Yesterday was the last day of the month. Although it was grey and misty outside I spent time earlier walking the yard just to get some air. The last snow has melted but we’re expecting another storm mid week. Spring takes its time here, so I sat in front of a comforting fire as I wrote while my dog Wanda snuffled quietly in her bed at my feet. She loves a nice fire.
(more…)Category: Learning
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September reflections
September’s weather never disappoints here, as temperatures level out in the low seventies. The sky is clear, and often a welcome breeze keeps the sun’s strong rays from stinging my skin. If I allowed myself, I’d be in the yard like I am on most days from Spring through Summer. I’d settle in one of the chairs out back in the shade and read one of the books I recently purchased instead of delving into my shelves of books waiting to be read. But I know better.
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The Garden that Came with a House
When I arrived in Maine to view the house I’d found while sifting through properties on the Internet, I already knew it came with a good sized yard. That was the most important piece of criteria outside of being able to walk to town. I wanted enough of a yard to plant a good sized vegetable garden. The idea of an enclosed garden with raised beds, and perhaps an arch with a gate to give it a bit of old fashioned charm appealed to me. Years of flipping through the pages of Fine Gardening, Sunset, and Martha Stewart’s Living made just as much an impact as living in a house for nearly 20 years which had little or no yard at all. Surely .41 acre would be enough, wouldn’t it?
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I Began with the Guest Room
I’ve lived in many houses in my life, but never an old house — that is, unless one considers the house we owned before the last, built in 1948, old. I’ve always been drawn to old houses and old places. Perhaps for someone who has moved often in her life, the seeming permanence of a structure that has long stood in one place is the curiosity. I think of the stories it could tell if someone cared enough to listen.
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2020: Glancing back, gazing ahead
On New Year’s Eve at the dawn of the last decade, I was fairly miserable. Not by the “foreign power laying siege to my homeland” standard, or the “bank repossessing my house on Christmas Eve” standard. The “finding out I have a catastrophic disease” standard also did not compare, because I know people who have heard that news and seen the effect it has had on their lives. I have to make the distinction because qualifying my unhappiness by comparing it to that of others is part of who I am. The guilt that surrounds whatever feelings of dissatisfaction I may have with certain life circumstances is palpable regardless of what those more knowledgeable of the human psyche have said. “There is no hierarchy of suffering,” states Dr. Edith Eva Eger, holocaust survivor and author of The Choice: Embrace the Possible. “There’s nothing that makes my pain worse or better than yours, no graph on which we can plot the relative importance of one sorrow versus another.” Still, I tend to measure, and that’s what I was doing ten years ago. Telling myself I had nothing to be unhappy about and everything to be grateful for.
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Stay calm and carry on with new perspective
If our original plans had gone as expected, we would be on a direct flight home instead of waiting for a taxi outside of John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford, England. Our “vacation” had been extended a week to ensure that I was fit enough to be on an eleven hour flight. I remember the strong scent of exhaust in the chilly air, a blush colored horizon through bare trees and strains of a familiar Beatles’ tune coming from the hospital lobby while I stood there, glad I wasn’t on that flight. I was exhausted and more than a little disoriented; at times I remember feeling as if I was watching myself from another place, detached from current reality. It wasn’t a bad feeling, but more, a sort of buffered effect. A cloaking device.
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The President Elect and the crazy uncle at the table.
Clearly, I should have known that in much the same way traveling can interfere with the simplest goals, the “staycation” we planned for this Fall has effectively proven that a significant change in my daily routine leaves me floundering. Best intentions to get back into writing petered out after a weak four days. To compound the problem, the election was held yesterday, and I think we’re all processing the results on any number of levels, whether pleased or not.
I’m most decidedly in the not camp. But my wits are about me this afternoon thanks to the ruminating I immediately engage in when something is bothering me. I read. I read, and question, search for understanding, and spend long periods of time fighting with myself over issues I’d prefer not to. Issues of a very personal nature which involve people I’m related to in one way or another.
More than once, I’ve seen memes fly past in my newsfeed referencing the dysfunctional aspect of certain family members — the crazy uncle who must be tolerated at holiday dinners, for example. It’s presented as a joke, as something many of us can relate to, and it’s easy to laugh it off until you realize that for too long, you’ve really had to deal with this and you’re tired of it.
I’m tired of it. But I’m working through frustration and general disillusionment by considering the winner of yesterday’s election in the role of that dysfunctional family member. He may be President Elect, but I don’t have to tolerate him. I don’t have to invite him into my house, or to sit at my table. But he will have my complete and undivided attention because I will choose to stay tuned in, to research anything unclear, to question, and relentlessly challenge with as much grace as I can muster. Sticking my head in the sand will solve nothing. Giving in to those who choose not to engage, who complain that they’re tired of it all, and plead for a return to the innocuous sharing of puppies and cats, cupcakes and jokes exclusively is not an option for me.
Nor should it be for anyone.
The price of apathy towards public affairs is to be ruled by evil men — Plato
“Here is what Donald Trump wants to do in his first 100 days” I’ve read through this list several times making sure not to get caught up by the repetitive use of “I will” and “direct,” “cancel,” or “suspend.” It’s more important to understand the list and to research what he has the authority to actually do. It’s also important to consider what on that list directly or indirectly affects you and your family.
