Chameleon Made Of Words

The big question for me in this very minute at which I am seated at my desk in my recently rehabilitated writing room is: can music fix rifts between the body and the spirit?

Funny writer girl wears underwear made of words- sits at her desk which is nothing less than a 500 pound piece of laminate stripped and shipped from a British correctional institution or some kind of animal house where having unmovable furniture is a major bonus to the staff. Seems entirely fitting. This animal girl is stripped down to her skivvies now- a chain of letters on letters lost in unseemly layers and undulating rolls.

I was calling this room my sewing room but now that the giant drifts of self-propelling trash have been tamed it has drawn me in and seduced me with it's window high above the monastery garden like an Erie, a perch for an imagination. I have yet to sew in it but I write in it every day. I have always wanted and needed a room of my own, a quiet place of observation. A place in which to change my colors without an audience. A place to set down my own rules for living.

I don't know why it is so hard to do anything as simple as saying what one is with a single word. I have spent so much time trying to be so many things and there's only one thing I've ever been in my entire life:

Writer.

I have so many interests and adventures because I have to feed the words, they don't thrive without care. But I've only ever been one single thing:

Writer.

I'm a writer who became a wife. A writer who became a mother. A writer who took fencing. A writer who designed costumes.

I will be 39 years old in almost exactly three weeks. In all this time I have fought what is, I have tried to reshape what is, deny what is, wish for something that isn't, and it has wasted time. It has created obstacles and I have to wonder if any one's restart button is as worn down as mine?

When I was 23 years old I admitted to myself that I was first, before anything else, a poet. I realized that saying it wasn't arrogance because I am not a brilliant poet and never will be- but it is how my spirit sees the world. My head sees prose, my spirit sees a more distilled, succinct version caped with boundaries of time and urgency. That was a big moment for me. I was already a wife but I realized that being a wife was a role while being a poet was my skin.

Women have worked hard to bring the pride back into mothering- to make people respect mothering as a life choice and ever since I have become a mother I have tried hard to put "mother" first in the line of my personal descriptors. Because it felt as though putting it second to anything else was belittling the role I played as Max's mom. Maybe for some women being a mother is who they are, the threshold to their spirit, their heart, and the ultimate expression of who they are.

But not for me. Being a mother is another role. It is another mantle of responsibility I took on. Another layer of life I added. But it isn't who I am and every time I put "mother" first on my list of things I am it kicks me down a notch. It belittles what came with me into this world. It belittles my calling, my skin, my soul, and my heart of words.

Writer.

From today forward I will call myself the one thing I truly am: writer.

Not: "writer and wife and mother and urban homesteader....and the whole miserable etc."

No more milling around with half truths. You, those readers of mine who comment, have often commended me on my honesty, my willingness to tell the truth- mine at least, if not yours. Yet I have not been honest. I have not told you all the truth because I feel scared to have one calling. I am scared to name it because I will probably fail. I can't fail in life if I have ten callings, surely I'll succeed at something if I increase the odds? But all I do by dividing my energy into a thousand fractions is dilute the power I was given for this one thing.

What's funny is that I knew what I had to do when I was sixteen and fresh from not killing myself. It was suddenly so clear to me, making friends cry with clumsy emotional poetry, that there was something living through my pen, however clumsy it was; living and shedding something tangible for others to grab at; like a life raft in the middle of the ocean. I felt it inside like something with a dangerously sharp edge it cut through the summer of dread and didn't hurt til later the way razors cut skin noiselessly first and hurt almost as an afterthought. I felt this blade reflecting light and I knew that it was the words that kept me from jumping off the cliffs. From impaling myself on the alter of my family's collective despair.

What I've found out is that what you are will never not be what you are. So you can bury it under a whole lot of snow and ice, under the dark cover of other lives, and you can run, but you cannot shake it. Maybe you never get famous, maybe you never win awards, maybe you never get a record deal-book deal- studio show-movie role-or even make money at it. That's immaterial. So you do what you have to do to pay the bills but you still are what you are and if you don't own it, do it, and honor it, you dishonor yourself worse than any other person on earth is capable of.

I believe, with my whole self, that we each know what we are without thinking about it. The answer has always been there. It doesn't have to be glamorous, heroic, exciting, or even original. But you know what it is and if you're still running from it or trying to change it- stop. I promise you that you can't. No power on this earth can change your alchemy.

This week I am redesigning my intentions. I have one week until the new year. One week to tell myself how it's going to be this year. I have one year until I'm forty and it seems as good a time as any to step into my own god damn shoes and embrace what I already am and slough off the dead weight I carry.

Everything I do in my life feeds the words. Everything comes second to writing and it isn't something I can change nor is it a choice to make. The only choice I have to make is to use what I have or trash it. I have a choice in how I balance my life so that the writing doesn't hurt my husband and child. But the writing cannot come last ever again. It's the whole reason for breathing.

It is my breathing.

So this week is about redesigning the minutiae of my life. It's about finding ways to recover self discipline. To recover my physical self respect. It's about redrawing boundaries for the three of us so that we will all feel more fulfilled and happy. We are all crazy creative beings in need of daily exercise, better nutrition, and more daily structure. I'm not sure if it's more funny or more sad that we are a wee family of completely obsessive compulsive people. We all thrash against our own restraints when there is achievable order for us.

But today is the second step. The first was to let go of disappointments and sorrows. To let go of what didn't work out, what wasn't meant to be, so that I can move forward with new intention. Today is the second step; to admit what I am and accept the single word that is my everything:

Writer.

I am a writer.

Period.

***********

If you, like me, have experienced similar struggles then I implore you to do as I did and first write out all of your disappointments and sorrows- then do what you need to to let them go. You can print them out and burn them or, if you're afraid of fire, you can bury them, or if just writing them allows you to let go- do it. DO IT.

Then acknowledge who/what you are. You know what it is. Maybe you are a healer and you work as an RN but keep looking for some other answer because you want more glamour- just say it "I am a healer" I am a nurse. And then make yourself into a glamorous one. But don't look away. Look at yourself: say it. Say it. Say it again. Set your course of intention to honor who you are. No more excuses. Are you a singer? Don't worry if you're already 65 and there's no sexy life on stage for you (though, who knows?): you must say it- "I am a singer." And embrace that, honor it, and do it. Even if you only do it every single day in your favorite room. Give it the honor it deserves. Who and what we are isn't about recognition from others, it's about recognizing ourselves and if we use these gifts of ours, whatever they are, it will flood into the lives all around you and the people you love. You will only become more powerful in everything.

