alienation v. dignity

I owe this contrast to one of our former psychological writers of note, but I cannot find it on Google, so I must have made it up. The idea of alienation vs. dignity relates to the process of aging, and the stages that we go through in our development as we mature. This stage is ideally saved for our later years, when we have some internal choices to make.

Alienation. I think this means that things such as the following spew from our mouths of their own volition:

1. kids these days...
2. ...we knew how to act back then
3. how strange
4. growing old isn't for wimps
5. where did I put that? did someone take/move it?

Dignity. This seems to take a little more work, or at least conscious attention. But I suppose that over time it would make many things easier, especially letting go of the body when the time comes:

1. I remember those struggles
2. the rules seem to be different now, I wonder what they are?
3. how wondrous; or, interesting, but not for me
   
4. growing old gives me permission to let things go
   
5. I can't find it, so I'll figure out something else

I had a recent opportunity to observe closely some elderly people struggling with the ideas of letting go; accepting others more and doing with less; gracefully moving into the position of active observers and thinkers. The key word, to me, became grace. If we let go by having our fingers pried open, is that letting go? How do we learn to grow into our dignity? How do we cause ourselves less pain since aging can bring enough pain of its own?

Opinions, in my opinion, are the greatest affliction we nurture within ourselves. Next, and related, is a need to understand before extending love. If we haven't the foggiest, and don't feel a need to assess others by our standards, then while it may seem like Alzheimer's to some, it looks a lot like bliss to me.

mortality

Just thought I'd be dramatic with the title...

Since a week ago Friday, I've been to two hospitals, three doctors' offices, run through three cardiac tests, punctured a total of seven times in my two arms... and here's the conclusion:

I do have a heart!

So, all you nay sayers, be informed. Last year we found out that I have a spine, this year a heart. Let's just save the question on everyone's mind for next year: marbles or air?

Here's what we know so far from my heart attack scare: it wasn't a heart attack. There is a blockage of blood flow to the lower part of the back of my heart. The blockage doesn't show up on an angiogram. The cardiologist's answer to the chest pains and blockage revealed on other tests? "It's a mystery."

Boy, let me tell you, that flip answer made me mad. Good thing I was mildly sedated and he had a wire in my heart at the moment or I might have slapped him. Because he didn't find what he was looking for, he was done looking for what he might find. In fact, he had greeted me two hours earlier on our first meeting with, "You don't look like you should be here." I assumed it was my fitness level (amazing) and age (supremely young). But it was revealed in his next sentence that my error in taking the hospital bed was due to my gender. "You don't fit the usual profile of my patients, but then the ladies DO have heart disease... I suppose." I should have said to call off the search right then, but no, I thought he was being chatty.

So, what to do with all of this information? Well, I vented with David. Then I came up with A Plan. Since the nitroglycerin pills help the pain, I'll get a standing prescription for nitro. I will carry on with my life as usual, curbing the things that may exacerbate the situation (caffeine, albuterol?, cardiologists being stupid.) I will follow up with my regular doctor and consider a second opinion in the event of another extreme episode like this one.

David suggested that the blockage was in the vessels too small to be seen on an angiogram. I called the first doc I'd called when this started, to let him know the progress. He said exactly what David said, and then said for me to get a nitro prescription, because it's a time bomb. This fellow, and my regular doctor, have been advocating for me for a week now. When the E.R. doc said it was just anxiety and gave me Xanax, they requested further testing and found the blockage.

I feel like I'm in good hands right here at home.

Part of The Plan is to accord with the way things are. I have had chest pain for over 21 years, just never this severe. I've been told it was arthritis. This isn't as scary for me as it might be. I'm more hopeful with a medicine that helps the pain, and the awareness that I'm not going to be mended by anyone... I am going to learn to live with this.

As to pursuing further opinions and tests and surgeries, I'm ambivalent. I intend to exercise (with nitro nearby) and live fully. I refuse to die before I die just to stay alive.

-ism is the second half of schism

Is anyone tired of the discussion of racism since Obama won? I mean, come on, we've had white presidents all these years, what is one more? We can deal with it.

Are you arguing with me? Are you trying to figure out what I mean?

Here's another one:

A young man is rushed to the hospital on the west side of town. His father is an ER doctor at the hospital on the east side of town. The ER doc sees the boy and says, "I can't operate on him, he's my son!" How is this possible?

Until we are able to rise above either/or thinking, we will be divided.

angry about abortion

I received an email forward from a cousin with a pro-life video attached. The video finished with biblical support of its gist that life is sacred.

"A fate worse than death" has become a common expression. However, the origin of the expression is from experiences that are less common. I feel that my childhood, even with all its inherent beauty and my survival of it, was a fate worse than death. I have spent many years feeling angry with my mother for not aborting me rather than bringing me into the world she knew I would face.

Mostly I am angry that the abortion issue is an issue...again. I thought we had this one figured out. Do we really need to revisit old issues to create a political platform? How about focusing on issues that are life-enhancing, like finding ways to end using children for pornography, prostitution, slavery, multi-generational incest, and finding ways to end poverty?

I say, let's revisit the question of abortion when we get our other shit together. In the meantime, I'll use the same source as pro-lifers to make my case:

"Happy is the one who takes your babies and smashes them against the rocks!" Ps. 137:9

See? Scripture can be used to back any argument. In fact, one of the prophets saw such horrible times coming that he told people to do this to their own children. We simply cannot judge for another what the circumstances require of them. And to legislate choices is just as bizarre as smashing babies.

Enough

My sister attributes this to Mary Poppins, "Enough is as good as a feast."

As a retailer in weird economic times, several questions have recurred in my thinking:

- what is essential?
- what is enough?
- when does more become a problem?
- how do you know when to change something?

All the other adages I've talked about (if it ain't broke, don't fix it; begun is half done; etc.) don't answer these questions sufficiently.

How do we know anything? I used to have a daughter-in-law who worried for recreation. She never could tell if her worries were real or imagined. I finally told her, "If the worry is real, you won't have to ask."

I think a variation of my answer works for the above questions. When I get to the essential and enough, I won't have to ask. When more becomes a problem, I will know it, as I will know when it is time to change something.

