I had a dream last night. I found a tiny fawn in the grass near our house, and I slowly approached her, stroked her back and watched as she struggled onto her toothpick legs.
Then I was inside, alarmed because the fawn was being attacked and killed by a ptarmigan. It was inevitable, the fawn was going to die. In my dream I felt shocked and sad by this turn of events. Mark got a big net and started going outside to move the carnage away from the front porch. I was irritated with him, thinking that he was putting himself in harm's way (because the ptarmigan wasn't really a ptarmigan, was it?) for a lost cause. Sometimes, well, only one other time, when I was irritated with Mark I called him by my first husband's name. That usually goes over quite well.
The interesting thing about this dream is that ptarmigan are rather small, grouse-like birds that are well-adapted to high alpine environments. And (according to Wikipedia so I know it's accurate) ptarmigan are vegetarians so it's unlikely that they would attack and kill a mammal. Curious. I'm fascinated by the workings of my own subconscious mind.
One of the things I'm working on these days is being mindful, fully awake and aware during my waking hours. That way, hopefully my curious subconscious mind won't make decisions based on faulty inputs. Does that make sense? If I'm not fully aware and mindful, it's likely that my actions, thoughts and feelings will emanate from someplace below the surface that I can't readily access or refute or counter.
This is a big subject, but the homework from my women's group is to be more mindful this week, to watch and really see what happens as I move through the world. So it's worth diving right in, ptarmigans and all.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Bruce
I don't recall whether I ever mentioned that I've named the prairie dogs that live on the mesa with us, but I have. And just to simplify things I named every single prairie dog Bruce. So whenever I walk on the mesa I greet my chubby little neighbors with an enthusiastic "'ello Bruce!", which curiously always comes out with an Australian accent like the addicted shark in the Disney classic, Finding Nemo. They chatter back to me in prairie dog, much of which I don't understand, but I smile encouragingly anyway.
It's blustery out today and there are actual tumbleweeds rolling across the open space. There's nothing like a tumbleweed to remind you that you're not in New England anymore. Almost all the leaves are down so the space around us feels wider, more open. I finally convinced Mark ("I'm not gonna pay anybody to do anything...")to let a lawn company come and do a fall clean-up for us, this after spending many hours last weekend with a new blower/sucker thing, a rake and a dozen leaf bags. Even though there isn't too much lawn there is a huge perimeter of river stones that trap the fallen leaves; left to winter over I'm sure they would crumble down into the stones and form a nice layer of organic matter for weeds to grow in. I think it's worth the expense to have 4 guys come for a couple hours and get it done. I actually don't like the sucker/blower thing and think I'll return it to Home Depot and apply the money to the 4 guys.
I transplanted my garden sage plant to a pot on the back porch near my other potted herbs. I'm hoping I can keep them all alive until Thanksgiving so I can use fresh herbs in the stuffing. Still have to plant bulbs, maybe this coming weekend.
I appreciate the comments I got on my last blog, the one about the guys who came to my door. Most of the comments were about the efficacy of trusting one's gut instinct, to not worry about possibly offending someone when you're not comfortable in a situation. Also, to err on the side of caution for one's own safety. Not to answer the doorbell at night when I'm alone. Thanks friends, thanks mom. xoxo
It's blustery out today and there are actual tumbleweeds rolling across the open space. There's nothing like a tumbleweed to remind you that you're not in New England anymore. Almost all the leaves are down so the space around us feels wider, more open. I finally convinced Mark ("I'm not gonna pay anybody to do anything...")to let a lawn company come and do a fall clean-up for us, this after spending many hours last weekend with a new blower/sucker thing, a rake and a dozen leaf bags. Even though there isn't too much lawn there is a huge perimeter of river stones that trap the fallen leaves; left to winter over I'm sure they would crumble down into the stones and form a nice layer of organic matter for weeds to grow in. I think it's worth the expense to have 4 guys come for a couple hours and get it done. I actually don't like the sucker/blower thing and think I'll return it to Home Depot and apply the money to the 4 guys.
I transplanted my garden sage plant to a pot on the back porch near my other potted herbs. I'm hoping I can keep them all alive until Thanksgiving so I can use fresh herbs in the stuffing. Still have to plant bulbs, maybe this coming weekend.
I appreciate the comments I got on my last blog, the one about the guys who came to my door. Most of the comments were about the efficacy of trusting one's gut instinct, to not worry about possibly offending someone when you're not comfortable in a situation. Also, to err on the side of caution for one's own safety. Not to answer the doorbell at night when I'm alone. Thanks friends, thanks mom. xoxo
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
The doorbell rang last night
The doorbell rang around 6 last night as I was starting to prepare dinner. This isn't typical, as someone has come to the door only 5 or 6 times in the 6 months we've lived here. Mostly the UPS guy, once a neighborhood kid selling coupon books to fund a school trip to California. Enzo reacted to the sound with his usual crazed high-intensity alarm; I picked him up and went to the door.
Two guys were there; one seemed rather young and was wearing a grey sweatshirt with the hood up. The other was a little older, maybe in his mid-twenties. He was better dressed, with a tie, I think, and a fleece vest. No hat. The older one did all the talking. He started saying things like, "I just talked to your neighbor Bill..." and "you might remember two young ladies who came here last year..." Well, no I really don't because we're new here, and my neighbor's name is not Bill. He must have interpreted my nonverbal cues as a willingness to listen because he came up onto the front porch and stood near me by the door.
He was talking fast, it seemed to me, and I didn't quite grasp the nature of his visit. My first thought was that they were Jehovah's witnesses come to try to save me. But there was a clipboard and something about needing to gain job skills, and didn't I remember what it was like, just starting out? Something about a mentor, something about customer service skills. He held the clipboard in front of me, showing me some writing on a page, meant to impart legitimacy.
I was uncomfortable. I was home alone, it was dark and this guy was talking fast. What did he want from me? The young guy just stood there and smiled.
So I said, I'm not comfortable talking with you. I'm just not comfortable.
The older guy actually scoffed, threw up his hands and snickered as he turned and left the porch. He probably thought (my projection) that I was uncomfortable because both of the guys were black and they were not from around here. It made me uncomfortable to think that they would think that. Rich white lady in a big house in a fancy white neighborhood doesn't want to give the time of day to 2 young black kids trying to make their way in the world. Ummmm, no, not really.
Mark was more matter-of-fact about it. People don't come to your door at night just to spend time with you. They either want to save your soul or sell you something. Or worse, case your house.
When I was talking to Mark about the visit, I felt small and old and vulnerable. I felt out of practice being savvy and street-smart like I was when I lived back east near hard-hittin' New Britain. I felt unnerved at 3:30 this morning when I woke up with this on my mind. I connected this event to the horrific murders of Dr. Petit's wife and daughters in Cheshire in 2007. That time it was 2 white guys who cased the house and came back to rip a family apart. That was an event that left a permanent scar on the psyche of every person who heard about it, watched it unfold on the news, read about it day after day in the papers. It reminded us all about how vulnerable we are all of the time.
If it had been 2 young white guys last night, one standing silently wearing a hoodie, the other one a smooth-fast-talker standing a foot away from me in the thin yellow pool of the porch light, I believe I would have felt just as uncomfortable and would have tried to get them to go away just as quickly. I suppose I wouldn't have had that instantaneous internal white-oriented conflict of wanting them to leave while hoping they wouldn't think I was sending them away because they're black. But I would have wanted them to go away, of that I'm sure.
Two guys were there; one seemed rather young and was wearing a grey sweatshirt with the hood up. The other was a little older, maybe in his mid-twenties. He was better dressed, with a tie, I think, and a fleece vest. No hat. The older one did all the talking. He started saying things like, "I just talked to your neighbor Bill..." and "you might remember two young ladies who came here last year..." Well, no I really don't because we're new here, and my neighbor's name is not Bill. He must have interpreted my nonverbal cues as a willingness to listen because he came up onto the front porch and stood near me by the door.
He was talking fast, it seemed to me, and I didn't quite grasp the nature of his visit. My first thought was that they were Jehovah's witnesses come to try to save me. But there was a clipboard and something about needing to gain job skills, and didn't I remember what it was like, just starting out? Something about a mentor, something about customer service skills. He held the clipboard in front of me, showing me some writing on a page, meant to impart legitimacy.
I was uncomfortable. I was home alone, it was dark and this guy was talking fast. What did he want from me? The young guy just stood there and smiled.
So I said, I'm not comfortable talking with you. I'm just not comfortable.