So do it with me if you need to and feel free to tell me about it in the comments because I DO want to hear. I want to know.

But don't worry, if all is silent out there, I won't mind either. I move forward regardless of the world of people around me.

This Is My Point Of Origin

A snowbird wakes up to snow.

Today is my only day off each week. I got to sleep in. When I went to bed the sky was very busy with itself. When I woke up the sun was shining on three or four inches of fluffy crunchy snow! I had to run outside in my pyjamas to investigate before cars, kids, dogs, and industrious snow shovelers came out to muck up the painting the night drew for me. Yes, for me. But I'll share with you too.

This is my very much loved Japanese snowball tree actually covered in snow! I adore these little trees and laugh when it is dripping in white happy pom poms.

All the light here is blue. Hard to get good pictures. Here's the "front" of our house. Sun shining on my little kingdom.

It piled enough that today is all about watching accumulated snow drifts drop randomly from branches as the sun warms them just enough to loosen the grip. Wonderful!

This metal gate leads to our funny little enclosed garden area which I plan to cultivate much this year. I love that it is entirely closed in. I want wild flowers in there this year. I think I'll dig up parts of the lawn in a couple of weeks when it's less frozen and sprinkle some wild flower seeds. You need to do this in the fall or winter so that they'll get frozen or cold enough to bloom well in the spring.

Chick loves the snow. My Internet will be temporarily turned off today while we get fiber-optic wire connected so I'm going to do two things: make real snow cones with strawberry syrup I froze from the summer and I'm going to throw snowballs for Chick to catch.

We are wondering if I can buy chains for the Vespa. If I could, I'd totally learn to put them on. How awesome to go for a slow ride in the snow to the store on my sweet little Vespa! Without chains, riding this thing would be like asking to die today. That would be a lot less fun than, say, enjoying a Friday with hot PG Tips tea and real snow-cones. Yes, I'm going to invoke Laura Ingalls Wilder's spirit!

One thing that makes me sad is not being able to dress like her anymore. One of the reasons I get so angry at myself for not being capable (so far) of having a little self control and losing some weight. I used to dress like her all the time.

Ah well.

In spite of the spiritual lows of yesterday- I am enjoying every minute of this perfect winter because it's the winter I always dream of having. The last two years here we've gotten a little snow, enough to make me laugh and run around in it and feel so glad not to live where it never snows! But it is so fleeting usually. Melts fast and stops too soon. We've been getting this snow for days now and just when I think it's all over, it starts again. It was almost all gone yesterday (perhaps a little part of my low ebb) and then like magic it starts up in the late afternoon in huge dry flakes sticking to everything and piling up so fast I couldn't believe it.

Winter is my literal point of origin. It's when I was born. It is the season that wakes me up, turns my mind on, and I am generally less depressed in the cold, dark, rainy, (and snowy!) days of winter than I am at any other time of year. Although gardening has allowed me to come to appreciate all the seasons, winter will always be mine. Something I cherish and think of as my personal, I don't know, there really aren't a lot of words to tell it. It's mine.

I have a lot of friends who suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder and I totally respect how so many people feel the opposite of me about this season. The dark short days, the low temperatures, the lack of sunshine, the low clouds, the winds, the storms, the bleak dying off of everything that used to be growing and sprouting and flowering.

I am sorry that the season that makes me feel the most alive and happy has the opposite affect on others. But it doesn't diminish my own joy and I can't help but take my smiles out in the world with me. I've learned to commiserate with those who don't share my excitement at 40 mile an hour wind and rain storms because when the heat of summer comes and everyone around me is glowing and smiling and reveling in it I will be moaning and hiding and breaking out in heat rashes. I always appreciate it when a sun lover stops to acknowledge my discomfort. So I try to return the generosity.

Though I never expect them to apologize for it. Why should anyone apologize for loving any kind of weather? We all have our season, the one that brings us the closest to nature, and therefore to ourselves.

Mine is now.

When is yours?

What To Eat On The Coldest Day Of The Year

First you must eat- nothing. Drink a lot of excellent hot coffee before the sun comes up and watch your windows like a child looking for fairies and when you don't see any snow yet, for the hundredth look...keep looking. You're only getting older and who cares?

When twelve pm rolls around and there is a) no snow yet and b) you find your stomach gnawing on your intestines: eat a bowl of Tenement stew which will put the piss back in your bladder and steam in your lungs. It won't make the snow come but you'll start to feel like snow isn't all there is to love in life.

Later in the day, when you have become crazy from the nagging of your child and are really wishing to feel the chill on your cheeks, head to the nearest ice cream shop. If you need something to do, this is really something to do! Ice cream tastes great and on a freezing day it will make you feel like you just skied a mountain even if you live in a valley. Your whole body will shiver and you will feel awake with the sugar and the cold!

It will also make the snow come.

Be sure to walk in it-breath it-grab it-shake it-and drink in it!

But most of all, when the snow comes, you must eat it. Big fistfuls of it!

I know I must be raising my kid right because as we were walking to a friend's house yesterday it began to snow, lightly first, and then in flurries, almost like a blizzard and we had been hoping for it all day long. Wistfully snatching glances through icy windows. He begins to play with the light pile-up and writes a few choice words: poop, butt, pop, and soap. Boys have a way of artfully avoiding prissy language. Later when we were walking to our other friends' house for dinner the snow had piled up nicely and my kid tells me we must eat some right now!

I taught him that when it snows fresh you must always eat some. Always! Because it is the best, crisp, metallic, silver, sharp, clean, and delightful food the earth sends us in the winter. We ate fresh fistfuls of it until our hands were too cold to scoop it up anymore.

Later we were warm and happy hanging out at our friends Jim and Ericka's house. Watching stupid kid Christmas movies and enjoying how much the low humor made Max bust up laughing hard, enjoying the mushroom pasta Jim made, and imbibing many tasty beverages. We kept looking out the window and wondering how Philip was doing driving home. Wishing he could be here with us. Wrapped up in all the very best a person can hope for in life.

