kellementology

life according to me

Tag: Thinking

  • Dog Days and Torpidity

    Dog Days and Torpidity

    August is two weeks away, but the dog days have already arrived.

    It was early June when I noticed them edging into my morning rituals: I forget to step outside for that first, fresh breath of damp air; organizing the kitchen and my thoughts for the day while waiting for my coffee is hit and miss; and spending enough time on the patio to enjoy whatever is blooming happens when I get around to it. I can’t remember the last time I took a good and long early morning walk.

    I can’t blame Orion and his dog star, Sirius, as they haven’t yet risen above the eastern horizon in our pre-dawn sky. I was well awake this morning and might have stepped out back to see if it was there, but didn’t. The stairs creak, I tell myself. I’ll wake my husband, the cat will want out. The dog will think it’s time to wake up. It’s easier to lie in the dark and hope sleep takes over before the sky lightens. Or before the dark thoughts creep in as they always seem to in the night, and I have to reach for my iPad for the distraction. I look up what’s in the current night sky.

    Sirius won’t be visible in my corner of the world until the end of August, a time more consistent with what many relate to the dog days. Blazing heat, stagnant air, and a sense of suspended time permeate each day. That this happens when the rest of the Northern Hemisphere is beginning to enjoy cool, crisp mornings, perhaps air laced with the hint of a wood fire, or leaves beginning their yearly transformation from verdant uniformity to a riotous blaze of crimson, gold and rust, is cruel. We will have two more months of summer ahead–sometimes more. Last year a heat wave well into November had us sweltering in temperatures reaching the 90s. 

    If you take the time to look up “dog days”, definitions can range from “the hot, sultry period of summer between early July and early September” to “a period marked by inactivity”. Lethargy and indolence are also used to describe dog days.

    Indolence: the quality or state of being indolent–slow, inactive, sluggish, torpid.

    Torpid: apathetic or dormant, as a hibernating or estivating animal.

    Estivate: to spend the summer, as at a specific place or in a certain activity

    Those are the type of dog days I’ve been experiencing. I’m estivating. I’ve been estivating since last December. I’m at a specific place in my mind which is very different from the reality of my days. I wonder if it’s part of aging, yet I don’t feel old. I wonder if I’m bored or if I need a new hobby. I tell myself I’ll finish this project, or that, that I’ll clean the junk drawers, or redo our closet. I should call the carpet cleaners, wrap up the old china and send it away. Do something constructive. Yet I spend a lot of time staring out windows. I drift from room to room picking up and putting away with no particular purpose other than getting out of the chair I’m sitting in right now. The window is open behind the screen I’m watching letters and words appear on as I write, and a pleasant breeze causes the wind chime suspended from the curtain rod to ring occasionally. I watch people walking along the street on the other side of the wall, people on bikes out enjoying the day. I tell myself I should be out there as well.

     Should I learn to speak French, or simply improve my Spanish? I could do what I once thought I might and cook my way through any of my cookbooks. Just choose one and begin. The list I made in January of bright ideas lies on my desk just to the left where I can see it. Only four of the 26 items I listed have been crossed off. To be fair, most are related to taking care of our house; it’s an ongoing job to repair or replace something in the 16 years we’ve lived here. And the four items I’ve crossed off are some of the more pleasant. I suppose I’m not motivated to check off any of the others because they’re inconvenient (replacing carpeting upstairs), they’re humdrum (touching up baseboards), or rate on the interest scale as being even with watching paint dry (going through old paper files). 

    When I read this back to myself, it sounds as if I’m simply lazy, but I know I’m not. Give me something interesting to do and I will engage until I drop. I’ll enjoy it, too. But if that’s the case, then why do I have so many projects unfinished? A novel in mid-restructuring. A gallery of photos to print and frame for hanging. A book of old family photos I promised to my sister and brother. I have too many interests and no deadlines and so from one day to the next, I’m left to decide for myself whether I want to do something in particular. Right now, I don’t. I’m not interested in anything for a sustained period of time. This is also evident in what I choose to read; a perfectly good book sits on my nightstand with less than twenty pages left to read. It’s been sitting for more than a month. I remember days that I’d avoid things I had to take care of just to finish a book. Photos of a recent trip sit on my external hard drive, only partially edited. This is probably more telling than anything else I’ve mentioned.

    I feel suspended in time, unable to stay focused for any length. And on the odd day that I do find myself lost in a task, inevitably something interferes. Usually something insignificant. Something that distracts just long enough that I look at the clock and tell myself I should get on with my day. Go to the market. Get something to prepare for dinner.

