I woke up this morning feeling dreadful. That is, I felt dread when I faced my morning routine. I was pretty sure I would be making my own coffee - after my usual "de-slug the garden" ritual - another dread inspiring endeavor. First, I dawdled a bit on my computer, thus reducing any slug/snail gathering I might manage, gastropods being the nocturnal creatures they are.
So... eventually, I went out and did my garden slug plucking. Then I came in and faced the kitchen. Whoa, pretty messy in there. Normally, Kevin cleans up a bit before bed but last night, the Olympics held our focus firmly. So... I began the kitchen drudgery. As I warshed stuff and wiped surfaces and put things away, it became more clear with each shuffling that a great many of these mess modules were my own doing. It must be a daunting task for Kevin to navigate my: bowl of clay/coconut oil, herbal tincture, bowl of herbal tincture, 8 or 9 bowls of daylily pollen, columbine seeds which need to be packed and stored, onions I pulled, lime I partially used, candle jar I froze and pulled the wax out of but which still needs warshed, citronella oil I got out but did not put back, vases- one with a dead bouquet hanging on, another empty but unrinsed.
While I was at it, I washed the fruit bowl and tossed the dirty paper liner, wiped all the counters, put away the clean dishes, trimmed and rearranged the latest vase of flowers... about this time.... after all of the above, the second time the tea kettle whistled and as I was beginning to pour the water through the coffee.... I had a flash of how very blessed I am to have my little kitchen to putter in - to gather pollen and herbs, to cook, to make tinctures and potions and lotions, to grind coffee, and yes, to wash dishes.... I remembered a time when I was, yeah, actually homeless - when I longed for a roof and a floor, for walls and warmth and shelter... and oh yeah, how I longed for an oven and a sink and a counter, a fridge...
Suddenly, I was not wiping the counter. I was caressing it. The dread had all evaporated, transformed - into joy and contentment. Magically.
Now. Where is my coffee?
Monday, July 30, 2012
Sunday, July 1, 2012
Life 401, k?
I had what might be considered a traumatic childhood - in some ways. At least there are times when I have considered it so. From there, I advanced into a traumatic early adulthood.
I think we all look at our own lives, our own situations and bemoan the tragedy, the inequity. But we do not look enough at the lives of those around us. In fact, I am certain that doing just that - considering others - is the key to serenity and contentment. As long as it is the "me" story, nothing is enough, nothing is fair, nothing is as it should be. But once we look outside ourselves and begin giving, helping, sharing, joy abounds.
One thing I think I got out of living in so many different families as a child (11, depending on how long is living with someone and how long is staying with someone. Where do you draw that line?) is the ability to see things from different viewpoints. To be less certain that my way is the only way, that there is only one path to success, to God, to righteousness...
Now to argue the other side..
Coming out of this strange childhood and early adulthood, I think I clung to certain rituals I had learned in my life as "the only way" to do certain tasks. In the kitchen, particularly, I had some pretty hard lines drawn about procedures. For instance, sorting beans must be done by a painstaking and tedious method of laying a small pile out, then hand sorting each one with no more than, say three at a time in your hand and after careful and thorough examination, these are dropped into the pot.
As a young mother, I found myself living in a very large hippie commune, The Farm, and living and working in one of it's larger households.
One woman I lived and worked with, Patricia, was desperately trying to have a baby. At first I could not stand her. She completely rubbed me the wrong way. She was bedridden trying not to miscarry for the third or fourth time. Part of the reason I could not stand her was I was her personal servant . Dumping her chamber pot, fetching tea. She had a shrill, whiny voice - to me she was quite demanding and acted entitled.
After her seemingly inevitable miscarriage, Patricia and I worked together in the kitchen. I was horrified and dismayed by the cavalier attitudes of my co-workers. I was certain that my way was the only correct way to do these food preparations and surely we would all perish if, for instance, we did not sort the beans properly. One woman, Kathleen, whilst summarily dumping beans directly into the pot, rocks and all, basically told me that my ways were slow and ineffective and that we had a lot of people to feed and had to do it their way so shut up and just do it. I carried on, envisioning broken teeth and feeling oppressed and misunderstood.
But Patricia was kind. She explained to me that we all have our ways that are like our family history and that we cling to certain rituals for comfort and security. But that the thing to focus on here was that we were really so blessed to have each other to be bumping butts with in the kitchen. This changed everything for me - the kitchen experience, my attitude toward Patricia. To this day, I see everything differently.
In today's mad America - with good people taking hard stances on various sides (yes, there are more than two sides) of the Affordable Care Act issue, I am reminded of these things I am writing about here. Of the basic human need to cling to that which is familiar. To distrust change. And also, I am reminded that we must be grateful to have each other to muck through the quagmire with. To sort out what is best for America, for our people. Ah, if we could just work together in harmony and joy and peace.
Patricia? I believe you are needed here.
I think we all look at our own lives, our own situations and bemoan the tragedy, the inequity. But we do not look enough at the lives of those around us. In fact, I am certain that doing just that - considering others - is the key to serenity and contentment. As long as it is the "me" story, nothing is enough, nothing is fair, nothing is as it should be. But once we look outside ourselves and begin giving, helping, sharing, joy abounds.
