Category: random

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Walking Alone For Awhile

I’ve been thinking a lot about a favorite quote from Ram Dass: “We’re all just walking each other home.”

I see many interpretations of that quote, and I’ve always loved it, even though I wasn’t sure what he was getting at. Honestly, I didn’t give it much thought because I liked the way it sounded. To me it has always meant that we’re in this together. We are all heading in the same general direction. We may walk side by side for awhile, or our paths may diverge, but we’re all going to the same place, so the least we can do is be there for each other as we make progress.

Recently, though, I’ve felt tired. I could blame it on winter, or age, or too much work. Am I expecting my body to still keep the pace it always has? Isn’t it logical to want to slow down at my age? I’m feeling the years, or the miles, as my funny daughter says. I suspect the exhaustion comes from our many attempts. My soul is tired, as I think hers may very well be, even if she’s only 21 in this go ’round. If we are working at it – and I do believe that is our soul’s purpose – then we will get tired.

How should we walk each other home? How much is required of us, and how much might we expect from fellow travelers? Is it up to me to drag you along if you aren’t keeping up? (For that matter, who am I to determine that you aren’t keeping up?) Is it up to you to drag me if I’m lagging behind? Of course not, on both counts, but I often forget that, especially when I’m tired. I know we all get to go at our own pace. Am I still a good person if I’m too tired to be there for you? Gee, *said facetiously* I wonder which spiritual teaching convinced me that always doing for others is what makes us a good person?

Do I have to be continuously walking? Can I just sit on the side of the road in the sun for a bit, and catch up on some reading and screen my calls? Would Dass be okay with that? Why do I even care what he would think?

Perhaps I’m fickle for prescribing to whatever approach appeals to me at a particular time, lacking loyalty to a guru or spiritual teacher for the duration. It got me to this point, didn’t it? It’s my process, and if switching philosophical/mystical/spiritual teams gets me to the next point, then all that matters is that I’m making progress. As long as I’m loyal to my progress, I can change up the method as many times as I like. If one approach is no longer serving, it’s time to try a new approach.

I’m learning that this experimental approach puts me in a position to meet new people. I’ve certainly met some interesting folks who’ve taught me important lessons along the way, but I’m feeling the need to slow down and process those lessons. Perhaps the tired is from an overload of too many messages/lessons.

Speaking of gurus, I’m pretty sure Abraham Hicks would say that I’m forgetting to have fun with the process. I think I moved on from his approach because it seemed, to me anyway, that I should be working harder instead of just having fun. (That probably comes from the same spiritual teaching that I referenced earlier.) Come to think of it, Dass basically says we’d do well to relax and enjoy the ride. I see pictures of the guy and he usually looks happy, and so does Esther Hicks.

What about you? Have you been feeling more tired than usual? Have you been dragging someone along the path, or have you felt as though you need some dragging? A smart someone recently told me, “Sometimes help is not.” Whether we are attempting to help or being helped, is it always helpful? Would we do better to take a break or focus our efforts on ourselves?

The dormancy of winter will end soon. I can already see the greening of the hill across the street. My energy will surge again, as much as the grass will grow, and I’ll be ready to do the work – in the yard and on myself.

Right now, though, I need to slow down and walk by myself for awhile.

I’ll be back.

Take good care.

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Believe In Your Fabulousness

Or at least try loving yourself more.

I woke in the night with the lyrics from Miley Cyrus’s song, Flowers, running through my head. I can’t explain it. I hear it on the radio when I’m going from here to there. (Side note: I am hesitant to come to terms with the fact that I might get better sleep if I gave up on my one nightly adult beverage. Damn. Can that one drink really be the cause of my colorful dreamlife?) Anyway, Cyrus’s song makes me think of what I was recently telling Jen: If you have to use even one breath to convince him that you are spectacular, he is NOT the guy for you.

Yes. I do know that I’m not an expert on all things having to do with relationships, but I am a romantic, and I do read enough memes to have a vague notion about such things. Memes make us experts, right?

By the way, just because I wrote a couple books about getting out of a narcissistic relationship, and I passionately announced to the Universe that, “I AM GOOD ENOUGH,” that does not mean that I don’t still struggle with getting out of the “lack of self-confidence” groove. Blame it on a long winter, or too much time on my hands, but that groove is deep! This morning, when I woke with those lyrics still nagging me, I got to thinking, “What do I do to love me better?” That’s a weird sentence to type. It feels self-centered. About the time I start thinking something feels self-centered, that’s the time I need to focus on that groove I’ve spent too damn many years trying to jump. (Jesse, accept that the groove no longer serves you – if it ever did – and get the hell out of there!)

