December 3 (internet down)

Posting Now: (I started this blog in Word a few days ago when the network was unavailable) 

As much as I try not to feel guilty about what has transpired in my marriage, I can’t help but feel the blows rather than absorb them.  The, “you threw our marriage away, tore our family apart, and now you are bankrupting us” was a pretty strong list of inflammatory statements hurled my way today. 

At least this morning began with smiles from the children. They excitedly  sprang out of bed to find out what goodies had been left overnight in the Advent tree.  In the spirit of holiday tradition, I thought it would be fun to start a new Christmas ritual.  I found an Advent tree with little boxes for each day.  When the children arrived at my house yesterday they were excited and inquisitive about the silvery mirrored tree.  It was even suggested that it travel back and forth from one house to another, but I don’t think P would be so fond of it.  I also procured a girlfriend for our Elf on the Shelf – so Elfie at P’s house has a girlfriend, Holly, at my house.  She has assumed watch over the children while they are at this little cabin in the woods.  I didn’t want to transfer elves and trees along with the other various things like backpacks and suitable footwear.

After shuttling the giddy children to school, I decided it was time for me to create a new running route.  My old loop was miles away from my house and I was ready to change it up.  I’ve become rather adept at measuring how many miles it is from one end of a well-traveled road to another.  It was my suspicion that it would be almost exactly 4 miles to run over the bridge at one end of the boulevard and then circle back to run across the other bridge.  I’ve been reading Chi-Running, a book I once checked out from the library.  I’m revisiting the concepts of bent knees and forward motion using a tilt and running from the hips instead of the legs.  Even with the bridge work, my splits went down and I was, in my own way, flying.  There’s the race in March we always do, just us girls; I’d like to be prepared for it, but I never am completely. Such is life  -- always thinking about being motivated to do something, maybe not reaching quite the level we see in our mind’s eye.    

Pieces Parts

"So, not to bring up a sore subject but..."

I hate it when conversations begin with the terror that someone is about to crush your mood.  The rest of the statement wasn't too horribly bad.  I don't recall it word for word, but the spirit of it was --questioning whether I felt lost without having my children all weekend long.

I spoke from my gut.  "No. I don't feel lost."

In actuality, there are parts of me -- kind of like this diagram above, that feel an aching for my children.  Perhaps it's near the cross ribs or the shoulder clod, but certainly not in the hip or the brisket. And most certainly, not ALL of me at once.  I am rarely lonesome.  There are invitations to float across town or stay in town and grab coffee.  Some may just offer out of the initial pity one feels for a single-ish gal who just moved out on her own.  Mostly though, I feel genuinely wanted instead of the third wheel.

Friday was the typical fun morning of teaching group exercise classes.  I had been quite distracted and disoriented that morning, but I muddled through the abs class and the following two classes with very few hiccups in my choreography.   Afterwards, I did intervals on the treadmill for no good reason...  just because I had the time and some pent up energy to spend.  I set the treadmill on 7% incline and would run/walk my way up the nonexistent hill. By afternoon, I had received an invite to take the new train down to a local eatery with my friend and her family.  I was Auntie C -- and I loved every moment of their girls.  I let the elder one borrow my sunglasses.  I offered the younger one my bright blue highlighter.  We were fast becoming relatives.  I told them I'd rather be a sister than an aunt. My friend's husband replied, "not if I have to buy you a car and put you through college." I reassured him I'd pull my own weight.  I just wanted to be part of their sweet, nuclear family.

I was again invited out for fun on Saturday.  Oh, and brunch on Sunday too.  My social calendar was full of sunshine and brisk walks in the breezy weather.  I even played rock, paper, scissors with my ex to find a suitable time for me to steal the kids away for a bit.  I took the two children out for a bike ride -- which ended up being way too long for my youngest. It was still a beautiful weekend and one of those moments I was happy to be alive.  I took photos documenting the sights, the sounds, because we all know what a picture is worth.

There weren't too many things that could've made it even better.  Who am I kidding? There was one or two things I could've enjoyed as well, but I will take what I can get.  I guess that's what my life is boiling down to in this moment.  It is moment by moment the philosophy of "take what I can get."  Because really, I don't have any other choice.  I can go along singing the blues that I'm in a divorce, that I don't have my kids Thanksgiving night, that someone didn't call or text me, but what good does that do?  It's more fun to embrace that, in the moment, the pieces that are here and present are good things.

Thanks

I'm propped up by several pillows in my bed and peeking out the blinds at what looks like mid-day.  It's not.  It's only morning, but when I'm alone, it feels later.  I had every intention on rising and rushing to another part of the city to do yoga with my favorite instructor, but part of me just wants to soak up this time to myself.  There will be a lot of that this weekend.  

Funny, I've had several people ask me how I feel about being alone. Some have a hard time doing things without company. Perhaps I have enough voices in my head to fill the empty space? Ha.  I am perfectly fine with dinner for one at a quiet restaurant or sitting in a movie by myself.  I've never had an issue with doing nothing or keeping busy. Both ends of the spectrum are comfortable places.  This little pocket of free time is a mini vacation for me. I had some rather hefty deadlines looming -- and I was able to get my class, my application submission, my legal data -- all the rather mundane details of my life in line and out of my hands, just in time for a long holiday weekend.

There will be no turkey this year.  That much has been decided.  Thanksgiving has become rather overplayed in our family.  I won't be missing it much. Instead, I'm driving north to a little riverside restaurant to have a luncheon with Mom, Dad, Bro and his family.  The kids will entertain their younger cousin. Then, after lunch, I'll be dropping the children off with their dad to be shuttled to some more traditional turkey affair with his family.  My sweet friend says she wants to meet for a cocktail later.  I think I just may have to do that.  

There's nothing to do and everything to be thankful for.  

I have a roof over my head.  I have less stress.  There are two smart, funny, healthy and beautiful children I call my own. I have loving, supportive friends and family.  I have managed to keep a rather positive outlook on life.  I am strong and healthy. I am happy with who I've become -- a happy, thoughtful, and introspective woman.  I am always learning and willing to grow.  All of those things trump the turkey and stuffing.  This may not be the "traditional holiday" this year, but I will continue to give thanks. 

Friday Levity

My Friday mornings have been hijacked by an intense back-to-back exercise class schedule. It's my own fault.  I figured if I was there teaching two classes already, I might as well do more. This is the fitness pendulum fully swinging towards insanity.  I question whether I am built to teach four consecutive classes.  So far so good.

This past Friday was a literal mess.  I made it just in time to gather up the Basic Fitness ladies and move them for thirty minutes of my simplified routines. Less hip circles. More toe tapping.  Less gesticulation of the body. More smile and sway.  It is my general gauge that I should not be making the seniors do the things that the youngsters do.  My classes are less twerky to begin with, but I've made even more adjustments as I watch the older generation's range of movement.  As we began the cooldown, I glanced toward the mirror to see an unusually dark sweat stain on my capris.  It wasn't in the typical crotch sweat triangulation.  It was dark and blooming in a strange circle. It wasn't sweat.