The older guy actually scoffed, threw up his hands and snickered as he turned and left the porch. He probably thought (my projection) that I was uncomfortable because both of the guys were black and they were not from around here. It made me uncomfortable to think that they would think that. Rich white lady in a big house in a fancy white neighborhood doesn't want to give the time of day to 2 young black kids trying to make their way in the world. Ummmm, no, not really.
Mark was more matter-of-fact about it. People don't come to your door at night just to spend time with you. They either want to save your soul or sell you something. Or worse, case your house.
When I was talking to Mark about the visit, I felt small and old and vulnerable. I felt out of practice being savvy and street-smart like I was when I lived back east near hard-hittin' New Britain. I felt unnerved at 3:30 this morning when I woke up with this on my mind. I connected this event to the horrific murders of Dr. Petit's wife and daughters in Cheshire in 2007. That time it was 2 white guys who cased the house and came back to rip a family apart. That was an event that left a permanent scar on the psyche of every person who heard about it, watched it unfold on the news, read about it day after day in the papers. It reminded us all about how vulnerable we are all of the time.
If it had been 2 young white guys last night, one standing silently wearing a hoodie, the other one a smooth-fast-talker standing a foot away from me in the thin yellow pool of the porch light, I believe I would have felt just as uncomfortable and would have tried to get them to go away just as quickly. I suppose I wouldn't have had that instantaneous internal white-oriented conflict of wanting them to leave while hoping they wouldn't think I was sending them away because they're black. But I would have wanted them to go away, of that I'm sure.
Saturday, November 2, 2013
walking thankful
On my walk a couple of days ago, out on the mesa, I felt a powerful rush of gratefulness come over me. I was walking briskly in the cool, late October morning, thinking about my first Hospice patient, whom I was to meet the next day. She is a woman about my age who's dying of metastatic cancer. I am to be her companion, to provide companionship.
On this morning, here I was, walking, free, able, unencumbered. I chose to walk and I walked. Under the bluebird sky, a harvest breeze around my face, a quiet nod to others on the path, I chose to walk and I walked. And for that, I felt really, really grateful. I haven't even met this person and she's already had a profound impact on my life. I hope I can have a gentle, comforting impact on her life as well.
So as November, the month of thanksgiving begins, I'm ever so thankful for my life and for my healthy body that I can take walking whenever I choose. What a gift.
On this morning, here I was, walking, free, able, unencumbered. I chose to walk and I walked. Under the bluebird sky, a harvest breeze around my face, a quiet nod to others on the path, I chose to walk and I walked. And for that, I felt really, really grateful. I haven't even met this person and she's already had a profound impact on my life. I hope I can have a gentle, comforting impact on her life as well.
So as November, the month of thanksgiving begins, I'm ever so thankful for my life and for my healthy body that I can take walking whenever I choose. What a gift.
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Today
It's chilly this morning after a hard frost. The mesa is starting to close up, contract. There was a flurry of bird activity a few days ago; I may have even seen a small flock of bluebirds resting on the yucca branches before continuing their migration. Just a fleeting flash of blue in the corner of my eyes, then faded into the grassland again. And the meadowlarks were full of song a few days ago. Mark thinks that they never left but it seems to me that they disappeared during the hot summer months and came back only a few days ago, also on their migratory path to somewhere else. It's always a surprise to be walking along the path and hear the clear trill of the meadowlark coming from what sounds like only a couple of feet from where you are. But they're clever ventriloquists and if you look hard into the grasses you can usually spot them sitting high on a stem, 100 feet away. When I was a new mesa-dweller I would stop walking and peer into the grass near the path, convinced that the bird was right there. Now I know better and it still thrills me.
Yesterday I took part in a 2-hour meditation practice at Naropa, one in a series of happenings during Community Practice Day. All regular university business stops and people come together to experience various types of contemplative practice. The meditation happened in a big room with about 100 mats and cushions arranged on the floor. People were called to the room by a gong and found their seat. The 10-15 minute seated meditation sessions were interspersed with walking meditations, led by a soft-spoken woman who sounded like an NPR commentator. Once I discovered how to arrange my legs so as not to develop cramps I was able to sit still for the duration. But my mind...how my mind loves to go into overdrive when it's quiet. I know this is common among new meditators so I tried hard to not go to a judgmental place. Breathe in, breathe out. Sooooo....hummmm.
During the walking meditation we walked slowly and deliberately, hands at waist, eyes softly down. Let the thoughts go, just be here now. Two circles of walkers snaked around the room, passing each other in the middle. I kept thinking about the security lines at Denver International, where you walk slowly and deliberately back and forth in the corrals, gaze diverted. You pass the same people again and again but you rarely acknowledge them or even make eye contact. Maybe I'll try to meditate in line next time I'm there.
Yesterday I took part in a 2-hour meditation practice at Naropa, one in a series of happenings during Community Practice Day. All regular university business stops and people come together to experience various types of contemplative practice. The meditation happened in a big room with about 100 mats and cushions arranged on the floor. People were called to the room by a gong and found their seat. The 10-15 minute seated meditation sessions were interspersed with walking meditations, led by a soft-spoken woman who sounded like an NPR commentator. Once I discovered how to arrange my legs so as not to develop cramps I was able to sit still for the duration. But my mind...how my mind loves to go into overdrive when it's quiet. I know this is common among new meditators so I tried hard to not go to a judgmental place. Breathe in, breathe out. Sooooo....hummmm.
During the walking meditation we walked slowly and deliberately, hands at waist, eyes softly down. Let the thoughts go, just be here now. Two circles of walkers snaked around the room, passing each other in the middle. I kept thinking about the security lines at Denver International, where you walk slowly and deliberately back and forth in the corrals, gaze diverted. You pass the same people again and again but you rarely acknowledge them or even make eye contact. Maybe I'll try to meditate in line next time I'm there.
Thursday, October 10, 2013
I should be
I should be running right now. Loping, really...lumbering is more like it. I think I want to be a runner, you know, one of those people who glide along across a surface, light-footed, breeze in their hair...they say that running relieves their stress. "I'm going to go for a run." I think I want to run the Hartford half marathon in October with Jodi, Mark and some other Harris folks. But. But. I put myself on the C25K program (couch to 5K, which isn't really accurate because I'm not really a couch potato, but fine, it's the couch to 5k program) which is supposed to get me in shape to run a slow 5k in 6 weeks or so. And I'm on week 3, which has me alternating jogging with walking for about half an hour 3 times a week. So a couple days ago I was out there on the mesa path, walking and jogging, feeling not quite as miserable as I had in the near past and I decided to speed it up just a teeny bit during the final 90 second jog. I mean, I probably went from 4.5 miles an hour to 5 miles an hour. Nothing drastic, nothing fancy. And about a minute in I felt this sharp twinge on the inside of my left knee. Really? I slowed to a walk, fighting the impulse to validate that this is why I'm not a runner. Runners have pain, right? And now, two days later I'm confused about whether it would be better for me to buck up, grit my teeth and get back out there for my 2nd run/walk of the week, or just fuck it, take some ibuprofen and rest my tweeky knee. And then what? This seems to regularly happen, so I'm not entirely sure what to do. I'm not intrinsically opposed to experiencing pain, but I don't want to do anything stupid to my almost 52-year old body.
But the upside is that I'm writing a blog post. I took the part-time job at Naropa as assistant to the dean of graduate education. I start on Monday. I also had an offer from the molecular biology department of CU, a full-time gig supporting the brainy faculty. In the quest for life-balance, the Naropa job is the way to go. Remember, I went from flat-out, exhausted, stressed, way too engaged in my job at Odyssey to having too little to engage in here in Boulder. It took me a few months of down-time to get here, but I had begun to long for meaningful work, for a means of engagement with a wider community. Taking the job at Naropa is part of my path toward a balanced life, for the first time in...forever? It will put my in the company of other seekers, students of the university and of life, people who seem to be open, gentle.
And tonight's my last training session with Hospice, and then I can begin to volunteer with a family that's going through the dying process with a loved one. I'm a little trepidatious about jumping in, but also feel that I will be ok with just being there, just being a loving, caring presence for others. I've been thinking that my work with Hospice will afford me a more acute awareness of the beauty of now, the fleeting present. I'll have to revisit that notion down the road and see how it's going.
The last thing I'll share today is that I decided that I'll spend my first few hundred bucks earned at my new job on a 3-day intensive writing course given by a local author in Boulder. It's called The Heroine's Journey, about writing memoir. I already sent my deposit in. Mid-November and I get to spend this time in the company of other writer-seekers. It will be my birthday present to myself. I'm gonna go take a run.
