It's My Turn

When I pointed my little car back towards DeKalb in October, 2007, I had no home. A loyal friend didn't even have to think twice; she just opened her door and put fresh sheets on a bed. Soon enough, of course, the housing thing was sorted out, and I didn't need her hospitality. But I will never ever forget the generosity.

Everybody knows this, but it's the background of my argument, so hang on... Hospitality is derived from the words for "love" and "stranger." It's about inviting someone over the threshold, making room, making space. And the thing, of course, is that everyone changes in the process. Seeing someone across the threshold is no small thing, it turns out.

And now it's my turn. A certain child of mine, whose name I am not at liberty to disclose, is suffering and reorienting herself after ending a relationship. Minutes after I had gone to bed the other night, I heard the door open -clearly someone with a key, I figured- and I saw her at the door with her suitcase. Uh oh. I put fresh sheets on her bed, poured us both a glass of wine, and we set about the business of getting on with it.

And this morning, I picked up a sock off the floor and smiled. There are socks on my floor again! That part will probably lose its charm fairly quickly. Remember those empty rooms I showed you? Now look.

We'll see how this changes us both. My heart is broken that she's sad, but not-so-secretly I'm delighted that I have company (and this company). That's why I kept this house!

A "Baby, Be Brave" playlist?

I have wasted this day. I have an astonishing capacity to do that. What the HECK??? One ought not simultaneously claim to be too busy and then squander entire days; it isn't seemly ;) On the other hand, I try to give myself permission to just sit and grieve when it's necessary. Since grief no longer consumes me, I figure when it does take over, it's probably just as well not to resist.

However... reality rears its ugly head. The weekend is over, and I squeaked by last week without actually wearing my pink flamingo pajamas to work because there were no clean clothes. But it was a near thing. There is still a pile of remodeling trash in my house. It's smaller, but not gone. Sigh...

Music... music... that's the ticket. I need some fun, get off your butt, you can do this music.

Baby, Be Brave by The Corrs comes to mind.
What if it All Goes Right? by Melissa Lawson (in the roll the windows up and sing in the car department)
Bless the Broken Road -Selah
Dancing Queen -ABBA (channeling Meryl Streep in Mamma Mia)
Ten Thousand Angels (??? probably not)
Reflection (It's a Disney song, I admit. But listen to it. Disney is coming along.)
Big Dream -Chyi Yu ("makes me think maybe God's a woman too" -worth it for that alone!)
I Will Survive -for a total guilty pleasure flashback
Except for Mondays -Lorrie Morgan

What else? We need some tunes around here!

Friday the 13th

That's the day. At roughly 3:00, I'll be officially divorced. It's been just over a year of mostly-laconic litigation. The end has been a bit fraught, but... here we are. If I had fantasies that he was going to come to his senses -and I did, in the very beginning- they're long over. And not what I want any longer, anyway. If I had even wilder fantasies that somehow this would all come to an end without me having to take any more terrifying risks, I know better now. And maybe it's all worth more if I had to take risks to get whatever it is I end up developing from my life and my potential.

Anyway... if you're in the area, let's meet at PJ's (the bar across from the Sycamore Court House) at 4:30-ish. I figure if I get a little over my limit (my 2 beer sternly-enforced limit) an array of good friends will confiscate my car keys, take me home, and dump me in my bed.

More Room to Grow

I really hope we're finished with this horrifying asset-division. It's time and past time for our interactions with each other to be over. As best I can tell, Dave and I will meet two more times: once to give him a check and again at divorce court. My guess is that both will occur in the next week or so, but scheduling is out of my hands in both cases.

Here's my dining room.
If you want to come over, you should bring a chair. Or be prepared for a picnic on the floor. I know the dining room furniture I want -at least part of it. But it's not as though the table I want exists at a furniture store. It will involve a crawl through antique stores, which is fun but time consuming.

It feels a little (but only a little) like the beginning of this process, when everything familiar and known was stripped away. This is not that kind of violation; I wanted the "stuff" of our married life to go away. But still... there's nothing in my dining room! That table where I fed babies and friends, where I cut out countless yards of fabric, and helped children learn to read... it's gone. The memories weren't in the table, for heaven's sake. And yet...

The disorienting dilemma of being suddenly and ruthlessly single led to this - a life that scares me frequently, challenges me always, and that I am learning to love. I'm starting to fly. I think I fret and muse about my house, my furniture, and my food because they ground me. They root me in a particular place and identify me in time. Without them, I am a little less clear who I am.

Which leads to kind of a lot of pressure to choose the right dining room table ;) What if I get somebody else's table by mistake? Here's the general idea.



It's not quite this, but the idea is a round table, with a pedestal, that has leaves so that it expands to seat more than four people. So I guess it would go from a circle to an oval. Questions? Comments?

Proof That I Still Have a Kitchen

...and I know how to use it. This being alone thing is hard to get organized when it comes to cooking and eating gracefully. I've struggled. I've ranted. And I've gained a boatload of weight from eating poorly. OK, we tried that. It didn't work. Let's move along.

With Mary's help, I've gradually re-located my kitchen and started to actually use it. More importantly, I've started to enjoy using it. I still prefer to cook for other people, but I'm even getting the hang of cooking for one.

But today, I got to bake for other people. Happy birthday to my co-workers, Donna and Melissa. And here are your cakes! The real things will be at work in about 45 minutes!!

Now I've Really Lost My Mind ;)

I signed up for a kayaking class. The last time I went kayaking I ended up on a river with monster rapids, where I had no business being, and fell out of the kayak and had to be driven back to my car in disgrace. And with some pretty impressive bruises, to boot. The kids and Dave, it need hardly be said, made it down the river without incident. Such is my life.

I like doing athletic things. (I can hear my sisters laughing in derision. No really, I do.) It's just that I don't learn them quickly. I took the belay class for rock climbing twice. I didn't fail the test the first time -although I probably should have. But I was NOT a competent belayer until I'd taken the class more than once AND practiced with a back-up belayer. I was just so nervous. Believe me when I tell you that this is not false modesty. I was a dangerous belayer until I had taken the class a second time.

I'm not exactly sure how that metaphor is going to extend itself to kayaking, but I'm sure that it will. I'll roll over and not be able to roll back up. I'll roll over and not be able to wet-exit. I'll.... screw up in some monumental way. I'm okay with this, as long as I'm making progress and not holding the class back.

Moreover, I have extended myself forty ways from Sunday this semester. I have observed that I am better when I'm busy. I may well have crossed the line to stupid-busy. First clue... my house is an ASTONISHING mess... between a remodeling project, packing Dave's stuff up, and having no time to clean. Let's see.... dust? Nah, I think I'll sign up for kayaking. Perhaps I'm not firing on all cylinders here.

But the class is here, and hasn't been offered for six years. It's an opportunity and I'm through with missing opportunities. And I have a thing about water. Oceans, rapidly flowing rivers... they soothe me. I can literally feel my blood pressure lower. So I'm going to be stupid-busy for five weeks. I'll get it all done. And I'll have another option for fitness and fun when I'm finished.

Assuming I don't crack my stupid-busy head open, that is!

Making Space

This is my living room, all packed up and ready to go to Dave's house. I'm keeping the picture on the wall and possibly the floor lamp. That's it.

And I'm okay with this. Other things are disappearing too, but this and the dining room are the only rooms being completely emptied. I realized several months ago that I almost never ventured into these two rooms. Only when talking about it did I also realize that everything here was a gift or a hand-me-down from Dave's family. Coincidence? I doubt it. I have absolutely nothing against Dave's family -quite the contrary, actually. But the gifts have a weight. They belong to the couple that doesn't exist, and barring that, they belong back in the family.

Moreover, with them still in my house there was no space for the new things. The...ummm... new things I haven't quite figured out what they are yet. But the right things will come along, I'm sure. I can start with repairing the floor and the walls and then painting. All of that will be easier to do when the room is empty. Then new curtains.



OK, I get it. Objectively speaking, it looks more than a little dismal. But it feels more like a weight being lifted. I am really okay with this part. Stuff I've never liked is being eliminated, pushing me gently (because the pacing is of my own choosing) toward making what I do want actually happen.

ACK!

No, no... this is good.

ACK!

