Prayer

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People are asking me how my holiday was and I’ve been answering “spiritual.” WTF? Where is that coming from? Usually my peace comes from a good yoga session, an exhausting run, a rhythm with the ocean, sleeping in, waking slow. I’m grounded by a good book, a better friend, cooking a decent meal, laughing loud and long. I didn’t have much of any of that while I was home. No yoga, no run. Each morning I woke at 5:30am… usually from jarring dreams that rattled me awake. The equivalent of being rudely tossed out of slumber. While I read the books didn’t give me safe passage. So, what gives? Why the word “spiritual” to describe what a week ago I couldn’t even put words to?

I think I know. I think I get it. Discovery is knowledge. Knowledge lends itself to understanding. Understanding is the foundation for acceptance. There is peace in acceptance. Bingo. I learned a little more about myself through my mother’s history and that has brought me home. Spiritually. I get it now. This revelation brought me hope.

My mother said, “I block those times out” and that’s when hope arrived. I was this close to replying “I know what you mean.” I was this close to yanking open the closet door and letting the skeletons tumble out. It seemed like an invitation to confide. My hand was on the door, turning the knob. I could have done it…but I thought too much. How would she feel that she is the very last to know? Would she be offended, would she be hurt? How would I explain my distrust of her reaction 30 years too late? Time doesn’t heal all wounds. And wound her I would. Hers would be fresh and raw while all mine have scarred over and hardened into indifference. So instead, I let go, looked in my lap and said, “I can see why…” With that, the moment slipped away. Wine in hand she walked away. The closet door stayed closed.

Autobiography of an Unknown Indian

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AutobiographyChaudhuri, Nirad. The Autobiography of an Unknown Indian. Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1968.

I admitted defeat with Autobiographyby page 92. Maybe I was spoiled by all the easy reading over the vaca. Maybe I just couldn’t wrap my brain around Chaudhuri’s lengthy descriptions. Maybe it was the subject matter. I don’t know. I do know that I literally fell asleep every time I cracked open this book.
From the very beginning I was confused about the nature of this story. Fiction? Nonfiction? It’s the first hand account of an Indian growing up in Kishorganj, India. A memoir of sorts. It sounds nonfiction because he refers to the Chaudhuri family off and on and he goes to great length to describe everything – the huts his family lived in, the landscape, the weather, the townspeople, the politics, the culture, even the animals. Chaudhuri lost me in the chapter about his mother’s ancestral village. It was more of the same. 
But, the reading wasn’t all dry. Littered in between the descriptive are little stories about childhood and memories. Those little pieces were fun and added color to the overall plot. 

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter called “India: A Readers Itinerary.” Nancy puts Autobiography under fiction but it reads as dry as non. What cracked a smile on my face is when Nancy described it as an “exceptionally informative.” She wasn’t kidding.

Glass

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To drink or not to drink…not a question. Not a problem. I’ve never really considered alcohol a good friend, or even a friend for that matter. I know someone who gave it up completely. She was my not-really-drinking-drinking-buddy. My something sour to her something strong. She gave it up completely while I still talk to the bottle every now and then.
While on vacation every now and then became every night and then. Thursday night was a big glass of Merlot, chugged at Rosie’s. Friday night was a couple small glasses of Yellow Tail while staring at the ocean. Saturday night was this bottle of out of this world UFO, while watching watching the sun go down. Sunday was Shipyard brew at the Bull. Monday night I cried uncle when a Beaujolais was coming my way. Why? Four days in a row is nothing and there are people who think nothing of it, but to me, I was thinking everything.
Something worth considering.

The Awakening (w/ spoiler)

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AwakeningChopin, Kate. The Awakening. New York: New American Library, 1976.

If I had a tag for “feminism” this book would be under it. Actually, it’s more of a long short story than a book. Only 125 pages long Kate Chopin tells the story of discontented, tragic Edna Pontellier. A wife and a mother she is dutiful as both until a younger man awakens her inner rebel and sex goddess. You can see it start slowly when she states, “I feel this summer as if I were walking thrugh the green meadow again; idly, aimlessly, unthinking and unguided” (p. 17). It grows stronger when she disobeys her husband, “Another time she would have gone in at his request” (p. 33). Finally, the ultimate of rebellion reaches its peak when she is seduced by another man, Arobin. “He did not say goodnight until she had become supple to his gentle, seductive entreaties” (p. 100).