At some point, after we noticed in awe how deep the snow had gotten in an area not known for getting much snow, we decided that a romp in the snow was necessary. We bundled up and with Jim and Ericka's dogs we played in the front yard. We: threw snowballs at each other, threw snowballs for the dogs to catch, we ATE more snow, we chased each other, we laughed, one of us got express permission to create some "yellow snow", we poked at frozen pools of water, and we stomped our cold wet feet.

As we were going back inside Max said how he wished his dad had been there because he would have had so much fun with us.

He also said about his dad being away for two days that nothing was right without him.

How fucking sweet is that kid?

Letting Go Of A Perfect Day

Flight is what I think of when I see my dog galloping through the carpet of of fallen leaves in the hazelnut orchard near our house. Like I'm seeing a spirit nearly take off, leave all connection to earth behind in pursuit of heavenly scents. Her muscles are so fine, so dense, and when she leaps she shimmers with beautiful design.

This is the end of a perfect day. You have no idea how many superstitions I am braving by saying that out loud. There is not a single second of it that I would change. I hope to god that the people who have diligently kept track of this life log have observed the change in tenor that it has taken over the past few months? For people like me there will always be an element of dark in the days, a generous portion of agony and rock throwing. Fact of my life. Yet it is most decidedly true that the last few years have been colored by deep obscurity of rhythm, of light, and of path.

So I am in a position to particularly notice when a day is perfect.

I am falling into pace.

This morning started with a family snuggle. We all woke up late for getting the kid to school but we still took the time to snuggle up and have a good morning. Then I settled into reading my messages, checking my flickr friends out (a morning ritual), and then getting happily stuck in facebook land connecting with old friends.

Philip is going to visit with a lot of loved old friends of his tonight- flying to California (paid for by these same friends because he couldn't afford to go- how unbelievably sweet is that?!) and I am so happy he is getting a chance to cut loose and take a little breather from us people who need him and love him so much. He gets few breaks and deserves so much. Normally, I would not count a day as perfect with my love flying away from me- it's just that I am so happy he is getting to do something just for himself- it counts as perfect.

Then there's the storms. Weather is here! All day it has been raining hard, then completely clearing up for five minutes- with blue sky and brief appearance of bright sun- then turning black again with some gusts of wind. Not the extreme wind that was predicted, but enough to push a little at these old windows. Talk of snow on Sunday...feel like a school kid anticipating the excitement of having to stay inside next to the kitchen stove or wrap up in a thousand layers of pungent wool to keep the frost from biting skin.

I put things away. I paid some bills. We've been receiving a lot of final notices lately. I have put quite a few to rest. I actually saw the bottom of my laundry hamper. I swear to you that it has been three years since I have gotten completely to the bottom of it!

I ate soup. I vacuumed. I folded (and put away) clothes. Last Friday I did some cleaning too. It's starting to feel like there's sense to this life, order, and consistence. My house feels warm, it feels calmer, it feels almost functional: where everything has a place and is in it. It's starting to feel like I don't need to apologize for the state of chaos as people enter into it.

My kid came home soaked but, like me, doesn't mind being soaked if it means entering into a cozy home with light, warmth, and dry clothes. He watched Pokemon while I worked on my sewing room.

Sewing room, writing room, crafting room, thinking room...my room. How lucky is it in this life to have one's own room? I realize how fortunate I am and today, taming the frightening mess, I was able to value it fresh. This is a room in which I can bat the demons back to hell. In which I can write whatever it is that needs writing. Make what needs making. Here is my magic lair, like Merlin's crystal cave.

Today I can see the floor in here. I haven't seen it for a couple months. You saw the pictures, you know I'm not lying! I made enough progress today that I almost feel myself unfolding again. I can almost feel my hands fashioning curtains out of all this fabric I have. Curtains for the windows of this old house, through which I watch storms unfurl themselves. Through which I will one day see roses opening and vegetables reaching obscene height.

I am an active participant in my own healing, but it cannot be denied that in life there is a lot that is out of our control. I have been trying to heal for so long and it has felt like trying to push out of a grave of dirt.

I am a spiritual person, though I do not believe in God or Jesus (is there anyone left who doesn't know this?) but those of us who find our spirituality in the stars, in the soil, and in the design of nature are not exempt from our own kind of prayer.

Let it be this. Let it be now.

My season is here.

Four old friends have suddenly buoyed me up and they need to know how much it makes me happy! I am afraid for all of you to see me now. I feel some shame. But I am coming to know that it isn't my body or my face that you find friendship in, but in my spirit. My spirit is ever the same. Thank you for coming back to me Chelsea, Sharon, Carrie, and Autumn. Again, and again. Somehow it makes me feel like all is right with the world when I hear from you. When you count me among your own.

Winter is a time of rebirth and joy for me. It is, in fact, when I was born. It is the hour when I shine the most, like a snow bird. Perhaps that is the real reason I am covered so thoroughly in my own down*. I become completely alert and alive in the cold, the hail, rain, dark, close days. It's why I travel almost exclusively in winter. I want the icicles, the frigid air, the pelting rain. I think I see into the soul of the world in winter.

Now it is time to let go of a perfect day.

I know that the universe can drop bombs on us at any time. I'm used to that. But I think it's alright to enjoy this minute without asking for the evil eye to perch itself in my mirror? I don't know what tomorrow will bring, which is why it's so hard to move on from here. The temptation to believe that if I write from here to eternity that nothing will change is strong.

I think one of my innermost beliefs is that if I keep writing I can make magic last forever.

I hope you all had a perfect day too.






*Unpoetic reference to my hairy self.

This Week At My Urban Homestead

Before I go muck out the chicken run (a very dirty job during the wet season) I wanted to get a few things out of my head and into yours.

I have officially accepted the truth that I am a person who breaks glasses. Philip has been accusing me of it for years and while I never wanted to accept that this is a part of who I am...dammit...it's true. I just broke one of my two liqueur glasses a couple of days ago. There are four glasses in my life that I have treasured: these two that my dad gave to Philip and I for an anniversary, and two gorgeous red antique glasses my sister gave us for the same occasion. The ones my sister gave us got broken on our move to Oregon. Now I have but one of these. So, I'm sad. But as Bonnie* advised the other day: "just get over it!" (Advice referring to my need to move on from the failed business crap and blah blah blah...)