It really is good, actually :)

The Tomes of Our Lives

The more that you read, the more things you will know. The more that you learn, the more places you'll go. ~ Dr. Seuss

I'm old enough -or of such an inclination, perhaps- that books are almost sacred things. I am insulted by the suggestion that I might learn from bouncing powerpoint displays. I can be introduced to something by video -have my interest piqued, perhaps- but to really learn something, I need to read about it. And then, I keep the books in case I need to refer back to them. I have books from my childhood. I have books from high school and college. I have books given to my by earnest boyfriends, inscribed with youthfully (painfully) intellectual declarations of undying love.... I even have a few books that I so inscribed for another person. One doesn't get rid of books. It simply isn't done.

Except of course one does, and it is. As I've said, we're dividing the marital property. Of course, even John Ruskin (surely a bigger book fanatic than I am) agrees that there are books of the moment and books for all time. It hasn't been hard to part with the Physician's Desk Reference from 1982 or the beach-reading books. But, sometimes the weirdest stuff is wrenching. Is this my copy of Thucydides or yours? Who gets the battered copy of The Poky Little Puppy, without which Victoria could not sleep when she was a toddler?

And, oh dear heavens, who gets the photo albums -quite literally the tomes of our lives? Here's the thing. It's written into the settlement that they would be copied, Dave would get the digital copies, and I would get the originals back. We would share the expenses so that we could each have a complete set. Perfectly rational and sensible. I thought I wanted that.

Books are things of incredible power. They can make you laugh and cry. They can blow your head apart by exposing you to new ideas. And they can -apparently- slice your heart right open and leave it bleeding on the floor. I can't look at those books. How far back do I have to go to be sure he wasn't lying then? How can I look at pictures where I was having a good time -and thought he was too- but now know that he was definitely lying?

I have proposed that he take the photo albums. I'll want it in writing that he will preserve them for the children. Perhaps I'll ask that we keep the possibility of digital copying available into the future. But if I know they're safe, I think that's enough for me.

Dr. Suess is certainly right. There's something to be learned from almost any book ("learned", as distinct from "believed" to make a quibbly point). I just don't think I can endure the lessons in these books. I need to keep the covers closed on that record of fractured dreams.

Unless you tell me I'm acting like a deranged person again, that is.

Sleeping Around -Making Room for Adventure

I'll just sit here for a minute and let the picture that's in your head settle in ;)

Okay... what I'm really talking about is something a little different. A while ago, Michael posted a meme about where you rested your little head last year. Sleeping around, get it? My list is pretty lame:

Birmingham, Alabama
Hummelstown, Pennsylvania
Porter, Indiana
Chicago, Illinois

I think that's it.

Next year will be better. I'm trying really hard to make room for small affordable adventures. In two weeks, I will be going to Orlando. OK, it's for work, but there's an ocean close by, and I intend to see it. The kids and I are going to the Wisconsin Dells in February. In March, I'll be heading back to Alabama. In September, the sibs are going to Tallahatchie Flats in Mississippi to commune with our Delta roots. I'm going to camp a few times this summer; there's the Tuscany trip. I'm taking a kayaking class starting on Monday, and another small trip will probably result from that. I might get to do some traveling to present a paper -cross your fingers about that one.

I don't want to do frantic "get on the bus" traveling, but I do want to stretch my boundaries. I think people travel in order to get lost -to feel what it feels like to be "not at home". By doing that, you learn what's important about home. Or possibly, you learn what's not serving you at home.

A Rose by Any Other Name

I hate to disagree with the bard, but...well... I do. Names are important and here's how I know. (Settle in for a story. It's always a story with me.)

I know I've been quiet lately, and my mother will tell you that when I disappear, it's not usually because there's good news. As I approach the actual, legal, sign-here, end of my marriage, the tasks become difficult again -and scary -and feel like a violation. As at the beginning of the process, though, when everything was terrifying and disorienting, the only thing to do is the next thing. Take the small step. Just keep moving. Perhaps because each step is so overwhelming, you can only realize that you have learned something important when you have a minute to look back. Or when something happens to cause you to turn around and look at what has happened without your paying a lot of attention. The situation is at least an order of magnitude less terrifying than those early days, but the process seems similar.

I've mentioned that I'm changing my name back to my birth name. It's not legal yet, so sometimes I get mail or must identify myself with my married name. Most people, though, have switched to using my birth name. I realized the other day that, without my paying attention really, hearing myself called by my married name felt really odd. Wrong. There was no sadness about not having that name any longer. Quite the contrary, I wanted that person to get with the program and call me the right thing. I've stepped into my new skin, apparently, and I want people to recognize that. This development feels very healthy. (Of course, it also means that pretty soon I will need to detach this blog from that name, and I don't want to lose you guys, even temporarily, so I'm dragging my heels about that.

The second thing is that I've been rethinking my house, as you also know. Rooms will be "re-purposed", re-thought, and re-decorated. It's no longer a house that needs to be child-centered; it's no longer a house that needs to be couple-centered. It's my house. It can be changed whenever and however and towards whatever end I like. At first I felt awkward calling, say, my son's old bedroom my office. It's Nicholas's room, for goodness sakes. But soon now it will be my office. (The new floor is being installed next week!!!) The former music room (where the piano and V's harp live) is now oh-so-pretentiously the morning room. It's really only habitable in the mornings, so that's where I sit for my morning reflection and write in my journal, channeling Jane Austen all the while ;) The former office will be.... something; for now I'm calling it the family room.

I realized that this naming of rooms was more than simple identification when I needed to communicate with Math-Fink about the division of the marital property. To facilitate accurate communication I needed to identify pieces of furniture as located in a room whose name he knew. It felt awkward and wrong and like I was referring to some almost-forgotten time and place. Even the house is stepping into its new skin ;)

So what, you ask? (And one could hardly blame you.) I'm starting to think that the outside is a manifestation of the inside. I've commented that things become easy to do when the time is right. But it's also true that simply sitting around waiting for the time to be right is a poor strategy. Rather, the interior work has to be completed, and then the exterior changes. When I really believed myself to be a new person, then a new name was gladly accepted and felt comfortable. When I believed that I could maintain, tend -and afford- this house, then changing it to reflect my needs and hopes simply made sense. Any reference to the old way just felt dated and clunky to my ear.

What's next? Andrea as for-real participating scholar? Andrea as healthy, fit person? Andrea as ..something I haven't even named yet??? I can't wait to find out. Naturally, I'll only recognize whatever it turns out to be three months after the fact, while accidentally looking backwards. Oh well.

I can't breathe

These past two years have taken a toll on my body. It's stiff. It aches. It is significantly heavier than it ought to be and than I would like. I've done my share of whining and fretting about all of that. Yet, at the same time, I clearly wasn't ready to do anything about it. I cop to never having had a healthy body image. Never. But really, even by my standards, things have been pretty dim around here. It sounds facile -and maybe it is- but I wonder if I just figured I WAS unlovable so I might as well look that way.

The thing is I've watched myself start to heal from other aspects of the demise of my marriage. What I've learned through that is that my path is the only one I can walk. Things happen -even become easy- when the time is right. That path has been slower and quirkier than I would have predicted and has taken longer than I could EVER have imagined. But I've learned that the next-right-thing is all I can do. It doesn't matter if I go slowly or stay longer at one point or if my recovery looks very different from someone else's. After all, I have to grow my own life, not someone else's.

And in that spirit and for whatever reason, it now seems possible that I will start exercising again. Why now and not two months ago? I really couldn't say. I figure, though, that it might make some sense to chronicle my return to fitness in general, and yoga in particular. I know it will happen. My muscle cells aren't any different from anyone else's. They will get stronger when they are repeatedly asked to work hard. My connective tissue works just like other people's; it will eventually give way when invited to and will allow for the return of some lost yoga postures. It will all take longer than I will like, because I'm that kind of girl. But it will happen.

So here's the baseline. I can't breathe. I did the easiest of the easy yoga videos last night: Barbara Benagh's Power Yoga for Every Body. There is no reason for it to be called power yoga, so let's just dispense with that right away. Rather, it is slow and precise and very gentle. In the old days, I used this DVD on rest days or when recuperating from an injury. Last night I couldn't even get the breath right. My breath would literally get stuck in my chest and then I would start little non-scary gasps. I was lying on my back at the time, so exhaustion is probably not the explanation ;)

So, forget the fact that I can no longer -for now- tangle myself up in fun pretzel-y knots. I can't even breathe. But I'm starting from here, and walking my path.

Just when you think...

