honesty

There are few things that feel as indulgent as going out for breakfast on a weekday. For me, it usually means catching up with a truly good friend, eating eggs smothered in cheese cozied up to thick bacon slices, and getting to work by 10:00 a.m.—give or take. This used to be a tradition I shared with my sister for the brief year, or so, we lived in the same city. We’d get up early Friday morning, go out for Monte Cristos, and remark each time how nice it was to skip the weekend crowds that’d be lined up come tomorrow morning. Now, she’s in Vermont. Though I wish she could be passing me the maple syrup on Friday mornings, I’m happy enough to know we’re both living the lives we want, though they’re thousands of miles apart, now.

Fortunately for me, another friend of mine shares the appreciation of the weekday breakfast. We met this morning. She’s one of my closest friends, even though we don’t see each other very often and she has fifty-one years to my twenty-eight. She gives me great advice.

Breakfast is an intimate meal. We didn’t waste it. We talked about honesty. She knows me well enough to know I tend to make nice, only to dream night after night of reaming people out. That’s me--polite until I pass out, then hide the butcher knives, ladies and gentleman. Actually, if I look back, it’s interesting how slight the motion is for me between biting my tongue and biting someone’s head off. All the intermediate steps get buried, I guess.

I don’t know why I often find cold, hard look at myself and (especially) others to be so tough. Maybe I don’t want to believe the world is a hard, cold place. I’ll take my rose colored glasses and stuff my anger/disappointment/resentment someplace where it won’t block my view. Today, my friend told me I have to let it go—that I have to unleash those things that I’m inclined to repackage and justify or simply tuck away. She says “something magical” will happen if I do. This is breakfast and she is honest so I believe her. But I have to wonder if it’s something I honestly can do.

401k and foreplay

"I just want a guy who has a normal job--not delivering pizzas and playing in a band. He should have normal sheets, top and bottom, without cartoon superheroes. A guy who can keep it in his pants on a first date, like a gentleman. Is that too much to ask?"

I'm paraphrasing, but that was the gist of my conversation with a smack-dab in her mid-twenties girlfriend of mine. She's great. We're both struggling to comprehend relationships and our talks usually take on a tone of dumbfoundedness. Nevermind graduating with honors from competitive universities and working demanding jobs, we feel clueless about this stuff. If only we could treat it like Algebra, Geometry, or Calculus--solve for x, find the axiom, and apply it to every problem we encounter. We're pissed off by relationship relativity.

Last night we were talking about qualifications--the list of what's expected in a mate. And, more important than that, what you should expect to let slide in order to have a relationship. Compromise seems frighteningly close to settling sometimes. As we walked, our lists swelled with details and then got juiced down to its essence again, as if knowing both versions might help us really discern where the line was. "Ultimately I'm looking for a 401k and foreplay," one of us said. "One shows he can take care himself, the other shows he can take care of you. Is that too much to ask?" But there it is again--perhaps that's the problem, right there. We're perpetually afraid we're asking for too much. I few weeks ago I wrote a list. At age 28, it was the first time I put what I was looking for on paper, but I didn't post it because it seemed silly, or maybe I was afraid I'd have to take it seriously and make all the potential suitors in my life measure up. Maybe something has changed in me since then. Maybe I have a little more confidence, enough to raise the bar and post "the list." Here goes:

-he will be kind and loving, like wrapping his arms around me when I’m washing the dishes and rubbing my feet after a long day
-he will be passionate, knowing that the right music and the right words make sex even more amazing than the right moves
-he will be strong. he can lift things that I can’t and will carry the heavier backpack on our trips.
-he will be artistic, or at least an art appreciator
-he will be excited to teach me things like how to caulk old cracks in my home or how to say “I’d like a coffee/whiskey/motorcycle” in French.
-he will be eager to surprise me in little ways and know that flowers are never cliche
-he will be smart. he can hold a conversation on many different subjects without falling back on rehearsed rhetoric and say things in a way I haven’t heard before. he contributes something new to my mind when we talk.
-he will be good with money and financially secure
-he will be sweet with children and dogs
-he can fix things, like the broken derailer on my bike or the doorknob that has fallen off so many times I’ve decided to ignore it.
-he reads. even better if he does it in bed with me before we go to sleep.
-he will hold me in the morning and we will spend time awake talking about the day ahead or the night before and just enjoy the bed-moments in between.
-he will want to do things--relaxing would be a hike with the dog or bike ride, not sitting in front of television.
-he will be able to tell me how he feels about me without limits or hesitations
-he will have at least as strong a sex drive as I do.
-he will help me slow down when I need to but not make me feel badly about my manic side
-he will have a sense of humor that doesn’t depend solely on scarcasm
-he will have a loving family and want to bring the best of their qualities into his own family
-he will have an appetite for good food
-he will encourage me in my career and other ambitions
-he will want to travel and he will plan spontaneous journies for us to explore new places, even if they’re just an hour away
-he will not be bothered by my divorce but won’t avoid the topic, either
-he will feel like I make his life richer instead of feeling limited by being in a relationship
-he will be attractive and fit. he can keep up with me on a long run and look great next to me when we go out.
-he will be interested in contemporary politics but in positive, pro-active ways
-he will enjoy spending time with my family and I will feel comfortable with his, too.
-he will be polite and comfortable in social situations
-he will be dependable--show up on time, follow through with commitments, be there when I need him
-he will be committed to our relationship
-he will think I’m beautiful, intellegent and fun
-he will be ambtious and have a plan for his future. he will want me to be a part of it.
-he will love nature and enjoy doing things outdoors without having to be “extreme” about it
-he will be a “boy” at the core and like it that I am a “girl”
-he will bake me a cake for my birthday
-he will be honest but still senstive
-he won’t use it against me when I fall for him completely