IT IS NOT SELF-CENTERED TO LOVE YOURSELF! It is essential!

What do you do to love yourself? Whatever it is, you don’t need to justify it. You don’t need permission. Don’t make excuses. Don’t think your way has to be like another’s way. I’ve noticed that those who denigrate other’s interests are often the most lacking in self-love. I used to be that way. (Honestly, I still fight this.) For example, I’m not a manicure person. But it’s none of my business if that’s what you love – if that’s how you express your love of self. All the amazing ways of expressing self-love make the world a beautiful place. Get the tats, the piercings, the clothes, and the haircuts. Whatever makes you feel alive, do that to express your love.

Buy the flowers. Schedule the nail appointments. Make time for yourself. Take yourself out to lunch. Make time with friends. Have that one nightly cocktail. (Make it a bit smaller, Jesse, or try having it earlier to see if your sleep improves.) Buy the seed packets. Watch your shows on Netflix, even if you have to stay up later to do so because your roommate doesn’t like British mysteries. Find the podcast and go for a longer walk. Write the words in your journal that you don’t have the nerve to say out loud: “I am fabulous.” (You don’t have to yell or write it in all caps, the Universe already knows.)

If, like me, you’re challenged in the financial department, get the cute tchotchke in the clearance aisle at Target. (This bunny!)

Loving yourself does not need to cost anything. I know that’s easier said than done. Right now, a favorite way to love myself is to sit in the sun, in the backyard, with my eyes closed (so I can’t see all the work I need to get done) feeling the warmth and celebrating the end of winter.

Maybe you have a partner who loves you just fine. (Seriously, I hope it’s more than fine, but that’s up to you.) Even with a fantastic, loving partner there is room for you to still love yourself. In fact, it’s imperative. Nothing is permanent. Everything changes. Love yourself through it all.

You might be surprised to find out that many others think you are fabulous, too. Like your cat, or the elderly neighbor lady, or some guy from high school you haven’t seen in 40 years. Trust that there are legions of people who think you are amazing. Don’t spend a minute thinking of those who can’t see your fabulousness. That’s about them. (That’s from a good meme I may have sent to Jen. – Author Unknown.)

Turn loving yourself into a ritual. Have you noticed how some skilled folks turn ritual into habit? Before you know it, loving you will become a habit. I suppose that once it becomes habit, you lose the mindfulness of it, but at least that way you aren’t overthinking it and talking yourself out of loving yourself. (I know my ritual around coffee is a habit – the grinding, the boiling of the water and the pouring. Sometimes I slow down my movements in order to focus on the quiet and the smells and the steam and the process. But how mindful can I be first thing in the morning before that first cup.) Loving you needs to be a habit like brushing your teeth or feeding the cat or drinking that first cup in the morning.

What matters is that you believe in your fabulousness. If it feels weird to love yourself, get over it. Make that your new groove. Remember, the Universe is expansive! There’s room enough for you to love others and yourself. How good would it be if you managed to love yourself as much as you love others? Maybe, by loving ourselves more, we can come to love others more. (I think that’s a meme, too.)

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Don’t Do It!

This post is for U.S. readers who may be experiencing election anxiety. But let’s be real: With this global economy, an election in one big power player impacts the others, so it applies to those of you outside of the U.S., too.

If you’ve tried pacing, or biting your nails, or talking to the cat more than you usually do, take heed.

If you signed up to be an elections judge and then, on November 1st, turned the page of the calendar and realized that there will be a full moon on Election Day, take heart. (WT actual F was I thinking?)

If you’ve worked the phone banks, or posted the memes on Facebook, or dropped Twitter in protest, or marched in the reproductive rights gatherings, I understand.

It’s real. The anxiety is real.

But don’t!

Whatever you do!

Don’t cut your bangs!

Or you’ll end up as the only masked elections judge with butchered bangs on Tuesday, November 8.

Vote.

p.s. I think I fixed the subscriber glitch.

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Them and Us

My doorbell doesn’t have a camera attached to it.

There.  I said it.  Now I suppose I can expect a throng driving by at 2 a.m.  They’ll be riddled with bad intentions.  (Aren’t they all?)  They might take something from my yard or toilet paper the shrubs or otherwise make my life miserable.

I most certainly have just put a target on my house, because I put it out there that I am not surveilling the world while I’m sleeping.

The thing is, I prefer to believe that the world has interesting things going on in the night.  I want to pretend there are lovebirds gazing at the full moon over the river across from the park.  Maybe a hospital shift worker stops next to the park to decompress before going home to jump in the shower and wash off Covid.