As a recent "graduate" of the Bloodbourne Pathogens online course, I was willing to bet that there'd be quite a mess on my hands if I didn't take care of this issue. Pull out the PPEs (personal protection equipment)..... on my own accident scene.  I pulled my shirt down as far as it could go. I ran to the front desk between classes to find someone, anyone who could teach while I drove my bloodstained ass home for a proper cleanup. No one.  My manager was out sick. My coordinator was out for her morning run.  I ran back to class assessing my pants.  My period looked literal a darkened period on the front of me. My personal hygiene products had completely failed me.

There was no other choice.  I positioned myself at such an angle that my crotch mess wasn't in plain view of my class and continued on.  Afterwards, I grabbed my keys and headed home to change during the 15 minute window between my abdominal class and Body Pump.

I've been teaching exercise since 2007 and never needed to do a wardrobe change. I've never had to handle a bloody situation on any members or myself.  As I drove home, I laughed at my good fortune to have made it that long without an incident.  Returning to the gym, freshly changed and cleaned up, class continued as if nothing had happened.  Other than embarrassment and some wicked stains, I survived.

The New York Girl with the Artist

I had an extraordinarily blissful weekend -- floating around for brunches and drinks with friends. Suddenly everyone is outside in their winter boots and leggings. Admittedly, I am one of them. I am reinventing my style from sweet summer casual to New York hip.  I unearthed a black floppy hat and would wear it with everything if people wouldn't stare so much. Why don't girls wear hats anymore?  I wore mine to dinner and again to a late luncheon knowing my friend would enjoy the sight.  White sangria in a tall glass looks better with a hat.  Nearly everything looks more interesting and alluring with a hat.  

I accompanied my friend over to a local art space.  They had just opened a new exhibition of mostly photographic works and I knew he would be interested. It's a place we'd tried to visit several times to network; it's always been closed.  Alas, the lights were on and we entered.  I watched the confidence slowly leak from his body -- arms and head slumping as he walked from one piece to the next.

"This is too good. There's no way" he muttered.

I gave him a hopeful look and reassured him that his work was phenomenal.  The artists exhibited here were from L.A., New York, Canada -- nothing local.  We walked around separate and then together -- in awe with most of it.  The gallery owner sat with legs propped up on his desk, talking to small Asian man.  

The owner glanced our direction, "Are you from New York?"

My friend replied, "She should be."

It was most certainly the hat. Maybe the hat coupled with tight jeans and a rock n roll, black on gray layered look.  Whatever it was, it became our "in" to make small talk.  I walked over and asked him about showing some local work.  He asked my friend if he was an artist.  My artist friend stammered and mumbled something.

I spoke up, "He's a photographer."

It was a good fifteen or twenty minutes of eye contact and connection. I became the PR girl.  The New York PR girl. My artist friend became quiet -- very, very out of character for him.

   

Since then, my artist friend booked several new shoots.  It seems he's rediscovered some vigor with his project.  I'm on the path to convincing him to give up nudes and start a series on bulbous fruits and autumn squash. He's unmovable.  He let me and his buddy into his studio after brunch and I began doing what I usually do when I'm in other people's spaces.  I began organizing. (why can't I do this with my own stuff???)

His coffee table is piled with various model photos strewn in several directions in varying sizes.  Then, there's this incredible heap of release forms (at least five hundred) in an overstuffed manila folder.  I carefully stacked them all in the same direction.  

"Look at that!" he said proudly. "I'm going to continue to shoot this series just so I can get more paper for that folder."

I tried not to look affected.  If nothing else, I am empathic; I can completely understand his concept of beauty and the art and angles of the female figure. Beauty. Youth. The play of shadow and light. 

I started in on reorganizing his series of sample model photos; there were ones printed on various papers or fabric or covered with wax or coated with some albumen mixture.  I arranged them by size -- strictly just focusing on the task -- as I watched my friend start to nervously twitch.

"Does this bother you?" I teased.

"No. Well, it's just I don't really know what you're going to find in there."

Little did he know I wasn't even paying much attention to the little girls in panties and underthings.  I was simply in process of making things look "calmer."  

Perhaps I am a quarter of a muse, one quarter housecleaner,  one quarter confidant, and the rest is just looks.....now in gray and black for the winter season.

Handy Girl

The french doors are open this morning on this start to a beautiful day.  It doesn't look like much, but it is quiet and it is my own beginning to Sunday.  This is the way every morning should start -- Mozart in violins, the soft nuzzle of my dog, the rumbling sound of my washer in the background.  It fills the senses.  Yes, the washer has become a romantic and triumphant sound to me.

 I've been living the past month in ninja washing mode, hurriedly collecting my dirtiest clothes and linens, stuffing them in the trunk of my car, and driving back to my old house for a mass washing (while others are conveniently out of the house).  It never works, of course.  The dryer at my old house only half dries things.  The timing is always awkward.  I'm loading things in back in my car and the ex thinks I'm home to swipe something really valuable, really functional, or really sentimental from our old house. I'm not.  I'm washing and folding goddamnit.

So Thursday I paid a used appliance dealer to deliver a stackable washer/dryer unit to me. Same day delivery and installation.  I paid a whole 20 extra bucks for that -- thinking it was the best deal ever.  You get what you pay for. He delivered, yes.  In fact, it took a total of 5 minutes from his flat bed trailer to the laundry room for him to complete the job.  There were hoses and cords dangling, dragging.  It made me rather anxious to see this unfold, so I gathered them up as he drove the dolly up the patio porch and over the various thresholds in the house.

Peter, the owner/dealer/driver/part-time handyman, took one look at my outlet and casually mentioned, "Oh, you need a new plug. Four wire one. Call me when you get it and I will finish the install."   What??
"You need a duct for the dryer exhaust, too."
What??  What happened to the installation? My heart sunk.

I tried to contain my frustration, but my body language must've tipped him off.  It had been a month without a convenient wash option.  Now I had to stare at this beast of a machine that was taking up space, taunting me.

"Listen," he said in a calming Jamaican dialect. "You could do it yourself.  Go to the store and buy a plug."  He borrowed a pen and wrote on a Post-it note a collection of circles and lines.
"Green is ground. White goes to the middle. Black and Red to the sides." He pointed to each and repeated several times, as if I'd never grasp the concept of electrical wiring. He stepped cautiously out of the laundry area, almost backing out as he could see I was rather pissed.  I was.  I was ready to smell fresh linen wafting through this musty old house. It became apparent that this is what you get for 20 bucks.

I stared at the plug configuration in the wall outlet and then hurriedly drove to Home Depot.  It was dark already and I knew this wouldn't  be a 5 minute project. Come to find out after 10 minutes in the electrical section of the store, plugs are in a separate aisle than the cords with plugs attached. I spent the first half of my trip trying to figure out how I'd fit a new plug on the end of my old cord.  The beefy short-haired lady in the orange apron calmly took me to the right aisle.  I started to leave, but something told me I needed something else. I shook off the thought, did the self-checkout line, and drove back.


