What Courage is Required of Me?

I'm contemplating the next right moves in my life. Worse, I'm contemplating the risks that have to be taken in order to take the next steps. I'm bloody sick of risk taking. (Picture me, shaking my fist at the sky, like Scarlett O'Hara. As God as my witness, I'll never be frightened again.) But there are changes brewing in at least two areas of my life. It's too soon to name them publicly, but they're both weighing heavily on my mind.

Etymologically, courage is just acting in consonance with what's in your heart. It's not so much not being afraid, or even "feeling the fear and doing it anyway". It's just being authentic. And that's plenty scary enough, thank you very much. It's like when you're a teenager and people tell you "just be yourself" and you think "Terrific. What the heck does THAT mean???" I'm not used to looking into my heart and seeing what's there.

Nor do I have long experience being brave. I'd never really needed to be brave until recently. So, I may be drawing conclusions from too little data, but it seems to me that the pattern is that I limp (or maybe crawl, and sometimes desperately broken) toward something that looks like a healthy outcome. Then, much later, I can walk, run and possibly even fly. I said I wouldn't ignore the signs life offers, and I'm trying to honor that intention. Nor do I want this post to be just another bemoaning of the truth that every day requires courage. It does, and I wish it were otherwise. The thing I wanted to know is WHAT courage is required of me.

I have to look at my goals and dreams for myself. Might these new opportunities bring me closer to them? Yes, it seems clear that they might. But, I'm afraid that if I pursue these opportunities, I might not get them. I might not be skilled enough or smart enough or nice enough... or whatever. Then my feelings will be hurt, and my battered self esteem will take another hit. Seriously, how many can it sustain? On the other hand, NOT pursuing them guarantees the outcome. Things stay the way they are, until I work up the courage to change them.

I've survived rejection. It hurts. Oh my lord how it hurts. But on the face of it, if I pursue these opportunities and nothing good happens, I'm no worse off than I am now. The water could be muddied a bit, but I think I could survive that.

So the courage I need to find is the courage to put myself out there and take some chances. It could turn out that I AM smart enough and skilled enough. Maybe one opportunity comes through and not the other. Maybe I get both of them to come through for me. I need to step forward rather than back. That's the courage I need right this minute.

Christopher Robin tells Pooh:

Pooh, Promise me you’ll always remember: You’re braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.”

Jill and my sibs and others regularly remind me that my experiences, choices, perspectives, and needs have value. Acting as though I believe them will have to do for now ;) Perhaps actual belief will follow. But I think my heart is telling me that I could both blossom and make some meaningful contributions in these potential new opportunities. So... suck it up and put yourself out there.

I guess that's the conclusion.

Damn.

Disregarding Stitch Markers

I'm developing -quite by accident- a list of aphorisms that I tell knitters. At the absolute top of the list is my belief that our knitting tells a story about who we are and how we interact with the world. We reveal ourselves as who we fundamentally are all day every day; all it takes to read the signs is a careful observer.

One of the best parts of my week is helping people improve at knitting. I love teaching. I love knitting. I love empowering people to confront the challenges that face them. So there's this knitter who is becoming quite accomplished. What she isn't yet is confident, but that's not really today's story. She's working on a sock, and she'd made a little mistake. She could have fixed it herself -or ignored it, since the evidence is going to be inside her shoe- but she wanted me to fix it.

The first step to fixing someone's knitting (or any other) problem is figuring out what's going on. The knitter almost always wants to talk in my ear, pointing out the tragedy. They of course know because they have an intimate familiarity with the fabric they've created. I have to get that familiarity fairly quickly, and the talking really doesn't help much. It's more a matter of quietly looking. Really looking. It's not usually a big deal. One of the painfully true things I tell knitters is that it's impossible for them to make a mistake that I haven't made -and way more than once.

This knitter was creating the heel of the sock, which is where accidents will happen if they're going to, and there were two stitch markers just sort of hanging in the middle of nowhere. I saw the mistake well enough, but I couldn't figure out what the stitch markers were for. Maybe they were marking other mistakes? Maybe she was making a sock in some new way that I don't understand? What's happening here?

She told me that they were just leftover from when she had done the decreasing for the gusset. (For the non-knitters among us, the details aren't terribly important. She had needed the stitch markers. Then she didn't. That's all you need to know.) She just hadn't dropped the stitch markers back into her knitting bag when she was finished with them.

My comment was "Don't train yourself to disregard stitch markers." Ask me how I know. I'm probably more inclined not to use markers when I should, rather than using them when I shouldn't. But the effect is the same -a lack of credible information that would have been easy to obtain if I had just done the simple things: pay attention and make a little effort.

You don't need to beat me over the head with this. I've been disregarding bigger signs than stitch markers. I get it that there was something of a failure of mindfulness, to put it mildly, in my life over the past few years. Had I been paying attention, at the very least I wouldn't have been blind-sided by my husband's betrayals and lack of commitment. I might even (although probably not) have caught it in time to be able to make an effective effort to save the marriage.

But he's not even really the story. I missed lots of other signs along the way -small places where there were alarms ringing quietly and I just breezed on past them. Places where I gave up autonomy, accepted too little, accepted stories that made no sense at all, truncated my own life, skipped opportunities because I was afraid.... I disregarded the stitch markers in a big way.

Another truism that falls out of my mouth is "do something different. Do ANYthing different." If you want things to change and you're not quite sure how to make that happen -or even exactly how you want it to look on the other end- do something different. Do anything different. The hope is that the entire system will adjust itself in accommodation to your new behavior. So, my "anything different" is to pay attention to the stitch markers. Which is just another way of saying that I'll try to be mindful and aware of the signs in my life.

All we need to know, we learned at knitting group ;)

Girls' Day Out

For Christmas, I gave Victoria the gift of a girls' day out in Chicago. She figured pedicures and a glass of white wine. Not quite, but she had the theme right. We finally arranged our schedules so that we were off on the same day and didn't each have 4 jillion other things to do.

We headed for the train at 7:15. This is a day off????


Then off to Intimacy where, you will be glad to know I did NOT take pictures. Several hundred dollars lighter in the pocket book, we've been fitted, disturbed at the size we discovered that we both are, amazed at the comfort that wearing the right undergarments brings, and we each have some new underwear. Girl stuff, in a big way. Seriously, go to this place. We've developed, I'm sad to say, another expensive habit :(

Then we needed sustenance. Coffee was essential to the recovery process: L'Appetito. But chocolate was the real key.
.

Then, we walk. We see the sculpture that is supposed to be called The Cloud Gate, but everyone just calls "The Bean": We check out the Pavilion. This isn't a great picture; the real thing reminds me of the Sidney Opera House.








We check out the faces. There's only one today.


A glass of Grand Marnier at Bennigan's, and back to the train we go. Tomorrow, it's back to work, but our new undergarments will remind us of our the girls' day out.

Conquering Small Challenges

In social work, we talk about the "but first" tasks. I can't do THAT, because first I have to do THIS. And I can't do THIS, because there's this impossible thing in the way that requires THE OTHER THING..... On and on and on. Life can become a snarl of but-first tasks for all of us.

In my life, those snarls of impossible tasks holding everything else up are frequently mechanical. I got nothin' when it comes to mechanical skills. I've got less than nothing. I've reduced car mechanics to tears and begging me, please, never to attempt another thing on my car. Unless of course I have some weird fascination with being stranded on the interstate.

The challenge lately has been the digital camera. I got one for Christmas. I took pictures with it (after a certain amount of thrashing around and taking pictures of my own thumbs). And then the memory card was full. So, clever girl that I am, I knew I had to move the pictures from the card to the computer -where they will eventually fill up all the available space. But Scarlett O'Hara has nothing on me; I will think about THAT tomorrow.

"They" invented digital cameras to be easier than film cameras. "They" did not include me in the focus group, that's for sure. I could not for the life of me figure out how to get the pictures moved. I e-mailed computer-whiz-boy and his helpful text message in reply was "plug it in and turn it on, Mom". Can you hear the sarcasm? I could. Yeah, sweet pea. I thought of THAT.

But today, I made some progress towards figuring it out. It turns out that I'm not stupid. (assuming for a moment that the only evidence supporting the "Andrea is stupid" hypothesis was the camera. Work with me here.) The USB port I was using doesn't work. By plugging the camera into another port, I've actually made some progress.