    I’ve heard that we reach peaks in our lives. There’s a tipping point, and then everything changes. I think this actually happens more than once in life and that sometimes it’s caused by circumstances we cannot control. Others seem wholly reliant upon our ability to seize the day. To make the changes we want in our lives. I’ve experienced this many times in my own life, most often making the decision to change myself. What is different now, is that the change I desire depends on another. And it is far from being a simple change. It resembles a complex array of dominoes.

    And so I wait. I wait and try to sort out how to spend my time. The days pass, and I look ahead. I ignore the mantras others seem so content to embrace. “Live in the moment!” “Today is all we have!” “You only live once!”

    But I’m hibernating. I’m planning for tomorrow knowing full well that it may take much longer to get here than I have to enjoy it.  I count the years ahead, imagine who I’ll be, how I’ll feel. Whether I have the right to assume I have the time. That’s what stuns me.

    I look out the window once more, notice the sunlight bouncing off the shiny new growth on the carrotwood trees and decide I need to get up.

    I’ll clean the kitchen, go to the market, then get ready to make dinner.

    Tomorrow is another day.

     

     

  • One step at a time. Maybe.

    I woke up well before I normally do today, willing myself to stay in bed and lie still, listening to the fan whir back and forth, the puff of air it creates just reaching me.  I watched the brightness on the walls created by the streetlight outside slowly fade as the dark sky made its way toward morning, but grew bored after a while and decided to get up.

    (more…)

  • Diminishing Me.

    I’ve gone through my closet a couple of times in the past month or so, weeding it of pieces I’ve had for years.  The soft loosely fit pants I bought in both a steel grey and khaki because the trousers I normally wore to work were getting too snug around my waist and were too warm for summer.   The newer navy pinstriped trousers I found on sale, with a more comfortable waistband that kept me from thinking about my expanding midsection.  Three pair of my favorite Bermuda shorts I think I lived in last summer.  A couple pair of ancient light-weight cargo shorts that made shrugging out of pajama bottoms so easy from one day to the next.

    And then there were the jeans.

    Stretchy jeans.  Favorite faded jeans that had gotten too small, then happily fit again, now too big even after a good hot water washing and spin in the dryer.  Big jeans purchased in desperation, only briefly worn when things were seriously getting out of hand.  Dark colored trouser jeans I bought for our trip to England a year and a half ago and then outgrew.  It took a year, but I managed to do it.

    As I removed each piece of clothing from its hangar, I tried it on — something I detest doing.  The better part of a day was spent standing in front of our mirror clad closet doors while I examined my reflection noticing sagging in the rear, or a gaping waistband.   Pants easily removed with a simple tug — no unzipping necessary.  As much as you might expect I’d cheer each time it happened, I didn’t.  I was busy trying to ignore my practical self voice– the one that thinks about how much was paid for something worn only a few times.  Or the seemingly helpful self who cautioned that a waistband wasn’t all that loose and that I may need to hang on to some things.

    Just.  In.  Case.

    Four large plastic garbage bags were filled by the time I was done and as much as I can say it felt good to realize losing 20 pounds makes a such difference, I noticed my preoccupation with other things.  Things like the sizes on the clothes — many of which were 14s.  Size 14s that all fit so differently from huge to still just right.  Fourteens with waistbands too high and tight, and others low cut and baggy.  A couple of size 12s were also too big, others too small.  One size ten I could squeeze into if I thought I wanted to look like an enormous trussed chicken ready for the oven.

    That was nearly five pounds ago — and counting.  Every other day or so weigh-ins to document my progress have become something that can easily upset me depending on what that progress actually is.  Sometimes, there seems to be no logic to it:  a one and eight-tenths gain, then a two and four-tenths loss the very next morning regardless of the strict consistency I strive for with this routine.  It’s maddening, catching me wanting the gratification of a particular number instead of the understanding that the big picture provides.

    So I review.

    Eat breakfast before 9am.  Check.  Alternate between eggs and veggies, whole grain cereal with a bit of fruit, or a carefully orchestrated smoothie.  Check. Eat enough calories in one day.  Struggle to check.  Get your cardio and strength exercises done each week.  Sort of check but always working on it.

    All my life, I’ve thought of food, but thinking about it in this capacity at times has become exhausting.  I’ve begun to notice that instead of wanting to be constructive about planning meals with creativity, I simply want to get it over with.  How challenging can it be to grill a small piece of fish or lean meat and roast a vegetable?  Grab a healthy snack between meals.  Fire up the blender for a smoothie?