I nudged the dryer to the side so I could peek at the back.  There was the cord.  There were some screws to unscrew.  I went to work removing the back panel.  Something about the whole exercise seemed empowering.  Screwdrivers and wires. Plugs and dryer vents --- OH! the dryer duct!  I glanced at the clock -- 8:47pm.  I had forgotten the duct and clamps.  Back to the Depot I drove.

As I swiftly walked to the help desk, the boy behind the counter said, "You know we close in 4 minutes, right?"
I tried my best to smile through gritted teeth, "That's why you're going to tell me exactly where to go."  I was THAT customer today. The one that looks desperate and on a mission.

Back at home, I installed the new plug. I crawled back into the space between the dryer and the wall and I was getting claustrophobic.  I attempted to clamp the new duct.  The clamps never worked the way they should -- or I am just completely inept. 20 minutes of pure frustration as the duct clipped and the clips shredded my palms.  Screw it.  I'm taping it. I asked my friend to look up online if I could use masking tape or duct tape.

"Don't do it, C.  It's flammable. Wait until tomorrow and get some foil tape" he cautioned. I gave in.  I would wait.

The last thing was to install the hoses for hot and cold.  Notice -- the hoses on the washer weren't labeled. They weren't even mentioned in the User Guide I googled online.  My friend said "heat rises, so let's just guess that the hot one is the hose on top."  It wasn't.  I let the load run and told myself I'd switch the hoses and be fine.



Yes, I'm handy.  I have tools and no fear.  I can read post-it note configurations.  It took 2 hours to do a 10 minute job, but I did it.  No fear.  I can do this.

Strangers

Any person in this situation would be conflicted.  That is what I tell myself.  When you build a relationship, a history with someone, there is bound to be an extended period of time, possibly years, that you hesitate making a split or decide whether it is necessary. It was a slow path to clarity that ultimately led me to this point: I am irrevocably heartbroken--not because of one singular event that caused a dramatic end to an otherwise solid marriage.  I am heartbroken because I realized that even with all of his great attributes -- like being a great father, being personable and affectionate -- I made too many exceptions to my personal needs and desires.  Too many times I discounted what ultimately is important for a lifetime long relationship.

Last night we met at our son's soccer game.  He was dressed to go out on the town. I was casual and bundled up in a sweatshirt and a hat.   We stood next to the field like strangers. He wanted me to spend the night at the house with him.  He made some excuse that we were going to see our son run at cross country in the morning, so we might as well.... insert failed logic here...  After all, the divorce papers are filed.  His response has been acknowledged.  The attorneys claiming stakes on a strange paper-filled battlefield. Ego. Words. Wit. Strategy.

I'm not expecting perfection at all.  Each one of us, especially me, is made up of a rather complex set of flaws.  As partners we tend to create some hierarchy of what's important to us, and if we listen close enough, we follow a kind of internal compass that can lead us to where we really should follow. Instead, I made a lot of exceptions and reinterpreted a lot of bad, bad situations.  It is what we do in our mind when we're hopeful for things to be ok.  Bandaids never work for very long.  Eventually the wound festers and it's all a mess.  I'm still heartbroken that he is who he is and I am who I am -- a combination that will, for all intensive purposes, not be good enough to last.

He is heartbroken too, of course, but for different reasons.

Hollow Night

Although last night was the official start to a weekend without the children, it was Halloween -- and therefore, an important holiday to spend canvasing the neighborhood with Spidey and the Vampiress. It was the perfect night for it.  There was only a slight chill in the air.  Our friendly neighborhood couple pulled a wagon full of adult beverages tucked inside. The children hit all of the important houses (the ones that've been known to give out the full-size candy bars).  They covered all but a small cluster of the 200 houses.

Afterwards, the neighbors seemed to be in a spirited mood.  Two doors down, Fred Flintstone handed me a bottle of cinnamon whisky.  It seemed like the right thing to drink when it's cool outside.  That warmed me up quite a bit.  Here it was only closing in on 9pm and the whole community seemed to be opening its doors.  Spidey and Vampiress dumped their respective pillowcases onto the dining room table and began sorting through their loot.  I took a photo of the Twizzler collection and sent it to my mother.  

It seemed like a good idea to text Fred's wife.  After all, we've got children the same age that hopscotch from house to house.  She had drifted into a neighbor's party.  I walked with a fellow neighborhood mom and my sweet Spidey across the neighborhood.  We heard bass and laughter in the distance and we followed the sounds of revelry.  Wilma and Fred were there on the dance floor along with a handful of other neighbors I'd never met in the decade I lived there.  I still feel like an outsider -- and now, I am the outsider. 

Fred waltzed over to the Radio Flyer chock full of premixed margaritas, bottles of beer and whisky. He handed me the Fireball and I took a few swigs.  It was the devil's hour. So while my son played with his little friends, I danced around the driveway with Wilma wishing I was somewhere else, somewhere quiet.  I wanted to be a ghost this Halloween, not some afro-wigged 70s girl. My costume was as mismatched as my emotions.  It was all wrong -- the whole thing.  It was the start of a very conflicted weekend.  

Fred mentioned, "I knew you were the cool one all along. You were one of the first people I met when I moved here and I could immediately tell."  

It was hard to take anything he said seriously.  After all, he was an oversized orange caveman with a blue tie using the light post to hold himself upright.  Something in the alcohol spoke truth though.  

"Good for you, C.  You deserve better." 

That seems to be a common thread.  Fred knew nothing of my marriage, and yet, he could surmise in the short bits and pieces of being two doors down that I had a challenging spouse.  I was the "cool" one.  

It was supposed to be quiet.  I was supposed to be a ghost in a quiet house with bedsheets and candles and soft music. I was, instead, in some disarray of obligations versus wants.  It was a hollow night that gave way to a hollow weekend.

A Statement of Purpose

source

Where the hell do I start? I've set some of my own deadlines for getting my paperwork in for entry into the master's program.  Now, I'm toiling over my personal statement which sounds like this:

I sat among a scattered bunch of desks full of hopeful University of C. seniors. As we looked towards graduating with our degrees in Creative Writing, we met with the English faculty to discuss our job prospects. Some suggested we apply for ground level positions at the Sentinel. Others mentioned the idea of teaching or pursuing further education. My professor, J.L., revealed, “If you want to sell your soul, you could try your hand at technical writing.” Since my family had a background in computer software, I dove straight into working as a technical writer, creating help files and user manuals. It was the beginning of the Internet boom and the start of my uncreative writing career. I graduated and, at the same time, sold my creative soul.


Outside of collegiate life, I found other ways to bolster my creativity. Though my academic coursework was complete, I continued to write poetry and read both classic literature as well as modern works. I began to rethink my career choice and started to entertain the notion of becoming a professor. After all, I had been heavily influenced by my literature and poetry instructors at UofC. W.C., a well-known author and respected professor, was my mentor and advisor during my coursework at the university. He certainly inspired me by imparting his own love for writing and sharing his life experiences. I hope to have that same impact on my own students someday.