Or, there are hooligans out there looking for their next score.  (Is that how you even say that now, or did I pick that up from a crime show?)  Or lost souls are trying to find themselves.  Or a homeless guy is looking in a dumpster for a good enough pair of jeans, that were too small for the guy whose house is a stone’s throw from that dumpster.

I’m not a fool.  I know that bad things happen out there.  I also know that good things happen out there.  Whatever it is, it is none of my business.  Everything that happens outside my door is not for me to know.  Just like everything that happens inside my house is not for the world to know.

I have my protected bubble, secured by three locks at both the front and back doors.  My only car is safely parked in the garage.  Any yard thing that matters (like the gargoyle that used to sit on the front step) is barricaded by both locked gates and the fence in the back.  If it’s in the front yard and someone wanders by in the middle of the night and decides they need it, they can have it.  Lighten my load.  Go ahead.  (They pinched the antique bike that was too small to ride and not sturdy enough to prop up a pot of pansies.  I learned my lesson.  If I love it, it’s not out front.  That’s why I moved the gargoyle.)

 

My neighbors have those doorbell cameras.  At first, I thought they were geniuses for getting them.  I even entertained the thought of getting on Amazon and signing up.  (I don’t patronize Amazon any more, and I’ve changed my mind about a doorbell camera.)

I am also a member of the Doorbell-Camera Neighbor group text.  (I capitalized those words because my neighbors have an agenda and they sound official.)  Lucky me.

I am getting too much information from this group.  I’ll be minding my own business, planning out my day, and get a text full of gasping emojis and shouting exclamation points asking if anyone knows who this is in the video that a doorbell camera picked up.

One time it was a young couple smoking in their parked car.  They were probably listening to music, getting high, talking to each other and praising the moon.  It felt like an invasion of their privacy.  Their moment was caught on two cameras that belonged to complete strangers.

Another time it was broad daylight, and a doorbell camera caught a yellow vest-wearing fellow, who had the nerve to walk across the neighbor’s grass.  I pointed out that the fellow was the meter reader.  I got a text back that said, “Oh, sorry.  I’m glad I asked you.”  I wrote back, “Yeah, so am I.”

I lied.

 

One of these vigilant neighbors checks into a site that lists daily/nightly crimes that happen all over the city.  She also scours Facebook for posts mentioning neighborhood crime activity.  Between her doorbell camera, the Facebook posts, and the city crime site, she fabricated an amazing story that potentially connected the car (spotted by her camera at 2 a.m.) and a Facebook report of a person shining a flash flight down an alley 6 blocks away, at 4 a.m.

I try to be helpful and suggest that the events are unrelated.  “Maybe the person with the flash light is looking for her cat,” I said.  (I’ve looked for my cat in the night, only to discover it locked in the neighbor’s garage, the next day.)

“Maybe the two in the car are young lovers who work the late shift at a drive-in and they’re hatching a plan about how to get out of this town before it eats them alive,” I said.  (Because I’ve been there, too.  I know that every kid in a car is not gonna steal the stuff on your front step.  Most of those kids don’t even look at your house.  They have their own stuff to deal with.)

 

I want to scream at my friendly doorbell-camera neighbors, and tell them that they are suffering from information overload.  I want to say, “You don’t need to know all of this stuff!”  I’d include a hands-on-my-hips emoji, if only I could find one.

I could duck out of being in the group text, but I see that there might be a benefit to being neighborly.   (When I learn what that benefit is, I’ll let you know.)

 

What brought them to the point of suspecting the worst of everyone?   When they write the text that accuses the kids in the car (or the flash light-carrying alley walker) of being up to no good, don’t their stomachs hurt?  Don’t they feel bad for making those judgments?

In defense of the doorbell camera neighbors, they do have stuff – campers, trailers, extra cars, ATVs – to keep secure.  Have they forgotten what it’s like to not have everything they ever wanted?

Us, well, we don’t have all that stuff.

 

Am I the only one who connects the dots?

You buy the things, and then you start worrying that everyone wants your things.  Then, you become preoccupied with making sure that no one will ever get your things, or hurt your things.  Can you ever go camping without worrying that your house is left vulnerable?  (Well, you can if you ask the nice lady across the street to keep an eye on your house. Where is that damn emoji?)

Now, I am the one who is judging them, and my stomach does hurt a bit for doing so.

Maybe they are coping – the best they can – just like the rest of us.  Could be they are controlling what they can control in this time when we have so little control over anything at all.

 

And so I stay in the group text, and I banter back and forth about the comings and goings in the neighborhood.   And I also agree to keep an eye on things when they take their toys and head out of town.  As for me, I refuse to buy a camera.  I will go on believing that good, unusual, private (maybe even magical) things go on in the night.