... you've made your peace with not going to church, along comes a counter-experience.

This weekend, I snuck away for an overnight at the Beloit Spa and Retreat House. OK, it's really my friends' house, but between their welcome and my tiredness, I treated it as though it were a spa and retreat house. You have to love friends who will let you impose like that. On Sunday morning, we took their three grandchildren to Mass at the local parish.

It's just a parish. It's lovely, but it's none of the things you would think I'd crave. It's not particularly liberal. It's not particularly intellectual. It's just a parish -a community of people who care about each other and try to live out the good news. But that little glimpse of what church can be rekindled all my "should I go back to church" angst.

I respect -and certainly believe- that church is, for some people, a repository of painful memories and nothing more. And sometimes even these people, with every justification in the world for leaving, miss church when they have walked away. But for me, church is mostly about happy memories.

There's the austerly lovely chapel at my old elementary and high school. I can remember how it smelled and how it sounded when one was alone in there. I can remember the vibrant (if somewhat self-important)campus ministry at my college. I can remember the "gym Mass" for Catholics who weren't quite sure they wanted to be there and who wanted to be sure their voices were heard at my first real parish in Chicago.

All positive memories.

And then there was Fr. M.A.P. (Misogynist Asshole Priest -notice the lack of a link. Oh MAN, was I tempted.) as we took to calling him, because we didn't want the children of the parish to start calling him that too. I eventually stopped going to church when he became the pastor. The hatred that he had for women and plenty of other groups of people(and no, I'm not exaggerating) poisoned the place and the experience for me and many others. And the parish hasn't recovered, even though he's gone. There are three qualified and rational, if somewhat uninspiring, priests there now. Compared to Fr. MAP, they are a godsend. Literally. But for some of us, the pain is still there. I can't quite figure out how that pitiful excuse for a man and a priest could overwhelm all the happy experiences I've had of church, but such is the power of hatred. It just exhausted my inner resources for hope of a better day.

I was fine with using Sunday mornings as family time and as personal retreat time. I was using that time to identify my core beliefs, to set boundaries between me and painful experiences that can teach me nothing new or important, and learning to cultivate sacred space where I find it. And then there was the Beloit Spa and Retreat House ;)

Darn it. Church can be wonderful. And it's just too, too painful when it's not.

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven:
a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot,
a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build,
a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance,
a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain,
a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away,
a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak,
a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace. (Ecclesiastes 3:1-8)

There is a time to dance. It's good to be reminded that there are good churches, where the members work to be authentic church for each other.

Aphasia??? Me??!!

OK, it's not aphasia when you have too many words! I need, for quirky reasons of my own, a single word that will help me to dedicate this year -a word from which I can act and toward which I can aspire. It needs to be a good word. No clunky, chunky words, even if they mean something good. ("Duty" might be such a word -a good concept, but a word that doesn't send you forward with a song in your heart, you know?)

Last year's word was "awakening," and I think I did all right in that department. For this year, I want a word that's about moving on and growing and being creative and graceful and not being bitter or angry but, rather, hope-filled. I want confidence and certainty, but not rigidity.

I wrote this last year about my word choice:

...the project at hand is something like being more active... claiming some power....not being a broken, rejected, unlovable wreck but also not having anger as my only tool for avoiding that.

So, no to rejected wreck.
No to flaming bitch.
Yes to ...something in the middle that's strong and yet graceful. Got a word for THAT, anyone?

Emerge?

Soar?

Dreaming Big or Tempting Fate?

I can't decide.

For the past few days I've been working on my goals and resolutions for the new year. I may be the only person left on the planet who finds this exercise fruitful. Last year, I concocted an 18-month plan, which is well on its way to completion. There are a few spectacular hold-outs in the completion department, but mostly I did pretty well.

So, out came the colored pencils and the calendar and my journal and... all my planning toys. I've figured out (sort of) the categories in my life. I know -in broad strokes- where I would like to be in each of those categories in five years. It's easy enough to work backwards and get to a one year plan, and backwards still further to a 90-day plan. Of course, I could come up with an hour-by-hour plan, but my obsessive-compulsive nature doesn't extend that far, you'll be glad to know.

But as I put papers into folders last night, I started to worry. Life's what happens when you're making other plans, and all that. By getting so precise with my goals and plans am I just begging the gods to throw back a few beers and have a good old laugh at my expense while they completely screw with me? Or... are there worse things than tempting fate? Tempting sorrow, perhaps. Or tempting disappointment that I never got around to pursuing some goal or another?

And of course, there's the ever-present possibility that the planning itself becomes the project. One must, eventually, put the colored pencils aside and start working the plan -which I mostly think is fun, too (unless the goal says something like "confront the fact that you are living in a messy house and FIX THAT." Housework. Blech.)

Balance....balance... where's the balance point? I have such trouble with that concept!

Resting My Weary Heart

I've fretted here, there, and everywhere about the state of my gardens. I laughed with delight when I dreamed their new shape and texture. I've worried that I am not physically capable of maintaining them -witness my abject gratitude toward and willingness to fork over big bucks to the young people who mow my grass.

This is the Midwest. People here have very clear ideas as to what constitutes a good neighbor. Good neighbors mow their grass, alternating the direction of the mowing every week, lest... Well, I don't lest what. Lest something dire happen. They clean up their gardens during the growing season and before the snows fall. Good neighbors don't leave their recycling buckets out for 24 hours to blow around the neighborhood. Good neighbors are, all in all, someone other than me. While I get to have my more Southern-belle vision of what it means to garden (think of the difference between a peony and a rose) and to be neighborly (and the definition of neighbor is no less rigorous in the south; it's just different.) I do still want people not to have to politely avert their eyes from that eyesore of a house on Sixth Street. I really do want to be a good neighbor.

I finally figured it out. My gardens made me afraid. I thought I had lost my interest in nurturing, and THAT'S a huge part of my self image. What if I can't do it? What if even non-sentient (yes, I do get that part) plants understand that I have no ability to care for things anymore and just flat out die to prove the point?

Umm.... Andrea.... come back to the pack, sweetheart. You've gone 'round the bend.

Two things happened to snatch me from my dithering. While I was at my sister's house I read a book by Dominique Browning, Paths of Desire: The Passions of a Suburban Gardner. She too -beautiful, gifted and wealthy as she is- had her husband leave her for another woman. (Seriously, if she can't keep a man, I had no chance and should have known that from the beginning.) And she lost interest in her garden for well more than a year. Her claim, as she came out the other side, is that she hadn't lost interest in nurturing. She was just resting her weary heart. And the garden was waiting for her when she was ready.

And the second thing... this part is spooky. I told you I dreamed my gardens -at least the back yard and side yard parts. In the garden was very clearly a school desk (the old-fashioned kind that we used in the olden days, with a little bench and a writing desk that lifts up and where you store your books and papers and stuff) that I KNEW I would use for writing while outside in this newly-beautiful garden. My sister and I went to this antique furniture - consignment store while I was at her house and there was my desk. As she put it, you don't mess with the dream. I bought the desk. It's sitting in her guest room as we speak, but it will get to my house as soon as I figure out the details. I'm going to protect it from the rain with spar varnish (if it works on boats it will probably work on my desk) and come spring will write outside.

I still have heart-resting to do, but I think I'm going to do it with garden catalogues in-hand. My dream didn't come with a chart as to what the NAMES of those plants that I dreamed might be. This process involves some detective work ;) Research! Now THAT I understand ;)

The Wheels on the ...Luggage (??) Go Round and Round

I wish I had a youtube video of my nephew Thomas singing "the wheels on the bus go round and round". Unfortunately, you are denied -or spared, depending on your point of view- the doting-auntie videos. But anyway.... that's why the song is on my mind.

It's a long story. It always is, with me. The new-ish purple luggage got a workout this week, as I traveled to Pennsylvania to see a subset of the siblings and a smaller-yet subset of their children. As I tugged my little suitcase (the one that arrived in PA. Don't ask.) through the airport, I marveled at how easy the process was. Then I felt silly for marveling, because of course everyone has suitcases that roll these days.

And of course, I did too - even before the purple luggage. Except, like many things in my former life, it limped along not quite right. The former luggage lost a wheel on the floor of the airport in Switzerland. This did not happen recently. But all the other pieces of that luggage worked fine, so that piece got replaced in the attic. The thing is, that was the most usefully-sized piece of luggage. So time after time after time, I would haul out the broken suitcase and use it, with only one wheel. It still, I reasoned, held clothes perfectly well, and it's not as though I'm not strong enough to actually pick my suitcase up, as we did in the olden days.