    I’ve reached the halfway point — or to be more accurate — see it right in front of me,  taunting me.  Telling me I need to step it up.  Get myself moving.  But today, I’m tired and cranky.  And I’ll allow myself that because staying on good course for 18 weeks, I’ve done what I set out to do.  But I’ve been waking earlier than I normally do and staying up later.  When I’m not careful about what I eat, I end up with too few calories in my body and feeling like I’m out of fuel, because that’s exactly what I am.

    No patience, easy to rile, and seriously lacking in motivation.  Flat.

    But I don’t “cheat.”  I use that term loosely because most understand that being on a diet implies there are rules that must be followed just so — and if they’re broken, it’s cheating.   I never set out to be on a diet.  I set out to change the way I live my life and feed my body.

    At first, I was almost religious about eating five times a day.  Three fairly even meals with a morning and afternoon snack.  But as I’ve progressed, things have changed.  The snacks have sort of disappeared and not by intention.  I get busy and don’t think about it.  Saved calories, right?  That doesn’t work for me.  I’ve figured that if I don’t keep the fuel steadily coming, then the whole thing breaks down.  I’ve also shifted away from eating even sprouted wheat bread once in a while — toasted with a measured mound of egg or chicken curry on it.  Again, this hasn’t been by design.

    It’s been days that I’ve been writing this and struggling over how to say it all.  When I read it over, there’s no justice served to what I’ve learned.

    Perhaps it’s a lesson about my life in general.  What I’ve learned must be summed up in a particular way, and because I’m not done, well then, it’s not easy to put down.

    Words escape me, but I’ve taken photos just to document.  Yes, photos.  Each month on a given day, I subject myself to photos taken in three positions.  I make a collage of sorts and date it, and each month, I compare the extent to which I’ve grown smaller.  Clearly, I have.  The clothes show it, the photos show it, and I can see it. I share the photos only with my husband who says he could never do it himself.

    But it holds me accountable far more than loose clothing or a number on a scale. A glance in the mirror.

    Yet, I’m wondering.  Am I just giving in to something I’ve always said I’ve deplored?

    Thin to be thin?

    It’s disturbing.

  • Oh Dark Thirty or Something Like That

    I’m not sure how long I’ve been awake, but realize it only when I hear the surf’s low roar in the distance through the window I opened yesterday just to get a bit of cool air in the room, then forgot about.  It’s not quite chilly, but I’d rather it be shut.  The short, quiet whistle just outside has me wondering who the someone is out there, his dog down the street farther than necessary at this time of night.  It’s a bit creepy.

    The clock reads 3:26 am, and I give in to the idea that even though it’s too quiet to run the coffee grinder or too dark to go for a walk, I decide to sit here to pass the time.  And because I’ve already thought about everything there is to think about before I decided to get out of bed, I wonder why I’m making an effort to write any of this, tempted instead to fumble my way down the stairs in the dark, pick up the book I just started last night and read for a while.  The only problem is, no light is strong enough downstairs to read with.  This makes me realize it wouldn’t be a problem if I’d transitioned completely to Kindle which I only recently downloaded to my iPad.  Somehow, the idea bothers me because I still like the look and feel of a book — especially fiction.  But that doesn’t help me much, sitting here in the dark and wanting something to do.

    I watch the stream of Tweets on TweetDeck with little interest, but hesitate to close it since it’s not distracting me — as if that’s possible.  My brain feels empty, which means I really should be sleeping.  Or perhaps I am asleep and just haven’t figured it out yet.  This would be a fairly boring dream if that was the case.  Imagine.

    No, the ache at the base of my skull isn’t something I’d dream about.  Gently, I shift my head from one side to the next, feeling the muscles in my neck stretch.  It feels good, and so I extend the stretch down each of my sides, elbows up, slowly pulling, taking a slow, deep breath.  Much better.

    A lone bird has chirped somewhere outside and the first car headed down the hill.  I wonder who it is and what time work begins, glad I am not that person, but remember briefly having to get up this early to go to work myself for several years.  I remember enjoying the quiet as I readied myself, shutting the front door quietly as I left each morning, all the people I loved still tucked in their beds, some snoring.

    I think about what I’ve decided to do today after the sun has risen, committed to heading down the boardwalk to get some exercise.  When we first moved here, as much as I wanted to sleep in on the weekends, I’d wake, pull on my sweats and drive down to walk on the beach.  It was a novelty then and I enjoyed breathing in the salty, damp air as I walked along not having to dodge the bikes and skateboards normally crowding the boardwalk.  Yes, I’ll enjoy that this morning, and while I’m walking, I’ll decide whether or not to make Christmas cookies this year.  The MoH and I certainly don’t need cookies around the house, but I saw some great new recipes in Bon Appetit’s holiday baking spread this year and am tempted, knowing if I procrastinate long enough, it will be too late, and then I’ll be saved from the task.  We’ll see.