“Statement from the PRA (Political Research Associates) on the 2016 election” It’s a sobering read that addresses much of what is on the list above, and what we should do about it.
“The Populists” It’s an older piece, but a Populist is a Populist. Or is he? I need to understand.
This was an eye-opener. Right-Wing Populism in America: Too Close for Comfort
And then there is this: “The ruthlessly effective rebranding of Europe’s new far right” To say it makes me uncomfortable would be a gross understatement. She couldn’t be more thrilled that Trump has paved the way for her and others.
The ignorance of one voter in a democracy impairs the security of all. — John F. Kennedy
Ignorance, indeed.
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The effect of a cat on motivation and routine
If deciding at the last minute to take on a reasonable facsimile of NaNoWriMo was to serve a purpose, it has only taken two days to realize it. Before I was out of bed this morning, mind habitually processing what the day would entail, I recognized the spark of emotion related to motivation. An excuse to ignore everything and with coffee in hand, park myself in front of my Mac. This had to be a good thing.
But something happened on the way to the kitchen. My cat happened. This is not unusual. In fact, it’s routine. Her morning greeting is urgent and gains volume as I approach the front door. She wants out, and it never seems to matter that my husband has been up and about, and has already let her out. She always returns for the ceremonial exercise that only she and I engage in.
I open the door and she grumbles as she passes over the threshold, stopping just before she’s completely outside. I wait, she looks at me, grumbles once more before leaning her posterior against the door. I decide I’ll wait until the third or fourth time we’ve completed the round to go out onto the porch and scratch the furry belly wantonly displayed for just that purpose. Priorities. I need to make coffee.
Once the Bialetti is on, I fill the dishwasher, rinse the sinks, prepare a large bowl of cold, sudsy water for quick wash ups during the day, and assess the rest of the kitchen. It’s good enough to give the impression it’s clean, but more importantly, won’t distract me from the day’s mission: writing.
Before the coffee begins to well up in the moka pot, I can hear the cat scratching at the front door. She’ll want in, I’ll have a cat food can in hand, ask her if she’d like to eat and pop the lid to get her attention.
It works every time. She stands as close to the threshold as possible without actually touching it, licking her lips, yelling simultaneously. I know I’ll have to go out onto the porch, and nudge her inside before the game is over. She will be satisfied for a time knowing her food is where it should be, in her bowl. All will be well in her world.
Coffee now burnt, I tell myself more milk will help, though I know it won’t. That spark of motivation felt earlier has now turned to an annoyance. I recall how long I worked on the piece I wrote yesterday, fiddling with photos, making attempts to write something meaningful when what I set out to do was just write.
Something occurrs to me. If I was going to spend the better part of a day fussing over a blog post, why wouldn’t I spend that time organizing manuscript revisions? Why, indeed.
November stretches ahead in my mind, its interruptions now in full focus. Thanksgiving aside, I have a trip booked immediately following and will be gone for a week. And then there is the “staycation” we thought we were so smart to decide upon which officially begins tomorrow.
I tell myself I’ll have so much to write about. Stay calm and carry on! And I will. But it has only taken two days to remind myself of a lesson I seem never to learn. I don’t have to commit to an event to engage in an activity, or to change a behavior. To take on a new interest, or rekindle motivation in those once beloved. There isn’t a magic date on a calendar, a finish line, a set of guidelines or rules.
There is just me, and whatever it is I set out to do. I have to decide whether that matters or not. The problems is, far too many things matter.
My coffee is now cold, and the cat is sitting just at my office door, yelling. When I get up to reheat my coffee, she will scurry down the stairs ahead of me, grumbling all the way out the back door where I will be expected to give her a morning brushing, and then find tender shoots of grass for her to chew on.
Routine is what we make of it — or what it makes of us.
Day 3, check.
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Thinking about Process
I haven’t been writing anything, anywhere. And it isn’t because I’m not motivated, I tell myself, smirking as I think it each time I see my notebooks stacked just to the left of my keyboard. It’s the photos of our recent trip I’ve been working through, trying to learn new Photoshop techniques to make them stand out in some way, worthy of what I remember seeing when my eye wasn’t peering through the viewfinder of my camera.
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On Birthdays and Learning
Yesterday was my 58th birthday.
I have never been someone who could not wait until her birthday arrived, thinking its timing coinciding with Back to School made it convenient to ignore. The worry of wearing scratchy, too warm clothes the first day of school coupled with concerns about whether I’d like my teacher(s), and outright paranoia about the moment that teacher called out my name in class during attendance always seemed to take precedence over celebrating the day I was born. When I think back over the years, unsurprisingly, not many of my birthdays stand out. Other than the good memories that remain of a few adolescent slumber parties, I remember my 20th because it seemed a milestone to no longer have teen attached to my age. My 40th stands out because in defiance of the impending school year, I told my husband I wanted to go to Las Vegas. The significance of this is probably lost on anyone who hasn’t taught school and can’t imagine the potential terror of going away for three days just before school begins, minus lesson plan books and teaching resources, to relax and have fun. It remains one of my best memories because it was a spontaneous decision. My 50th will always be remembered because my husband and very best friend organized a lovely dinner party for me at her home. Family and friends attended, waiters passed with trays of tasty tidbits, and dinner was enjoyed outside under a late August evening sky.