And yet, it was embarrassing and silly and, on some level, just plain lazy to keep using that luggage. Now I have new purple luggage that rolls along quite nicely, thank you. And, being me, I must make this into a metaphor. How many other tiny little things aren't quite right that in the end take up an enormous amount of energy? Fixing them..replacing them... whatever it takes, would be a binary process. Do it and it's done. Dealing with them, accommodating them, working around the limitations they impose, is an ongoing, circular process. And worse, accommodation and limitation become the steady-state. It starts to take longer before it even occurs to you (ummm,.... that would be ME) that the situation is reparable at all.

I firmly resolve to tackle a few of these little things this week. I will report back!

Life Without a Computer

I did everything right. I promise!

At the beginning of the month I ran a virus scan. There were a boat load of viruses -but there always are, and they were safely sequestered. I killed the files and then re-booted my computer, as instructed. It didn't re-boot.

I tried the obvious things, figuring that one of the viruses had inhabited a boot-related file and needed to be replaced. That didn't work. I tried re-installing Windows. That didn't work. My hard drive has apparently become write-protected. Now, I'm done. I have no more tricks. The boy-child has taken my computer to his house for (I fondly hope) repair.

I can't decide how I feel about this computer-free existence. I'm reading more, that's for sure, and I really like that. On the other hand, I'm MUCH less efficient. I can't renew my library books without going to the library -and it need hardly be mentioned that they are already overdue. I wonder what the weather is going to be for my flight east. I can't check weather.com. I need stamps to mail my Christmas cards. I can't order them on-line; there is no on-line happening at my house. I just want to rest my weary brain and watch Grey's Anatomy. I don't have a television; all my TV-watching happens on abc.com, so that's not happening either. I can't update my iPod playlists; they're all sitting on-line at iTunes. My Christmas card address list? Stored on the computer. On-line friends have to wait until I get to work-and I refer you to weather.com again for blizzard information in my area.

I could try to wax poetic about living more simply and lower on the electronic food chain, or some such thing. Alas, it's just been freakin' annoying.

Dear Santa

I have to tell you, I don’t completely understand last year’s gifts. My husband of 27 years left me, in an emotional drama that hardly bears looking at or mentioning. I’ve had to learn to be single again, get a new job (since I had quit mine to follow his to Pennsylvania), and start to craft a new life for myself. I have to tell you, it’s been hard sometimes, Santa dear, to see the beauty in any of that.

Yet, here’s what I’ve managed to make of it. Within about 6 weeks of driving away from Pennsylvania, I had a therapist, an attorney, a full-time job, and was back in the house. Within 6 months of that, I was back at the university -in a part-time sort of way. Within another 5 months, and in this economy, I had secured a new job, increasing my income a bit, but also easing many other things about my life. I’ve moved from a job that was fine and that I was grateful to have, to a job that challenges me and makes me smile. I am grateful every day for that.

Of course, I haven’t done any of these things alone. The children, who of course have always been fabulous, have been stupendous supports and friends. Now that they are all grown up and pursuing their own careers and interests, we have moved to a new kind of relationship, and I am just delighted that they are willing to hang out with me. I see each of them at least once a week. Nicholas has recently moved into a duplex in a town north of here, but we go rock-climbing almost every week. (Yes, Santa, rock-climbing at 50! You should try it, although I understand that you might be a tad older than 50.) Victoria and I mostly just hang out, but she has taken an interest in helping me restore and remodel this big old barn of a house that I love so much.

My siblings and friends are wonderful –not that I didn’t know that, of course. But one learns it again and with new power when the chips are down. They have served as reality checks, staunch supporters, and as occasional dispensers of tough love. Mostly, though, they have staggered me with the simplicity (in the very best, most elegant, sense) and strength of their love.

So, Santa, maybe some of this has been gift in my life. I have learned all kinds of important things. I’m still plagued by grief for my marriage. Yet those moments, while powerful, are rarer than they used to be. And if nothing else, I’ve learned that I can survive them. I am starting to glimpse the young woman I was before my marriage, when all was possibility, and I was sure of myself and my place in the world. She’s starting to re-inhabit my psyche, and that’s pure delight.

But seriously, Santa, can I just have a puppy this year?

Tidings of Small Joy

I have a Christmas tree, lights, decorations, and Christmas stockings, and I did it all myself!

Last year at roughly this time, I wrote a post about my Charlie Brown Christmas. I was quite sad and lonely and, well, shattered. Christmas, for me, has always been the perfect time of year. Family, goofy family traditions that only a few people understand, cookies, people dropping by for no reason -or every reason. Children claiming not to LIKE the goofy traditions and then pouting exorbitantly when you threaten to stop them. Christmas ornaments made from popsicle sticks and cotton balls and glitter. Christmas carolers who can't actually sing. I love it all. Yet, when you love it like I do, a lot of your emotional life is held by those decorations and traditions. When my emotional stability had been battered, I literally could not force myself to look into those boxes of Christmas decorations. It was like looking into my emotional life and pain -and why subject yourself to that for no good reason?

So last year, I did no decorating and I fled. This year, the decision seemed much easier and more graceful. I'm still going away for the actual Christmas celebration, but it doesn't feel (quite) like fleeing. I bought an artificial tree -formerly anathema- and strung the lights myself. I bought new decorations that I love -coppers and golds and sparkly. There's a new Christmas tree skirt so I don't have to face the one I hand-sewed the first year I was married. There are new stockings for the same reason. I plopped right down on the floor and sobbed when I hung the third stocking and there wasn't another one to be hung. But I kept going, and hung a lighted garland on the headboard of my bed. I don't know why. It was in my hand and I didn't know exactly where I was going with it, and that seemed right.

So there we are. It's about 1% of the decorating I used to do. I still haven't looked into those boxes in the attic -even when I needed ornament hangars which are surely in there and can not possibly be emotionally laden. But it's mine. I can do it myself without feeling burdened or annoyed. I'll be able to take it down myself -and on a schedule I prefer.

And last night I sat by my tree and drank a teeny glass of cognac and admired my handiwork. And I saw that it was good.

Keeping Warm

Literally, of course, that's a bit of a theme for me in the winter. I HATE being cold. So, I buy electric mattress pads and I knit (a verb for keeping warm, as Jill says), and I buy horrifyingly expensive new windows for my house to eliminate (some of the) drafts.

Yet, really, I'm talking about metaphorical warmth. I'm trying to figure out what makes my house a warm home. What makes me smile about it? What comforts and soothes? Candles. They have a "company's coming - you're special" vibe that calms. Music in the background -or the foreground, as the case may be- is essential. My mom leaves the stereo on even when she's not home, to make sure there's a little noise in the house when she walks in. I don't do that, but I get the idea. Solitude can be good, in reasonable doses. But too much silence has a pressure and a heaviness about it. It's not good for people like us, apparently. Books are important. I curled up last night with a book -a book I was reading for pleasure, which felt unbelievably decadent- and was truly happy.

I need a better bathroom -candles, cozy rugs, bubbles, music, the whole girly thing. My bedroom still needs a smidge of warming up, although it's better than it was when I moved in. (And yes, I bought the remaining curtains!!!) At least one guest room needs to be ready and inviting, which right now it emphatically isn't. It's a bit more like Santa's workshop at the moment :( I had a party and we plowed through my modest wine collection (which was all of 4 bottles, but still....), so that needs to be started over.

But whatever I do, I think I have to ask the question "does it add warmth, or light, or welcome?" If I can't make the argument (to myself... and really, I'm not a tough audience.) then perhaps it's not the right thing for me to be doing.

Jobs I'm Glad I Don't Have

OK, I have a cool job. There is a guy on campus whose passion is developing harnesses for actors and dancers for when they need to "fly". Now, I don't claim to understand how this got to be his passion, but it seriously keeps him up at night. He and I were chatting, and I mentioned that I'm a rock climber. Rock climbers have a certain fondness for flying and harnesses, too, as it turns out. Of course it takes even an expert rock climber three or four minutes to get adequately attached to the various ropes and harnesses and carabiners that keep us alive. Oddly enough, this would not work in a stage setting. So, our harnesses are not the same as their harnesses.