I hope Bonnie isn't in the mental health business. I think she'd be better off as some kind of high school sports coach.

Or maybe she should become a self-help guru!

Because I seriously never considered "Just Get Over It" as a strategy for dealing with my life until she just said it the other day. If only someone had been clever enough to tell me to "just get over" my mental illness. Jesus! Think of all the years of agony and pain I could have avoided!!

Seriously, I know you meant well Bonnie, but that's not a very helpful thing to say to anyone.

Except maybe teenage boys.

Maybe.

Remember that weird thing above (and attached) to the mantel? I took it down last night. It is such a relief to me to take that first step to redoing the living room . Have a look for yourself:

Yes, that is a new hole in the wall. I put it there. By accident. Apparently I am the ruiner of many things besides beautiful glass ware. Oh crap- that almost sounds like self loathing. Sorry!

I made a weird branch thingy yesterday which will miraculously turn into a gorgeous holiday decoration that you will be jealous of when I'm done and I show it to you. It required screws, wood, more wood, scraps, a saw, a hammer, clippers, two cats, and a dog's help to make. Very impressive. (I don't understand why everyone is always lecturing me about how mean I am to myself when I obviously have so much self-admiration. Are you all HIGH?!)

I would like to entreat all of you to refrain from using the word "musings" for an entire year. Yes, please do. It doesn't sound how you think it sounds and it's a word that needs a little break from circulation.

Another little thing...low-riding aprons are not pretty. Do not wear them around your hips no matter how thin you are. Half aprons (cocktail aprons) should ALWAYS be worn around the waist. If you are entirely too stout to wear anything around your waist, then opt for an full apron. This is sound advice if only you will take it. Which you probably won't, so I will be forced to silently ridicule your slouchy schlumpy style.

Does anyone else believe that word verification is sending them secret messages?

Might be time to save up money for another visit to a psychiatrist. (Right after I pay off the last bill for which I am about to be sent to collections.)

Using the word "delight" in a recipe name should not be encouraged. I discourage everyone from doing so.

Another thing I need to release from my head is my yearly objection to the existence of eggnog. Not a good idea. I have tasted eggnog exactly once and nearly hurled on the hopeful friend who served it to me. The idea of a beverage of milk and eggs is repulsive to me. Eggs and milk is something that should be made into breakfast, on the stove, or in the oven. Viscous milky beverages have always made me queasy (milkshakes, for example) or kiefer (the kind that is like runny yogurt). Add alcohol to it and I just think all you eggnog fans have gone over the edge with regards to your stomach. So let's make a deal right now: I will not make immature faces at your beloved beverage as you drink it if you promise not to offer me any. Deal?

I have come to the decision to end my extremely shallow brief affair with Facebook and have also made the executive decision not to join up with twitter. I have been tempted to do so by friends with whom I am sure I would love to twitter with all day long, but I have realized that not having two more places to divide my attention from other things is important. I remain steadfast in my love of blogs and flickr. My computer social life will end there. I decide this in order that I may keep my life from becoming more complicated than it already is.

Another thing: I came very close to offering myself up to help with something because I always do that without thinking- but kept my mouth shut. I did it. What's better than having to say "no" to someone? Not having to say anything at all. So you just try getting me to do a favor right now- you might be surprised at how strongly I am withholding them!

I have some great posts coming up: one about how I have finally started composting at the new house and a suggestion for those without compost bins (like me). I will also be showing off my holiday decoration. There will also be a post about how long you can keep food before it goes bad.

Now it's time to pick up the sturdy rake and remove every last scrap of chicken poop/hay bits and replace it with fluffy clean hay for my girls. This time of year is tough on chickens in the Pacific Northwest. I am wearing dirty clothes to start with and this is most certainly a job for boots.

Have a great Wednesday at your own urban homesteads!!

*Someone who commented here the other day.

Sewing Room Crime Scene
Chapter One: The Saboteur

This is the saboteur. Hire her for weddings, funerals, and Bat Mitzvahs...she makes chaos out of order faster than you can do it yourself! An added bonus: she sucks at business so you can get her to create chaos for FREE!

What you are about to see is shocking. I have hidden nothing behind the flash photography.

Sadly, my income doesn't allow me to buy a proper lens for my crime scene photography so it is difficult to appreciate the true scope of the crime here. For that I would need a lens that is a little more panoramic. This is my drafting table. What is on the surface of this table:

glue gun, ribbon pins no one bought, pom pom reams, hand made cards, paper labels for other products no one bought, old patterns, thread rack, iron, fabric, purple fleece that makes my skin crawl, unfinished knitting project, many rulers, at least three pairs of scissors, boxes of sewing accessories, box of ribbon, oilcloth bag, weird crafts I made but didn't like and are now shaming me, unused zippers, stencil, one battery, tape measure, calling cards, beer bottle caps, pattern pieces to who-knows-what patterns, a strange beaded thing a kid neighbor left at my house three years ago that I keep meaning to send back to her before she goes to college (she's about 12 now), the stapler I was looking for for months, old sewing machine parts to sewing machines I no longer own, printer ink, tape dispenser, hangers, and various lids to lidless bins.

These boxes contain a lot of crap. When I say a lot of crap I'm not being modest. I'm scared of them. I've eliminated one but the other two are currently attempting to strangle me. The various types of contents found include:

Shirts that don't fit me, folded fabric scraps, folders, envelopes, paper, binders, paper, catalogs from my business, receipts, more envelopes, random lengths of bias tape, curtains, bubble wrap (?!), magazines, scrap stuff, a cheap clock, a cheap phone, address stamp from over ten years ago, misc. store display stuff, tissue paper (which is currently coming out of my ears), ribbon, zip lock bags full of miscellaneous stuff I have avoided going through for fully ten years now.