 

I imagine that you also connect these same dots on a macroscopic cultural/political scale. 

I thought you might.

 

 

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Lovely Day

Coffee, ear buds, laptop and time in front of me.

This is the sweetest deja vu.  Hell, I should light a candle.

 

Somewhere, after the election and before the inauguration, it occurred to me that I hadn’t listened to my own playlists since – I can’t remember when.  (Most likely that dates back to somewhere around the time the outgoing decided to run for president.)

On inauguration day, after listening to (and being captivated by) Amanda Gorman, I felt the softening.  (Hello, hope!)  It was a familiar melting of the tension like that I’d all-too-often carried back in the days of the narcissist.

My eyes delighted at the colors I didn’t realize I’d been thirsting for.  Teal, maroon, the brightest yellow, red and blues washed across the screen and foretold the promise of possibility in this new chapter.  Other than burnt orange, had we seen anything other than shades of grey in the last four years?

Then, that night, when Demi Lovato sang “Lovely Day,” the melting included tears.  I began to sway.  I felt lighter.

On the 21st, I started to put some pieces together.

 

I haven’t written much, or listened to music much or felt the desire to create much – for what seems like a very long time.

I used to take pictures for posts, and arrange the art in the house and have music on all the time.  I used to look up ideas for projects and dream up recipes and write and read.  I remember walking the hill without holding a phone.  (Recently, I may have been seen storming the neighborhood, head down, earbuds in, listening to NPR, in an effort to prepare for the next debacle.)  And dance!  I used to dance to Sam Cooke, The Squeeze, Pink Martini and anything and everything from the 70s, sometimes even when the kids were in the room.

I discovered that in the last four or five years, if I had music on, it was after the news, for 30 minutes while I threw an uninspired dinner together.  I used to dance when I cooked – wooden spoon in one hand, a glass of wine in the other.

I had seen the tweets about how the transition out of the last administration was so much like coming out of an abusive relationship.  I had observed the familiar patterns in the behavior.  (Part of me kept thinking that “the people in charge” would do something.)  But it wasn’t until Thursday, that loveliest of days, after the inauguration, that I knew what those tweeters were getting at.  Just like in my previous experience, that abuse permeated everything so slowly, that it isn’t until it’s over that I realize what had happened.  Sure, I called out the behavior.  Just watching him talk turned my stomach.  But I still didn’t realize how everything had been tainted, until he was gone.

I had been in a state of high-alert, which prevented me from being able to focus.  I’ve barely read a book in the last couple years.  Now I see that it felt too risky to take my eyes off of him.  I felt the need to keep my family safe.  You know, keep an eye on the spider in the room.  That nightmarish spider is finally out of the house.

 

Last night, Jen and I danced in the kitchen.  Who cares if the neighbors could see us?  I hope they were dancing, too.  Tonight we’ll skip the news and play music, while we quickly check social media – just to make sure that it’s okay to take our eyes off of current events.

I just looked out the window to see the shadows in the park.  Is the sky bluer?  Even the chickadees don’t seem as mad at the squirrels, for eating all their seed.

It will take some time to trust that feeling of hope.  It took years to do the damage.  Perhaps the biggest lesson is realizing that WE are the people in charge.

Let’s enjoy this lovely day.  Let’s savor it and stretch it out for longer than the typical news story lasts.  We’ve earned it.

 

Then let’s get back to work to make sure we can keep dancing.

 

 

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Survival Mode in a Pandemic

It’s been a couple months since I’ve written.  Ideas and titles for possible blog posts are written on scratch paper, tucked behind the Starbucks mug full of pens on the kitchen counter.  The mug was a gift for Jen.  She doesn’t drink coffee.  Thing is, I haven’t felt like writing, even though I know that’s exactly what I need to do.

I’ve lost a few pounds since the middle of February, yet this is the heaviest I can remember feeling.  I wasn’t trying to lose weight but, I don’t eat when I’m stressed.  I used to write to deal with stress, but I’ve lost the ability to focus.

This is new.  This is limbo.

I could search the internet to find the “experts” (can anyone be an expert during this?) who write about how to get up and shower and drink the coffee and plan the day during a fucking pandemic.  I don’t have the energy to search.

I have tuned into some podcasts – Ram Dass, Michelle Obama, Cheryl Strayed, Brene Brown – while gardening.  Many have given me permission to feel out-of-sorts; to be okay with not writing; to understand why I hate cooking the same 13 things over and over again.  (It’s no wonder I’ve lost weight.)

While I want to write something encouraging or uplifting, I can’t find the words.  I’m too pissed off.  I just now noticed that I’ve written “I” or “I’ve” or “I’m” 20 times in these first paragraphs.  All the experts would tell me to write about you, if I want this to be read.  Screw the experts.  I need to get this out there.  It’s about me.