Shopkeeping by intuition isn't a popular subject in the literature, but it's how we have done it so far, and being as it's the horse we rode in on, I suppose we'll use the same vehicle for the tour.

geriatric fonts

Last night D and I went out to one of the nearby resorts to remember being tourists for a bit. It was lovely: the bongos from the luau almost drowned out the piped audio track in the lounge, and the stage lights across the water from another resort luau almost reminded me of Christmas spotlights.

Once the luau's finished, things settled in to a more human visual/auditory experience (as opposed to less humane = Vegas). We relaxed and I thought about ordering something to eat. Upon looking at the Pupu menu, however, I decided I'd have cereal at home. I couldn't read the menu. David, with his visual acuity improved, could read several key words if I held the menu at the end of my arms. He picked out "luau, smoked, flattened, poof" and I saw "sharky, lipstopper, hum, slimed".

As retailers, we are often told that we need to think of our aging population and the effects this has on all aspects of shopping. As a result of this information, we try to plant magnifying reading glasses throughout our store for people to be able to read the paint and glue labels, the product instructions, or even the books there.

Somebody needs to tell the graphic designers that menus are used in dimly lit places by old people. Cute fonts that look like they're carved out of lava by tiny menehune will not increase sales.

In honor of our not eating anything there last night, I revamped my blogs to "large" and "x-large" fonts wherever possible. Why didn't I do that before my experience?

Writing

I'm working on a new story. It's a murder mystery set in Hawaii, with the Ms. Marple being a big Hawaiian-mix fellow who is a portrait painter. So far, so good. I'm into chapter 4 and I wonder what's going to happen next.

Writing has taught me many things.

Book One: This took me about ten years to write, and about that long for friends to read it. GIGO.

Book Two: This took me two weeks to write. I was on fire. I was inspired. The publisher said it was a nice caper. I thought it was Science Fiction Fantasy. Oy.

Book Three: The sequel to book two. Forget it. I didn't finish it.

Books 2&3 taught me that when my characters get into a bind, there are several ways to work through the situation. Somehow, in getting to practice problem solving through my characters, I started to see more options for my own real life. Problems seemed smaller too, through the lens of authorship. Just find the way to plot around it.

So this is Book 4. I'm learning about being the author. With a story, that authority is obvious. With our lives, it seems much more complicated. I suppose the fact that we cannot actually move other people around conveniently does make life different from writing. But the essence remains: We are the authors of our life stories, and we are the ones in charge of how we view the plot as well as how we make choices in relation to what has happened thus far.

my day

Here's a day in the life of an average gal living in Hawaii on her day off from work.

I started a load of laundry, and set water on the lawn. Then I followed an exercise DVD, showered, and went back to bed. After that, I got up and cooked myself french toast and started supper for the kids (they are having friends over while D and I escape to the movies). I started another load of laundry, made out a grocery list, did my daily quota of writing, and set off for errands with the dog.

We filled the hybrid with petrol, stopped at the used bookstore (got a yoga DVD and some cookbooks), and then went to see D at the shop. While my beloved rested, I transferred music to our repaired computer (yeah, mr. tioli!) and checked in a few items from a new shipment that arrived. When D was ready to be back on duty, I went to Costco to see if I could get out of there for under $200. Almost, but not quite.

Then the dog and I decided to head home on the high road, which is usually less congested than the highway. Wrong again. But since it's at a higher elevation, we were sure to be able to sit on battery power with the windows down. Many other vehicles gave up and turned around. I wonder, were they going to go around the island to get where they wanted rather than sit in non-moving traffic? There are only a handful of roads here...

I checked out my nused cookbooks while not-driving, and Jack snoozed beside the laundry detergent, sneezing on occasion. One place we passed had drums pounding like a halau was practicing, but it hit me at a primeval level, sounding so serious and intense.

When we got home, I unloaded the car, checked on supper, turned on the a/c in our bedroom where D's computer is, and fired up the computer to write about my day.

Supper is mulligan stew. I made one for the kids with all the cholesterol left in, and one modified kettle for Ma and Pa that I named "Where Sheep May Safely Graze Hunter's Stew."

Now that I've written about my day, I suppose I'd do well to get on with it. Maybe a nap is in order, again. It is my day off, after all...

Aha!

I've been compulsively reading the biography of Gerald Durrell, written by Douglas Botting.

So many nuggets of life are in that book, not the least of which is Botting's ability to tell about a human being in all his fullness (faults in full view) with love enough to make room for errors.

Writing skill aside, Durrell's story reads like a warning, as well as a call to arms for anyone with grand ideas. First of all, don't turn to drink to comfort you in your solitude, exhaustion, and humiliation. Second, the establishment is going to make fun of you. Do what you know you need to do anyway.

Durrell certainly didn't mean the above to be my lessons drawn from his life. He wanted me to focus on ecological concerns and conservation. But instead, I saw how a man used the fame he gained from what he would consider mindless sheep (humans) to save numerous varieties of mindless sheep (ugly and uninteresting animals).

Another pebble in my thought-shoe is the idea that Durrell's first wife nagged him into writing (delightful books) and he continued writing, For Forty Years, as a means to earn money for his real work. No wonder he drank, and what if his drinking actually held him back? Boggling, puzzling, and compelling is the story of a chemically dependent hero.

Today

If you could do anything today, what would it be?

I was painting yesterday with a visitor to the island and she had taken a "Point Zero" painting workshop from a woman whose book I'd read and was trying to apply to my own painting.

http://www.pointzeropainting.com/index.html

The bottom line in Cassou's approach is internal direction. By asking ourselves open questions for our next steps, we steer by an internal compass that no one else can give to us. This morning, I wondered how that might apply to the creation of our daily living.

If you could do anything today, what would you do?

I'm thinking of a chicken picnic at the beach. Or...

And you?

beauty

I am attempting to write an article on beauty with the hopes of submitting it to O magazine. One recent issue of the publication stated boldly on the front that they are starting a beauty revolution. Articles were silken in their praise of us just as we are, nestled in a hefty surrounding dose of plastic surgery ads. We are downright schizophrenic in our ideas about beauty, and the number one enemy for all seems to be age (time + gravity).