love and backpacks

I spent the weekend backpack the Ochoco Wilderness in eastern Oregon with two of my favorite boys. One is in the photo with me. I've discovered the real joy of backpacking is as much about the afternoon naps under ponderosa pines as it is about climbing high and deep into the forest, hauling a 40lb pack. I slept more in the woods last weekend than I did the entire week before. I really relaxed--relaxed myself and relax into him. I literally did--leaning into his chest like a chair as we sat by the fire, taking turns reading aloud by flashlight. I love this man. I loved watching him fly fishing, seperated my the width and roar of the stream as I read a book with my feet in the water. I loved how we took up our old card game again during a thunderstorm and how he didn't mind the wet dog on his sleeping bag when the thunder got too scary for my sweet pooch to stay outside the tent. I loved that he kept casting his line until he caught us enough trout for dinner, eventhough it meant waiting until 10:00 pm to eat. I love him, but now I can't relax. He's leaving in a few weeks. It's a sort-of indian summer romance, but way too early in the season. I can't decide whether I want him by my side for every second of it, or if I'd rather push him away and take my pain now. So, instead I convice myself that I'm happy in the moment, trying not to overthink it. Just relax, I tell myself. But it was easier in the woods.

criticism and chocolate

Last night I made brownies, whipping cocoa powder, sugar, eggs at about 9:45 pm. It was one of those nights where I fumbled around for something to do to lift my mood. The brownies were a slightly manic, critical effort. My job, and one client in particular, had gotten the best of me earlier in the day. It was only after I’d hung up the phone that I’d realized I’d endured another bout of verbal abuse. The only cure, I decided on the way home, was watching an entire DVD of Sex in the City (season 4, disc 3) straight through. I crawled into bed as soon as I got home and watched on my ibook. Between the third and fourth episodes I got up to make the brownies. The old stand-by, Carrie and Co., wasn't working--I was still hanging onto the ruthless criticisms I'd endured during the morning conference call. I'd have to move onto the stronger stuff. I hate how the worst insults hang in little word bubbles over your head. Like a bad pop song--I couldn't get her voice out of my head. I came to the conclusion several months ago that I will never please this particular woman, but for some reason I keep trying. In fact, I'm working my ass off attempting to be perfect to avoid her cutting displeasure. Of course this never works and I cry every time she reminds me that I am far from it. So, last night I focused on chocolate--brownies I can do to perfection.

I wish I had a better strategy for dealing with people's shit. Clearly my current plan of simply taking it isn’t working. But, like every time of struggle I know I must be on my way to learning something. Right? Maybe the lesson today is, when life gives you shit you make fudgy brownies.

women's lib

It feels cliche to bitch about being a girl, but sometimes it just fucking sucks. I feel proud to say many of my closest girlfriends are amazing, strong women. They have 401Ks, books on home electrical repairs, and car payments as well as vintage apron collections, candles on the tub rim, and unapologetic crafty hobbies like knitting and canning. We've made a statement (and a lifestyle) out of juxtaposing the stereotypes. We seem to know exactly what kind of women we are until we have to factor in men. I've done it, myself, acted out of politeness and expectations only to cry over my choices on the other side. A marriage or a one-night stand, it's the same. By getting wrapped up in what he and I were supposed to be to each other, I forgot who I was.

Women of my generation are suppose to feel grateful we were born now, after the brigade of liberators has already marched through. Our predecessors felt guilty about abandoning motherhood and homemaking for careers and life-long dating. We feel guilty when we realize we've let them down--that we're still trying to be the women men are looking for. There are songs about being true to ourselves and we've all sung along into the viscous breeze of open car windows. The tunes come back to haunt us when we realize we've catered to expectations of what a good woman is. We put on and put out and hate ourselves for it--after all, we knew better, right?

But today I'm thinking perhaps those moments and those lessons can't be learned by an innocent on-looker. You have to live it. You never really understand how to stand tough until you've been conquered once or twice. It takes some tears, and some uncomfortable lessons, but when you're a woman, I think, you have to be your own liberation.

birds of a feather

"Is it a jay?" he asked looking out my bedroom window. The plump bluebird that'd been living in my holly tree was noisy as usual. The morning was bright already at 6:30 and the jay, if he was a jay, was squawking his typical song.
"I don't know. Some kind of jay, I think," I replied. "Someone told me the name for the noisy ones like that, but I can't remember."
My friend stepped closer to the window, looking hard. The thick, bristling leaves make the holly tree paradise for birds--safe from predators and surrounded by glossy, red berries. At least the jay always seemed happy there to me.
"I think there's two," he said with childlike excitement. He pulled his fiance, one of my oldest friends, to his side. "Yeah, look, there's two. I think they have a nest."
I watched them watching--two dear friendships to me borne out of one. They are great together. I've know her since I was fourteen;I met him about five years ago, just after they started dating. The fact that he would be a friend of mine on his own, without her as the connection, makes me feel even more certain about it. I love them both and this fall I will be in their wedding. I've watched a lot of friends get engaged and married in the past few years. I try hard not to place odds on which couples I think will make it and which won't; that seems mean-spirited and too cold and typical for a divorcee (I am divorced but refuse to be typical in that catagory). But, I've got my secret opinions. I find myself asking could I be in that marriage? A lot of the time the answer is an unequivocal, no.
They say no relationship is perfect. Even the couples you admire are quick with the disclaimers, well, we have our issues--we fight sometimes, too, you know. It's the relationship equivalent of knocking on wood. I don't know what makes some relationships work and others not. My feeling these days is it's all about tendons between two people who love each other--the stuff that isn't easily explained but unmistakable when you feel it. Couples come together and it looks the same--meet, find a tree, make a nest. You have to look closer to see the things that keep them together.
My friend pointed out the window to show his future bride the glimpse of a nest and dull-feathered female jay resting deep in the holly tree branches. “Look,” he said. “He has a wife.”