Maybe it’s about you, too.

 

I am a mask-wearing, self-isolating, social-distancing island in a sea of folks who aren’t taking this virus seriously.

It’s not the first time I’ve been the odd one out.  The fringe is my zip code.  The unconventional is my groove.  And while I find solace in my garden, I am bone-weary tired of worrying about all the kids of the world, not just my own.  I am frayed from caring too much about how they’ll navigate once this administration is done raping and pillaging.  I struggle to remain optimistic, when my soul tells me that the pendulum has to swing the other way, all while I’m surrounded by folks who don’t want to let go of the status quo.

And it’s lonely over here, hiding behind my mask, hoping for the best, knowing full-well we are headed for an Avenger-sized train wreck that will make all other train wrecks look like something the Hulk might step on.

 

On a bright note, I have blooming, swaying, towering hollyhocks in my back yard, for the first time ever.  So that’s a happy thing.

 

I remember being told that if I want anyone to read this blog, I would be smart to steer away from politics and religion.  Well, dammit, we can’t afford to steer away from politics right now!  If all the quiet, low-under-the-radar, mind-their-own-business types would rise up, we might stand a chance.  Maybe we could see a return to civil discourse, manners, respect, compassion and love.  If we express our concerns and share our voices, maybe our kids could have a future!

Last night, I learned my neighbor – a nice young man, a homeowner with two happy, busy daughters – is shouting from the social media rooftops his support of the current administration.  I’ve been what-the-fucking since I saw his posts.  I’ve had numerous conversations with him.  We share concerns about keeping the neighborhood safe, fixing up our homes, finding roofing contractors and raising kids.  I thought we had a connection.  I’ve often felt like a mom-figure to him.  How the hell can he support Trump when he’s raising two daughters?!  How can anyone who has children, or professes to love females, support the current administration?!

I will lose a friend (many friends, most likely) when I put the signs up in my yard.  This will be the first time I declare my stance before an election.  Desperate times …

Don’t tell me about how Trump has done so much for the economy.  My neighbor and his wife have three jobs between them, to make ends meet.  That doesn’t leave a lot of time for effectively raising two kids.

 

This year I grew these from seed.  Don’t they look like something from a Disney movie?  They’re called Penny Blacks.

 

I can almost hear my family and friends rolling their eyes at what they probably perceive is my over-zealousness about the mask.  I’ve seen Will roll his eyes, when he thinks I’m not looking.  Truth be told, I’m rolling my eyes at them, too.  Thanks to Trump, that political divide in families has gotten much bigger.  It used to be that I could go to a family dinner and enjoy the food, the card playing and the banter.

I told you, it’s lonely being me.  But, it’s not an option to NOT be me.

A couple days ago, after a sleepless night of worrying about college kids and how they’ll cope, I was feeling the isolation of my stance on all things virus related.  I succumbed to searching for Facebook groups of like-minded individuals.  Even from the safe-distance of my home, I hoped to find my tribe – a group to commiserate with.  In case you didn’t know, there are scores of anti-mask groups on Facebook.  I couldn’t find a single group for those who wear masks, other than the group of 7 who make masks.   Instead, I opened a new tab to explore the possibility of moving to New Zealand.

 

Did I tell you we will have pumpkins this year?

 

Jen is on the island with me.  She went off to college.  We were nervous, scared and excited.  She came back home after seeing how cavalier the other students were about masks and social-distancing.  She’ll be taking classes online.

Who can possibly thrive in this narcissistic culture that can’t sacrifice a couple social engagements, wear a goddamn mask, or keep their asses home long enough for this generation (our future!) to be able to get an education?!  When will we see that serving only ourselves will be our end?

How can a culture, that is so supportive of athletics and team sports, be so full of folks who are shitty at being team players?

That sense of entitlement will cost us all those things that we hold dear, including our families and our futures.

 

I know.  You think I’ve gone off the deep end with all the time to over-think, during this extended period of self-isolation.  The introvert in me doesn’t mind the distance.  Perhaps I needed a pandemic to show me how to stick to my boundaries.  The HSP in me loses sleep with worry for all the kids.  If it weren’t for yard work and walking, I’d be curled up in a fetal position on my yoga mat complaining about my stress-induced back problems.

Here’s the thing.  We need to go off the deep end.  We need to get uncomfortable.  We need to go out there and make damn sure that our kids have a chance.  Complacency allows this massive train-wreck to happen.