I don't really have anything to say about beauty in my article. I am as confused and conflicted as the next beauty-wanna-be.

In my teens, I wrestled with two ideas about being gorgeous:

1. A woman is beautiful in proportion to the amount of cosmetics she can afford to leave alone. (A twist on Thoreau's definition of a man's wealth.)
2. If the house needs painting, paint it.

Which door would I choose: number one or number two?

I stepped through each one at different times and was sorely disappointed by both. If I left myself au naturel, my mother thought I was ill, and people pretty much ignored me. If I put on makeup, I got unwanted stares and acne.

I talked with a friend about my debate, and he sagely advised that the ideas number one and two are not necessarily mutually exclusive.

Oh.

Well, I suppose, there you have it.

A Little Slort of Sheep

Shawn has suggested that I'm on a vision quest with my sleep deprivation. I suspect that it has shallower roots, running somewhere along the streams of small business ownership and "being at that age."

Whatever the reason, I'm not getting a lot of sleep these days. As you read this, keep in mind that I'm not drunk as thinkle peep. I'm just a little slort of sheep.

Last night I was tired beyond description. I sacked out around nine, and woke up completely at midnight. Since there is no compromising with insomnia, I got out of bed and went to work at the shop. I completed one task I've been working on for two weeks; hopefully avoiding anything that required real logic. Then I came home and went back to bed just as the teens were waking.

I've started doing a little obsessive/compulsive routine at bedtime to increase my Z mojo. The voodoo I do worked pretty well for the first three nights, but now I forget to do it. I'm not obsessive enough about my compulsions, it would seem.

So, here's my next plan.

I'm going to set up the laptop on standby. If I can't get to sleep within the half hour of waking, I'm getting up and writing on my new story. It may be a Dali-esque mystery. I may read it and later wonder what the heck I'm writing about, but I'll get done the writing that I want to do and I won't sweat laying awake.

I think this plan will work, because of all my little routines, avoiding real work is the one I have most refined. When I was a child and couldn't sleep, I would think up just one little task that I told myself I must do before going to sleep (like "put lotion on my hands", or "put a ribbon on the bear"). I would drift off to sleep easily with the idea that by doing so I was avoiding work.

Clearly, I have work and sleep issues. As a kid, sleep meant danger. I am far along enough in my healing to be free of that, I think. As a kid, work meant kudos. Maybe I'm not over that one yet.

Or maybe I've gotten in the habit of worrying (as I suspect) and I'm letting that dominate my rest hours.

Maybe my next plan should be research on how not to worry?

friends

I have many friends. Many of them I lost "in the fire" (what I call my escape from Maxwell after being scared by a handgun-wielding ex-). Those friends had to choose life with him. I understand that these things happen. They're still my friends, only indirectly now.

I have good new friends as well, and those friendships are growing. Some old friendships I was glad to let go of. I'm in that sort of relationship right now.

Hostage-taking friends have me. These friends are the ones who start with not just accepting me, but seeing me as perfect. The next step is gifts. I get really uncomfortable when friendships start this way, because inevitably I'll show a flaw and there's an end to the honeymoon. I try to end the honeymoon early by messing up regularly and announcing it, but bedazzled friends see that as cute and quirky. Finally, I disappoint these friends because I haven't agreed to their ironclad rules of how things should be. If they give me a gift, I owe them something. If they do something for me, I need to be at the ready.

Problem is, I don't have a good memory. So, I let go of what someone else might think they owe me, for whatever reason, and I assume that others do the same unless we've agreed otherwise. I don't much like the idea of owing, unless we're talking about a signed legal agreement.

Right now I have a friend who is acting like I owe her. I want to tell her a few things, none of which is Thank You. She has been very friendly and gifty and self-sacrificing. And all of that behavior has given me the creeps. I keep wondering what she wants from me. And I'm starting to learn that she wants all the friendly, gifty, self-sacrifices from me that she has given. At this point, I'm not sure I even want to be friends with her.

What I want is for the bedazzled to start thinking about herself in this friendship. I want her to look at what she needs from me and ask me for it. I can respond to direct requests. If I can, I will. If I can't, I'll say no. And I might not even apologize for not being able to do what she asks, because I don't feel like friendship entitles us to each other.

I'm probably the worst friend on the planet, but I'm an easy friend too because I'm pretty laid back about any shoulds.

The Power of Now

I'm reading Eckhart Tolle's cornerstone book and thinking about why we don't just stay in the present moment, since it's so great.

So far, I've come up with the following reasons we get out of Now:

• we entertain ourselves by going into future worries and past regrets
• we forget and remember and then forget the present moment
  
• being in the present makes us feel less substantial and therefore threatened by the idea of ceasing to exist
• we think that we can't accomplish anything unless we think

Tolle says that we don't stay in the now because, "The mind, to ensure that it remains in control, seeks continuously to cover up the present moment with past and future..." This seems too simple an answer, a conspiracy theory of me against myself ...which is probably just my mind's way of ensuring that it stays in control. I'm not so sure about that, since my mind seems to be very much in agreement with what Tolle is saying, and I am comfortable with shutting down thinking (just ask my friends).

There must be some reward for getting out of the Now, something that we perceive as more valuable than peace and well-being, or we would stay there (here.)

a cool one

what if money flow issues will be a thing of the past for all of us one day?

continuing the what-if saga

What if I'm not tired, just lazy?

antidote what-if

What if everything is unfolding exactly on its course?

violence and its seeds

I've been thinking about war, use of force, and any form of coercion or manipulation I might exert on another.

I wonder, is it ever reasonable, useful, or long-term profitable to influence another person?

I wonder, is it ever justifiable to retaliate?

I wonder, is it possible to just let things go (where does the anger go? where do we put it?) and move on?

Where do we move on to?

There is a higher view here somewhere, I just can't see it yet.

What if tomorrow never comes?

Here are some stupid what-if's I have caught myself thinking either in the past or lately:

• what if, now that I can walk again, I can't walk again?
  