(writing) exercise

It’s hot. Not hot exactly, but the sunlight is baking. It’s the first time the sun’s been out like this in a while and the dog is restless after several days of neglect. His walks have been too short and this run is overdue. He trots along; he knows this route—a gravel path in the slough. It's warm and my shirt, even with its short sleeves, feels too tightly woven. It’s hot and I’m out here alone. I’ve never passed more than half a dozen people the times I’ve been here before. This is our route. Five miles out and back and plenty of space for the dog to wander off the trail and back to me again. He knows the spot where I take his leash off. He slows there and sniffs and waits for me to unlatch his collar. He waits as I fumble with the headphones and leash—they tangle around each other and my fingers. He sniffs and pulls a bit. Then, he’s free. It’s hot. I squint, looking west, watching the dog run. No one’s out there with us—everything is still except the grass along the river. I grab the edges of my white shirt and pull up. I’ve never done this before, at least I honestly can’t remember a time I have. I take my shirt off trying first to slip it over my head with the headphones still on. The collar catches on the chords and everything comes off--headphones with the shirt. The temporary loss of the music feels uncomfortable, exposed. I’ve never going jogging in just a sports bra, but I’ve always wanted to. I’m thin and I have been since I was about 15, but I’ve always had a soft stomach—hidden under t-shirts. My chubby stomach has always kept me connected to my chubby adolescence. I’ve never been able to get rid of it, and I’ve worked at it, believe me. I remember despising it when I was younger—stretching in careful poses when I dared to wear a bikini, turning away from sisters and friends in a dressing room, never lifting my shirt to wipe a sweaty face after a long, summer run. I don’t ever talk about it, though. It bothers me enough that I can’t tell people. I don’t want to hear what they might say back—scoffs and rolled eyes or sit-up suggestions, there’s no good response, really. I’m too sensitive. My shirt’s off; I wrap it up with the leash and headphone chords and start running along the path. Deep breaths make my ribs feel taught and solid against the breeze. My stomach is soft, though; it shakes as I run. The last time I bought pants they were a size 4. My stomach shakes. That annoys me. I don’t know how to think of my own body. It feels good, though—the air, the openness, the exposure. It feels great to do something I’d been so afraid of. I see three bikers ahead and I hold my posture higher. They pass, I don’t care. I wonder what I look like to them; what that perspective is from the outside. Could they tell, as I pulled my arms in closer to my sides, that I'm not comfortable this exposed? What's it like from their view? I remember learning about the Venus statues in my first Anthropology class in college—small clay figures with disproportionately large and oblong breasts and bellies. They were made by early, cave-dwelling women, sculpting from their own perspective. The proportions were all off because they only saw themselves from above. I look down at myself. Do I look different from someone else’s eyes? It must be better than how I see it. That’s how I’m doing this--exposing what I like least about myself. I've decided to hope that other people see me better than I see myself

single-girl sonar

I was waiting for the Max downtown last Saturday and I got restless, so I ducked into a shop and bought myself a ring. I didn't see it in the window or anything, I just walked in knowing there'd be something there for me. And I was right--six dollars and perfect. No need to deliberate. I was out of the shop and back at the lightrail stop before the Max arrived, the funky silver ring on my right middle finger looked as if it had been there all along. It makes me happy when I look down at it now--a testiment of spontinaity and kismet. Okay, it's only cheap, silver-plated jewelry, but come on, a whole series of epic novels has been written based on a little band of metal. Humor me.

The ring has concentric circles radiating out like sonar. It fits how I've been feeling these days--tuned into life around me and sending out some waves of my own. Like last night. I went out for beers with a good friend, mostly because I knew his cute co-worker would be there, too. I rode my bike to Mississippi St. and pulled up to the patio of one of my favorite spots. They'd already finished half a pitcher by the time I was locking my Cannondale to the railing. I saw him watching me from across the patio as I crouched and fiddled with the lock. I paid attention to my movements, hoping he was still watching and already interested--take off the helmet but don't brush those dramatic, wispy hairs back; don't use your teeth to rip the velcro on the bike gloves off; and for godssake, don't yank your bra or jeans up...I don't care how much you want to readjust...he's watching. I don't know if he was, but I wasn't risking the wrong signals. He's a sweet guy with steady eyes and a great body. We talked well together, although I've learned that conversations with new people can be deceivingly interesting just because it's all uptapped--Really, you're from Ohio? Oh, you have a labrador? Yeah, I love the bratwurst here, too. Not too tough. That's why those first meeting conversations are much more about the waves--the eye contact between the banal background check. And that's what I've had a lot of recently. I've collected a handful of imaginary suitors this way, none of whom have my phone number or have offically asked for a date, thus their imaginary status. But, there've been waves.

vanity and value

I watched Vanity Fair tonight. I’ve never read the book, though now I might. I love films where the opening scene comes into focus once the movie progresses. I look for the full circle and feel satisfied when I see it close. In the opening of this film the young girl was sitting in her father’s studio as he painted. A wealthy patron comes in to buy an oil--a portrait of the girl’s dead mother. Her father offers it for four guineas, same price as all his paintings. The girl stands in protest shouting that the painting is, in fact, ten guineas. Not because that's its worth, but because that amount would be “too much to refuse.” The story unfolds from there and Rebecca Sharp, the heroine, spends the rest of the film discovering and redefining value.