But the upside is that I'm writing a blog post. I took the part-time job at Naropa as assistant to the dean of graduate education. I start on Monday. I also had an offer from the molecular biology department of CU, a full-time gig supporting the brainy faculty. In the quest for life-balance, the Naropa job is the way to go. Remember, I went from flat-out, exhausted, stressed, way too engaged in my job at Odyssey to having too little to engage in here in Boulder. It took me a few months of down-time to get here, but I had begun to long for meaningful work, for a means of engagement with a wider community. Taking the job at Naropa is part of my path toward a balanced life, for the first time in...forever? It will put my in the company of other seekers, students of the university and of life, people who seem to be open, gentle.
And tonight's my last training session with Hospice, and then I can begin to volunteer with a family that's going through the dying process with a loved one. I'm a little trepidatious about jumping in, but also feel that I will be ok with just being there, just being a loving, caring presence for others. I've been thinking that my work with Hospice will afford me a more acute awareness of the beauty of now, the fleeting present. I'll have to revisit that notion down the road and see how it's going.
The last thing I'll share today is that I decided that I'll spend my first few hundred bucks earned at my new job on a 3-day intensive writing course given by a local author in Boulder. It's called The Heroine's Journey, about writing memoir. I already sent my deposit in. Mid-November and I get to spend this time in the company of other writer-seekers. It will be my birthday present to myself. I'm gonna go take a run.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Late September
...and a month went by, whoosh. In between moments of stillness, the rush of time, the rush of flood water. Mom was here to witness the 1000 year flood in and around Boulder. It was surreal to be here in our warm, dry house up on the mesa while destruction flowed down from the canyons and onto the plains. We watched it on TV, removed but still feeling the sense of loss for our new community. Even now, a week later there isn't much to see when I drive around; a barrier here, sandbags there, debris forced into the rails of an overpass. There are opportunities to help and I intend to.
Then a rather whirlwind trip back east to give and get some hugs, share some laughs and wine with friends, check in with a few of those we love. We drove through the verdant tree-tunnels of Rhode Island and Connecticut roads feeling the remarkable distinction between there and Colorado where very little comes between your eyes and the jagged horizon. So green, so close, so damp with life. So many trees. We got into the Atlantic for a couple of minutes, baptised once again in the salty coolness. Its never a mistake to get into the ocean...you can always warm up. I feel compelled to get in whenever I can now...who knows how long it will be until the next time? Oysters, clam cakes, lobster rolls, chowdah, butter & sugar corn, September sun. Mmmm, east coast living.
And now all of a sudden I have 4 interviews on the horizon. Today is with Hospice to become a volunteer. Friday is with Colorado University to see about becoming a program assistant. To be scheduled is one with Naropa University, assistant to the dean of graduate admissions; one with Walden University, supervisor for principal candidates doing their internship in schools; one with an agency in Boulder that provides subs to private schools. The job with CU is full time, the others are part time or per diem. I am going to go through with any interview that comes my way, if only for the practice of using my professional voice in an articulate manner. It's not the everyday voice I use when I talk to the dog so I'm a little out of practice.
Through it all I'm keenly aware of my mandate to slow down, stay present. I admit, it feels really good to have someone--anyone--validate my resume and want to talk with me. But that can't be enough to compel me into a job. I have some work to do on being good with just being...being me, just being. It would be soooo easy (assuming I got an offer) to jump into something because it would necessitate shifting my attention from now/here/the present to "what's next." Busy, busy. I'm good at busy. I've made progress in being here in Boulder without schedule, without direction. I think a happy medium is what I'm longing for. A professional life involving interesting, happy and thoughtful colleagues, meaningful work to do, a sense of accomplishment and values...plus a social life involving a few good friends who like to climb to high places and eat good food... plus a home live involving a loving partner, peaceful togetherness, fun & laughter, good food and great wine...plus a family life involving those who have loved us longest and best (this includes old friends who are not physically near us but so close in our hearts)...plus a spiritual life involving worship in nature's cathedral and opportunities to collectively work to make the world a better place...plus health, wealth and wisdom...wait, does this mean I want it all?
I'm gonna start by taking a run. 46 degrees, abundant sunshine, let's go.
Friday, August 23, 2013
Whoa, I'm here.
I put myself on a train. For the past 5 months I've been on a metaphorical train, more like a thought train really. There's a lifetime of momentum behind this train, driving it, pushing it onward. I had this realization today in yoga, at the very end. I actually started to cry a little because of the rush of emotions that hit me when I said the word "surrender." In my head of course, this was savasana after all. See, there are a couple forces at work right now. First is that it's late August and for the first time in a very long time I'm not at school preparing for the new school year. I'm not greeting teachers as they cart in their new supplies and dust of their rooms, full of stories of summertime bliss. I'm not setting goals, crossing T's and dotting i's. I'm not in charge of anything and that is...scary. Because if I'm not in charge of anything, what's my purpose?
And the second force at work inside me is that I'm nearly 9 months into my sabbatical and I feel like I might just be beginning to understand what it's all about. Like a gestational period for my psyche. Maybe I'll give birth to reason and rationality. That's why this blog...writing in general...is good for me, because in order to do it I need to articulate the swirl of thought clouds in my head, and in order to do that I need to sit quietly and be.
So I've been putting a lot of pressure on myself about Getting A Job. Ask Mark, it's been fun for him. I really think it has to do with the school year starting and me being here, just being here. On the train again, I've been obsessing about what I can do...what I should do. I've spent hours applying to the University of Colorado in Boulder for jobs that I'm either overqualified for or don't meet a minimum requirement which is actually kind of funny considering all the various skills I have after decades of challenging and varied work in the education field. I've spent additional hours applying to the Boulder Valley School District and simultaneously navigating the glorious bureaucracy of the Colorado Department of Education to apply for reciprocity for my Connecticut administrator license. And underlying all of this flurry of effort is a panicked sense of unknowing which is uncomfortably familiar to me.
My challenge is to live with this unknowing and trust that when the time is right I'll know what it is I should do next with my time, my energy and skills. Not just to live with it, but to look right at it, to be with it without trying to run away or mask it. As you know, my modus operandi is to DO, take action, git 'er done. Which is also rather funny because I'm not averse to being alone in solitude.
I spent the months of January, February, March and April looking for a new home and enjoying down time in our new town. I spent the months of May, June, July and August getting settled in our new home, three weeks of which were shared with good friends and family who came to visit. Doing, doing. Lots of doing. All good. But somehow I feel as though the real work of my time off is just starting and I could easily sabatoge it by jumping too quickly into another job that demands my time, energy and lifeforce. What an extraordinary problem to have.
Anyway, it's good to be back.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Extraordinary love
A couple weeks back, in the midst of putting an offer on our new home in Boulder I looked out of our living room window on a scene of extraordinary tenderness and love. A young man, maybe 30 years old was walking up our street toward the mountains with his black lab. Suddenly the lab stumbled, her back feet and legs collapsed under her and she listed sideways toward the gutter. I got up and stood at the edge of the window. The man caught the dog and steadied her with his knees. After a few minutes they started walking but before long she faltered again. This time she went down all the way to the sidewalk. The man stood over her then squatted beside her, stroking her as she lay on the cold concrete. A woman who lives nearby came out and bent down to stroke the dog too. They stayed like that for a while, exchanging soft words between them, gently caressing the lab as she lay so still. The two people seemed to be peaceful, not in distress, maybe just acutely aware that there was nothing they could do now but provide some comfort.
The woman went back to her house after a time and the man coaxed his dog back to her feet. She took one or two halting steps...fewer than a dozen and she went down again. I held my breath as he tried to get her to walk. He was gentle and patient and I could see that he wasn't ready to accept that she simply could not walk any more.
At last the dog just fell and lay down on the sidewalk, head down, very still. The young man walked around to her feet side and tenderly, carefully put his hands under her body to lift her up. He scooped the dog into his arms and turned to walk down the street, pain and disbelief in his expression, knowing that this day had finally come. I think--I hope-- he was going to bring her home and lay her down on a warm bed and talk with her about the hundreds of hikes they took together, the games of frisbee catch, the years of devoted friendship. He loved her very much, and she, him.