• what if we can't afford the water for the lawn?
• what if I can't finish the novel that I'm writing for my own entertainment?
  

being, becoming, and done been

David and I talked last night about the Power of Now. I apologized to him for how hard things are right now for us, and he answered, "Things aren't hard right now." Since we were walking to the movies, knowing we'd head home to rest after that, I had to agree. My "right now" was including pretty much the last year. But right now, this moment, is manageable.

What was a year ago is gone. I'm still trying to think of the seventies as a long time ago, and the eighties were yesterday. Time isn't linear, it's a chunk. Either I look at the big chunk of My Life, which overall is about one of the grandest adventures ever, or the little chunk of right now which is downright lovely, or the middle chunk of these days.

The chunk of These Days is the tricky one. Just a few years from now, these will be the good ole days. Right now these are the hard years. Maybe the change in perspective is the result of the nature of the process of life.

Maybe, like any masterpiece trapped in marble, we are slowly released from more and more of not-us and become more ourselves. But we are also growing, not cold stone things. So maybe we're more like wood, green wood... like a bonsai. We are shaped and sculpted by the winds and moisture (or lack thereof), the location of our living and direction of our life whizzing past us.

Just an idea.

I know that I am feeling a greater capacity in me. I can hold opposite ideas without them chasing each other around in my head. I can do tasks that were very difficult for me a few years ago. (In a former marriage, changing the bed linens was a psychological Mount Everest; now it's a breeze.) I can be loved and hated by my children without needing to help them decide to love me. I can learn to spin yarn and let go of activities that no longer give me a charge.

Used to, I thought I had to do everything and do it well (perfectly.) Now I think I want to do what I want to do to the best of my ability and everything will fall into place.

I sure hope it all falls into place. And I'm sure that it all already has.

money

I opened our accounting program "Quickbooks Premier Accountant Edition" and read the word accountant as abundant! I like that... I'm ready to hear the whoosh of flowing abundance through our business, and the resulting upkeep of things we've had to put on hold in our personal lives. I'm ready for the recession and rumors of recession to ease up. I think that if our economy weren't choking, our business would be growing. As it is, it's holding steady on. So, I really can't complain.

I'll get to work on our abundant edition and keep doing my best. I can't help but think these are the times people tell about when they have "made it" and others think it came easy. I like to think that because it makes me think we'll make it.

And either way, with or without a future in Tioli's, we'll make it. We already have. There is a constant stream of joy in doing our business that pays far more than monetary gains. I just looked over to the wall of colored pencils, and someone has set up our wooden lizard manikin to do a back flip hand stand. Our shop gives us reasons to smile, to be happy, to work on maintaining relationships in our community and to go ahead with our dreams.

Tioli's put me on so many learning curves, I realize now that I'm always going to be a beginner. And I'm okay with that.

mother's day

... and yet more grieving. I have a mother, but she didn't raise me. My oldest sister by 10 years raised me, so when she went off to college, I lost my mother. The other woman who gave birth to me has always been a little demented and disconnected, so I lost her a long time ago, probably years before I was born. No matter that I lived with her and she fed me and all that; she was not a mother to me.

I have raised or am raising a total of six kids. I didn't raise two kids. Out of the eight, I have no relationship with my kids; the first three because their dad would threaten my life if I had contact with them, and the second three because they are undecided about their love/hate for me. We're in the hate or near-hate phase right now, being the teen years.

These are not easy times for me. I wish that I had an extended family and people who understood without needing explanation. Instead, I am surrounded by a family of christians.

All of my siblings seem to indicate that my grief and sorrows are a result of not living a christian life. Nevermind that it was life-threatening when I lived for Christ (I could have been a fantastic martyr but I fucked up that opportunity to demonstrate WWJD.)

I wish that I could grieve all of this with honesty in the relationships themselves. But instead, I'm trying to figure it out with the help of David and my sorrow-sodden brain. There is no repair I can make with the kids. They'll have to decide whether to have relationship with me or not. There is no repair to be made with my parents, especially my mother, because the lights are on, but no one's home. Never has been.

So, mother's day for me smacks of homelessness, isolation, not belonging.

I am so thankful for David's love for me. Otherwise I would despair.

Burgled

We went to Maui and got burgled twice. Here is a link to the narrative of events:

http://realhawaii.blogspot.com/ under this date

and here are some poems about how I feel with all of this:


Pursesnatcher

You forgot
that you also took
a boomerang
of grief with my cash
so watch out
it will return

meantime
may the Mother of All Regrets
suckle you
at her bitter teets
and instill the losses in you
which you'd hoped
to pass on to me

and I accepted for a day

Now you can have it back
and I'd like
a return of my
sense of peace
decency
clean actions

I wish you no ill
but the hobbling
of your haste
to self destruct
which caused you
to try to take me
with you

Thanks
but I'll stay here
at center.



I Did Not Invite The Fool

Never, you say, do that
I should know
better
and my fault
that others prey
but I say
I did not invite the fool
to take mine from me
any more than you
will invite death

It happens
whether we are wise
or not
and lock our doors
or not

losses will amass
as do possessions
and both come to nothing
soon enough.

The other way, I've learned,
is to choose
the flow
where it will go
just before
it would have been taken

...a little trick
to outwit the fools
and send my kind
of invitations.



Sentimental Value

Hey You,
with my wallet
from a friend from Japan made in Italy
with a small card full of Engrish
(which still makes me smile
though you stole it
from my reading)

I cannot share with you
more than cash
the friendship
of such value
because you cannot grasp
cannot grasp
the unbreakable treasure
and thus
must settle for shards
of your broken life
a violent void
empty of the emotions required by
friendship
humor
generosity
compassion

All obliterated
by your ethic of addiction
My invisible wealth
remains untouchable
to your clenched
sticky
blind
fingers

Oppressors and the oppressed

It seems like there will always be people who take advantage of other people. I see oppression and abuse and simple mis-use of power in various levels throughout the world. It makes me feel hopeless.

Yelling at oppressors usually gets more oppression. So does fighting back. There is escape. But once uprooted, there are new oppressors to be found. How do people live free of oppression?