 

The italicized portions of this post are a reflection of my coping mechanisms during this seemingly unending, politicized pandemic.  I rant for stretches and then I go out to the yard for respite.  “Oh, look.  A bee on the sunflower!  Oh, there’s my garden buddy!” (A wee bunny munches in the yard while I water and weed.  He’s not smart enough to be afraid of me, or maybe he knows I’m all bark and no bite.)

Then I check social media and remember to be mad at the world.  Jen and I vent together and shake our heads.  Then she goes back to a project (her coping mechanism) and I go back outside. 

Later, we’ll go for a walk, vent some more, take pictures of the offspring of the multiplying bunnies in our neighborhood, wonder at the moon, and consider how nice it would be to live somewhere else.  As weeks roll into months, we fret and worry and hope, and get ready to vote.

 

*I ran to the store before posting this.  Will and I had gotten Jen a pasta machine for her birthday.  Between all the pasta we’ll be making and the baking we already do, we needed to stock up on flour.  I’m pushing a cart that has a 25# bag of flour and a 25# bag of jasmine rice, and I happen to run into two, who I now realize are part of my tribe.  I rarely see them because they are staying home like Jen and I are!  We stood 6 feet apart and yelled through our masks and talked about the glasses of wine we hoped to be able to share one day.

I think maybe I didn’t know who was part of my tribe, until this pandemic.  For that, I am grateful.

Thank you, Universe, for showing me that Jen and I are not alone on this island.

 

 

 

 

 

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Junk Drawer as Metaphor

I bet we’ve all got one – a junk drawer.  I have two – side by side.  Maybe I have more junk than most?  I dunno, but it makes sense to me.

During this pandemic (wow, never thought I’d write those three words together in a sentence) I’ve been doing a version of Marie Kondo that has me wiping things down and pitching things as I go.  (I haven’t searched Goodwill, but I suspect they don’t want any of our stuff for obvious reasons, so it will sit in the garage until it’s safe to pass on.)

As I methodically wipe/pitch/sort, I over-think.  Surprise!

 

I hope you are coping well with the way life is these days.  For the six or so people who still read this blog, I’ve most likely checked in with you.  But I would suggest that none of us truly knows how we are doing.  We mention that our pantries are stocked, or that the car will have to be taken out for a spin, or that we dusted off some old board games, or that we’ve found a new crush on Netflix.

But how are you really?

 

You might know me well enough, by now, to know that I am at peace with where the world is today.  I firmly believe that this pandemic will provide us with a much-needed reset.  I also know that you most likely don’t agree with me.  🙂

 

As I was getting ready to organize one of my junk drawers, I couldn’t help but notice the obvious metaphor.

If my junk drawer represents my life, this is what I would describe:

A toddler (Coronavirus) just came into my kitchen and pulled open the junk drawer to look for his Hot Wheel. (Seriously, there is no significance with my referring to the virus as a he.  I think.)  He pulled the drawer open too far, and because I wasn’t there to catch it, the drawer landed on the floor with a deafening crash.  All the contents of the drawer flew in every direction.  Some things ended up under the range, some under the fridge.  Some bounced and landed in the sink full of a solution of bleach water.  I heard a couple items roll into the living room.

The toddler (that fricking virus) laughed and ran into his bedroom to look for his little car, because it was not in the junk drawer.

 

What could I do?

 

I did the only thing that made sense.  I cleared a spot on the floor and sat down to survey the damage.  I grabbed the dividers and the organizing containers and I started sorting.  I worked slowly, remembering to breathe.  Instead of yelling at the rascal who created this disaster, I focused on the task at hand.

 

Wow, I have a lot of binder clips.  Why?  What am I trying to control?  What is my need to contain?  How much of it can I have any influence on?

And pencils?  Why do I keep the stubby ones?  Am I worried I will never be able to afford more pencils?

I have batteries for gadgets I no longer own.  I save batteries that I’m sure lost their juice back when Will played with remote-controlled cars.  Am I hanging on to those just in case they’ll revive, even though I know they won’t?

I’m sure Post-Its are replicating in that drawer, or I have some misguided fear of running out, so I buy them even if I don’t need them.  Could be buying pencils instead?

I don’t even know what flew under the range or the fridge or rolled into the living room.  I’m not sure I care.

 

I made a 4th cup of coffee, even tho’ my limit is 3/day.  Desperate times (pandemic or spilled junk drawer) allow for desperate measures, and aren’t we limited enough already?!  I even poured whipping cream in for additional comfort, and sat down amidst all the contents of my “junk drawer” to methodically decide what to keep and what to pitch.

 

QUIT trying to control, I said to myself, loudly enough to make the cat jump.

You’ve survived this far on a restricted budget.  You’ve mastered life with a tightened belt.  Buy the damn pencils.