Monday, March 18, 2013
On coyotes
We saw our first coyote yesterday. We were walking with our little dog Enzo in the hills above Wonderland Lake in north Boulder. It was a blue sky day, blustery but not cold and we had just begun to climb when Mark noticed the animal loping across the path 100 feet from where we were. We drew back the retractable leash to keep Enzo close to us (recalling every trail head warning sign) and for a few minutes became hypervigilant in case the coyote was the lead dog in a hungry pack. It was a thrilling sensation--we're really in the wild west!--and also scary to feel so vulnerable and tender in the wilderness. We're new to these western mountains and are still getting our footing, still getting oriented to the vast wildness of the place. The coyote was solo, it turned out, in fact it disappeared as suddenly as it appeared, dissolving into the grey-green landscape. We climbed on, reflecting on the probability that any time we walk in the mountains we're being monitored by wary wild animals that tend to keep tabs on humans in their territory. Three months into my Colorado life I have a healthy respect for the mountains and a hyperbolic fear of the creatures that live in them; I hope that with enough time spent in the western woods my fear of the animals will evolve into a healthy respect for them as well. I believe that they could easily kill or hurt me but I also believe that if I'm aware of their habits and habitat and give them a wide berth that the odds are in my favor.
The end result of being respectful but not afraid of the woods and its inhabitants is that I get to be out there, up high, breathing the thin, cool air, feeling the radiant heat that comes from being a mile closer to the sun, feeling at peace in the world.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
The weight
It's a feather-weight anxiety and anticipation concerning whether we will in fact live in this house we wish to buy. As my friend Lesley referenced in a recent blog, it's an embarrassment of riches, not just the material kind, but for me, right now, it's also the wealth of time. I feel like an ordinary citizen who is suddenly wealthy after striking it big in Powerball. I've been handed an enormous (literally and value-wise) check and am now deep into spending my riches. What shall I do today? The sun is out, my belly is full from breakfast and the day stretches in front of me. Today I'll reach out to old friends to let them know how much I value their presence in my life. An exercise class to keep my body strong, a walk outside with the dog, a trip for provisions and gratitude that this is my life today.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
The offer
We put an offer on a house! I know, you're asking where the hell have I been and now suddenly I'm writing about putting an offer on a house? Well yes, and it's really ok. This--this writing/not writing seems to be all part of the process for me right now. The house is really, really nice. Not "McMansion" nice, not pretentious, but just really nice. It's the kind of house you might look at every morning when you get up and think how did i get so lucky to be able to live here? The outside of the house belies the inside. The outside is big and dramatic, like its made to evoke a wow response from people. And then there's the power line that presides over the property, a crackling sentinel. You can't miss it as you approach the house. My research on the safety of living near lines reassured me. The house is on a Mesa and backs onto open space that will always be open. We'd have our own prairie dog Calvary. Inside it has a southwestern feel with thick walls and arched doorways. Lots of windows, lots of wood and lots & lots of room for out-of-town visitors. More to come as we know more.
Friday, January 25, 2013
Productivity continued.
My wired coffee shop turned out to be the Boulder library, second floor near the windows overlooking Boulder creek. I suppose that you have to get here pretty early to claim a spot at the window, and my hunch is that once you have your spot you don't easily give it up. As I was at the front desk turning my temporary library card into a permanent one (now that I have a piece of mail with my new Boulder address) I was helped by a man who was simultaneously trying to slough off the insistent complaints of a grubby, red-eyed bearded homeless guy, something about his card not working... The librarian seemed patient at first, stating politely that he was going to help me now, and would the complainer please wait a minute? But then as the security guard came over he casually said to her, "can you get rid of him please?" And she did, with quiet efficiency. There are so many visible homeless people in this town, so many people on so many street corners with cardboard signs reading things like "I fell off the fiscal cliff" or "homeless and hungry." Most signs say "anything will help." Sometimes they make eye contact with you as you wait for the light to turn green. Sometimes I smile and once I gave a guy a buck. Do the good, generous people of Boulder have a ready supply of ones that they hand out to whomever asks? Or do most people become blind to these folks after a while? I want to learn more about them, why they're here, what happened to them, where they sleep at night. It's an uncomfortable juxtaposition to find a place for them in my mind and heart while I'm spending so much time pondering the enormous amount of money that we're thinking of dropping on a house of our own. And because its uncomfortable I should stay there a while.
Speaking of uncomfortable, let me go back to the idea of productivity and what I am doing with these days in my life. I'm nowhere near having a crisis, but as the days come and go I find myself struggling with the rhythm and flow of the hours. I'm quite cognizant of my mandate: to allow myself to just be, without schedule, without appointments or commitments. To nurture my long-
neglected parts and to become a whole, healthy person again.
And so, this is what I've been doing: I get up at 6am, have coffee, read email and news headlines, check Facebook and the weather, make Mark's lunch and maybe breakfast and help him get out the door by 7:30. Enzo and I take a walk in the morning, usually from about 7:45 to 8:30. Then I clean up the house a little and get ready for yoga if I'm going in the morning. I leave for yoga at 9 and by the time I'm showered and ready to leave its 11:30. Then....well, recently I've taken a number of exploratory trips to neighboring towns to see if we could live there. And the answer is an emphatic "no" so far. "Sprawling" is the most apt word. Anyway, so then I come home by 2 or 3 and let Enzo out of his crate, play with him for a while, maybe read for a while and then start to get supper ready for when Mark gets home at 6 or 6:30. Last night I got upset at him because he made a joke--an innocent joke--about something I was talking with him about. That's when I realized that I needed to refocus my thoughts--recalibrate my compass--to remember just what's going on here. I was feeling momentarily dependent on him for validation of my current existence. Aarrgh. And that's when I also realized the extent of the loss of my job at Odyssey and the proximity of my friends...the daily interactions and conversations with people who knew me well, who cared about me, who valued my contributions. Which brings me back around to productivity--if I'm not working at a job, how am I being productive in the world, and do I even need to be productive, and does the business of taking good care of myself, my husband, dog and house count? Ad the deeper question, the more honest question is, can I stand being quiet with myself for an extended albeit limited amount of time?
Speaking of uncomfortable, let me go back to the idea of productivity and what I am doing with these days in my life. I'm nowhere near having a crisis, but as the days come and go I find myself struggling with the rhythm and flow of the hours. I'm quite cognizant of my mandate: to allow myself to just be, without schedule, without appointments or commitments. To nurture my long-
neglected parts and to become a whole, healthy person again.
And so, this is what I've been doing: I get up at 6am, have coffee, read email and news headlines, check Facebook and the weather, make Mark's lunch and maybe breakfast and help him get out the door by 7:30. Enzo and I take a walk in the morning, usually from about 7:45 to 8:30. Then I clean up the house a little and get ready for yoga if I'm going in the morning. I leave for yoga at 9 and by the time I'm showered and ready to leave its 11:30. Then....well, recently I've taken a number of exploratory trips to neighboring towns to see if we could live there. And the answer is an emphatic "no" so far. "Sprawling" is the most apt word. Anyway, so then I come home by 2 or 3 and let Enzo out of his crate, play with him for a while, maybe read for a while and then start to get supper ready for when Mark gets home at 6 or 6:30. Last night I got upset at him because he made a joke--an innocent joke--about something I was talking with him about. That's when I realized that I needed to refocus my thoughts--recalibrate my compass--to remember just what's going on here. I was feeling momentarily dependent on him for validation of my current existence. Aarrgh. And that's when I also realized the extent of the loss of my job at Odyssey and the proximity of my friends...the daily interactions and conversations with people who knew me well, who cared about me, who valued my contributions. Which brings me back around to productivity--if I'm not working at a job, how am I being productive in the world, and do I even need to be productive, and does the business of taking good care of myself, my husband, dog and house count? Ad the deeper question, the more honest question is, can I stand being quiet with myself for an extended albeit limited amount of time?
Productivity
This won't be a long post; I just need to get something down to break through my resistance to go where I know my writing wants to bring me. I feel like a 5-year old being dragged by the hand through a museum or on a winter walk, reluctant, resisting the possibility that this could be good, fun even. The dearth of tangible stuff going on in my life is lately matched by the overflow, standing-room only show going on in my mind as I navigate through my days.
I learned how to write my blogposts on my iPad so I think I might go to a wired coffee shop and do some writing today. Maybe the Laughing Goat on Pearl. More later.
