Tag: going home

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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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The Ivy-Covered Imaginary Wall

She’d cried the first time she’d walked into the house. It would be the perfect home for this new chapter. The house they were leaving was certainly larger and newer, but this new address made up for a lack of square footage and new appliances with acceptance, warmth, the hoped-for ability to sleep through the night and a fenced back yard.

It wasn’t an impenetrable fence. Squirrels, bunnies and neighborhood cats could gain access, but dogs could not. In fact, one neighbor’s cat, after squeezing under the fence, liked to peer in the sliding glass door to try to strike up a friendship with the resident cat. This usually culminated in the two feisty felines body-slamming the sliding door in an effort to prove who was the most fearsome. (This was good exercise for the indoor cat, and an excellent way for the outdoor cat to stay warm.)

The years passed as they want to do, and this little home showed itself to be the haven she’d wished for. Oh, there were bumps and bruises along the way, but the three of them (plus cat) had always found a safe place to land under the roof and within the fenced back yard. They’d heal their wounds and talk of their slights and remind each other that it always works out.

Part of the reason it always worked out was because in between homeschooling, baking cookies and cranking out homemade pasta; after carving pumpkins, figuring out the new job and scheduling the dentist and vet appointments; before one left for college and after the other hurt himself too many times at the job that built his confidence, she’d been methodically building an imaginary wall around the house and yard. This wall was a borderline even though she was the only one who could see it. It was six feet high and made of stone. Over 17 years, Engleman Ivy had grown over the wall and, this time of year, if they hadn’t already gotten a heavy snow, the leaves were crimson and crackly.

She hadn’t planned for the wall to be this tall. When she’d first started the build, she figured a four-foot wall would certainly provide the protection she felt she needed. She wanted the cats and squirrels and bunnies to still have access. The cats had no problem jumping the four feet and perching on the top of the wall. They’d sit for hours on sunny days pretending to doze but really looking for birds. The squirrels and bunnies used the arched doorway that had long ago been hidden under the overgrown ivy. She’d intentionally built a doorway and included a solid wood door that was six inches thick. By now the hinges were rusty and the lock had yet to be used. The door was propped open, and the ivy prevented it from swinging shut.

More recently, with the arrival of unwanted intruders, she’d had to extend the height to six feet. The ivy had no problem getting to work and hiding the addition. It was hungry to stretch its “legs” and thrilled to have more surface to cover with its tendrils. Still, she hadn’t felt the need to close and lock the door. She’d always figured that was a last resort. It helped her sleep knowing she had the option to close the door if she needed to. (Even her counselor had mentioned that boundaries aren’t permanent, they can be flexible and change just as life changes.)

And so it was that a day came along, just as the leaves had turned that dark shade of red, right before the first snow, when the cats had been particularly aggressive in their body slams at the sliding glass door. She’d been feeling stretched and pulled in too many directions. She’d lost interest in the things she loved. The candle needed more than the two ends. She woke in the night and remembered that she could close the door in the wall. The next morning, after that first cup of coffee, she put on her boots and grabbed the coat she’d put in the closet last April, which was really too soon, since they always seemed to get one more snow before spring staked her claim.

She grabbed a pair of trimmers and slowly, apologetically started cutting away at the Engleman Ivy that had been anchoring the wooden door to the wall. “I’m sorry,” she whispered as she snipped, “You’ll grow back in no time.” A black cat sneaked through the doorway to watch her progress. Squirrel jumped down from his precarious perch on a sunflower stalk to see if he could snack on the ivy clippings. She turned to wave at indoor cat who was standing at the sliding door making sure all knew who was in charge. Once the ivy was cleared away, she’d tried to pull the door closed. The hinges, having been unused for so many years, had forgotten how to do their job. She remembered she had a can of WD40 under the kitchen sink. As she walked into the house, squirrel and black cat ran off to find something more interesting. Indoor cat met her at the door and mewed her questions. She answered with a couple treats for the queen and said, “I’ll be right back.”