I wonder about how that happens in life. We spend so much energy sizing things up, deciding if what we have is worth the effort we put forth and eyeing options for the moment when we might trade up. We chase satisfaction and puzzle over why we’re never happy. But, there’s something irresistable about growth and accomplishment. I’ve always thought ambition was a great virtue, now I wonder if it isn’t the thing that stands in the way of peacefulness and satisfaction--the truest accomplishments in a human lifetime. (Or at least I guess the Buddhists would say so.) So, is that voice inside me just American-bred rhetoric that I might be great if I only hold fast, work hard, and aspire for the gilded life I secretly know I’m destined for? Afterall, haven’t great men and women admitted that success is always there for anyone to harness, if you’ve got the tenacious grip? I’ve wondered if I had the heart and hands for greatness. Sometimes I have felt it resting there, taunting me with possibility.

A few days ago I had lunch with my ex-husband. He’s an attorney now with his sights set on politics. He could do it. I married him knowing he could; maybe it was one of the main reasons I became his wife. We ate bistro burgers at the power lunch spot downtown. It was my suggestion. I did that throughout our relationship--put him in the environment where greatness might take hold of him. I may be overstating my influence, but I think that’s how he got to law school in the first place. He got through it on his own, for sure, but I know I was a big part of the momentum. Looking back I wonder if I pushed him forward in that you-go-first kind of way because I didn’t know if I could accomplish the same success. Or maybe I wasn’t willing to fail (and I wasn’t sure I even wanted to try to begin with). At the very least, I’d learn from watching him go first. He asked me if I was resentful of that--him in school as I worked to pay bills. If that was the reason we split. I said honestly, no, but now, awake at midnight, I reconsider my reply. Not whether I resented him, but I wonder what was so frigtening about valuing myself? Why did leaving him feel like the only way I could really do that? I guess for whatever reason, what I had with him wasn’t enough.

So much has changed for me since then, but what was frustrating me at lunch was how much hasn’t. How I still feel that uncovered something within me that I can’t quite grab the corner of. I can’t decide which direction to tug, but I’m dying to expose something new. I worry that I’ve already spent too much time deliberting it. Like Becky Sharp, I seem to be born with the notion that one inncorrect step could lead directly to ruin, so I stay motionless. Where is my faith in cycles now?

There’s great danger, I often fear, in trading up. In the bargaining stance, sure footing is never guaranteed. And lately, putting my foot down feels a lot more like tiptoeing. Like a TV ad for a local used car lot--I'm given ‘em away, folks. My deal feels like being a deal.

People say in your twenties you struggle with who you are. Maybe that’s what this is for me. But it feels like something bigger--not simply wondering who I am, but deciding what I’m worth and more than that even, what in life is worthwhile. I have two more years of my twenties to go. I feel completely clueless about the answers to these questions. Ten years doesn’t seem long enough to make such huge determinations. One lifetime doesn’t seem like enough. So I watch someone else’s story on film, wait for the circle to close, glad that someone else is going first.

spoiled

So, I found this quiz on another blog and thought it was interesting. Supposedly, if you score 40 or more, you're spoiled. I scored 25. I don't know if I feel spoiled, but I definitely feel fortunate.

I bolded the ones that applied to me:

☐ your own cell phone
☐ a television in your bedroom
☐ an iPod
☐ a photo printer
☐ your own phone line
☐ TiVo or a generic digital video recorder
☐ high-speed internet access (i.e., not dialup)
☐ a surround sound system in bedroom
☐ DVD player in bedroom
☐ at least a hundred DVDs
☐ a childfree bathroom
☐ your own in-house office
☐ a pool
☐ a guest house
☐ a game room
☐ a queen-size bed
☐ a stocked bar
☐ a working dishwasher
☐ an icemaker
☐ a working washer and dryer
☐ more than 20 pairs of shoes
☐ at least ten things from a designer store
☐ expensive sunglasses
☐ framed original art--um, maybe, if my own art counts!
☐ Egyptian cotton sheets or towels
☐ a multi-speed bike
☐ a gym membership
☐ large exercise equipment at home
☐ your own set of golf clubs
☐ a pool table
☐ a tennis court
☐ local access to a lake, large pond, or the sea
☐ your own pair of skis
☐ enough camping gear for a weekend trip in an isolated area
☐ a boat
☐ a jet ski
☐ a neighborhood committee membership
☐ a beach house or a vacation house/cabin
☐ wealthy family members
☐ two or more family cars
☐ a walk-in closet or pantry
☐ a yard--but only in the front
☐ a hammock
☐ a personal trainer
☐ good credit
☐ expensive jewelry
☐ a designer bag that required being on a waiting list to get
☐ at least $100 cash in your possession right now
☐ more than two credit cards bearing your name--um, I believe this makes me stupid, not spoiled
☐ a stock portfolio--for retirement
☐ a passport
☐ a horse
☐ a trust fund (either for you or created by you)
☐ private medical insurance
☐ a college degree, and no outstanding student loans

Do you:

☐ shop for non-needed items for yourself (like clothes, jewelry, electronics) at least once a week--well, what's a "need" exactly?
☐ do your regular grocery shopping at high-end or specialty stores
☐ pay someone else to clean your house, do dishes, or launder your clothes
☐ go on weekend mini-vacations
☐ send dinners back with every flaw
☐ wear perfume or cologne
☐ regularly get your hair styled or nails done in a salon
☐ have a job but don’t need the money OR
☐ stay at home with little financial sacrifice
☐ pay someone else to cook your meals
☐ pay someone else to watch your children or walk your dogs
☐ regularly pay someone else to drive you
☐ expect a gift after you fight with your partner

Are you:

☐ an only child
☐ married/partnered to a wealthy person
☐ baffled/surprised when you don’t get your way

Have you:

☐ been on a cruise
☐ traveled out of the country
☐ met a celebrity*
☐ been to the Caribbean
☐ been to Europe
☐ Been to Hong Kong
☐ been to Hawaii
☐ been to New York
☐ eaten at the space needle in Seattle
☐ been to the Mall of America
☐ been on the Eiffel tower in Paris
☐ been on the Statue of Liberty in New York
☐ moved more than three times because you wanted to
☐ dined with local political figures
☐ been to both the Atlantic coast and the Pacific coast

Did you:

☐ go to another country for your honeymoon
☐ hire a professional photographer for your wedding or party
☐ take riding or swimming lessons as a child
☐ attend private school
☐ have a Sweet 16 birthday party thrown for you

fire hazard

About a week ago a truck exploded behind my house. Metallic clanging, like someone dragging a barrel across a railroad track, and then voices interrupted my dreams. There was a loud pop and a roar, and everything started moving. I ran a couple loops through my small house, using up the adrenalin that overpowered logical thinking. I didn't plan for this. The kitchen windows, glowing orange, kept pulling my eyes back as if the flames wouldn't encroach if I kept watching. I managed to think of the file cabinet and scrambled for files that, I hoped, had the important papers--title, insurance, phone and policy numbers I was sure I'd need when my house burnt to the ground. I remembered my cell phone, leashed my dog and was out the front door, in pajamas, legal file folder under my arm. I checked my phone when the fire truck arrived--3:27 a.m. I watched from across the street. When the fire was out, I cried. But, everything, as I reported to friends and family the next day, was fine.

A week later the burnt shell of the Chevy is still there, about 30 inches from my house and charred. Leaves over 15 feet high on trees nearby are blackened. It was so close.

When I bought my house last year I had a thorough inspection. The inspector was a thin man with a mustache that muffled his words. I knew him for less than 3 hours, but I trusted him. After all, he put on a full plastic suit and slithered into my crawlspace to get a closer look at some suspicious mold. (I wouldn't do that for $425!) And he talked to me like a father would. We walked through and around the house as he pointed out all the things I'd need to fix. His words became the dialog in two months worth of anxiety-filled dreams after I'd moved in. I'd dream there was a huge hole in the side of the house, then I'd turn and hear him talking calmly and softly through that 'stashe. "Raise the gutters, improve the basement ventilation, clean the air ducts"--it felt like warning shots. Judging by my guilty conscience you'd think deferred maintenance is a mortal sin.

I went out this morning to look at the spot where the fire had been. One of his first remarks rang in my head: "Trim back those hedges. There should be a space--they shouldn't touch the house. That's a fire hazard." The hedges have grown 10 months since then, untrimmed. I didn't totally get it back then, but it's blatant now. The truck was parked on the other side of those hedges. That space could have been the difference if the fire had spread. It would have been my fault. After all, I'd been warned.

Now I feel shaken enough to have renewed vigilance. As always, my experiences and my thoughts about life are overlapping and I see a new lesson emerging. Where once I thought coping with life's struggles was about erecting boundaries and holding solid, I wonder now if the difference is really in maintaining that cushion of empty space--not to close yourself off to what might come your way, but to insulate yourself with open, yet protective, air. And maybe what makes a person a whole "self" is as much what you are as it is the space that defines and holds you seperate from everything else. It certainly give new meaning to the cliche of
"needing space." But, lately things feel overgrown and weedy, vulnerable to flames. And it all feels like my fault. I've deferred maintenance because I can't decide if I'm more fearful of the fire hazard or the emptiness.

heaven is a treehouse

"The lighter part is the tree growth during favorable conditions," he explained pointing at the concentric circles in my chunk of wood. "The cells are larger, more porous because the tree is growing faster then. The darker rings are growth during hard times. The cells are denser and stronger." I was listening; trying to learn what he was telling me so I might put the important bits in the exhibit. I got distracted; I was making personal meaning, instead. I love it when nature connects with life as I've experienced it. It's more validating than realizing an old cliche is true. What doesn't kill us makes us stronger. Even the tree learned that one, year after year after year. I could count it in the rings.

I believe cycles are evidence of God. The revolving process of death and birth of that encompasses everything--all of us. For me it's easy to have faith in that. I know from my own life that after every season of sadness and anguish there has been a rebirth of something more uplifting than I could have imagined. I believe in that and that belief itself has saved me many times. I don't talk about religion or my faith very often. I find the most profound thoughts don't translate to words well. But once I was talking with a friend about death--the afterlife. He was agnostic, scientific, and logical; the type to scoff at the notion of a "heaven" but not to be too concerned about what happened after death. His brain would stop functioning and thus his ability to worry about it. I told him I believed. He looked a bit credulous and waited, skeptically, for my reply. "After each trial in my life, I've been reborn into something more beautiful." I explained, timidly uncovering myself. "I think death is the ultimate human trial, and heaven the ultimate beauty you pass into. It's just the next cycle."