However, another aspiration, (one of starting a family) brought a different direction to my life. I had two little children to raise. I channeled my creativity into weaving imaginary stories for their pleasure. Soon after becoming a mom, I began working part-time, teaching group exercise classes. Along with being a healthy role model to my children, becoming an instructor fed my desire to stay fit and inspire others. I realized my gift wasn’t in writing the instructions of “how-to,” but rather, by coaching and motivating people to push their limits. Between diaper changes and play dates, there were Zumba, Cycle, and Body Pump classes to fill my weekly schedule.


Once my children-- no longer small and helpless-- began their own academic life, I started to think again about my goals and achievements thus far. I had been a scholarship collegiate athlete – a 4-year rower at UCF. I had graduated with my degree in English. I’d worked in corporate America in various roles. With children in school, I was ready to explore the idea of returning to work and dialing in my future goals. I still had interest in working in an educational environment. To that end, I applied and was hired as a tutor at Country C. College. Currently, I work in the writing center tutoring undergraduates and incoming high school students on grammar, the structure of writing essays, as well as, thesis development and proper citation. During the fall semester, I was offered the opportunity to teach the great art of grammar and writing in a College Prep English course. Having a college class of my own to teach has inspired me even further to continue my education and work toward a master’s degree.


Accompanying my growing love for my new academic position, I also began practicing yoga. My personal reading list and studies began to drift into the principles of Buddhism and the art of meditation and mindfulness. This year, I studied and completed a 270-hour Hatha Yoga teacher training program. My role as a yoga instructor began and concurrently, a whole new perspective on life with a concentration on the ideas of mindfulness began. In the past couple of years, I’ve discovered that there is a deep interconnected network of events and experiences that have all come together to influence my personal journey. Though writing and literature have been a big influence on my life, I realize that my interest in studying has grown beyond those areas into art history, philosophy, eastern thought, and the cultural connections one can make in the human experience. Specifically, a fellow colleague suggested I examine the tenets of Stoicism in relation to my studies in the Buddhist teachings. I find these correlations to be what stirs intellectual curiosity and my desire to continue as a lifelong academic.


The Master of Liberal Studies program represents a perfect variety of areas that I want to further explore. I have a particular interest in studying Gandhi’s Philosophy, Life and Legacy offered in the spring term. With my background in creative writing, Dr. Phelan’s Poetry of the Earth course also resonates with my love of the natural world as it relates to poetry. Though this part of my journey has just begun, I’m hoping it leads to a doctoral program and to a continuation of understanding and sharing my passion for learning.

Joie de vivre

I woke this morning with the scent of living things and the faint sunrise lifting over the little lake across the street.  It was beautifully inspiring.  Somewhere between sipping my coffee and nibbling on bites of granola, I decided that both my dog and I are getting fat.  Noticeably so.  The cool air beckoned me to run again.  So I laced up my running shoes, threw on an oversized sweatshirt, and coaxed the lab (who now looks like a sausage link) out the door.

It was an easy run down a quiet morning street.  I expected more rush hour traffic, but only two cars passed by us while we jogged towards the downtown corridor.  Somewhere along the way, I reminded myself that I am, for my age, in great shape.  On a whim, I can gather myself up and pound out a few miles outdoors.  I have a great range of flexibility.  This goes for both my physical flexibility and my life in general.

Lately, there's been a lot of chatter about my busy schedule -- between teaching writing, exercise classes, children's activities, paper grading, grad school applications, friends and family events, and so on.  The schedule overload has been mentioned by friends, but the loudest has been my mother.

"Maybe it's my age. When I was younger, I expect my life was hectic much like yours" she says.
"But now it seems like you're overwhelmingly busy....to me."

I responded with what I tell everyone:  I am lucky.  I have the opportunity to do what I love.  Whether it be motivating them to write or motivating them to move, I spend my waking hours helping people. I live through the moment to moment mantra that "the most important person is the one you are with right now."  So if I'm tutoring someone, it is that student.  If I'm with my children, it is their moment to shine.  If I am with my friend, he or she is the most important person.  If I am alone, then it is me.  It is the moment to take care of myself.  I love living that kind of life. There could be worse things.

I thought of my friend who vacillates in and out of this mode of just waiting for death.  It is a precarious place to dabble.  He spends nights filled with anxiety and mornings trudging through bouts of pain.  I worry that the more he falls deeper into that realm of thinking, the harder it will be for him to climb out once again.  He typically dwells there for a day or two and remerges from the funk with a renewed self.  I wonder, as I grow older, if it will be the same for me.  The pain and thoughts of mortality could override my rose-colored view of things.  I hate to be in that place.  I hate to see others worry so much, especially someone like him, who seems to defy age and gives the middle finger to social graces and the "normal" life.   I am saddened when he feels like giving up.  I think of Bill Murray (see here), who is a lot like this friend of mine.  They are artists that do things that are out of the ordinary.  Their collective happiness does not rest in the idea of pleasing others.  They live outside the lines.

I thought of the man I helped tutor yesterday who has tremors in his left hand and is stuck in a wheelchair.  He has difficulty even typing his name.  I held doors for him. I walked patiently with him to the elevator in the library, since he can't climb the stairs.  I waited for him to enter his personal information three times before the college system worked.  I retrieved his documents from the printer.  In the moment, I thought of my own physical faults - the clusters varicose veins, the way may stomach now puckers around my navel when I crouch over, the speckling of fat across my thighs -- and how minor those things are in comparison to the handicaps, the limited movement, the lack of intellect some may be forced to endure.

I returned from my run -- and although I had to disinfect my hands from carrying around a bag of dog shit,  I felt like it was a decent pace.  I even powered through the 7 minute workout my friend had shared from a New York Times article.  I did the advanced version with such joie de vivre...after all, it's only 7 minutes.

Then I read about my friend's decent into the idea that life is not forever. The anxiety and pain.  What good does it do to dwell on what is? What good is it to think that nobody would want to love him, take care of him, as if he were a chore?  I am not sure if human beings should be so focused on death.  It is about the living and what we are capable of doing, even if all we are capable of is just a stroll on a beautiful morning.  It is the living that is beautiful.

Tis the Season to be Exhausted

It's my daughter's birthday today. Two or three blog posts ago I was expressing how much I love this time of year.  The change in the weather is something to be celebrated. Yet, now I'm realizing how much I have a love/hate relationship with the fall season. Or what remains of this year, from now until New Years.

From last week until the start of 2015, there will inevitably be something happening.  My birthday begins the rush of the holidays. Then, my daughter's birthday will be followed up within the week with the remaining festivities of Halloween.  Afterwards, my soon-to-be ex will be playing "rock, paper, scissors" with me to see who gets dibs on Thanksgiving. Between then and Christmas, we will be carving out time and festive rituals with the children.

It is a season of pure exhaustion.  Not only am I settling into a new place, but also, I'm dealing with my first semester as a professor.  Though I've got a syllabus and a plan, every class is a new beginning.  I have an idea in place, but I haven't implemented it.  It is not fully realized until after it is taught -- after the handouts have been printed, after the lab tests have been administered, after the essays have been graded.  It means putting together my own rubrics for grading and attendance and figuring out exactly what I should find important or what I find to be less worthy of my energy.