So now, I can take pictures of my knitting projects for ravelry. Then I can mail the knitted items to the recipient (who isn't born yet) before she heads off to college. Having done THAT, I can move Dave's desk down to the basement so that I can use the office in ways I find more congenial. Having done THAT, I will have made yet another stride toward claiming the house as my own.

And all of this has been waiting for me to discover that the USB port I was using was faulty. Not me. The USB port.

Growing a Life

It might actually -finally- be spring. (She whispers, lest the goddess of weather hear and inject a freak April blizzard into the mix. It's happened before.) You can't actually tell that it's spring in the gardens yet. But I know it's here because the interstate is under construction (a surer sign than the daffodils), and my across-the-street neighbor has undertaken a home improvement project. This one seems to involve a jackhammer, which is a little irritating. But he'll be done eventually, and then I can open the windows.

So, this morning I took my coffee out into the backyard. I dusted off a fabulously dirty lawn chair, located my sunglasses and a book, and plopped down. I quickly abandoned the book. It's a tragedy of another knitting-group tale. I don't think it's supposed to be a tragedy; it's just that the writing is so very bad. Too lazy to get up, and enjoying the sun on my shoulders, I just started looking around.

Why did I put my lawn chair here, when all it gave me a view of is the garbage can? Rotate my chair a little, and I see the driveway. That's no better. Rotate a little more and I get the sump pump. Oh, that's elegant. Rotate a little more, and it's the neighbor's trashcan. Houston, we have a problem.

Dave has always taken care of the gardens. And really, when they are in bloom, they're lovely. But I think I have a handle on why I never wanted to hang out and enjoy them. They don't invite anyone in, except to do chores. That's no good.

There's nowhere to sit, nowhere to sleep, nowhere to walk, and the views are kind of icky. Nothing says "come have a glass of tea with me" or even "keep me company while I weed this flower bed". We didn't have a garden; we had a flower laboratory.

I have a tendency lately, which I really have to keep in check, to feel that I have to do everything all at once, RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE. I have this new opportunity in my life to organize things my way, to fulfill my dreams at long last -and I don't have to defend that to a single person. But being me, I could easily throw away all the old furniture to begin the house redecorating project, tear up all the sod in the yard to begin a landscaping project, buy a plane ticket to heaven-knows-where to begin the travel project, and then get on my bike and not come home for 8 hours.

When I did come home, it would be to an empty house, a destroyed yard, an empty bank account, and a sore body. I would then melt completely down -and then I would have to go to work. This strikes me as a bad plan.

The gardens are actually a nice metaphor for the way I should undertake this new life of mine. I know there are a few things I want to change right now. I need some decent chairs in the backyard. (I bought two white Adirondack chairs this morning.) Those chairs need a little table and a foot stool for at least one of them. I'm just going to move them around until the right place for a seating area reveals itself to me.

And from that vantage point, I'll watch the gardens. Dave wanted blues and purples in the gardens. I like that idea a lot -except he was a little wrong there, too. Blues and purples alone look gloomy. There need to be accents of pink and white, I think. So I'm going to watch what comes up and looks a little lonely. Pink and white annuals will go right there. I need giant pots of geraniums on the front steps. I need ferns hanging on the front porch. I have a little fantasy of an herb garden, but no clear sense of where it belongs yet. So, really, all I might get done in the gardens this year -other than maintaining them- is the furniture, the annuals, the pots of geraniums and a few hanging plants.

But I will have started. I will have made a little mark. I will have honored what's come before, without being bound by it. Even these little changes are, to my mind, about welcoming people in and offering something peaceful, or possibly even joyful, to see. And I'm waiting for the next right move to reveal itself. I'm not a good wait-er. Maybe that's what the garden has to teach me this year.

An End Date for this Pity Party

A week from today it will be six months since I left Swarthmore. Given the fact that I literally hadn't the slightest idea that my life would be ripped in two even a week before that day, I think I've done all right. Even though nothing is all-the-way settled, and I still have "how can this be happening" moods, and fear can rule much of my day if I let it, it's time for the pity party to be over.

Victim-hood happens, and it happened to me. And it takes over and defines your life -sometimes forever. It also puts you at the center of a little firestorm of a drama; you become the star of the show for a little while. The danger of course is that the drama becomes its own story, especially if it had been a long time since the victim was the star of anything.

So, yes, I can acknowledge that the end of my marriage will probably always be a watershed moment in my life. But I can reframe victimhood into something more powerful. (Well, I suppose almost anything is more powerful than that!) And it's time for other people to be the star of the show for a while. Or we can all share the lead roles. Or something ;)

One more week of fretting (with any luck, quietly) and then it's off to the next phase of recovery. Victimhood will become...creativity? Crafting the life I want in the next phase of my life? Knitting my heart whole? Those are metaphors that might work for me. Or maybe I'm looking for something stronger-sounding, bigger-feeling. Flying? Building? Word choice is important to me, but I guess you knew that already.

But whining and rallying the troops in support of poor victimized Andrea -that's definitely over. But just to be clear, you can still send whatever karmic vibes you like toward Professor Entitled ;)

Tell Me Whom You Love...

...and I'll tell you who you are.

It's an old Creole proverb. Well, that's what it is in the version I learned. A quick google search suggests that many cultures have essentially the same proverb.

I had a dream last night. It's a recurring dream, but it had a twist this time. I dreamed that Dave crawled into bed with me, begging forgiveness, asking to be taken back. Please know that this is not something my rational mind expects in the slightest. It's not even what my rational mind wants, but I can't control my dreams.

The twist is that this time I kicked his sorry self out of my pretty bed and sent him on his way. I guess my subconscious is finally catching up with the rest of my brain!

So, is the converse true? Tell me whom you DON'T love and I'll tell you who you are? Because today, I'm feeling strong enough to say that I deserve better than what he was offering all those years. Take a hike, big guy!

How Do You Do It?

This is a serious question, because I know deep in my heart everyone is doing it better than I am. By "it", I'm afraid I don't mean anything interesting. I mean get it all done -live in something slightly better than squalor, work out, work, hang out with your friends, do whatever you do for solace and creativity, tend to your spiritual life, tend to your long-term plans....

I'm so deranged about this question, I actually read a 2-month old time management article in Woman's Day while I was at the dentist yesterday. (Bear in mind that I had had five full doses of anesthesia. I was a smidge loopy.) Their ideas were all stupid. "Learn French from CDs on your morning commute." Yeah, great. What I need to do is learn to wash underwear while on my morning commute, thank you very much.

I know this could be worse. I could be a single person with a big house AND have, say, toddlers. People do that and live to tell the tale. I have nothing to whine about. Yeah... whining happens anyway ;) During the work week, my serious reality is that I do no housework that involves anything more than pushing a button. I start the washer and dryer. I run the dishwasher. I push the button on Pink Floyd the Vacuuming Robot. That's it. Maybe I start the crockpot, but not all the time.

Come on, oh wise ones. What are the real tricks? Forget learning French on the morning commute. We're talking basic here. How do you make sure that you have clothes to wear to work, remember where your glasses are, and don't run out of toilet paper EVER??? Bonus points for being able to open the door to unexpected company, rather than saying "I'm so glad to see you. Let's go to the bar." and closing the door FAST!

I'm a desperate woman.

Oh my GOD, my DAY!!!!

So... I go to work. After work, I stop by the Costco which is on the way home from work. I stock up on stuff, since I need to feed youngsters this weekend, walk to my car, load it up... and my purse is gone. I can not find it. I tear the car apart, thinking I might have buried it with the groceries -not outside the realm of the possible.

Eventually, though, I have to give up. It's gone. I file a police report -with a very kind police officer who is the age of my child. But he's kind and helpful and gentle. And then I drive home and I don't even put away the groceries. I have to borrow my neighbor's phone, since I don't have a landline anymore, and I start canceling credit cards. Somewhere in the process, I call the kids to tell them that I don't have my cell phone anymore and they should e-mail me if they need me.

And yes, throughout the whole process, there is some resentment. THIS is the kind of thing it's nice to have a partner to help you with. I can't blame Dave for the fact that my purse was stolen, but.... I want to, and that's the truth.