The oil did the trick, and with some effort, she was able to get the door closed. Now to find the key for the lock. Would it be in the tool shed, the potting shed or a kitchen drawer? After much hunting and asking cat if she knew where the key was, she found the key hanging from a nail in the tool shed. Unlike the hinges, this key had been wanting to do its job for some time – one turn and a click, and the door was locked.

She went back in the house, put the water on for coffee and took off her boots. “It had to be done,” she said to cat. “Your buddy has never used the doorway anyway. Bunnies can dig a hole underneath the wall and squirrels never have an issue getting into where they want to be. It always works out, remember?”

That night she was able to sit on the couch and read for an hour. (Lately, she’d had a hard time concentrating). Weirdly, she hadn’t felt the need to pour a glass of wine. She sensed a familiar peace settle within the four walls, a peace she remembered from the first time she’d walked into the house. And the sleep? She slept like bears do when they hibernate. She slept like cats do when they find a sunny spot.

And so, the door would stay locked, and the ivy would grow. One day she might decide to clear away the ivy and open it back up, or she might not.

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Worry Them Home

I remember my dad and his siblings teasing their mom about being such a worry wart. It confused me because, even back then, I perceived my grandma’s worrying as just her way of loving us. As I got older, I understood why they were annoyed.

So many questions.

So nosey.

I’d often think, “Quit worrying about me and leave me alone,” as I rolled my eyes and refused to share the details of my escapades.

I do not remember her ever getting defensive when they gave her a hard time about worrying, she just kept at it. She wore her worrying like a cloak or a badge of honor. She didn’t hide it or sugar coat it. She was in their faces (and mine) about her worries. I do wonder if, because of how my dad and some of his siblings turned out, maybe my grandma hadn’t been worrying enough.

I’m not going to get into how those were different times, and they required different styles of parenting. Did anyone worry about their parenting style back then? I’m sure my grandma wasn’t worrying about whether she was doing a good job, she was just wanting to make sure they stayed out of jail.

Recently, on what had started out as a lazy Sunday morning, Will came running out of his bedroom pulling on a t-shirt and grabbing his boots. He’d just gotten a text from a friend who’d told him that the girlfriend of a mutual friend had texted to say that her boyfriend (a member of Will’s friend group) had not returned from camping when he said he would. Texts weren’t answered. Voicemails had not come in. She was panicked. Will and some members of the friend group had decided to rally and drive out to the mountains where this friend was supposed to be camping. Will was shaky and I warned him to take it easy and make a plan, so that he and others in the group weren’t at risk of harm while they looked out for the missing camper. “Remember,” I told him, “Manifest a positive outcome. Don’t dwell on the what-ifs, unless you are focusing on only the good what-ifs.”

They were 30 minutes from town, just before losing cell service, when he got a text that the friend was almost back to town. The friend was embarrassed to admit that he and his girlfriend had gotten their wires crossed and miscommunicated about his return time. Then the friend said, “Were you guys really coming to look for me?” After giving the camper a hard time for scaring the shit out of them, Will said, “Of course we were coming to look for you.” The friend was surprised that his group cared enough to drop everything and look for him.

Later, Will and I talked about how the Universe will go to great lengths to show folks they are loved. I laughed, “Geez, couldn’t you just tell each other that you love each other?” I like seeing his group worrying about each other. It reinforces that fact that he has found good friends.

Worry has gotten a bad rap. It wasn’t cool (way back in the 70s) to be a worry wart. It’s not cool now, either. Today, worry warts are called helicopter moms or hovering parents. I can see that there are less annoying ways to worry than my grandma’s style, and I do try to worry without being all up in their business. Of course, if you asked them, they might not agree.