The Floor, which looks like a craft store exploded on it, has the following items on it:

Bits of fabric, labels, packages of craft scissors, cards, shamelessly ruined oilcloth, manila envelopes of every description, bit of paper, shreds of tissue paper, stacks of tissue paper the kitties peed on at some point without me noticing until now, random lengths of ribbon, Max's school projects, pattern pieces, plastic bags, paper, bags, bolts of fabric, paper bags I'm afraid to investigate, old letters, corrugated cardboard, books, plastic bins full of crap that is able to multiply itself.

What do you get when you are a writer, a generally crafty person, a pattern collector, an urban homesteader, and a failed business?

You get an unbelievable amount of crap that can never be reckoned with nor tamed nor stuffed into a ten foot by ten foot room. It spills out like a sea of locusts into the basement and the garage. I think my heart is made of pattern paper, rick rack, and weird miniatures.

This is my weight to bear, apparently. No matter what I do I keep landing in this same coliseum full of chaos with teeth. It's now been almost an entire year since I officially ended my business yet I have not been capable of dealing with all my stuff. I bring this up on my blog just about once a month. There is so much money tied to this crap. I wasted so much money trying to be a success and now it is just a pile of unwanted stuff collecting dust. I have been giving some of it to friends but frankly, they don't seem all that crazy-interested in taking it off of my hands.

Part of the problem is that they seem to feel guilty taking something from me that I bought for my store and failed to sell. Part of the problem is that there is only so much Mrs. Meyers a person can go through in a year.

I know what has to be done but it's like having to come to terms with who I am and that's not such a pretty activity. I just love a double edged sword: the longer I keep the stuff the longer I live with the reality of my failure and risk the ghost of my store rising up from the garage, the basement, and from my sewing room to come strangle me while I sleep.

Some people don't want me to get rid of it all. Some people think I should try a lot harder to sell the crap, not realizing that every day I fail to sell the crap is another day I have to feel like a stupid piece of shit business person. Another day I have to understand all too well how I landed us in such a deep financial quagmire. Every time someone suggests I keep trying is just another day I get to deliver the same message to my very tired head: you suck you suck you suck.

I tried to explain to my dad why the magazine is not about making money. I tried to explain how I am saving up for printing costs because it's just about realizing a dream but I'm not allowed to invest in ventures ever again. He had excellent suggestions for how I could do it as a real viable venture, starting off doing an online magazine and telling subscribers that their subscription will go towards a printed version after the first few issues. But that means trying to do something successfully.

I don't do that anymore.

It doesn't matter what I do or how hard I try. I am not a businessperson. I am a writer. In the end it is the only thing I consistently do well and isn't something I will ever make money doing.

Yet...yet...how do I describe how hard it is to let go of all this crap because it could be useful, could be made into cool stuff, could be sold somewhere? But my head is ready to combust. I am in here, instead of doing anything else right now because this room is like a disease eating away at my life. I can't do my living room project until this room is cleaned up and out because right now I can't find my sewing machine feet in the mess nor the space to sew the chair covers. I cannot move forward until I shed the past.

So I have begun the process. I am going to give myself one whole month, the month of December, to get rid of every last vestige of my failed venture. To clean out the stench of what I'm not meant to be, the person I can't be.

****Continued In Next Post****

How Much Is That Girl In The Window?

If I told you what just flew into my mind it would be "What if we could buy back who we used to be?". What a completely useless what if question. As so many of them are. One of the concepts heavily covered in Cognitive Behavior Therapy is the idea of core beliefs. Core beliefs are the underpinnings of everything that motivates us whether negatively or positively. Core beliefs are the underwear our spirits have on. You can hem and haw about a thousand things but ultimately you believe a few things almost incontrovertibly. To change those beliefs is like moving mountains or reshaping flesh like a plastic surgeon's knife.

I spent some time examining mine a few years ago. I don't think I was able, at the time, to recognize them all. You almost have to turn out your lights to find them because you take them so much for granted you can't see them with your conscious mind. Your subconscious knows all about them. You have to peel away at all your skin, all your rationalizations, all your behaviors, and all of your words to find them. Any thought you have, any comment you make can be traced back to some original basic belief. The foundation of everything that comes out of your life.

That's pretty big stuff. You'd think it would be easier to get at.

Exposing those beliefs can be raw. Frightening. Revealing. A relief. A revelation.

I will show you some of mine, but I can't ever show them all. This is elemental stuff. You scratch at this stuff and I could flake into a pile of ash like ancient silk.

• People are not superior to other animals, just different.

• People cannot be trusted, cause pain, and are savage.

• Sex is a violation of a woman's body.*

• Every action counts.

• We are each responsible for the experience we have in life.

I am so out of shape that riding my bicycle anywhere is quite a heaving experience. I am trying to do more of my errands on my bicycle. I went downtown to the grocery store the other day when it was cold out, crisp like icicles, misty in that soft way fall can be, and it felt so good to feel my blood moving to warm my skin. There's something so exhilarating about feeling cold air hit warm cheeks. I had my bicycle baskets full of Brussels sprout stalks and other local produce and my bike was weighted not only with my considerable heft but with the bags of groceries. I felt so pretty. It seems like the most ridiculous thing to say. But I did. Riding down the street on my old bicycle with the blood in my cheeks and the air in my lungs, I felt pretty.

I think the worst thing about being me is knowing that I used to inspire so much more chivalry in the world and now it is so much rarer. Perhaps that is not important to some people but to me it means a lot. I'm not a feminist in the modern sense of the word. I like to feel feminine, perhaps because I hated it so much when I was a teen, I like to feel pretty and I like to feel that others see that I'm not the clod-hopping old man I sometimes act like. I like to feel evidence of that.

That's another core belief but I can't actually put it to real words lest I freak myself out and cause deep and everlasting pain to myself. Interpret that how you will.

I'm a strong person but I want to be valued as a fine piece of glass.

I used to feel pretty as I walked alone on the streets of San Francisco. Not beautiful, not sexy. But pretty like a peach blossom you admire just before it drifts away from the branch into a breeze, floating like a paper lantern to some spot you haven't yet reached. I feel pretty when my body is in motion, being used like a machine, when I am pushing it towards the horizon with the wind in my sails. When my body feels flight.

I also feel pretty when no one is looking. I believe my magic fades under scrutiny.

It may be a shade of my crazy. Doesn't really matter.

I want to be in the air more often. I need to fit that in.

