You don't have to tell me...I know....
I haven't been here in quite awhile. And the world it seems, survived. It did not spin off its axis and hurl itself into the sun. No-one wrote me great angst filled emails begging for just one more piece of my writing. No one cried...possibly no one noticed...
I noticed. I've been here sometimes, staring at the great vast wall of white with the single blinking cursor. Many's the time, pardon the pun, that I've cursed the cursor...wishing it would let me issue forth, something...anything.
So let's say I've been on sick leave, struck down with what I term writers' paralysis. Too much life to live I guess. Not enough pensive thoughts that needed to be committed to the page.
I've been living. Working. Working hard. On myself, my job, my sense of fun, my need for belonging.
I'd been so busy over the last months and years trying to belong, to put my great square peg self into a round hole that I'd forgotten what fun felt like. What it really felt like to live, to play, to be silly.
Last weekend, I found myself twice in a sense of homecoming. Family was here, when family comes to Florida, you usually A. Go to Disney or B. Go to the Beach. We opted for the latter. It's ironic, I live within an hours' drive of possibly the most famous coastline in the world and I never go there. As we got closer, I could see it, aqua water with rolls of foamy soap-like waves. I felt 4 years old again, scrambling out of the car, impatiently waiting for the others to catch up to me. I simply could not wait to get to the sea and when I was finally there, the most odd sense that it had been waiting for me, just waiting for me to come back. Home, back where I belonged, the place that I most loved. Why had I stayed away so long?
The world has always seemed to me to be divided between two types of people, ocean-people and mountain-people. As majestic as mountains are, I must admit I am ocean person. It's there that I feel most myself.
As Ann Morrow Lindbergh wrote, in her famous "Gift from the Sea" (which I can never be without) "I walk far down the beach, soothed by the rhythm of the waves, the sun on my bare back and legs, the wind and mist from the spray on my hair. Into the waves and out like a sandpiper. And then home, drenched, drugged, reeling, full to the brim with my day alone, full like moon before the night has taken a single nibble of it, full as a cup poured up to the lip. There is a quality to fullness that the Psalmist expressed: "My cup runneth over."
My cup runneth over, I stood in the surf, the sand retreating from the pools under my feet, and just took it all in and I thought, "I'm happy. If nothing else comes of life but this moment, I'm happy and it can never be taken from me."
My next moment of homecoming took place in a gallery that I work within walking distance of. It's small and eclectic compared with the galleries one might see in NY or larger cities like London or Paris. But I've always loved it. Down to the smell and the heavy wooden doors that are on either side of it. I am passionate worshiper of beauty and design. Although frequently befuddled by it myself,(to wit, I spent the better part of one evening this week trying to buy throw pillows on Wayfair.com and becoming completely overwhelmed with the variety and colors offered, I slammed down the lid of Gavin (my laptop) and burst into tears), I always find myself completely enthralled with the product of another man's genius. I drank in beauty in paintings, vases, pottery, jewelry and other media. I asked questions of the museum guides, I reveled in color, in textures, in light. I found myself wanting to somehow capture it, to savor the moment, so that when I needed it, I could take out like a talisman against disappointment in man and humanity. Sometimes when life becomes overwhelming and too teeming with the problems of humanity, you need to be able to remember that there is still color, and beauty and romance left in the world. I found all of those things in that same neighborhood gallery that I visited so many times before.
So I guess I could say that for me, the antidote to Writers' Paralysis was to find inspiration and imagination again. And I guess, all apologies to Jonathan and Drew Scott, HGTV offerings are not always enough. I had to step outside of my own insular world and into the wider world and explore the things that are outside of the ordinary, even if my fear of heights did prevent me from climbing up the whole Lighthouse at Ponce Inlet and knocking an item off my bucket list!
All the writing prompts in the world cannot make you feel...
Writing is so much more than just the words...just setting them down will never do...you have to do the heavy lifting, the living...the feeling, the scents, the sounds...
Going through this time of paralysis makes me that much more grateful for the times when they words do come...
Friday, April 15, 2016
Thursday, January 21, 2016
Improver Guy
It all started because I'd been running late, actually I'm almost always running late...
I'm not a morning person, never have been. Many mornings my first waking thought is, "how many hours do I have to be awake before I can crawl back under the covers again?" I love sleep, everything about it, soft pillows, cool silky sheets, quilts...It's probably the reason I never had kids, they'd have gotten in the way of all that.
I'm off topic, sleep led to me running late, egregiously so this morning and the result was I didn't make my lunch. I decided that I would turn it into a positive and treat myself to Chick-Fil-A. To the un-initiated, Chick Fil-A is the maker and the proprietor of the best chicken sandwich in the South, if not the whole world. It's simple really, they take a plump juicy chicken breast, bread it in a coating of 'secret herbs and spices' (no really, I worked there and I still don't know the contents of the breading which comes in non-descript brown sacks) throw it in a pressure fryer full of peanut oil, then they take all the crispy goodness of that chicken cutlet, lay it on a buttered toasted hamburger roll with two dill pickles, throw in a paper sack of waffle fries and it is quite honestly the best lunch ever!
I sat at a table, eating my sandwich and browsing my phone when for some reason I looked up and there in line was a guy with a face I swore I'd seen before, I thought about it and all of the sudden I got that dizzy, cold sweat, my stomach is in my shoes feeling because whether or not it was the actual guy, he had the face of a man I knew all too well.
Most women at some point date a guy I like to categorize as "improver guy". You aren't quite his type of girl, but he thinks with a few tweaks here and there, you just might get close. You won't. Let me state that again for all the cockeyed optimists out there... YOU WON'T. You'll never get close, but you will half kill yourself trying.
I know, I've been there. Seeing that guy in line today, it brought it all back. Many years ago in the days when Windows XP was all the rage; I entered into a nine-month 'relationship' with my 'improver guy'. He was like the foreign exchange student that you can't send back until the program is over. We weren't really even friends by the end of our time together.
I still can't quite understand what made him stay around. Maybe it was the fact that I was gullible, emotionally needy and co-dependent. I think that he enjoyed toying with me much in the same way that a cat will toy with prey before actually 'killing' it. To his way of thinking, I needed a great deal of 'improvement'. My clothes were "too dowdy' and "prematurely middle-aged", my exercise program needed overhauling. I ate far too many carbs and didn't appreciate the finer points of a good curry. My taste in music he found appalling, my politics too conservative. Slowly, piece by piece, he took me apart until I could barely find myself. I'd been a kindly optimist cum idealist until I met him. When he left, I'd become a world-weary cynic with barely enough enthusiasm to get out of bed in the mornings (much like him).