However, I have good experiences with all of the credit card companies. Everyone is kind and thoughtful and suggests reasonable courses of action.

Then, Victoria shows up in my office, announcing merely "I know where your purse is." What???? Apparently, my phone was found and the finder scrolled through my contacts until he found "mom". He called my mother in Alabama. The mind reels a little trying to imagine this conversation. She kept trying, apparently, to call my cell phone to tell me my cell phone had been found. Eventually, she gets it and calls Victoria -who tries to call my cell phone to tell me my cell phone has been found. The poor man is probably wishing he'd just thrown the thing in the river at this point.

But she drives over here to give me the news. My credit cards are all canceled, but the old ones haven't been used. My phone has been found. And I might even have my new red purse, when all is said and done. The guy works about three blocks from my office, so he's going to meet me there, because he didn't want me to be uncomfortable meeting a strange man in a strange place.

Certainly I'll offer him a reward, but mom says she heard kids in the background. I think I'll drop off little Easter baskets too. It's been a death-resurrection sort of day.

And tomorrow, I'll call about getting a landline, I suppose.

Heart Opening Postures (??)

My dirty dark secret of the past few months is that I've rarely practiced yoga. Yoga has been an important part of my life for years and I just...let it go, somehow.

Well, the "somehow" isn't a big mystery, actually. There are several pieces to it. As we all know, I was miserable in Swarthmore, but didn't know why. I would practice yoga daily in a vain effort to bring some equanimity to my life. My life changed in the blink of an eye, one day in October (and yes, I know the date). I practiced yoga one evening -a backbending, heart-opening practice- popped up from savasana, went over to the computer, and discovered my husband's infidelity.

As it happens, only little bits of his betrayal got through to my brain, which is probably a good thing. But plenty enough got through to shatter my world -or what I thought of as my world at the time.

The weird thing is that somehow in my murky psyche, I must have linked yoga to distress and pain. Every time I practiced since then, I would have a completely non-fun PTSD kind of response. Who needs that, particularly when there are entirely enough struggles in my attempts to reclaim a life? And besides, how annoying would it be if the person on the mat next to you in class started to shake and cry and gasp for air? I totally didn't want to be that annoying girl. So, yoga drifted off into the fringes of my life.

Another piece of this is that for weeks and probably months after returning to Illinois, getting on with the business of life meant fortifying myself. Pretend you're not in pain...put on your clothes....go to work... help other people....smile. LET NO ONE IN. LET NO REAL EMOTION OUT. My heart was oh-so-very-not open. I dared not engage in a heart-opening practice. Maybe a spine-strengthening practice would have worked. Or a fear banishing practice. But yoga teachers frequently want to do more ethereal "open people up" practices, and I was very busy closing down.

And finally, right as I drove into town in October I realized that the temptation would be to re-create my old life. Somehow I knew, though, that was a bad idea. I did little things like join a different gym, find new things to do with old friends, change patterns of socializing... whatever I could think of that was different. The old familiar yoga practices with their (probably nonsensical) talk of releasing toxins and opening chakras seemed trite and pointless. Yoga seemed like part of the old life, and it had to go.

But here's the thing. My body started to hurt. My heart has hurt non-stop since the fall, but it started to hurt physically. My back got creaky. My always-annoying knees got downright obnoxious. I'm too old not to do yoga.

So tonight I went to yoga class. And wouldn't you know it, it was a heart-opening class. I'm still very cautious about opening my heart. Why would a sane person DO that??? But I gave it a shot. I'm tight everywhere -and flexibility has always been my "thing". I can bend every which way, or so I think in my little mind. Not so much with that, tonight. But I did the practice. I modified everywhere. I cried, but quietly and only during savasana. No gasping for air. No shaking.

We'll see how I feel tomorrow. But part of me suspects that reclaiming old familiar things can be as important as letting other old things go. The connection between yoga and pain is false -made up by my fragile psyche. If I let the important parts of yoga fall away from my life, it's a completely unnecessary loss. Surely I can find the fortitude to stand up for the healing that yoga offers.

I started tonight. One class done!!

Just Someone I Used to Know

Ok, Dave's gone. I'm back to my regular life. I certainly had no expectation (or desire) that he would come over to the house. I didn't want to run into him by accident. There was no need for us to do something together with the kids. My fervent hope was for no contact, and that's what I got.

But I did wonder what he was thinking while he was here. I did wonder if he would come to the house while I wasn't there. It is technically still his house too. He might have been curious about maintenance issues or some such thing. I did wonder if he would ask the kids or mutual friends how I was doing. Nope. By accident, I'm pretty sure the truth fell out of my mouth. I said "I'm just someone he used to know."

We lived together for 25 years. I had his babies. But, I imagine, he spends exactly no time thinking about me. The relationship is over not just in a legal sense, but in his mind. Needless to say, I suppose, I haven't achieved that level of closure. Of course, he had longer to think about the end of the relationship- to plot and plan for it, and not clue me in. So I suppose there's little wonder that he's ahead of me in the process.

But truthfully, I can't imagine ever being quite at that point. Closure I can imagine. I can't imagine, though, that he'll ever be gone from my psyche in the way that I'm apparently gone from his. I just don't throw people away like that. And the experience of being the "thrown away one" is certainly new to me. I've been dumped by guys before (in the dim dark past), but not many, thank you very much. But that's not the same thing as this, for heaven's sake.

Then I look around my work. Here are the people who can teach me how to survive that. Homeless people know what it's like to be thrown away. It happens to them all day every day. Hell, I was homeless too, thanks to the kind efforts of my former lover. I was spared the brutality of the full experience due to the kindness of friends, but homeless nonetheless.

There's no need to romanticize homeless people or homelessness -and no point in it, anyway. They frequently make decisions that are short-term smart and long-term weak. They frequently (statistically speaking) resort to mental illness and substance abuse to deal with the mind-breaking pain of it all. But sometimes even that is an act of power. And sometimes, some of them grab personal power more effectively, stand up for themselves, and metaphorically make the statement that they are not worthless garbage.

And shame on the people who threw them out like trash.

Cycle-ogical

Here she is, the new love of my life:



From a different perspective:



It was a relationship meant to be. There was a "secret sale" (which I'm sure they sent out 4 jillion invitations to) at the bike shop about a month ago. I was a good consumer. I used my coupon for sensible things: a red flashing light for when my ride goes past dark, a new shirt, a carbon dioxide cartridge for fixing flats quickly..... But then I saw the bike. I gasped out loud. This is one gorgeous bike.

But I didn't buy it. I came home and thought and plotted. Could I afford it? Is it too much bike for me? Maybe I shouldn't? But in two weeks I was still dreaming about the bike, so I just went back and bought it. You have to do it to do it, as we say.

I've blathered on about adding adventure to my life -me-style adventure, not the kind I've been living for the past year! And not even really the kind that defined family vacations for decades, where the rule seemed to be that the activity had to be more dangerous and more uncomfortable than last year, no matter what. Blech!

Biking is really good for me. (Rock climbing and yoga can do the same thing -and do, from time to time.) It's relentless but fun. You meet straight-on with your own "I can't do it" thoughts. You get to learn when and where and why they show up. And you get to learn that they don't matter. If my "I can't do it" thoughts become seemingly relentless and I'm still an hour from home, what am I going to do? Sit on the side of the road and cry? I have to make this particular pedal stroke -the very next one. And it brings me closer to home. And eventually I get home. I really could do it.

And I get to think of ways to craft a compelling and exciting vision of my own future. Maybe I'll do the Charleston to Savannah ride someday. Or maybe I'll ride my bike in Ireland. Or maybe I'll rent a bike when I go to Tuscany and ride around the vineyards. Or maybe I'll just ride around the farmland in my county. It's all beautiful in its way.

And there are days when the wind is blessedly at my back and I'm flying along on my new bicycle, wearing my new lavender bike top, just crying from the joy of it.

This is why spinning your wheels can be a good thing ;)

Game On!

Dave's in town. I thought it was going to be horrible. And for a little while it was. This would be cleaner for both of us if he would just stay far, far away.