So many people I know think that I'm talking about issues in the past, in war zones, in other countries; that no one gets treated poorly any more. It simply isn't so. The statistics on child sexual abuse are staggering. Spousal abuse, the same. And that's just in America, and just the reported cases.

What will it take for us to stop bullying, excluding, abusing, deriding, and retaliating?

well-being

Today was my day off... and I had a swath of open time that I set aside to try and do as little as possible. I did a fine job of it, for the most part. Sure, I slipped in a little creative putzing and random knitting. But I did not tackle any large projects or chores, or even start something useful other than supper. (I started knitting some socks for David, but they don't count as I'm not getting any hopes about their usefulness.)

At about 11 a.m., I was totally frustrated by my lack of internal creative freedom. I want to write a book, but I can't seem to find a character that I care about. I started to think that maybe I need a highball to let loose. And that's when I realized that what I was thinking is how writers get the rep. It was shocking to realize that by a small course adjustment in my steering, I could possibly set up a downward spiral that would take much more effort to correct than a slight nudge.

While not every decision in life has such steering potential (brand of toothpaste, wearing blue or brown...), most do have a trail-blazing effect. I was duly convicted by myself and sat down to knit to think about all this.

I haven't exercised intensely since my back surgery last autumn, having tried shortly after the surgery and ending up making things bad again. I wondered, is it time to steer in that direction? If I don't want to go down Heming Way, which way do I want to go?

So, I popped in a yoga workout video, found a portion called "fully modified" and found that I was able to do all that they asked of me. Tomorrow will tell me if I overdid it, since my back has a long latency period before it expresses itself. But my mind likes my choice, and the rest of my body feels the better for it.

I still haven't found my character, however. I may take the intoxicating idea of spirited disinhibition to heart and pretend for a while that I've had a toddy and so I can write anything. Because, with or without the drink, I can in fact write anything.

You, Me, and Us

I wanted to say
something today
about our Us and our Now
and how
I cannot find words
that wrap around
this wild circle of living
we've given

the fullness
pregnant with possibility
that these leaps have taken with us
the madness
of living as if our dreams were reasonable
and reasons to live

the finding
we're safe with our hearts
and each others'
the risks of trust turned good sense
and following
that most fickle of human organs

such life!
in our freedom
with each other

The Ocean

The sea is heavy water. So salted that it feels more like a mix of fresh water and mercury, the ocean slides over and around my feet in a dance. It feels like I should be able to walk on it, with or without faith. I should be able to carry a handful of it with minimal leakage. It is substantial.

The sea is also an ocean of metaphors. The waves and depths could be emotions. The tides, the shorelines, the doldrums, the hidden flora and fauna, the creatures of the deep... what fertile substance for the imagination and ideas.

But mostly, the sea is a container. It's full of salt water, but it contains history, aeons of grief and hopes and motivations. It contains possibility. It is indomitable power contained in a lulling shush. It contains secrets and you could die of exposure on it. It contains water and salt, the consumption of both so necessary to our living, but unconsumable.

Like Africa, the ocean is a place where everything eats everything. I am consumed by the idea of it.

...and more vog

I talked with a person today who has lived on the island since the seventies. He thinks that the vog is due to drilling to tap into geothermal energy. Ooooh, a conspiracy theory. How do we believe these things?

Today by 3 pm people were driving with headlights on. It's getting darkish earlierish. Weird.

And D can't breathe. And I've got a headache. And we're all grumpy.

Paradise!!

grief

I am in another grieving cycle. Beats the heck out of me what it's about, but I'll just talk about it and maybe I'll know what I'm thinking when I read what I wrote.

Last year I had back troubles. After a diagnosis of a herniated disc, and repeated prescriptions for pain medication and muscle relaxants (both addictive, but David said we'll deal with that when it's time for it), I became unable to walk.

Sitting in wheel chairs and watching others saunter brought on a pity party and jealousy of the likes I never hope to see in myself again. Eventually, I was able to grieve the loss of my ability to walk and to get to some acceptance that this was what is next.

When the pain got so bad that I couldn't sleep without propping myself in strange foetal knots, I knew that I couldn't live this way. A trip to the emergency room, three days immobilized in the hospital, and a spinal surgery led to my walking onto a plane two days post-op and going home: walking and pain free. I had avoided surgery because of all the friends I have who were worse for it. For me, it was miraculous.

From this experience, I learned that I can survive sudden grief and loss, can move on, can deal with what life gives us.

The grief that is eating me up is a grief of regret. I feel like I have failed my husband and my kids.

When David and I got together, I was sure that our love was the answer to all the questions. Didn't the kids' mother need the freedom to come to terms with accepting herself as gay? Didn't the kids want a mother who wanted to be domestic for them? Didn't David need help with the weights of parenting? Oilah! Let's fix this thing.

I don't know if my regret is over my naivete, hubris, or just the way things didn't work out as we saw they could have. The kids immediately took a hate to me. They also loved me. Which made the hate worse. I immediately went into disciplinarian mode, which fueled more hate and I felt was the only way to give stability in their volatile, changing lives.

Oh the things I would do differently. One of them would be to stop trying so hard. I wanted to help, sure, but there was an effort in controlling the course of a river that was already well past the fork. What did I think we could do with that?

So, now we're here, with things as they are, and I keep making myself remember not to try so hard. And we're fine. We're just not where we pictured, as far as bringing peace to the kids' lives and helping them find their ways without additional pain.

And that makes us different from any other family... how?

I just wish that I knew then what I know now. Don't we all!? I would have loved the kids in a much better way for them than I was able to understand at the time. And so I grieve the lost opportunities and the damages I've done in doing my best.

And now? Now I'll just remember to love and let go. That's where we are now in parenting. It's time for us to focus on our Kuleanas (responsibilities, business) and let the kids find focus on theirs.

Paralysis by Overanalysis

I'm waiting for spaghetti squash to cool so that I can scoop it out and save it for lunch tomorrow, as spaghetti.

While I while away the time, I am thinking about thinking. Today I was reminded that the mind can go on and on. In fact, there are times that I think I'd do well to join On And On Anon. When, or if, I can get my mind to shift into neutral, such a peace overwhelms me that it is nirvhana. Or however you spell it...