One thing I think I got out of living in so many different families as a child (11, depending on how long is living with someone and how long is staying with someone. Where do you draw that line?) is the ability to see things from different viewpoints. To be less certain that my way is the only way, that there is only one path to success, to God, to righteousness...
Now to argue the other side..
Coming out of this strange childhood and early adulthood, I think I clung to certain rituals I had learned in my life as "the only way" to do certain tasks. In the kitchen, particularly, I had some pretty hard lines drawn about procedures. For instance, sorting beans must be done by a painstaking and tedious method of laying a small pile out, then hand sorting each one with no more than, say three at a time in your hand and after careful and thorough examination, these are dropped into the pot.
As a young mother, I found myself living in a very large hippie commune, The Farm, and living and working in one of it's larger households.
One woman I lived and worked with, Patricia, was desperately trying to have a baby. At first I could not stand her. She completely rubbed me the wrong way. She was bedridden trying not to miscarry for the third or fourth time. Part of the reason I could not stand her was I was her personal servant . Dumping her chamber pot, fetching tea. She had a shrill, whiny voice - to me she was quite demanding and acted entitled.
After her seemingly inevitable miscarriage, Patricia and I worked together in the kitchen. I was horrified and dismayed by the cavalier attitudes of my co-workers. I was certain that my way was the only correct way to do these food preparations and surely we would all perish if, for instance, we did not sort the beans properly. One woman, Kathleen, whilst summarily dumping beans directly into the pot, rocks and all, basically told me that my ways were slow and ineffective and that we had a lot of people to feed and had to do it their way so shut up and just do it. I carried on, envisioning broken teeth and feeling oppressed and misunderstood.
But Patricia was kind. She explained to me that we all have our ways that are like our family history and that we cling to certain rituals for comfort and security. But that the thing to focus on here was that we were really so blessed to have each other to be bumping butts with in the kitchen. This changed everything for me - the kitchen experience, my attitude toward Patricia. To this day, I see everything differently.
In today's mad America - with good people taking hard stances on various sides (yes, there are more than two sides) of the Affordable Care Act issue, I am reminded of these things I am writing about here. Of the basic human need to cling to that which is familiar. To distrust change. And also, I am reminded that we must be grateful to have each other to muck through the quagmire with. To sort out what is best for America, for our people. Ah, if we could just work together in harmony and joy and peace.
Patricia? I believe you are needed here.
Expressing myself
I just deleted the blog I posted this morning because my husband felt I should.
Why? Because it was about my relationship with someone.
So where is that place that it is safe to write what I think and feel? I tried a journal once, for years. People read it, uninvited and reacted so strongly that I burned it.
I think that place is inside me. I just want to write what I think and feel. I guess what I need to do is remove it from automatically posting to facebook.
Why? Because it was about my relationship with someone.
So where is that place that it is safe to write what I think and feel? I tried a journal once, for years. People read it, uninvited and reacted so strongly that I burned it.
I think that place is inside me. I just want to write what I think and feel. I guess what I need to do is remove it from automatically posting to facebook.
Blocking the Old Chip
Today, as I was sawing a hunk off a pork roast to "have a bite" I remembered going wild for pork roast when I was a girl. At the time I was about 8. My "Aunt Lou" served the pork roast, something I did not remember ever having before. It was so delicious to me I kept asking if I could have more. The next day Aunt Lou took me aside and said that she was concerned about me because I had been so insatiable in regard to the meat. She said that my sister Myrna had a problem with obesity and that she was worried that I may have inherited the same trait.
Well, I was floored. First of all, I really had no real concept of obesity. Oh, I guess in cartoons, Wimpy was fat and always wanting a burger. That was humor, right? I had mixed feelings about that guy. Annoyance at his behavior and pity for his hunger. But back to my sister. Obese? Myrna? Why, to me, Myrna was the most beautiful girl imaginable. And secondly, whatever this horrible "condition" was that poor Myrna apparently suffered from, oh, my god, I too was to be the subject of Aunt Lou's and others stern looks and head shaking in a tsk tsky sort of way.
For cripes sakes, looking back I wonder if maybe I was just starved for iron. After all, I had been hospitalized twice as a baby for anemia and the doctor had put me on geritol plus iron when I was three for - yep - anemia. In fact, my whole life, docs and midwives and such have chased me around doling out iron pills, prenatal vitamins, even when I was not pregnant, waving chicken and beef liver about.... well, ok, metaphorically.
From that moment on, I think I looked at Myrna in a new light and surely at myself. And perhaps at others, wondering if they could see my inherited tendency. Mostly, tho, I just played hard and had fun. In junior high I took sewing and when my sister Pat (okay all these sisters and Aunts are a long story, but Pat, no relation to Myrna...) measured me to fit a pattern, my waist measured 18 and a half inches. That year Twiggy was a smash phenom and at school, my nickname became Twiggy. Still, I think that damn curse of the dreaded obesity trait was banging around in my psyche breeding trouble.