After he was gone, I started to eat. I craved Lucky Charms, Twinkies, M & M's, burgers, and Chick-Fil A fries. I couldn't seem to eat enough to numb the memories. I just wanted to get rid of the despair, the emptiness that comes with the realization that no matter how hard you work, how much you try to change, you can't make someone love or care about you.
I had fantasies of running after that guy I saw in line even though I don't really think it was him. The last I knew, MY 'improver guy' was in Spain trying to 'improve' someone else. I wanted to say "Listen, you don't know me, but I knew a guy once who looked just like you and seeing you (him) today brought it all back. You (he) hurt me so deeply, that even now, I can't hear songs from that time period or smell your (his) cologne without nausea. I want you (him) to know that you (he) may have bruised my spirit, but you (he) did not break it! That I'm successful in my life, in my work, that I'm happy in myself. I want you to know without any of your (his) shaming or running until I threw up, I lost over twenty-five (nearly thirty now) pounds and this time I did it for myself, not to get someone who was unworthy of me in the first place to care about me. That I unashamedly listen to Opera, Classical, 80's New Wave and yes, even Easy Listening from time to time and I don't give a damn if you (he) think that it's appalling! Lastly, I heartily enjoyed the Scottish Highland Games this past weekend!" (Improver Guy was English and never had a good word to say about the Scots)
I didn't say any of that of course. I did almost get hit by a pickup truck in the parking lot while fantasizing what I would like to say and I admit that I got distracted a bit at work this afternoon wondering if it really was him, but the important thing is...I'm okay now. I never really wasn't in the first place and it took seeing that guy to realize it.
So, wherever you are, Facsimile Improver Guy...Thanks from Happy Well-Adjusted Woman!
I'm not a morning person, never have been. Many mornings my first waking thought is, "how many hours do I have to be awake before I can crawl back under the covers again?" I love sleep, everything about it, soft pillows, cool silky sheets, quilts...It's probably the reason I never had kids, they'd have gotten in the way of all that.
I'm off topic, sleep led to me running late, egregiously so this morning and the result was I didn't make my lunch. I decided that I would turn it into a positive and treat myself to Chick-Fil-A. To the un-initiated, Chick Fil-A is the maker and the proprietor of the best chicken sandwich in the South, if not the whole world. It's simple really, they take a plump juicy chicken breast, bread it in a coating of 'secret herbs and spices' (no really, I worked there and I still don't know the contents of the breading which comes in non-descript brown sacks) throw it in a pressure fryer full of peanut oil, then they take all the crispy goodness of that chicken cutlet, lay it on a buttered toasted hamburger roll with two dill pickles, throw in a paper sack of waffle fries and it is quite honestly the best lunch ever!
I sat at a table, eating my sandwich and browsing my phone when for some reason I looked up and there in line was a guy with a face I swore I'd seen before, I thought about it and all of the sudden I got that dizzy, cold sweat, my stomach is in my shoes feeling because whether or not it was the actual guy, he had the face of a man I knew all too well.
Most women at some point date a guy I like to categorize as "improver guy". You aren't quite his type of girl, but he thinks with a few tweaks here and there, you just might get close. You won't. Let me state that again for all the cockeyed optimists out there... YOU WON'T. You'll never get close, but you will half kill yourself trying.
I know, I've been there. Seeing that guy in line today, it brought it all back. Many years ago in the days when Windows XP was all the rage; I entered into a nine-month 'relationship' with my 'improver guy'. He was like the foreign exchange student that you can't send back until the program is over. We weren't really even friends by the end of our time together.
I still can't quite understand what made him stay around. Maybe it was the fact that I was gullible, emotionally needy and co-dependent. I think that he enjoyed toying with me much in the same way that a cat will toy with prey before actually 'killing' it. To his way of thinking, I needed a great deal of 'improvement'. My clothes were "too dowdy' and "prematurely middle-aged", my exercise program needed overhauling. I ate far too many carbs and didn't appreciate the finer points of a good curry. My taste in music he found appalling, my politics too conservative. Slowly, piece by piece, he took me apart until I could barely find myself. I'd been a kindly optimist cum idealist until I met him. When he left, I'd become a world-weary cynic with barely enough enthusiasm to get out of bed in the mornings (much like him).
After he was gone, I started to eat. I craved Lucky Charms, Twinkies, M & M's, burgers, and Chick-Fil A fries. I couldn't seem to eat enough to numb the memories. I just wanted to get rid of the despair, the emptiness that comes with the realization that no matter how hard you work, how much you try to change, you can't make someone love or care about you.
I had fantasies of running after that guy I saw in line even though I don't really think it was him. The last I knew, MY 'improver guy' was in Spain trying to 'improve' someone else. I wanted to say "Listen, you don't know me, but I knew a guy once who looked just like you and seeing you (him) today brought it all back. You (he) hurt me so deeply, that even now, I can't hear songs from that time period or smell your (his) cologne without nausea. I want you (him) to know that you (he) may have bruised my spirit, but you (he) did not break it! That I'm successful in my life, in my work, that I'm happy in myself. I want you to know without any of your (his) shaming or running until I threw up, I lost over twenty-five (nearly thirty now) pounds and this time I did it for myself, not to get someone who was unworthy of me in the first place to care about me. That I unashamedly listen to Opera, Classical, 80's New Wave and yes, even Easy Listening from time to time and I don't give a damn if you (he) think that it's appalling! Lastly, I heartily enjoyed the Scottish Highland Games this past weekend!" (Improver Guy was English and never had a good word to say about the Scots)
I didn't say any of that of course. I did almost get hit by a pickup truck in the parking lot while fantasizing what I would like to say and I admit that I got distracted a bit at work this afternoon wondering if it really was him, but the important thing is...I'm okay now. I never really wasn't in the first place and it took seeing that guy to realize it.
So, wherever you are, Facsimile Improver Guy...Thanks from Happy Well-Adjusted Woman!
Monday, January 4, 2016
Post Partum Star Wars...An Existential Crisis
Maybe it's the fact that Mercury is retrograde...
Maybe it's the fact that Kylo Ren killed his own father, Han Solo...(or did he?)
Maybe it's the fact that now that I've seen Star Wars VII, there's nothing to look forward to until Star Wars VIII...
But, I'm definitely on this side of bummer...
I can't explain it, but while I'm not exactly unhappy, I'm just not feeling as creatively challenged lately. Ever so often, I go into a sort of existential crisis where I examine my life and I debate whether I am living up to my own potential? Every so often, I debate as to whether or not I should even bother with this blog anymore. The optimist in me, will rear up and say, but what if you were one more blog post away from some major life-changing 'thing' that would blow up on the net and make you achieve a sort of immortality? The realist in me says that many people live their whole lives and die never achieving anything other than a sort of humdrum existence and are only mourned by a select few.