I want doors to open. I want protection.

It's what my dreams are of when they aren't extremely violent and dark. They are full of chivalry. Not sex, which means so little in the big scheme of life, but that protection, kindness, thoughtfulness, and --

I can't really talk about it anymore. It is too ridiculous. Something I am incredibly uncomfortable about. The fact that when I have fantasies it isn't about sex but about chivalry. Chaste chivalry. I'm not sure what it says about me but I am so uncomfortable with it.

What I do know is that this has been such a great autumn and things are falling into place. Good things. I am not how I wish to be remembered right now. I have not reclaimed myself in all the ways I need to but something is opening up that was closed before. Clamped shut with blood held back, bruising. I feel the winter coming like a mother calling to its child. I walk to winter with every happiness and a little excitement too. Coming home never felt so good.

Change takes time. To change you have to know what underwear your spirit has on. Don't fool yourself. Know what's under there before you rip the scaffolding down.




*Not a healthy or comfortable core belief.













I smell like the damned. (Totally random thought I didn't want to forget I had.)

Just Say NO

(because "no" is the new "yes")

I got to hang out with my friend Lisa B. and our mutual friend Angeleen for a while yesterday and aside from the fun of talking about pubic hair lasering, religion, and the importance of personal preferences in body products (an excellent argument for making one's own!) I was reminded by Angeleen about something I already knew but had forgotten in this crazy shuffle that my life has been:

That saying "no" is one of the greatest gifts I can give to myself in order to create the life I actually want to be living.

Apparently I managed to inspire Angeleen to make some choices for herself that have led to a greater fulfillment in her domestic pursuits. She has let some things in her life fall by the wayside so that when she's not working she is doing things around the house for herself and her family which have been making her a lot happier than she was.

It reminded me of the happiest time in my life when I was thirty four years old, finally medicated and through some therapy, living in a house I loved, with my kid and my husband, not working outside the home but toying with starting a part time business called "Dustpan Alley" and spending lots of time gardening, cooking, hanging out with neighbors and friends, and doing projects around the house. Although we weren't at all rich, we weren't financially struggling at that time. We were comfortable. I was in love with my life. So much so that right before everything fell apart I actually knew I was living the life I wanted, that made me happy, that made me feel useful loved and excited.


What I loved the most was not having a lot of obligations outside of cooking almost every day, taking care of the kid, and the house.

So what's standing in the way of having the perfect life right now?

Me and my inability to say no. No to offering to teach people things, no to taking on jobs I don't want, no to volunteer work, and no to activities I don't want to be doing. In fact, I think I may have a compulsive problem with offering up my services all over the place. I don't even realize I'm doing it until the words are out of my mouth and a retraction would be not just impolite but kind of dishonorable.

I haven't been getting far on the magazine this week because of all the time I've spent cooking. I'm cooking a lot more and better food than I have in a long time. Trying to provide Philip with food to take to work so he doesn't buy it out. Trying to make sure there are good healthy choices for me to grab instead of cheesy quesadillas every time I'm hungry. Not working on the magazine stresses me out because I really want to do it. Back when I was picking a name out with all of you and trying to come up with a time line for it I thought I would be able to just sit down and figure the program out. Which has turned out not to be true. I also didn't count on suddenly having four jobs instead of one.

Just as soon as I was down one job I volunteered my ass for another one like a real verbal incontinent. Afterwords I wanted to take it back. But the person I offered to do freelance work for has really beautiful teeth.

So after hanging out with Angeleen I've been asking myself how I could be so close to getting back to the ideal life yet be so far?

It's because I keep putting new projects on the roster that take me away from my home and what really matters to me.

It's because I don't know how to shut up.

It's because I keep putting pressure on myself to do projects for others out of a sense of duty.

I just realized, while making split pea soup and lentil salad that the magazine isn't going to suddenly become irrelevant to those of us who would be interested in it. I'm still getting articles in from my friends. I have just gotten my copy of the book that will hopefully tell me how to use the program I have acquired to make this magazine in. What's up with the asinine rush? Why do I always have my thumb shoved into my own jugular?

I've decided to not worry about it. I'm still doing it. But I've realized it's going to take time. And I want to give it time. Because I want to do it right. Plus I need to save up money to print it. It won't go bad if it comes out in late winter or spring. Everything going into it is still going to be exciting and relevant.

But worrying about doing it right now is making me unhappy. I am happy when my life isn't rushed. I am happy when I can take my time to do things. When I can go at my own pace which, everyone who knows me well is already aware of the fact that- it's SLOW.

My life is slowing down finally and I both love and need it to.

Which means I better start saying no to everything.

Want to join a committee for underprivileged goth teens Angelina?

NO.

Could I pay you to make me some clothes Angelina?

NO.

Wanna do some grave digging Angelina? I can pay you $3 per hour!

Yeeee.....NO!

Wanna join my weekly coffee Klatch Angelina?

NO.

Wanna give a talk at the local art school about eating locally?

NO.

How would you like to attend a boring local function with people who don't give a crap about you and your little problems?

NO.


The biggest lie most of us tell ourselves every day is that we have no choice but to do everything we're doing, even when we really wish we weren't doing so much. We make excuses. We say we have to do it "for the kids". Or we think that if we let go of so much outside activity in our lives we will internally combust.

The truth is, we are all a lot better off when there's room in our lives for things like spontaneous naps, unexpected visits with friends, and sudden silly games with our kids or long talks with our spouses. The truth is, life is a lot better when we have time.

Since there's only 24 hours in the day, something has to give.

Practice saying NO to everything non-essential which means anything that doesn't pay your bills or make you and your family happy.

Time is the best medicine and the only way to get time is to stop wasting it.

NONONONONONONONO.

NO is a beautiful but elusive word.

Go ahead...ask me something.

Good Night Rain

It's been raining all day and I've enjoyed it from beginning to end. I woke up at 5:30 am to hear it dropping loudly on the weird plexi-glass awning we have over our basement door in the "front"* of the house. I lost my joy for it briefly between 5:45 am and 6 am when my computer was freaking out on me and the keyboard wouldn't work and my whole world came crashing down on me since our only chance of survival right now is this great job I have that I love and CAN'T LOSE.