BookLust Twist: While Pearl doesn’t think anything really happened with Edna (” …poor Edna Pontellier…who doesn’t actually do anything but suffers the consequences anyway.” More Book Lust, Wayward Wives p 232), I strongly disagree. What Edna doesn’t do is be a good mother to her kids (they’re shipped off while she pretends to be an artist), or a good wife. She moved out of their home while hubby’s away. He’s left making excuses to save face (said the house was being renovated and that’s why his wife took up another residence).

In the end Edna commits suicide. She knows she’s not a good mother. She knows she isn’t a faithful wife. She can’t have the man who truly awakened her sexuality. Trapped in a life she cannot conform to she walks into the sea never to emerge.

rain

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It’s the only time my mind is bombarded with lyrics – when it rains. Drives me crazy but comforts me all the same. Madonna (“Rain”), Matchbox 20 (“She only sleeps when it’s raining”), Natalie Merchant (“I’ve been walking all alone through the wind and through the rain”), Dave Matthews (“Gravedigger, when you dig my grave could you make it shallow so that I can feel the rain”, Eurythmics (“Here comes the rain again”), Rebecca Correia (“Rain, how’s it feelin’ babe” and “I’ve got all the blue skies in your eyes combined, so bring on the the rain”), Bob Dylan (“Buckets of rain”), the Grateful Dead (“Box of Rain”), Eric Clapton (“praying for the healing rain”), and even Gordon Lightfoot (“rainy day people…”) have been singing to me all morning.

I don’t know what makes the rain so beautiful to me, especially today. Maybe it’s that first day back to work, matching my get-down-to-business attitude. Can’t think of anything else but writing proposals, drafting policies, scheduling fall classes, wading through tons of email…No running, no “I should be outside” guilt trip, no other plans but getting back into the professional world. Weird how I missed it. I needed to be away, yet cannot stay away.

I’m thinking I’d like to learn a new “hobby”. Any ideas? Bring on the rain.

Clear Path International

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Too Many YearsMy first exposure to Clear Path was through Natalie. She provided a song on a benefit cd (Too Many Years) which was released in the spring of 2005. Even before that I knew Natalie was involved in the project. She would talk about CPI’s mission during her shows. She called such conversations (when she wasn’t singing) “patter”. I called it education for she was always talking about charities near and dear to her. CPU caught my attention when it broke my heart. So I donated. When I ordered the cd I asked to be put CPI’s mailing list for their biannual newletter and discovered I went to school with the vice president and the Cambodia advisor. Small world. They don’t know I subscribe to their newsletter, nor would they recognize my name when I donate. I’m a different person, literally and figuratively, since high school. But aren’t we all? 

But, I digress. Here’s the quick and dirty about CPI: Clear Path International is a six year old nonprofit out of (U.S.) Bainbridge Island, Wash. and Dorset, VT. They have offices in Vietnam, Cambodia & Thailand (the places that really make sense) as well. Their mission is to serve the families and communities who are victim to landmines and oh so much more.  Their website is chock full of information – including a blog of videos worth checking out.

                                                    CPI logo

Caught

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Caught on an electric wire I wait on the wind. I am once again alive and happy to be here. I was slipping my grip on priority a few weeks ago but I’m back. A renewed force of power waits while I settle into a new groove. And settle, I will. Just you wait.
There is a new resolve to run my life the way I want, a new resolve to be who I want to be. I am not stupid, I’ve been face to face with this resolve before. My life is a giant circle – losing confidence, gaining ground. Faltering and finishing. Falling down and getting back up. This isn’t the first time I’ve found courage, found strength, found something to be. I’ll take advantage of it while it’s here.
Knitting II was cancelled but that just gives me time to enroll in knitting school – yes school. Courses, textbooks, prerequisites, labs, tests, homework, final exams. The works. I finished knitting I with a green scarf but now I’m ready to jump into the unknown. As a good friend told me, it’s all well and good to reaffirm what I already know (as in the case of knitting I), but it’s another to move into unchartered waters. So, here I go.
Yoga. I haven’t been to Now and Zen Yoga since it moved. I’m embarrassed by that fact. Now that I have this director thing worked out I have time for the more important things.
Kisa taught me some moves on the bowflex. I’ve missed strength training. Okay, I avoided it after a certain meathead left my life, but, but, but I still missed it. I like watching my muscles move, feeling strong and in charge. Peach Shirt still lingers in my memory. He follows me from the grocery store and back from the back. I’d like to be able to kick his azz if it ever came to that. Instead I’ll ignore the ache. In addition I discovered the bike path goes all the way into town – almost 3 miles. Perfect for running. I’ll start tomorrow.