But then, my new strong self kicked in. I had yesterday pegged as the potentially difficult day. Wednesday is the most open day of my week, and DeKalb is the size of a good-sized shopping mall. There was a definite possibility that we would cross paths. So, I had coffee with one friend and then went to the gym. I went shopping and out to lunch with another friend. Then we went to a new upscale bar in town (this town? upscale??? It's a weird juxtaposition of words, that's for sure) and had TWO glasses of wine. Before 5:00. Bad asses, that's what we are ;) And we flirted outrageously and harmlessly with the bartender, just to demonstrate that those muscles aren't entirely atrophied.

Dave's been to town twice before this. The first time I fled in nothing short of abject terror. He had been to Chicago for a tryst with the AMW* and I was not in any shape to see him. Period. The second time was slightly less abject. It was Christmas, and I knew I couldn't arrange for anything fun for the kids. So I made a different plan.

This time, it's time to stand my ground. Which I can do with all my friends sort of holding the ground around me. It turns out that this is my turf, these are my friends, and this is my life -and he should bloody well stay out of MY way. It's a nice turn of events.


*Argentinian Math Whore

Letter to my Body

Blogher has launched (a while back, actually) a Letter to my Body Initiative -the idea being, of course, that we should talk tenderly, respectfully, carefully, and lovingly to our bodies. And women DO talk to their bodies, apparently.

So, I'll show you mine if you show me yours ;)

Dearest body,

I know we haven't always gotten along. I've never abused you or hated you, but that must be cold comfort. Surely you deserve better than benign neglect! Well, you do deserve better than that. I've treated you as nothing more than a way to get my brain to meetings.

The truth is, I have much to thank you for. Mostly, you've withstood being ignored with very few complaints. You've responded and learned everything I've asked you to do. You've done back flips and swan dives, jumped out of airplanes (don't worry, we won't be doing THAT again!), danced until dawn, gone for bike rides that felt like flying, and learned the occasional yoga posture. Really, you're a wonder. You've healed when healing was difficult. You've birthed two babies. OK, so you needed a little help with that last one; he was a big old thing ;)

So in this time of reinventing myself, how do you want to be different? Healthier? Prettier? Stronger? What can I do for you? How can you and I (the brain that you carry so willingly to meetings) be a little more integrated?

I think that little twinge in my upper back means that you need some yoga and massage. OK, I'm on it. I want to climb, ride, dance, love, explore. Maybe I even want to run; the jury's still out on that one. But I've said these things before -and even mostly followed through.

There's more. There's some self care that I just need to admit that I want and need -and bloody well deserve. I can go to a spa once a year. I can get my teeth straightened. I can throw myself at Sarah-the-wonder-hairdresser's mercy. This isn't self-indulgent, anti-feminist claptrap. Well, it's not necessarily those things, anyway.

And mostly, I can talk to you carefully and gently. I don't have to like the stretch marks, and scars, and little puddles of fat that ought not be there. Nonetheless, the fact remains that you are beautifully made. I will try to catch myself when I revert to negative and destructive self-talk. At the very least, I will focus on my aspirations rather than my limitation.

Dear one, if I do all these things at once, I'll probably melt from the worldview shift. But I respect you. You've done more than your fair share over the years. It's time for me to show you a little kindness.

And if it seems like I'm forgetting, make that little twinge less little. That will get my attention!

Love always,
Andrea

Free Rice

And the more verbally facile you are, the more rice. If you follow this link, Free Rice, you play a word game. For every word that you define correctly, a few grains of rice are donated to hungry people. When you define the word you have correctly, your next word will be harder.

I got 100 words right, and got a little bored, it must be said. So.... go.... beat my record ;)

Fugue on Forgiveness

I've always like the word "fugue" because of its dual references to music and psychiatry. So, a polyphonic composistion or a disoriented amnesiac state.... your call. See which one fits.

I went to church this morning. It's a campus church at NIU, so forgiveness came up as a theme a time or two. When the music started to get to me (about 1 second in) or the homily started to lose focus (about 6 minutes in), I went off on my own mental meanderings about the forgiveness that is eluding me.

Anger is also eluding me, for whatever it's worth. I can't sustain it. It takes too much energy. But that's not quite the same as saying that I've forgiven Dave, either. Anger and forgiveness apparently aren't opposites. And let's just be clear that I have nothing like the project of forgiving the person who shot and killed my children, as 5 sets of NIU parents have. I can't even begin to imagine how one would undertake such a project. So I am very aware of the triviality of my dithering.

My first thought... Dave doesn't deserve forgiveness. Ummm.... yeah. Since when is that the point? But it matters. I don't want to fuel his enormous sense of entitlement. "See, I can do all the wrong things, create mayhem in other people's lives, and they forgive me. Aren't I just the cutest thing?" I can't even stand thinking about it. But of course, I'm supposed to forgive anyway. Forgiveness only makes sense if it's a gift. Resentful forgiveness must be some kind of misnomer. And certainly I'm aware that I've been forgiven when I didn't deserve it.

A possible answer to the first thought is that I should forgive not for him, but for me. Forgiving him would (or might) free me. But really now... can there be a self-centered reason for authentic forgiveness? That seems improbable.

Next up is the thought that I might as well forgive him since he matters so little to me any more. But that's not forgiveness; it's disdain. We're getting nowhere fast. Aren't you glad you don't live in my brain???? Count your blessings.

Might forgiveness prevent me from vigorously defending my own needs and preferences in the divorce settlement? Or can a person forgive and simultaneously accept no more crap from the other person EVER?

Seventy times seven. Turn the other cheek. Forgive and forget. Dave doesn't even know if I've forgiven him or not; we haven't spoken in months or e-mailed in weeks. What difference does it make if I do this or not? The best I've come up with is that I don't want to be the kind of person who doesn't forgive. That's pretty unconvincing, as theological positions go.

Dear Red Bike

I still love you. You'll always be special to me, but I need to date other bikes. It's not you; it's me. I need to mark this as a new time in my life -a time when I can do daring things. In this case that means biking longer and harder than you can go. No, no... that wasn't a double entendre. Really. I meant mileage, sweetheart.

My new sweetheart is this bike:


The only difference is that it's a bright lime green. It's an Orbea Aqua Dama, in the smallest size they make with special adjustments to make it even smaller. It's a road bike, and I CAN NOT WAIT for good weather. My old red helmet just isn't going to work, either. Sheesh. How many of these "dear bike" letters do I have to write?????

I Can't Get Warm

Literally and metaphorically, I can't get warm.

On this morning's commute to work, the radio announcer referred to today's low of 7 degrees (actually a significant improvement over the last few days) as "cool". Have people lost their minds? Perhaps their brains are frozen and will thaw and become functional again in a few weeks. Seven degrees is honkin' freezing, people. It's an insult to the human person.

True enough, February always makes me cranky. My house is drafty. My office is cold. I'm tired shoveling the snow away from the dryer vent and tracking salt into the house. Surely there are homeless people I could help in the Bahamas. What am I doing here? But there's more than just the February blues going on.

It's Friday night, and I'm alone in my drafty old house. In my pajamas at 8:00 on a Friday night, because I'm cold. Cold and alone. Blech.

There must be stages of admitting one's situation to oneself -stages of allowing all the grief into consciousness. Or it washes up again and again in waves until it's processed. Or something. The last two nights have been brutal hours of tormenting myself. How could this have happened? Why me? I'm chilled and scared all the way into my bones, it seems.

It's boring even in the telling of it. I know you don't want to hear it. But I think there are still tears that need to be shed, even at the risk of being boring. A glimmer of a thought here is that I've been good about some kinds of taking care of myself. I've been good about reclaiming bits and pieces of me. But I might be going too easy on myself. I've been gentle, but not powerful -not that those are mutually exclusive.

What's the next powerful thing that I can do? It's a small thought, but I think the signs are pointing to reclaiming my physical fitness regimen. A new bike has caught my eye. I've been to the gym a few times. Exercising makes me feel better. Training for something makes me feel better yet. And I can work out or train even if other things in my life don't go the way I want them to go. It's something that can help sustain me even if, say, I have to move or I run into Dave while he's here over spring break or something else goes wrong. I need the experience of doing something amazing. All I have to do is take it step by step, in the same methodical stodgy way that I've done the rest of this. That, and cry when there's no alternative.