I'd settle for something in between that.
Actually, the way things are right now, I am probably the fulfilment of that line in Bridget Jones' Diary where, in a particularly dark moment, she speculates whether her only meaningful relationship will be with a bottle of wine and that she will die fat and alone, being found three weeks later half-eaten by wild dogs. In my case though, it'd probably be cats.
At least, I am at the point in my life where I no longer self-medicate with food or alcohol. I've given that all up and now spend much of my time debating the merits of quinoa vs brown rice. Chia versus flax. I spend endless time trying to assess the degree to which I absolutely abhor and detest kale, all the while stuffing it in everything from soup to salad. Two to three nights a week, I ingest fish, I say ingest because to me eating implies enjoyment. I don't enjoy fish per se. I ingest it because it is healthy.
All of this should, I rationalize, make me a better person.
But am I?
Or maybe I'm the same carb-loading, junk food junkie I always was, just under better control.
In any case, I realize that I am complicated. Probably most of us are. However, lately I worry that I am complicated to a higher degree than some.
Take Amazon, for instance. Getting ready for work this morning, I experienced yet another existential crisis when thinking about my Amazon recommendations. I did a lot of my Aunt Jill Christmas shopping on there. Toys for various nephews and niece. As I ran my toothbrush over my pearlies, it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn't remembered to check off the field on Amazon that states, "This is a gift". Sure enough, after sprinting to Gavin II (my laptop natch, don't any of you read this thing?) and checking my Amazonian recommendations, in addition to the usual coterie of book, CD, and Blu Rays, there were all manner of Disney and other assorted toys recommended to me based on my shipping and browsing history. And all of the sudden, I am beyond mortified, imagining some Amazon lowly imputing my orders and thinking that I am some sort of freak who is 'into' kids toys! A second and worse thought occurred to me, that Amazon probably didn't even care, heartless profit making machine that they are, they probably don't even recognize what kinds of persons with predilections for kids toys that they are enabling! On the heels of that, was a third and probably the most unsettling thought of all that, if I was into toys, didn't they know that I would probably buy collectible and 'retro' toys that I coveted in my childhood like a Snoopy Sno Cone Machine or Easy Bake Oven? Sheesh! Doesn't Amazon even know me AT ALL!
I slumped back from Gavin II, world-weary and despondent. Did I even want to venture out into a world that was so out of touch that even Amazon.com doesn't 'get me'?
Like I said, maybe it's just the New Year blahs...sloughing off Yuletide cheer and thinking of how many months I have to get through to hear "Silver Bells" again...
Maybe it's Mercury...
Maybe it's just post-partum Star Wars depression...
Yeah, let's go with that.
Maybe it's the fact that Kylo Ren killed his own father, Han Solo...(or did he?)
Maybe it's the fact that now that I've seen Star Wars VII, there's nothing to look forward to until Star Wars VIII...
But, I'm definitely on this side of bummer...
I can't explain it, but while I'm not exactly unhappy, I'm just not feeling as creatively challenged lately. Ever so often, I go into a sort of existential crisis where I examine my life and I debate whether I am living up to my own potential? Every so often, I debate as to whether or not I should even bother with this blog anymore. The optimist in me, will rear up and say, but what if you were one more blog post away from some major life-changing 'thing' that would blow up on the net and make you achieve a sort of immortality? The realist in me says that many people live their whole lives and die never achieving anything other than a sort of humdrum existence and are only mourned by a select few.
I'd settle for something in between that.
Actually, the way things are right now, I am probably the fulfilment of that line in Bridget Jones' Diary where, in a particularly dark moment, she speculates whether her only meaningful relationship will be with a bottle of wine and that she will die fat and alone, being found three weeks later half-eaten by wild dogs. In my case though, it'd probably be cats.
At least, I am at the point in my life where I no longer self-medicate with food or alcohol. I've given that all up and now spend much of my time debating the merits of quinoa vs brown rice. Chia versus flax. I spend endless time trying to assess the degree to which I absolutely abhor and detest kale, all the while stuffing it in everything from soup to salad. Two to three nights a week, I ingest fish, I say ingest because to me eating implies enjoyment. I don't enjoy fish per se. I ingest it because it is healthy.
All of this should, I rationalize, make me a better person.
But am I?
Or maybe I'm the same carb-loading, junk food junkie I always was, just under better control.
In any case, I realize that I am complicated. Probably most of us are. However, lately I worry that I am complicated to a higher degree than some.
Take Amazon, for instance. Getting ready for work this morning, I experienced yet another existential crisis when thinking about my Amazon recommendations. I did a lot of my Aunt Jill Christmas shopping on there. Toys for various nephews and niece. As I ran my toothbrush over my pearlies, it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn't remembered to check off the field on Amazon that states, "This is a gift". Sure enough, after sprinting to Gavin II (my laptop natch, don't any of you read this thing?) and checking my Amazonian recommendations, in addition to the usual coterie of book, CD, and Blu Rays, there were all manner of Disney and other assorted toys recommended to me based on my shipping and browsing history. And all of the sudden, I am beyond mortified, imagining some Amazon lowly imputing my orders and thinking that I am some sort of freak who is 'into' kids toys! A second and worse thought occurred to me, that Amazon probably didn't even care, heartless profit making machine that they are, they probably don't even recognize what kinds of persons with predilections for kids toys that they are enabling! On the heels of that, was a third and probably the most unsettling thought of all that, if I was into toys, didn't they know that I would probably buy collectible and 'retro' toys that I coveted in my childhood like a Snoopy Sno Cone Machine or Easy Bake Oven? Sheesh! Doesn't Amazon even know me AT ALL!
I slumped back from Gavin II, world-weary and despondent. Did I even want to venture out into a world that was so out of touch that even Amazon.com doesn't 'get me'?
Like I said, maybe it's just the New Year blahs...sloughing off Yuletide cheer and thinking of how many months I have to get through to hear "Silver Bells" again...
Maybe it's Mercury...
Maybe it's just post-partum Star Wars depression...
Yeah, let's go with that.
Friday, December 18, 2015
For Great Aunt Dorothy
For my mom, Jan, who is a pretty cool chick!