The other day, out for my morning walk, I discovered this baby bottle lying on the side of the road. My mind jumped to all the hovering mom conclusions or, some might say, judgments. “That poor child! Who is in charge? How does that even happen?” On and on my brain went, circling around all the possibilities of how horrible this baby’s life must be if it’s parent/parents can’t even keep track of its bottle. (Why I didn’t first go to, “Wow. Bummer, the bottle was lost, but at least this baby was being fed,” is a whole different post.)

Then I got to noticing how worried I was about the baby, and how futile worry is. What was my worrying accomplishing? Did it help that baby any? Then I wondered if folks are less worried about others than they were in my grandma’s day. Do folks care about each other as much as they did back then?

Isn’t worry a form of love? Worry is caring. Worry might even be a form of manifesting. Will told me that he and his two buddies talked about focusing on their friend driving into town, as they were heading into the mountains, instead of focusing on the worst possible scenario. When I’m worried about one of my two, I picture them calling me. I picture Jen calling, from the safety of her apartment, to tell me all about her night out. Or I picture Will calling to tell me of the big catfish he caught, when he was on a river out of cell service. I’ll admit that sometimes, especially if I haven’t eaten, I’ll spiral into all the negative what-ifs, but I am getting better at not sharing all those with Jen and Will.

Worry might be the ripple we send out to the Universe that says make sure they get home safely. But the tone of the worry matters. Worry doesn’t need to judge the parents for losing the baby bottle. Worry can, and should, focus on that baby’s healthy future. Maybe something like, “Oh, I hope they had another bottle in the car.” Or, “I bet it fell out of the stroller as the parent was walking the baby and their puppy.”

In the absence of being able to do anything for others, including that baby, the least we can do is send a ripple out to the Universe and worry them home.

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Who Will Serve Your Tacos?

“Jesse! “

“I know, Hank. It’s been awhile. At least that’s what everyone says to me after I resurface from my preferred lock-down location. But, something’s driving me crazy and I had to run it by you. Besides, I’ve missed you … and your beer.”

“Well, it’s always a treat to see you walk in that door. Having the usual?”

Jesse nodded and took off her jacket.

Hank slid a beer across the bar and said, “So what’s got your mind spinning now, Jess?”

“Okay, I know we are wired to survive. At least that’s what the books – that we are allowed to read – tell us. We wouldn’t still be here mucking things up if that weren’t the case. Many moons ago, threats looked like a saber-toothed tiger. And I get that threats have changed as we’ve evolved.”

Hank dried his hands on a bar rag, “Have we all evolved, Jesse?” Hank laughed, “Yeah, now some of us face a threat by being in the wrong place with a different skin color. Or, a threat is being exposed to a communicable disease; or being alone in an alley while wearing a short skirt; or losing connection to the internet while binge-watching Castle.”

Jesse laughed. “When Jen is home from college, we binge on Castle! Love that show, even if he’s full of himself. Anyway, if you consider the fact that many of us survived childhood, middle school, learning to drive and decades without a television remote, it’s pretty clear we’ve demonstrated that we do have the capacity to survive. The other thing is that we’re wired to protect our offspring.”

“I gotta stop you there, Jess. I know some who aren’t wired that way, or at least their wires are crossed.”

“Oh, I know that’s true, Hank. Sadly. But, it’s also true that some who didn’t procreate still have the desire to protect the offspring of others. Did they get an extra dose of empathy? Is that a carry over instinct from a previous life when they did have kids? Or is it part of our basic wiring to protect the species?”

“It’s gotta be part of our basic wiring. If we aren’t giving birth to the ones who grow up to work in the factories or plow the fields or serve the tacos, someone’s got to give birth to them. We’d all better look out for the kids in order to keep society running. Right?” Hank walked to the end of the bar to greet a new customer.

When he returned Jesse said, “So with these instincts of survival and protection of the species….”

“I know where you’re going with the, Jesse…”

“What the actual fuck, Hank?!”

Hank laughed and shook his head. “I know. I know.”