For me believing in God or heaven is as simple as that. There's evidence right there, in the trees.

get what you need

As a kid I thought my father’s wisdom came from three places: National Geographic, since he often referred to their articles at the dinner table; “the office,” that mythical place he went off to each day; and, most importantly, song lyrics. When we asked him a question, he would often sing his responses to us. He sang with this look in his eye like he knew he was telling us something we wouldn’t quite understand until we looked back on it as a memory. You better start swimming or you’ll sink like a stone…as he palmed my belly and showed me how to do a strong kick in the pool. The dangerous kitchen, in the middle of the night when you get home…as he weeded through the fridge for leftovers to feed us for dinner. And his favorite, You can’t always get what you want…He’d interrupt our pleas with that song more times than I can recall. I remember fighting it off; trying to interrupt him with a frustrated “Dad! Dad! Come on…Dad!” I knew the lyrics well, and I didn’t want to hear what I knew was coming. But, he wouldn’t stop. He’d tip his head back and sing the song until he howled the crucial line: If you try sometimes, you might find, you get what you need!

That song comes back to me every once and a while. My father’s parenting continues through the lyrics as I learn those childhood lessons again. I had fantastic parents, but sometimes I’m surprised that I’m still trying to learn the four-year-old basics. As many times as I’ve been through disappointments and unhappiness, my instinct is often to whine and fight. But it’s not fair, I want to yell. We’ve all been told that life’s not fair, and we know it must be true. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I still get mad when things don’t go my way—the right way. But I eat healthy and exercise, but I worked so hard on that project, but I’m so qualified, but I tried so hard and I wanted it so badly…I furrow my brows looking at the empty space where the gold star should be. Karma feels broken and my instinct is to rebel.

As I get older, the evidence against “fairness” is mounting—friends have died in tragic accidents, cancer inflicts healthy people, friendships are betrayed, benevolent deeds go unnoticed. As much as I’ve wanted the world to repay me my honest efforts and good intentions, I recognize it’s beyond my control. For me, that’s the really hard-to-swallow part. And maybe what my dad was trying to teach me all those years ago was in those moments—when you’ve done everything right and still things turned out wrong—the only thing to do is see the song though. Tip back your head and howl…if you try sometimes, you might find…

drama

I’ve started wondering about my writing; the stuff I do on this blog and the other scraps of things I’ve been working on. I’ve been worried that I’m overdramatizing, that I see layers of metaphor in everything, and that when I pull it all together it’s unoriginal and superficial. In my mind it’s moving and motivating--once I feel something I need to write about it immediately--but when I read over what I’ve writen I worry it seems juvenile and inflated. I think too much about what I’m trying to say, maybe. I actually wrote a post yesterday that was accidently erased when I tried to attach a photo. I decided not to rewrite it because I was feeling that insecurity and frustration.

I am reading a book about writing, The Modern Library’s Writer’s Workshop. It’s a direct and neat guide and well-written. I’m glad I picked it up this morning. The author, Stephen Koch, spoke directly to my insecurity about drama and my tendency to see and seek it. I wish I could send him a thank you note. Here’s what he wrote:

"Incredibly, there are people--smart people--who think a prim distain for drama is somehow a sign of “good taste.” It is more often a sign not of good taste but of artistic insecurity. Not knowing how far to go, the writer goes nowhere. Lifelessness is not a form of elegance you should persue."

Yes. Thanks for the reminder.

losing my lunch

The right CD was vital today. I picked well and toggled between the three perfect songs as I walked across the Hawthorne Bridge. I was meeting my ex for lunch. Lunch is a very civilized thing to do; it can easily become emotionless and obligatory. It was his suggestion and, of course, I accepted because it would be perfectly harmless. Afterall, I’m completely over it, right? Of course I'm not, and the headphones are a dead giveaway. They’re a crutch for when you need a soundtrack to cover over the reality. Today I needed the perfect pump-up music to delude myself. If I admitted the “truth” (that I am of course not over him) I’d have to cancel. And there was no way I’d cancel--I was dying to see him. The music put the deliberateness in my steps, confidence pulled on as easily as my jeans and black wifebeater (god I hate that term, but it’s what I wore). It had been his...yes, yes, we’ve established I am not over him. Moving on... It was hot, my little planet felt shifted, the sun was a spotlight, and I was squinting in anticipation. A biker who looked nothing like him was riding toward me. I knew it was him. Months of being apart erased in 20 seconds. It felt like nothing had passed between us and that was surely a very, very bad sign. We hugged long, both of our bodies thinner from the wear of seperating--tactile evidence that something had passed.

He must have felt the heat too, because he suggested shade. We sat under a huge maple tree near the river and ate sandwiches--his with vegetables and hummus, mine roast beef on rye. We set them down between bites and covered whole topics--my family, his, his work, mine--before picking them up again for another bite. It went on like that for about an hour until we’d finished the sandwhiches that had actually begun to stale in the ninty-degree heat. We’d discussed everything within bounds, then, just before we had to part, I stepped out. “Do you miss me?” I asked plucking grass to avoid his eyes. He stopped putting his shoes back on. “Yes, very much. I think about you all the time.” His pause lasted until I looked up from my grass patch. “Do you miss me?” He asked, looking directly across the regulation space between us. “Yes.” I replied. I didn’t qualify it. I just looked back. There was nothing else I could say out loud.