But it opened the conversation. And because I have some experience he let me play with his inventions. So I spent a half-hour this morning flying. What did you do???? Even if I can't understand someone's work...even if I can't understand how, in a world with so many possibilities, THAT became someone's passion (I offer you mathematics as one possibility in that category.)... I love being in an environment where people are passionate about ideas and projects.

But walking back across campus, I thought of jobs I'm profoundly glad I don't have. Bless the hearts of the people shoveling snow today. Holy cripes. I am glad I'm not among them. I'm glad I'm not the person in charge of driving 18-wheelers down the little windy streets of this town -or worse, in the Chicago Loop. I probably shouldn't consider a career in professional light-bulb-changing, since that project isn't going all that well.

All things considered, I'm better off where I am.

Personal Magic

I'm not usually much about the un-know-able stuff that does not admit of proof one way or the other. I do, mostly, make an exception for matters of theological faith, but I don't even want that to go too far. ("Too far" being defined by...wait for it...ME!) Strategies like "the secret" for people allegedly willing things into their lives make me more than a little nutty. What about all those people who wish for and hope for and NEED things that don't come to be? They just didn't "do it" all hard enough or well enough? Nonsense.

Now... that said...I've been wondering lately if people don't, nonetheless, naturally have a little bit of magic. Starhawk talks about magic as the ability to change consciousness at will. If consciousness is the same as awareness, then I'm good with that definition.

I'm thinking of my mother, who has the ability to walk into a room in my house and move one thing, and then the whole room looks better. How did she do that? How did I not see the impact that one thing had on the feeling in the whole room? I'm thinking of my family and friends who have the ability to speak to the competent, capable part of me and, in doing so, bring that person to the surface. I'm even thinking of a knitter's ability to take two sticks and some string and turn it into a work of art. It's not just knowing the techniques; it's the awareness of what could happen with those tools in your hands.

As we approach divorce-day (still not established, but soon) I've been reflecting on what went wrong. So much is going right in my life, not because I know "the secret" (which I emphatically do not, and I would tell you if I did and then it wouldn't be a secret.)but because I have more -and better- energy. If you guys could have seen me in Swarthmore, you would not know that person. I sat. Seriously. All day.
Powerful negative energy that I could not yet accurately name took away everything about my self-definition. I didn't exist. It wasn't that I was becoming someone else. I was vanishing. That's some powerful negative mojo.

And then there's the whole "magic of the season" idea. Darkness becomes light as we pass the solstice. A baby becomes a saviour, if you're inclined towards that belief.

So, what's your magic? I know you have some. I don't know what mine is, but I promise to think about it and report back.

I'll just sit here in the ...light

I'm living the light bulb joke. How many short moms does it take to change 14 light bulbs?

Things have been a little wild around here....new job, writing emergency, holidays, living and learning my new life. Sometimes there are little bumps in the road. This is a big-ish house -not McMansion size at all, but big- and the ceilings are high. And light bulbs live their little shiny lives, and then they die. Mostly, I work around that, because changing the light bulbs is a HUGE production. But 14 burned out light bulbs, well, that gets your attention.

Don't laugh. Don't -and this will be harder- roll your eyes. I'm not entirely sure I know how to change a light bulb. Sure, I can change the ones in lamps and low things. But when you have to unscrew the light fixture, while standing on a ladder, and holding big things with small hands WAY over your head..... yeah. There is no good outcome here.

I'll just sit here in the dark. And wait for my children to come over and fix this.


WAIT JUST A COTTON PICKIN' MINUTE.


These are the children who, a mere few years ago, could not be trusted to pick up their socks. And a short few years before that had to be quizzed rather carefully about personal hygiene. I taught them those things. How can it be true now -WHY would it be true now- that I have to wait for them to fix this for me?

Yes, they are taller -as is your average 5th grader. Yes, they have demonstrated that they already know how to do this task. And they are very competent and fabulous, no question about that. But...really.... these are light bulbs we're talking about.

I can probably do this. I am smarter than a light fixture. Surely. It may take me a while, but the next time you see me, I will have changed 14 bulbs. And replaced them with CFLs, too, because I'm that kind of enviro-girl. If I can teach kids to not only wash behind their ears, but to value washing behind their ears, I can - shaking my fist at the heavens, like Scarlet O'Hara- as God as my witness, change a few light bulbs.

I'll report back.

We're Tuesday People

Bonus points for anyone who recognizes the quote ;)

Hint: I have nothing so wise to offer as Morrie. But the fact is, I have a huge (to me) manuscript due Tuesday evening. There will be no other writing, no cleaning, no cooking, NO #)($ PLAYING ON FACEBOOK, until this paper is finished. It's not going all that well, truth be told.

But come Tuesday, I can take a deep breath, relax, and begin to meaningfully undertake my first Advent and Christmas as ME. Until then, if you see me on facebook, kick my sorry self back to writing. PLEASE.

I Dreamed My Garden

This is weird on so many levels.

For one thing, my dreaming is strange. I don't typically dream in pictures at all. I don't know how to tell you about it. It's not strictly auditory and yet when I tell people "it's like when you read" that doesn't seem to help, either. Apparently most people get pictures from their reading too. But really, I dream. Just not in pictures. I was relieved to discover that at least one of my sisters dreams similarly, because I was starting to feel a little weird. Perhaps using her as a benchmark of normalcy isn't my BEST idea, but I'm grasping at straws here ;)

And the second thing is that I haven't gardened in years. There was that one day when Terri came and we yanked weeds for HOURS and had a lot of fun. But that is the sum total of the yard work I've done this year. I hired someone to mow, and will do so again next year. Oh, I raked once -about a year ago, come to think of it.

And in spite of all that, I dreamt with such breathtaking visual clarity about my yard and its gardens that I had to get out of bed at 2:30 in the morning and draw what I saw. I know which colors go where. I know where I'm building on things that are already there and where I'm crafting something new. I know where the deck I'm fantasizing about goes and how it's shaped. I know that I need a bench to go with my Adirondack chairs. I know that I want to make a mini-labyrinth from bricks in the side yard. It's all there.

It's a lifetime of work, I know. But I'm not freaked out about it. I know where I'm going now!

Organizing Andrea

I was going for a sort of "Educating Rita" theme with the title, but there's no drunken-but-wise professor helping me here. Quite the contrary. Do you ever feel that the universe is having a good laugh at your expense, thinking up ways to, well, fuck you over?

Nothing major, really. I'm past the latest (oh please god, the last) dark place due to what's his name. It's the little stuff -piled up- that ought to be funny, but never ever is, that's getting to me today. Historical examples include the time, 20 years ago, when I was all dressed for work. I thought toddler-Nicholas was coming over to hug me goodbye. Nope. He picked up the hem of my skirt, blew his nose in it, and wandered away -satisfied with a job well done. I was late for work.

Mostly, though, I do this stuff to myself. In the past few days, my mishaps have involved coffee -twice. I'm making a pretty little knitted coat for my baby niece. She's my ONLY niece, so, until she can talk and complain about it, she's getting girly ruffles and frou-frou from Auntie Andrea. After miles of fair-isle and ruffles and color changes, I dumped coffee on it. Because I thought that would be a nice touch :( I soaked it all day, and now it's drying in the downstairs bathroom -because it's the warmest room in the house, and I can put the garment on the floor right in front of the heating vent. Of course, if you have to actually USE the bathroom, you had better plan ahead and use the upstairs bathroom. I can't tell yet if the jacket is permanently stained, but I'm quite sure that walking on it won't improve the situation.

I started another little sweater -much less impressive- just in case. Sigh.

And, I dumped coffee all over my not-inexpensive, but useful to me, large-scale paper planner. As the last of the Luddites I use an old-fashioned write-it-down planner. I see things better this way. Unfortunately, though, I dumped a lot of coffee on it. A WHOLE lot. Don't ask. It's too embarrassing. Let's just say that the planner is a mess and pretty much unusable.

So, I hauled my sorry, messy self to the bookstore and bought a 2009 planner, with pretty picture of Tuscany in it. I can certainly use this as I go about to meetings. And the computing power of a university is considerably greater than that of a homeless shelter. So I've spent the day wondering if, with better tools, I can find a web-calender that works for me. Or, I can use google-calendar, like everyone else, and develop note-sheets and templates that work for my other notes and lists and reflections.