    It’s 5:05 am, and I’ve successfully filled time more than space here, not really focusing on anything. Lizzie’s followed me up here at some point and is curled on the futon behind me.  I get up for a minute to pet her, listening to her purr.  I peer between the blinds, surprised to see a still dark sky, and yawn.

    Should I go back to bed or risk the coffee grinder?  Waste time pinning pretty things to my Pinterest boards?  Paper, scissors, rock.

    I’m chilled to the bone now, my head still hurts, and the stuffy nose I’m just now realizing is the culprit for my being awake is annoying me.

    It’s an admirable 5:31 am.

    Coffee wins.

     

     

  • Dawdling

    It’s Wednesday.  Remember Wordless Wednesdays?

    Once upon a time, while many others were busy posting an image or a cartoon to take a bit of a blogging break midweek, I was busy finding excuses about why I wasn’t wordless and thinking how could anyone ever be wordless? I made jokes about my seemingly endless stream of whatever came to mind while others took a deep breath.  Looked around.   And although the words are coming now, they don’t add up to much.  I stop to think, searching for something to put here, to have a bit of meaning other than to say what I’m saying.

    See?  Not much.

    I know I should be wanting to hop on a soapbox about politics, or shake my fist at the injustices in the world.  Complain about the cost of health insurance, or the size of the plastic debris soup “island” growing in the Pacific right now.  I will say we recycle more than we throw away, avoid water in throw away plastic bottles, and reuse as much as we can, but our efforts seem paltry as I observe  effects of others’ unconcerned attitudes.

    No, I don’t feel like writing about those things right now.

    (more…)

  • Saturation point

    Saturation point

    saturation (sat-u-ra-tion)

    noun

    The state or process that occurs when no more of something can be absorbed, combined with, or added.

    This would be me on food.

    Eating it, looking at it, purchasing it, cooking it, cleaning it up, and most of all — writing about it.  I’m saturated.  In fact, I’m probably super-saturated, but I won’t go into that because I’d have to Google the term to remember what I learned in chemistry a million years ago.

    But I’m there.

    I’m hoping my brain will thank me for easing up on it, because at the rate I’m going, being one-dimensional is right around the corner.  Although I’m sure there are some perks to being one-dimensional — like being able to fit in tight spaces, weighing less, qualifying as a cast member of The Real Housewives of You Fill in the Blank (or all three simultaneously) — but I’d rather not find out.

    I don’t want to have to follow “expert” advice about how to improve Google rankings, or format posts, tag photographs, or use social media to improve traffic.  Focus?  Why do I have to have one?  It makes me weary thinking about it.

    Licking my index finger and holding it up to see which way the wind is blowing is good enough for me.  If anything, it would allow for the unexpected instead of the planned.  Whimsey.  Bird-walking.

    No lists.  Ugh.

    Instead, a promise to myself to enjoy writing  — for me.

    And guess what?  I found a writing group that will start meeting next month — nothing formal — just show up with a notebook.  They supply the prompts.

    I’m thinking this will be a hellavalot easier than losing 50 lbs.

    Wait. Isn’t that sort of where all of this started?

    Go figure.

  • It’s me. I’m still here.

    It’s amazing how quickly time passes.  Although I’d like to say that’s a good thing in some cases, for the most part, I’d rather it didn’t.  There has to be a balance between wanting a phase in one’s life to come to a conclusion and simply embracing it.

    In the last many months, I think perhaps that I’ve managed to do that.  I’ve found things to do that matter to me, have forgiven myself for others I don’t spend quite as much time on, and have given myself time each day to look around and appreciate a few things.  If you twisted my arm, I’d say that I’ve appreciated more than just a few things.

    It does get more and more challenging, however, to recognize whether my life has taken yet another direction, or that I’m caught up in all the things one does when one’s trying to avoid doing what is supposed to be done.  It’s convoluted, but it makes sense to me, and that’s enough for now.

    Someone today said to embrace the here and now.  It’s not new information, and I’ve cringed when I’ve heard others say it before.  But today, the message was being delivered to those much younger than myself by someone not much older than they.  Ironically, I guess that’s what I’ve been trying to do for nearly a year now.  It’s hard if you’re like me and life is about planning.

    I know I’m supposed to have learned something in this experience, and I’m sure I have, but it’s late and my alarm wakes me earlier than I’d like so I won’t wander down the path of that explanation right now.