I learned how to write my blogposts on my iPad so I think I might go to a wired coffee shop and do some writing today. Maybe the Laughing Goat on Pearl. More later.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Dancing at the Dickens
Mark and I went out last night, no easy feat considering the post-game somnambulance having as much to do with beers and tortilla soup as with the double overtime ending in a loss for Peyton and the Broncos. But out we went to the Dickens Opera House in Longmont to meet up at a Grey Wolves Meet Up (look for the balloons) with a couple dozen other over-40's. Johnny O's power trio was on the stage, compelling a middle-aged frenzy of spastic, gleeful movements. I love to watch people dance, especially the ones who don't take themselves too seriously. My inspiration for how to dance comes from Steve Martin and Lily Tomlin in All of Me, at the end of the movie when they're lost in a silly, joyful boogie on the black and white tiled floor. Last night there was blue shirt guy who unabashedly whipped off his sweater 30 seconds into the first song, hawaiian shirt guy who sported the white man's overbite like a champ but who partnered his adoring girlfriend with drunken abandon, the older couple who moved like saplings bending toward each other in a warm breeze, always in harmony created over years of dancing together through breakfast dishes, children come and gone, hospital beds and whispered dreams in the dark.
The Opera House, the "best place music venue in Colorado" is a dark, high-ceiling-ed, red-walled historic behemoth with well-marked exits and not a few disco balls sending sparks of light through the fog machine haze. And two yellow smiley-face balloons telling the Grey Wolves where to meet up. We sat aside from the group at first, both of us a little shy about meeting new people. During the break we sat down next to Sue from Lafayette and Steve from Jackson, up in the mountains. Sue said it took her 3 years before she got her nerve up to attend a Grey Wolves outing. Maybe all humans are essentially insecure, all looking for companionship, relationship, connections.
We ask everyone we meet about where they live and how they like it. We've talked with native Longmonters, transplants from everywhere else, folks who love conservative suburban Broomfield, folks who love liberal hipster Boulder and folks who love the redneck freedom in the mountains. For us it will all come down to where we can picture making a life, where we'll feel that we're home. Even though the farm is a financial stretch we find ourselves circling back to thoughts of making that property our home. We talk about the direction the sun will come in during the winter months and where we'll sit during different times of the day. We talk about where we'll put our Christmas cactus and fig tree and where we'll find boards to make a dining room table to fit the space. We talk about how we'll situate our grapevines on the land and whether we'll pay an electrician to wire the studio or whether we'll do it ourselves. We talk about filling the house with the people we love and where they'll all sleep. It's a beautiful, special home and if we can see a way to pay for it I believe we'll put an offer in. There's so much waiting in real estate, so much being patient and holding the tension. We could be doing all this dreaming and unbeknownst to us another offer is floated, this one without the constraints of a work-around mortgage and a down-payment scraped together from 5 different savings accounts and a truncated retirement fund. But that's the game and that's the price to pay for the opportunity to call another place our home. We'll know more tomorrow when the bankers tell us about the possibilities or lack thereof.
It's 7 degrees this morning, chance of more snow showers. A fire is taking hold in the stove, Enzo is on his first nap and pancakes are calling to be made. The Patriots play at 2. Today we nap, overtime or no overtime. Sunday afternoon naps in January by the fire could very well be sacred.
The Opera House, the "best place music venue in Colorado" is a dark, high-ceiling-ed, red-walled historic behemoth with well-marked exits and not a few disco balls sending sparks of light through the fog machine haze. And two yellow smiley-face balloons telling the Grey Wolves where to meet up. We sat aside from the group at first, both of us a little shy about meeting new people. During the break we sat down next to Sue from Lafayette and Steve from Jackson, up in the mountains. Sue said it took her 3 years before she got her nerve up to attend a Grey Wolves outing. Maybe all humans are essentially insecure, all looking for companionship, relationship, connections.
We ask everyone we meet about where they live and how they like it. We've talked with native Longmonters, transplants from everywhere else, folks who love conservative suburban Broomfield, folks who love liberal hipster Boulder and folks who love the redneck freedom in the mountains. For us it will all come down to where we can picture making a life, where we'll feel that we're home. Even though the farm is a financial stretch we find ourselves circling back to thoughts of making that property our home. We talk about the direction the sun will come in during the winter months and where we'll sit during different times of the day. We talk about where we'll put our Christmas cactus and fig tree and where we'll find boards to make a dining room table to fit the space. We talk about how we'll situate our grapevines on the land and whether we'll pay an electrician to wire the studio or whether we'll do it ourselves. We talk about filling the house with the people we love and where they'll all sleep. It's a beautiful, special home and if we can see a way to pay for it I believe we'll put an offer in. There's so much waiting in real estate, so much being patient and holding the tension. We could be doing all this dreaming and unbeknownst to us another offer is floated, this one without the constraints of a work-around mortgage and a down-payment scraped together from 5 different savings accounts and a truncated retirement fund. But that's the game and that's the price to pay for the opportunity to call another place our home. We'll know more tomorrow when the bankers tell us about the possibilities or lack thereof.
It's 7 degrees this morning, chance of more snow showers. A fire is taking hold in the stove, Enzo is on his first nap and pancakes are calling to be made. The Patriots play at 2. Today we nap, overtime or no overtime. Sunday afternoon naps in January by the fire could very well be sacred.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Snow in the mountains
There's a line of clouds that you can clearly see about a third of the way up Bear Peak and I know that it's dumping snow up there. Enzo and I just went out for a walk up to the trailhead just off of Shanahan Ridge but all we encountered were a few stray flakes. It's cold, though and getting colder. We had to go for a walk because if we didn't I fear that I might have killed him. It's just that the lady next door was having her carpets steam-cleaned, or her basement pumped out, whatever endeavor requires a small truck and a large hose; a continuous whiny roar emanated from the truck in such as way as to alarm this small dog who then thought it his duty to alert me to the nefarious goings on. No matter how I redirected, pleaded, threatened, attempted training strategies with Cheerios, looked deeply into his adorable black eyes to help him understand that we were not in danger, Enzo was fully connected to his instinct and would not be called off. The only solution was another walk. And so now, an hour later he's curled up in a contented white ball on the sofa while a fire crackles away in the stove and I sit here feeling foolish for becoming angry at a lovable little ball of instinct.
It makes me think back to when Laura was a tiny baby and I was an emerging young adult, inadequately prepared to handle the day in, day out demands of a 7 pound human being. I remember thinking back then--I suppose I had the presence of mind to realize just how dire the circumstances could be--that I understood how parents could shake their babies to death out of terrifying, unadulterated frustration. "Why won't you stop?!" I held my daughter up one time in front of me, shouting at her little body to stop crying. It was in the stairway, on the way up or down, it was probably during the daylight hours. Nothing extraordinary had happened, it was a regular day in a regular week and I was simply reaching some limit in my ability to safely and lovingly care for my screaming infant. Possessing a certain history of sanity and restraint I didn't shake her until her neck snapped. I didn't have to call the police to report that there was something wrong with my baby and oh my god, she's not breathing. We carried on and to this day no one has ever known how close I came to the edge. I should have just put her harness on and taken her for a walk.
It makes me think back to when Laura was a tiny baby and I was an emerging young adult, inadequately prepared to handle the day in, day out demands of a 7 pound human being. I remember thinking back then--I suppose I had the presence of mind to realize just how dire the circumstances could be--that I understood how parents could shake their babies to death out of terrifying, unadulterated frustration. "Why won't you stop?!" I held my daughter up one time in front of me, shouting at her little body to stop crying. It was in the stairway, on the way up or down, it was probably during the daylight hours. Nothing extraordinary had happened, it was a regular day in a regular week and I was simply reaching some limit in my ability to safely and lovingly care for my screaming infant. Possessing a certain history of sanity and restraint I didn't shake her until her neck snapped. I didn't have to call the police to report that there was something wrong with my baby and oh my god, she's not breathing. We carried on and to this day no one has ever known how close I came to the edge. I should have just put her harness on and taken her for a walk.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
A house is a house for me
The first house I remember living in was in Ridgefield, Connecticut. I was around 4 years old and lived there with my sister, mom and dad. The smell of an autumn leaf pile will bring me right back there. We had the most enormous leaf piles in the world. I remember the sound that my grandmother's heavy clip-on earrings made when they clacked together from where they were clipped to my stuffed brown dog, Gog, who wore them happily. Gog was a plain dog who liked to dress up when Grandma came to town from Boston where she lived. I suppose that, being the soulful child I was that I named him partway between God and dog, which is a pretty good name for most any of the canine types.