Friendships that have long since lost their juice will not revive without a great deal of effort.  Choose wisely.

It’s okay to stock-pile Post-Its.  I’m allowed my ideosyncrasies and all the other things that make me me.  I am keeping the second junk drawer!

All the stuff under the fridge or range or wherever it landed –  I’ll deal with that when it arises.  Or not.

 

How will you organize your “junk drawer?”

 

More importantly, stay safe!

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The Sanctuary – Blue Room Launch

Now I am sitting in the seat, hands perched on the controls.  The attendant has closed the shield.  I am encased in the bubble.  I’m not sure I want to go anywhere.  I’m loving staring off at the blue.

No sounds.

No smells.

Peace.

Quiet.  Stillness.  Calm.

 

 

And because my brain never sits still long enough to appreciate the calm, my fingers grasp the controls.  I feel the slightest texture.  I am excited to see what will happen.  I push the right control forward and the blue screen undulates.  The blue deepens.  Is that a breeze I feel?  I look up to see if there is a fan above me.  Nothing.  All I see is blue.  The blue is getting darker.

I’d swear I’m moving through this dark blue.

My left hand moves the control forward.  I’m “moving” faster.  The color is darker.  The air flows faster.  I feel like I’m swooping down into depths.

I take my hands off the controls.  The breeze stops.  I feel suspended, as if I’m floating in deep blue ocean waters.  Is this what it would be like to freely breathe under water?  I am relaxed.  There is no fear or anxiety.  I gently push the right control to the right.  Did I move to the right?  Or does my brain assume I’ve moved?  I take my hand off the control.

I continue to float.  My mind wants to know what to expect.  Would I come upon a massive school of fish?  Will they part as I “swim” through?  My curiosity prevents me from enjoying the weightlessness of my position in this deep blue.

I push the left control to the left and move in that direction.  Now I push both controls to the left and speed through the dark blue.  The air flows again.

Far ahead of me, I see reflections.  Floating shapes are materializing.  Slowly, approaching from the dark blue shadows, images form into ….

 

Memories?

I want to see more clearly.  I am insistent.  What am I seeing?

I yank both controls back.  Will I get to the images more quickly?  When both controls were pushed forward, I sensed that I was swooping down.  Now, with controls pulled back,  I am clearly soaring up through these dark depths, racing through reflecting images of memories.  The farther I go up, the lighter the blue gets.  I see Patches, my favorite cat from childhood.  There’s my hot pink Stingray, the bike that allowed me the first taste of freedom.  Images speed by:  the tie-dyed pillow furniture I’d made for my Barbies; a favorite mod-print dress from 1st grade; faces of friends from 2nd grade; crushes from 6th grade; the car I drove in high school.   Oh! That’s the Eagle’s album that had melted in the back of that car.  Weird!  I can almost smell my dorm room.   There’s my favorite pair of skis.

I am moving so fast it is impossible to catalog all the memories as they flash by me.   The air moves faster.  I begin to feel dizzy.  I want to slow down but, more desperately, I want to know where I’m headed.

The blue is lighter still.  I look up and see that I am approaching the lightest shade of blue.  Is it the sky?  Am I coming to the surface of an ocean? Am I ready to leave all these memories?  What is next?

. . . . .

If you were sitting in the chair, hands on the controls, what would you see?  Where would you go?  Would you swim contentedly in the memories or would you soar to the surface and excitedly embrace what is next?

 

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The Sanctuary – Blue Room

The only light in the hallway comes from under each of the six doors and the Tiffany lamp.  You look at the attendant to see if she might give you a hint.  You glance at the polished stones.  Is there some correlation between the stones and the doors?

She told you that the purple and green rooms are occupied.  You briefly wonder what is happening in those rooms.  You don’t hear any sounds coming from under the doors.  You don’t smell anything that would give you a clue. The glowing colors under the remaining doors are red, yellow, blue and orange.  The doors aren’t labeled.  There isn’t a flyer or a brochure telling you what’s behind each door.  Your lizard brain wants you to reach for your phone and try to search something about “The Sanctuary.”

The attendant stands a couple feet away from you.  She’s giving you quiet and space to make a decision.  You take a breath.  For some reason – probably a feeling – you say, “The Blue Room, please.”  The attendant walks to the table, selects a stone and places it in the pocket of her tunic.  She then walks to the door of the Blue Room and glances in each direction before turning the handle.

 

Immediately your eyes need time to adjust to the light spilling out of the room.  The attendant gently touches your elbow to assist you into the space.  You see some kind of screen.  It’s expansive – so large that you can’t quite tell how tall or wide it is.  Is it curved?  The screen encompasses the ceiling, or at least you think it does.

