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.
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