After Ridgefield we moved to North Kingstown Rhode Island where I spent my early adolescence. 1970 to 1977. It was an awkward fashion time for me, big glasses, big limbs, shiny braces. I had cute friends and I wanted so badly to be cute but never quite attained that. Marsha Matthews was cute. She was the first girl I knew who spoke about french kissing behind the library stacks in our open-concept school. Our house in Rhode Island was, from my memory, a huge center stairway colonial with a vast back yard suitable for rabbit hutches, gymnastics shows and, way up on the hill, my mother's vegetable garden. I've driven by it since, and wasn't all that surprised to see that it's gotten significantly smaller over the years. We lived nearby, but not in, the neighboring development that contained hundreds of houses. My best friend lived in that development but we were always a little on the outside. At the farthest border of the neighborhood I could still hear the supper bell that my mom embarrassingly rang for us when it was time to come home and get washed up. It was required for us to respond to the bell, "coming" which we grudgingly did.
In November of 1977 we moved to Woodbury Connecticut so my dad could take a job with a friend of his. To this day, at age 51 I'm not sure what type of work he did there. I do know that there were frozen veal cutlets involved because occasionally my dad would come home with a box of frozen cutlets, like a warrior returning to camp after battle with meat for the winter. The job only lasted for 8 months. 8 months of my sophomore year. I briefly dated a guy named Monty who reminded me of a character from Chariots of Fire, the lanky, laid-back, likely always a little under the influence of something blonde runner. When I say we dated I mean that I think we kissed once and I rebuffed his attempts to get into my bra, the cups of which were audaciously and necessarily supplemented with cotton balls. Our house in Woodbury was on top of Upper Grassy Hill and it was wrapped in aluminium siding. The wind blew all the time up there and we ate a lot of frozen veal cutlets.
Woodbury led us to Tolland Connecticut where my dad got a good job as an executive in a wire manufacturing company and where I graduated from high school. Tolland is where I started keeping journals, pages and pages of adolescent angst and passionate longing for a boyfriend to love, self-acceptance, true beauty, actual breasts and makeup kits from the back of magazines that were worth well over $50 but that you could buy for only $10.00. We put a screened in porch on the back of our Tolland house, smaller than the one we had built on the back of our North Kingstown house, but adequate for our purposes. I suppose that having a screened in porch was a small concession for my mom who stalwartly packed our things each time and unpacked our things in a different house, always making it our home. My sister and future brother-in-law announced their engagement on that screened in porch. My grandfather was living with us at the time and I'm not sure he really understood what was happening. Too many people speaking all at once.
I'm going to have to pick up this thread of writing later because I don't want to be late for noon yoga. I have a chill after my trail run this morning and am looking forward to the 106 degree studio. Before I go, I'll list the rest of the places I've lived:
Mount Carmel Ave, Hamden, Connecticut, the basement apartment I rented in college
108 Riverside Drive, New York City
102 Whapley Road, Glastonbury, Connecticut
45 Hudson Street, Manchester, Connecticut
Buckland Hills Drive, Manchester, Connecticut, the apartments by the mall
Otis Street, Manchester, Connecticut, the apartment in the big old mansion near Main Street
Starkweather Street, Manchester, Connecticut, the little yellow dutch colonial I bought on my own
11 Treetop Lane, Broad Brook, Connecticut, Mark's and my first home together
17 Park Place Circle, West Hartford, Connecticut, our condo which we rented out as of yesterday
3640 Silver Plume Lane, Boulder, Colorado, our rented house on Table Mesa in South Boulder from where I write at present.
...all of which has been written down to allow me to explore our next move to our next house.
After Ridgefield we moved to North Kingstown Rhode Island where I spent my early adolescence. 1970 to 1977. It was an awkward fashion time for me, big glasses, big limbs, shiny braces. I had cute friends and I wanted so badly to be cute but never quite attained that. Marsha Matthews was cute. She was the first girl I knew who spoke about french kissing behind the library stacks in our open-concept school. Our house in Rhode Island was, from my memory, a huge center stairway colonial with a vast back yard suitable for rabbit hutches, gymnastics shows and, way up on the hill, my mother's vegetable garden. I've driven by it since, and wasn't all that surprised to see that it's gotten significantly smaller over the years. We lived nearby, but not in, the neighboring development that contained hundreds of houses. My best friend lived in that development but we were always a little on the outside. At the farthest border of the neighborhood I could still hear the supper bell that my mom embarrassingly rang for us when it was time to come home and get washed up. It was required for us to respond to the bell, "coming" which we grudgingly did.
In November of 1977 we moved to Woodbury Connecticut so my dad could take a job with a friend of his. To this day, at age 51 I'm not sure what type of work he did there. I do know that there were frozen veal cutlets involved because occasionally my dad would come home with a box of frozen cutlets, like a warrior returning to camp after battle with meat for the winter. The job only lasted for 8 months. 8 months of my sophomore year. I briefly dated a guy named Monty who reminded me of a character from Chariots of Fire, the lanky, laid-back, likely always a little under the influence of something blonde runner. When I say we dated I mean that I think we kissed once and I rebuffed his attempts to get into my bra, the cups of which were audaciously and necessarily supplemented with cotton balls. Our house in Woodbury was on top of Upper Grassy Hill and it was wrapped in aluminium siding. The wind blew all the time up there and we ate a lot of frozen veal cutlets.
Woodbury led us to Tolland Connecticut where my dad got a good job as an executive in a wire manufacturing company and where I graduated from high school. Tolland is where I started keeping journals, pages and pages of adolescent angst and passionate longing for a boyfriend to love, self-acceptance, true beauty, actual breasts and makeup kits from the back of magazines that were worth well over $50 but that you could buy for only $10.00. We put a screened in porch on the back of our Tolland house, smaller than the one we had built on the back of our North Kingstown house, but adequate for our purposes. I suppose that having a screened in porch was a small concession for my mom who stalwartly packed our things each time and unpacked our things in a different house, always making it our home. My sister and future brother-in-law announced their engagement on that screened in porch. My grandfather was living with us at the time and I'm not sure he really understood what was happening. Too many people speaking all at once.
I'm going to have to pick up this thread of writing later because I don't want to be late for noon yoga. I have a chill after my trail run this morning and am looking forward to the 106 degree studio. Before I go, I'll list the rest of the places I've lived:
Mount Carmel Ave, Hamden, Connecticut, the basement apartment I rented in college
108 Riverside Drive, New York City
102 Whapley Road, Glastonbury, Connecticut
45 Hudson Street, Manchester, Connecticut
Buckland Hills Drive, Manchester, Connecticut, the apartments by the mall
Otis Street, Manchester, Connecticut, the apartment in the big old mansion near Main Street
Starkweather Street, Manchester, Connecticut, the little yellow dutch colonial I bought on my own
11 Treetop Lane, Broad Brook, Connecticut, Mark's and my first home together
17 Park Place Circle, West Hartford, Connecticut, our condo which we rented out as of yesterday
3640 Silver Plume Lane, Boulder, Colorado, our rented house on Table Mesa in South Boulder from where I write at present.
...all of which has been written down to allow me to explore our next move to our next house.
two books
I'm reading two books these days, the first is One Man's Meat, a series of essays by EB White. The second, purchased yesterday from a small independent bookseller in Louisville, is Writing Down the Bones, the classic tutorial on how to write. I had not gone looking for the book but happened to notice it as I was browsing through the new book section. I was in Louisville for lunch and exploration, the first of which I accomplished quite successfully at the Huckleberry Cafe on Main Street. And the second is ongoing.
I was intrigued and comforted to read in my new guide to writing that the author had over the years filled and half-filled numerous notebooks and journals with petty ramblings, shallow complaints and immature longings, much like I have. Since high school and maybe earlier I have used journals to record my thoughts and feelings; some times in my life I've been quite prolific, at other times I let great spans of time go by without jotting down so much as the date at the top of a page. I was thinking that if I found all of these journals and combined them chronologically I might have a telling record of what I was doing and thinking for all those years. Truth is, I'm not looking forward to this because I know what it will sound like: most of the time when I wrote it was sorry, miserable complaining and longing for something more/better/different. It took me a long time in my life to figure out how to make things happen for myself, and I spent a lot of time just longing, wishing, missing out. And luckily I had the impulse to write all that shit down.
But as my new writing tutor said, writing is a practice, and only by doing it regularly and honestly can one become a better writer. I think I would like that, to become a better writer. I feel as though I have stories, thoughts, observations to write down and share. I like to write, I usually like to read over what I've written. Sometimes it amuses me, often it bores me, but I find that I do come back to the desire to get thoughts on paper. Or screen.