And here I'm a little stumped. I've developed the forms. I have to upload them to ...somewhere... to be able to see them while I'm at work, right? Where would one store these things? I was looking at blogger to see if there's a way to do it here, but I haven't come up with anything useful.

Surely, I can make this work, but I need a little help.

All Alone in the Dark

So much about my life is going really well, you guys. I'm flying -or starting to- and I had thought my wings were permanently broken. This state of affairs is not much shy of miraculous, when you get right down to it. But I do this thing that reveals that I'm still not okay.

I look at people's hands to see if they're wearing wedding rings, and it's not because I want to see if they're single. I want to see if they're partnered, and my next, covetous thought is "You don't have to be alone in the dark". "Somebody knows your flaws and keeps you around anyway."

I hate it when I think like this. But the thinking goes something like.... everybody is broken, I get that. Everyone is flawed. But for those of you who are still partnered, seriously...how bad could your flaws be? Your partner still sees them as less important than your good features. My no-longer-partner no longer weighs things that way, clearly, and in the last bit of cruelty wanted everyone to know. I'm SO flawed that he had to find other lovers and kick me to the curb and endanger my safety. It was justified, somehow.

Yes, I hear you. It's not about my flaws; it's about his. Of course, I'm flawed, but nothing in me deserved this. I'm still alone in the dark, you guys. I don't want to limit myself anymore, but I don't think I dare EVER risk a committed relationship again. So...yeah.... self-imposed limits. I can't do it. Because of him...because of me...because of the peculiar confluence of the two of us, I'll be alone in the dark for the rest of my life.

The only defense I have is that nobody's okay, when you get right down to it. Everybody has pain and sadness. They may not put it out on blogs, but it's there. Sadness is just part of the human condition; I will probably always have a Dave-sized hole in my heart. Eventually that will stop defining me.

But today is not that day.

Andrea's Parlor of Wonders ;)

I found my kitchen.

OK, it wasn't lost. And even MY legendary ability to get lost doesn't extend to getting lost in my own house. (Well, there was that one time, but I was sort of tipsy and we had just moved here. Let's assume that was atypical.) But I haven't eaten like a civilized person in close to two years; my kitchen was functionally lost to me. I think I'm on a better path now.

My long-suffering life coach encourages me to step into my new life as the real Andrea. (She says it better. I'm just struggling along in her jet stream.) And in that spirit, the thing I said I would work on this week is my physical health -hauling my sorry self to the gym and yoga class. And then I immediately got crazy-sick. I slept 17 hours yesterday. There was no gym happening.

I have been cooking, though, which is another one of those pieces of me that needs reclaiming and celebrating. I went to the grocery store and bought reasonable quantities of good food. Real food. There is some sadness (not much, but some) involved in leaving my job at the shelter, but there is no sorrow in leaving the food behind. Egad. If I never see another day-old pastry from Dominick's I will be fine. Now I get to eat the food I want.

Tonight's dinner: jambalaya and a glass of white wine and a little leftover salad. I bought the wine for the label: Little Black Dress. It may well stink, but it's a great label! And tonight before bed I'm going to throw some potatoes and stuff into the crockpot for a potato cheese soup for tomorrow's dinner. I'm on a roll.

Well, what do you know!

The AMW* is no more. I mean, she still (I assume) exists as a person, but she doesn't have a role in MY life any more. Huh.

I really don't keep tabs on these things. Here's the background. There was a court date last Monday. Mostly it went fine. But, the judge (in my always-revered legal opinion /sarcasm) overstepped his bounds once and asked if the girlfriend was still in the picture and would we consider getting back together. There was no answer (as much as I wanted one); the lawyers stepped in and promised to talk to us about it. I stuttered and stammered and made no sense at all when the question was addressed to me.

But -I confess- I did have a tawdry curiosity as to what was going on there. So, I asked someone who would know. Nope. This person was circumspect and did not give me details, just the barest fact. The AMW's out of the picture

But here's the thing. Either she dumped him -doubtless when he got to be troublesome and needy- or he dumped her, or they just drifted apart because they live thousands of miles apart. But the fact remains that he was willing to end a marriage for a relationship that lasted just over a year -18 months at the most. SHE was clearly a red herring. She was a device he used to let me know I was meaningless to him.

And THAT's why there is no possibility that we can get back together. She was an annoyance to be sure, but never the most important part of the problem as far as I was concerned. And now I know why. It just took me a week to figure out my answer, that's all. The good news about l'esprit d'escalier is that eventually you DO figure out the right thing to say. I am not meaningless and certainly don't need to be in a relationship with someone who thinks that I am. So there ;)


*Argentinian Math Whore

And Darkness Covered the Earth

I've lost my voice. Not metaphorically, as I've fretted about in the past, but literally. It's really, really gone. And my head feels like it's about 3 feet across and filled with fluids of the most revolting viscosity. I'm not fit for human company; I'm going back to bed.

Grace Notes

Proving yet again that Andrea can obsess about anything at all, I finally have a new toy. It's wonderful, but it took me forever to actually plunk down the (small, actually) wad o' cash and get it done. It's improved my life so much I can't even TELL you.

Lacking a husband upon whom to warm my cold feet when I get into bed (never one of his favorite things about me, but surely a legitimate use of a husband!), I've been cold for AGES. I want to be warm and cozy in my bed. I have flannel sheets, which do take off that "oh my god, please shoot me now" chill when you first jump into bed. I have warm and pretty blankets. I was doing fine, I suppose, but still not really sleeping well.

And remember, this is a drafty large house. If I turn the heat up enough to be warm, I'd be paying so much for heat I'd probably have to not eat or something. (Question for the sages, why can't a women who actually likes to be hot be the one to have hot flashes?? Not a one. I suppose I should be grateful, but it does seem sort of backwards.) And besides, it doesn't make sense to heat the whole house when all that needs to be warm is my little space. It felt like I was being a greedy over-consuming American to have my house actually warm enough. On the other hand, it felt grim and mean to keep the heat at the suggested levels.

Then I noticed my massage therapist's trick of a heated mattress pad. Not the blanket, the pad. I thought you had to get one at some super-trendy massage therapist place. She looked at me like I was vaguely unintelligent. Nope, you can get one at Target.

Then I had to start worrying if they were safe and environmentally okay. As to safety, you can buy unsafe ones, so you have to be careful. But the wattage is much lower than an electric blanket. Some of them are on a thermostat and turn themselves off at a suggested temperature. Most of them are on a timer, so you can't forget and leave them on all day. There's the whole "sleeping in an electric field" thing... Anyway, suffice it to say I got the safest one -and paid a little more for that.

Then I started the "but is it a good idea for the planet" fretting. (Honest to God, it's a miracle I get anything at all done.) I'm not entirely sure yet, but here's my thinking. For one thing, it's better than an electric blanket, since all the generated heat stays in the bed. There's a sheet over the mattress pad, after all. And, so far anyway, I've been able to sleep comfortably with my furnace turned all the way down to 50 degrees (Fahrenheit) at night. So, I've added about 6 hours a day (as long as I have time to sleep) of not having the heat turned on. That has to be good for the environment (and my gas bill, I'm hoping).

Of course, the flip side is that I'm using more electricity and that bill will go up. But this is the frozen tundra, remember ;) Heat is a huge expense for us; my gas bill is just over $200 a month every month. This is the "budget plan". (Did I just hear WTF from the peanut gallery? That's what I say every month.) My electric bill is about $29 a month. Soon I'll be able to let you know if the one comes down more (or less) than the other goes up.

And... you know what, I'm sleeping really well for the first time in over a year. It's been getting better across the year, so some improvement is just getting over the emotional trauma. But there's been a noticeable improvement in the last week. And I think I've demonstrated to myself (ahem....again) that the small things matter.

Just Before Dawn

Lest you think that I have sole rights to leading a chaotic life within my family, here's some funny news. I just got my Christmas present from my brother - from last year. I celebrated Christmas with his family last year and collected too much loot to bring home on the plane. So I packed it up in a box, ready for shipping. I left it on the floor in their guest room, where it sat until three days ago.

I know how this happened. How often do you even go IN your guest room, to get a visual reminder that there's something in there you need to do?? And they have a spunky little two year old who keeps them occupied. And two older boys. And puppies. So I'm not at all aggravated, but -in the tradition of siblings everywhere- I do reserve the right to tease him ;)

I had forgotten when was even in the box, so it was Christmas all over again. It was thrilling! One of the things in there was a CD my sister compiled for me, of "you can do it, there is hope, that bastard's not worth your tears" songs. I uploaded it to Calliopod, the new iPod, last night. What a treat!!