Many nights I've found myself no closer to the end of my daily checklist.  There is still a personal statement and a 4 page analysis to write for my entrance to the Master of Liberal Studies program.  I have two more trainings to complete for my part-time group exercise gig.  I can't seem to get through to the end of anything.  I have a stack of papers to edit.  There's an insurmountable, endless collection of tasks that haunt me.  And all I want to do is shut my eyes and sleep.

I'm ready for this exhaustion to pass, but I'm pretty sure it's my body's defense mechanism against stress. I know I will survive though.  I just know I will.

New Age Resolution

Yesterday was my birthday.  I had plenty of cake; there was a chocolate chip cookie one in the morning delivered by my two sweet children.  As I was getting clothes and shoes from my closet, I heard their little feet scampering down the hallway.  They began singing "Happy Birthday" while surprising me with the cake they'd picked up the night before with their daddy.  It was quite possibly the sweetest moment all year.  Later in the evening, one of my best friends brought along a chocolate cake covered with luscious strawberries and rich fudge icing.  The combination was irresistible.  In between the cake-filled moments were lots of birthday wishes, flowers, a couple of drinks, and plenty of hugs and smiles.  It was a beautiful day.  I felt spoiled to have such thoughtful people in my life, willing to take a moment out to share the love.

Birthdays, for me, are another time to which I assign "resolutions" much like the New Year.  It is, by default, a time to reflect upon the past year and wonder what, as I get older, I want to change.  Maybe it's time to drop an old habit or way of thinking.  Maybe it's a good time to start doing something I haven't done in awhile.

This birth year I've decided to refocus on my practice of meditation.  Actually, it wasn't really an original thought.  My therapist asked me this week if I was still meditating on a daily basis.  I responded with a half dozen excuses, all of which were not even worth my breath.  I know firsthand the benefits of meditation, especially for someone like me who can easily fall into auto-pilot.

This morning (on the birth of my new birth year), my estranged other half called just in time for my meditation practice.  I was using the Headspace app on my phone; otherwise, it wouldn't have mattered. He rang in just as I was listening to the introduction, so I was able to take the call -- telling him I'd call him back afterwards. I didn't want whatever he had to say to disrupt or disturb my sense of serenity at the time. It wasn't a bad conversation afterwards.  He threw in some acerbic comment, but it bounced right off of me, perhaps because I took the time to meditate.

There are other resolutions I've made.  I'll be eating clean. I'll be getting outside in this beautiful weather.  Those are tales I'll explore at another time.

Sleep

Gone are the mornings that I sleep soundly until the chime of my alarm.  Nowadays, my body stirs in early morning and I rise before the sun.  There are so many things to do and the only time available is while it’s still dark.  At least, that is what I tell myself.  In reality, it’s various factors. 

My bed is now a queen sized futon mattress.  I sleep on what has become a landing pad.  It’s purely circumstantial, but between the stress of the days events or the ongoing emotional saga, I have no problem sleeping.  I thud hard into slumber each night as if the everything (classes/kids/cleaning/dinner/work/attorneys) has wrung all of the energy out of me. Last night, 10:00 came and I was irritably ready to close my eyes, but trying so hard to keep going and going.  When they’re finally closed, It’s heavy and deep. There’s no tossing and turning — unless, of course, the dog has snuck into bed with me as well. The bed frame is a couple feet from ground zero and I believe she thinks it’s her glorified dog bed.  It feels much like one; however, I hear that this hard mattress is good for your back.  Time will tell.  Whenever I “thud” into bed and curse at the lack of comfort, I think about what I’ve read about Ajahn Chah, a Buddhist monk who recounts his nights of sleeping on a broken wooden door.  I’m quite sure that my little bed provides much more comfort than what the monks could afford as they built their monastery in the middle of the woods. 

There is also the lack of a bedmate.  I have become accustomed to decades of falling asleep in the arms of another.  Now, most nights are just me. The exception is when my littlest one tiptoes into the room after a restless dream and snuggles up. Those are the sweetest moments.  The dog also finds her spot sometimes. Although I don’t particularly want her on the bed, I also find solace in feeling her sweet warmth and sensing the cadence of her puppy breath against my thigh.  When it’s just me, I find that there’s no reason to linger in sleep.  I will wake early and do the things (like a blog post or pick up on my reading) that I couldn’t force myself to do before the crash-landing of the previous night.  

This is an era of love and hate.  I love this house. That’s for sure.  The price I’m paying to orchestrate this, well, it is a hefty sum. Don’t misunderstand; it’s totally worth it, but that weight is heavy enough to make me want to close my eyes and sleep. 

Out of the Box

pic source

A friend sent me this for perusal.  It reminded of me of my whole CrossFit box social experiment hypothesis. If you've spent any time debating workouts and speciality gyms with me, you probably already know where this is going (so disregard the following rant).

I've been to several "boxes" in the past couple of years.  The writer of the article accurately describes the latest obsession people have with pushing limits, doing the unthinkable.  What she fails to identify is the physiological/psychological mind game this type of workout breeds.

 ((((For those of you that aren't down with the CrossFit lingo -- when I write "box," I am referencing the asphalt-covered warehouse/gym environment where these classes take place.))))

The one of a handful I've visited is in a plaza which houses various manufacturing type companies. It is, in most ways, an empty space filled with simple, back to basics conditioning materials such as bars, weights, places for pull-ups, things to throw or push or jump onto.  While some boxes may focus on brute strength and others on cardio conditioning, all boxes are some combination of these elements: space, bars, minimalistic workout gear.

But I'm not blogging in regards to what this writer already identified.  This particular box stands out because for one, my best friend (at the time) left her husband for her fellow CrossFitter.  What started out as a friendly exchange of motivation became, over time, a willingness to succumb to what I'm about to propose. This was also the site of various other relationship/marital breakups/hookups/threesomes etc.  It was a mess of a place, where the co-owner/manager cheated on his girlfriend with her best friend (who also went to this box) to which he's now engaged, all the while he continues to send nude pictures of himself to other various ladies.  A mess.

This is not the first instance.  I've heard of other boxes in the area and even in the state where this sort of workout becomes the doorway to something more. It's a common theme for sure.  I started to question the reason.

My conclusion, logical or not, is this:  CrossFit promotes an atmosphere where members do things they never imagined they could do.  They lift and jump and run and press what seems an insurmountable amount.  They are pushed beyond what they thought, in their minds, was just not humanly possible.  CrossFitters also pay an extremely exorbitant amount of money -- which for most will be incentive for them to continue going (to get what they pay for).  Along the way, this little workout society of people form an inextricable bond.  Why? Because they are working together to do things they thought they'd never do.  It breeds a sense of accomplishment, yes.  Moreso, it creates this air of invincibility. I think this level of "invincibility" truly influences and clouds the minds of its participants.  Here are these people of questionable athletic ability, who are going through these arduous workouts and pushing/shouting/chanting each other's names all the way to the bitter end.  