Knitting puts my mind into neutral, also sometimes called the zone. I wonder what is the purpose, then, of all this thinking, if it's so much bliss to stop it. To what use shall I put the analysis?

I like to ask questions. I like to chat and toss around ideas. I like silence. But when we start talking about versions of reality and perceptions, I feel like I've stepped off of solid ground onto a precariously swaying vessel. Maybe this is why and how we get rigid in our beliefs and perceptions: because the motion sickness of changing perspectives can be quite uncomfortable.

But in all of this I wonder, is there a higher way. By higher way I mean a both/and approach to ideas rather than either/or. So, is there a higher view of thinking vs. cruising? Is there a zone where analysis also operates and timelessness informs us?

I like to ask questions.

Metaphors

Recently I had an interaction with a couple that left me questioning my skills with language. Over dinner and a discussion of exciting ideas, I enthused and barely contained my excitement. Everything I said was presented in glistening metaphors (of which I was unaware at the time.) In the time between the start of dinner and the end, I became increasingly aware that the man didn't understand what I was saying, and perhaps just didn't like me very well.

I did two things in response to my perception: I tried to communicate better, i.e. make better metaphors. Then I read him intuitively, sensing that on some level I reminded him of his mother, and sensing that this was not a positive thing. Eventually, I gave up, lost my enthusiasm, and tried to be quiet.

The most interesting part of all of this comes in the lunch I had with the wife a day or two later. She took the time and trouble to explain to me what went on. Because we potentially may be friends for a long time, this revelation was a real gift.

She said that metaphors are a signal for danger to him. (I know about psychological triggers, so she was speaking my language right from the start.) As a teen, he had been given some devasting news by his mother ...in the form of a metaphor. So when he hears or senses an apt comparison, he shuts down.

From this I was able to determine:

• anything can be a trigger
• we each have a responsibility to remove the fuse from our personal triggers
• I am in the habit of using metaphors to excess
• I was right-on about the mom association, just in a different form
• metaphors can be used for many functions (more in a moment on that one)
• this friendship would be my opportunity to consciously use or not use metaphor, to be more aware of my own communication style (a good thing)

In conversing with myself about this strange verbal wreckage, I found that I was unable to think about it all without giving myself a metaphor. I would think, "Maybe for him it is like... No, wait. Well, it's as if I were... No, no, wait. It could seem that..." And so on. Until I realized the context in which metaphor is necessary: for the unnameable and formless in our lives, we must resort to metaphor. We can give these "things" names (insight, enlightenment, awareness, relationship) but abstract nouns fly about as far as lead birds. Metaphors take wing and carry meaning all over the place, dropping seeds of potential and fertilizing ideas. See? Case in point.

I also tried practicing communication without metaphor, and found it to be revealing. As in naked. Talking free of metaphor is an embarrassing way (for me) to speak. Language without metaphor is direct, unsoftened, mono-tentional. There's no escape to, "Yes, I mean that, but also this." Using metaphor is a way to avoid blasting others with difficult truths or difficult concepts. Hence this man's mother used metaphor to break life-changing news to him in a way he might understand. I had to admit that I have often used metaphor to hide. It was as if I was saying, "Figure out what all I might mean, if you can."

It makes sense that I would communicate in such a way, being as I lived forty years with secrets of abuse and didn't reveal them to anyone. But maybe while this guy works on allowing metaphor to his ears I can take it as an opportunity to regulate the flow of metaphor out of my mouth. Maybe it's time for me to be direct and reveal my self to others. I may not become a verbal flasher (yet), but at least I can take off my down coat of ideas in a warm room.

See? It just comes to me.

Family

Is there a police force more compelling than that of family? Long after we've outgrown our childhood cohort and the authority of our parents, that culture still reigns in our thinking and our choices. The upside (per Christians) to the family culture is "raise a child in the way he should go and he will return to it." Or not stray from it, or whatever version you prefer. I strayed. I tried to return to it and strayed again.

Now I'm trying to burn the bridges to The Way so that I can't go back to it any more. But just yesterday I caught myself in my journal talking in the passive voice. I was talking about difficult times in the past and the relatively gentle stress of my days now, "I always wondered if I wasn’t being stretched to be able to handle less, rather than more." Well, it's an interesting idea: being made a larger vessel so that we can contain more without strain, but let's not miss the real point here. Who is making the vessels?

You see? I have in my mind, still, a Maker. A Stress Coordinator. Thankfully, I seem to have internalized this One as benevolent and intelligent. Ungratefully, I reject the idea of a maker. I can hear the family-police outcries at that statement. No maker? Good God!

In fact, the pressure is so great from my family to lie and say that I believe, whether I do or not, that if it came down to it, I would lie to keep the peace. See what I mean about effective police force?

That leaves me without a maker and without a family, however. The pressure is great to buy into what the family believes. Do Islams go through this? Certainly. (But they're mistaken about their religion, my father would add.) Buddhists don't seem to have this struggle. They seem to say, "Believe or not, whatever, but wash your dishes." I am partial to them just for that practicality. But I'm not an -ist or -ian or -im. I'm just an am.

vog and beliefs

More about vog.

We had a customer in the shop who told D that his fireman friends did air testing of the masses hanging over Kona and they are moisture, not vog. D had the presence to ask a most reasonable question, "If that's not vog, then why am I so grumpy?"

D got a resonable answer, too, "You're right, it must be vog."

But really, if it's not vog, what are these miserable physical symptoms about? What is the darkish haze we see right before our eyes? I like to think that the message got altered in being carried, and the air testers said, "It's mostly moisture." That I can understand to be true.

Who cares? Well, the volcanic gasses are not healthy. If a person can simply fall asleep and die in their car from gas fumes (don't worry, I understand that there are different gasses at work here), then at what point do we all just fall asleep on the island and never wake up? In fact, today is my day off and I'm thinking of just going back to sleep...

The "is it vog" question seems pretty silly to me. But I keep relating this back to some historic events that had people questioning what is real. The first is from a trip to Zimbabwe.