Today I'll put on my trail shoes and go for a long, fast walk across the hills near our rented home up here on Shanahan Ridge. It's sunny but chilly still, good conditions for a brisk walk in the plains. I'm just waiting long enough for our resident coyote to slink back to his burrow (if that's where coyotes sleep) for the day. I have no pepper spray, little aerobic capacity and no desire to engage him in any way.
I'm fighting a desire to skip my yoga class today, but I believe I'll overcome that. Yoga practice...writing practice. Practice makes perfect....or at the very least, better.
I was intrigued and comforted to read in my new guide to writing that the author had over the years filled and half-filled numerous notebooks and journals with petty ramblings, shallow complaints and immature longings, much like I have. Since high school and maybe earlier I have used journals to record my thoughts and feelings; some times in my life I've been quite prolific, at other times I let great spans of time go by without jotting down so much as the date at the top of a page. I was thinking that if I found all of these journals and combined them chronologically I might have a telling record of what I was doing and thinking for all those years. Truth is, I'm not looking forward to this because I know what it will sound like: most of the time when I wrote it was sorry, miserable complaining and longing for something more/better/different. It took me a long time in my life to figure out how to make things happen for myself, and I spent a lot of time just longing, wishing, missing out. And luckily I had the impulse to write all that shit down.
But as my new writing tutor said, writing is a practice, and only by doing it regularly and honestly can one become a better writer. I think I would like that, to become a better writer. I feel as though I have stories, thoughts, observations to write down and share. I like to write, I usually like to read over what I've written. Sometimes it amuses me, often it bores me, but I find that I do come back to the desire to get thoughts on paper. Or screen.
Today I'll put on my trail shoes and go for a long, fast walk across the hills near our rented home up here on Shanahan Ridge. It's sunny but chilly still, good conditions for a brisk walk in the plains. I'm just waiting long enough for our resident coyote to slink back to his burrow (if that's where coyotes sleep) for the day. I have no pepper spray, little aerobic capacity and no desire to engage him in any way.
I'm fighting a desire to skip my yoga class today, but I believe I'll overcome that. Yoga practice...writing practice. Practice makes perfect....or at the very least, better.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
Wednesday January 9
Mark is going to Minnesota for a couple days so it's just me and the dog and my blog. Which is now going to be published in an online magazine called Midlife Bloggers. And though it's strange for me to think of myself as midlife, I suppose, at age 51 that is precisely what I am, making this publication appropriate for my ramblings. Is there anyone out there who might have the slightest interest in what I have to say? We'll see. Maybe someday I'll get a comment.
I'm exploring Louisville today to get a first impression and see if it's somewhere we might be able to live. It's supposed to be much different than Longmont, which seems to be (first impression) a sprawling, ugly, industrialized, impulsively designed nothing of a town. We don't want to live in Longmont.
It's another absolutely gorgeous day here in Boulder, brilliant sunshine, warming temps...does this ever get old?
I'm exploring Louisville today to get a first impression and see if it's somewhere we might be able to live. It's supposed to be much different than Longmont, which seems to be (first impression) a sprawling, ugly, industrialized, impulsively designed nothing of a town. We don't want to live in Longmont.
It's another absolutely gorgeous day here in Boulder, brilliant sunshine, warming temps...does this ever get old?
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Winds on the mesa
There are sustained windspeeds of 42mph with gusts up to 64mph recorded at NCAR (National Center for Atmospheric Research) this morning up here on Table Mesa. It made our morning walk a bit dramatic, what with all the leaf-chasing and trying to stay upright. We've been told that the wind howls off the mountains onto the mesa and although we've had some gusty nights, nothing like this until today. I put the NCAR icon on my desktop so I can check back frequently. NCAR is very close to us, about 10 minutes away by car. The building was designed by IM Pei; it sits on top of a smaller plateau nestled up against the Flatirons. Very cool nearby resource.
So now we're back, laundry in, tonight's chicken is brining, giblets on the fire for gravy stock and dog treats. I'll do the noon yoga class then meet our realtor and Mark at another house right over the border in Longmont, also north of the reservoir. Last night we had a lightbulb moment in which we realized that we might have been treading in places (price ranges) that were not ok for us. I think we got caught up in the Boulder real estate prices and our bottom line kept creeping up and up until we were looking at houses in the $800,000's. It's hard to even think that with a straight face. We had been looking at this amazing small farm property with a renovated house owned by an artist who did it over with super high-quality materials and an exceptional eye for design and detail. Almost 3 acres of flat land, an adorable summer cottage, etc etc. But it was causing us to become stressed about how we could swing this mortgage while we still own the condo, etc. It was like our sensibilities were temporarily recalibrated to think that getting an $800,000 mortgage was reasonable. So I think that last night we came down from that ledge and are thinking more clearly now.
Our latest plan is to rent the condo for a year (our back-east realtor says he's got a nice German couple who love the place and want to rent it unfurnished) and look for a house that we can afford while still owning the condo. This means, in all likelihood, that we'll give some serious consideration to living outside of Boulder proper. And that might be ok. I think that Mark and I have both been feeling that we came here to live in Boulder, not a suburb of Boulder. But the reality is, we came here for his job, which is in Boulder right now but which will probably be relocating to one of those suburbs within a couple years. A Boulder address is cool, and people recognize the coolness of the town when you tell them you live in Boulder. But what difference would it really make in our lives if we lived 10 minutes outside the town, or 5 or 20 minutes outside of Boulder? We were never going to live within walking distance to Pearl Street, and we really don't even want that. We can easily drive to Pearl Street and all it's funkiness and shops and restaurants from any of the places around Boulder.
So I think that tomorrow I'll take a trip to Louisville (pronounced Louis-ville, not like the one in Kentucky) to see what a small outlying town is like. We heard some guys in a bar last Sunday (the Hungry Toad, a gritty little irish pub where we felt quite at home with our shepherd's pie and local brews) about the robust music and culture scene in Louisville. So it's worth checking out.
I'm reading One Man's Meat, a series of essays by one of my favorite authors, E.B. White. What a luxury, to have time to read during daylight hours.
So now we're back, laundry in, tonight's chicken is brining, giblets on the fire for gravy stock and dog treats. I'll do the noon yoga class then meet our realtor and Mark at another house right over the border in Longmont, also north of the reservoir. Last night we had a lightbulb moment in which we realized that we might have been treading in places (price ranges) that were not ok for us. I think we got caught up in the Boulder real estate prices and our bottom line kept creeping up and up until we were looking at houses in the $800,000's. It's hard to even think that with a straight face. We had been looking at this amazing small farm property with a renovated house owned by an artist who did it over with super high-quality materials and an exceptional eye for design and detail. Almost 3 acres of flat land, an adorable summer cottage, etc etc. But it was causing us to become stressed about how we could swing this mortgage while we still own the condo, etc. It was like our sensibilities were temporarily recalibrated to think that getting an $800,000 mortgage was reasonable. So I think that last night we came down from that ledge and are thinking more clearly now.
Our latest plan is to rent the condo for a year (our back-east realtor says he's got a nice German couple who love the place and want to rent it unfurnished) and look for a house that we can afford while still owning the condo. This means, in all likelihood, that we'll give some serious consideration to living outside of Boulder proper. And that might be ok. I think that Mark and I have both been feeling that we came here to live in Boulder, not a suburb of Boulder. But the reality is, we came here for his job, which is in Boulder right now but which will probably be relocating to one of those suburbs within a couple years. A Boulder address is cool, and people recognize the coolness of the town when you tell them you live in Boulder. But what difference would it really make in our lives if we lived 10 minutes outside the town, or 5 or 20 minutes outside of Boulder? We were never going to live within walking distance to Pearl Street, and we really don't even want that. We can easily drive to Pearl Street and all it's funkiness and shops and restaurants from any of the places around Boulder.
So I think that tomorrow I'll take a trip to Louisville (pronounced Louis-ville, not like the one in Kentucky) to see what a small outlying town is like. We heard some guys in a bar last Sunday (the Hungry Toad, a gritty little irish pub where we felt quite at home with our shepherd's pie and local brews) about the robust music and culture scene in Louisville. So it's worth checking out.
I'm reading One Man's Meat, a series of essays by one of my favorite authors, E.B. White. What a luxury, to have time to read during daylight hours.