I moved back into the Space, calling up some friends. If I haven’t called on you, give me time. I’m still figuring out where you are! 😉

TNT

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TNTThe Leukemia & Lymphoma Society’s Team in Training organization contacted me again this week. There is a part of me that almost outwardly groans “why can’t you leave me alone?” while another part of me thinks I really should reconsider another half marathon. I’ve already proved I can run five miles without issue. What’s another eight? Yeah, right. Eight point one. Tell that to my knee. Better yet, tell that to my husband! I’m sure either would love to hear that I could be saddling up for another 13 miler. No, I don’t’ think so. I’m seriously considering that Grand Canyon hike LLS mentioned earlier. I know I need to do something!

I ran Wednesday. Another four miles. I like four. It’s a good number. It’s a good number for my knees. This time my legs took me to a different cemetary and somewhere I haven’t been in a long time – the park. Running around Look was a blast from the past. It’s where I hurt my knee. It’s where I fell to earth. To ward off the demons I ran in the opposite direction of how I used to. I think I conquered the past pain. It felt good to glide around elderly couples holding hands and walking slow, past young mothers pushing strollers and gossiping, and giving dog walkers a wide berth. Ducks in the stream, parties at the picnic tables. It felt good period.

Allegra Maud Goldman

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AllegraKonecky, Edith. Allegra Maud Goldman. New York: The Feminist Press, 1990.

This was another one of those “kid books” – about a kid coming of age, I should say. I enjoyed this much better than the Angus book. Both have witty, sarcastic, growing up girl narratives only Allegra is Jewish instead of Catholic and lives in Brooklyn, New York instead of England. She isn’t afraid to use her mind, or speak it. A few of my favorite quotes:

“Just thinking about that whole library filled with ideas, things to mull over , all sorts of new people to get to know, boggled my mind.” (p88)

“”You’ll never be really happy as a woman,” Sonia said “until you have your own sweet baby at your breast.” I recognized this as something her mother was always saying to her, but I refrained from throwing up.” (p145)

I enjoyed this book a great deal. Allegra Maud Goldman is my kind of kid. Her sense of humor stands up and takes a bow in the face if that audience called insecurity that only growing up can produce.

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter appropriately called, “Girls Growing up” (p 101). Pearl liked Allegra as much as I did saying, “…Konecky manages to write from a child’s point of view  without ending up sounding silly, condescending or false.” (p 102)

On the Side of Angels

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I donated to Susan G. Komen for the Cure. I donated but that doesn’t mean they are going to give up asking me for more. They shouldn’t.This week I got yet another Dear Friend letter and…note-cards, complete with envelopes. I think this is a guilt tactic. A subliminal “what do you think these note cards are worth and could you pay us that for sending them to you?” They are nice cards…but I didn’t ask for them. Maybe it’s a hint that I owe a few people some letters and I should get on my butt and write them.

Here’s what I want to say, “Dear SGKFTC, You are preaching to the choir. When you tell me the stats on breast cancer it’s something I already know. Cancer is something that scares the clear thinking out of me. You say my donation can make a difference but I don’t think it does. Why else would I get another Dear Friend so soon after my last check was sent?” I know exactly what you are going to say. We should never stop. I believe you. Cancer is killing someone you know right now. It starts in the breast, you fight the good fight and breathe a sigh of relief. It comes back in the hip, you fight the good fight and breathe a shaky sigh of relief. It shows itself in the jaw, you fight the good fight and breathe a troubled sigh of relief. Now it’s in the spine, you’re fighting the good fight and there is a sigh, but not of relief. The sigh comes from knowing cancer doesn’t give up. So. Neither should Komen. Neither should you. Donate today.