And start doing stuff on Friday nights, forcryingoutloud.

Social Workers Save the World

OK, we really don't, and we know that. So there's a little dark humor, a little sarcasm, and a little bit of grandiose foolishness in this post. But, there's a little bit of truth, too. Let's see if we can find it.

For years (probably decades) now, there has been a small group of local social workers who meet for coffee once a week. We just chit-chat, really. Sometimes we try to sort through a social work problem that has one or more of us stumped. Many times we fret and fuss about the state of the world and wonder why we're not in charge. We dream about local and larger projects that we might implement, and we've even implemented some of them. But mostly we just talk and drink truly obscene quantities of coffee.

We thought me made no difference whatsoever, except possibly to our own mental health. Well, that's no small contribution to the general well-being of the world, when you consider how screwed up I've been ;) But everything changed (here's the very dark humor) on September 11, 2001. We had missed a meeting the Friday before. Do you suppose that our silly meeting was somehow -just barely- creating equilibrium in the world? Missing one meeting set things off, and the world came unglued for a tragic day? Surely, we didn't know our own power and owed the world a heart-felt apology.

We don't really believe that. We were just being silly.

BUT, we missed the meeting just before the shooting at Northern. This is a disturbing trend, boys and girls. Again, please accept our abject apologies.

OK, sarcasm and silliness aside... We are in fact just drinking coffee and chatting. We get that. But, our meeting, as small as it is, is a part of the fabric of the community. We sit there at Panera, holding up the idealist/liberal/leftie edge of that fabric. Hardly anyone knows we're there. It may not matter. "Without a vision, the people perish."

Our vision for the world certainly isn't the accepted one in this conservative town and nation. Nonetheless, someone has to hang onto it. Someone has to remind people that there is a vision of a just world that could be created, with sufficient will.

And rest easy tonight, dear ones. We met this morning.

Where I Come From

This is interesting new (to me) software: Geni.

View more of Andrea's tree | Get your own family tree at Geni.com

It's a cross of genealogical record keeping and social networking. It can be edited by the people you invite. They can add pictures, details, information about their in-laws, perhaps, and much more. I'm hoping that together my sibs and I can figure out whom we're actually related to and how. Heck, I'll settle for who's still alive and the first names of all my cousins. We'll see how we do!

I'm Closing In On It

My new self-definition, that is, because I know you've been waiting with baited breath. (insert eyeroll here) But the thing is, I've been waiting.

I thought I knew that I didn't want to live in the midwest. But when I got in my car to leave my marriage, I could have pointed it in any direction at all. I chose to come back to DeKalb, and no one was more surprised than me. But it was exactly the right thing to do.

I thought I was engaging with the world as someone's partner. Not so much with that. For years, I defined myself as a mother first. And those little boneheads grew up and don't need me any more ;)

So if I'm not anyone's partner and I'm not a displaced southerner and my mothering tasks are limited (and really primarily social calls), who the heck AM I? It was starting to get a little unnerving.

It's coming back to me. The other thing (AN other thing) that I am is social-justice-girl. I lost her for a little while, but she's coming back. Gandhi was right. (No, duh!) "The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others.” Which sounds a little self-serving, as though I'm equating myself to Gandhi and my work to some sacrificial Mother-Theresa-like calling that I have.

Quite the contrary. These people are saving me. I've always said to students that we get the clients we need. It might be the client who pushes your buttons, forcing you to learn patience and self-restraint. It might be the client who tries to belittle you and your skills, so that you learn confidence and power. It might be that you've only worked with women, so you get a male client who forces you to re-examine power from a different angle. Whatever. You get the one you need.

It's so much more than that. I wasn't in danger of dying; please don't think that. But vital parts of me were about to be lost. Instead, I have clients who assume I'm competent (the poor misguided dears), so I am. I get clients who are way too busy with their own troubles to care a whit about mine. I get clients who see me as privileged and wealthy and connected -if they think about me at all. It puts things nicely in perspective.

There is still more of me that needs to be developed and rounded out. There's the person who wants to travel on my own terms. There's the person who wants to have a home with a certain kind of feeling. There's the person who wants to have a certain kind of spiritual life. And by God, I'm going to get this yoga posture










before it's all over, and my abs are going to look like hers, too, while I'm about it. I'm going to bike the way I want to bike, and not think of that as "less than". There is much to do. But I've reclaimed, with a lot of help from my friends, another part of my self-definition.

He Speaks Truth

What he said! Mike over at Musing's Musings says it beautifully. Just go read it.

I'm running on fumes myself and can't think to get a coherent post together. Between crisis counseling, my regular work, working on my own emotional center, and stopping to hug my children at embarrassing (to them) intervals, I'm pretty pooped. I work until midnight tonight, but tomorrow I can sleep as late as I like. It's one of my treats in the week.

Yet Another School Shooting

I know you've all heard, and you've probably figured out that NIU is my home turf. My son is a grad student there. Because my long-lost-husband is technically a faculty member there, we have many friends there. Heck, I have many friends there who have nothing to do with him.

Everyone I know and love is physically and psychically fine. But it's still been a hard few days. I NEVER EVER want to relive the hour when I couldn't locate my son.

I said, a jillion years ago with the first school shooting, that one thing I wanted to explore in an academic sense was how -or if- a community healed after such an event. What works? What doesn't? What is understandable but misguided? How long does it take? I never got out to Colorado or Arkansas or Virginia or anywhere else to do the research. How tragic that it will be easy now.

At this point I have nothing wise or insightful to say. I do have this beginning of a thought. The solution is about gun control rather than mental illness, I think. In idle chatter, some wonder whether people with diagnosed mental illnesses should be on college campuses. Should we require medication monitoring, perhaps? Should we, metaphorically speaking, put a big fence around the university and keep crazy people off?

Along with the fact that it's a state school and I'm not sure how you could justify keeping citizens off the property, there's the reality that it isn't necessarily a student or a staff memeber who would commit a crime like this. Anyone with a gun could walk onto a campus and get to work. It's the guns that are the problem. Not the access.

Anyway... we're healing. We're procesing our reactions. We're mostly doing okay. Please think comforting thoughts for the families of the dead. They're cleaning out dorm rooms and claiming personal possessions in the next few days. Funerals will start tomorrow. I can't begin to imagine their suffering, but we should do what little we can to ease it.

Writing at the Top of my Lungs

Oh dear. Things are not good. The details really don't matter, but I reached the point this evening where I finally said that Dave and I shouldn't communicate any more at all. If he has something to say, he should say it to my lawyer and she'll convey the message. This guy with whom I have two children and many memories.... we may never talk again. Just when I thought my heart couldn't be any more broken.

When most of this tragic e-mail exchange happened, I was actually at work. He couldn't have known that, so there's no blame here for what ensued. I was almost as distraught at this latest development as I was when I left Swarthmore. I was casting about in desperation for the next right thing to do. Catch up on documentation? Go hang out with the clients? Make sure there are no children unattended and unsupervised? There must be something right that I can do. When things are this bad, I've learned that I have to think very small and very short-term. This is not the time for grand plans. Rather, I have to think of some small thing that I can do right now that has the virtue of not being wrong.

I realized that what I wanted to do -what I MUST do- was write. How weird is that? Some people might need chocolate. Some people might call someone (Actually, I did that, but work isn't a great place to carry on a private conversation of this importance.) Some people (those not at work, one assumes) might need a drink. I was beside myself because I didn't have my journal. If I grab a piece of paper and start writing, will I remember to put it in my journal? If it's not in my journal, does it "count"? What if I get distracted and accidentally leave it lying around where someone can find it?

But there was no peace until I grabbed some computer paper and a pen and started writing. I had to figure stuff out. I had to process information. I had to try to forgive. And I had to put it all somewhere -somewhere not the front of my brain, so that I could continue to function as a, you know, person in charge, but also somewhere where I could revisit it.

I had a professor in college who, when the conversation got heated or entangled, would primly say "writing makes for clear thinking." He would then make us get out paper and pen and write down our arguments. We would roll our eyes and think of him as essentially a prig. But, I still think of that man today. My need to write was visceral.