And naturally, I'm at work without my iPod, so I can't even share the playlist with you. I'll add it tonight, because you should download these songs. Among other things, the CD showed me how far I've come in a year. I still love the songs, but I don't need them quite as much.

Grief is peculiar. People say you are going to get over it, and you know they're wrong. And then it turns out that they were right. It's truly starting to look like dawn around here.

Head Banging

Yes, that's what I'm doing -and I'm neither self-soothing (as in disturbed and frustrated children) nor dancing (as in Wayne's World). It's more like the Charlie-Brown-head-thunk, and it's all about this paper I have to (get to) write.

See, the thing is I want to know why classes in homeless shelters don't work. We offer parenting classes, and the parenting doesn't change. We offer nutrition claases, and the eating doesn't change. We offer money-smart classes and no one's any the wiser. So, what are we supposed to do??? We can't just pretend that these things aren't issues.

As a body of professionals, we thought it was about barriers. We've done yeoman's work towards eliminating those barriers. We have child-care, classes offered on-site, multi-cultural teachers, interpreters.... Nope. Still no change.

There's also a small body of literature that suggests that it's really an act of political resistance -possibly not articulated that way- to be non-compliant. On some level, people know that all social service agencies are actually state agencies. We aren't in a literal, technical sense. Nonetheless, a sizeable chunk of our funding comes from governmental bodies. We are, on some insulting level, trying to re-create these people in the state-sanctioned, middle-class mold. They sense that, and refuse to comply. If that's true, more power to them.

But, uninformed political resistance doesn't allow for the reality that if you are obese, you will die prematurely. If you beat your children, you will go to jail. If you smoke, you will die sooner rather than later. What would work, for crying out loud???? And what might work, allowing for the possibility that there is more than one right way to eat, parent, cook, and manage money?

I've been looking for the answer for months. Only today did it dawn on me that no one knows. Believe me when I tell you that if they knew, they would have published it. It's time to start thinking like a scholar, you lame-brain. Hence the Charlie-Brown-head-thunk. Get to work and figure something out.

Blogging -the Third Wave

I don't know quite what to say. Literally.

I sense that my blog is entering its third phase, which is probably a good thing. It is less good, perhaps, that I don't know what that third wave is. I've done the social justice writing. Heaven knows there's more to write there. And I've learned in that phase that I like to write and reflect and think. I've done my "oh my god the sky is falling.... I think I might fall apart" blogging. And I've learned that I have friends and family of incalculable wonder. And in the rebuilding of my life, I've learned that I'm better at writing and thinking and reflecting about social justice than I am at implementing it. (You guys, I threw my recycling in the trash this week. I missed the pick-up and couldn't stand looking at it for another week. I'm a slug.) And besides... I'm pretty much done with Dave, literally and metaphorically. I'm bored. Let's move on.

But what do I write about now? Rebuilding my life? Gidget goes to school/Andrea meets academe on her own terms??? Do I go back to social justice stuff? Learning to be the grown-up in my own story? I do have this goofy thought that I could use songs as themes for reflecting about my new life. Maybe third wave blogging is like third wave feminism -a lot more fun and considerably more drinking than its earnest and a little grim foremothers????

What are your thoughts, oh wise ones?

We Need a Little Christmas

I felt a little like Auntie Mame last night, waltzing (metaphorically) through the Christmas Faire at the DuPage County Fairgrounds. I went looking for Christmas presents; I really did. I meant to be selfless and organized and....

Yeah...well.... you can imagine how well that went. Instead, I found things that I could begin to turn into a Christmas for me and the people I love.

Last year, I hauled my sorry self to my brother's house and sort of watched the celebration of Christmas. I wasn't miserable, by any means; he and his family were warm and loving and patient with my emotional roller-coaster. But any decorating that happened at my own house happened because someone else did it. Remember the launch party? People came over and decorated, and that was the sum total of what happened in terms of Christmas decorating.

This year, I have the beginnings of a glimmer of a fleeting idea ;) I am going to get a tree. I am going to find new decorations that aren't emotionally laden for me -just thinking of some of the decorations stored in my attic can make me cry. I will send out Christmas cards. I will gently and slowly -or at whatever pace feels right- reclaim the celebration of Christmas in this house that is so great for Christmas.

And oh yeah.... I won't forget to go Christmas shopping for other people, too ;)

What I've Come to Expect

I got home last night about midnight (after working on my "day off" -don't ask) and discovered Dave's counter-offer for the property settlement. I KNEW I shouldn't open it then. I knew it. Yeah, I did it anyway.

I don't even know what to say. It ought to be merely another piece of evidence that the guy I loved is dead. Or never existed. Or something. THIS person has pretty consistently been willing to endanger me, in support of his own comfort and entitlement. It's just what I've come to expect, and how sad is that? But it's another kind of heartbreak, too.

My lawyer, to her credit, is outraged and is on the case. For now, I'm trying to "put it in a box", let the lawyers duke it out, and stay about the business of crafting a life for myself. When Dave is not around, I do pretty well at that.

Sigh....

Note to Self

Be careful what you wish for.

OK. I admit it. What I said was, "I want to write more." What I meant was more like "I want to write at a leisurely pace." Seriously. Be very careful what you say -or even think very loudly. The universe has a way of providing.

I said that. And then this friend called and said, "remember when we did this project and collected these data...? Well, now, if we pull it together, it really works for this conference." Enter the necessity of crawling around in my scary attic to find the data, then the even scarier process of marathon-writing. On top of other non-optional writing.... things got a little wild around here.

But, the whole thing has unleashed a process of thinking outside the box. The writing didn't really succeed. It gone done, but it was UGLY and only on time if you squint at the clock. So, we're rethinking. I called my friend Elizabeth (actually, I think she called...whatever.) and asked her to tell me how to re-arrange this office that I'm sitting in, to make it work. She's really good at that stuff.

Nope. She suggested that I find another room altogether -some cozy, happy place. This room has always been the office. We added it on to the house to BE the office. She busted through the notion that it must be the office in perpetuity. (Why do I think like that?????) So, I'm moving my office to Nicholas's old room. I have been authorized by its former owner to re-purpose it ;)

This is actually an old picture.... the reality is worse yet, but I can't get my camera to work. (actual truth... I do not understand my digital camera.)

So, I've started spackling. (WHY am I spackling, when it was oh-so-not me shooting my bow and arrow at the walls of my bedroom???? A question for the sages....) Then I suppose I have to prime. I wonder what that means???? Then, I'm thinking of a cheerful cantaloupe-y color, with a lighter orange for the trim. Trust me when I tell you this would never have happened when what's-his-name lived here.

But for now, I'm learning to spackle. I don't think there's supposed to be this much goop in my hair. But I'm just guessing....

THIS time I mean it.

I am going to get organized. I am going to arrange this space so that it works for ME. There is going to be a place to put my things. I will know what things I even need. I am not going to procrastinate ever again. (I am going to lose 35 pounds by tomorrow. I am going to arrange for world peace, while I'm bloody at it.)

No, seriously.

You, there! Stop rolling your eyes. I do mean it.

I have had the writing marathon from hell this week. I love to write and this was grueling. I am seeing APA style in my sleep. There was nothing fun about this process. And even so, I only sort of made the deadline. I submitted the papers electronically with 6 minutes to spare. The paper copy...well, it's going to be express-mailed. At some point, I just had to say, "Well, fiddle-dee-dee, it's more important to get it right. I should just go slowly and do my very best."

Well, no, that's not quite what I said.

Here's the thing. NORMAL people can work in their offices in the morning without wearing sunglasses, because the sun isn't shining in their eyes, because they didn't put the desk and the computer in a stupid place. Normal people have extra printer paper and ink cartridges, so they don't have to run to Best Buy at 14 minutes before the deadline. What else do normal people do? I don't have the slightest idea, obviously.

But things are gonna change around here. I'm mad as hell and I'm not gonna take it anymore. Now, who wants to come over and help me rearrange furniture?

I Think I Had a Bad Idea

Or... oh hell, maybe I didn't. There is no road map for this process, unfortunately.