But then I got settled in on the laptop which is a cheap one I have never particularly liked until today. The rain came back into my hearing like a wonderful tapping at the temple of my sentient spirit.

Right now it's just after 7pm. I'm tired. It's been a full day. The kid had yesterday and today off from school and mostly played computer games but took time out to get all excited about the fact that his birthday is two weeks away and we played Bionicles. Then I watched him do stunts. I have to say his stunts are pretty fantastic. After he got tired of that I built him a new Lego fortress.

I also made soup for which a recipe will follow in a day or two. I'm tentatively naming it "tenement soup". It has cabbage in it. I think it might be capable of warding off tuberculosis. Possibly even the plague. Perfect for a rainy afternoon.

I harvested plantain from my yard. Plaintain is a "weed" which also happens to have some (apparently) strong medicinal value and I plan to make my very first stick deodorant using an oil infused with plantain, thyme, comfrey, and calendula. I will be telling you all about plantain very soon.

But right now I must head off to bed. I just wanted to sit down here where you all come to say hello. I wanted to feel a part of something social before closing down for the night.

I also wanted to share a wonderful conversation between myself and Max today. He rushed off from our Lego playing to pee. He came back a moment later:

"Mom, I kind of peed my pants."

I stared at him with very little surprise. He decides to elaborate.

"Well, I didn't really pee in my pants but when I took my wiener out to pee I didn't do it fast enough and some of my pee got on my pants."

"That's alright." I said. "Sometimes it must be very hard to have a penis."

He thinks for a moment as he removes the offending garment.

"Yeah, but it must be hard to have a vagina too sometimes because you can't just pull your pants down and aim your pee because it will just go straight down."



Wow, it sure is good to appreciate the blessings of one's genitals, isn't it?

*The front of our house being really the side of the house.

Built To Last

camellia house for a king

It is the usual old-man grumble "In my day we built things to last...now things are made like crap so you have to replace them all the time." Yet, isn't it true? Cheap and dirty is such a false economy, but one that is hard not to fall for sometimes. When I walked through this beautiful building called the "camellia house" at Culzean Castle in Scotland, I couldn't help but feel awe that this building is now over a hundred years old, a building for housing and protecting a collection of camellias, built with infinite care, attention to detail, built of stone and metal and glass.

A building like this requires upkeep. The windows must be painted periodically to keep them from rusting, the wood parts must be conditioned, you can't just let it go or like all things on earth nature will reclaim her bits and pieces. These are things you wouldn't bother with if you had a fiberglass or plastic building. When companies claim that their product will last 25 years I read into that that the product might last 25 years but it will look 25 years old within the first couple of years. Hardwood floors age so much better than carpet, they take nicks and scratches and form a lovely aged patina of wear; the color darkens over time and gets warmer. Yet people still lay out their wall to wall because it's cheaper in the short term. Most of them are made of materials that, if you read anything about them, are pretty creepy and are helping to destroy the air in the making.

Ever since we've owned our own home and talked with others about home maintenance, and gone through the process of buying and selling homes a few times so have seen what is out there in our part of the world, I have found myself vastly annoyed by the assumption that what I really want in a house and yard is "low (or no) maintenance". Houses with vinyl siding that you "never" have to replace or repaint, aluminum windows, wall to wall carpeting, and concrete gardens dotted with juniper.

Energy saving is such a concern that everyone is replacing beautiful old windows with vinyl double paned. I understand why, but to me it is destroying something that should be preserved with love and care. Our house in Santa Rosa had so many gorgeous windows in it, all original and single paned, multi lights from floor to ceiling that let in light and framed the gorgeous sycamores outside our windows. All the glazing was shot when we bought the house and the first winter there were lots of leaks.

I learned to replace the glazing on the windows from a master and started repairing them. In the end we got them all fixed at once after the attic fire, but I was proud of the fact that I had learned to do it. I was proud of the fact that I had preserved the craftsmanship that went into the original windows. To keep old windows means you need to help keep energy in the house in other ways like have lovely insulated curtains on large windows. You can make them yourself. You can also fit them with paper or fabric blinds that fit snugly across them to help keep warmth in.

There is going to be lots to do on our current house. We can't afford to do anything right now so some of its issues will deepen a bit before we get to them. However, I am so happy to live in this well built home. There aren't a lot of pretty windows like I had before but they are still mostly original and let in pretty light which makes me happy.

I would like to build a green house out of old multi-light windows. Something that could be reglazed occasionally to preserve its integrity. My friend Sharon built one that is so charming, so sweet, and wonderful to sit in. It looks like a little synagogue. She is the one that showed me the potential to turn old windows into something new, useful, and beautiful.

I think it's time for all of us to return to the habit of making things to last out of materials that don't pollute the earth when they are done with their life of usefulness to us humans. It makes me sick to think of all the acrylic carpeting not disintegrating in the landfills. I think it's time that we save to buy good quality things rather that rush to buy crap. It's time to make more things ourselves as well. When we can.

As I work more and more hours I remember how hard it is to lead a good quality life when both partners in a family are working and no one is home making the good food, cleaning, gardening, building. All of these things add so much to a family's quality of living. How incredible it would be if all the two income family's who are doing well enough decide to stop chasing money and have someone stay home! Even part time is better than no time. So many people don't have a choice and I really feel for them. Sometimes though, we have a choice-we just don't see it. If you are both working so that you can make payments on two cars...why not have one car? If you are both working so you can have a really expensive house- why not find a less expensive house?

Our house isn't expensive as far as houses go. We have only one car. (Though I do have a scooter bought during a more affluent moment in our lives, four years ago now but there are no payments for either our car or the scooter). We don't have cable, or cell phones (!), or a vacation home, nor do we have sporting equipment, and we rarely take vacations. Most of the financial trouble we are in right now is because of two years of unemployment and unexpected difficulties in buying this house that caused us to go into credit card debt. This will not last forever. At some point one of us will be able to spend time at home making and doing all the things a home and family need for a good life.

I look forward to that day.

Working Girl

This is jalapeno jelly. I made 13 half pints of it after getting off work last night. Working outside the home is kicking my ass because the things that need doing around here still need doing whether I'm gone working all day or not.