I don't know what this means. I was howling in pain -quietly. I was struggling to understand. I was trying to reject bitterness and anger. I was, at the same time, trying to claim a spot on the planet that says that I am NOT unworthy, unattractive, uninteresting or just plain awful. (I'm smart enough... I'm good enough... and dog gone it, people like me.) I make no claims of being good at writing. I just need to do it.

Writing makes for clear thinking.

Messages in a Bottle

In an extrememly snarky e-mail to me (re: the Dear Dave post, so I suppose I ought to have expected that!) Dave made the remark about my blog... something along the lines of "why you want to publicly parade your life in this way is beyond me". That's not really a quote. I deleted the e-mail, but it's the general idea of what he said.


A) Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. I'll do anything I please. Oh hell, that's not what I really think; it's what I wish I thought. What I really think is something along the lines of "don't criticize my strategies for healing wounds you caused."

B) I have friends all over the country and world, and blogging is an easy way to keep in touch with them.

But really, the answer is somewhat different and somewhat more than both of those. Two years and a bit ago, I wanted to play around with some ideas that weren't going to get enough of my attention in my real life. Putting my thoughts out there into cyberspace would, I hope, hold me a little accountable. Moreover, I was (and am) enthusiastic about the populist nature of the internet. The idea of adding new voices to the discourse -any discourse- is one that pleases me immensely. And I wanted to find a community of like-minded people -the people who want to change the world.

Many of the people I now think of as close friends were completely unknown to me at the beginning of all this. I was sending messages in a bottle, and somehow through the miracles of cyberspace, my little bottle washed ashore on their islands. We became connected, even though we may never have met.

I'm not sure that blogs really create community in and of themselves. The nature of blogging is that one person expounds and everybody else listens and responds. It's not the perfect medium for what I'm looking for. Shared discourse isn't quite what the medium can support. And some people (quite a few of them, if the logs are any indication) read but don't feel comfortable adding comments. Some of those people comment privately in e-mail, and some are just quiet -even though they may drop by every day. I'm the only person who knows they're here.

Nonetheless, we've done quite well for ourselves, I think. We have some other characteristics of a community well in hand, it seems to me. There's a sense of membership, I hope. I certainly feel a sense of shared influence and emotional connection, both hallmarks of a community. And we're pretty close to having our 25,000th visitor.

But really, I do want the software that would allow for more collective brainstorming and shared reflections. Got any great ideas there?

Security vs. Adventure

Is this a false dichotomy? Rock climbing is a perfect example. We spend a lot of time and energy (to say nothing of money) staying safe with ropes and harnesses and carabiners and other stuff so that we can do this essentially ridiculous but very fun thing -climb to the top of a vertical stack of rocks. Still with me? I'm about to go off on a tangent.

The past few months have been about wrapping myself in a security blanket. Creating that security blanket for myself was more than just a psychological, empowering nicety. It had to be done. I did small things like start locking the house. I did bigger things like getting myself back in the work force and starting to pay my own bills. I moved money so that meddling former-partners couldn't have access to it. I literally talked myself through every day, asking myself how, at the end of the day, was I safer and more secure than I had been that morning.

I'm still afraid a lot of the time. It's not quite all the time, any more, but close enough. But I'm also starting to realize that my life lacks adventure. Adventure of my own design, I mean.

Thanks to the intervention of a friend, I've made a huge leap in my healing process. I am so close to fully over this guy, you have no idea. Maybe someday it will be appropriate to tell you all the details, but for now just believe me when I tell you that I now believe that we are fundamentally incompatible.

But given this new state of affairs, hyper-vigilance about security is still -sort of- about him. What am I securing myself against? After all, I have the basic things in place. I am the hero of my own story. I no longer worry that the most interesting thing about me is him. But my story is too small, still.

It's time to do more than survive. It's time to think about thriving. While, you know, staying attached to the ropes and harnesses. I'm still me, after all ;)

Climbing High

OK, we need a little comic relief from yesterday. Here's some proof that we do actually climb rocks, we sometimes get to the top (the kids always do... I sometimes do) and we have the cool equipment (clearly, the key ingredient to fundamental coolness!). FIrst I'll show you how it should look.






That's Nicholas. He's really good. Here's another view of the same climb. Just another day of parenting -keeping my baby alive!






Okay, yes, I climb too. I can't even believe I'm showing you this: I'm climbing in a chimney, and it's harder than it looks. Give me a break. See how smooth that rock is??? Another view of the same thing: The clever reader will notice that I'm in the exact same spot. Yeah... that was pretty much it for that climb. Can I distract you by pointing out the wildly cool lavender harness???

Having been more successful than his mother, the boy-child is coming down. He is not landing in a heap of broken bones due to my expert skills. Well, actually, it's due to my acute paranoia that my expert skills are in fact pathetic. But pretend for me, would you?

And we're unclipping and getting ready to go to lunch, where I will ply them with food and drink so that they forget that I am a lame climbing buddy.

Thanks to Victoria for the pictures!

Dear Dave

I can see that you (and Teresa, for that matter) have been exploring my blog several times over the past few days. Only a numb skull creates a blog and yet expects it to be private, and I'm not that, at the very least. So, welcome. Pull up a chair and sit down. You might actually learn something.

But here's the thing. I wish I didn't have to worry about why you were here. I can see not only that you were here, but what the search terms were that led you here. You were looking for references to you. Did you think that I would publicly bash you? Say something libelous? Did your lawyer send you here for ammunition against me? I just don't know. I hate it that I have to consider such despicable things about you, but such is the fruit of your behavior.

Know this. This blog is not about you. My life is no longer about you. True enough, your behavior sent me to the edge of my capabilities. You have pushed me away from you and off into a life I never wanted or even really considered. But having done that, you no longer set the terms. This space and this life? They're mine. You're not the story here.

Now, if you want to read about the story, you are welcome. But know that you are no longer even the subtext. I'm not even sure that I wish it were otherwise, anymore.

Andrea

Update on the 18-month plan

If I were a worthy human.... if I had an organizing bone in my body.... if, if, if.... then I would be 1/18 of the way through the 18-month plan. Alas, not so much with that. To hold myself accountable, here's where I really am.


Anatomical, Gastronomical, Sartorial
My weight is unchanged. That's unfortunate.
This is probably due to my also failing to make my exercise goals. The girl-child and I have decided to make that a focus of February -hauling ourselves to the gym, the pool, the dance studio, the rock climbing wall, and/or the yoga studio. If I do something three times a week, I'll call myself having met my February goal. My excuse here is that I was getting used to my new work schedule. But I've been working this schedule for a month now. Enough with the whining. Make something happen here!

I have had people over, but not for brunch. I'm going to work on that, really, but I don't think there's a good time in February.

I have worked, sort of, on a wine collection. My goals here are very modest; I'm so very NOT a connoisseur. So when I say that I worked on it, I bought one bottle of really good white wine and I decided which red I'm going to try to see if I like it. That's good enough for me.

No luck on the neighborhood bar.

I have been rock climbing and I'm even getting less sucky at it!

Sarah the wonder-hair dresser continues to save my sanity and I do have new work clothes, thanks mostly to that fashionista daughter of mine.

The only thing I did to improve my yoga space was buy (and assemble, miraculously!) one of those indoor water fountains. I like it a lot.

Romantical, Platonical, Familial
I filed for divorce and have worked more or less steadily on protecting myself there. I have resisted the urge to call and/or e-mail Dave, which is something of a triumph. That also gets filed under the "protecting myself" category since that never goes well for me.

I got an address book and started entering people's information into it. I purchased and MAILED (ta da!!) birthday cards for January. I wrote to one out-of-the-area friend with the sad news of my life. The rest of that stuff's not done yet.

Habitational
I haven't bought the house, but I'm working on it. This is a source of some fear and concern, but I'm trying to be brave. Basically, nothing in this category is much beyond the dreaming stage.

Professional, Financial, Educational
Nope... nothing much here, either

Spiritual, Communal
I've started going to church again, as of today. I've nurtured connections with local and not-so-local friends, and I've joined a book group (that hasn't met yet, but it will start soon). The rest of that stuff is still pending.

Expeditional, Recreational
Sib trip is in the planning stages and I'm saving for Tuscany.

Is that enough for one month? I'm not sure. I know for sure that I don't have the life I envision. I'm pretty sure I'm on the right path and am taking steps to keep the path under my feet, as it were. But I feel like I should have made more progress.