I was sitting at the camp with our camp manager, a woman, and I asked her how people felt about the AIDS problem and so many people dying from it. Her answer was, "They don't believe in it." Her friend dying in the hospital as we spoke went there with a really bad flu. What's to believe or not about AIDS? But it makes change unnecessary if we simply don't believe it.

The second is from my introspection regarding Nazi Germany. I was shocked to realize that many people had pre-indicators that they needed to get out of there. Some did. This begged the question of why others did not leave. I heard in my head all the reasons, "We can't afford to move; to where?; this is our home and all we own for generations is here; no one should be able to chase others away; something will change." and the most befuddling, "This isn't really happening."

Reports are greatly exaggerated. Sometimes. In Nazi Germany, they were not. With AIDS in Africa, they are not. With vog? Well, today is clear. No one is sounding sirens or planning evacuations here (that I know of). But other places on the island have already been evacuated and then repopulated, because, ultimately, we just don't know.

Voggy Daze

We're still dealing with a vog bank that makes it dusk from about noon until dark. Rains haven't cleared it for more than a couple of hours in the morning. Winds today are stirring the vog cover around. It's up there, hanging around, and making for an interesting mix of physical and emotional symptoms in me.

Physically:

• my eyes are producing pumice. I would do well to be resourceful and use it as a microscrub for my face, except that my skin has turned tender with the times.
• my lungs are coughing up pumice and acid. It's a chemical peel for bronchial youthfulness.
• my sinuses are being weather chiseled into remains of brain-supporting stalagmites and jaw-hinging stalactites. If the abrasion continues, I won't be able to chew or think about how bad that might be.
• my body is swollen with anti-allergen stuff in an attempt to take the foreign bodies out to sea.

Emotionally:

• I feel like a sack of cement is sitting across my chest and I am a slug for not doing my usual activities anyway.
• My swollen body and tingling surfaces lead me to feel alien, not at home in my own body.
• I feel misunderstood since no one is going to read this and believe that I'm a pumice producing chemical filter.
• I question my own sanity: if it's this bad, why aren't I getting the heck out of here. (Because it's paradise, doggonit.)

Back in the day, I read a book about a jungle adventure with a volcano and they encountered vog in the story and I thought "how cool." Actually, I thought that the author had made up the word and pretty much the idea. Let me assure you: vog is real. It is not cool.

And the poor folks who paid big bucks for a tropical vacation here. I think that I have something to complain about?!

For a satellite image of the vog go to:
http://www.redorbit.com/images/images-of-the-day/img/19601/vog_from_the_kilauea_volcano_in_hawaii/index.html

bookkeeping

I'm paying homage to the date, being as taxes are due tomorrow. I've been in a flurry of bookkeeping this week. I almost typed beekeeping for book... which is a fine summary of how I feel about the job: stung.

I hate beekeeping. It makes me hurt all over. I try so hard to do a good job with it, but I'm so creative that the math gets really, well, creative. I say that our books are a Monet. From a distance they're a beautiful thing. Up close, they're a mess.

I think what I really mean is that I need to keep my distance from our books.

nothing

blah blah blah

blah blah

blah blah blah blah

blah

blah blah blah

Politics

I just read the recent Rolling Stones summaries of Obama's campaign.

Random thoughts:

• maybe we can outgrow herd instincts and prejudices. Someone named Osama drops us to our knees but we can vote for someone named Obama to lead us (I got lots of early emails full of ignorance about the name issue...)
  
• bipartisan politics seem like a way to divide a country. Now I'm thinking that narrowing it down to only a few parties, out of our possible millions, is genius.
• The election system is ill. If Obama can win using grass-roots organization, I like that idea alone. I don't feel like I've had a vote for years because I couldn't just say "no" to the choices. If I could have voted No all around, would they have had to come up with better options?
• If Obama wins by getting people organized and pulling together, he's got a chance as president.
• Hilary is scary as a person. It's really too bad she's a woman because she gives us a bad name. A woman has as much a chance to win as anyone. I don't think that gender and race have anything to do with potential. I am only concerned with the spirit of the person running.
• If our nation makes note of voting for a black man, we are commenting on how we are still stuck in our prejudices about race and gender.
• I am afraid that someone will feel a need to kill Obama ASAP if he wins just because of stuckness. But then, the herd instinct is cureable...
• I haven't talked about the other candidate because just looking at the family speaks volumes about their spirits. Sorry I'm judging the books by their covers, but their covers are transparent and I'm judging what I see as shallow, privileged, and entrenched.
  

I may vote in this election, for a change. I wonder how many of us will be coming out of the woodwork to shake up the establishment?

life in the shadow of a volcano

Vog

Blowfish lungs spiked inside

hurting to exhale a volcano
blowing glass and ash

lava tubes for anatomy

blowing Pele's hair into eyes

No Vesuvius days
just a tinted haze
over life as usual

wasn't that
what some Etruscans would say?
if they'd had
descendants to repeat it...

but I'm dawdling

writing a poem
about annihilation
instead of going to work

New Age and Old Age

My New Age friends have been saying the idea that "we create our own reality."

I ask them if that goes for rape, congenital problems, airplane crashes, gifts... and most of these folks say, yes, we create those too. They look puzzled by themselves for saying this, but are determined to see this truth in life.

I didn't really know how to argue with all of this. My sense is that there is a powerful grain of truth in the idea, but the catch phrase "we create our own reality" is dangerous. At best, it is an attempt to feel in control of life. At worst, it is a blame game for suffering.

What if "our beliefs create our truths" is a more accurate statement? Anyone see land mines in this one?

books

I love to read. I keep several books in my headboard, and try to pick one at bedtime that will inform my dreams. If I don't have such fodder, I just find a good novel or series and devour them instead. Right now my selection in the headboard is as follows:

Energy Addict by Jon Gordon (from Jamba Juice)
A Room of One's Own by Virginia Woolf
The Tibetan art of Serenity by Christopher Hansard
Effortless Mastery by Kenny Werner
Writing the Natural Way by Gabriele Lusser Rico

and the next in the Scott Westerfield series assigned to me by my daughter: Extras (I'll have to sneak the one before that out of her room since I pretended to read it and now I really want to.)