Dear Aunt Dorothy:
Feliz Navidad Prospero Año y Felicidad
I remember that's how you started out your annual Christmas letter. Mom always insisted on two things, that we (my sister and I) read your letter and that we write you one of our own. A thank you letter. You always sent us a check for Christmas and as your (and ours) years advanced, the sum grew larger. I remember, hating to write that letter. Hating it with a deep dark purple passion. Mom always proofread them and sometimes there were rewrites and grammar revisions. She really put a premium on us completing them properly. Usually, it was during Christmas vacation from school and I wanted to use up every last precious second of freedom in selfish pursuits, sleeping in, reading non-school books, going to movies and I admit I resented any time 'wasted'.
Mom insisted though and so I would think and labor over it, filling up pages with my large almost illegible cursive scrawl, thanking you for money and telling you what I was doing. I can't help but wonder if you enjoyed the letters at all? I'm sure they were a bit tedious.
You would probably be distressed to hear that the art of writing the thank you letter has all but disappeared. I don't know that I have ever received one for a gift.
I'm glad you gave us the money then. Instead of making us wait for an inheritance.
If I had the money now, I probably would do something boring and adult, like deposit it into my IRA. Truthfully, what I did with the money was to use it to buy presents. Back in those days, money was always tight and I was always 'short' at Christmas.
Well Aunt Dorothy, I'm an aunt myself now. A maiden one, like you were. I think now, I've started to understand what you were trying to say to us all of those years ago. I more fully 'get' all of the virtues you wanted to instill in us, a love of knowledge, intellectual curiosity, to love animals, respect others and care about the environment. Having no children yourself, you wanted to leave a mark, a legacy, some sort of immortality when you were no longer with us.
Your Christmas letters were full of your pursuit of making the world a better place. Your hosting of students, teaching English, your artistic endeavors, your garden and beloved dogs and cats all your way of trying to leave the world a little better place than it was. I didn't understand that at the time, I'm beginning to now. In my 40's now, you start to leave the self-centered brat behind more and more.
In case you didn't know it, you have left a lasting mark in my life. I'll never forget two experiences you shared with my sister and I. An outdoor amphitheater opera concert in the Sangre De Cristo mountain range and Shakespeare in the Park in Santa Fe. I'd never experienced things like that before, and may never have, if not for you. To this day, I love opera and I'm fortunate to have the ability to hear it frequently on satellite radio. Very few written words thrill me more than Shakespeare's immortal poems, comedies and tragedies.
As I mentioned, I'm an aunt myself now and I feel that sense sometimes, as you must have done, of wanting to have an impact on the lives of my nieces and nephews. Trying to share wisdom, praying for them, sharing favorite books and philosophies, hoping that their eyes will be opened to all that life can be. Just as you must have found, it's difficult when there is so much distance between you, both physically and emotionally.
Sometimes I found it hard to relate to you, being that you were so accomplished, so crusading and pioneering. Magna Cum Laude graduate, WAC in WW II. My mom always described you 'as a force'. In the old home movies I've seen of you, you are magnetic, your looks and joie de vivre. I've struggled with joie de vivre myself, being introverted and shy. I've only recently begun to sort of claim for myself a feeling of beauty and independence. I like to think that some of it was passed on to me from you.
Politically, I don't know that we are all that similar, except to say that I am as passionate as you were in wanting the best for the country. Maybe we might go about it in different ways, but at the root of things, I don't think we would be all that dissimilar in our belief in the independent rights of man.
You were always distressed that I didn't read Louis L'Amour novels, and I'm sorry to say that I never really changed my opinions on that. I've always been somewhat of a deep romantic type. This is not to say there isn't romance in the Western cowboy that L'Amour wrote of, it's just that when I pined after a man on a horse, he was usually in a kilt, as the Laird of a clan or a English Dandy on a white horse with breeches and tri-corn hat.
I'm sorry we didn't talk more. In my only visit to Santa Fe, I remember it wasn't until the night before I was to leave, that we really 'talked' and I shared with you my thoughts, dreams and hopes for the future. We finally 'connected' that night. I think it's what the visit had been all about. Up until that point, I'd been struggling with the altitude, (living my whole life at sea level in Florida to suddenly be thrust into the mountains took some getting used to), homesickness and I guess I wasn't 'up' to trying to figure out what you were trying to 'say'. I wish I'd been able to see that visit with adult eyes, to really appreciate the majesty and wonder of the mountains, to get your joke about the Rio Grande not being so 'Grande', to understand what you saw in Navajo pottery and beading, why you wanted us to feel the plight of those living on the pueblos. I only saw the appalling poverty and felt the relentless heat of the sun. For a Floridian, the lack of humidity just felt 'wrong'. The lack of rain implausible. I'm sorry it took until now for me to 'get it'.
You might be glad to know that I've tried to pick up a bit with the ancestry digging. You have justifiable pride in the family. Some of them were quite remarkable. Through this, I begin to understand that I'm just a link in this chain that has gone on for so many decades.
So, in this posthumous thank you letter. I sincerely express my gratitude for all that you did and said with an eye toward building my character. I hope you'd be proud of the woman I am today. I've worked hard and striven for all that I have. I am strong and independent and maybe in my own way, "a force".
I miss you and your sister, Helen more than I can say. You presence in my life has never really disappeared though. It's there every time I look in the mirror, every time I recite the poem about the Goops, every book I read, and every time I strive in my own way to make the world a better place.
Your Great Niece,
Jill
Dear Aunt Dorothy:
Feliz Navidad Prospero Año y Felicidad
I remember that's how you started out your annual Christmas letter. Mom always insisted on two things, that we (my sister and I) read your letter and that we write you one of our own. A thank you letter. You always sent us a check for Christmas and as your (and ours) years advanced, the sum grew larger. I remember, hating to write that letter. Hating it with a deep dark purple passion. Mom always proofread them and sometimes there were rewrites and grammar revisions. She really put a premium on us completing them properly. Usually, it was during Christmas vacation from school and I wanted to use up every last precious second of freedom in selfish pursuits, sleeping in, reading non-school books, going to movies and I admit I resented any time 'wasted'.
Mom insisted though and so I would think and labor over it, filling up pages with my large almost illegible cursive scrawl, thanking you for money and telling you what I was doing. I can't help but wonder if you enjoyed the letters at all? I'm sure they were a bit tedious.
You would probably be distressed to hear that the art of writing the thank you letter has all but disappeared. I don't know that I have ever received one for a gift.
I'm glad you gave us the money then. Instead of making us wait for an inheritance.
If I had the money now, I probably would do something boring and adult, like deposit it into my IRA. Truthfully, what I did with the money was to use it to buy presents. Back in those days, money was always tight and I was always 'short' at Christmas.