“How has the definition of a threat changed so much? I know that perceived threats change for each of us with the passage of time. A steady diet of Taco Bell, beer, coffee and ramen was not a threat in my 4 – okay, 5 – years of college. Now, I’d definitely consider that diet a threat. See, that’s proof that I want to survive, right? I’m not thrilled at the prospect of my kids subsisting on that kind of diet, but the one who does, well, he seems to be surviving. How can the definition of a threat be so different for different people? Weren’t we all afraid of the saber-toothed tiger? Why aren’t we all afraid of Covid? Why are some of us afraid of a mask? Why are some of us afraid the government will force us to get a shot? Wouldn’t we have been thrilled to have a government protect us from that saber-toothed beast?”

A customer looked over at Jesse. “Sorry if I’m a little worked up, Hank.”

Hank wiped a worn spot on the bar that had seen a lot of wiping over the years. “Never apologize for being passionate, Jesse. Maybe ‘fear’ isn’t the right word. Many don’t want to be inconvenienced. Our lives have become cushy since the days of fending off tigers. Now we have time to sit around, with a remote in our hands, deciding we don’t have to be inconvenienced by wearing a mask, or getting a shot or staying home to watch the football game when we’d rather meet friends at a crowded bar.”

Jesse slid her empty class over to Hank. “So how has business been?”

“I’ve got a bit of a reputation, I guess. Folks – not a lot of ’em, mind you – come here knowing it won’t be crowded. They know most will be masked, as much as possible, anyway. I’m doing okay, for the times.”

“I’m glad for you, Hank. For awhile, there, I worried you wouldn’t be able to keep your doors open.” Jesse reached for her new beer and took a sip. “Why does it look like some believe that protecting others puts their own survival at risk?”

“I dunno, Jess. Do they equate survival with freedom?”

“Maybe that’s it, but how free are you if you’re dead?”

“Well,” Hank chuckled, “some think that’s the ultimate freedom.”

“You’re such a philosopher, Hank. That’s one of the things I love about this place. But, all of this gets me to thinking about the need to belong to a group, which is part of that survival instinct. It was a lot easier to go up against a tiger when in a group. It’s also an offshoot of the desire to protect offspring. You try raising children as a single parent. We need a village!”

“How’s your village, Jess?”

“Don’t get me started!” Jesse took another slow sip as she pondered. “Okay, so the village raises or protects the children and the species survives. Right? Society continues to function. Fields are plowed; widgets are produced in the factories; apps are designed for our devices; and all the tacos are served. Much of the functioning of society is handled by groups – families, churches, schools – you get my point. And even though I’m not much of a joiner, I can see how the group you belong to can dictate many of your beliefs and choices. I’ve a friend who is a diehard Broncos fan. Her bathroom is decorated in Broncos memorabilia.”

Hank looked at the end of the bar. Before he walked down to take an order, he looked at Jesse and said, “Really?”

“I wouldn’t lie about that kind of thing, Hank!”

When Hank returned, Jesse asked, “How does one intentionally decide to join the anti-vax group or the anti-mask group? Doesn’t that go against the basic instinct of survival and the other – perhaps, as you suggested – not so basic instinct to protect the species? What kind of chemical mash-up happens in a brain when it sees a mask and determines that a mask is bad? What goes on in a brain that decides vaccines are bad?”

Jesse shook her head. “Is that directly related to the power (brainwashing) of the group? I’ll admit to some brainwashing from my left-leaning, save the children group, but I’m not walking around boosted and masked while suffering from some sort of cognitive dissonance stemming from my choices conflicting with my instincts.”

Hank folded and unfolded a bar rag as he listened to Jesse’s rant. “I seriously think that we are all dealing with cognitive dissonance, Jesse. Maybe that’s the only thing we all have in common.”

Jesse nodded, “Oh, I know! But maybe they aren’t bothered by cognitive dissonance, just as they proclaim – those who are still alive to do so – that they aren’t bothered by Covid.”