I don’t remember much else about what happened after that. I was busy thinking out the possible conversations that might have come from my reply as he kept talking. I couldn’t hear the reality over my imagination. Looking back now, maybe that was the problem with us all along. I think he said something about doing the best we can with all this; figuring out what was best for us. The word best was in there for sure, but I couldn’t hear him. I was stuck in my reply; frozen in my yes and the trailing hopefulness still foolishly attached.

I don’t know what I think or feel about it all, even now. In a lot of ways lunch with him feels like eating street food in Latin America, I can’t tell if it was a good decision until it moves through me. Right now I’m still swallowing hard and hanging onto my belly. I’d like to say we did well, it was good to spend that time with him, and we might do it again sometime. The truth is, I don’t know. For now it’s hard enough just to try and take in the reality and see if I can hold it down until morning.

exfoliate

Saturday night was prom night--not mine. It's been 10 years since I went to the prom. It's that time of year and Saturday night was filled with kids outfitted for a night of faux, formal adulthood. I was out with friends at a restaurant filled with girls in overconstructeded up-dos and formal gowns with the bulges and lines of control-top pantyhose showing through. The prom makes high school girls think they need to suck it in. I think I weighed about 120lbs in high school and I remember wearing pantyhose like that, even after skipping breakfast for weeks before. I couldn't stop watching those girls. I'd like to think it's because that time feels far off; that I'm so opposite that place now. Frustratingly, I think the reality is I am still there with them, in a silky gown, eyeliner that I practiced putting on for weeks before, and wondering if he was wishing he hadn't overlooked me. It was even more frustrating because that morning had started strong. I woke up early and exfoliated. The clean face somehow made me feel more open to the world; more sure of who I was in it. Sometimes what I need most is the symbolic gestures. I rode the Max to the downtown farmer's market and bought chard, green garlic, lettuce, asparagus, rhubarb, pork chops, and a bunch of purple irises--treating myself to the things I wanted. I felt great being me and with nothing "put on." I felt like the woman I imagined I might become back when I was eighteen.

Then, Saturday night I realized (again) how much of my own history hangs on. Seeing those high school girls reminded me of how deeply I was carving who I would become back then. Or, more truthfully, how firmly I still cover myself in the same identity, even though it's outdated, unnecessary, and not me anymore. Something of that time in my life became the stuff I still can't scrub off. The he who helped me feel like I wasn't enough; the girls whose bikini-ad stomachs forced me buy the control top hose so I might measure up, the self who believed their invisible judgments. Those days were just the beginning of something I still struggle with. Sometimes I can say "fuck it" and other times I find myself in the same pit of self-doubt. It feels like that--a hole, but one I've climbed out before. I know a few ladders, but they usually involve getting someone's attention and approval and I know where that leads. But this time I know I don't want to use any of those old routes. I want to take myself someplace different.

I've had hard times holding myself in the uncomfortable moments before--lying lonely without reaching out, resting in awkwardness, admitting my own ugliness instead of disguising it. I've been having those moments recently. But now I am scrubbed down and it feels like an opportunity. I want this time to be different. I want to be different.

I heard once that all your cells, from skin to blood to brain, regenerate at least once every seven years--you are literally a new being every seven years. I guess it's just the memories that hold it all together to make a lifetime (for better or worse). It's easy to say you've stopped caring about what others think of you and how they see you; I find it's much harder when it's inexorably connected to how you've always seen yourself. Maybe it takes more uncomfortable, exfoliated moments than I've let myself have to stop caring about how you appear--that what you need is to just wait it out until the truer self can carve something new. For now, that's what I'm trying because--although it may have taken me ten years to realize--I'm definitely done with those fucking hose.

generous helpings

"Woah, $58. Is that okay?" asked the man at the meat counter after he flopped a second flank steak on the scale. "Yeah, it's fine. It's my birthday and I've got great friends." I was throwing a party, afterall, and treating my friends and myself to a fantastic night was exactly the gift I wanted. "Wow, I guess so. Lucky friends." he said. "I think you should put a jar at the door and take donations." I laughed and scooped up the two brown-wrapped steaks and wheeled my already-full cart off to load up on extra tomatoes and avocados.

The party was better than I ever could have planned. My sister came in from Vermont as a surprise, my brother grilled the steaks to perfection, and my different groups of friends were making new friendships among themselves. There were introductions and fresh conversations. You know how they say when you learn new things your brain actually carves new pathways? It felt kind of like that--new pathways. The energy was so engaging that no one even noticed my parents rolling their large suitcases across my front lawn and walking in the front door. And somehow during the hugging and hellos with my parents, I didn't notice my friends had lit candles on a cake. And there I was, in my little house flanked by my parents, surrounded by my friends all packed in shoulder to shoulder as they sang to celebrate my birthday. It was a top-10 moment in my life so far.