Well Aunt Dorothy, I'm an aunt myself now. A maiden one, like you were. I think now, I've started to understand what you were trying to say to us all of those years ago. I more fully 'get' all of the virtues you wanted to instill in us, a love of knowledge, intellectual curiosity, to love animals, respect others and care about the environment. Having no children yourself, you wanted to leave a mark, a legacy, some sort of immortality when you were no longer with us.
Your Christmas letters were full of your pursuit of making the world a better place. Your hosting of students, teaching English, your artistic endeavors, your garden and beloved dogs and cats all your way of trying to leave the world a little better place than it was. I didn't understand that at the time, I'm beginning to now. In my 40's now, you start to leave the self-centered brat behind more and more.
In case you didn't know it, you have left a lasting mark in my life. I'll never forget two experiences you shared with my sister and I. An outdoor amphitheater opera concert in the Sangre De Cristo mountain range and Shakespeare in the Park in Santa Fe. I'd never experienced things like that before, and may never have, if not for you. To this day, I love opera and I'm fortunate to have the ability to hear it frequently on satellite radio. Very few written words thrill me more than Shakespeare's immortal poems, comedies and tragedies.
As I mentioned, I'm an aunt myself now and I feel that sense sometimes, as you must have done, of wanting to have an impact on the lives of my nieces and nephews. Trying to share wisdom, praying for them, sharing favorite books and philosophies, hoping that their eyes will be opened to all that life can be. Just as you must have found, it's difficult when there is so much distance between you, both physically and emotionally.
Sometimes I found it hard to relate to you, being that you were so accomplished, so crusading and pioneering. Magna Cum Laude graduate, WAC in WW II. My mom always described you 'as a force'. In the old home movies I've seen of you, you are magnetic, your looks and joie de vivre. I've struggled with joie de vivre myself, being introverted and shy. I've only recently begun to sort of claim for myself a feeling of beauty and independence. I like to think that some of it was passed on to me from you.
Politically, I don't know that we are all that similar, except to say that I am as passionate as you were in wanting the best for the country. Maybe we might go about it in different ways, but at the root of things, I don't think we would be all that dissimilar in our belief in the independent rights of man.
You were always distressed that I didn't read Louis L'Amour novels, and I'm sorry to say that I never really changed my opinions on that. I've always been somewhat of a deep romantic type. This is not to say there isn't romance in the Western cowboy that L'Amour wrote of, it's just that when I pined after a man on a horse, he was usually in a kilt, as the Laird of a clan or a English Dandy on a white horse with breeches and tri-corn hat.
I'm sorry we didn't talk more. In my only visit to Santa Fe, I remember it wasn't until the night before I was to leave, that we really 'talked' and I shared with you my thoughts, dreams and hopes for the future. We finally 'connected' that night. I think it's what the visit had been all about. Up until that point, I'd been struggling with the altitude, (living my whole life at sea level in Florida to suddenly be thrust into the mountains took some getting used to), homesickness and I guess I wasn't 'up' to trying to figure out what you were trying to 'say'. I wish I'd been able to see that visit with adult eyes, to really appreciate the majesty and wonder of the mountains, to get your joke about the Rio Grande not being so 'Grande', to understand what you saw in Navajo pottery and beading, why you wanted us to feel the plight of those living on the pueblos. I only saw the appalling poverty and felt the relentless heat of the sun. For a Floridian, the lack of humidity just felt 'wrong'. The lack of rain implausible. I'm sorry it took until now for me to 'get it'.
You might be glad to know that I've tried to pick up a bit with the ancestry digging. You have justifiable pride in the family. Some of them were quite remarkable. Through this, I begin to understand that I'm just a link in this chain that has gone on for so many decades.
So, in this posthumous thank you letter. I sincerely express my gratitude for all that you did and said with an eye toward building my character. I hope you'd be proud of the woman I am today. I've worked hard and striven for all that I have. I am strong and independent and maybe in my own way, "a force".
I miss you and your sister, Helen more than I can say. You presence in my life has never really disappeared though. It's there every time I look in the mirror, every time I recite the poem about the Goops, every book I read, and every time I strive in my own way to make the world a better place.
Your Great Niece,
Jill
Sunday, December 6, 2015
The Now of Christmas
It's a quiet Sunday morning and I think to myself, "If I was a truly good person I'd be in church right now" or, "I should be up and doing things", after all there are Christmas trees to finish trimming, floors that need vacuuming, clothes that need folding, "I need to get on top of them". Instead I've been lying prone of my backside hanging out with my cat Jamie. He's in the mood for kitty cuddling. In fact, he sits here with me now, watching my fingers fly across the keys. If I had to guess, he's probably torn between wondering why am I doing this, when he has come in all this state to be with me and I could be petting him! Or whether or not to attack the moving fingers. He decides on the latter, dammit, he deserves my attention! You can't believe the number of backspaces I've done in the last few moments.
Jamie, in an odd way, is teaching me something. Life's moments cannot be pre-thought, organized or measured. I keep trying to do this. It's as if my life was some sort of carefully staged road-show, complete with choreography, lines to learn and elaborate sets and props.
I had another of these wake up calls yesterday. It was my new Not Non-Company's annual Christmas Party and I had the responsibility of organizing it. Weeks of preparations for four (4) hours. I start off for the party early, so that I can be there an hour before the festivities start. Traffic is heavy and I am angry and tight. I realize that I need to get gasoline and resent the need to stop. Curse my lack of preparedness. I angrily rant that "I don't even want to go to this g'dmned thing". A weak moment later, I realize that, it's more than the traffic, more than the strain of wanting everything to go perfectly, I'm tired of going to these things alone. I am so sick of being the single in the room. I have one moment, where I think, 'I can't do this', and I nearly text my boss that I've had a personal emergency and can't make it. I hang my head over the steering wheel and I pray, "Please God, I need an attitude adjustment and pronto! Please give me a break with the traffic. Just please help".
After all my whingeing and whining and dire predictions of being tardy, I pull into the venue, exactly one (1) hour before the start, just as planned. The club where the party is being held is surprisingly beautiful, staggeringly beautiful. Decked out to the nines for Christmas, in fact, it couldn't be more Christmassy. I check everything, it's organized to plan. And then I have the moment, that I realize I'm there for, the upper room in which the party is being held looks out onto the golf course, but it's more than that, it's a view of old Florida, ponds, swamps of great Cypresses, swaying palms and heron and egret. And it's my favorite time of day, that whisper of time between day and night. Twilight, the stars just starting to come out, and it's absolutely magical. I'm all alone, the guests haven't arrived yet, there's no noise, just this sort of hushed reverent silence as I watched day turn to night. I couldn't tell you how long I stood at that window and stared out; time just ceased to exist. Waiters silently went in and out, bustling about with trays and all of the minutiae that goes in these types of things and I barely saw them, they seemed to understand that I was lost to them for however long I stood rapt at that window.