Monday, January 7, 2013
Savasana
As I was in savasana at the end of the bikram class today I realized that it felt almost exactly the way I feel when I come out of the ocean on a hot day, dripping wet and on my back on a towel. The sweat pouring off me felt and tasted like seawater, the hot room accentuated by a beam of low, strong January sun on my face and upper body enabled me to be in complete relaxation, drifting on my thoughts and quiet ambient room noises. I love this feeling; I had been wondering whether I'd miss the ocean terribly out here in Colorado, but it's kind of fun and comforting to think that I can, in a way, conect with the ocean in my bikram classes.
And on the way home I was thinking about this period of my life, these months in front of me. I don't think it could or should be too reminiscent of Eat, Pray, Love (which coincidentally we just saw on TV) but I do think that there will be phases of my time here, my sabbatical. The first phase is easy, it's a time of release. Letting go. Just being. I don't mean it's easy to do, just that it's easy to name. I don't have anything I have to do for the next 3 months. Isn't that amazing? And as fate or karma would have it, I have the opportunity to do as much yoga as I choose to in these 3 months. So until April 2 at least, I'll be in a "release mode" in my life. My essential daily work will consist of taking care of the house, the dog, our food and myself. Taking care of myself means doing my very best in my bikram classes to just be in the 90 minute meditation of the class, knowing that in the stillness of my mind and the effort of my body I'll reap the most benefit. It also means spending as much time outside near the trees, mountains and sky as possible. It also means dropping the background anxiety about "doing something" productive with my life. Old habits, old judgements..hence the need for release.
I feel that I'm already getting stronger in the classes; I still get light-headed and overcome by the heat, but I'm becoming more flexible in my body and more tolerant in my mind of the repetition, length of class, dialogue, etc. Friday's class seemed to go by really fast, so I know I was in the zone. I'm recovering more quickly from the classes and tend to look forward to the next day's class. I'm starting to recognize some of the people who attend and even had a conversation with a woman named Laura on Sunday!
After today's class I got a 15 minute chair massage from the in-house massage therapist, a lovely young man named Gabriel who told me that during a regular hour-long massage class, for the price of ten dollars I could upgrade to having him massage me with marijuana-infused coconut oil. You gotta love Boulder.
And on the way home I was thinking about this period of my life, these months in front of me. I don't think it could or should be too reminiscent of Eat, Pray, Love (which coincidentally we just saw on TV) but I do think that there will be phases of my time here, my sabbatical. The first phase is easy, it's a time of release. Letting go. Just being. I don't mean it's easy to do, just that it's easy to name. I don't have anything I have to do for the next 3 months. Isn't that amazing? And as fate or karma would have it, I have the opportunity to do as much yoga as I choose to in these 3 months. So until April 2 at least, I'll be in a "release mode" in my life. My essential daily work will consist of taking care of the house, the dog, our food and myself. Taking care of myself means doing my very best in my bikram classes to just be in the 90 minute meditation of the class, knowing that in the stillness of my mind and the effort of my body I'll reap the most benefit. It also means spending as much time outside near the trees, mountains and sky as possible. It also means dropping the background anxiety about "doing something" productive with my life. Old habits, old judgements..hence the need for release.
I feel that I'm already getting stronger in the classes; I still get light-headed and overcome by the heat, but I'm becoming more flexible in my body and more tolerant in my mind of the repetition, length of class, dialogue, etc. Friday's class seemed to go by really fast, so I know I was in the zone. I'm recovering more quickly from the classes and tend to look forward to the next day's class. I'm starting to recognize some of the people who attend and even had a conversation with a woman named Laura on Sunday!
After today's class I got a 15 minute chair massage from the in-house massage therapist, a lovely young man named Gabriel who told me that during a regular hour-long massage class, for the price of ten dollars I could upgrade to having him massage me with marijuana-infused coconut oil. You gotta love Boulder.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Thursday January 3
It's a bright sunny day, promising to get up into the mid-30s. The mountains take on the morning glow which goes from golden to pink depending on the nature of the sunrise over the plains. In the winter we can see the top of Bear and South Boulder Peaks quite clearly, so it's just this beautiful morning ritual to watch the mountains light up. I'll take Enzo for our morning walk in a few minutes.
Temperature regulation is funny here, maybe because of the lack of humidity in the air. We struggle to get the house up to 65, so we're thinking there must not be very good insulation. It's better with a fire in the woodstove. But during the night I've been having either hot flashes or night sweats, waking up and throwing the comforter off, then cooling down too much, starting to shiver and bundling back up. It could be that the comforter is just too thick for 2 people, especially if one of them heats up like a boiler all night long. Then, outside, when you're in the bright sunshine it's really warm, but as soon as you get in a shadow you feel the actual air temperature. The thermodynamicist I live with tried to explain it to me...convection, radiation...all I know is that the sun feels amazing.
I'm pretty darn sore from my first Bikram class yesterday, but I'm going this morning and will keep going. It's both physically and mentally challenging to be in the heat for 90 minutes.
After that I'm meeting our realtor and Mark to see 2 properties; we'll see 2 more tomorrow.
Temperature regulation is funny here, maybe because of the lack of humidity in the air. We struggle to get the house up to 65, so we're thinking there must not be very good insulation. It's better with a fire in the woodstove. But during the night I've been having either hot flashes or night sweats, waking up and throwing the comforter off, then cooling down too much, starting to shiver and bundling back up. It could be that the comforter is just too thick for 2 people, especially if one of them heats up like a boiler all night long. Then, outside, when you're in the bright sunshine it's really warm, but as soon as you get in a shadow you feel the actual air temperature. The thermodynamicist I live with tried to explain it to me...convection, radiation...all I know is that the sun feels amazing.
I'm pretty darn sore from my first Bikram class yesterday, but I'm going this morning and will keep going. It's both physically and mentally challenging to be in the heat for 90 minutes.
After that I'm meeting our realtor and Mark to see 2 properties; we'll see 2 more tomorrow.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Day 1
Today, January 2, 2013 is the first day of what I'm calling my sabbatical. It's not an official sabbatical, of course, as I have no intention or ability to return to my job. But it is a sort of sabbatical, a break from my regular life for the purpose of growth in other areas. Health, avocation, relationships, peace...these are some other areas.
My computer clock still reads east-coast time, 8:30am. I know exactly what's happening at Odyssey right now, I know who's already in trouble, I know what the kids are excitedly sharing at morning meeting. I know the volume of emails to be returned, the likelihood that reentry will be difficult for many kids, the number of decisions to make even before the first cup of coffee is cold. And I'm not there. Not ever again, which is really kind of hard to wrap my mind around. In a way it seems like the time between when I gave my notice in September to now was compressed, three months squeezed into a much shorter time. Sitting here now, I'm struggling to not think that I abruptly abandoned the school, just up and walked away from something so important to me. Rationally I know that I did take enough time to make the transition, to leave with grace and integrity. It's just a weird feeling I have that the last 3 months happenened in a blink of an eye and now I live in Colorado and I don't have a job. Time is moving at a faster pace now. Is that because I'm 51 and squarely into the other side of my life? I really don't know, but it does point out the obvious to me:
Here in Boulder with this gift of time I intend to soak it up, to live it fully no matter how ridiculously fast it goes.
I'm starting my 3-month experience at Bikram today. I'm thinking I'll go at least 4 times a week and also get onto the trails several times a week too for a good cardio workout. And during all the other hours....I'll get back to you.
My computer clock still reads east-coast time, 8:30am. I know exactly what's happening at Odyssey right now, I know who's already in trouble, I know what the kids are excitedly sharing at morning meeting. I know the volume of emails to be returned, the likelihood that reentry will be difficult for many kids, the number of decisions to make even before the first cup of coffee is cold. And I'm not there. Not ever again, which is really kind of hard to wrap my mind around. In a way it seems like the time between when I gave my notice in September to now was compressed, three months squeezed into a much shorter time. Sitting here now, I'm struggling to not think that I abruptly abandoned the school, just up and walked away from something so important to me. Rationally I know that I did take enough time to make the transition, to leave with grace and integrity. It's just a weird feeling I have that the last 3 months happenened in a blink of an eye and now I live in Colorado and I don't have a job. Time is moving at a faster pace now. Is that because I'm 51 and squarely into the other side of my life? I really don't know, but it does point out the obvious to me:
Here in Boulder with this gift of time I intend to soak it up, to live it fully no matter how ridiculously fast it goes.
I'm starting my 3-month experience at Bikram today. I'm thinking I'll go at least 4 times a week and also get onto the trails several times a week too for a good cardio workout. And during all the other hours....I'll get back to you.
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