    What I miss most about this detour is my barely new found self:  the one that laughed and had seemingly endless energy and curiousity.  I’d like to find her again because I was just getting to know her.  She was a bit odd, but I think I liked her.

    If you see her, will you let me know?

    I may have seen her this evening when it was pouring outside and she grabbed a huge umbrella and camera to run out in the rain and take a photo.

    She’s still in there somewhere.

  • Wednesdays and Looking Forward

    It’s Wednesday and I’m nearly wordless.  Nearly wordless for someone like me is about as quiet as I get.  I’m tired.  It’s odd that with acceptance, energy is devoted nearly 100 % to doing what one has to do.  Evenings are when I look forward to sinking into my couch and watching inane shows on the television with people I love.

    At some point, whatever book that lies open on the floor next to my bed begins to call my name and often reluctantly, I give in to the fact that my day is over.  As much as I look forward to bedtime after a busy day, I know that sleep just brings the next day more quickly, and so I give in to that as well.

    I don’t like looking forward to the weekends.  Time passes too quickly when that happens, and so I’ve begun to pay attention to what I appreciate about each of my days in a much different way than what I have in the past few years.  It takes some practice considering that the effort admiring a drop of condensation on the leaf of a honeysuckle vine is much different than appreciating that the red message light on my phone isn’t lit when I arrive at 7 am.

    But I have much to look forward to, and I don’t plan on missing any of it.

    Happy Wednesday — even if it’s not quite wordless.

    What are you looking forward to?

  • Coherence?

    I shouldn’t be writing now.  I definitely shouldn’t be writing this right now.  I’ve just put in a nice 12-hour day and if I want to sound coherent, then I should have some time to collect my thoughts.  Unfortunately there are too many wanting to crowd the space on this page, urging me to put them down to relieve the over-crowded conditions in my brain.

    Imagine:  The “I wish I’d been more diligent about writing something of substance in the last two years” thoughts sitting alongside those having to do with, “Get to work at 6:15 today so I can make sure everyone has everything for the planned session today” robotic reminders.  Or consider the awkwardness of the “Oh my $#&* goodness, she really needs to get a grip” thoughts and the “Goodness, I didn’t realize her husband’s boss’s wife served on that committee” thoughts being in close proximity.  Shameful.

    Like I said: coherent.

    Last night I sat on the couch after I got home and begrudgingly embraced the old familiar YOU’VE JUST BEEN RUN OVER BY A TRUCK feeling I became accustomed to after 20 years of the opening of school.  You plan for it, it happens, you’re exhausted.  Period.  You get to the point of being able to look past the tread marks that run up and down your body and learn to admire your new physique, tempted to ask others if you look good like this;  more slender.

    Remember the part about coherence?

    In my flattened state, I sat on the couch in front of the television — something I never do before eight at night.  With a glass of wine in hand, I flipped channels until I found a show that required no effort on my part to stare at other than tolerating the commercials.  It was one of those shows where pack rats are reformed by cheerful home organization/decorator types, and thinking about it now makes complete sense:  A mess is transformed into something blissfully organized; there’s a beginning, a middle, and an end; the sun comes up and everybody’s happy when it’s over.

    Coherence?

    If I wasn’t so flat, I’d apply to be a guinea pig on one of those shows because it seems like cheap therapy.  But I could also build myself a nifty exercise program that would get all my endorphins coursing through my veins (arteries?) and then I’d be able to fit more into my day.

    I’ll make a note of that.

  • Still here after all this time.

    It’s cold here today — even more so than it normally is in the spring.  The clouds are indiscernible, resembling more of a blanket cast over our heads.  There was drizzle on the patio this afternoon as well, and I willingly pulled a thick sweatshirt over my head wishing I had an excellent book to cozy up with on the couch instead of in bed at the long end of a day.

    I’ve been thinking quite a bit about my days lately — this business of getting up and sort of “hop-to-it” attitude of being in front of my Mac.  It’s been over two years now that I’ve not been an active member of the employed crowd,  and yet I’ve created this sort of routine quite by accident.  It’s living and breathing, too, because it’s evolved into more than what it was even a year ago.  I’m not entirely comfortable with that.

    But here I am, still.

    Wondering and thinking.

    Mulling over the options and possibilities.

    Thinking.

    You thought I’d given up, hadn’t you?

    Not a chance.  In fact, I’m trying to figure out how to get a hold of a few more hours a day, still.  Just to do with them as I please.  Like  a shell you might find on the beach and turn over in your hand, wondering what you might find.

    Like that.

    If you’re reading this, I appreciate you.

    Some day, maybe I’ll figure out how to write here again.

    Truly.