, or still sleeping (he does not snore or hog the bed sheets). The cats ignore me and the dog gets up and stretches and comes over to have his ears scratched. He and I head outside where we can hear the waves and early morning birds. If the light is particularly good I take my camera and take photographs for about an hour, otherwise I head off to my daybreak movement and mediation class. I return home and check on the horses, being in their presence quiets and awes me.


When I come back into the house the kids are up and getting themselves fed and out the door to school. Even with 4-5 people moving about the morning is fairly quiet. I sit down to my own big breakfast, during which I might check my email, letters or read a little. Our housekeeper/personal assistant has made their usual excellent cappuccino and while we drink our coffee (with a small piece of very dark chocolate) we go over the day ahead and review our weekly and long term tasks and goals. After setting my priorities for the day I head to work about 8-830am. I work in a large space with a very dynamic creative artist group, where we collaborate, teach, learn and produce with each other. We are well paid and do intense, demanding, but ultimately inspiring work. Our work is ethically, socially and environmentally responsible. The organic coffee house and cafe next door displays local artwork and usually supplies us with delicious and healthy lunches. Sometime we lunch together as a group and brainstorm a project, other times lunch is eaten while we work. Work usually ends around 2 or 3pm, at which point I head home for an afternoon horse ride or walk on the beach with the dog.  Afternoons are spent in my personal studio where I am completely free creatively. I have had several successful art shows and made enough money that I can create what I want and explore where I want. My studio is spacious, light filled and organized, but with enough creative clutter that it doesn't seem sterile. A few days a week I have an art student or two work with me. I've also been know to take an art class or go on a photography adventure during my studio time depending what interests me at the time. My studio has the latest and greatest computer and camera equipment. I work in numerous mediums including digital. I have a spot in a local gallery (and the coffee house) that displays my work and I have an online shop I sell from as well.

The kids come and go depending on their schedules. About 4 evenings a week I do a Martial Arts class with some or all of them. We're also involved in the local theatre. Dinner is sometimes casual with everyone feeding themselves as they go in and out with various activities, and sometimes its a big family dinner. We take turns cooking and cleaning, and usually once a week our housekeeper (who we could not do without) makes something wonderful, they, of course, join us at meals. Anybody is welcome to stay for dinner and often we have a few friends over to eat with us. The food in our home is local, organic and if it's meat, humanly raised and slaughtered.

Evenings at home are generally quiet, with people reading, writing, walking the dog along the beach, or settling the horses in for the night. Sometimes, usually weekends, we may watch a video together on our enormous comfy couch. Several times a month we volunteer at a local shelter or organic farm.  I travel a couple of times during the year for my photography and writing. We have two family vacations each year that we all attend and look forward to. We have been known to bring the odd extra person along with us.

My bedside table is pilled with books and I generally read for an hour or so before going to sleep in that great big luxurious bed, if we have the windows open, we can listen to the waves as we go to sleep.