Starting at the floor and scaling to the ceiling, you see every shade of blue from the darkest, almost black indigo to cornflower blue that wants to fade to white.  Are you swimming?  Are you flying?  You feel light-headed.  You reach out to steady yourself and the attendant puts out her arm.  You grab her arm and she leads you to the center of the space.

For the first time, you notice a chair. Or is it a chair?  It looks like something a serious gamer would use.  It’s ergonomic, sleek, white and encased in a clear bubble-like shield.  The attendant presses a button on the back of the chair and the bubble slides out of the way to allow access to the seat.  She smiles and motions for you to take the seat.

Gingerly, you step into what can only be described as a sterilized cocoon.  You’ve never experienced a more comfortable chair – no pressure points, no need to adjust.  You are completely supported and feel as though you are floating in the center of a quiet blue space.  For a moment, you start to feel claustrophobic, but that is overridden by your excitement and anticipation of what comes next.

Once you are in position, she walks around to stand in front of you.  She speaks quickly and quietly.  “Each arm rest is equipped with hand controls.  Place your hands on them now.  Acquaint yourself.  Push buttons and pull levers.  Nothing can happen until I close the shield.  Feel the knobs and familiarize yourself.  The controls are intuitive.  Push both forward to move faster.  Push either side forward to move at a controlled pace in a certain direction. Pull one back to go back.  Pull both back to stop.  The left control will send you to the left.  The right…  You will see.  Don’t over-think.”

The attendant steps out of view to give you time to adjust.  You notice a slight texture on the grips.  They fit your hands perfectly.  The controls are white.  Everything on the chair is white.  There is not point in looking at the controls to perceive a difference between levers or buttons.  Clearly, you are meant to feel the controls.

The attendant must have pressed the button because suddenly the shield closes to encase you in the bubble.

. . .

 

 

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The Sanctuary

You’ve heard of this place, but you want to see for yourself.

You find the door, but you’re not sure that this unmarked door could lead to what you are expecting.  Is this the service entrance?  More than that, the dust-covered door looks like it hasn’t been used in awhile.  The handle hasn’t been turned recently.  The door is set back in the wall of the building, deep enough for a person to hide from oncoming traffic.  Dried leaves and a McDonald’s wrapper have taken refuge in the corner from the wind.  If they don’t take time to clean the entrance, what’s the interior going to be like?

You’re convinced you are at the wrong building, but then you notice a door bell button.  You look over both shoulders, hesitate, and press the button.  You hear the faintest buzz, not the expected sound of a bell.  A quiet voice emits from a speaker you cannot see.  “Solo or communal, please?”  You look over your shoulder before saying, “Solo?”

The door opens almost immediately and your senses are engaged.  First, a waft that is equal parts orange, sage, and eucalyptus, followed by a note of bergamot and, lastly, the distinct, memory-inducing scent of damp soil.  The smells are pleasing and inviting without overpowering.  Your eyes adjust to the darkness and then spot low-lit, amber-colored sconces near the high ceiling, lining a hallway.  Your skin notices warmth, not a dry heat from forced air, but a moist warmth that instantly makes your shoulders relax.  You think you hear the gentle tinkling of bells, or is that some kind of new age music in the background.

You pause to take it all in and your mind briefly wonders if this is going to be too “out there” for you, but your body pulls you over the threshold.

The assistant, who patiently allowed you time to adjust,  hands you a key and points to a wall of mailboxes.  You haven’t seen this kind of mailbox since your mom held your hand to cross the street on the way to the post office.

“Please silence your phone, place it in number 17 and lock it.  Keep the key with you, please.  Don’t worry about remembering which box is yours.  I’ll take care of that.”  After you’ve secured your phone in its own locked box, the attendant says, “This way please.”  She leads you down the panel-lined hallway toward a set of stairs.  It is dark, but not menacingly so.

On your left is a set of double mahogany doors.  You see natural light coming from under the doors, and you hear sounds – music, laughter, conversation.  The sounds are inviting, but that’s not where you want to be today.

The wide staircase is lit with the same sconces.  The stairs lead to a landing.  You turn to the right and climb a second set of stairs.  The carpeted stairs muffle the sound of your footsteps as you follow the attendant.

At the top of the stairs you reach another hallway.  Three closed doors line each side of the hallway.  At the end of the hallway, a demi-moon table holds a lit Tiffany lamp and a wide, shallow wooden bowl filled with polished stones.

You notice the ambient light coming from under each of the six doors.  The light is colored.  A different colored light glows from under each door.

The attendant tells you that the Purple and Green rooms are occupied.  She says, “You may select from the other four doors.”

. . .