It Could Have

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I don’t know whether it was my overly active imagination or the man apparently following me, but I was so scared. It happened yesterday at a rest area. When I pulled in to the parking lot I wasn’t thinking about anything but walking, changing my clothes, peeing, and fueling up before the rest of my journey home. I wasn’t thinking period. It was a beautiful day so I parked as far away from the rest area center as possible. I was nearly in the trucker lot. I wanted to stretch my legs as much as possible while crossing the parking lot. Stretch and enjoy the sun. There wasn’t another parked car within 10 spots on any side of me – I was that far away from the hubbub of the center. I cannot stress that enough. To my surprise someone pulled up right next to me. Startled someone would park just as far away from the center, yet so close to me I stared at the driver…only to find him staring back at me. I took note of his features (Middle Eastern, well groomed, glasses), his dress (peach shirt, no tie), his car (silver honda accord). Of all the open spots around me he had to pull up right beside me. Instantly nervous I busied myself with pulling clothes together, counting change, anything to not get out of the car quite yet. It seemed like eternity but finally the man drove away. I made note of his VT license plate. Not trusting him to be really gone I stayed in my car a minute more before getting out and walking across the parking lot. As I approached the center I spotted Mr. Peach Shirt’s car. Imagine my surprise when he got out just as I was walking by. I was convinced I had waited long enough but there he was, following me into the center. He even used the same door so I was forced to hold it open for him. I noticed his black dress pants and dress shoes. Respectable looking yet giving me the creeps all the same. Once inside he went his way and I made a beeline for the bathrooms where I changed my clothes, put my hair up, rehydrated my contacts…in other words, spent a long time refreshing myself for the journey home. Still nervous about Mr. Peach Shirt I wondered if I would see him again. Scaring myself, I was betting I would. Even though I predicted it I was still shocked to see him standing outside the restrooms, drinking a coffee, looking my way. Trying not to appear rattled I squared my shoulders and walked by with as much resolve as I could muster. He followed me out. Thinking I had to be imagining my paranoia I stopped to pretend to look for something in my purse. Peach Shirt kept walking. As the distance between us widened I took the opportunity to stroll to the dog park, stop to admire the lilacs in full bloom, pretend to be interested in a man’s dog, anything to delay going back to my car. By the time I did go back I thought surely Peach would be gone and if he wasn’t, I had a problem. Wanting to avoid that problem I took a long time driving away from my spot. Slowly, slowly I made my way towards the gas pumps, cursing myself for having to fill up. All I wanted to do was get on the highway and burn rubber home. Just at the edge of the rest area center’s parking lot I had to stop for pedestrians. I welcomed the chance to give Peach more time to be really gone. I didn’t see him anywhere. But. As I waited who pulled up beside me but Mr. Peach! Shock elevated to alarm. I couldn’t believe I was seeing him for a fourth, disturbing time. I drove off shaking like a leaf and amazingly he followed. At the gas station I stared in disbelief as he pulled up the the pumps right behind me. Nearly frantic I looked to the attendant for help. She looked all of 18-19 years old and I knew she wouldn’t make a difference. Instead I pulled out my cell phone and pretended to make a call (yes, the battery was dead), looked in my rearview and pretended to relay license plate info to an imaginary cop. I was as obvious as I possibly could be and finally Mr. Peach drove away. I never saw him again.

Here’s what really bothers me about this experience. I could predict when I would see that peach shirt. It was like he was always around no matter how long I lingered somewhere. There was something about him that made me nervous from the moment I first laid eyes on him. Did that make me hypersensitive to his movements? If I were to pick out someone else, say an overweight woman in oversized sunglasses, sun visor, Miami tourist tee shirt, clam diggers and flipflops, would I run into her just as often as Mr. Peach? Would I notice her just as often? Would I care? Probably not. No, Mr. Peach Shirt started the drama by pulling into a parking spot right next to me. He didn’t observe movie theater rules. You don’t sit right next to a stranger in a movie theater. You always leave an empty seat between you. Just like you don’t park right next to another car when there are at least 40 empty spots all around. And I was so far away! Can’t stress that enough!

It could have been my imagination. It could have been worse. It could have.