And to that end, I have two hours before I need to leave for work. I can spend one of them at the gym and no harm would come from that.

The Universe Conspires...

... to take care of me. It's quite surreal, actually.

I've been quiet here because I finally found the courage to sign on the dotted line and file for divorce. I'm sick to death about it, and yes, I cried when it came to the actual moment. Nonetheless, it is done. Once I knew what I wanted, I felt like taking action toward it was the powerful course. (What I want is the house, by the way. So please direct your cosmic attention toward that. The thing I've learned here is that you people are powerful!)

So, anyway... I was being quiet. The petition was the ONLY thing on my mind, but I didn't want Dave to find out through the blog that the papers were on the way. I'm not sure what I did want there, but it seemed polite that he should find out first.

It is also true (and we inch closer to the point, here) that yesterday was the 27th anniversary of the day we got engaged. All in all, a very low week. The path through this horrible process has been nothing like a straight line. However, since about the end of November, it's been roughly on the upswing. The difference between knowing that this is a little dip in the road and knowing that every single day is the worst day of your life and that tomorrow probably will be a new low as well.... well, that difference is everything.

So, anyway... I was being quiet. (Seriously, I'm working on the point, here.) But people didn't stop taking care of me. (Aha! We're getting there.) I got e-mail, discussion group postings, phone calls from people I haven't heard from in a while, even a letter from a friend from college. I had been worried that I was going to turn into needy-deranged-Andrea again, and she is no friend of mine. But you guys didn't let it happen.

I love you all. I know that I don't deserve you and your specialness, but I am so grateful you're here.

So, Here's a Thought

I know this will only be possible for people who live in Dekalb-more's the pity, really. We could have fun with this. Here's my thought.

What if anyone interested signs up with me to cook for Hope Haven, the local homeless shelter? We could either meet at my house and get it all done in one afternoon. Or we could each volunteer to be responsible for a part of the meal, and we could gather it and deliver it together. What do you think?

It's kind of a large undertaking for one person, although I've done it. But if we split it among 4 or 5 people, it would be entirely manageable. We could act on our commitments to social justice and our comments in the previous post about the tragic state of affairs in homeless shelter kitchens.

Let me know what you think.

My Days and Nights with Homeless People

I'm sure you've figured out that's what I'm doing these days. These people have a lot to teach me, and I need to make space and time to pay attention to that.

But first can I rant about the food?

I promise that the people in our care are not calorically deprived. Donations come in fast and furious. And the deal with the program that I'm involved with is that clients use ALL of their food stamps to buy food for the house. We help plan menus, and they take turns cooking.

This ought to work.

We also know that malnutrition is a disease of poverty, and that one can be both obese and malnourished. We also know that eating the wrong things consistently informs one's palate, so that soon enough the wrong things taste better than the right things.

So here's the thing. Dinner, apparently, must involve big hunks of meat. And heaven forbid that it involve a vegetable or a piece of fruit. I suggested a vegetarian night, and you would have thought I was suggesting that we feed the children arsenic. Like macaroni and cheese will kill you. But no, macaroni and cheese has to have hot dogs in it. WTF???? We had fish tonight. Salmon -and I am not making this up- is apparently cow tongue, so no one would eat it. I know you thought it was fish, but what can I say? You were misinformed.

I am no nutritional zealot. I watched myself reach for chips rather than an apple, when they were right next to each other. So I can't exactly claim the moral high ground here. But tonight I started bringing my own dinner -yogurt, grapes, and a bottle of water. I didn't need a huge dinner because the kids and I went out for lunch. People thought I must have joined the Pritikin Order of Ascetic Eaters ;)

And darn it, now I know people are watching what I eat. So I have to be good. But I'm actually tired of eating crap. Who would have thought this day would come? I've planned my menus for the week, and I'm bringing healthy, vegetarian stuff for my at-work meals. I won't need to make a comment; I'll just eat. We'll see where this takes us.

And please, for the love of all things holy, if you donate food to the homeless shelter, have it be healthy food. We have enough white bread, stale Entenmann's muffins, and tortilla chips to last until the second coming.

The Car Didn't Land on my Head

That sounds much more dire than it was. Nothing bad happened. It's just that on the way to work this morning, I had a weird experience.

I was following one of those gigantic car-transport trucks. You know the ones. They must have an actual name. Somebody ask a 4-year-old boy; he'll know. We were on the road that leads up to the interstate on-ramp (Peace Road, for the cognoscenti). There are stop lights on this road. While we were stopped at a red light, the driver of the truck gets out and starts climbing around tightening the straps on the cars being transported.

This is not a particularly comforting sight when you're stopped essentially at this guy's tail pipe. I must have had a fairly alarmed and confused look on my face, because the driver signaled that all was well. But HE looked alarmed and confused, so I didn't know quite what to think.

So then and there, and weighing in how my life has been going, I decided that if by the end of the day no car had fallen on my head, I would call it a good day.

And cars stayed off my head.

So... the moral of the story is "set your standards low enough and you won't be disappointed." Or more positively, remember to be grateful for the good that does happen.

Crying in my Car

I spend a lot of time in my car. I have a 40 minute commute to work these days -except if I only allow 40 minutes it becomes a one-hour commute. It's some heretofore-unknown-to-me commuting law, apparently.

An unrelated fact (one would think) is that I hardly cry anymore. There for a while I was just a bucket of tears. I thought surely soon I would run out of salt water in my body. There must be a limit, I figured. These days, though, I'm mostly too busy to be sad.

But the minute I get in my car for the commute I get sad, and soon I start to cry. Sometimes it's a song on the radio. Sometimes I just have that "wouldn't it be nice to tell Dave about what happened at work?" feeling -which is followed immediately by the "he doesn't care" realization, which makes me cry. Or sometimes, I'm just exhausted and drained and frustrated that my life has come to this, and I cry over that.

But on the way to work today, I started to wonder if this is all just operant conditioning. Just like the ringing bell signaled imminent delivery of food for Pavlov's dog, maybe the car signals sadness for me. That journey of a thousand miles that began on October 8 (the one fleeing my marriage, I mean) involved quite a lot of crying in the car. Do you suppose that some prehistoric part of my brain thinks the car is the problem????

Would that it were so simple. But I'm up for the possibility that a new car would solve this problem ;) A cute little Mazda Miata, perhaps?

Don't Stop in the Middle

Can I just say that women way overuse birthing metaphors? It's annoying. And what's doubly annoying is that I'm about to use a birthing metaphor. Sigh.... a thousand apologies for the limitations of my metaphorical thinking.

I'll spare you the gory details. Let's just say that it took 70 hours to get kid #1 birthed, and 24 hours for kid #2 to show his pretty face. Long labors like that give you way too much time to think. And somewhere in the middle, I realized that a) I wanted to quit and b) I couldn't quit. Every other single thing in my life I could quit if it got too hard. I didn't always quit, of course, but I knew that I could have. Once you're in labor, though, the only way through it is through it. There's no stopping in the middle and asking someone else to do it for you, if it's so damn important that it get done.

Getting through the first labor and then doing it all over with the second one taught me that I can get through really hard things when I have to. And there's merit in knowing that you can buckle down and endure when there's no other choice. And, the very act of that endurance changes you. Perhaps it allows for the possibility of the parenting to come, I'm not sure. But really, I am going to spare you the parenting metaphor. I have some principles.

Of course, I now find myself in another one of those transforming times. And I don't seem to be in charge of the trajectory. Nothing -absolutely nothing- about where I now sit has anything to do with my choices. Some good has come from this time, no question. But there's still pain and discomfort and none of that certain-joy you feel when you know you're doing the right thing.

The next-right-thing in this whole process has frequently felt enduringly awful. And I'm far enough into it now that I have more choices. I could quit some of this personal transformation. All Dave cares about is that he not have to spend any more of his life with me. What I make of me-without-him is entirely up to me.

I want to go back to the known, the safe, the predictable. I want that so very much. But I've done that so many times before - aborted personal transformation when it got too hard. (Oh fabulous. Now we're into abortion metaphors.... Note to self: buy thesaurus.) There must be some middle ground that allows me to intentionally but still radically transform myself. I think if the only possibility is that I fling myself into this process and hope for transformation, I'll find that too scary and I will just quit. Gentle transformation -is there such a thing?