The book in the headboard that I'm avoiding reading is titled the Sexual Healing Journey by Wendy Maltz. It's so salty that I have to take it in very small bites. It's also not the greatest for reading just before sleep because I have so many nightmares anyway, I don't need to trigger them.

Yesterday I ate up Janet Evanovich's Plum Lucky; and tried to look into Sue Grafton for how to write mystery. But after reading A is for Alibi I'm going to let the alphabet rest, even though I bought a used hardbound all the way to C.

There is a small stack of books on the shelf that I gathered from the used book store and I'll whittle at them as I finish some of my present titles. I want to learn how to write mysteries. I want to write them with a glaze of the romance genre. Is there already the romance mystery genre (a "who's gonna do it?" like Romancing the Stone)?

Death, again

Being tax season and all, I inevitably think about death.

Okay, so it's a stretch of a reason, but I'm preoccupied lately with the idea that we all die. It's not news. It's not happening to anyone near or dear to me at the moment. I'm just trying to wrap my mind around the idea.

Dave Matthew's song "Pig" is going through my head. Here are the lyrics:

pig

By: Dave Matthews Band

Isn't it strange
How we move our lives for another day
Like skipping a beat
What if a great wave should wash us all away
Just thinking out loud
Don't mean to dwell on this dying thing
But looking at blood
It's alive right now
Deep and sweet within
Pouring through our veins
Intoxicate moving wine to tears
Drinking it deep
Then an evening spent dancing
It's you and me
This love will open our world
From the dark side we can see the glow of something bright
There's much more than we see here
Don't burn the day away
Don't burn the day
Don't burn the day away

Is this not enough?
This blessed sip of life, is it not enough?
Staring down at the ground
Oh, then complain and pray for more from above,
You greedy little pig,
Stop, just watch your world trickle away
Oh, it's your problem now
It'll all be dead and gone in a few short years

Oh, just love will open our eyes
Just love will put the hope back in our minds
Much more than we could ever know
Oh, so don't burn the day away
Don't burn the day away

Oh, come sisters, my brothers,
Shake up your bones, shake up your feet,
I'm saying, open up and let the rain come pouring in
Wash out this tired notion
Oh, that the best is yet to come
But oh, while you're dancing on the ground,
Don't think of, oh, when you're gone
Love, love, love, what more is there?
'Cause we need the light of love in here
Don't beat your head, dry your eyes, let the love in there,
There's bad times but that's okay, just look for love in there

And don't burn the day away
Look, here are we,
On this starry night, staring into space
And I must say, I feel as small as dust lying down here

Oh, what point could there be troubling
Head down, wondering, "what will become of me?"
Why concern? We cannot see but no reason to abandon it
The time is short, time, that's all right
Maybe I'll go out in the middle of the night,
And take your hand, look in your eyes, my love
All good things must come to an end sometime

Oh, but don't burn the day away
Don't burn the day away

Oh, come sisters, my brothers,
Shake up your bones, shake up your feet,
I'm saying open up and let the rain come flooding in
Wash out this tired notion
That the best is yet to come
But, oh, while you're dancing on the ground
Don't think of when you're gone
Love, love, love, what more is there?
'Cause we need the light of love in here
Don't beat your head, and dry your eyes, let the love in there
The bad times, well that's okay,
Let's just look for love in here, yeah

Just let the love in there,
Oh love, light up

____________

Okay, I'm not going to light up. But there's some wisdom in what he's saying. My mantra is to shake out this tired notion that the best is yet to come. So, why am I preparing myself for loss? Why am I dealing with the idea of death before it is a reality in my life? Maybe I'm trying to keep from being surprised by it. Or maybe I'm finally outgrowing my teen years and the idea of invincibility? Who knows. Just been thinking about death lately, is all.

ramblings

I drove to see the folks today. It felt psychologically like Frodo's trip to the volcano to toss in the ring. I love my folks and I hate what happened under their care, both. But they're eighty plus now, and what happened is over thirty years ago. Time for an old lady to get over what a really old man and his old wife did to her. Don't ya think? But, I wonder, what does it mean to "get over"?

I know that my dad raped me. I know that on some level my mom knew what happened, even though I also believe her when she says that she didn't Know. She knows now, and believes me, but thinks that staying with dad will bring him to Christ. Maybe "thinks" is too strong a word for my mom.

You see, my folks are highly polished nice people. They are pleasant to be around, even when they are arguing with each other (constantly). They work hard at being easy to get along with. It's the sheen of them that is so disconcerting to me. Doesn't anyone know it's a lie except me?

For me, to get over it all means that I am able to hold the shiny people and the scratched up truth in my mind together. To get over it means I am able to believe that really nice people do some very f****ed up things. How do I wrap my mind around that?!

I guess I need cognitive stretches to get there, to get to peace with the what is and what was in my life, both.

So, today I enjoyed the folks. I stayed safely numb for most of the time, and so it was cozy in my little private cocoon. It gave me a story idea.

When will I be big enough to contain the opposites without them going rounds inside of me?

Rocks

Do rocks bathe in the sun? Stretching and expanding with the heat, envying those who get splashed (and battered) by cooling waters? Storing the sun's warmth to ward off night's cold silvers?

Do rocks bathe in the sun? Tickled by insects, crabs, and animals like people walking across, aching where plants split them?

Do rocks need the sun? To fuel the movement of water and air that carve them, to eventually get to move themselves if only slowly, like glaciers. Do rocks know what to do, or worry about what's next?

Do rocks celebrate being chosen for walls, gathered from their field ramblings to join in a semblance of their original forming? Or is cement like a prison for a rock? Do rocks volunteer, or try to make themselves heavier when people pick them to move around? Is it an honor to be called stone? Do rocks fear magma and jackhammers?

Are underwater rocks a different creature from under air rocks like they are from space rocks? Do rocks wish that they could float or fly? Is being thrown addictive and what every rock hopes for when it gets old and small enough? Are rocks that skip on water the magical ones, the shamans of the mineral world?

Do they think that balancing is invigorating? Do rocks feel the inevitability of down?