Some moments after that, the first guests arrive and with them the noise, people shouting out greetings to one another, spouses that haven't seen other spouses in nearly a year, huddle together to share bits of gossip, and all of the jokes that have probably been served up since Eden. It turns out to be a pretty good party. There were some headaches, missing place cards and the tables set up in groups in five instead of even sixes. As a single person, I forget about the dire need to sit with ones' spouse. I don't sweat odd numbers. I never even think about them. One of the wives, makes an unkind remark that it's very evident that I have done the table arrangements and not my predecessor who apparently was perfection itself. It wounds me for a few minutes but then I think of the things that I've done right and of my moment with God an hour earlier and the remark loses its' sting.
Sometimes I think that God tantalizes us with views of heaven, with glimpses of the real beauty in life. It's kind of a love note, right from God to us and frequentlywe, I miss it. I'm moving too fast, too full of the thoughts in my own head, the plans that I have. Today I realize that Christmas, rather than it being this elaborate stage play that we move closer and closer to the opening day of, is measured in small moments. For me, it's taking a few moments to watch my cat Jamie sleeping under the Christmas tree, savoring the cool brisk taste of a peppermint candy cane, sitting in an elaborately beautiful room laughing my head off at the sight of a co-worker's husband wearing an orange paper Christmas cracker crown as my own pink crown slips tipsily over one eye, listening to the sweet little boy voice of Linus reminding Charlie Brown what Christmas is truly all about.
Be there when God slips you your own personal love note.
Don't miss the now of Christmas.
Jamie, in an odd way, is teaching me something. Life's moments cannot be pre-thought, organized or measured. I keep trying to do this. It's as if my life was some sort of carefully staged road-show, complete with choreography, lines to learn and elaborate sets and props.
I had another of these wake up calls yesterday. It was my new Not Non-Company's annual Christmas Party and I had the responsibility of organizing it. Weeks of preparations for four (4) hours. I start off for the party early, so that I can be there an hour before the festivities start. Traffic is heavy and I am angry and tight. I realize that I need to get gasoline and resent the need to stop. Curse my lack of preparedness. I angrily rant that "I don't even want to go to this g'dmned thing". A weak moment later, I realize that, it's more than the traffic, more than the strain of wanting everything to go perfectly, I'm tired of going to these things alone. I am so sick of being the single in the room. I have one moment, where I think, 'I can't do this', and I nearly text my boss that I've had a personal emergency and can't make it. I hang my head over the steering wheel and I pray, "Please God, I need an attitude adjustment and pronto! Please give me a break with the traffic. Just please help".
After all my whingeing and whining and dire predictions of being tardy, I pull into the venue, exactly one (1) hour before the start, just as planned. The club where the party is being held is surprisingly beautiful, staggeringly beautiful. Decked out to the nines for Christmas, in fact, it couldn't be more Christmassy. I check everything, it's organized to plan. And then I have the moment, that I realize I'm there for, the upper room in which the party is being held looks out onto the golf course, but it's more than that, it's a view of old Florida, ponds, swamps of great Cypresses, swaying palms and heron and egret. And it's my favorite time of day, that whisper of time between day and night. Twilight, the stars just starting to come out, and it's absolutely magical. I'm all alone, the guests haven't arrived yet, there's no noise, just this sort of hushed reverent silence as I watched day turn to night. I couldn't tell you how long I stood at that window and stared out; time just ceased to exist. Waiters silently went in and out, bustling about with trays and all of the minutiae that goes in these types of things and I barely saw them, they seemed to understand that I was lost to them for however long I stood rapt at that window.
Some moments after that, the first guests arrive and with them the noise, people shouting out greetings to one another, spouses that haven't seen other spouses in nearly a year, huddle together to share bits of gossip, and all of the jokes that have probably been served up since Eden. It turns out to be a pretty good party. There were some headaches, missing place cards and the tables set up in groups in five instead of even sixes. As a single person, I forget about the dire need to sit with ones' spouse. I don't sweat odd numbers. I never even think about them. One of the wives, makes an unkind remark that it's very evident that I have done the table arrangements and not my predecessor who apparently was perfection itself. It wounds me for a few minutes but then I think of the things that I've done right and of my moment with God an hour earlier and the remark loses its' sting.
Sometimes I think that God tantalizes us with views of heaven, with glimpses of the real beauty in life. It's kind of a love note, right from God to us and frequently
Be there when God slips you your own personal love note.
Don't miss the now of Christmas.
Friday, November 6, 2015
The Bookworm
Your blogger wrung her hands and prayed and tried to bring forth a blog piece this evening, but it just wasn't happening. The muse wasn't with her. But she did find a poem, a little ditty as John Mellencamp, or John Cougar or John Cougar Mellencamp or whatever he is calling himself these days would say.
I chanced across it the other night, the forties had taken hold of my brain and I was trying to recall the name of the teacher we (all the girls in the 8th grade) thought was hot, (Mr. Caldwell) and I found it stuck inside the yearbook that I looked in to find the name of the Hot for Teacher guy.
I wrote this was I was about 15-16 I guess, I was in High School though, so not sure why it was in my Junior High Yearbook?
I am the author of this, so I guess this is sort of a blog piece.
The Bookworm
Exact is the yarn I spin of my readings
Chart of my book learnings highs and lows
Time loss and lack of exercise my deepest sorrows
Lack of shelf space and social calamity
Daily I've borne sitting in a plethora of chairs
Fearful of an unbalanced book budget
Watching as time passed, while I sat enraptured with Gone with the Wind
Fast to the floor my feet were frozen
Gripped by the appearance of Damn Yankee soldiers at Tara
My eyes ceased to blink and I stopped not for sustenance
Little he who is engrossed in a book takes notice of
How, sick at heart, over Rhett's leaving, the wretch!
I read the novel through
Bare of nourishment and banished from family and friends
Swathed in blanket, tears stinging my eyes, glasses sliding from my nose
Nought I heard but the characters in my book, "I don't know nothin' about birthin no babies!"
For amusement I had Aunt Pitty's swoonings
For sorrow I had Rhett's final pronouncement, "Frankly my dear..."