These are the dry shelled beans I've harvested so far. Still have some more to go. All from one 10' row of beans. Not bad. I would probably have gotten a higher yield if I had trellised them.

Here's what I did yesterday:

• Took the dog for a walk.

• Made a new friend. (The most beautiful Tanzanian woman in the world!).

• Sent out Etsy orders.

• Spent an hour weeding and harvesting at the community gardens.

• Paid an urgent bill.

• Worked at the toy store.

• Cleaned the kitchen.

• Made fresh salsa.

• Made another batch of hummus.

• Made jalapeno jelly.

• Shelled beans harvested from the community garden.

• Possibly patched a frail family relationship. You can never be sure with my family.
  

I don't know how people keep up this kind of activity all the time. I am wiped out. Today I work at the toy store, must clean out the kitty litter box, finish juicing my pomegranates and make grenadine out of it, can it, help Max with homework, do a load of laundry, respond to some e-mails, figure out which urgent bill to pay next, and make final decisions on magazine content so that I can solicit my friends to start working on articles for no pay*.





*Aren't I the best friend EVER?!

Walmart
like syphilis, only worse

I think eye candy is great. I love it. Especially when it's red and can be plastered all over my kitchen and craft room. Does anyone NOT like rick rack? I'm putting eye candy here because I'm going to talk about Walmart in just a moment and I think we all deserve to have pretty imprints on our retinas before we go there.

Do you see what's new? Philip bought the last Elephant Heart plum tree at the nursery. I wanted to establish one here in my yard this year. It's getting a little late but what the hell?! I was going to go for an antique apple variety but in the end I really covet, and I do mean that with all capital letters, COVET, this plum. I'm so excited!

See how I avoid topics I really want to? Yet, and here it is, I went to Walmart today with my kid. Now, I work in a toy store and it's an excellent one, but I knew we didn't have any Lego sets he wanted right now and he had some allowance money (which he earned by washing the car and the scooter) burning a hole in his head and so we headed off to the only other place in town that sells Legos, Max's keen passion. We rode our bikes (does that dull the stench we wear for stepping foot in one of the worst stores that have ever happened to our country?) and as we entered through the one entry door* Max experienced some confusion.

"Where are we mama?" he stopped and asked.

"We're in Walmart, the place with the Legos." I answered.

"This is the place? You mean there are actually Legos in here?! It doesn't look like a place that has Legos." almost shouting.

It is like a mecca for everything I don't stand for. What really freaks me out is that I now look like I belong there. I mean, truly. Seriously. I should never go there in unflattering clothes. With my gut hanging out so far that I couldn't spy my shoes I looked exactly like Walmart's demographic gold standard customer. Except that my kid, as though just landed on the moon, said very loudly "So this is the place where people are for Bush?!"

I had told him earlier why we do our best not to support Walmart. I told him how Walmart funds Republican campaigns and supports things we don't believe in. I told him that Walmart is like fast food: it is complete evil incarnate if you go there all the time and fork over your money to support what they stand for, but if you only go once in a while it won't actually kill you or the rest of the world.

However, I have my doubts about that.

We certainly seemed like the only reasonably happy people there. You'd think all that money you saved buying crap you didn't need that will break two days from now would give you some kind of shopping glow.

Max was so excited by the unbelievable selection of Legos that he was dramatically expressing his joy by writhing on the floor saying "NO WAY!!!! I HAVE TO HAVE THAT ONE FOR MY BIRTHDAY!!! SAH-WEET!" He certainly didn't blend in. His eyes weren't glazed over. He was having paroxysms of joy, for sure, and almost looked epileptic, but he kept me well entertained.

He didn't have a great selection in his price range but it was a great time. Until we left the Lego isle and once again made our way down isle after isle of stuff and more stuff. I figured that maybe since we were already there I would get more water filters, which I need, but I couldn't find anything I needed. Just crying babies. Lots of people wearing unnatural colored contact lenses. People. Lots of big people. (Like me, I hate to say.) Unhappy worn faces. Grey skin. Cheap cheap cheap cheap life. Moms who couldn't be older than fourteen. Harrassed looking parents. Old saggy people who don't seem to have anything left in their eyes. How does this happen?

That reminds me.

You know how sometimes you see a man and know that the only explanation for him is that he's a serial killer? I saw the weirdest most disconnected older, thin, face lifted, pale skinned, scary-groomed man the other day in my discount grocery store. He whisked past me down an isle leaving me just a little slack jawed and scared. His hair was colored to cover grey and what was left of it was swept back from his face. That man had a dark soul and not because he wore all black. So I get in line right behind him. I would have gone to another one but I was in a hurry (something I try not to be) and it was the shortest one.

I think everyone else knew he had no conscience either. He was very particular about keeping a keen space between his two items and my many. Like I was dirty. Like anything other people touch is dirty. I was transfixed by him but also terrified to make eye contact. Fortunately for me, the man was absolutely making a great effort to avoid human contact of any kind.

I'm almost certain this man lives with his mother and I won't say what else I'm sure he's up to because it will just freak someone out.

All in all it's been a lovely day. My boy (so far) isn't hating his school, his classmates, or his teacher. We went on an adventure today. He did some chores. We rode our bikes. We built Legos together. He ate watermelon and tater tots. (Never on the same plate.) I got a bunch of Etsy chores done (new things listed, taking care of business) and now I am going to go and rest my back. My second non-fatal** wasp sting has finally stopped swelling, though it still itches. If life keeps feeling this good I just might have to ditch my plan to develop some new curse words.


Here is some additional information on Wal-Mart's practices:
http://www.clrlabor.org/campaigns/wal-mart/resources.htm
supplied by my good friend Riana at These Days In French Life.





*I think it's ominous that there is only one double entry door but two or three exit doors...what does it mean? I know it means something.

**I am now terrified of getting a third sting because the second one was way worse than the one I got a week ago. It swelled up in about a 5" radius around the sting site and the skin felt stiff and weird. It itches and hurts. If the second wasp sting of my life was ten times worse than the first, what will the third one be like? And why do I taste so good to them suddenly? By the way, I wanted to try Jocelyn's suggestion for dealing with wasp stings but I have made a gross garden error- I have not planted mint!!!!! What is wrong with me?