Here's the thing. Dave and I have lived apart for 2 1/2 years, almost. Weird, huh? The last year has been astonishing for me. From broken -truly flat-out destroyed- I've made a life I love. I am pursuing big dreams, locating my power, and having a hell of a good time. I'm supporting myself and creating the house I want. I'm writing. I'm thinking about getting a puppy. I'm planning travel and all kinds of other things. And there are other dreams I haven't quite spoken above a whisper, so the process continues.

In part BECAUSE I don't need him any more, I thought I might write Dave a letter -not inviting him back into my life as a partner. Dear heavens, not that. The draft I have of the letter would have to win some kind of prize as the most grudging, grouchy invitation to have coffee EVER. But I thought that maybe from my new position of strength I could challenge us both to be sure we want a divorce. We made promises, and surely they are worth something more than money. Being certain of the path is the right thing to do.

And then I realized I was walking around my house thinking "It's a shame I won't be able to finish THAT or...it's a shame those bedroom curtains will have to come down". Or, too bad, I never finished.... whatever. As though I would have to stop my dreaming if he came back. The dread I felt wasn't huge, but it was real. And it got my attention.

That thinking might be just habit. Part of our dysfunction is that I gave away power he never asked for. He took it when it was offered, right enough, but the giving it away was all me. Or it might be a sign that I am not ready for re-entangling myself with anyone. Obviously I haven't figured out how to be fully me AND in a relationship. Or it might be a sign that a relationship with Dave can only be -for me- destructive.

Anyway, it was a sad realization that for now, I think, I have to abandon the idea of dialogue and possibly let the divorce continue unchallenged. I just can not risk going backwards. Surely, the ethical path does not include self-sabotage.

On the other hand, I've learned never to rule out the impossible. Since I am so clearly UNclear ;) about what I want, maybe the right thing will just happen. Maybe taking care of this isn't my job.

But for now I am going to bed in my pretty girl-bed, which I also am not giving up ;) Tomorrow I have still more writing to do. Deadlines loom.

Kol Nidre

Peace and good health to all.



A hat tip to Reading Under the Covers.

A Blogging Tool I Need

This exists. It must.

If you're on facebook, you've probably seen the "I was green today" application. People complete the sentence, thus sharing simple ideas for becoming more environmentally responsible. I changed one more lightbulb to CFL today, and darn it, I want credit for that ;) The application is a great idea for reminding us that the little things really do matter, but why can't I embed the same application into my blog?

Come on, wise ones. I've poked around as long as my brain can withstand. Do you know of some utility that works for this?

OK, So I'm Not Martha

Were you all just laughing at me? I would have been, if I'd had a clue in my head.

Do you KNOW what happens if you put flower pots in carved-out pumpkins and then water the plants??? Revolting, hideous things, that's what. This sort of thing doesn't happen to Martha Stewart. I don't know how I know this, but I do.

She is not the one wearing rubber gloves and gently, with as few fingers as possible, removing the slimy, squishy pumpkins from her front porch. She is not the one throwing the whole mess into a garbage bag and then into the wheelbarrow, so the glop doesn't spread all the way down the driveway as I try to hide the evidence of my failed holiday cheer.

Nope. That has me written all over it.

Plan B.

Today Marks One Year

Yesterday, one of the next-door-neighbor boys asked me if I missed "Mr. Dave." He didn't know that a year ago today was the day I got in my car and drove away from my marriage. He's just a little kid; he doesn't understand that he had asked a potentially painful question.

So, do I miss "Mr. Dave?" I honestly don't know. I miss the Dave I thought I was married to. I do miss being partnered. It's a peculiar day. I'm not wildly sad, or gleefully triumphant that I have made something of my life without him -more than I could have made with him, apparently. But it's not just another day, either.

So, what do I know?

I know that I owe another huge thank you to all my friends and family. Certainly, certainly that.

I know that lonely-alone is better than lonely-together. The emotionally distant and even emotionally absent Dave can stay far away from me. I don't miss him at all.

I'm gratified that I've been able to make a life for myself. There's certainly no "take THAT, you philandering jerk" triumph, but there's a glimmer of pleasure through the exhaustion.

I know I am not as broken as I was a year ago. I sometimes fear that that level of brokenness is waiting right around the corner, though. Tears are still very near the surface -always. Brokenness doesn't feel quite so far away to me as it perhaps looks from your persepctive.

I guess I'm just sitting quietly today, doing my school work and puttering in my kitchen. I did -quite by accident- take a few days off this week. Perhaps my subconscious was at work there, because I didn't think to plan them around this anniversary. Yet, I'm glad that I did it. I feel a pretty strong need for some quiet nesting in my cozy (if more than slightly messy) house.

Nicholas Bought Lunch

He did, actually. But really, it's code for "Mama did good!"

On Sunday mornings, Nicholas (the boy-child) and I go rock climbing -usually with his friend Brian. They climb insane routes -awe-inspiring, terror-inducing routes. I climb beginner routes. And then, as a thank you to two such handsome men for being willing to spend time -in public!- with a mom-aged, unimpressive climber, I take them to lunch.

Now, rock-climbing is just another one of those ways that we can get a glimpse into our psyches. I am willing, in these matters, to make slow progress, stay a beginner as long as being a beginner feels like fun, and just plain quit when I'm done. Yet, it must be said, I sometimes quit when I'm not quite done. I decided that I wanted to make slightly more progress in my climbing.

Climbing routes are graded for difficulty. There are no two ways about it. I climb the easier routes. But I've started working my way up the difficulty scale. There's this one route I've been trying to get for about a month. It's not a wildly difficult route, except there is one place that involves a new skill for me -switching from one rock face to another (metaphor, anyone???). It's hard for me.

Nicholas offered a few weeks ago that when I get that route, he will buy lunch. He either thought that a) his money was safe because I was never going to get it, or b) food was as big a motivator for me as it is for him.

Today Nicholas bought lunch!

Hats and Shoes

When the kids were little, they had an extensive collection of hats for dress-up. There were fire fighter hats, and train driver hats, hard hats, and baseball caps and one really huge sombrero. I'm sure there were more; it seems, in my memory, that it took a really long time at night to get them all picked up. The kids used these hats as props in their play -not the tiniest bit constrained by details of what the hat was supposed to be for. However the hats were used, though, they were clues and cues for meaning. It occurred to me last night that shoes have come to fill that same role in my life.

Yes, shoes. I'm not a girly-girl by any stretch of the imagination, but I do have kind of a lot of shoes. Last night, Victoria and I dressed up A LOT and went to the ballet (The Kirov was doing Giselle in Chicago). It goes without saying that she was stunning; I was a little brown wren who drove the car and glared at all the men who stared at her. But by my standards, I was wildly dressed up -and the shoe thing became important. I had pretty brown pleated-fabric pumps with an insane heel. Not the shoes you'd choose for trekking around Chicago. Needless to say, there was a certain amount of grimacing. Then I watched ballerinas en pointe for 2 hours. Ummm.... Andrea? Shut up about your feet hurting.

So I started to think about the shoes-for-roles thing. I have pointe shoes in the back of my closet, from a long-ago life. I don't use them. Even the thought of it makes my feet hurt, but I don't want to give the shoes away, either. I have my TEVA sandals and my clogs -much more "me" than the pumps. I have rock climbing shoes -in their own way as uncomfortable as the pointe shoes or the pumps. I have gym shoes and beach sandals and work shoes and play shoes and bike shoes and flip-flops for the pool. I'm sure there are more.

In fact, I got busted on this one -shoes as a sign of social class. Seriously, by modern girl standards, I don't have that many shoes. But one of the homeless residents of the shelter I work at asked me, with some incredulity, how many shoes did I HAVE???? My response? "I have no idea." Could I have thought of a more insulting answer if I'd worked at it??? I doubt it. I really do have no idea, but if I'd made up a number it would at least have meant that they mattered to me. As it is, I indicated (incorrectly) that I can have as many shoes as I want and don't have to think about them. Excellent move, Andrea :(

But let's leave aside the social justice questions -to say nothing of the feminist questions of why women subject themselves to uncomfortable shoes for beauty- and see if we can come up with something here. Do the shoes in my closet tell me something about the person I am becoming? More career-focused than before, for sure. I'm not really sportier (still working on this one), but I have decided that I deserve the tools for the sports I love.

And today? So far, it's just been the rock climbing shoes (excruciating after the torture of last night, but I thought of the ballerinas and soldiered on) and now my trusty TEVAs. Gotta love 'em.