Hank put both hands on the bar and leaned in. “At the end of the day, the members of those groups will continue to believe the propaganda coming from the leader of the group. They’ll go home and fall down some rabbit hole on the internet that confirms everything that their leader tells them. They’ll binge-watch conspiracy theories and call their friends and rant and rave, just as you are doing right now. They’ll share posts about how only stupid people wear masks, or the government tracks you with the shot. They’ll vote for those who think like them. And all along they have no real clue that their own choices are jeopardizing their very survival.”

Hank leaned back, “What ever happened to critical thinking, Jesse? How will society function when so many are misguided?”

Jesse reached for her jacket, “They think they are critical thinkers, Hank. Even though they haven’t connected the dots on why it’s not as easy to get tacos these days.”

Edit: I hit publish, and got on the treadmill to read the next chapter of Caste – the Origins of Our Discontents. Chapter 20, The Inevitable Narcissism of Caste, speaks of the narcissism of group leaders. Perfect timing? If you haven’t read Isabel Wilkerson’s powerful book, you really should consider it.

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Margaret’s Return

“Thanks for bringing the coffee, Basil.”

“I always bring the coffee, Margaret.”

Margaret looked up at Basil and grinned, “I know.  I appreciate that, so I thank you.”

Basil twisted the lid off the thermos.  “That’s one of the things I love about you, Margaret, besides your pie.  You are always thanking everyone.”

Gladys adjusted her skirt as she approached the others.  “It kind of sounded like you were calling us together for a meeting, Margaret.”

Margaret handed Gladys a thin slice of lemon meringue.  “It’s more of a Going Away Party, dear.”

Just then, Jon road up on his skateboard.  “Who’s going away?”

Margaret handed Jon a larger slice of pie and said, “I am.”

Basil grinned.  “Nice, Margaret.  It’s your time to return?  I’ll miss you, but I’m happy for you.  Are you excited?”

Through a mouthful of lemon meringue, Jon said, “Cool!”

Gladys perched on top of a grave marker.  “I’m thrilled for you Margaret!  Tell us, what are you hoping for?  What do you want to learn?  Who do you hope to see?  Oh!  I can’t wait for my turn to return!”

Before taking another bite, Jon asked, “How many times have you returned, Margaret?”

“Oh, dear.  I’ve lost track.  Really.”  She paused a moment, then looked up at the sky and said, “I have no idea.”  Margaret wiped her hands on her apron and reached for the coffee Basil had poured for her.  She looked at her friends.  “You all ask good questions.  I’ve been contemplating this next return.  You know, it’s funny, Jon.  I’m not apprehensive about the returns anymore, so I guess that says I’ve returned enough times to get the hang of it, so to speak.  I look forward to them.”  She chuckled and took another sip.  “Yes, Basil, I am excited to return.  And to your questions, Gladys.  Well, of course I’m prepared to learn more.  After all, that is the whole point of the return.  As to what I hope to learn, I have to say, I’m hoping to learn something other than service.”  Again, she laughed and took a bite of pie.

Basil said, “But service is just about the highest calling.”

Jon looked at Basil, “What’s the highest calling?”  Basil replied, “Fishing, of course.”  All four laughed as Basil poured himself another half inch of coffee.

Gladys smiled, “I’d be pretty tired of serving if I were you, Margaret.  You’ve elevated service to a new level.  It’s about time someone served you for a change!”

Margaret laughed.  “That sounds like you, Gladys.  But honestly, I’m sure I’m not done serving.  That’s who I am.  But I am tired.  Serving, thinking about how to serve, thinking about who to serve, and wondering if I’m doing enough… It’s exhausting.  It’s not that I want pampering in the next go-round, although I wouldn’t turn that down.”  Basil and Jon looked at each other and winked.  “But maybe I’ll learn a new way to serve that doesn’t leave me so tired.  I hope I learn how to serve others while serving myself, too.  Does that make sense?  Gladys, sometimes I think you’ve already got that figured out.”