The cry of Melanie's baby, the mirth of Rhett and Scartlett's first meeting
Shrill through the roar of the Confederate army
Yankees charging through the war-torn south
Raping and pillaging as they march through
And the glasses slide from my nose
Little tears drop off my face
With no help from the pressure of my glasses
They slide all the way down
Gasping and choking back sobs, I reach for a tissue
The book slides off my lap and falls to the floor as I escape in a daydream worthy of The Great Gatsby himself
Oh wildly my heart soars as I read of Oliver Twist, the drama of the Phantom of the Opera, the sorrow and misery of Les Miserables and the Decameron
Daily, hourly I crave the book
As an addict craves his next fix
No amount of book reading ever appears to satiate me
No deeds ever done by any hero, match those played out in my imagination
Which is of course fueled by the library of books stored there
Ever I long for a trip to the library, a jaunt to the bookstore
Winter freezes, spring brightens, summer burns, yet I miss these all
Ever lost in the latest bestseller
The perils and pleasures of he who readeth
Do heed the roosters warning
Morning will overtake you
Those who the night hath departed from
Reading the night through
Fatigue, nay, slumber will overtake thee
Suddenly my conscience awakens
Soareth afar my head sits the timepiece
It reads 4:05 a.m.
Hovers on high, o'er my conscience
You should be asleep it prods
I lay the volume down on my night table, bidding it a regretful goodnight
Yet the morrow lies before me, new mysteries to explore, new romances to blossom, new territories to chart
Thank thou goodest Lord for literature!
As faithfully as I could, I have reproduced this exactly as I wrote it. The inner critic in me was constantly editorializing, embellishing, re-imagining sentences, cringing a bit at the mawkish use of a sort of pidgin Elizabethan Shakespearesque language, but I kept it just as it was, marveling a bit at the fact that I am still very much the same as I was when I was a nerdy sophomore or junior. I still frequently read longer than I ought and I still daydream about being romanced by a tall handsome fellow on his steed, or being the heroine solving the mystery and saving the day and for that fact, I am truly and profoundly grateful,
As I work and strive towards being the heroine of my own life, sometimes it's good to stumble on a bit of the past and realize that inside, I already am.
I chanced across it the other night, the forties had taken hold of my brain and I was trying to recall the name of the teacher we (all the girls in the 8th grade) thought was hot, (Mr. Caldwell) and I found it stuck inside the yearbook that I looked in to find the name of the Hot for Teacher guy.
I wrote this was I was about 15-16 I guess, I was in High School though, so not sure why it was in my Junior High Yearbook?
I am the author of this, so I guess this is sort of a blog piece.
The Bookworm
Exact is the yarn I spin of my readings
Chart of my book learnings highs and lows
Time loss and lack of exercise my deepest sorrows
Lack of shelf space and social calamity
Daily I've borne sitting in a plethora of chairs
Fearful of an unbalanced book budget
Watching as time passed, while I sat enraptured with Gone with the Wind
Fast to the floor my feet were frozen
Gripped by the appearance of Damn Yankee soldiers at Tara
My eyes ceased to blink and I stopped not for sustenance
Little he who is engrossed in a book takes notice of
How, sick at heart, over Rhett's leaving, the wretch!
I read the novel through
Bare of nourishment and banished from family and friends
Swathed in blanket, tears stinging my eyes, glasses sliding from my nose
Nought I heard but the characters in my book, "I don't know nothin' about birthin no babies!"
For amusement I had Aunt Pitty's swoonings
For sorrow I had Rhett's final pronouncement, "Frankly my dear..."
The cry of Melanie's baby, the mirth of Rhett and Scartlett's first meeting
Shrill through the roar of the Confederate army
Yankees charging through the war-torn south
Raping and pillaging as they march through
And the glasses slide from my nose
Little tears drop off my face
With no help from the pressure of my glasses
They slide all the way down
Gasping and choking back sobs, I reach for a tissue
The book slides off my lap and falls to the floor as I escape in a daydream worthy of The Great Gatsby himself
Oh wildly my heart soars as I read of Oliver Twist, the drama of the Phantom of the Opera, the sorrow and misery of Les Miserables and the Decameron
Daily, hourly I crave the book
As an addict craves his next fix
No amount of book reading ever appears to satiate me
No deeds ever done by any hero, match those played out in my imagination
Which is of course fueled by the library of books stored there
Ever I long for a trip to the library, a jaunt to the bookstore
Winter freezes, spring brightens, summer burns, yet I miss these all
Ever lost in the latest bestseller
The perils and pleasures of he who readeth
Do heed the roosters warning
Morning will overtake you
Those who the night hath departed from
Reading the night through
Fatigue, nay, slumber will overtake thee
Suddenly my conscience awakens
Soareth afar my head sits the timepiece
It reads 4:05 a.m.
Hovers on high, o'er my conscience
You should be asleep it prods
I lay the volume down on my night table, bidding it a regretful goodnight
Yet the morrow lies before me, new mysteries to explore, new romances to blossom, new territories to chart
Thank thou goodest Lord for literature!
As faithfully as I could, I have reproduced this exactly as I wrote it. The inner critic in me was constantly editorializing, embellishing, re-imagining sentences, cringing a bit at the mawkish use of a sort of pidgin Elizabethan Shakespearesque language, but I kept it just as it was, marveling a bit at the fact that I am still very much the same as I was when I was a nerdy sophomore or junior. I still frequently read longer than I ought and I still daydream about being romanced by a tall handsome fellow on his steed, or being the heroine solving the mystery and saving the day and for that fact, I am truly and profoundly grateful,
As I work and strive towards being the heroine of my own life, sometimes it's good to stumble on a bit of the past and realize that inside, I already am.
Tuesday, October 13, 2015
Scenes from an Italian Restaurant
"A Bottle of Red....a Bottle of White...it all depends upon your appetite"
All apologies to Billy Joel...for me it's always a bottle of red.
The sharp-eyed amongst you have probably already noticed that frequently the titles of these posts are usually 1980s songs, although in this case, I think it's 1977.
I ended up at an Italian restaurant this evening. Ended up?
Yep, I had a hair salon appointment and yet found myself bellying up to the bar for a glass of red instead. How I got there is a story in of itself. It starts with an arrogant presumption that I could somehow manipulate traffic, it ended up with me 5o minutes later sitting on barstool. There's a lot of 'stuff' in the middle, me shaking my fist at fellow drivers, stressing out, and gaining a few more un-coiffed grey hairs. But sitting here hours away from it, the triviality of it embarrasses me.
It's unusual for me to take a walk off the beaten path. But lately, I've been finding myself in all sorts of situations that I wouldn't have even thought of a year ago.
I know I've been away from this blog for some weeks. The old me would have apologized I guess.
This me, decided she wouldn't put up with the traffic one minute more, and that she would no longer ignore her screaming bladder, literally got off the highway, parked her German car, Gunther (I name everything) walked up to the bar like she belonged, ordered a glass of house red and demanded the way to the Ladies.