Who Am I?

My thoughts on women changing their names at marriage have, possibly, been a little off the feminist beaten track. I took my husband's name, as I'm sure most of you know. I figured you have to have some man's name, and at that point in my life I pretty much rejected further association with my father. I would be more tolerant of his weaknesses and limitations now, but the decision had to be made then.

So I took a new name as a symbol (to myself only) that I didn't have to be defined by my father. But now what do I do? Divorce is inevitable, apparently, and I have this name linked to a family that doesn't want me. And I've had that name longer than I had the other. Who the heck am I now?

My professional reputation, such as it is, is all with this name. Only my siblings and my mother even know the old name, probably, so changing back to my former name would be confusing to my friends. A soothing truth is that my children have this name. Sharing their name isn't essential, certainly, but is comforting and a little grounding right now.

Latching onto that might just be another manifestation of the dangerous tendency available to women of defining themselves through their children. And of course I'm more than my name, but I have to have one. And I don't know exactly what I want here.

Which leads me back to the feminist policy-making. What could I possibly tell a young bride? "Don't change your name because 26 years later he could turn into a duplicitous scumbag, and then who will you be?" You can't say that when everything is hopeful and new and when the focus should be on permanence and commitment. But I do sort of wish I'd thought more about that possibility, and that I didn't have this permanent-feeling symbol that I turned my heart and identity over to someone who much later rejected both.

First Sentences

I borrowed this idea from Lisa, who got it from someone else I think. The idea is to find the first sentence from the first post of each month for last year. It's a way of determining what you were really talking about and maybe to determine what the theme of the year became. Mine, as you know, didn't end like it began, to say the least.


January: "I watched An Inconvenient Truth last night." OK, we started the year out being cause-y.
February: "Hanging out with a group of Indian women, I met their children." This is from my India trip, and could be construed as social justice related. That was the goal, anyway.
March: "We have now established the upper bound for the endurable amount of time spent away from marital...ummm.... comforts." Ummm.... not so much with the social justice. This post was about sex, and the strain on the marriage of living apart. If I had only known that I was the only one not getting any sex!
April: "A few months ago, I blogged about Bishop Bruskewitz, Call to Action's excommunication in his diocese, and the Vatican's upholding of the excommunication." My fairly regular Catholicism rant... I like to imagine that these posts are related to social justice issues.
May: "I tell knitting students that all we knitters do is take perfectly good string and tangle it up." OK, a knitting post. It's part of who I am. At least I wasn't whining about sex or my marriage falling apart!
June: "Set your iPod to shuffle and tell us the first ten songs that appear." The last of the Friday Random 10, as it happens.
July: "Rachel has a March of Dimes memory bracelet here: Rachel Grace." Poor sweet tiny Rachel... we miss her.
August: "Our neighbor, fellow parishioner, and colleague Dave Changnon (a specialist on climate change, as it happens) took these pictures of our flooded hometown." This was the only post in August, and it wasn't until the 25th. Now there's a clue -in retrospect- that something was dreadfully wrong.
September: "The first year students are here and wandering around in wide-eyed wonder." A post about kids growing up and taking one's own children off to college. I kind of liked that post, actually, but it wasn't really related to social justice.
October: "My marriage was falling apart around my head, and I couldn't think about anything else." Uh oh... here we go.
November: "On the last horrible day of living with my husband, I was e-mailing my siblings about every half hour." Still whining... but I was still homeless, too. Some whining was certainly justified. I was certainly still terrified, if that's any kind of justification.
December: "I feel almost competent this morning." At least for one day, things were looking up for me. Yet, it must be conceded that it has been a long time without a social justice post.

So, here's the tally:

Social Justice (very broadly construed) posts: 3
Marital Whining: 1
Family posts:2
Knitting posts: 1
"Oh my God, the sky is falling" posts": 3
Knitting... the weather...miscellany: 2

I need to get back on topic to be fully who I am. On the other hand, I think we started to build some real community when my life fell apart, and I so desperately needed you guys. Maybe theoerical social justice stuff, while important, needs a human face.

Anyone else want to volunteer for this year? I'm plum worn out!

The 18-month Plan

This started out being New Year's Resolutions. It's sort of trendy to not like resolutions, but I like them a lot. I use the new year as a good jumping off point for hoping and dreaming. I work backwards from the hopes and dreams to an actual plan. From the plan, I derive daily and weekly tasks that move me forward. And yes, I carry the plan around with me all the time. I haul it out and look at it when life seems like it's going nowhere -or nowhere good. Social work students will recognize this as nothing more than the case planning we do with clients. It's just that I'm my own client -which must be illegal ;)

This year, as you all know, things got knocked awry. So I need more than a year to get some of these things done; it's more like an 18-month plan this time. The categories are just for my amusement.

Anatomical/Gastronomical/Sartorial

Weigh 110 by August (N's graduation)
Train for a triathlon –whether or not you do one!
GITAP (long-distance bike ride)
Daily yoga practice
Have people over for brunch regularly
Build a wine collection
Keep a bottle of good champagne in the fridge
Find a neighborhood bar
Exercise 6 days a week
Maintain relationship with Sarah the wonder-hair-dresser
Rock climbing –the goal is weekly climbing, but I’d settle for twice a month –in March, become a member
Get better work clothes
resume daily riding as soon as the weather allows
go the gym at least three days a week
set up workout room and yoga space

Romantical/Platonical/Familial
Figure out a way to do this relationship demise thing gracefully and how to survive it.
Send birthday cards
Get an address book
Update it
Write to out of the area friends
Update emergency contact information
Get a will and advanced health care directives
Update funeral arrangements

Habitational
Buy the house
Get a new furnace and central air
Re-create the gardens
Buy some new furniture -new couch and some outdoor furniture
Focus on safety, security, and grace

Professional; Financial; Educational
Re-learn to do a cartwheel
Take a few yoga workshops
Think about the next job –craft the plan
Write the preemie knits book
Get the preemie pattern book published
Work for the 18 months I promised at Hesed House.
At 12-month anniversary, start looking for the next thing. Keep working until you find it.
Keep planning interesting things at the yarn shop.
Attend an international conference.
Keep the idea of a social justice institute alive in your heart and mind -what can you do to make it a reality?
Retirement planning, in this brave new single world :(


Spiritual; Communal
Find a volunteer opportunity that nurtures you and does some good.
Buy flowers once a month
Join a book club
Donate blood
Become an NPR member
Get back to buying organic and fair trade whenever possible
Advocate for bicycling in town and elsewhere
See if Newman can still be your spiritual community -haul your sorry self back to church!
Reconnect with almost-lost friends
Nurture connections with all friends
Daily meditation as part of yoga practice

Expeditional; Recreational
Go to the movies once a month
Travel outside of the US
See live music and dance
Stay up dancing until the wee hours of the morning
Sib trip
GITAP
Start planning for a volunteer vacation –internationally
Figure out a way to go to an international conference.
Save for Tuscany trip

The Purple Luggage Goes to Tuscany

One of those goofy sayings in my family is "you have to do it to do it". It's just another way of saying that you can't just think about doing something, or talk about it (which heaven knows I can do ad nauseum), or wish about it. You have to do it. "It" could be buy those earrings, call that guy, go to graduate school, or, in this case, go on that trip.

OK, the trip isn't for a while -more than a year, to be truthful. But today, I sent in a deposit for a hotel (a castle, really) room in Tuscany. I'm going. I've always wanted to go, and it's going to happen. I can't really afford it, but I have plenty of time to save up for it.













And today I saw sweet purple luggage on sale, and decided that it was a sign from the universe. I now have pretty purple luggage, which will be easy to spot on the airport luggage carousel. As a symbol that I really mean it, I bought the luggage, even though I have no trips planned for months. Well, actually, I have no trips planned at all, but probably there will be one somewhere this summer. But I have luggage and a passport, in case some exotic possibility springs up on short notice ;)






I haven't done much traveling on my own. Organizing the travel and the tickets and the passports and exchanging money, I let Dave do all of that. Enough! I'm doing it this time.

Anybody want to go to Tuscany a year from June? You have to do it to do it!