Gladys laughed.  “Well, we all know that my scale tips in the direction of serving myself before others.”  Gladys smoothed the pleats of her skirt.  “I’m not always sure that’s a good thing, but I also don’t feel the need to change.”  They all chuckled as they nodded in agreement.

Margaret stood up to get ready to serve another piece of pie.  “See what I mean?  My need to serve others is automatic.  I would like to get my scale to a balanced point where I can serve myself and others.  And as far as who I hope to see…”  Margaret reached for the pie server.  “I know I’ll be seeing you all again, at some point.  We certainly won’t be in the same roles, but I’ll run into you, for sure.  Jon, I hope you’ll be older.”  Jon said, “Me, too!”

Basil said, “Maybe we’ll do a little fishing together, Margaret!”  Margaret laughed and said, “I suspect we’ve already done that, Basil.  But we’ll most likely be doing something together again.”

Margaret sat down and sighed.  “I’m ready for a rest.  I’m ready to take stock in what I’ve learned, and get prepared for the next lessons.”  She looked at Jon.  “How do you younger folks put it?  Recharge batteries?  I need to recharge my battery.”  She reached behind to untie her apron.

Jon reached out and said, “Here, Margaret.  Maybe it’s my turn to serve?”  She hung the apron on a branch of a nearby tree and turned to hug Jon.  “You don’t need an apron to serve, dear.”

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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

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.”

. . .

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“You’re Difficult To Live With”

“What did you say?”  She must have misunderstood.  The house was clean, she’d paid down some of his bills, and dinner was about to be served.  What more could she be doing?

They’d been sitting, sipping whiskey, waiting for the timer to let them know that the lasagna would be ready.   This moment before dinner was when they discussed the day, the schedule, projects and weekend plans.

“You’re difficult to live with.”

He repeated the words and there it was, that taste in the mouth she got whenever she was about to vomit.

She swallowed hard to keep from throwing up and proceeded to defend herself.  She gave examples of how she wasn’t difficult.  “See?  I do this for you.  I’ve done that for you.  I try to keep my feelings to myself, for you.  I know your job is hard and I try not to burden you with my stuff when you get home.  I’m anything but difficult.”

He said, “It’s okay that you are difficult.  I love you anyway.  I know how to handle you.”

 

The taste in her mouth did not go away.

 

Her first thought was, maybe he’s right.  She wondered if it was true that she was difficult.  Could she be nicer?  Could she be less of an inconvenience?  Could she facilitate better without needing anything from him?  Could she contort herself in a way that would make her invisible, or at least less difficult?

She thought back over instances, in other relationships, when her just being in the same room would elicit a heavy, irritated sigh from the other.  She was no stranger to feeling like an inconvenience.  She’d had to defend herself before, or at least she thought she had to.

 

The timer rang.  She walked out of the room to pull the lasagna out of the oven and let the kids know that dinner would be ready soon.  She tried to keep from crying.  The last thing she wanted was food.  As she set the table, the need to vomit was replaced with fear.  How could she stay here?  Where would she go?  How could she have dragged her kids into this mess?

Should she stay?  He did say he still loved her.  Who else could possibly love her, if she was so difficult to live with.

She faked small talk during dinner.  After dishes, the four of them watched a show that he selected.  While she stared at the TV, her mind raced with what to do.

Later, in the dark, under the covers, shaking and trying to take a deep breath to steady her voice, she rolled over and said, “I need to tell you that it really hurt my feelings when you told me that I’m difficult to live with.”

He said, “Do we have to do this now?  I have to be to work early.  You know that.”

She rolled back to her side and tried to stay as quiet as humanly possible.

 

The next evening, he returned home to whiskey poured, and dinner in the oven.  She tried to bring up the subject.  He dismissed her, saying he’d had a long day.

Over the next week, she made several more attempts to get clarification from him.  He would continue to dismiss her, or justify his words.

That taste in her mouth was there more than not.  The fear prevented sleep.  The more she tried to understand, the less she was able to breathe.