I have never encountered an environment quite like this.  I have been known to call it a 'cult.'  It, at the very least, can be defined as a misplaced or excessive admiration of  "sport" or workout.

With all of this excessive behavior and exercise in invincibility, one has to be mindful of what other things are at stake.  You may be shedding weight or gathering a whole new sense of self, all the while giving in to, well, a whole hot mess.

Intellectual Curiousness

Along with the various changes that have come into recent view, I've also decided it's time to apply for grad school.  After all, I am a professor now, and I can't see myself being Zen enough to teach college prep courses forever.  Of course this means I also have to gather some rather hefty paperwork as proof of my "willingness" or "desire" for this intellectual pursuit.  

Applying means taking a hard look at what makes the most sense with my already limited time and even more limited finances. Then there's motivating others to vouch for your "willingness" and "desire."  I nonchalantly mentioned my plans to my department lead.  It's a known fact in our department that J.S. writes glowing recommendation letters.  Perfect, I thought.  He readily agreed to help me; however, later that week, he returned with some questions.

He sat cross-legged at one of the student tables with a copy in front of him, pursing his lips.  

"I'm looking over this rather extensive recommendation questionnaire and wondering what I should write," he said.  

 "Which ones are giving you trouble?" I nervously replied.

"There's the one that asks 'does the applicant possess the intellectual ability to succeed in this program.'  If someone is really looking at this, I don't want to give just a milquetoast answer. What really is your interest in this area?  Why this program?"

I shifted uneasily in my chair.  J.S. is one of those deep thinkers who continues to study philosophy in his spare time and is always ready to craft and defend his analyses in such detail that I knew even trying to answer this question would be difficult. 

I took a deep breath and then replied, "Well, since getting into yoga, I've become deeply interested in eastern philosophy, specifically Buddhism."  There. That's something. My statement felt extremely flat. Thud. "Oh and I've always had an interest in studying art history. I love the arts."  Thinking to myself: It's not getting any better. I should just shut up.  This wasn't nearly enough for him to even bother writing one sentence, let alone a paragraph or two about my "abilities."

From there, the J.S. spent the next hour comparing eastern thought to Epictetus, along with the western philosophy of Stoicism.  He explained in excruciatingly precise detail how though Buddhism was about finding enlightenment, the Stoic thinkers believed that it was just the most logical way of existing.  God is logos.  

I am sure it appeared as if I wasn't too involved or engaged in this discussion (if you could even call it that); however, I was writing furiously in my notebook some of the ideas and tenants that could connect the eastern philosophical views I'd come to appreciate to the western equivalent.  

After nearly an hour of this, I told him I'd send him the personal statement I'd be submitting, thinking maybe it might help drive his recommendation.  Or perhaps it will just give him a chuckle.  Yes, it probably will.

Friday Nights for the Elderly

I know I'm getting old when my Friday night consists of vacuuming and steaming the floors and feeling a sense of accomplishment.  This is quite the departure from my younger years, before children, when there was always somewhere to be and someone who could possibly entertain you all weekend.  Now it's just me and my steam vac.  Oh, and my dog.  I finally introduced her to the new place today.  There's enough of a fenced in yard for her to play outside and chase lizards.  I'm watching her out the french doors.  She will have to be retrained in some ways.  She's been jumping on my bed and the couch with her bone. It's just us bitches tonight.

Tonight will be a quiet one.  My parents took the children for a weekend of fun and frolic. Originally, I planned on escaping this little town for the weekend for the big city.  Finances, complications, lack of a travel guide all kept me home.  Oh, and there's plenty to do here.  You never know how much crap you have until you move.  I, for one, have too much of everything; however, my socks and panties are missing.  Where do they go?  Where?

A Season of Change

Just this week the raging heat of summer has begun to subside.  Sunday was the first rather chilly morning.  I'm adjusting to the temperature of a musty, older home with hardwood floors throughout. Cooler days will mean slippers and fuzzy robes. It's quite a departure from the A/C and ceiling fans swirling at high speed.

My place is still in a bit of disarray, but it's getting better.  My friends and parents have stocked it with all the goods necessary to sustain me.  There are loads of paper towels, a new toaster, bottles of wine, plates, coffee, condiments, chocolate.  Wine and chocolate: the essentials.

The kids arrived with various autumn-flavored decorations.  My girl took the reigns (as she always does) and placed miniature scarecrows in the overgrown front yard.  No need for scarecrows, as the uncut, unkempt, moss-covered lawn would scare anyone.  A vintage pumpkin-headed character shines brightly at the front door.  He will soon be surrounded by candlelit pumpkins carved for the season.

Yesterday, a friend of mine shared his thoughts on this season of change.  This is the perfect time for revision and rewriting your life's direction.  He detailed how he gets so focused on what's coming his way that he rarely stops to question if his end result is really where he needs to end up.  In the same line of thinking --there's this book on cd that's been playing in my car the past week or so. 10% Happier says a lot of the same about life.  I started jotting down notable quotes as I listen, like:

"If you are never looking up, you are always just looking around."

and a funny saying the author quotes from his friend:

"With one foot in the past and one foot in the future, you're pissing on the "now."

It's tempting to listen to that voice in our head, who seems to be a reliable internal guide.  It isn't.  It is driven by our skewed thoughts.  We have to think less with our head and lead with our heart.  Maybe that's the change, the revision I'll be making with the season.

I Wear the Pants Now

There are a few downsides to being a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of girl--the possibility of failure, the learning along the way, the potential for loss. My ability to jump into something that I have little to no experience or training is a curious part of my past. There has always been the potential for a misstep, but those have rarely happened.

Perhaps it is a mental disfunction: that everything looks better in theory.

There are upsides of my disfunction.  I don't regret much about my life path.  I have lived more than most women I personally know.  Sure, there are the great adventurers we read about, but there aren't many of my acquaintances or family that have done so many things.  The listing of jobs in various industries is quite an interesting adventure in itself: hostess, technical writer, public relations person, waitress, nanny, stablehand, marketing coordinator,  administrative assistant, personal trainer, valet, sales engineer, exercise instructor, tutor, professor..... those are just to name a few.  There was a time in my life that I felt it was necessary to take every job opportunity I was ever offered.  Just recently, I finally learned how to say to myself, "Yes, I COULD do that, but I'm not going to do it. It's not what makes me happy/fulfilled/successful/whole."

Though it may seem like one's natural response, in the past it was never mine.  I think I'm a step closer to listening to my heart.  

A Room of Her Own

Look at that-- another *blip* another *gap* in the blog writing.  This was a purposeful pause though; it was more than just being too busy or a lack of mindfulness.  A great change has occurred and finally the dust is settling on a new way of being.

There's this little house in the woods I've rented for myself and, of course, for the children.  It's nestled back on a tiny street in a quiet part of town. It's a wreck of a place, but it is mine.  I fell in love with its hardwood floors, its amiable landlord, its quirky split-plan structure.