Posted in Bad

TongueTied & Tired

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I have this friend who thinks before he speaks and takes a long time to reply. It used to annoy me. I wasn’t patient enough to understand his careful approach to words. I was too busy being offended, too busy thinking I was being ignored.
I understand my friend’s silence today more than ever. I have been away for nearly a week and while I have many, many things I could write about, some of those experiences are too profound to put into words quite yet. I need time to savor and digest. Being home was way too short. I didn’t have time to hurt when I left and that’s never a good thing. Being with mom was too short. I heard stories about her life that stun me, humble me, make me proud to be her daughter. I went to my first Memorial Day parade and cried tears of shame. Someone at my side, a Vietnam vet in a wheelchair muttered, “we are not a nation unless we are a nation at war” when a man shook his hand and welcomed him home.
I have so much to ponder, so much to be silent about. I think it’s enough just to say I am here. Welcome home.

About a Boy

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About a boyHornby, Nick. About a Boy.New York: Riverhead Books, 1998.

I have heard so much about this book. Maybe it’s because I’ve liked other Hornby books that have been made into movies~ Fever Pitch & High Fidelity. Will is a pretty interesting character. He’s a single guy, bound and determined to never work a day in his life. He spends his time watching movies, listening to music and trolling for women. His newest tactic is to join SPAT (Single Parents Alone – Together). Needless to say, he’s not a single parent. In reality he hates kids. He’s callous and shallow but you can’t help but like him, especially when he gets involved with Fiona and her 12 year old son Marcus.

“There were about seventy-nine squillion people in the world, and if you were very lucky, you would end up being loved by 15-20 of them” (p147).

One of the things that struck me about this story is the philosophical ending. Marcus is a boy who acts too old for his age, too serious for his youth while Will acts too young for his years, too immature for the adulthood he is in. In the end they learn to swap maturities – growing down and up. Now I want to see the movie.

BookLust Twist: From both Book Lust and More Book Lust. In More Book Lust About a Boy is in the Chapter, “Dick Lit” (p.79). If you are scratching your head, think chick lit. Get it?

Dear you

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I know the run today was hard. Only 4 miles and it hurt like hell. Hang in there. Seriously, there are a hundred hooks to hang your blame on – it was too hot, allergies were kicking your butt, too many cars backing out of driveways without looking, too many busy intersections to cross, you never got your breathing settled, and all you could really think about was the humility of going up an underwear size…I know, I know. Let it pass. The important thing is you got out there. You gave it your best and your best is all you’ve ever got, right? Am I right?

Think of it this way. You inhaled lilacs on the bridge; you saw angels in the yard; Christmas is everlasting at house #57; you avoided the dog crap at the maples; that guy finally had his Lab on a leash; instinct told you to stay away from the man with the motorcycle on the bike path; you didn’t smile at unknown kayakers and, and, and you ran 4 miles.
Enough said.

Above Suspicion

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Above SuspicionMacInnes, Helen. Above Suspicion. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovitch, Inc., 1969.

This book smells of stale cigarette smoke when it got to me, like it had been hanging out in a 1980’s bar until closing time. The library issued plastic cover is falling off, the tape is yellowing, too. This is not a book that feels good to hold and that really matters to me. I don’t know how many other readers feel this way, but a book has to look a certain way, feel a certain way… in addition to read a certain way.
Nevertheless, the story was intriguing. It’s the story of a young couple recruited to check out a chain of spies (suspected nazi sympathizers) during World War II. The plan is elaborate and dashing. As the story picked up pace I could barely turn the pages fast enough to keep up with my growing interest. Here are some of my favorite quotes (as usual):

“The party in Frame’s rooms had just reached the right temperature when Frances and Richard Myles arrived” (p 17).

“It was strange how her mind, as well as her stomach, rebelled when the choice was sausage or sausage or sausage” (p. 86).

“At first, Richard would only take her on a short ten-mile walk” (p.111). Yikes! I’m lucky if I get in five miles a day!

One of the things I loved about this novel was the interaction between Frances and Richard as man and wife (only married four years). They took cues from each other, nonverbal signs, and acted accordingly. Their intimate knowledge of one another bordered on parapsychology.

BookLust Twist: Nancy Pearl has some great things to say about Above Suspicion in her second Book Lust book, More Book Lust. She calls it “pure fun” something she “rereads regularly” (p 162). For a person who reads a lot that’s a pretty big compliment.