Well, it was not long before it had something to breed with. About the same time I was answering to Twiggy and playing tennis at every chance, as well as cycling, swimming, playing trumpet and french horn, sewing everything I could dream of, creating a troll doll mansion and lined sleeping bags for all 11 of the little monsters, we all went camping. It was a strange camping trip. We went with the Lyons family - my mom's boss Jack, his wife Dean and their 4 kids, two of whom, Pete and Jeff, were Danny's and my main tripping buddies. Er, Danny my brother, no relation to Myrna. On that particular trip, my mom and dad were fighting. I could hear them yelling in the volkswagon bus. My mom was crying and Dad was slapping her. I wanted to go do something but Danny said to just leave them alone. It was quite unnerving. The next day I tried to talk to my mom about what had happened. I told her I had heard Dad slap her twice. Her response set my world as I knew it spinning. She explained that I did not really understand how things worked or what was going on. That my mother (my birth mother, that is, and yes, Myrna's mother, my "mom" being actually my aunt and my Aunt Lou being no relation at all) ah....that my mother was insane and that she, my "mom" was concerned that I may have inherited the tendency to mental instability.
Wh.a.aaaat? Ok, wow, that does change one's self image. First of all, my mother was insane? Uh, all I really knew about that was that horrible tv movie I saw where the woman wanted to marry the guy but he loved someone else and so.... oh, man, that movie gave me the creeps for like 30 years. Ok, lessee, where was I? Oh, yeah, getting inoculated with the insanity tendency neurosis. Wonderful. NOT ~ Well, then, with those two lovelies festering around in my inbox, the creature of self doubt could flourish.
Did that show? I mean could people see that my mother was insane? That I was a veritable fat crazy person just waiting to manifest?
Ah.... the wonderful things we inflict upon our children.
Well, I was floored. First of all, I really had no real concept of obesity. Oh, I guess in cartoons, Wimpy was fat and always wanting a burger. That was humor, right? I had mixed feelings about that guy. Annoyance at his behavior and pity for his hunger. But back to my sister. Obese? Myrna? Why, to me, Myrna was the most beautiful girl imaginable. And secondly, whatever this horrible "condition" was that poor Myrna apparently suffered from, oh, my god, I too was to be the subject of Aunt Lou's and others stern looks and head shaking in a tsk tsky sort of way.
For cripes sakes, looking back I wonder if maybe I was just starved for iron. After all, I had been hospitalized twice as a baby for anemia and the doctor had put me on geritol plus iron when I was three for - yep - anemia. In fact, my whole life, docs and midwives and such have chased me around doling out iron pills, prenatal vitamins, even when I was not pregnant, waving chicken and beef liver about.... well, ok, metaphorically.
From that moment on, I think I looked at Myrna in a new light and surely at myself. And perhaps at others, wondering if they could see my inherited tendency. Mostly, tho, I just played hard and had fun. In junior high I took sewing and when my sister Pat (okay all these sisters and Aunts are a long story, but Pat, no relation to Myrna...) measured me to fit a pattern, my waist measured 18 and a half inches. That year Twiggy was a smash phenom and at school, my nickname became Twiggy. Still, I think that damn curse of the dreaded obesity trait was banging around in my psyche breeding trouble.
Well, it was not long before it had something to breed with. About the same time I was answering to Twiggy and playing tennis at every chance, as well as cycling, swimming, playing trumpet and french horn, sewing everything I could dream of, creating a troll doll mansion and lined sleeping bags for all 11 of the little monsters, we all went camping. It was a strange camping trip. We went with the Lyons family - my mom's boss Jack, his wife Dean and their 4 kids, two of whom, Pete and Jeff, were Danny's and my main tripping buddies. Er, Danny my brother, no relation to Myrna. On that particular trip, my mom and dad were fighting. I could hear them yelling in the volkswagon bus. My mom was crying and Dad was slapping her. I wanted to go do something but Danny said to just leave them alone. It was quite unnerving. The next day I tried to talk to my mom about what had happened. I told her I had heard Dad slap her twice. Her response set my world as I knew it spinning. She explained that I did not really understand how things worked or what was going on. That my mother (my birth mother, that is, and yes, Myrna's mother, my "mom" being actually my aunt and my Aunt Lou being no relation at all) ah....that my mother was insane and that she, my "mom" was concerned that I may have inherited the tendency to mental instability.
Wh.a.aaaat? Ok, wow, that does change one's self image. First of all, my mother was insane? Uh, all I really knew about that was that horrible tv movie I saw where the woman wanted to marry the guy but he loved someone else and so.... oh, man, that movie gave me the creeps for like 30 years. Ok, lessee, where was I? Oh, yeah, getting inoculated with the insanity tendency neurosis. Wonderful. NOT ~ Well, then, with those two lovelies festering around in my inbox, the creature of self doubt could flourish.
Did that show? I mean could people see that my mother was insane? That I was a veritable fat crazy person just waiting to manifest?
Ah.... the wonderful things we inflict upon our children.
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