So I am following Virginia Woolf's advice (as pictured above).  The money part....well, I'm quite sure that will run out soon, but, I've got a room. I've got some space to write.  Above all else, I'm writing.  There couldn't possibly be a better set of circumstances.  The drama is full-throttle in my life (something I try so hard to avoid).  My schedule still revolves around classes and taking care of children; however, there is time for other things now.  This should be one of them. It has to be.

Safe and Fun

A handful of years ago, my husband and I decided to go to one of those marriage workshops. We registered last minute, found grandparents to babysit, and headed to the ballroom of some downtown hotel.  There were many types of couples present -- those who were newly married, those who had been married over a few decades, those who weren't married any longer, but were still trying to work it out.  I knew we fit in there somewhere, somehow.

I was desperate for him to understand me both in the present moment and to accept my past.  There was also the desire for me to find reasons to believe we were supposed to be together, even if reconciliation seemed like a pipe dream.  We experienced various breakdowns and breakthroughs a couple would expect while spending clearly what we could've frittered away on a luxurious weekend.  My husband made a point of muttering that comment several times over the weekend. Still, I gave him props for going through with it, even when his heart was in no position to be completely open.  

What stuck with me most was one of those quotes/statements the facilitator made on the last day:  People want two things in a relationship--- to feel safe and to have fun.

How true.  When we don't feel safe in a relationship, we stop communicating effectively.  There are some of us (sensitive types like me) who would rather just not say how we're feeling than be judged or attacked or criticized.  Safety equals the ability to be free and open.  When we're fearful of the reaction of our mate, we aren't in a position to love.  We retreat into survival mode.  And when I say "we," I certainly mean "I" -- perhaps I'm just to afraid to say it.  (I'm working on recovering from years of being criticized)  You cannot love someone that you fear. At least, I never could work those two emotions at the same time.

At the end of it all (and it is the end) I never felt safe.  I told him the other night that, in many ways,  I felt violated.  My journals had been rifled through, my conversations secretly taped, my phone tracked both legally and illegally, my email account and web browser had been hacked, there are more examples but....all in the name of "love?"  No, this was because of his fear that I would do something.  Funny

 I live with quite an open-minded view of the world, but hypercriticism, defending myself, or having to walk on eggshells will put me back into survival mode-- a stagnant place to be in a marriage. Letting go seems like a much better option, even if it means uprooting everything.

Stronger than I think.

I've attempted to squeeze in a little more yoga exposure these past couple of weeks by taking classes (other than my teacher training and my own yoga practice).  Each class has its personality --  Some channel their inner drill sergeant (so not zen), while others are more playful/mellow.  Still others use the biomechanical cues or perhaps the sanskrit terminology.  In short, what type of instructor you get ranges just as much as the type of yoga you practice: Ashtanga, Vinyasa, Hatha, Bikram, and so on.

I've admittedly avoided one instructor for quite some time -- not because he isn't any good.  He is direct, always en pointe, very structured but chill.  His classes may not be as spiritually-based as I would like, but it's always apparent he's put a lot of thought into his sequencing and his class goal.

I've avoided his class because it's incredibly challenging.  He kicks my ass.

I do other things to kick my ass.  I force myself to run a few miles.  I teach back to back classes at least once a week.  I jump rope until my calves burn and my shoulders ache. However, I want my yoga practice to give me more than just some challenging balance pose or intense inversion. I don't want to expend too much energy on the outward expression.  I'd rather be focusing inward.

Last weekend was D's (the instructor) birthday.  I felt compelled to go, yet, extremely hesitant. I'm not strong enough.  I'm not worthy of the type of practice that he provides.  But we have always supported each other in our yogic and fitness endeavors. We've worked together.  We're social media friends.  We've gone to the same studio, the same courses in college, loads of the same trainings -- both academic and otherwise -- so I went. And I survived.

Like most things, I had built up anxiety over a 1 hour class. This class we practiced handstands.  I learned a better technique.  I had a better handstand than I'd ever practiced on my own. Hell yeah.  My yoga friend, R, reminded me just how long it'd been since I'd taken D's class.  It was over a year ago--before I started yoga teacher training and before I was capable of inversions and side crows and crane postures. R reminded me just how strong I am now.

Insert life metaphor here, right?  You know it's the truth.  We succumb to anxiety over things that we can, in this moment, confront and overcome.  We think it's easier/better to just to be held to our limitations.  Be motivated to kick your own ass, even when you think you can't do it.

You can't write your way out

I've been horrible about keeping up with the good habit of writing every day. Writing has collapsed along with my other daily habits like eating healthy and meditating.  I've been reminded that these are the sorts of times and situations, times of conflict/heartache/confusion versus clarity -- that make for good writing.  Inspiration rarely comes when the children are well-behaved or when everything is going the way that was expected. Perhaps it's my way to escape the shock of impending change.  It's typical of the way I was socialized to want to just compartmentalize the painful or disorienting emotions I'm feeling.  I'm an absolute mess.

There are lots of enablers in my life who would say, "Jesus, you've got so much going on right now.  It's acceptable that you don't have time to write." Maybe those were the voices I let get in the way.  Writing is cathartic.  A good writer is made by first being a bad writer; then practice and a good dose of healthy criticism may make that person a better writer. I've been told my writing has improved since starting this blog.  Maybe it has? I'm not so sure.  Like everything else we humans do, we go through periods of extreme enlightenment or improvement, followed by the mundane or mediocre; or even worse, we suck at it again and must start over.

The same could be said for anything, including relationships.  We start out with minor glitches, but somehow the love or maybe just the general attraction for the other person seems to overshadow the missteps or questionable moments.  There are two steps forward and then we stumble backward, only to start once again. It's a strange dance that I'm having a hard time following-- the progression and regression. No relationship is a known, choreographed routine. Each one brings different challenges. With my marriage, I've been falling and failing for a long time.  I've made some incredible progress along with contributing to its ruin, to a point where my other half will never see this relationship as 'normal.'  It was never normal to begin with.
 
I've been accused of so much lately that I can't quite figure out how I'm being so misrepresented or maybe, just maybe, how I'm misrepresenting myself. My husband made it very clear that when I was done, I should just tell him.  I told him.  The telling created a seismic shift in his behavior toward me and our children.  The shift, however, was born out of a crisis and is a shallow attempt to undo the years of challenge and an inflexibility that only the most laid back person could tolerate.  On the surface, things look like they've improved, but there's an undercurrent that still lies beneath it all that hasn't changed, that I'm afraid cannot change.  

Fiction is more fun than truth...

I'm posting something I've written, only to escape reality as I live in this flurry of emotions that cannot truly be described in words.   Why not write about something imagined -- that describes a place and time other than my own life?