My brother and sister's visit was too short, but my parents were here for a week. Their flight left early this morning. The three of us spend nearly the entire time putting a patio in a little gravely spot next to my house where the driveway had been busted up a few months ago. It was hard work and expensive, certainly nothing I would have been able to do on my own. But my parents were truly tireless and over-the-top is the only way to describe the beautiful patio they helped me create. My parents generosity overwhelms me on a regular basis. Last night we had dinner there--on the patio under a swollen spring moon. We ate steaks, purchased from the same guy who had sold me the flanks exactly a week before. My father ordered three NY Strips and told the now-very-familiar-with-my-life meat counter guy the story about the patio. "Wow, what a birthday present," he said. "Lucky girl. You guys want to adopt a 47 year-old male?" I blushed at his comments; I feel almost embarrassed at how much good has come my way this week. I am very, very lucky. My generosities to my friends and family feel insignificant to what I've been given. There's no need to leave a jar by the door. I know how much I've got--it's a fortune.

rest up

This is my dog, Charlie. He's been mine since Valentine's Day when I picked him up from the Humane Society. Strangers gasp at his beauty--I'm serious. When they ask what kind of dog he is I've started answering "he's a black dog." The Humane Society and the vet have him down as "Hound Mix, 78 lbs."I may be biased, but I think he's the most beautiful mutt I've ever seen. He's at home now, probably still lying with his lazy jowls on the front porch in that same patch of sun. Lucky dog. We were up late last night frosting and sprinkling cupcakes. I think he's resting up because he knows tonight's the party...

doing

"There's always two guys," my friend told me as we hoisted and hammered his new cabinets in place. I was helping him all day Saturday, eventhough I had a long list of my own housework to do. "One speaks English. He cuts the deal. The other, his buddy, doesn't speak English--he's always the better craftsman." He was talking about Mexican day laborers; the guys you can pick up on Burnside Avenue near the I-84 overpass. I pass them everyday on my way to work as they wait in a cluster on the sidewalk for trucks to pull up. A few have backpacks, but most have nothing but the logo-splashed t-shirts on their backs. They swarm the truck and the most tenacious pair get seats in the cab and head off to a day's work--ten dollars an hour. My friend got my help for cheap last Saturday; I worked for spicy chicken wings and two cans of Pabst.

I don't think they'd fit in my bug, but I would've loved to pick up a few day laborers this morning. Although I've been doing non-stop (okay, except for the Tuesday night drunkenness) nothing seems to be getting done. My brother arrives tomorrow morning, all my friends show up in the evening and my parents will be at my house by 9:30--TOMORROW! I'm throwing myself a party. My to-do list has three pitiful lines drawn through a long string of ambitious tasks that just won't get done in time. Okay, one of the tasks was "pedicure" but this week, even that feels like an effort. I need the silent craftsman. I wonder if he can do French tips...

my side

This morning my credit card is still at the bar. I stayed too late last night with three friends and at least that many pitchers of microbrew. I drank enough to completely forget the tab…on a Tuesday! Amnesia Brewing is hands-down my go-to place for beers, especially on a warm night. They've got picnic tables outside and a charcoal grill that makes the whole place smell like summer, even when it's not. The ketchup bottles, some turned upside-down, and portly mustard jars are set out by the grill on a plastic table cloth in a "come and get it" style that makes me feel at home. It’s the only bar I am totally comfortable going to alone. But, last night I was with friends. We were two girls, two guys; all good conversationalists. It felt like playing well-matched doubles. Because we're all single, we naturally talked about relationships. One of us has been on a serious quest for love--online, in bars, at the dog park; the other was still mending from a Christmas Eve break-up; and the third was contemplating the Peacecorps, perhaps (among other reasons) to avoid the whole coupling thing, altogether. And me, well, I was proudly proclaiming that I had just last week started sleeping in the middle of the bed. It's a few inches, but a big move for me. "Yeah," someone said, "I have a hard time with that just 'cause there's two pillows. So, I just use one. Then, I'm on my side." "Oh," I replied too quickly. "Well, I keep one pillow under my head and I snuggle the other one." Someone scoffed and I could feel the comments that were about to follow. I cut them off. "You know, I wrap my arms around one. Like an L-shape. I make a nest. I've done it since I was a kid" Shit, I had already told too much, yet I kept throwing out details about my sleeping postures--gasoline on the fire. "It's nice!" was my last brick on the bulwark. Then I shut up and let them attack. "No way. I'd never do that," someone said. "It's too pathetic. It would make me feel even more lonely." I took the crass pillow-humping jokes and ridicule and the conversation moved on, so did the night, until it was just me and one of the guys finishing off the last pints. He's not really a close friend, but he's comfortable, like the bar. I like him--almost enough to let him replace the other pillow; not to have sex, just to have somebody there. And last night, after all that IPA, I almost did. He lived near the bar, I shouldn't be driving--the circumstances easily let me follow him home. We sat in the front room of his old house. Since he's working on the bedrooms and he lives there alone, everything's been moved downstairs--desk and easy chair in the living room and a bed where a dining table would be. He made me a cup of tea and we kept the conversation up to avoid silent moments that might make either of us think too much. (However, thinking too much is clearly something I do effortlessly.) I could see his bed and the simple sight of it introduced options, like maybe I didn't have to go home to a half-empty bed. In those moments I really can't tell what makes me choose.

I left just before 1:00 a.m. I didn’t get closer to him than to hug goodbye, but in those moments I felt opportunities hanging over us like ghosts. And I left feeling spooked.

This morning my eyeballs were dry and my stomach heavy as I drove to work. I was trying to judge my choice--wondering if I’d done the “right” thing, worrying that I’d cracked a door when I didn’t want any open, feeling confused at how divided I can be even when I'm completely alone in my decisions. And why does it have to be such a big fucking deal? I'm not surprised that I can simultaneous long for some connection and stand stiffly protective of myself. In every situation you can do something or not do it, but somehow in that binary simplicity I see webs and branches growing in all directions. And there I am, in the middle and not sure what to hang onto. Yeah, maybe it’s inches, but it’s big to me. I think last night I realized that for now I need to just stay where I am—on my side.