I had a terrific meal, the glass of wine soothing the pounding of my temples, the olive oil and garlic somehow, like an Italian Nonna, making everything okay again. But I think it was more than that, somehow it was the gumption to say what I will and what I won't accept. The old me would have kept desperately slogging through traffic.
Instead I sit back and watch as the chefs toss saute pans of steaming clams with red sauce, dousing the pans with wine as orange flames leap up in the air. I watch them shovel pizzas in and out of the wood-fired oven, jostle around each other with bottles of wine and glasses. One man's only job seems to be delivering endless baskets of bread with saucers of olive oil and wine vinegar to hungry diners. Two of the waiters, I kid you not, sing arias as they dash back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room. It has to be, the best show that I've seen in months and I watch mesmerized from my bar stool as they stage this elaborate gastronomic ballet.
After a few moments, I find myself idly swirling the wine around in my glass, lost in my thoughts.
A lot has happened lately.
I became a licensed insurance agent back in April.
I let go of the Miata for a newer car.
I've been learning the ropes of a new job. I did finally get a job. It's too early to say much, except that I will go so far as to refer to them as Not Non-Company which is actually way more of a compliment than one would think.
It's a whole new field for me. And when you are 41, it's different than trying to do this when you are 21.
My whole life changed when my Dad got diagnosed with diabetes nearly 5 months ago. Suddenly I had to learn to cook a whole new way. I had to learn to eat in a whole new way. Whereas before I used to see vegetables as an accompaniment to the meat and starch, I've begun to see that the meat and starches should be the accompaniment to vegetables. And that fruit IS a dessert and a pretty darn good one.
As is my wont, maybe I even took that a bit too far. But I liked the new way I felt, so much lighter and less full. Suddenly, there were more possibilities than I've seen in quite a while. I kind of became a food Nazi, zealously reading every label and agonizing over everything I put in my mouth. I realized today that maybe there has to be balance too. I have to quit 'dinging' myself every time I give in to a craving and buy a small pack of cookies at the drugstore, or eat an Egg White McMuffin, feverishly rationalizing that the fact that it is egg whites on a multi grain roll make it better.
As I sat in the bar at the Italian restaurant this evening thinking over the events of the last 9 months, I realized that I'd come a long way. I think of myself this time last year, mired down in angry depression, forcing myself every day to a job I hated, and too scared and too stubborn to quit. I think of the shock and anger of being laid off after giving my entire life to the company. I think of the months of reinvention and unemployment, and sometimes just pure insanity. Too much NCIS on Netflix, too many eps of Property Brothers, just too much...time on my hands.
I grin, smile at the waiter, tell him how much I loved the meal and order...a cannoli!
"I'll meet you any time you want at our Italian restaurant..."
All apologies to Billy Joel...for me it's always a bottle of red.
The sharp-eyed amongst you have probably already noticed that frequently the titles of these posts are usually 1980s songs, although in this case, I think it's 1977.
I ended up at an Italian restaurant this evening. Ended up?
Yep, I had a hair salon appointment and yet found myself bellying up to the bar for a glass of red instead. How I got there is a story in of itself. It starts with an arrogant presumption that I could somehow manipulate traffic, it ended up with me 5o minutes later sitting on barstool. There's a lot of 'stuff' in the middle, me shaking my fist at fellow drivers, stressing out, and gaining a few more un-coiffed grey hairs. But sitting here hours away from it, the triviality of it embarrasses me.
It's unusual for me to take a walk off the beaten path. But lately, I've been finding myself in all sorts of situations that I wouldn't have even thought of a year ago.
I know I've been away from this blog for some weeks. The old me would have apologized I guess.
This me, decided she wouldn't put up with the traffic one minute more, and that she would no longer ignore her screaming bladder, literally got off the highway, parked her German car, Gunther (I name everything) walked up to the bar like she belonged, ordered a glass of house red and demanded the way to the Ladies.
I had a terrific meal, the glass of wine soothing the pounding of my temples, the olive oil and garlic somehow, like an Italian Nonna, making everything okay again. But I think it was more than that, somehow it was the gumption to say what I will and what I won't accept. The old me would have kept desperately slogging through traffic.
Instead I sit back and watch as the chefs toss saute pans of steaming clams with red sauce, dousing the pans with wine as orange flames leap up in the air. I watch them shovel pizzas in and out of the wood-fired oven, jostle around each other with bottles of wine and glasses. One man's only job seems to be delivering endless baskets of bread with saucers of olive oil and wine vinegar to hungry diners. Two of the waiters, I kid you not, sing arias as they dash back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room. It has to be, the best show that I've seen in months and I watch mesmerized from my bar stool as they stage this elaborate gastronomic ballet.
After a few moments, I find myself idly swirling the wine around in my glass, lost in my thoughts.
A lot has happened lately.
I became a licensed insurance agent back in April.
I let go of the Miata for a newer car.
I've been learning the ropes of a new job. I did finally get a job. It's too early to say much, except that I will go so far as to refer to them as Not Non-Company which is actually way more of a compliment than one would think.
It's a whole new field for me. And when you are 41, it's different than trying to do this when you are 21.
My whole life changed when my Dad got diagnosed with diabetes nearly 5 months ago. Suddenly I had to learn to cook a whole new way. I had to learn to eat in a whole new way. Whereas before I used to see vegetables as an accompaniment to the meat and starch, I've begun to see that the meat and starches should be the accompaniment to vegetables. And that fruit IS a dessert and a pretty darn good one.
As is my wont, maybe I even took that a bit too far. But I liked the new way I felt, so much lighter and less full. Suddenly, there were more possibilities than I've seen in quite a while. I kind of became a food Nazi, zealously reading every label and agonizing over everything I put in my mouth. I realized today that maybe there has to be balance too. I have to quit 'dinging' myself every time I give in to a craving and buy a small pack of cookies at the drugstore, or eat an Egg White McMuffin, feverishly rationalizing that the fact that it is egg whites on a multi grain roll make it better.
As I sat in the bar at the Italian restaurant this evening thinking over the events of the last 9 months, I realized that I'd come a long way. I think of myself this time last year, mired down in angry depression, forcing myself every day to a job I hated, and too scared and too stubborn to quit. I think of the shock and anger of being laid off after giving my entire life to the company. I think of the months of reinvention and unemployment, and sometimes just pure insanity. Too much NCIS on Netflix, too many eps of Property Brothers, just too much...time on my hands.
I grin, smile at the waiter, tell him how much I loved the meal and order...a cannoli!
"I'll meet you any time you want at our Italian restaurant..."
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