It was the beginning of fall. The Charles River drew foggy with the seasons changing of the guard.  In the morning light, my head was just as opaque as the weather. I had written off my chances of being any part of this city, so I spent the prior evening tangled up with my couch and a bottle of Pinot Noir. Boston woke with an understated energy-- a vibration that those who were keen enough to observe could feel. Most mornings I could look out my window at the Charles and see the rowers gliding underneath the Longfellow Bridge.  I watched runners pace along its shores in pairs; their breath suspended around them.  On most days—nearly every day—the weather drove the mood of the city.   In spring, the energy is high with flowers dotting the walkways and birds cramming the shores scavenging for breakfast.  The winter months are dead and the sleet blankets commuters with doubtful, sour looks.  Every morning, I observe these seasonal emotions change on the residents of Beantown as I sip my morning coffee from my brownstone window. 

It was 8:13 in the morning when I first glanced at her from afar.  Charlotte’s waves of auburn hair seemed to dance as it was tousled by the chilly Boston air.   Her long green peacoat cocooned around her tiny, freckled body--or what I would have assumed with her fair complexion, would be freckled.  As I stood at my window, I caught myself smiling; something that, for me, didn’t spontaneously happen very often. I noted the time I saw her and then spent the remainder of my day wondering what caused such a stir in my soul that I would incredulously have an emotional reaction to the sight of an absolute stranger.

 Against my better judgment, I left my building at 8:10 the next morning. I shuffled carefully around piles of leaves swept aside by building manager, Carl. He leaned against the brick covered columns between my townhome and the sidewalk, grinning sheepishly at me. Carl carried a lost, sunken look in his yellowed eyes and slumped forward when he stood. His mouth was set in a half-gaping slack and words seemed to tumble out carelessly into the blustery weather.

"You's an early bird this morning, eh? Seems like I never see you in daylight hours."

His utterance curiously struck me, but I was in such a hurry I mumbled something about the weather and kept my eyes in the forward direction of the Charles.  I wasn't sure what I planned on doing when I saw her pas-- if she passed by the river at all.  But as I walked towards Memorial Drive, I replayed the cadence of her steps and the liveliness of her curls in the wind.

All the Good

In times of crisis, all the good things you should do for yourself are always the last things your mind and body really want to do.  You're in a storm of complex changes but you need to eat healthy, get enough rest, make time for the gym, read spiritually uplifting passages, stay organized, and of course, you still need to write.

In these hideous moments, all you really want to do is let everything go.  Forget the mindfulness and the evening meditations.  Forgo what you've envisioned as your life's work.  Just close your eyes and try to shake everything off. Good or bad. Drink heavily.  Say things that you'll regret later.  Spend frivolously.  What is the saying? What goes up must come down. Just let it fall a little harder with no regret.

I wish I could be that way.  Just let the wave throw my scales off balance and into another state of being, but it won't. I can't.  I may be struggling with the writing and perhaps the eating healthy, but I haven't given up on doing all the good things. Maybe not all good all the time, but I still remind myself that I should be.

Tonight, I will run a few miles.  I will try to be patient and present.  One of my closest friends said it best:

Keep your chin up.  You are an extraordinary woman, beautiful, smart, kind, and as we say: much stronger than you think you are.  Soon, this will be behind you, and all the sorrow will have carved out a place in your should for coming joy.

I hope she is right.  I believe she will be.  Soon.

Teaching Zen

It's Week 3 of the semester. I've been advised that my class will start to lose momentum/interest at this point. Oh hell. The first time acquiring materials and practicing with the class are both arduous and empowering.

Part of me feels like I'm responsible for keeping them entertained--like some cross between a trained monkey and a comedienne.  Perhaps I'm not responsible, but I keep on telling them that what I want to see is not perfect writing proficiency.  What I want to see is improvement.  I want them practicing what they've just learned.

I spend probably too much of my time thinking about all of this-- how to coax them to a breakthrough in their understanding of grammar and writing. If nothing else, I want them to know it's okay. Yes, there's a syllabus, homework, quizzes, writings -- but mostly, there should be progress.  This is what I tell them. Often. I don't want any of them to feel alone or discouraged.  I tell them to just show up, whether they know what they're doing, whether they've done the homework, whether they really absorb the material.  It's about showing up.  Isn't that what most of life is about?

There was a quiz today.  It's hard not to be hypercritical of my teaching/lecturing skills after seeing some of their scores.  Of course, the ones who show up late to class most days have the best grades.  WTF?  None of it makes any sense to me.  Then, I remind myself that teaching is an organic process. This is my first time -- and I'll adjust everything the next time to a (hopefully) better result.

A Freshman/Senior

Spending more time on campus makes me realize that I had a very unique college experience.  As a junior in high school, I discovered some trap door escape route to college.  Sure, I had friends who took dual enrollment courses through local offerings.  No, this was different.  This was moving to a college campus hours away from home, living in a dormitory, secretly/officially still a senior in high school, but living like a freshman in college.  In fact, I was still considered enrolled at the high school.  This was no G.E.D. program.  At the end of the academic year, I still walked with my high school graduating class. It was a parallel life.

It was, like I said, some trap door escape from my little suburban city.  I looked at a couple of schools with this "program;" however, I ended up at a private college in West Palm Beach.  I believe they were sponsored by the baptist church, but certainly tried to seem nondenominational.  So, as my fellow seniors started their exciting last year at the top of the class, I was packing my white Honda Civic hatchback for freshman orientation.

There were spanish stuccoed, high-rise dormitories on campus filled with the upper crust christian kids with loaded parents.  That wasn't me, thank god.  A block or two away was my dorm -- along with a hundred or so other girls--all of us heathens for sure.  It was a renovated old motel on the inter coastal, adjacent to the Norton museum of art.  The location was phenomenal even if it the accommodations were rather cramped.  I roomed with five other girls in a two bedroom apartment.  Four nestled into a larger bedroom while two more bunked in a separate room with an adjacent bath.  We had a common living area and kitchen.  I don't recall using any of the "amenities" of our dorm -- not even the pool.  Since it was a little private christian college and we were freshman, there was of course a resident den mother-type who'd come check on us every night--the evening roll call.  If we were leaving campus for the weekend, we signed out in the lobby and stated where we'd be headed.  I assume they thought we'd tell them truthfully where we were going.

I was seventeen, very soon to be eighteen, when my unofficial college career began.  I could walk to the downtown Palm Beach scene, the local bars and nightlife.  I periodically went on dates with wealthy, highly dysfunctional men who offered me a tour of their houses.  There was one who, on our first and only date, wanted to play doctor with me.  Crazy.  He was crazy. I was crazy, no...I was naive.... more naive than I am now.

I worked in Palm Beach at various interesting places.  I was a nanny for a couple of attorneys.  I worked as a valet for the performing arts center where I parked and fetched the Bentleys, Jaguars, and antique cars of the aristocrats. I saved up over a thousand dollars and bought a ticket to Santa Barbara, CA.  I explained to my parents I was heading west during Spring Break and staying with some friend I'd met on the internet....back when the internet was a safe place. Ha.  Oh, I was young and in that place where I felt I could do anything.  Part of me still feels that way.  I have very few regrets even in the sometimes dangerous, certainly carefree path I've taken. I look at others who live such sheltered, restricted lives and wonder how they do it.  I don't know any other way but to be wild and adventurous.