 

Within the month, she and the kids would pack their things and move.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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When It’s About Food

Here we are again.  It’s the holidays and we are preoccupied with food – what to eat, what NOT to eat, how much to eat, and the anticipation of how much we won’t be able to eat after the first of the year, because of how much we will most likely be eating between now and then.

It’s times like these when I hear the voice in my head saying, “It’s not about the food.”  I couldn’t agree more, but I don’t have the nerve to utter that to anyone else I know.

Yes, food brings us together.  Nothing accomplishes that quite like food.  Okay, wine and all of wine’s tasty cohorts bring people together, too.  But would we not come together if we learned someone was too busy to produce the epic holiday spread and barely managed to hit the drive-thru at KFC after finding the last gift, and picking the kids up from daycare?  Would we turn up our noses at the chance of seeing her kids in their Christmas sweaters just because she has the nerve to serve Domino’s instead of some impossible smorgasbord that only those who live on Pinterest could pretend they prepare?

Yes, there are times when it’s about food.

It’s about food when I haven’t seen the 20 year old in a couple days.  I send Will a text that says, “Chicken and Broc,” and I am guaranteed that he will cancel plans and show up for dinner, even if he’s in the house for only 20 minutes.  He’ll be here long enough to eat two full bowls of my chicken and broccoli fettuccine, and give me a hug.  Add 15 minutes if he uses the bathroom and takes his phone with him.

It’s about food when Jen and I look at each other after a crazy day and simultaneously say, “Comfort food tonight?”  Then I pull out a can of seasoned black beans, make a pot of rice, and grab tortilla chips.  If I’m really lucky, I’ll find a bag of limp, but not-yet-brown cilantro in the veggie drawer.  (Confession: The only things in my veggie drawer are usually broccoli, almost-brown cilantro, bees wax and a carton of milk because there’s room to store the extra milk in there due to the obvious lack of vegetables.)  Jen sprinkles feta cheese on her pile of chips and nukes ’em for 35 seconds.  Then we grab our plates and settle on the couch to watch another episode of NCIS, and breathe a sigh of relief that we made it through the day.

It’s about food when deciding on Christmas baking.  This year we dug out the caramels recipe I hadn’t made since before the kids were born.  (He never liked my caramels.)  Jen and I stood at the stove drizzling the heavy cream and stirring until our arms gave out.  We laughed about the lawyer we read about in Magnolia who gave up his career to start a candy business.  We agreed he was smart for giving up practicing law, but decided he must have arms like Popeye by now.  (The caramels are velvety and extraordinary.  The only thing I’d do differently is leave some unwrapped to facilitate Jen’s consumption.)

It’s NOT about food when I pick my uncle up for our weekly breakfast.  We always go to the same place, and try to park in the same spot.  As we drive to the end of town, he asks where I’d like to go, and we laugh because we know we are always going to the same place.   The owners are kind and friendly and always remember his order.  Even if my toast is cold and the eggs are never medium, it’s about getting together and sipping the endless hot coffee and discussing the news or his girls or the weather.  We finish our last sip as he gets up to pay the bill.  He will say, “Did you know there’s a picture of your Aunt Pat up by the cash register?”  Of course I remember, but he loves to tell me every week.

It’s NOT about the food when family drives seven hours to get here to spend the holiday.  It’s about quickly throwing together a pot of spaghetti sauce and opening the wine and having another friend text to say she’ll pick up bags of caeser salad, which saves me another trip to the store.

Which, naturally, brings me to life.

Sometimes it’s about the food, like when you are trying to fill a void that only food can fill.  It’s about food when nothing else will do.  But a lot of times, most times, it’s about the people – friends and family.  And if food brings them together, that’s a good thing.  Most likely, tho, they were gonna come together anyway.  Except with 20 year olds, but that won’t stay that way forever, I hope.  I can always make chicken and broc.

 

Merry Christmas!